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[ihaveatheoryonthat]

My conspiracy theory is that Ratchet and Rivet’s dimensions are the only ones that mirror each other that way...

...because, prior to the lombaxes’ exodus, they used to be the same dimension, and all the strain caused by the Dimensionator’s extended use tore them apart.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This one never got to the point; it was inspired by Everything Goes On, and was meant to lead up to something bittersweet, but ultimately positive. The general idea was that, in being sent home, Rei and Ingo would lose their memories a second time-- so, in preparation, they were writing down everything they didn't want to lose, and the Hisuians they were closest with wrote them letters, too. Of course, once they were able to read those letters, the people in question would be long dead.

It never got that far, but I liked the concept.

---

While it was a normal battle format in Hisui, and one Ingo had made a point to become proficient in, he didn’t particularly relish three on one challenge matches-- not as the person commanding three Pokemon at once, that was.

He could do it, and was quite skilled in it, but it felt… wrong. Before he’d agreed to run Galaxy Team’s Path of Solitude, he’d thought it was simply because it stripped the battle of any challenge, but as Rei [challenged] him with the very pillars of existence, he began to narrow it down. While he could split his focus effectively, he didn’t like the distance from his Pokemon that it fostered; he preferred to dedicate his [focus] to a singular combatant, to hone in on the minutiae that effected a battle. Other people may have preferred more participants and a broader scope, and that was perfectly fine for them, but it wasn’t what he favored.

The spontaneity was engaging, though, and he couldn’t deny that. He’d had no prior experience battling titans, which meant that he had to rely on that information he could glean in the moment. It was a thrilling [challenge], and Rei loudly bemoaned the fact that, even with such an edge, he hadn’t been able to eke out a victory on the first try; he’d known that it would only get harder from there on out, once Ingo had a better idea what he was working against.

Even so, there had been some semblance of [familiarity] when Rei had called out the names of the Pokemon he’d intended to battle with. When he decided to pit “Arceus” against the Path of Solitude, Ingo hadn’t had a scrap of information to fall back upon-- with Palkia and Dialga, he’d at least recognized them from his work in the Celestica Ruins, and word of the shadow cast by Giratina had reached him.

When the hooved creature took form, he could do little more than stare.

He didn’t know anything about Arceus, but he knew it. He had no idea how he knew it, but it was terribly familiar to him.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he failed to send his trio of Pokemon out onto the field, and without anything to battle, the Pokemon’s attention caught upon him. A voice hummed, and it wasn’t something that could be heard on a physical level, but neither was it the telepathic speech that psychic types relied on-- it was as though it pierced directly into the core of his being.

“One had wondered what became of thou, when thine summons went unanswered.”

All he could do was stare at it numbly, scarcely processing that the words were directed at him. Somewhere in the background, he heard Rei ask a question, but in comparison, the words were fuzzy and indecipherable. It was covered up the rest of the way by a [?] sigh.

“It is within Dialga’s domain, now: the past. One must [concoct] a new mission to relieve thee of thine [outdated] duty, mustn’t one?” Its face didn’t move at all, and on one level, Ingo could sympathize with it, but his conscious thoughts were too consumed with the ambiguous memory attached to the being, followed by the words it wasn’t-quite-speaking.

Fortunately, he was the only one so [consumed] with such introspection.

“What… what are you talking about?” Rei asked, stepping forward to stand boldly at Arceus’s shoulder.

Finally, it looked away from Ingo-- allowing a desperate rush of air to fill his lungs, as he began to breathe again-- to favor the young man with its attention.

“Before thou were appointed one’s champion, one had selected another. He stands across from thou.”

“Oh,” / “Then we’re the same? You brought us both here?”

It inclined its head, and the dam of incredulity burst, allowing the flood of [thoughts] to rush forth.[elaborate] Among them all, one emerged above the deluge:

His voice was shockingly rough to begin with, made coarse by the tide of emotions lapping at the edges of his being. “If you were the one to chart our courses… you must know where our home stations lie.”

Rei stopped in the middle of mumbling something, and, belatedly, Ingo realized he might have interrupted. In the midst of [idk], he’d lost track of the conversation’s progress, and it had taken more effort to speak up than he might have expected, so his social awareness was somewhat lacking at the moment. It didn’t seem to bother Rei, who immediately turned his head to Arceus, so sharply it might have given him whiplash.

“Yes.”

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

I don't know if I'm winding down my time in this fandom, or if I just need a blank slate to work from, but I'm going to get a few partials out of the way, just in case that helps get me going again. As per usual, it's completely unfinished and doesn't have an ending. I called this one Folie a Deux.

---

Ingo was [at wit’s end/whatever]

They saw odd happenings at the station on a daily basis-- got a glimpse of hundreds of peculiar interactions and thousands of unique faces. No one would bat an eye if he reported watching [w/e], but apparently this was simply too much to believe.

For the past several days, Ingo had seen a man wandering the station, or on a rotating [?] of platforms. He recognized a substantial number of patrons, but this man was not one of them; his eye had been drawn by the [unique] garb, and after he’d noticed it, he’d been unable to not notice it the next day, or the one after that.

That wasn’t the strange part; people boarded trains dressed in far, far weirder, to the point that they saw Hatenna Miku cosplayers on a weekly basis. The part that Ingo simply couldn’t look past was that it just wasn’t a matter of the man’s chosen wardrobe.

He looked like him.

Now, that wasn’t a concept entirely divorced from reality, as Ingo saw his own face turned back at him on an hourly basis, but that wasn’t his brother. It wasn’t… exactly him, either, but all of the major strokes were there; the creases below the eyes and mild hunch weren’t enough to throw the uncanny resemblance off.

The first time he’d noticed, he’d passed it off as a trick of the imagination-- poor lighting that made him fill in the blanks with the features he was most familiar with-- but the second instance had disproven his theory. He’d been able to see the stranger’s face with perfect clarity, well enough to read the emotion in the tilt of his eyes and angle of his downturned lips: anxiety, anticipation-- the wanting for something, but the inability to reach out and take it. Ingo had seen much the same in the days he’d bothered to practice in a mirror, trying to force his face into anything that the layperson wouldn’t see as stern disapproval.

When he’d seen the man next, it had been on departure from a shift on the Multi Line, and he’d been startled to face that [wanting] stare head-on-- fixed not on him, but his twin standing beside him. It was followed by a flickering of attention, the realization that he was being watched in return, and they’d spent an [odd/uncanny] few seconds trapped in a mutual [stare]. Ingo hadn’t realized his gait had faltered until Emmet looped back to take him by the arm, asking what was wrong. He’d torn his gaze away to nod in the man’s direction, but all his brother had done was look, raise a brow, and said, “Huh. Verrrrry weird cosplay.”

Ingo hadn’t pressed; when he’d followed up, the man was poised to leave, shoulders raised uncomfortably with his hands clutching at his arms as he turned away. He was embarrassed, and it was kinder to let the matter drop. When they’d finished their shift for the day, Emmet had wondered, aloud, what the cosplay was supposed to be-- last week there had been a [theme] Miku, so what was the idea behind that version of Ingo’s uniform?

There was a key point of miscommunication in that [?] which+ Ingo didn’t notice until well after the fact.

The next time he saw the man, it was without the ragged hat and coat; he wasn’t focused on anyone or anything in particular, just staring blankly out over the crowds. Under different circumstances, Ingo might have passed it off as waiting on an arrival or biding time until his train arrived, but he wasn’t paying any attention to the world around him. No repeated looks at clock or scanning of the [crowd], just the [dull] [stare] of a man lost deep within his thoughts.

He wondered if he should let this [chance] pass without comment, but he felt he had to say something.

Ingo approached from an angle, so as not to march in with reckless abandon the way his twin might. He stopped a respectful distance away: close enough to be heard over the din of the station, but not so close that he was invading the man’s personal space.

He cleared his throat politely to wake him from his [trance] and said, “I’m terribly sorry if we made you self conscious the last time we met. It wasn’t [appropriate] of me to stare, and I promise you Emmet’s commentary was born of curiosity, not criticism.”

The man seemed tense as he listened, and while he nodded, accepting the apology, none of that [tension] bled out of his posture. He seemed like he was about to say something, then turned his head to cough into his far shoulder.

“It’s no matter, I wasn’t offended.” He said. His voice was rough, and… strange, like he was speaking in a lower register than came naturally to him. Ingo made a note of it for later, but not an urgent one; if he was a cosplayer, he could be practicing his vocal range.

Even if it was true that he hadn’t been offended, he’d clearly been ashamed of his previous ensemble. Ingo hadn’t been paying a great amount of attention, but broad strokes were the same as what he’d worn before-- a thick pink tunic and dark, unremarkable pants and shoes-- with the only changes being the absence of his coat and hat. It was the first time he’d seen him without them, and it couldn’t have been coincidence that the [change] had come directly after their last interaction.

“While I admit that I only saw your work in passing, the attention to detail was quite impressive.” Ingo knew it wasn’t just cosplay-- short of visual effects make up, no amount of contouring or [?] could recreate someone else’s face so precisely-- but he didn’t know what it was. Maybe, if he got to know the man, he could solve this minor mystery. Their conversation had been a short one thus far, but already, he could strike a curious Zorua or Zoroark from the list of possibilities.

The man didn’t say anything for a moment, and, eventually, his eyes [?] down to the ground. “I… don’t know what to say.”

On its face, it made perfect sense-- the words and the gesture together should have indicated bashfulness, and while that was a [subsect/subset?] of [being uncomfortable] he was simply uncomfortable. His pale skin was unmarred by any blush, and he wasn’t peeking up to gauge Ingo’s response. He was staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact. No denial in regards to being a cosplayer, but no attempt to lean into the cover story he’d just been handed, either. Interesting.

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work.” He said, risking a single glance in Ingo’s direction. His brows twitched inward, [?], and then flattened. “Please continue with your business, I’ll vacate the premises shortly.”

“There’s no need to--” Ingo began, only to be cut off when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“I’m interrupting.” Emmet announced-- not a question, no hint of apology, just boldly asserting his presence. In the moment’s distraction, the man turned and briskly walked away, leaving Ingo with no [?] but to see what his brother needed from him. “[idk why Emmet’s interrupting]”

[Response to the problem/whatever]

He nodded, and then glanced in the direction the stranger had vanished into the crowd. “Your conversation seems to be over. We can [?] immediately.”

“Thank you, I’ve noticed.” Ingo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he turned to accompany him, though, something clicked, “You didn’t recognize him?”

Emmet shrugged shallowly. “No. You did?”

“Of course I-- did you not look at his face?” He asked, promptly switching from one unhelpful thought to a more productive one. While Ingo’s initial statement began with disbelief, the question he rerouted to was genuinely [?]; there was every possibility that Emmet simply hadn’t noticed, too focused on the man’s clothes or [interruption].

“Vaguely.” His brother said, dashing that theory. “I saw no reason to investigate further.”

“How?” The disbelief was back, more potent than before. Ingo himself had passed it off as a quirk of the human mind at first, so he was reluctant to judge, but seeing the man head-on had dispelled his uncertainty. He simply couldn’t believe that Emmet had looked into this particular mirror and not seen his reflection [shining?] back at him.

Emmet’s face twitched in irritation and he waved a hand out over the crowd, demonstrating that he found this particular individual indistinguishable from the masses.

“He looked precisely like us, Emmet; it was uncanny.” […]

At that, his twin’s eyes lit up with comprehension, lips twitching at what he took to be a joke. “Oh. It was the cosplayer. Did you ask what the premise was?”

It was tempting to ask if Emmet was yanking his chain, but the subtleties of his expression made it clear: he hadn’t noticed a thing. He truly didn’t recognize the man-- either as the person he’d seen in passing, or on the basis of their own resemblance.

Was Ingo’s perception flawed, then? While he’d never been diagnosed with prosopagnosia, he occasionally failed to recognize commuters or coworkers in different environments. He’d thought it was just a natural function of the human mind, filtering out information when it wasn’t immediately relevant, but perhaps they were indicative of a greater problem? He was tempted to look back, as though the empty spot could answer any of his questions, but he refrained. Instead, he turned, bumping Emmet with his shoulder to get them moving, and [went to address the interruption].

He might have convinced himself that it was a [flaw] in his [?] after all, had pure coincidence not run them straight into one another once again.

The man’s cap and coat were still absent, leaving his face as the most identifiable part of him, but his clothes seemed to be the same as well. There were odd creases in the shirt, as though it had shifted while hanging out to dry, and odd creases below his eyes, as well.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

A small handful of songs I associate with A Glint, a Spark. (Spoilers for both that fic and Memory, Heavy in My Heart.)

Arms Outstretched - Griffin McElroy

As I alluded to in the MHIMH playlist, Arms Outstretched was the song I had all but set AGAS to, for the animatic in my head. The progression of it from being kind of downtrodden, to this moment of hope, and then a happy epilogue was pretty perfect, both for the idea I actually went with, and the one I may still write.

Chapters 1 & 2

Place to Start - Mike Shinoda

Do I even have a decision? Feeling like I'm living in a story already written. Am I part of a vision made by somebody else? / Am I out of conviction with no wind in the sail, too focused on the end and simply ready to fail?

Cause I'm tired of feeling like I can't control this; tired of feeling like every next step's hopeless. Tired of feeling like what I build might break apart, I don't want to know the end, all I want is a place to start.

I don't have a ton to elaborate on with the lyrics. The first part just meshes really nicely with the theme of being unable to influence events that have already happened, and having to take them as they come. The second part resonates particularly well with the first chapter, in my opinion. I also like having a song from the same artist in both halves of the main story, and the contrasting tones.

Chapters 3-9:

The Heart of a Graveyard - Demon Hunter

Tell me that your final home is not a shot in the dark; tell me that your hopes and dreams don't end in the heart of a graveyard.

Tonally, it doesn't fit perfectly with the rest of this list, but the subject matter is pretty on the mark. There's a sense of preparing for the worst while still hoping for the best that I like, particularly in this context.

Chapter 10:

Final Battle: Malladus (From "The Legend of Zelda: Spirit Tracks") - The Noble Demon

(The portion up to 0:46 is an intro, and not the most relevant to this list; the actual battle theme starts warming up after that.) A friend unintentionally reminded me that I love this track, and since that conversation happened smack at the climax of MHIMH, I naturally connected the dots. This would correspond to the recorded battle with Arceus, because the track for it in canon PLA just does not fit this version. I chose this remix in particular because it really emphasized the woodwind notes in parts-- which made sense re: the Azure Flute-- and because it has that underlying, train-chugging percussion. It's always struck me as a very triumphant battle theme, which fit beautifully.

Chapter 11:

Welcome to the World of Pokemon - Super Pokemon Mystery Dungeon

It's wondrous and mysterious, but gentle and a bit low-key at the same time, which I think makes it work very well for the build up this chapter, and most of the time spent in the Hall of Origin.

Mysterious Rainbow Girl - Wandersong

The same goes for this track; I was pretty torn as to which one I liked better, so I ended up keeping both for a little bit of variation.

Chapter 12:

On the Beach at Dusk - Pokemon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Time, Darkness & Sky

I had this one set aside specifically for the scene at the top of Dragonspiral Tower, where the reality of the situation is beginning to sink in. If you're familiar with Explorers, there... might be something of a parallel to be read into the situations they 'play' over.

Misc:

The yet untitled song from The Dreadful Demise of the Dinosaurs - Puppet History

A lonely life among the stars, my destination veiled and far away, but I knew one day we'd find each other. Then in the dark, a glint, a spark, the greens and blues, be still my heart-- and once I hit, that's it, I'm here forever.

While I'm here, I should probably include the fic's namesake. It's really only the one verse (~0:25-0:47), because this song has a very specific subject matter and thesis, but that one passage really stuck with me in this context. The first half definitely resonates most strongly with chapter 11, but I was also aiming to match the second to 12-- specifically "the greens and blues, be still my heart" to the scene on Dragonspiral, and to end with the promise of "I'm here forever"

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is more art I've been waiting to post-- while I don't see Arcango having a midpoint in the series, proper, it was a fun idea to play with. Personally, I like the second version (right) better than my first pass at it, even though it's messier.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is another old one from when I was experimenting with Clip Studio Paint. It's not especially spoilery or anything, I just forgot about it until earlier this month.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is another piece I've been sitting on for a long time now, and I'm excited to finally post it!

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

I wanted to give it a good buffer before posting the full version of this, and it's been a reasonable amount of time. Excited to finally put it up!

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

"A lonely life among the stars, my destination veiled and far away but I knew one day we'd find each other.

Then in the dark, a glint, a spark.

The greens and blues, be still my heart. And once I hit, that's it, I'm here forever."

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Spring of Ingo Day 1: (On the) Job Training

This ended up being specific to Memory, Heavy in My Heart, focusing on the tradition of a Warden crafting their bracer and Celestica Flute.

That being said, it can be used elsewhere, too! The creation of a Celestica Flute is symbolic of the cooperation between a Noble and Warden-- each of them looks and sounds unique, helping the Nobles differentiate when they hear a flute from afar. In this case, Sneasler hunted down a particularly healthy Ursaring, so Ingo's Celestica Flute was carved from bone.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

The prompts are in and our list has been finalized! As per our guidelines, any participants are free to interpret the prompts as they see fit, but if anything is unclear or you'd like a little more direction, we've got a handy guide below the cut!

February: Duty/Work. This week is themed around the job-- as Subway Boss, Warden, or anything that suits your vision!

(On the) Job Training: What did it take for Ingo to get where he is? Was it fun? Difficult? Is he trying to learn the ropes for a second time?

Team Track: It's very interesting to see a person coordinate and work so closely with their sibling well into adulthood. How do the twins work together? What's their favorite part? Does it ever get annoying-- on purpose, or just by way of how tight knit they are?

Accommodation: Are there any daily challenges that Ingo needs help with? What does it take to communicate with lips that won't emote? Does he have any injuries or conditions that he needs to keep on top of to stay in working order?

Foreign Travel: The Subway Boss has been all over Unova, and the Warden knows his way around the Hisui, but where else has he been? Did he see anything interesting, or meet new people and Pokemon?

Workplace Injury: Even the best safety measures can't prevent every injury. Has Ingo ever been injured on the job? Had to tend to someone else?

Station Master: What's a trainer without their team? Whether or not it's a Pokemon he trains or handles, show us a Pokemon you associate with Ingo!

Emergency Exit: It's important to know where your entry and exit points are; be it a mechanical failure, cave in, or routine evacuation drill, show or tell us about a time escape was the only option.

March: Off-Duty/Home. This week, it's time for a break! Whether home is Unova or Hisui, it's time to settle in and rest.

RXR: Not a railroad crossing, but rest and relaxation! What's the best way to make use of time off the clock? IS there time off the clock, or is work never ending?

Maintenance: It's best to leave work at work, but sometimes it comes home with you. What needs to happen to keep this a well oiled machine? Alternately, what might a sick day look like?

Diversion: Some people breed Pokemon and some attend musicals. What kind of hobbies does Ingo keep? Any particularly notable interests (apart from the obvious)?

No Legendaries on the Train: This couldn't go any earlier, or we'd be breaking the rules. Does Ingo have any ties to or friendships with a legendary or mythical Pokemon? Maybe you associate him with one? What's the story there?

:3 : Everybody smile!

Dining Car: Whether it's unique preferences, sensitivities or preparation, everybody has opinions where food is concerned. What are some of Ingo's?

Familiar Tracks: Unova is a region with a deep history and culture, and Hisui is set in its own ways. Does Ingo observe any traditions? Hold any cultural beliefs?

April: Truth & Ideals. This week is about history and aspiration!

Admission: How, exactly, did Ingo end up in Hisui? Whether you ascribe to his version of events or what the art book seems to imply, there's a story there, so what is it?

Rookie: What was life like before assuming his job? Was his role something he strove toward, or fortunate happenstance?

Branching Line: We have a very good idea what one member of Ingo's family is like, but apart from Emmet, who else is there? Familiar faces? Someone we've never seen? Is there anything interesting in the twins' family tree?

Pearl Clan: The Pearl Clan took Ingo in, but then what? Under what circumstances? Are they happy to have an outside perspective, or are those rough tracks to travel?

Ghost Train: There are ghosts in Ingo's past, both literal and figurative. Does anything continue to haunt him?

Historical Accuracy: We've seen traces of Hisui in modern day Sinnoh, so let's crack open a history book. How, if at all, is Warden Ingo remembered?

Everything Changes: Things won't be the same when (or if) Ingo finally gets home, but that's not always a bad thing. Show us that different doesn't mean worse.

May: Dream World. This week is about what we won't see on screen, so make sure your imagination is in high gear!

Off-Script: We've gotten a peek into a world where Ingo didn't wind up in Hisui, so let's explore that idea. Whether he disappeared and wound up somewhere else, or stayed safely in Unova, what else do you suppose could have happened?

Fresh Coat of Paint: It's well established how attached Ingo is to his coat, but let's give it a break of its own. Whether it's for fashion, fun or function, it's time to play dress up!

Alternator/X-ing: Do you have an AU or crossover you'd like to tell us about? A favorite you want to dip into? Now's the time!

Mirror Image: Maybe things got a little too intense yesterday-- now we're looking at two of the same person! Is Ingo interacting with a past or future version of himself? An alternate universe counterpart? Give us a peek into how it goes!

Train of Thought: Do you have any headcanons you want to share? If there's nothing in particular, then tell us a little bit about how you view Ingo. No two individuals-- or their thoughts-- are exactly identical, after all!

Union Station: It's a big world out there, with an impossible amount of interesting people! Who's someone you'd like to introduce Ingo to? Maybe it's an unlikely friendship or rivalry?

A Higher State: Where do we go from here? Whether it's what you think is most realistic, compelling, or what you personally want to see, give us an ending!

Thank you to everybody who submitted prompt suggestions! While they might not appear verbatim, we've tried to carry the spirit in the list above!

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

I've actually been holding onto this outline since the beginning of the year, so I figured I'd send 2023 off with it.

This is Scions of Morality, which I'd love to tackle in full someday, but with AGAS wrapping up soon, I don't think I'm in the right headspace to try right away. What's posted here is the original outline/edits. After discussing it some time ago, I think there are definitely some key points I'd add onto or tweak, but they're not reflected in this version.

Extra nonsense below

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This one's... kind of fun. Honestly, I might come back to it, I just haven't gotten anywhere for some time, now, and it's bugging me. Let me know if this is one you'd be interested in seeing play out in full, because it could be nice to throw a sillier project in there after AGAS wraps up.

(This is another one that deals with trans characters before they've officially come out, though it's not the main focus, just part of the story. The approach is different from other pieces I've shared in the past, and I don't expect that it will be a problem, but please just approach it in good faith. I never mean to offend, I just like to explore things in different ways.)

-

Emmet had fucked up.

He realized it immediately after the fact, already entire seconds too late. For all that he’d done his research, for all that he knew the where and the when, it had done nothing to warn him for how his plan might backfire. Celebi was reclusive, but not an unknown, and its fleeting form hadn’t given him any reason to fear reaching out for its help.

Instead, it was the wind it blew about on-- the breeze that carried it to and fro in time-- that chilled him down to his core. He couldn’t possibly forget the sensation of it, because it had signaled the start to the worst week of his life-- up until the previous year, that was. In a way, that wind was the reason he’d reacted so harshly when Ingo had failed to check in after [whatever], and what had driven him here in the first place. It had set a precedent.

When they had been young children, playing in the wooded outskirts of Anville Town, Emmet had felt that same wind rush past him, and just like that, his brother had vanished.

If he’d known, he wouldn’t have sought Celebi out. He would have explored any and every other option before resorting to this one, but he’d already made his choice. In the immediate aftermath, he was dismayed to realize that their family’s suffering had come at his own unwitting hand as he tried to right an injustice for the second time.

A small, achingly familiar form darted away, taking shelter around the corner of the shrine. From where he knelt, Emmet could plainly see a pair of dark shoes under the elevated base; they were pointed away, the child’s back pressed to the only cover he had as he tried to figure out where he was and what had happened to him. Emmet braced a hand against the shrine’s edge, helping to lever himself up from the ground, and in the process, noticed that his offering was nowhere to be found, accepted as payment for this… favor.

He suspected the historical society wouldn’t appreciate the disrespect it showed, but he knocked lightly against the shrine’s nearest face and took a step to round the corner. There was a sharp intake of breath, then the sound of running on soft grass, and he found that he couldn’t blame the child; to be torn away from home so abruptly had to be terrifying, no matter a person’s age. He’d been trying not to let himself dwell on that exact point for some time now.

“It’s okay.” He said in the gentlest voice he could muster, and [floundered] for how to follow up. He remembered the week of the disappearance with an agonizing clarity, but it was an unrelated detail he found himself grasping for-- had they started using their real names before, or after? If he called out right now, would his twin know who he was talking to?

...it was probably close enough that Ingo had already decided on what he wanted to be called. Even if they hadn’t progressed to the point where they were actively testing it out between them, he would recognize the name as his.

“I’m sorry.” Emmet said, staying put at the shrine’s edge, one hand resting on its corner, “I made a verrrry big mistake. Please forgive me, Ingo.”

The child stayed still for another couple of seconds, and then-- seemingly ignorant of the fact that his every move could be and was being tracked-- began to inch around the shrine in the opposite direction. Emmet was relatively sure he could catch him if he tried to run, but for now, he waited to see how this would pan out. His currently-much-younger brother paused as he reached the edge where the eastern and southern corners met, and from the [edge] of his vision, Emmet caught a hint of movement. He didn’t look right away, making a dedicated effort not to scare him-- any more than he already had-- but, gradually, he turned his head.

There was a single silver eye peering at him from the other side of the [shrine], fingers curled around the wood just below it. He offered a shallow, apologetic smile and half turned, repeating, “I’m verrrry sorry, Ingo. This was never my intention.”

The boy disappeared back around the corner, but didn’t actually go anywhere. He probably needed time to think, to process. After a moment, Emmet heard his old name echo down the old village, warbling and fearful.

He turned in full and lowered himself onto one knee before answering in kind; it felt wrong to call that name again after so long, but it made the building anxiety opposite him pause, at least for a few seconds.

“I’m right here.” He added, listening for any change, “I am Emmet. I look different now, but I’m still your brother. Can you trust that?”

Around the corner, he heard a [steeling] breath and, finally, Ingo emerged. He looked exactly how Emmet remembered from back then, a perfect match to the missing child posters, down to the black jumper and cardigan he’d been reported ‘last seen wearing’. It would have been sweet to see his older twin so much smaller than him, were it not for the look on his face and the stubborn fold of his arms.

“I only have one brother.” He lied, somehow leaning forward in accusation while also keeping one foot poised to dart away if need be. “You’re not Drayden. Who who are you really?”

“I am Emmet,” Emmet said again, patient, “We’ve talked about this. I know we have. I have two brothers, and so do you.”

[…]

“Ingo,” He said flatly, patience waning, but only for the circumstance, and not the child before him, “You have not corrected me on the matter of your own name. Not once. How many people know what you like to be called?”

The boy muttered under his breath, but it was audibly, “Just Emmet…”

Emmet himself hummed in agreement. “And how would you intend to proceed from here? Do you even know where you are?”

It sounded unfairly judgmental-- of course he didn’t know. He couldn’t know. He’d just been ripped through time and space and was helpless to do anything about it. Emmet wasn’t sure what the worst part was: that he’d been the one responsible, or that it wouldn’t be an isolated incident.

If anything, the question seemed to rile his brother up; the shallower pout pulled into a proper frown and, as unhelpful as the observation was at the moment, it was kind of adorable.

“Obviously not! What kind of a question is that?” Ingo demanded, arms folding tighter in a self-soothing gesture that he wouldn’t even process in the moment. He looked off to the side, as if to gauge his surroundings, but at this age, he’d never set foot in eastern Unova-- hadn’t even seen it outside of travel documentaries-- and didn’t stand any chance of figuring it out on his own. It wasn’t meant as any slight to him, he just didn’t have the body of knowledge he needed.

His expression pinched in distress as he looked down the hill-- no doubt processing the fact that he was surrounded on all sides by an unfamiliar evergreen forest-- and he took a couple of steps down the incline. Emmet made no move to stop him; he could tell from the body language that his brother wasn’t about to bolt, he was just overwhelmed and trying to make himself understand.

Emmet sighed and closed the gap between them, recognizing the way Ingo’s breathing started to shudder. He didn’t know what he could do to help, but he had to do something; he almost reached out to touch his shoulder, but belatedly remembered that he fell under the umbrella of ‘stranger’ at the moment, and it wouldn’t be welcomed. He ended up sitting down next to his twin, legs hanging over the small ledge, shoes grazing the slightly-dewy grass. Hopefully it would make him seem more approachable, less of a looming unknown.

What he absolutely didn’t expect was for his brother to grab his face in both petite hands and force them to look one another in the eye. He still felt minor tremors travel through the boy’s arms, but Ingo’s expression was stern and searching.

“If you’re Emmet, why do you look like that?” He asked, after a moment of serious contemplation.

Unable to stop himself, Emmet snorted. “Like what? I look like you. That should prove it by itself.”

Ingo’s nose wrinkled at the comment, but it seemed he had more important matters to focus on. “No, you told me you want to look like Drayden when you grow up.”

“Ah.” Emmet said, [?], “It’s tragic. Drayden has a propensity for facial hair that we lack. Verrrrry disappointing.”

He raised one of his hands to graze the smaller one holding onto his face, and when that didn’t net a negative reaction, he picked his brother’s hand up and held it in both of his. “I understand that it does not make up for what I’ve done, but I want to help you. Would seeing Drayden make you feel better?”

Ingo thought about it for a few seconds-- maintaining intense eye contact all the while-- and then pulled his hand back. At first, it seemed like a no, but then he sat down on the ledge next to Emmet; he still maintained a safe gap between them, but put them back on the same general level. Immediately after, he looked to Emmet’s far hand-- his right-- gaze raking over the Xtransceiver that peeked out from beneath a sleeve. It would have been awkward and uncomfortable letting someone watch him navigate his Xtransceiver, but today he didn’t try to shield his contact list, and he saw Ingo squint at it before navigating to the next screen-- likely noticing his own name at the very top.

The boy leaned away again while the phone rang, abruptly reminded that he was feeling skittish, which left Emmet as the only one in the field of view when their brother answered. Drayden looked him up and down, reading his expression the very same way Emmet had read Ingo’s a minute before, and, in lieu of a formal greeting, asked:

“What did you do?”

“I am Emmet. I have erred.” He said bluntly.

“Elaborate.” Drayden demanded in kind.

He glanced to his left, at where Ingo was scrutinizing the screen and nibbling on his bottom lip; he still looked on-edge, but some of the tension was dissipating as he watched their older brother and heard him speak. As much as he wanted to convince Ingo that he was who he claimed, he understood that it would be orders more difficult when he had to contend with such a large age gap and the matter of a full transition. By comparison, Drayden had changed very little about himself, and was much more recognizable; he looked older and dressed differently, but the basics stayed the same.

Emmet decided to facilitate this track; maybe if they talked in greater depth, Ingo would warm up to the fact that they really were the family he knew.

“My research on Celebi indicated that it has been seen here in Unova. It likes Zorua and hides in forests to play with them. I decided I would try to get its favor.” He admitted, watching Drayden steel himself the longer he spoke.

“You claimed that you would keep me abreast of any developments; why didn’t you follow through?” Drayden asked, but he wasn’t really looking for an answer-- not yet, at least. His eyes moved to the backdrop of trees behind Emmet, and connecting the dots was child’s play.

The only child present seemed to have picked up on that, too, and wasn’t paying attention at the moment; instead, he was half-turned to look at the shrine again, as if he expected to find a Pokemon lingering there. Emmet gave his hand a brief tap, trying to corral him for the moment, and he reluctantly turned back around.

Drayden’s gaze moved back down to his younger brother. “It rejected your appeal, then? It’s clearly not good news.”

Emmet opened his mouth to reply and left it that way for a moment, trying to figure out how to handle this.

“It… accepted my offering.” He said, eventually.

Drayden didn’t [allow] him even that inch of [?]. “But?”

“There was a miscommunication.” Emmet said. He looked back over to Ingo, who had his head tilted to see the screen better, and was only barely out of frame. Instead of talking to the eldest, he directed his next question to the youngest-by-technicality. “Can you say hi? It would help explain.”

Ingo didn’t respond verbally, but he inched closer so the forward-facing camera would be able to capture them at the same time. Emmet murmured a thank you and adjusted his Xtransceiver accordingly. Drayden’s brow furrowed, becoming a ridge worthy of one of his dragons, and, in disbelief, he quietly called an old name.

“Ingo.” Both of them said, simultaneously, correcting him without any heat. Since the boy in question didn’t have anything else to say at the moment, Emmet added, “We were testing our names out a long time before we told you.”

“Emmet.” Drayden [?], his usually [thunderous/?] voice a mere croak, and he didn’t have to say anything else to get his point across. Emmet knew. Emmet had known how royally he’d screwed up only three seconds into this mess. He nodded, eyes turned down, ashamed of his actions and making no effort to defend himself.

“Where are you right now?” Their brother asked, strength seeping back in and demanding an answer.

Clipped, Emmet [?], “Abundant Shrine.”

Drayden echoed it back at him, already moving and deep in thought. Ingo echoed it, too, but he was more focused on putting a name to the place; he turned back around to look at the eponymous shrine once again.

“Stay where you are. I can be there in 30 minutes.” Drayden said. His attention strayed to something in his immediate vicinity, but once he’d dealt with it, his eyes turned to the smaller of the two figures. “Ingo, stay with Emmet. I understand that this has to be frightening, but we’re going to make sure you’re taken care of, alright?”

At the sound of his name, Ingo had turned around. He scanned the image on the Xtransceiver’s screen again and hummed in affirmation, giving his head the tiniest forward tilt.

“Alright,” Drayden breathed out, relieved, “I’ll see you soon; 30 minutes.”

Emmet nodded back, and Ingo held up a half-curled hand to say goodbye; shortly thereafter, the video cut, leaving them staring at their reflections-- and then each other’s. Neither of them said anything, and Emmet dropped his hand into his lap. Ingo drew his legs up onto their level and wrapped his arms around them, still incredibly [scared] and uncomfortable, but he stayed put, right where he was.

If their arms brushed against each other, neither of them mentioned it.

-------

Ingo had always been very active when they were children, so it felt weird that he stayed in place the entire 30 minute wait, only moving enough to straighten his legs out for a few minutes, avoiding a cramp. When he felt a little better, he pulled them back up and tucked them under his dress, scuffed flats poking out from beneath. His fingers worked into his sweater’s cuffs on either side, and he rested his chin on his folded arms, staring down into the [?] that led to Undella.

Decades prior, when he’d finally [resurfaced], he hadn’t had any memory of where he’d been, the entire week of his disappearance rendered blank. Their parents had taken him to doctors and then a therapist, trying to understand what had happened and-- just maybe-- help recover the [memory], but nothing had ever worked. Back then, Emmet had stuck with his brother like they’d been glued together, unwilling to take his eyes off of him for the duration of an appointment. Most of what he could remember was Ingo’s building frustration-- both at the adults’ insistence and his own inability to provide answers.

Now, it seemed self evident that his memory of that week--this week-- had been a casualty of time travel. Emmet tried not to delve too deep into the implications that held and, instead, used it to his advantage: he could show or tell Ingo anything he wanted without fear that it might change something in their distant past. Chandelure would be far too much too soon, but halfway through their wait, he released Galvantula to keep them company and help break the tension. It had looked between them, completely lost, until Emmet gave a very, very brief explanation, consisting entirely of “Ingo is having a verrrry hard time right now. Will you sit with him?”

So, when Drayden arrived from the north-- riding in on his Salamence’s back-- it was to the sight of a child being flanked by his much-older twin and an incredibly confused spider. When they both stood up straight, allowing him to look them over properly, his expression screamed that he was dismayed, but not surprised.

He drew a deep breath, eyes flicking to Emmet like he had some very pointed comments to make, but he held his tongue, ever the composed politician. Instead, he focused on Ingo, who subconsciously inched forward; his hat must have fallen off as he got up, because he held it in both hands, kneading it anxiously.

There was a [recognition/trust] in his expression that Emmet told himself not to be jealous of; the two of them were incredibly close, of course, but they had different relationships with Drayden. Emmet was the youngest, and he’d grown up with an older sibling right there to lean on, so their distant older brother didn’t seem so [significant]; Ingo, meanwhile, only had Drayden to look up to in that regard. By the time they were old enough to understand their family’s dynamic, the eldest had long since moved on to his life in Opelucid, making his presence the exception rather than the rule-- and all the more valuable to Ingo in particular.

No one would deny that the two of them were each other’s comfort people-- typical of twins, and utterly proven by Ingo’s reticent behavior without his same-age sibling-- but Emmet knew that, to his brother, Drayden meant ‘safe’ in a very unique way.

He was glad, actually-- [envious], but glad. It meant there was someone who could help put his twin’s mind at ease. Emmet was still being mindful not to touch too much or too suddenly, but he tapped the backs of his fingers on Ingo’s arm, urging him to go greet their older brother. The child stepped forward, and when that proved safe enough, repeated the process once more, then again and again until he’d crossed the distance.

For a moment, he stared up, taking in the details and then-- undoubtedly much louder than he’d intended-- said, “You changed your hair.”

“I have a new job, now; I’m afraid I had to adopt a new hairstyle to accommodate.” Drayden said. Unlike many, he didn’t alter his tone to talk to children-- he spoke to them on exactly the same level he would talk to teenage challengers and other adults; he moderated his words and made sure he explained things more carefully, but he wouldn’t patronize someone based on their age. This straightforward approach was the correct one, and Ingo finally stopped working wrinkles into his hat from sheer nerves.

Emmet could tell that Drayden hardly even thought about it as he picked it up and settled it on their brother’s head, tugging the edges down and then tucking it so it sat properly. The same could be said for Ingo, who immediately straightened and then went still, allowing him to fix it without a word of complaint. It was actually quite sweet.

Drayden looked at him for a moment longer before cutting to the point. “Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“We were playing by the greenbelt,” Ingo started, watching Drayden’s expression intently, already seeing what he could read into it, “It rained last night, so there were Tympole in the puddles, and we watched them for a long time. After that, we went to find a good branch to hang Emmet’s sweater on, ‘cause someone got wet and we didn’t want mom to find out.”

Drayden snorted, which startled Ingo at first, but quickly proved helpful; his eyes lit up at having made their brother laugh, and he continued on more readily. “We were arguing about which tree was better when the wind started. I don’t know what happened, then.” The admission took a substantial amount of steam out of him. He looked at Emmet, then returned his attention to the eldest, “We talked some after that, and then you told us to wait for you.”

“Alright. Thank you, Ingo.” Drayden rumbled; it was a very deliberate tone-- not a ‘kid voice’ but comforting, the way he would try to help any family member. He looked up and raised a brow, plainly asking for Emmet’s version of events-- as if he was one of their parents, arbitrating a disagreement.

“I sought out Celebi’s help. You already know why.” Emmet said shortly; even if Ingo wouldn’t remember this week, there was no sense in saddling him with the knowledge that would disappear for a second time. “I thought I made my intentions clear, but I guess not. Instead of what I asked, it brought Ingo here. We talked. I apologized. We called you. Now you’re caught up.”

Drayden maintained eye contact the entire time, but after he’d finished speaking, looked away to the shrine. “Is there any way to call Celebi back?”

“Yup. It would need a new offering, though. I only had one.” Acquiring a new one would be a pain, but doable. The offering itself was a glorified dumpling, but the ingredients weren’t the most common, and he’d had to track down the gourmet who frequented Route 5 in order to have it made correctly. Emmet wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her again, but he would do it to put this right.

“Alright, then that’s the end we’re working toward.” He looked back to each of them in turn-- Emmet first, then Ingo. “Would it be presumptuous to assume we’re headed to my house?”

“No.” / “The apartment would be too much right now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Ingo dragging the heel of his shoe through the grass, insulted. “I’m not a baby, you’re just old.”

Though it didn’t show on his face, Drayden choked back laughter; Emmet slowly looked at his younger-older brother and let out a sharp breath. He knew for a fact that it had been retaliation, but not solely for his comment regarding their apartment; he used to say something very similar to their eldest sibling whenever he put his foot down on their childish plans. Dragons, was this what it felt like from the outside, whenever they’d wound each other up?

“Be that as it may. I think a familiar environment is best.” […]

After a few extra seconds to let him stew in it, Drayden took pity on him; he plucked a pokeball from his belt and held it out to their youngest brother, “Would you like to see Swablu again? I’m sure you could bribe him into taking you to Opelucid; you know how he is.”

The look on Ingo’s face would have been laughable-- trying to work out how a creature the size and density of a wadded-up pillow could take anyone anywhere-- but it was cut short as he accepted the pokeball and released Altaria.

There was a short, excited gasp, followed by a hushed, “You evolved!”

Altaria stared unabashedly for a handful of seconds, then looked to its trainer, as if asking if this was some kind of joke.

-------

[this would be a closer]

“[…] can scarcely express how much I’ve missed you, but right now, I need to tell you something of the utmost importance.” [either state that his tone clearly means he remembers now, or have Emmet realize that this is the child’s voice he’s been hearing for the past week] “You’re living on borrowed time. As soon as I set foot in Unova, you’re a dead man.”

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

The Vocabulary of Loss

This is actually the main piece that this was scrapped from. I wasn't going to put it here initially, but decided it was hanging over my head and I wanted to get out from under it. While it's definitely more coherent than some of the others I've posted lately, it's not finished by any means, so expect the usual placeholders and such.

-

Nobori’s first memories were marked by hurt, panic and confusion. He vaguely remembered a chill so bone-deep he feared it would snuff the flame at his heart, but even that [memory] was woefully incomplete. Between one blink and the next, the expanse of white was gone and there was a person talking to him with words he didn’t recognize.

Nobori’s present was also marked with hurt, panic and confusion. He wasn’t sure where this was or how he’d gotten here, just as with the Pearl Clan, but the sense of danger lingered in the back of his mind.

Yet again, he… didn’t recognize the words being directed at him.

He bit back a frustrated whine-- loathe to muddy the waters any further when this person hadn’t done anything to warrant his [ire]-- and shook his head, willing them to realize that he couldn’t understand them. They started again and, resigned, he repeated the gesture. When they motioned to him instead, urging him to speak, he sighed and raised a hand to his throat; again, he shook his head.

Mercifully, their eyes lit up in comprehension, and the person with them disappeared for a moment, returning with a sheet of paper and a strange writing implement. Nobori took neither, but awkwardly mimed holding a charcoal and, regretfully, shook his head once more.

The second person moved their hands in a [specific] way, and Nobori watched, trying figure out what they were motioning for, but even when he followed their arcs and where they pointed, it didn’t make any more sense. When he didn’t respond-- busy working out what that was about-- the two people exchanged worried looks.

One by one, other people shuffled in, tried to speak with him, and then left again; the words were different every time, enunciation variable and accents shifting. Nobori could do nothing but wrap his arms around himself and shake his head, over and over and over.

It was reminiscent of his first waking moments in the Pearl Settlement, staring helplessly at anyone and everyone who tried to make him understand. At least this time he was saved the frustration of trying to respond; where, before, he’d been so thoroughly blanked out that he’d forgotten his inability to speak, he stayed purposefully quiet today. There was no sense trying to force words that wouldn’t come-- words he’d only ever been taught to hear, and never to use.

With little else to remember about those who filed in and then out, he found that he recognized their faces well-- and the expressions of pity and horror that played out over each in turn-- so he knew that the person offering him a tentative smile had been in here before.

And, to his bewilderment, he found that her words clicked in a way he’d never known prior.

“You… understand Unova?”

They were hesitant and didn’t flow together very well, but he knew each of the words individually, and recognized that she was asking him a question. He could piece things together from there.

Haltingly-- confused, himself-- he inclined his head, and the woman clapped her hands, lighting up. She chattered excitedly to the other person present, the one who’d been here the entire time, and then turned back to him.

“Write?” She asked, and any tentative hope was dashed when he was forced to shake his head again. Nobori wished he could say yes, but reading and writing hadn’t been essential to his duties on Mount Coronet, and so the consensus had been that it wasn’t worth it.

“Sign Unova?” The woman tried, sounding worried, and Nobori could only stare blankly. He thought that, perhaps, that word meant something else, but if it did, he’d forgotten.

He wanted to draw his legs up, protecting himself from the rush of shame that followed, but even if nobody could tell him he’d broken a limb, he knew the facts. Nobori had no idea what he’d been doing before he woke up here, but clearly it hadn’t gone well for him.

While dissatisfied, the woman straightened back up and, assertively, repeated, “You understand Unova.”

He nodded, and she smiled at him.

“Yes. We’ll make better.” She said, and reached out to pat the bed reassuringly.

Nobori looked between her and the first man, then [haltingly] gestured to the paper and-- pen! That was it. It was just a strange pen. Both looked confused, but the man held them out to him, and with a little bit of fiddling, he figured out how to make the ink come out. While he couldn’t write words, there was one thing Nobori could do to make himself understood to some small extent, and an urgent question at the forefront of his mind-- he drew two concentric circles, and then two lines to connect them. Without thinking it through, he turned the paper over-- as if orientation would have any bearing on his drawing-- and hummed a question: where were his Pokemon?

To his relief, the question seemed to make it through the language barrier.

“Pokemon here are not allowed. Pokeballs are downstairs.” Said the woman, pointing down as she spoke as if to demonstrate.

That wasn’t quite what he’d been hoping for, but Nobori decided it was acceptable. He wanted to know more-- to make sure they were in a better state than he was-- but he had no earthly idea how he might ask her that, and so he nodded. It might take a day or so, but he’d be able to go down and check for himself.

(This, as it would turn out, was an incredibly optimistic estimate.)

The two stayed for a while longer; the woman gave him both of their names before asking more questions, none of which he had the capacity to address. Nobori was getting sick of shaking his head, but he couldn’t provide her any true answers.

The two left shortly thereafter-- once it became clear he could offer nothing to help them-- and, not for the first time in living memory, Nobori was left alone: hurt, confused, and wholly out of his element.

--------

Nobori knew better than to cause a fuss while under a healer’s care. He hated the hands on him, but he stayed still and pliant every time he was looked over, hoping it would end sooner rather than later. He dutifully took the medicines he was given-- less bitter than what he was used to, having been compressed into small tablets, and far easier to swallow because of it-- and did his best to thank his carers when given meals. The foods were a little strange, but not unrecognizable; their choice of rice instead of barley was a puzzling one, but perhaps he’d found himself somewhere where it was more readily available.

Once a full day had passed, he tested his ability to stand. It hurt-- less than he’d expected, actually-- but Nobori was relatively certain he could walk on it.

Or, at least, he was certain until he took a step and the world lurched around him.

He reached frantically behind himself and managed to get a handful of the bed; while he was unable to keep from tipping over, he at least slowed the fall, and landed on the floor with an undignified thump. Before he could put himself right, one of the people he recognized-- but didn’t have a name for-- poked their head in to look at him, and, upon processing the sight, hurried in to help him up. While he didn’t understand the words, Nobori recognized that her tone was asking if he was okay, and he did his best to reassure her; once he was back in bed, it took a turn as she began to scold him.

He ducked his head apologetically and weathered it, unable to argue his case-- but, before she left, tried to ask outright. He placed a hand on his chest and then pointed downstairs. She looked at him like he was being ridiculous and refused. Again, he pointed down, this time reaching for the piece of paper he’d drawn a pokeball on, and her expression softened, but she still told him no.

Anxious, he scratched lightly at his first knuckle, and while he didn’t notice it in the moment, the nurse’s eyes dropped to the motion. He did notice when she crossed the room to write something down on the papers that stayed at his bedside, but was disinclined to afford it any further attention; even if it was meant for his eyes, he wouldn’t have any way to interpret it, so there was no point.

Before she left, she approached the black tablet against the far wall and pressed something on its side, then escaped while Nobori was distracted by the shapes that played across it.

They were humans, real humans and not drawings-- like the photographs in the village, but more realistic. More than that, though, they moved. Nobori… Nobori hadn’t known that was possible, but now that he was seeing it, it seemed completely normal. It should have been shocking, but he barely even wondered how it worked. He knew that the people on the screen wouldn’t respond to him-- that he was watching something that had already happened-- and, instead, focused on what they were doing and the sounds they made. It wasn’t as good as being sat down to reach an understanding with a native speaker, but by the time someone came to see him again, he had picked up a few repeating words and phrases. He didn’t know what they meant yet, but he knew they were common parts of speech. With more time and context, he could figure it out, and once he’d gotten those basics down, he might be able to understand a little bit of what was going on around him.

The next time he was given medicine, though, it made him incredibly tired. He could do little more than watch the increasingly-blurry people move about in real life and on the screen before, inevitably, he fell asleep.

---

In retrospect, Nobori would realize that his mind stayed fuzzy after that, until such a time that he would finally be released from the hospital. In the moment, however, he was frustrated with himself. What had been a good start coasted to a halt as he found himself both unable to focus on individual words and struggling to remember what he’d already figured out.

In a bout of [frustration] he tuned the screen out entirely and tried to keep himself engaged in drawing out a map of the Coronet Highlands. He’d long since gathered that, wherever he was, it wasn’t Hisui. The language didn’t resemble Hisuian in the slightest, the foods were not the norm, the expectations on him as a patient were different, and what little he’d been able to make out from the window didn’t resemble the village at all.

If he could barely understand them, and they couldn’t understand him, the best he could do was try to use visual cues to get a response. Nobori’s first thought had been for Mount Coronet, Hisui’s central feature, but groggily dismissed it. Short of the temple on top, there weren’t any distinguishing features for non-residents to recognize; it would just look like any other mountain. He didn’t use maps in his daily life-- couldn’t read what they said, anyway-- but Nobori knew the terrain he patrolled and could lay the broad strokes out well enough.

He felt pain begin to creep in again, but he did his best to ignore it; if anything, it was a jolt of lucidity that helped him to focus on his work. His progress only halted when the daylight nurse came in to see him-- along with the woman who knew Unovan words.

Reluctantly, he set his pen and paper to the side, mirroring the tray that was set on the stand to his right, and then afforded them his full-- faltering-- attention. The first part of the afternoon routine was his pills, and he obediently downed them, then rolled the water cup between his hands as he waited for someone to speak.

“Your name!” The woman said, excited, and Nobori bit back the urge to sigh. This had happened before, too. They had to call him something, and he had no way to communicate what he’d already been given-- he would just have to remember what they decided on and try to respond to it for the time being. He suspected it would be more difficult now, since he’d already learned to answer to “Nobori”, but he could adjust. With any luck, he would only need it while he was in this facility.

To his surprise, however, he wasn’t given a foreign set of syllables. The woman called him by the single word his snow-blank mind had managed to hold onto-- the name he knew was originally his, before he’d been Nobori.

How… how could she know that?

Numbly, he nodded-- lowering his head just once-- and watched how she’d respond.

Her eyes lit up and she tapped her fingertips together in a muted clapping. It was followed by “Good!” and a number of words that… that Nobori recognized, but was having a difficult time parsing. There was something about blood-- he knew that much-- but it was nuanced, and he wasn’t sure how, exactly. He took another drink of water to give himself a small break from it.

When he looked back up, the woman’s expression was sympathetic.

“Will be alright, now.” She promised, “Call your brother.”

…huh?

Nobori blinked at her. She wanted him to call with his Celestica flute? Call who? He only knew a handful of viable songs…

Without meaning to, he felt his head list to the side, confused, but all she did was repeat, “Be alright, now.”

Physically, he couldn’t press for more information, and mentally, he was beginning to go foggy again, so he did nothing to stop her from departing. Left with an evening meal and the people on the screen, he devoted all of his attention to the former, applying a disproportionate focus to plucking every single mushroom out of his miso soup before making any move to drink it. By the time he’d forced himself to finish the waterlogged mushrooms, his head was too heavy to keep upright, and with a rueful thought for his incomplete map, he dropped into unconsciousness.

-------

Nobori was so tired. It clung to him throughout the day, and by the time he slowly realized its grasp was lessening, it was too late, because a new fatigue was digging its claws into him.

There was another person today. He’d said his name, but for the life of him, Nobori couldn’t remember it. It felt terrible; even if he couldn’t share the information with anyone, he’d always had the solace of knowing that he knew, and now it was as if his mind couldn’t hold onto anything at all. How much longer before he forgot that there had been a place before this? Before he lost his friends waiting for him downstairs? The only thing he was good for was working with Pokemon, and it had been days since he’d been able to do his job. How long would the staff here tolerate him?

Their patience stretched further than he expected, if what the newcomer said was any metric. Nobori didn’t know where the man had come from, but the man spoke fluently in the language he’d forgotten, explaining that they’d found him, hurt, beneath a shrine in the deep woods and brought him here to heal. Even in his [diminished] state, Nobori already thought it must have been something to that effect, but he nodded along, not about to take this for granted.

Eventually, the man asked for his input. Was there anything else they should know, that he could communicate? Did anywhere else hurt?

Tentatively, unsure why he was bothering, Nobori reached up and lightly knocked against his head.

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed as he leaned in. “You hit your head?”

On an instinct he’d never been fully able to beat back-- especially not now, when his mind was swimming just trying to sit up straight-- Nobori opened his mouth, as if to respond. He snapped it shut as soon as he realized what he’d done, and turned a palm upward, gradually bobbing his head back and forth in something inconclusive.

He knew he’d been injured, but no one could say for sure what had happened. It was just as likely that he’d hit his head as it was something had attacked him-- he’d been incredibly naive in his earliest days, seemingly unaware of just how dangerous Pokemon could be. No one would have been surprised if he’d gotten hurt because he’d been neglecting his safety checks.

“You don’t know, but your head hurts?” The man asked, and this time Nobori had a solid response.

Very slowly, so he didn’t make himself any dizzier, he shook his head, then moved to push his hair back. It had been cropped short-- down to the skin-- while the Pearl Clan’s healers looked after the wound beneath, but since started growing out again. He hoped they wouldn’t have to cut it this time; it had been unbearably prickly for weeks after the fact.

For several long minutes, the man and the doctor spoke to one another using words Nobori couldn’t comprehend.

“Can Dr. [?] take a look?” He eventually asked, gesturing to the spot Nobori had indicated.

Knowing better than to refuse, he bowed his head for easier access, and tried not to let his muscles tense up at the gloved fingers that investigated the scar. While the doctor investigated, the translator probed for more information.

“Do you know when you got this? Months ago? Years?”

An unhelpful part of Nobori wanted to point out that both of those could be measured in months, but he had no idea how he’d say that, even if he’d intended to do so. What he actually did was hold up two fingers and hope the point got across.

“Years ago?” The man asked, and he nodded. “How many?”

...how long had it been? He knew he’d seen a full turn of the seasons in the Coronet Highlands, but he’d spent a substantial amount of time under the Pearl Clan’s collective eye, too; he just didn’t know what season he’d started in, because the differences were so subtle in the Icelands, and he’d been horribly unaccustomed to the unrelenting cold.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent staring at his hands, lost to this train of thought, before the translator said, “That’s alright, we’ll say at least a year. If you allow the staff here to run some more tests, they might be able to tell you. Can they do that for you?”

Only halfway there, Nobori nodded. For several minutes, he drifted again, until the man called his other name. It took another few seconds to remember that that was him, and that he was supposed to respond.

“Did you come here from Unova? Could you point to home on a map?” The man asked, taking a completely different track. His eyes raked over Nobori with an uncomfortably familiar sort of pity.

Nobori gently shook his head to the first, and then cast a look about the room, searching for the map he’d left unfinished. He didn’t think he could find it on anyone else’s chart-- he didn’t know the other territories that well, and hadn’t visited them frequently enough to put them into a larger perspective-- but if they were referring to maps, his work had to be some small help, didn’t it?

Unseen in the midst of his bleary search, the other man blinked, taken aback.

“You didn’t come from Unova?” He asked, a note of urgency drawing Nobori’s attention.

Another [gentle] shake of the head. Part of Nobori wondered what that was about, but the rest was too upset about his missing map to afford it much more thought.

Again, the translator called his original name, and only continued when he had the scraps that passed for Nobori’s undivided attention. “Is there any way you can tell us where you were before you woke up here?”

Frustrated, Nobori nodded this time, and went back to looking for his map-- but, before he could get far at all, the other man cut back in.

“It’s okay! It’s okay. Why don’t we try this another time, when you’re feeling a little better? We’ll let the doctors see how they can help, and maybe it’ll be easier with a clear head, how about that?”

That wouldn’t help at all, but it seemed the question hadn’t actually been a question; the people around him moved on [swiftly], regardless of what his actual answer would have been. Nobori felt the dismissal for what it was, familiar with the way people turned their backs in favor of someone who could answer in kind. It wasn’t personal, he’d always tried to remind himself; it was just practical.

Without anything to hold his focus, Nobori found himself lapsing back into a mental fog.

---

As much as Nobori hated the film over his thoughts, it was somewhat useful for a while. He was distantly aware that he would have hated being handled as doctors and nurses conducted their tests, and that the scans would have been unbearable with [a clear head]-- but that knowledge floated an arm’s length away, just like everything else.

The translator kept stopping by to ask him questions, and though he was only semi-conscious at any given time, Nobori was horribly aware of the fact that he could barely offer any information. Oftentimes, the answer was too complicated to act out, and if that wasn’t the case, then he couldn’t condense his drifting thoughts down far enough, or simply didn’t know to begin with.

At some point, the people around him started using new words with his other name, and to his surprise, he knew all of them. Most were upended directly onto it: the first a title he dimly recognized-- the domain he was responsible for, though he couldn’t quite articulate what a subway was-- and another a secondary name that hadn’t survived the Icelands. He thought that was strange. Barring honorifics, the only people he’d met who had more than one name were from the village.

...was that strange, actually? He knew he wasn’t from the village, but even though the Pearl Clan had given him his name, he wasn’t theirs, either. Nobori thought that might make sense, now that he’d reflected on it; the villagers came from somewhere else, just like him.

The last was also a name, but he knew this one wasn’t his. In spite of the care he’d been taking to avoid sudden moves, his head snapped up the first time he’d heard it, and he’d begun to frantically search the room, as if its owner might have been lurking in the corners of his vision.

He hadn’t been there, of course. The room was small and sparse with nowhere to hide, unless one was a wayward map; it was obvious at a glance that there was no one else with him, but Nobori still felt his heart pang at the realization that he was alone, save for the nurse’s company.

For a few minutes, the sudden panic cut through everything else. Where was he, where was his--

--and then there was a Pokemon in his space. It was a Poliwhirl, he noted with a distant sort of detachment, as its markings began to turn.

The world went still and silent.

Nobori woke back up in stages. His hearing returned first-- a survival instinct he hadn’t managed to forget yet-- and then the hospital’s sharp antiseptic filtered in.

There was something else, he realized, that he couldn’t remember feeling ever before; it kept him calm and his heart steady, even when the rest of his senses proved reluctant to find him. He didn’t know how, but he did know that he was safe, even if he had no basis to think that.

Weak from fear and sedation, Nobori’s instincts trusted it. They welcomed it, even. Though he hadn’t even woken up yet, Nobori found himself exhausted-- so if someone was offering the kindness to watch out for him, to let him rest…

It wasn’t just his [weary] senses, he realized. That was the difference. Someone was there.

He forced an eye open and tried [desperately] to focus-- and when he did, something deep in his heart lurched to the surface.

With a sudden urgency-- on a wellspring of energy he hadn’t possessed seconds prior-- Nobori pushed himself upright using numb, shaking hands. That was him. That was the name’s owner, the person whose absence he’d become so acutely aware of, the person who--

“Ingo.” Whispered the man who shared his face.

That was Emmet. That was his brother.

The hands that reached out to meet him trembled too, like both of them were suffering the same debilitating [numbness], and even though his brain couldn’t make the connection to sensation when they touched, it still resonated.

With the rest of his senses suspended, Ingo found that finally, for the first time in years, he felt whole.

-------

Short of medical treatments, no one in the Pearl Clan had touched him as long as he’d stayed with them. Space and physical contact were concepts held in such high regard that they were only to be shared by one’s direct family, and even then, it was a privilege that could be revoked. As the foreign man whose origins were unknown, nobody had felt comfortable [sharing] their [space] with him. It was one of many, many things he’d been able to comprehend, but hadn’t understood.

Now, with a familiar, warm weight in his arms, Nobo—Ingo realized why physical touch was considered just shy of sacred. If it had been up to him, they would have stayed wrapped around each other indefinitely, and he felt the air flee his lungs in a [disappointed] wheeze when Emmet pulled back. His brother hadn’t let go-- had a hand clutching either one of Ingo’s arms, as if to keep him right where he had him-- but it wasn’t the closeness he’d only just realized he craved so desperately. He leaned back in, insistent, and Emmet temporarily abandoned whatever he’d been about to say in favor of a breathy laugh as he resumed his hold.

Ingo set his head down on his twin’s shoulder and felt himself relax-- wholly and voluntarily-- for the first time since he could remember.

A hand released him long enough to raise up and pet blindly through his hair.

“It’s been explained to me that you cannot speak.” Emmet said over his shoulder. It was completely level, betraying none of his deeper feelings, but, somehow, Ingo found that he could read the distress in it. “I’m sorry. That must be verrrry difficult on you.”

Unable to communicate by any other means-- not without letting go, a thought he refused to humor-- he lifted the opposite shoulder. It was inconvenient, but it was his life, and he did his best to work with what little he had.

“We will see what treatments might help. I will be your voice until then.” Emmet said, and then buried his face into his brother’s shoulder.

A single, breathy laugh escaped in response to the declaration. It was a nice idea, but Ingo wasn’t sure how viable that would be;

-----

[These are misc snippets without context]

[…] That was around the point Emmet noticed something of unprecedented importance. Ingo caught onto the interruption right away, head tilted minutely and hands already lifting, no doubt to ask after him, but Emmet was already in motion.

He caught his twin by either side of the face. “You’re smiling!”

It was a tiny, shallow thing, barely more than a twitch of the lips, but it couldn’t be called anything less than a smile. [more about how that’s been a struggle/insecurity]

“You were never able to do that, before.” He explained, for Ingo’s benefit. When the grace period was winding down, he let go, “We thought it was muscular. Maybe neurological instead? Can head trauma fix facial paralysis?”

He was still watching as the faint smile dimmed into confusion, and then a true frown. Sensing he’d said something wrong, he cocked his head, trying to elicit a response, but Ingo just looked away. When it became clear that his brother had no intention of pursuing the matter, Emmet took it up instead; he reached over and took a hand, leading it to signing height, and asked, “Was it the information itself, or that you just learned about it again?”

Ingo looked at him for several seconds and shook his head. He didn’t make any move to say what he was thinking and, in fact, dropped his hand back to his side. His line of sight wandered slightly thereafter, unable to maintain the eye contact out of… what? Disappointment? Awkwardness?

This time, Emmet didn’t physically move his twin’s hand; he reached out and brushed his fingertips down the back of it. “Please [talk to] me. I want to understand.”

It was abundantly clear that the only reason Ingo looked up was to sign properly as he said, “You’re saying I’ve always had brain damage?”

For moment, Emmet regretted asking-- not because he didn’t want to hear, but because he didn’t know how to answer. To give a definitive yes would only make his brother feel like he’d deserved the mistreatment brought on by his disability, but to say no would imply that he was different now and wrong for it-- never mind the fact that there wasn’t a foolproof answer, just the hypothesis Emmet had carelessly thrown out there.

[...]

“’Nobori’,” He echoed, and there was a twitch of the cheek that suggested he’d pronounced it incorrectly, but he had nothing for that. “Why? Does it mean something?”

Ingo hesitated for a fraction of a second, eyes flicking to the side in a way that suggested Emmet wouldn’t like the answer, and that he was very well aware of that fact. He had the [gall/nerve] to shake his head, a blatant lie that earned him a look of flat disbelief.

His twin sighed and relented, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see a reaction as he signed, “Upside-down, for my [counterintuitive] instincts.”

Of course. Of course even the name he’d been saddled with was a reminder that he was wrong. A complete inability to communicate, an incompatible worldview and insufficient [instincts]. Dragons above, how had he survived it all? Not only the inhospitable landscape that he’d had no [reference] to [survive], but being reminded at every turn that he didn’t belong.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

At one point, I mentioned that I was torn as to which silly crossover to let myself write for my birthday. Friends in Low Places ultimately won out, but the second option was a Psychonauts crossover. This isn't the same as Power Trick, even though it draws from what I'd put together for that story-- it's an entirely different take on the concept.

If you're unfamiliar with Psychonauts 2 and don't want it spoiled via an incomplete WIP, you probably shouldn't read this one. It even starts with a spoiler, so the whole thing's going under a cut.

---

It wasn’t that the mission to retrieve Helmut’s body was going badly. It wasn’t.

It was just that his body… didn’t stay as trapped as anyone thought it would, and had been roaming, brainless, throughout the Grulovian countryside. But, hey! They didn’t need to chip through nearly as much ice as they’d expected, and Raz was getting a good clairvoyant workout in trying to track him down! There were more pros than cons, in his opinion.

He had yet to decide what category the giant ice mountain fell into. Raz had been tiny when his parents moved the family out of the country, so he would have assumed it had been there for millennia, but the locals insisted it was a new feature. That seemed relevant, somehow. A giant lake gets frozen solid, and then a couple decades later, a big chunk of ice appears? It couldn’t be coincidence. None of the nearby townspeople seemed to know how it got there, though-- just that a couple of years ago, everyone had gone to bed and found it looming over them the next morning.

Now, Razputin may have been a master of neither geometry nor geology, but he was pretty sure that was abnormal mountain behavior, and definitely worth investigation. As luck would have it, Helmut’s body had already moved on from the town, and the mountain was the next stop on it’s predetermined path, which gave Raz a perfect excuse to poke around without ignoring his mission.

When he went to leave the town, an older woman tucked [?] into his hands and told him to carry it with him as payment for safe passage.

Ominous!

He was still going.

The toughest part of the trip was the distance itself-- outside of more developed areas, the snow piled up and was difficult to traverse, though there were numerous grooves worn into the powder, suggesting he wasn’t the first to travel this direction. Not all of them went the same way, and some were deeper than others, which made Raz wonder why the locals would trek all the way out here-- if it was curiosity, tradition or psychic interference drawing them in.

One of the funny things about distance was that it minimized the destination. Slowly, the mountain grew in scale, the opaque ice glittering in the midday sun from a mile away, until it dwarfed everything else. Even at a distance, the dark tunnels leading inward were an immediate contrast against the shining, pristine surface, and in and of itself, that could so easily lure passerby.

Someone who lacked a brain in a very literal sense would stride right on in.

Fortunately, Raz was no mere passerby. He was a mildly trained psychic with a mission, and he kind of knew what he was getting himself into. He made an effort to remember the turns he was taking and thought he was doing a pretty good job… if one were to ignore the fact that he hadn’t actually found anything. Every offshoot led deeper into the tunnel system, and while it made sense that there wouldn’t be much open space inside the mountain, the halls were unnaturally consistent. There came a point where Raz found he could predict what the next set would look like because they all followed the same pattern-- all of them identical.

He was probably caught in some kind of illusion.

Raz wasn’t one to give up, but he could also recognize a lost cause, and right now, he wasn’t making any progress. He had to figure out where the [illusion] was coming from and neutralize it before continuing down this path, so he turned his back on the next fork and began retracing his steps.

To his surprise, it didn’t lead him directly out of the mountain, like a single loop would have. He had to count each repetition down, inverting the turns he’d taken, which made him realize just how far he’d wandered before the pattern registered. He wasn’t worried yet, because he knew where he was going, but it made him reconsider what was going on; maybe not an illusion or a psychic construct, but something focused on disorientation? It didn’t feel like he’d taken this much time on the way in…

He heard footsteps. He whirled around to face the branch off of the tunnel, one hand raised to his temple just in case, and crept closer, hoping he might get the drop on whatever had caused the sound. The silhouette that turned the corner was strange-- tall and disproportionate, wider as it [got lower down].

It was the tale end of a muttered, “--V?” that clued Raz in on its exact nature. He relaxed and-- since there was no point in calling out to a brainless body-- trotted over to start corralling Helmut. The upper half of the silhouette moved, distinct from the body and, now that Raz was looking, rose well above the horned hat. He would have gone on the defensive again, if not for:

“Ah, are you lost as well? Come with me, please; I’ll see you both to your destination.”

He didn’t move, but Helmut’s body did. The second person gripped its shoulder to still it for the moment and raised their free hand. Gradually, light filtered in through the ice-- crystal clear now, instead of opaque with frost, keeping the tunnels dim-- which allowed them to observe one another.

The first thing Raz noticed was that the person looked like he’d lost a fight with a psychic bear; his clothes were ratty and thin in places, but in spite of the [lacking] winter wear, he seemed largely unbothered by the cold. The second thing was that he was incredibly pale-- pale hair, pallid skin, and eyes light enough to reflect back at whoever was looking. He hesitated on the last point, because something was wrong there; while this person was looking at him straight-on, it seemed like he wasn’t seeing Raz properly. Not in the sense that he had bad eyesight, but that he just… wasn’t seeing the same reality Raz saw.

That probably had something to do with the third point of interest: the impractically thick hunk of psilirium that encircled the person’s wrist. It wasn’t the worst Raz had seen by a long shot, but it was still enough to make his eyes water when he looked directly at it. From the corner of his vision, he watched the light play off of it as the man dropped his arm; he wondered how in the world that could have happened, and how this person was going about their daily life wearing the world’s worst mood bracelet.

“Please,” The man said, his clouded eyes sweeping over Raz, “It’s not safe to travel down these tracks. I know the route well, and can lead you back to safety.”

That final word struck a chord, and Raz inclined his head. Was this who the woman in town was talking about? The [?] was meant for him, in return for guiding people out of the mountain?

The man’s shoulders relaxed and the angle of his eyes shifted. He waved Raz over with his psitanium-cuffed hand and waited for him to fall into step after him, adjusting his grip on Helmut’s shoulder to prompt the brainless body onward with them.

“You don’t dress like the locals. Did you come here to investigate Korona? If so, I would highly advise against such a course of action; the paths here are treacherous, almost like they have a mind of their own.” The person said, voice low, but still bouncing off of the icy walls and echoing into the tunnels.

Raz shook his head, and then tilted it toward Helmut’s body, “Actually, I was looking for him.”

He heard a relieved laugh, “Ah, good! Perhaps you’ll succeed where I’ve failed; no matter how I try to impress the danger upon him, he always returns here. It’s… nice to see a familiar face, but I don’t want him to put himself at risk.”

“Do you know him? Who are you?” […]

There was a long pause. “Warden. I’m the warden of this territory. It’s my duty to ensure that none come to harm under my watch.”

[…] “You’re the warden of the mountain?”

He nodded, and didn’t look back.

“Then do you know how it got here?” […]

Warden’s head turned to fix him with a blank stare. “I’m unsure what you mean by that; Mount Korona has been here as long as I can remember.”

Raz felt his brow wrinkle as he considered the impossibility of that, and then realized how it could be true. “How long have you been here?”

The look turned vaguely helpless, and the warden repeated, “As long as I can remember.”

...yeah, the psilirium definitely wasn’t doing him any favors. Raz didn’t think he could take his eyes off of Helmut’s body long enough to do anything about that-- not without running the risk of losing it to the countryside yet again-- but maybe he could come back after this mission was over... or, if not, then at least make sure he reported the person wandering around with an active psychohazard on his wrist. As they walked, he prodded gently at the man’s mind, but wasn’t surprised to find himself repelled; while the psilirium was taking a toll, Warden was in direct contact with it and still functional, which meant his psychic defenses wouldn’t be anything to sneeze at.

For just a second, Raz considered lobbing a confusion grenade, just in case that might increase the man’s lucidity, but he was pretty sure he’d get in a load of trouble for it if anyone found out.

They made it to the mouth of the cave without incident, and Warden inclined his head to Raz, gesturing for him to take over in guiding Helmut’s body. He reached over and took him by a sleeve, and then hesitated. The man was outside of the cave system for now; if he could get him to the base camp somehow, that would make removing the psilirium orders easier. Not only would it save everyone the trouble of hunting him back down, but they would have numbers on their side, and maybe even tools that would help.

Before the stranger could bid them goodbye, Raz hastily said, “You think you could help me get him-- ah-- home? He… keeps getting away from me.”

Warden blinked at him, and then shifted to consider Helmut’s body.

“I can.” He decided, tucking the psilirium-laden arm behind his back and moving the opposite hand to rest upon Helmut’s shoulder. “Lead the way; I’ll ensure that he follows the route you set.”

The trip back to the base camp wasn’t going to be an easy one; it was definitely more direct than the path Raz had picked out, hopping from town to town as he tracked Helmut’s meandering body, but even walking in a straight line, it was a substantial distance. One unexpected silver lining was that, instead of behaving as snow usually did, it parted for them as they passed through, the powdery ice freezing into place on their either side.

Raz reached out with one gloved hand and found that there was no give; it was like it had thawed and refrozen, creating a smooth, glassy texture. He didn’t know cryokinesis, and without a brain, Helmut’s body couldn’t have done that, so he looked to the last off the potential culprits; the warden stared dispassionately out at the horizon line, giving no indication that he noticed the scrutiny he’d been put under. He wasn’t actively moving the snow, but the ambient energy around him-- a psychic aura-- absently pushed outward, and was definitely the reason they could travel unhindered.

He didn’t try to make small talk as they went-- though, occasionally, Helmut’s body chimed in with one-word commentary-- and that seemed to suit the warden just as well. Every now and then, the man would glance over at him, as if to gauge where they were headed and ensure that everyone was where he’d last seen them, but he never offered any of his thoughts, either.

[…]

Belatedly, he realized that they were missing one body, and frantically scanned the area. He found who he was looking for in a matter of seconds, back turned and already on his return trip to the mountain.

“Hey! Warden!” He hollered, and didn’t even need to make up any excuses this time, “Wait up! I’m s’posed to give you something for helping us!”

The man hesitated and only half-turned to respond. While his answer was clearly audible, it barely seemed like he was even raising his voice, “That’s unnecessary. I don’t require a reward simply for doing my job.”

Raz was vaguely aware of the startled breath that sounded behind him, but figured it was just because Hollis realized that the psychohazard was all but wandering away; he decided to stall for time and ran to catch up. “That’s how they said it works in town-- it’s not payment, it’s just, you know, gratitude for helping people out.”

Warden watched as he skidded to a halt, and then sighed. “I appreciate their kindness, but they don’t need to do any such thing.”

“Yeah, and they appreciate your kindness. See? It all equals out.” He tried, insistently offering the [?].

Finally, Warden accepted it, extending his psilirium-laden hand in order to move the cloth back look at what lay beneath. As he did so, a pained hiss sounded from behind Raz-- more than one, in fact-- and the man’s head shot up. His eyes were no clearer than ever, but there was an awareness in them-- the recognition of danger. Panic. Rapidly, he raised his cuffed hand to a temple and… vanished.

So it turned out that he knew how to teleport. That made this a lot harder.

“Razputin,” Hollis said, sounding hoarse, though that could have been a byproduct of the psilirium exposure, “Do you know who that was?”

“Yeah, that was the warden; he helps out whenever people get lost inside the mountain.” […]

“Maybe that’s how he was introduced to you,” [Otto], “But before that, he was one of ours-- an agent who went missing years ago.”

Shaking her head to dispel the lingering effects, Hollis looked from Raz to where the warden once stood.

“Agent Aquato, you just found the lost Agent Motif.”

(Pardon me while I perpetuate the joke about Raz being the best at finding missing persons, be they bodies, brains or something in between.)

---

Raz was pretty sure he recognized the name Motif. The most likely explanation was that he’d read it in a comic somewhere, but that didn’t help narrow it down; he’d gone through a lot of comics in his time, and couldn’t exactly go back and revisit all of them, since his mom family had little to no regard for the preservation of literature.

It must have been the name of a supporting agent, he thought-- either that, or maybe it had been in an advertisement for another issue that he hadn’t ever gotten his hands on. The specifics didn’t really matter right now; it was way more important to find Agent Motif again, and for good this time. It seemed like a pretty good bet that he went back to the mountain-- to Korona-- but it wasn’t as simple as going there and wandering through the tunnels until someone ran into him. Even if they went to the trouble of tracking him down, there was nothing stopping him from teleporting away for a second time.

It sounded like everyone had different ideas how to tackle that problem. Hollis had gone to talk to someone back at HQ hours ago, and Otto was tinkering in his field laboratory, trying to set up something that would inhibit Agent Motif’s powers without relying on psilirium to do the job. Lizzie hadn’t been there to meet him, but when brought into the fold, she’d scoffed and muttered something about lectures under her breath. That seemed a little extreme; it had just been a basic rundown of the facts, not [a lecture].

Raz was on his way to check in with Bob and Helmut again when a new voice caught his attention and-- without thinking-- he found himself wandering toward it.

“Hollis.” The speaker said, steely and without emotion, “What is going on here?”

He stopped just shy of getting a visual, and belatedly realized that this was definitely eavesdropping, but stayed put, too curious to walk away yet.

“We’re on a mission to retrieve a lost agent. You already knew that-- you had no interest in participating.” Hollis said back, utterly unmoved.

“Correct. I had no place in the effort to retrieve Helmut’s body.” The other person somehow both agreed and argued, “We both know that is not why I’m here now.”

“Then why don’t you do us both a favor, Emmet? Explain to me why you are here, just so we know we’re on the same page.” […]

There was a dull thud, only resonating for a split second, “My brother, Hollis. You explain to me why I found out about this through office gossip.”

“At a guess, I would say it was because you were listening in on communications channels again.” Hollis [said] dryly. After a second, she sighed, “This is why I didn’t contact you immediately; we have to get a handle on the situation first. I don’t have any doubt that was Ingo, but he’s not acting like himself, and we need to understand why before diving in.”

“You don’t think it’s the giant piece of psilirium on his wrist?” The man asked, flat but disbelieving.

“After your stint at Charlie Psycho Delta? No, there has to be something else.”

“Our defenses are best when we’re together. He won’t withstand it as well by himself.”

[something gives Raz away]

Both of them went silent, and, after a moment, Hollis called out to him. “Would you care to join us, Agent Aquato?”

Guiltily, he slunk around the corner and through the door. He made apologetic eye contact with Hollis, and then looked to the other person. All at once, the pieces fell together: the surname and given names, the long, worn coat he’d seen Agent Motif wearing, now that he could compare it to an undamaged version, the teleportation out of and into the base--

“You’re the Countertype Conductors,” He said, already raking his mind for everything he knew about the pair of sibling Psychonauts. Since their job was to get agents to and from their destinations, they usually only got passing mentions and cameos, but one of his guesses had been right on the money: Issue 57 of True Psychic Tales had teased a story about psitanium smugglers, and the splash page featured two identical men pressed back to back, channeling psychic energy between their own pointing hands and between one another. He hadn’t ever been able to read that [issue], but any mention of them he had seen was as a pair-- as the Agents Motif or, when a book was getting dramatic, the Countertype Conductors.

Agent Motif-- Emmet-- curled his lip into a grimace at the declaration, and then looked back to Hollis. “This does not get you off the hook. I want to be a part of this mission.”

“There is no mission yet.” Hollis told him, nodding briefly to Raz, “It was just today that Agent Aquato brought his findings to us; we’re in the process of gathering intelligence, not acting on it.”

Agent Motif looked at him again, considering. “Then our business has concluded, Agent Forsythe. Agent Aquato. I want to hear what you saw.”

“Emmet,” Hollis said, low and warning, “Is that really how you want to conduct yourself in front of a junior agent?”

He turned to look her dead in the eye and then, bluntly, declared, “I don’t care, Hollis. It’s been two and a half years. I am beyond caring what anyone else thinks of me.”

They stared at one another for a handful of seconds, neither backing down.

Eventually, Hollis narrowed her eyes. “Actually, I do have a mission for you, Motif. I want you to go speak with Agent Zanotto.”

“He has nothing worth saying. Not to me.” Emmet scoffed.

“No?” / “You don’t think the man who lost his partner has any insight into your situation?”

“No. I don’t. He lost another person. I lost part of myself. It is not the same.” He said, expression twisting in offense, “I am done with this conversation. If you have any useful information, tell me. Otherwise, I will handle the matter myself.”

A stony silence settled over them. Agent Motif shrugged and turned his back.

“You’re not leaving this base.” Hollis warned as he crossed the room’s threshold.

“You can’t stop me.” He said simply, which… was true. They were kind of hung up on how to prevent teleportation right now, without any of the tools from HQ.

Hollis grimaced as he walked away, and her eyes fell on Raz.

“I’m sorry about him, Razputin. It’s… too complicated to explain in full right now.” She pursed her lips in thought, and seemed to [give in], “Could I ask you to keep an eye on him for the evening? You don’t have to approach him again-- I’d actually avoid it, if you can. I just need to know that he’s not doing anything stupid while we figure out what to do about Ingo.”

[…]

“Ah.” He said, sounding less than enthusiastic-- and yet, what actually followed was, “Good. Aquato, I still need information from you.”

Yeah… Raz wasn’t exactly inclined to share, between what he’d seen earlier and the instructions to keep an eye on Motif.

“I don’t think I can tell you anything else. Hollis is probably your best bet.” He tried, thinking that might be enough of a deterrent for the time being, but Emmet just rolled his eyes.

“You do not have to tell me anything.” The man said, tilting his head to the side and closing his eyes, brows furrowed in concentration. For a second, it seemed like he would try to read Raz’s mind, but there was no pressure on the edges of his psyche.

“I don’t think that loophole works when everyone involved is psychic.” […]

Emmet snorted, but didn’t open his eyes. “You don’t have to think anything either.”

He was definitely manipulating some sort of psychic energy. Raz… thought he recognized it as Mental Connection, actually, but the application was completely different from the examples Hollis had used while teaching. It was a little closer to the functionality he got out of it, but there were still more differences than there were similarities.

“That works.” Agent Motif declared after a moment, and made an abrupt turn without opening his eyes. When he did tune back in to the real world, it was to shoot a glance Raz’s way, “I am sorry if this gets you in trouble with Hollis. Tell her I could not be reasoned with. It’s true. I will not tolerate any further delays.”

And, with that, he vanished from the premises.

Well, shoot.

---

The technique Agent Motif had used was, in fact, a branch of Mental Connection-- crossed with clairvoyance in this case. Hollis had given a very general explanation when Raz reported to her, but as fascinating as it sounded, there wasn’t time to delve into that right now. The combination of skills could be used to follow a trail, and there was little wondering where Emmet intended to go.

Raz had been the first to note that he must not have known about Mount Korona, otherwise he wouldn’t have needed to do anything but look out the window. With the confirmation that he was working with a dangerously small amount of information, Hollis decided they had to act immediately.

[…]

It was dim, but the light that did filter through suggested that it wasn’t always the case-- the cavern was dark right now because it was night, and during the daytime, visibility would have been much better. Because of the scant lighting, a number of features were visible: a vaguely circular [platform] in the room’s center, extending seamlessly from the floor, shelves of ice that were two inches thick and still crystal clear, putting their contents on full display, a frozen basin that somehow contained water, albeit with a thin sheet of ice forming on its top and, on the far side of the room, an uneven, knee-height platform.

It was the last [feature] that they gravitated toward, largely due to the fact that there was a person resting on it.

Agent Motif knelt down-- biting back a hiss at the cold that immediately seeped through his pants-- rested a hand on their shoulder, and gently shook it. There was a [startled] inhalation as the other man startled awake, and automatically raised a hand to rub at his eyes.

“Lady O--”

He stopped as soon as the sight registered; even though he’d only cracked one eye open, he somehow narrowed it as he tried to understand what he was looking at, and pushed himself into sitting up. The former Agent Motif looked one way, and then the other-- attention only barely flickering to Raz-- and even up before letting himself settle on the man in front of him. Haltingly, he raised an arm, dropped it, and then frowned at the result.

“You’re… not a reflection.” He said numbly.

Emmet visibly stopped himself from saying something, substituting a slow shake of his head.

The warden hesitated, the silence a blanket of snow obscuring his racing thoughts, and eventually added, “I know you.”

“I know you.” / “I missed you.”

His brother almost reached out, and then snatched his hand back, thinking better of it. It would have been confusing, if not for the way he tucked it into the coat he’d been wearing even in sleep, hiding the chunk of psilirium from immediate view.

Emmet let the hand braced on a shoulder drop, trying to coax it back out by tugging at a sleeve, “It’s okay. It won’t hurt me if we’re together. You’re safe with me.”

While its owner wasn’t convinced, he didn’t put up a fight. The arm slowly eased out, mirrored by a hand that reached over to press their palms together. Raz caught a hint of a wince-- the same expression that had crossed Emmet’s face when he’d first realized how cold the floor was-- but it didn’t stop the man from lacing their fingers together and leaning in until their foreheads touched.

Something must have passed between them, unspoken, because the warden flinched and Emmet raised his opposite hand to the back of his brother’s head-- not forcing him to stay, but steadying him and encouraging him to linger.

“It’s okay.” He repeated, forcing his voice into gentle tones, “I will not let anything else happen to you.”

---

Also, misc notes:

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Forgive and Forget (cont'd)

Earlier this year, I said something about wanting to clean up a few WIPs, and I really did try-- I just got smacked in the face with MHIMH around June and things went out of control from there.

In any case, the first one I was trying to complete was Forgive and Forget; this is more of that, delving into the actual plot instead of just being the introduction. It's also very incomplete, just as a heads up.

(I should also warn that it deals with an illness that's basically the Pokemon world's equivalent to covid. It's an important plot point, but more in the sense of being why the story happens, not what the story is about.)

---

If a process was uncomfortable for an adult, it stood to reason that it would be even less tolerable for a child. Drayden knew it was asking a lot for Ingo to [tolerate] another test, but he couldn’t help his concerns. The boy woke up slowly every morning and kept a coat wrapped around him indoors; both of these habits would lessen as the day progressed, but the fact that he was so consistently chilled and fatigued was worth paying attention to.

The test came up negative once again, ruling that potential cause out. It was a relief for obvious reasons, but troubling, too. There were no other symptoms that suggested he had a run of the mill cold, and while he was a bit stilted at mealtimes, he didn’t raise a fuss about eating properly. At first, Drayden had been worried for how little the child ate, but that [concern] had been settled with a bit of research; the amount it took a six year old to go about the day was a great deal less than what an adult needed.

He was advised to let his nephew be; not only was he having to adjust to staying in Opelucid for the time being, but he wasn’t used to being on his own. The coat was likely a comfort object, he’d been told, and it stood to reason that he had trouble sleeping so far away from home.

Drayden had been unable to leave well enough alone, though. He didn’t want to create a reliance, but Ingo and Swablu were getting along so well that he thought it might help; Swablu could roost on the headboard, and the presence of another living being might help his nephew sleep through the night. Well after Ingo had gone to bed, and just before Drayden himself planned to retire for the night, he cracked the guest room door open to let Swablu toddle in. The bird did exactly that, and Drayden’s attention moved to the little form on the opposite side of the room.

It seemed the advice held weight after all. Over the blanket, Ingo had spread his coat out like an ill-fitting bed cover, plainly finding reassurance in it. He might not have noticed a conflicting detail if not for the beeline Swablu bid toward its new friend. It plopped itself down without a care, and while it didn’t have the weight to wake the child, it disturbed him just enough to make a hissing exhale audible from the doorway. Drayden hesitated in the threshold, wondering if he shouldn’t do something, but waking Ingo up now-- on a school night no less-- would do nothing to help the trouble he had getting started in the morning. He decided it would keep until the daylight hours.

When he witnessed the usual routine the next morning, he could have kicked himself for not connecting the dots the night prior.

“Ingo,” He said gently, and waited for a response before going on.

The boy paused what he’d been doing to put both hands on Swablu-- restraining it from hopping up onto the table and going to town-- and looked up at him. Not for the first time, it pinged at Drayden how strange it was to see someone wearing a coat at the breakfast table.

“If you’re getting cold at night, I can find you another blanket.” That made sense, didn’t it? A smaller body would get cold much easier, and if he was trying to curl up tight enough to hide under that jacket all night, of course it would leave him exhausted.

Ingo stared at him with paradoxically ultra-bright and sleep-dulled eyes, and eventually said, “S’okay.”

“It’s no trouble, if that’s what you’re worried about. Do you want to see where I keep the extras? You can pick one out, if you’d like.” […]

Something twitched in the child’s expression, but Drayden couldn’t tell what it meant. He zipped his coat all the way up, then buried the bottom half of his face in the collar. Swablu pecked at the dangling zipper.

That was… fine. Regardless of that [puzzling] response, Drayden would make sure there was an extra blanket available for him tonight, whether or not he worked up the courage to ask. What was making him so nervous, though? It wasn’t out of character for him to avoid raising fuss when he needed something-- the twins were shy about that, but would flag down an adult for their brother’s sake-- but it was strange that he would actively reject an offer of help.

Drayden brought it up that afternoon, during the daily check in with Travic. His brother still sounded awful, and he didn’t want to make things any worse, but Vick would endure the discomfort in a heartbeat to ensure his wayward son’s wellbeing.

“He does run cool,” Travic rasped, and then paused-- either to rest or to give the whole of it some thought. “I’m not sure what he was trying to tell you, though. He can’t know if it’s a bad texture without feeling it. And he didn’t say anything?”

That part had mystified Drayden since the initial commute to Opelucid. Historically, it wasn’t difficult to coax Ingo into a conversation, but his nephew had stayed silent even with the promise of meeting a new Pokemon in the near future. He should have been asking about Swablu until he’d had the chance to see it in person, but instead, he’d curled in on himself and waited out the train ride. Drayden understood that he might be scared by how quickly things were happening around him, but the forced indifference was incredibly out of character.

“Not a word.” He confirmed grimly, “We may have to have a talk tonight, just to get this ironed out.”

“Be gentle, Dray. He’s the one you need to watch out for with the RSD.” [...]

Unseen, Drayden rolled his eyes. “I’m not a Druddigon; I have thick skin, not rough skin.”

On the other end of the phone, his brother stifled a coughing fit and then wheezed, “Just be nice to my Goomy.”

Drayden snorted. Personally, he thought an Axew would be more appropriate-- or maybe a Noibat-- but he’d let Vick have this one; he had to be worried for both of his kids. Speaking of…

“How are the both of you faring over there?”

Travic caught himself before he could snort. “I honestly think Emmet’s going to sleep this entire thing off. I’ll get him up to eat some soup, and he nearly zonks out in the bowl. At first I was worried, but he’s not fainting. It’s just that he doesn’t have the energy for more than one task in a row.”

“Poor thing.” Drayden said [?], careful not to let his amusement at the mental image come through.

This time, Vick let his [amusement] out in a puff of breath, “That poor thing’s got the right idea. I wish I could sleep all day.”

“I should let you catch up on your rest, then.” [...]

The [amusement] settled into a [?] sigh, “Yeah, I think it’s about time. Tell Ingo we love him, and I’ll talk to you later.”

“I will. In the meantime, rest well.” He said, and shut his Xtransceiver off.

That didn’t help very much; if anything, Vick’s concern only made it worse. While Drayden stood by his initial assessment-- his brother was probably just seeing things through a skewed lens as a result of his illness-- the fact that he hadn’t been able to pin down a potential cause for the behavior was confounding. Unfortunately, the next best expert on the topic was unconscious, sick and six, so they’d find no quarter there.

Drayden was somewhat startled to realize that, given his [sporadic] visits and the previous [timeframe], that made him the third best [reference]. He ran his hands over his face and braced his elbows against his desk.

He tamed dragons and guarded the gates to the Pokemon League like he himself was a drake. Surely he could talk to a little boy about a blanket.

It was much harder when he found hopelessly confused silver eyes fixed on him over the uppermost edge of the blanket he’d handed off for inspection. He knelt down and made to lower it, but aborted the gesture as he realized he’d seen the same thing that morning when Ingo had hidden his face.

Instead, he asked as gently as he could, “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The child lied, the word thick in his throat and reluctant to come out.

Drayden sighed, and what might have been frustration under different circumstances only turned into [?]. “We’ll come back to that. You’re struggling, and I want to help; is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?”

With that reframing, Ingo paused and thought about it. He almost said something, but the first word came out muffled, and he belatedly lowered the blanket before trying to say his piece. “What are the rules?”

“There are no rules; if there’s something on your mind, I want to hear it.”

Ingo gave his head a harsh shake. “Not the rules for right now. I don’t want to get in trouble again, so I need to know what I shouldn’t do.”

Drayden felt his brows furrow. “What do you mean by that? Did something happen at school?”

There was a quiet, “No,” but that was all.

Right. He needed to be clear, and right now he was getting distracted.

“Are you asking about my household rules?” He tried, and was relieved to get an affirmative, if only because he was on the correct track. “You don’t need to worry about anything like that. I know you won’t get yourself into trouble.” Not alone, at least.

To his surprise, it earned him a nervous whine, and the blanket crept back upwards.

“Do you… want rules?” Drayden asked, slightly baffled. He didn’t think Travic imposed any major restrictions over the twins at their age, so he wasn’t sure where this was coming from-- but, sure enough, Ingo nodded from behind the safety of his fleece shield.

Running a hand through his hair, Drayden [?]. “I don’t currently have a list of rules. We could make one, if that would help put your mind at ease.”

Ingo nodded again and held the blanket up for Drayden to take back.

He hesitated. “Ingo, you’re going to need that tonight.”

His nephew’s pale eyes flicked down at it and then, questioningly, back to Drayden. “Is that one?”

Drayden resisted the urge to pass a hand over his face.

“No, it’s not.” He said, and proceeded to bargain with the six year old, “Why don’t I put this away for now, and you can decide on a blanket after we’ve made your list? Does that sound acceptable?”

The blanket was held out again, more insistently than before. Drayden couldn’t help but wonder if he’d picked a bad texture to hand over after all, and that was why he was so intent on getting rid of it. Once they’d settled this, he’d have to get a definitive yes or no.

He went to get a blank sheet of paper-- encouraging Ingo to go grab his pencil case in the meantime-- and they spent some time at the table drafting up a set of child-accessible house rules. For every new addition, Drayden handed the page over to Ingo to number, which he did with an adorably intense focus. The [list] consisted of things like ‘no going outside after dark’, ‘no hitting’, and ‘brush your teeth before bed’, and Drayden was a little proud of how competently parental it sounded. It was a little embarrassing that several of the rules came from the child in question and not the adult, but a collaborative victory was still a victory.

Drayden had made Ingo’s clumsy spacing work by using deliberately legible, large letters to spell each rule out-- ideal for a new reader who might want to review them when he got nervous. It meant that only ten items fit on the page, and he’d thought that would be enough to put his nephew’s mind at ease, but again, Ingo proved him wrong.

He stared at the number for ‘no hitting’ for a few seconds, tangling his fingers up. “What about touching?”

For a second, Drayden’s heart seized, and then he forced himself to [idk].

“Can you explain what you mean by ‘touching’?” He asked, voice deceptively even.

“Uh.” Ingo said, and pushed away from his chair to where Swablu was perched [on something]. He paused and looked to Drayden, seeking permission to demonstrate, before setting his hand on the bird’s head.

Drayden bit back a relieved breath. “That’s perfectly fine, Ingo. You’ve been holding Swablu this whole time-- I think he’d be upset if you stopped now.”

Swablu tilted back to nibble at a finger, and the two of them stayed there in silence.

“Is there a reason you were so concerned about that?” […]

The boy’s eyes dropped to the floor and he took his hand back, where it and its partner curled into uncertain fists, pressed against his chest. As promised, Swablu chirped indignantly, but now wasn’t the time to indulge its whims.

“Dad got mad about it.” He admitted, shamefaced, to the tile.

Drayden had to be missing context here; that didn’t sound like Travic at all. He could tell the twins no when it was warranted, but he wouldn’t get upset with them out of nowhere. Maybe they’d misread each other, or something else had caused Vick to come across more harshly than he normally would-- as the man himself had reminded Drayden, Ingo was prone to rejection sensitive dysphoria.

Given Ingo’s abnormal silence, Drayden half expected the explanation to stop there, but to his surprise, it surged on-- unable to be held back now that the dam had been compromised.

“I didn’t know I wasn’t s’posed to. It was okay before, and-- and I just wanted to help, ‘c-cause Emmet wasn’t feeling good.” The boy blurted, hands raising as if to physically stop himself from speaking, but they idled in the air without following through on the threat. “But dad got mad and told me to sit on the couch, and then he called you.”

Okay. That was… a lot at once. Much, much more than Drayden had expected to get. Working from what he knew, Emmet had been sick, and so Travic logically wouldn’t want Ingo getting too close, let alone making physical contact. That made sense. It would seem sudden since the twins were so frequently in close quarters, and it only became a problem once Travic realized the severity of the situation. That tracked, too. Why did Ingo think his father was mad at him, though? Just because he’d been sent to the couch?

“Why do you say your dad was upset?” […]

“He sounded really scary. And then he sent me to time out.” The boy’s lip trembled and, in one quick motion, he snatched Swablu up off of the [whatever] to hide his face against it. The bird squawked at first, startled, but caught on quickly and shuffled around in his arms, trying to do something to help soothe him. Ingo didn’t dare emerge from behind his protector as he finally added, “And then he sent me away.”

Gently, Drayden managed to compress the remaining fluff of Swablu’s wings to catch his nephew’s eye.

“Ingo,” He said, urgent, but trying not to let it show in his voice, “You don’t think you’re here as a punishment, do you?”

There was a single, miserable nod as the child angled his face back into the Pokemon’s plumage. An anxious whine was building in his throat, and with this new understanding, it was hard to blame him.

“Hey, hey now. It’s alright, you’re not here because you’re in trouble. Your dad was worried for you and asked me to take care of you, do you remember that? You said Emmet wasn’t feeling well; he didn’t want you getting sick, too.” As much as he’d hoped it might get through, it obviously didn’t. This had to have been building since [timeframe], too big to be quelled now-- and wasn’t that an awful thought? All this time, and Ingo thought he’d been [punished] for trying to help his brother feel a little better.

Drayden tentatively set a hand on his upper arm, and was promptly shaken off. Swablu chirped reproachfully.

How… how else could he help? It seemed touch was against the rules for now, and words weren’t [getting through]. Swablu was safe, though-- a warm, child friendly weight. What could he take away from that? Drayden stood and backed off several paces, but stayed well in range and never fully turned away. With the gap he’d made, he quietly called Druddigon over and sent it to the closet in the hallway, gratefully relieving it of its cargo once it returned. It didn’t stop him and seek praise for once, too wary of the crying child to linger.

Drayden gave the fabric a vigorous rustling, hoping the friction would help warm it up quickly, and then approached again. Careful not to make contact, himself, he draped his coat over Ingo’s shoulders and then knelt back, waiting to see if that was at all helpful. The lining was the closest he could get to Ingo’s own coat-- the whereabouts of which escaped him in the moment-- it was weighty without being heavy, and it would give him something to retreat into.

It didn’t calm him in and of itself, but it did seem to help; he turned away from Swablu’s plumage and buried his entire face beneath its wide collar. Drayden made sure not to touch anything but the fabric as he adjusted it for better coverage, and spoke slow, soft words meant to comfort. Eventually the little boy cried himself out, and Drayden was able to use his [fatigue] to herd him to the guest room, where he might feel safer.

He lingered in the threshold, at a total loss for what to do. There was nothing he could say right now that would help, but he didn’t want to leave Ingo alone after such an intense emotional outburst. Swablu paced the bed and, lethargically, Ingo dragged himself up onto the mattress with it, all but collapsing as soon as he got there. He pulled Drayden’s coat up over his head and curled up into a forlorn ball.

Drayden’s eyes wandered as he tried to figure out what to do, ultimately landing on a plush Purrloin laying atop the bag Travic had sent along that first day. He scooped it up and set it on the pillow, in easy reach, but to little response.

“Would you like me to stay for a little while?” He asked, and got an indistinct sound as his answer. With touch off the table, he was unable to offer a reassuring pat, and it didn’t feel right to keep talking when the boy was already overwhelmed. Drayden compromised by seating himself at the very foot of the bed, where one of them would have to move for any contact to occur. “If it doesn’t matter to you, I think I would feel better about staying for a minute. Is that okay?”

Ingo didn’t bother to answer this time, and Drayden kept him company until the emotional exhaustion got the better of the boy. When he was sure his nephew was asleep, he moved back to his linen closet and selected a different blanket this time, gently spreading it over the same area as his coat. When he woke up, he’d be able to burrow under the covers, but until then, the coat wouldn’t be enough to stave off a chill.

After a moment of watching the small lump slowly rise and fall with each breath, Drayden glanced to Swablu, trying to judge how it might respond to its friend’s distress. What he found was that the bird had worked its beak under the blanket and wriggled underneath. Once the smaller lump neared the slightly-larger one, he heard a soft, muffled cooing.

Swablu seemed to have the situation under control, at least, even if Drayden didn’t. He made sure to leave the door ajar when he stepped out, just in case that helped at all, and ran a hand through his hair.

He didn’t know how to fix this, but his brother had to be told immediately.

Drayden passed a hand over his eyes and went to grab his Xtransceiver off of the living room table, trying to work out how he’d broach the problem; he didn’t want Travic to panic and make himself worse, but they had nip the belief before it rooted itself any deeper.

With a resigned sigh, he turned the device on and dialed his brother’s number.

---

“What do you mean?” Travic [?], sounding like he was suffering the immediate aftermath of being punched in the chest.

“He thinks being here is his punishment for breaking an unspoken rule.” Drayden confirmed, grim faced, and triple-checked that his study door was shut tight. While it wouldn’t hurt Ingo to hear the truth of this matter, it wouldn’t do for him to realize how poorly his father was doing.

“I-- I wasn’t mad at him. He just needed to get away before he caught--” His brother broke off abruptly, and at first Drayden thought it could be chalked up to the ragged cough that tore from his lungs, but realized shortly thereafter that it was the other way around-- a sudden inhalation had, instead, sparked the coughing fit. “He put himself in time out. How didn’t I see that?”

“Trav, you had a fever of [?] degrees.” Drayden reasoned, trying to lessen the blow even the smallest amount.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work. “That doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change how he understood it. He must…”

There was a break on the other side of the line as Travic tried to wrestle his lungs into compliance.

“He thinks I abandoned him, Drayden.”

Ah. Drayden… hadn’t thought of it in that light, but he did suppose that would make it worse on a parent, and even [worse] on Travic in particular. The twins were too young to remember their mother, but Drayden could [recall/recite] that unpleasantness all too easily.

“We’ll get this misunderstanding worked out. He’s a very smart little boy, I’m sure we can--”

“He’s six.” Travic snapped, and then looked intensely apologetic about it. “Sorry. It’s just-- it’s not his job. I’m supposed to make sure he [understands], and I can’t have screwed up worse.”

Drayden sighed and rested his chin in a hand, unable to quell this particular [anxiety]. “It can’t be undone, so the best thing to do is ensure that it doesn’t stretch on any longer. I can try to talk to him, but I need to know how you want me to approach the conversation.”

“I… don’t know.” Travic said [lamely]. He pressed both hands to his face and ran them both upwards, until the heels were pressed to his eyes. Eventually he said, “I’ll call in, so keep him home tomorrow. It’ll be worse if he has to pass through town on his way to school.”

His already distraught [frown] deepened as he muttered, “All the good that does. It’s been [timeframe]. I thought sticking to his usual schedule would help, but…”

“With all due respect, Travic, what other options were there? His absence wouldn’t be excused for long if he wasn’t also sick, and the inactivity would have worn on his nerves even more than the routine. You’re not being fair to yourself.”

A rough, frustrated sound escaped Travic, and in that moment, the resemblance between him and his eldest was uncanny.

[…]

Out of an abundance of caution, he peeked into the guest room on his way past. It seemed Ingo had roused himself at some point during Drayden’s call, as the blanket had been folded into clumsy fourths and shoved off to the side. The shapes involved suggested that he’d finally maneuvered himself under the actual bedding, so Drayden wasn’t terribly concerned about that particular blanket being rejected-- especially since his coat was still laying atop the child-sized lump.

“It will be better in the morning.” Drayden promised the sleeping form. “Goodnight, Ingo.”

-

In spite of the previous evening’s events, Ingo didn’t miss a beat the next morning. He got up right on schedule and started shuffling about as he did every morning so far. While he was still sleepy-eyed, it seemed likely to draw from a different source than before, and Drayden was [vindicated] to see him wandering around without a coat over his shoulders.

There was one in his arms, though, and he wordlessly held it up for Drayden to take back, staring somewhere to the left of the man’s knees.

It took a moment for Drayden to come up with an adequate response to that.

“Why don’t you hold onto that until we find a blanket that you like?” He asked, and saw a nose scrunch in thought.

“Won’t you need it?” [?]

He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I run hot; if I really need a coat this time of year, there are others I can use.”

With the [clumsy] hands of a young child, Ingo doubled it over across his arms and then frowned at the result; he frowned at most everything though, and this didn’t seem so out of the ordinary.

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

This is a scrapped piece from a story I'm still trying to make work, which means the full context is a little lacking. That said, I liked it too much to ditch entirely, so onto the writing blog it goes. Again, there are placeholders all over-- even more than usual. Please don't go into this expecting anything polished. xD

---

“Hello, this is [name] calling on behalf of the Goldenrod City General Hospital.”

Immediate alarm bells, though Emmet couldn’t quite articulate why; trepidation blocked his throat, and he remained silent, letting [them] continue.

“I’ve been asked to act as a translator, as no one on staff is fully fluent in Unovan. You see, for the past four days, the facility has been attempting to identify a [John Doe], and we believe we’ve found a match with Mr. Ingo Bewaker, but due to… circumstances, have been unable to confirm. As his emergency contact, we were hoping you might be able to help us with visual confirmation.” […]

Mind going a mile a minute, it took a bit for Emmet to respond. His brother had no business being in Johto, but at this point, anything was possible. What truly disturbed him was the implication that the hospital had taken this long to find an [identity], meaning that… this person was unable to [identify] themselves.

It sounded like they wanted him to [identify] a body.

[he’d been fighting against that for some time/whatever else]

The last thing he wanted to do was agree, but how could he refuse? Either he could be sure that this was some other unfortunate individual, and that he shouldn’t give up yet, or he’d finally find an answer. He bit down on his tongue and forced himself to respond.

“Yes. Of course. Would email be preferable?” For a moment, it was just business-- the rote exchange of information-- but as the call seemed like it was winding down, he couldn’t help but ask, “...was it bad?”

Because, as much as he wanted to know what had happened, he wouldn’t be able to handle it if this was his twin and he’d died in pain. Knowing ahead of time would make it that much harder, but at least he would have something to prepare himself against. He would do it-- if it meant finally bringing his brother home, he would do it-- but [???].

[name] went on, oblivious to his internal conflict. “As I mentioned before, I’m only acting as a translator, and so I’m uninvolved in the patient’s care. From speaking to him, though, I think it’s fair to say the language barrier has been the biggest problem.”

The racing thoughts came to a screeching halt.

“You spoke to him?” He echoed [hoarsely]. Ironically, that in and of itself had an alternate translation: he’s alive?

“Yes, though I’m not sure how much got through. Between the medication and his limitations, he’s not the easiest to communicate with.” […]

That was… rude.

Even without having seen the physical proof, Emmet found himself inching closer to believing this might be it-- because of course someone would look at his brother’s face and call him hard to understand. If he was too out of it to respond coherently, that would even explain why they hadn’t been able to ask I-- this person directly, thus necessitating outside assistance.

The [deep] low suddenly swung upright, into a hopeful peak. It left Emmet a little dizzy.

“I see. Thank you for the clarification. I will refer to the email and respond as soon as possible.” He said, and the call ended shortly thereafter. Trying not to fidget, he waited for his Xtransceiver to ping, and struggled to keep his hand steady when the message came through. Hovering over the link to the attached photo, he took a deep breath and pressed down.

That was Ingo.

He had a splinted leg, there was a bandage stretching along one side of his face, and it kind of looked like he’d suffered his own personal Earthquake, but there was no doubt in Emmet’s mind. That was his brother, and while the photo could only capture so much, it was plain to see that he was alive, if not entirely well.

Using a nail to trace the edge of the facial cut, he let himself wonder how. There was nothing in the picture that suggested anything specific, or shed any more light on where he’d been all this time… beyond the Johto region, apparently…? No, that didn’t make sense. If he’d spent the past year in Johto, he would have picked something of the language up-- enough to make it by-- but he’d needed a Unovan translator.

...which was completely ignoring the question of why he wouldn’t just try to contact home, but it was obvious that Emmet was missing a great deal of context, so he would reserve judgment for the time being.

Lost in his reverie, he accidentally let the screen go dark, and then immediately tapped it to bring the picture back. He gave it another once-over before reluctantly closing it to formulate a reply-- that yes, that was his brother, and he would be departing for Goldenrod as soon as he was able.