Chapter Text

“Drayden, if yer listenin’ to this, then I’ve got something to tell you. Bring the good stuff. It’ll be a while.”

Drayden taps the red ‘hang up’ button, once again plunging his office into an uneasy silence. It had been an hour since he had received a flurry of missed calls, half-rings and eventually a voicemail or three from Clay. The initial rush had occurred just ten minutes before the end of his last appointment of the day, much to his secretary’s dismay. The poor woman had eventually managed to settle the clearly rattled Gym Leader after a short talk and a promise to pass on a message (“Tell ‘im to listen to the voicemails. Sensitive matter, I’m afraid.”) which led him to this moment.

The voicemail from Clay was a concerning one indeed, as mails like this had often been a precursor to some form of grief or trouble. From deaths in the family, to daughters pivoting type specialisms and failed business deals- well, there hadn’t been a great track record so far. Other than the daughter part. Drayden thought the fairy specialism seemed fitting for Lacey, so he didn’t quite understand Clay’s mild disappointment at the time.

(But then again, Drayden had been used to his family choosing specialisms outside of the traditional dragon taming his clan was known for.)

He massages his temples, dread prickling in his gut, and resigns himself to what is most likely going to be a very, very long night. Sighing, he scribbles a quick note for his secretary (“Please clear the schedule for tomorrow. Thank you, Cherry.”) and makes for his coat, then the ornate decanter and port bottle. Briefly, he checks the weight, lifting the bottle gently. Heavy. It’s full. Good.

Drayden feels like he’ll need it.

Clay’s home rests on the edge of Driftveil, nestled in amongst the rolling hills that border the cliffs that overlook the Unovan seas. It’s a humble little abode, almost cottage-like in design and only a little bigger than a cottage in size. Dark grey granite makes up the walls, climbing up to the darker slate-topped roof. From the front door, only green hills, the end of a valley lane that doubles as a driveway, and the dark swath of ocean below the sky can be seen in the distance. It’s a peaceful place to live in, far away from the hustle and bustle of the everyday life of a business tycoon and the forever-present rumble of the neighbouring city.

It fits Clay, Drayden thinks.

Drayden climbs out of his car, grabbing the alcohol bottles from the passenger seat footwell on the way, and then makes his way towards the house. He stands before the bubblegum pink door, and barely manages to knock even once before it swings open, revealing a rather distressed-looking Clay. Which is to say, he wore a nearly perfectly impassive look with only the faintest hint of a slight redness near the eye and was lacking his iconic ‘cowboy’ hat. The man’s pride would not allow for anything more.

Still, it was a concerning sight.

“Clay,” Drayden starts, quietly, “I received the message. What ”

“Good. Sorry fer the salvo,” Clay pauses, then sighs, a grim expression on his face. He opens the door wider, beckoning Drayden inside. “I wish I had good news, but… Well. Come in, yer gonna want to sit fer this.”

(Ominous.)

Drayden obliges, stepping through the doorway and into the hallway. He hangs his coat up, then stands idle for a moment, waiting. Clay pushes the door to a close with a thunderous thump, and then points towards the room at the very end of the hallway. “Office,” he states, simply.

Nodding, Drayden follows Clay to the office, briefly blinking at the photos on the walls as he passes them by. Together, they make up a sea of pink- likely as a result of Lacey, no doubt- and earth tones. Sweet, Drayden thinks, as he pictures his own home’s monochromatic and purple splattered wall of photographs. 

The office is no different either, he observes as he steps into the room and makes for the padded chair on the other side of the desk. Though, it certainly is messier. Boxes and yellowed documents are scattered across the desk, and the shelves have taken on an uncharacteristically disheveled look as files and ring binders seemingly have been pulled out and shoved back in at random. This isn’t right. 

Clay, in all of the years Drayden has known him, has always been a tidy man outside of battling (for being the ground type Gym Leader was an inherently mucky, or at least dusty, ordeal). In fact, Clay has never one to be messy in all of the decades Drayden has known him. His only rival had been Drayden’s dear, now-deceased sister (for she had always been fond of keeping everything perfectly arranged in their colour-coded boxes and endlessly growing categories), so-

What was wrong?

His best friend sits opposite, grim expression growing in intensity as he shifts one of the boxes, allowing for Drayden to place the drinks down. Silence prevails for a moment, as Clay shuffles through the papers on his desk. The piles of tea-stain browns and aged yellows part as Clay rifles through them, before finally plucking out what appears to be a faded polaroid, or at least, what Drayden thinks to be a polaroid, considering he can only make out a dark, swirly date through the speckled back. No, actually, that isn’t a polaroid, is it? If anything, it appears to be more reminiscent of the vintage photographs that his grandparents used to keep. Tintypes, was it?

“What happened, Clay?” Drayden asks, shattering the silence. “You are not one for poignant silences, nor dramatics like this. This isn’t you.”

Clay eyes him, then the photograph in his hands, hesitant. The warm, honeyed tones of the lamp behind him casts shadows across his face, making him appear almost gaunt in the low light. “No, it isn’t.” He agrees, quietly. “But I needed you to know as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be fair fer you to wait too long. So,” Clay places the photograph onto the desk, turning it to face Drayden, “it’s about Irene’s boy.”

Irene’s… But that would mean-!

Drayden looks down at the photograph, confused and concerned as he stares at it. Why would- oh Dragons . Almost immediately after spotting that face, his body decides that he’s having a metaphorical heart attack. He clutches at his chest, gasping, as he scans the photo again. It looks normal enough, at first. Just a picture of some old members of Clay’s clan, but there-

There, near the edge, wearing ragged but oh so recognisable workwear is…

“Ingo,” Drayden breathes, horror taking hold of his very being as he gazes at what should not be real, but undoubtedly is, “that’s Ingo .”

The haggard man in the photograph is undoubtedly his eldest nephew. The monochromatic greys, blacks and whites may hide his nephew’s true features, but that face (nearly a perfect recreation of his sister’s face, with the sharp angles and high cheekbones, nothing like his father’s softer features) and those fluffy, almost iconic sideburns (a variant of the heirloom facial hair that lurked in the Unova family’s gene pool, seemingly still present even after millenia), and those clothes… There was no denying it, this was Ingo.

Drayden glances up, desperately looking to Clay for some form of answers, or explanations, or anything that might even begin to help him understand exactly what he was looking at here.

The unspoken request is heard, and Clay gently hovers a finger over the picture. “This photo was taken nearly two hundred years ago. See that boy there?” He points to one of the figures. A youthful boy wearing a very familiar hat stares back. “That’s my grandpappy- Warden Lian of the Pearl Clan.”

Oh Dragons . No .

Pointedly, Drayden reaches for the port bottle. The cork might be trouble for the average man, but Drayden has never been an average man. With a single, swift yank, the cork pops free. Drink time.

A curse escapes Clay as the pop rings out. “Alrighty, alrighty. I understand, I’ll get the glasses now. What did you-?” His grumbles come to a stop as he glances at the bottle, then back to Drayden “-port. Course. No whisky for the mayor?”

It’s a dig of sorts, though more of a lighthearted one. Drayden has always had a taste for the expensive varieties, thanks to his time as mayor and his slightly gilded upbringing. 

“I prefer it.”

“I can see. Right, one moment.” 

With that, Clay leaves for the kitchen, leaving Drayden alone.

Alone with Ingo’s half-faded spectre.

Drayden rests his head in his hands. Irene’s poor boy.

Drayden’s self-commiserating stupor is interrupted by Clay’s surprisingly hasty return. With a thump, two plain, scratched drinking glasses are placed into the desk, dissipating the confounding haze that had settled upon the office. One of them is decorated with what looks like the well-worn remnants of a pink… Swirlix?

“Drinking glasses?” Drayden lifts a single weary brow. Not his usual choice, but times have suddenly become rather tough. He’ll cope.

Clay laughs, amused yet oddly hollow. He had been expecting a comment. “I know. Not yer usual fancy crystal things, are they?” 

No, they certainly are not , Drayden thinks. 

“Anything will do.” Drayden says instead, glancing at his options before him. He bites back a brewing deadpan quip as he takes the glass without the pink things, and pours himself a hearty glug of port, liver be damned. With that, Drayden lifts the glass to his lips, and knocks back the whole glass in one go. 

Clay follows his lead.

Quiet settles in the room once more as the duo gently begin the innard pickling process. For a moment, Drayden just takes the time to savour the warmth in his throat and the image of that worn, tired Ingo burning into his mind.

(Oh Dragons, that picture was old. Ingo wasn’t exactly young looking in it either. 

Was he..?)

“What do I do now?” Drayden whispers, eyes concentrated on the photograph. He has never been the most openly emotional man, instead having been one to keep his thoughts and feelings locked up tightly inside. Private, was the word he used to describe himself. “Iris. Emmet-” Emmet would break if he knew, no doubt. Drayden’s poor boy’s heart would shatter completely if he realised his twin brother was… If he realised that Ingo was undoubtedly dead. “-what do I tell them?”

Clay takes a long, drawn out sip, and then drops the glass back onto the desk with a light ‘thump’. His gaze hardens, then softens once more, as he looks straight into Drayden’s eyes. “Yer gonna tell them that ye’re going on a trip.”

“A trip?” Drayden doesn’t understand, what would that achieve?

“To Sinnoh. Business is what you’ll say. On my end? I’ll be visiting my relatives near Snowpoint, Lacey hasn’t seen her cousins for a while, and the Missus could do with a break for a bit.”

Drayden still doesn’t follow.

“That gives us some time.” Clay continues on. “Because it’ll take a while to trek up Coronet. Pack warm, by the way.”

“I do not understand.” Drayden really doesn't. He’s just learnt that one of his nephews, one of Irene’s boys, passed away long before he was even a twinkle in his father’s eye. What good will any of this do? “Clay, my friend, this is not the time.”

A shake of the head, and then Clay finally fishes out a second photograph. This one, however, does not contain any human or pokemon subjects, but rather something else. “Oh it is. Tell me, yer a lorekeeper, aintcha?”

“Yes?” For Unovan lore, that is. Anything that went beyond the region, however, was far from Drayden’s strong suit.

The picture is plopped in front of Drayden. Now, clearly he can see a… Giant hole above what looks to be Mount Coronet. “Well, did you ever hear any legends about the Great Rift? Because if not, I’ll yew know, we’ve got a chance. Yer boy ain’t dead until we stop trying.”

He isn’t..? Ingo could be saved? But how- how could that be possible? If there’s a chance, then Drayden has no choice but to try. For everyone’s sake. 

“ Explain .” 

Inwardly, he curses how that response sounds alomost like a growl. To most, that would be considered terribly rude, but thankfully, Clay isn't 'most'.

“Knew yew’d be interested. It’s a long story, but…” Clay moves to refill their glasses, hand resting on the port bottle. With a flick of a wrist, another, liver-killing glug of port is poured into the glasses, and with that finished Drayden beckons him to continue. “It starts nearly a hundred and fifty years ago, when the Sinnoh region was called Hisui…”

Four weeks later, Drayden finds himself standing in Jubilife Central Airport with a suitcase filled with survival items and a questionable plan in his head. 

Time for ‘Gym Leader’ business.

(Hold on, Ingo. Uncle Drayden will bring you back home.)

Chapter Text

“Business or leisure?” The fellow at the visitors booth asks, as they glance at Drayden half-heartedly to verify his identity. They’re slouched a little and seem to have a slight bleariness to their eyes. Dazed from the late hour, Drayden assumes.

(Drayden sympathises with them, he certainly wouldn’t want to be dealing with paperwork at this time. )

“Ah, yes.” Of course, they would ask that question at customs, wouldn’t they? Time travelling rescue missions, according to Clay would be classed under… “Business.” He replies, softly. “Gyms.” Drayden adds, as though he’s trying to convince himself. It’s the same little lie Drayden had told Iris about a week ago. As of the moment, she’s under the impression that he’s headed to a small League convention with Clay.

(Thank the Dragons she isn’t the Champion anymore, otherwise the truth would quickly have to come to light.)

The booth fellow nods, stamps his passport, hands him the passport and makes a vague motion to send Drayden on his way. That’s it then, nothing more to do here. Just collect his suitcase, go through customs and then make his way to the hotel.

Drayden follows the stumbling, bumbling and ambling crowd, marching along the edge of the swathe of visitors in hopes that he might be able to get to the luggage carousel sooner. That- and admittedly Drayden could do with some fresh air. His pokémon, no doubt, probably feel the same. Occasionally, the crowd stills for a few moments, which Drayden tries to use as a brief walking reprieve.

Eventually, he manages to make his way through the crowd to the carousel, carefully avoiding the little family of Pikachu scurrying by his feet and the Machoke hauling bags around him. Now, he waits.

Waits.

Waits.

Waits…

Wait- Oh! There it is! 

Drayden grabs his suitcase handle, hauling it off the carousel with ease. It’s a formal-looking one, made of simple obsidian-toned plastic and a handwritten tag tied around the handle and would be relatively unassuming if it wasn’t for the slew of cutesy dragon-themed stickers randomly dotting the outside. Legend badges, pokémon type stickers, a handful of wide-eyed Axew, fluffy cartoonish Swablu and a rather adorable (even Drayden has to admit) little Goomy sketch. 

(Iris might have encouraged him to add some ‘pizazz’ to his suitcase, but in truth, most of the stickers had been chosen by Drayden himself.)

He drops it onto the floor with a hearty thump, clicks the handle button and raises the handle up to his height. Alright, time to go. With everything in working order, Drayden then wanders off through the ‘nothing to declare’ section, towards the airport exit. He wonders, briefly, if Ingo will need to be declared on his way back. Probably.

As he makes his way down corridor after corridor, Drayden takes the time to take in the gravity of what he plans to do, only absently breaking that trail of though with the occasional observations about the airport around him. It’s empty and far quieter outside of the customs section, Drayden observes, as he follows the slew of bright yellow signs. The halls are long, trailing and lit by a sterile line of white lights. The airport feels ‘off’, so to say, but likely as a result of the current hour. Night travel is a little hostile to one’s senses. So to Drayden, it makes sense that only a handful of people and pokémon seem to be travelling at this time of night, it seems. 

(It distracts him from the ebbing guilt of lying to everyone. His family wouldn’t hold it against him if he brings Ingo home. Surely.)

He makes his way through the glass doors, bracing himself. If what Clay said is true, then- in three, two, one-

Drayden is immediately hit by the icy blast of cold air. Terrible. His inner dragon shudders at the temperature, briefly remembering other colder times, as he takes note of his surroundings. A handful of taxi drivers on the left, bus shuttles to the right, train connection just ahead… Cold everywhere and anywhere he looks. Yes, definitely terrible weather-wise, but great public transport-wise. Ingo will most likely want to have a ride or two on the trains when he’s back, he decides, as he scans his surroundings. But once again, snow. Poor Altaria and Salamence, they’re going to hate this, aren’t they? 

“Stock up on Yache berries,” he notes, verbally, as he braves the chill Sinnohan winds. Clay should be nearby, or at least will be soon depending on the queue. “Where is…?”

Taxi. Taxi. Giant ride pokémon Lickitongue. Car. Person-

Ah! There! Man in the cowboy hat. There he is.”Clay!” Drayden calls out towards what he thinks is a cowboy-hatted figure in the distance. A soft pink blob and a slightly taller, even lighter pink blob- Dragons damn his ageing eyes- stands beside the cowboy-blur. He makes his way towards the blurs, but-

Ah. “Sorry,” That group is most assuredly not Clay and family, Drayden realises, as he nears. In fact, the Ursaring (bears look alike, he supposes), stack of Jigglypuff (he’s never seen that before) and Mr Mime don’t look anything like them. Whoops. “Bad eyes.” Drayden explains, before marching away, internally noting that he most certainly forgot his contacts. Thankfully, into the actual Clay and family. 

Clay appears to be leaning against the wall of a bus stop, engaged in a conversation with his wife, while Lacey appears to be chatting with her Granbull in an almost Iris-like way (Iris often could be found chatting with her Haxorus). Mid-chat, Clay turns slightly, spotting Drayden amongst the darkness and motions towards him. “Evenin’.”

“It’s good to see you all,” Drayden nods at Clay’s wife, Katie, before restarting, “good flight?”

“Mhm. Yew?”

“Yes. It was pleasant.” Which was to say, Drayden did not consider the flight unbearable enough to start gnawing at the seats (he had a few chewing incidents in childhood) or scratching at the windows. “I used it as an opportunity to rest.”

“Good.”

“I assume you will be heading over to Celestic Town?” Clay makes a motion that Drayden assumes is a yes, so he takes that as an opportunity to continue. “I’ll be heading to the hotel now. Have a good evening.” Or dead of night. Drayden isn’t quite sure what the time currently is.

“Yew too Drayden,” a car pulls up beside them, Clay’s ride, most likely, “next week?”

Drayden nods, watching as Clay suddenly falls into a flurry of bag aggregation in preparation to load the car up. That’s his cue to leave, then. “Yes, see you then, Clay.”

Clay nods, and with that, Drayden makes way for his own taxi, standing on the curb, hand raised to hail for one. Just a little longer. Everything will be better soon.

Though, for a moment, he takes one long look nearly heavenward. There, in the centre of Sinnoh, is his next destination. Mount Coronet, where the Great Rift used to be. Mount Coronet, where all that exists is said to have originated from. Mount Coronet, Ingo’s final station.

(Not if Drayden has anything to say about it.)

Drayden’s hotel is blanketed in silence.

Thank the Dragons.

Mount Coronet is bone-chillingly cold, Drayden thinks, as he hikes through the rugged mountain paths. Altaria, bravely, has chosen to accompany Drayden despite the cold. She drifts beside him, chirping in determined disgruntlement as they get near the rendezvous point. There, Drayden will reunite with Clay and the second phase will begin. The second phase being the ‘time travel to go get my missing boy’ phase, which will entail some complex diplomacy, going missing and hoping no one notices, potential world-ending events and perhaps even some bonding time with his boy. 

Yes, he is admittedly about to go missing deliberately, but Drayden has good intentions behind it. It’s certainly not an ideal situation, but then again, this will only be a temporary arrangement. Ingo won’t be able to rescue himself, after all. Drayden will be back again before anyone realises he was ever gone. Iris and Emmet will simply think that Drayden merely stumbled upon Ingo during an oddly eventful series of boring meetings. Perfect. Masterful plan, Mr Mayor.

(He might even consider getting Iris a Goomy or two, so she doesn’t feel left out on the missing sibling gifting bonanza.)

When Drayden finally reaches the rendezvous point, he finds his courage slightly waning, just for a minute or two. It’s that borderline cold feet feeling that Drayden is painfully familiar with, one that haunts the moments before a mayoral speech, commitment or high energy battle. He knows what he has to do, but- the path he will take is one that may have no return.

Ah, Dragons, let doubt not take him now. Let him be positive and hopeful. This is not the time for second-guessing, not when Ingo could be feasibly brought back home. 

(Positivity. Goomy. A whole family and a slew of cheerful smiles.

Yes. Focus on the soon, not the now.)

He draws himself up- straight as a board- and makes his way into what appears to be some sort of makeshift camp. A warm light, a newborn campfire, beckons him inwards.

Clay is already waiting for him. He sits by the fire, eyes closed and an unreadable expression on his face. Clay is joined by his Excadrill, who has decided that difficult times require snuggles. The scene is almost unnervingly peaceful for a man like Clay, who has never been quite one to stop or linger for long. 

(Years of building his business from the ground up had stolen most of his time and attention for years. Or at least, it did until his wife and then subsequently Lacey came along. Clay had slowed somewhat at that point, thank the Dragons.)

The quiet, like most boulders Clay had encountered, would have to be shattered. “Good evening,” Drayden starts, quietly, “I am here.”

Clay cracks a single eye open. Then closes it.

“Took yer time.” Clay eventually says, still as can be. “The Spartan Mayor, beaten by little old me? Losin’ yer touch, Drayden.” His tone is half-mocking, half uncertain. The humour, to a point, feels forced. But why- Ah. Of course, that makes sense.

Drayden decides to play into the joke.

He makes his way to Clay, boot thumping against the cracked earth. “Pushups, squats and what not cannot prepare one for a hike without a map.” Drayden tretorts, as he settles down beside Clay and Excadrill.

Clay chuckles, gently shuddering, “It’s called the internet. Yew could’ve got a map from there. Coronet’s been mapped for years.” He reaches for a bag just beside him. “I’d know, my sister helped the effort.”

“Oh?” Drayden’s curiosity peaks. “I thought your sister was not the most fond of those developments.”

“She ain’t. But Ruby also ain’t fond of people getting lost or hurt.”

“Ah.”

Clay carries on, “so for her it was an easy choice. Better for everyone.” He turns to Drayden, gaze steady. For a moment, it also appears as though Clay seems to be studying him. Odd. “What’s yer excuse?”

“Iris didn’t teach me.”

That does it for Clay. He cracks in an instant, faint chuckle now a full belly laugh. “I don’t know how you’ve survived.” A smirk dusts his face. There. That’s the Clay that Drayden remembers. Better. “Old man.”

“We’re the same age.” Drayden crossed his arms, looking into the fire. “We are both old men.” 

The years might have been kind to them, but ultimately it was true. They were different now, no longer a pair of bitey twins and a boy so desperate to prove himself running around a rapidly growing Unova. Now, that pair of twins had become a single twin and a man who had built an empire. Now, Drayden and Clay were old. 

“And for that I’m glad.” Clay shakes his head, then sighs. “So I wish I didn’t hafta break the mood.” Here it comes. The conversation. The one that Drayden really, truly wished he could avoid. “What do yew want me to say, if this goes wrong? I need to know, because Iris will come sniffing sooner or later.”

What to do? What to say? As Irene always said-

“Always the same. That is to say, nothing that differs from what you said before.”

“Yew can’t think that this’ll go perfectly.”

“ It will. ” Drayden knows he sounds desperate. He knows that he sounds mad, or forceful, or rude, yet- yet. Yet. This has to go right. Drayden refuses to consider failure. Not now, not ever. After Kyurem, Drayden refuses to fail again. Never. Again. “It will.” He repeats, as though he’s trying to convince the very world (or perhaps himself) that there will never be another failure.

He glances at Clay, who instead of saying anything in reply, merely looks at him with pity. A look that a few years ago, had been all too familiar. It's a pity, because once more, Drayden had lost someone. Wife. Sister. Nephew. Bad things often came in threes, at least in Drayden’s life. Drayden looks away. Looks like that… chill.

Instead, he focuses on the fire. Flames twitch and dance, a flickering waltz of comforting destruction. Embers drifting lazily. Smoke curling into the sky. The fire is real, it’s here, it’s grounding. 

Yes, it’s real. Just like his hope. Just like what his dream will be. 

A series of clinks and clanks disrupt his fiery distraction. A mug is pushed into Drayden’s trembling hands. Slowly, he raises it to his mouth, only to crinkle his nose. Sharp. Strong. Not tea, or coffee, or anything of the hot variety, it turns out. 

“Liquid courage.” Clay softly explains, as he holds a matching mug of his own. “I know yer heart is set on this. I can’t dissuade yew, not after I set you on this path.” 

Drayden doesn’t respond. Only drinks, then recoils. It tastes like- one of those poorly brewed, cheap vodkas. Nothing like his high-brow ports. Of course. “Not even bourbon?” He asks.

“The worse it is, the better you’ll remember today.” Clay looks heavenward. “Motivation. I don’t want our final drink to be this.”

“I-”

Clay refuses to stop, though his speech becomes shaky. “Come back soon, won’t yew?” That’s not really a question, is it? That, for Clay, is a demand. “I’ll even get that port you like.”

He doesn’t look Drayden in the eye once. Not a blink, a glance, or anything. That, Drayden thinks, is confirmation. Clay doesn’t want him to leave, not really, despite getting him this far. And- and though he will never say, having never been one for emotional speeches and the like, Drayden knows that Clay is asking him to be safe.

(After all, Clay refuses to bury another twin. One was enough for him.)

There’s another quivery breath, and Clay is silent once more.

“And some proper glasses?” Drayden knows it’s cheeky to ask, yet he does anyway. If everything does, somehow, go to hell, then at least he’ll leave his best friend with a higher note. “Or at least the latest fast food novelty glasses.”

Laughter. Clay shakes, once more, as he wipes away the faintest, lonely tear.

“Don’t push it, Dragon.”

Dialga and Palkia watch him, silently judging every fibre of Drayden’s being. 

A lesser man would have fled at this point.

Drayden is no lesser man.

He meets them halfway.

He makes his plea.

He is worthy.

Nearly two hundred years in the past, a man is found unconscious in the Alabaster Icelands.