Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everything seemed so much bigger when it was just a picture on your phone.

The apartment hunting process had been a nightmare compared to your small-town home, where it wasn't hard to find someone in a local ad with a reasonably priced place up for immediate move in.

You'd never had difficulty, nor had any of your roommates in college; everyone was more than reasonable despite renting to angsty college kids.

Of course, when you graduated, you couldn't stay.

You'd never been out of the town's boundaries for longer than a few days, but it had to be done. You had to leave – go spread your wings and make it out on your own before you were trapped forever in small town madness.

Eventually, when your savings left from college dwindled below comfortable numbers and the start date at your hastily acquired job grew closer, you ran out of options.

You had spread the final options out on a table – a mishmash of several photos printed in questionable quality from the public library's printer – and resolved to make a final decision right then and there.

Some of them were too honest, and others were not honest enough. There's no such thing as "cozy efficiency" or "intimate living spaces" if the apartment itself is a small room in a converted warehouse, after all.

Your eyes had quickly glazed over in fatigue, and you'd had to mentally smack yourself to bring back your focus quite a few times as you tried not to spiral.

Square footage is just a number. City living is all about the efficient use of space to be courteous to those around you. The photos were probably not that far off. Definitely not from over five years ago, or from when the place was first built. And that lighting was… strategic. Good for energy costs.

It's a perfectly livable environment, and you're the kind of person who can manage minimalism, right? Haha… ha.

The mental pep talk had done its job, and the night ended with a choice of the (assumed) least awful photo in the bunch.

But this place? Oh boy. Maybe whoever took these photos had free access to a Distortion Pokemon, because it looked like they were taken in an entirely different dimension from what stood before you now.

You stood in the doorway, massive cardboard box balanced unsteadily in your arms, staring at what could not, even generously, be called a "cozy" studio. Maybe it was more accurate to describe it as "a closet with delusions of grandeur." The Realtor’s enthusiasm about finally renting the place on the phone suddenly made way too much sense.

Still, it was yours now.

First apartment in Nimbasa City, first real job, and first time living further than a quick bus ride from your childhood.

Your precious box of possessions in your arms contained exactly one "emergency apartment set up kit" that you'd purchased with what money you had left: a cheap dishware set, a discounted bathroom supplies kit meant for new college students, a dollar menu house cleaning kit that was likely only a box of wet wipes and a pamphlet, and a concerning amount of instant ramen of various varieties.

Everything essential for independent living.

You set it down with a heavy thud and composed yourself, a deep sigh escaping before you could stop it.

"Well," you said to the floorboards, "this is either the best decision I've ever made, or I'm about to become a cautionary tale for youngsters."

So, you unpacked.

Time passed quickly as you worked and, unfortunately, were forced to clean as you went, which was incredibly depressing in ways that you were avoiding thinking about.

The plates and mugs went into the cabinet that wasn't broken after a quick wipe down, the silverware went into the meager space under the sink in the spot that wasn't stained, and the sweet lifeblood of ramen went sprawling over the counter top because you'd already run out of kitchen space and you got frustrated.

The oven (hot plate) and fridge (mini variety) hummed together in the corner, laughing at you and your pile of wet wipes on the ground, because you really hadn't thought you'd needed to buy a trash can.

Everything else to your name was either back in your childhood room gathering dust or deemed non-essential and/or too heavy for the journey. Which, uh. Looking at this miserable lot? It was probably another bullet point to jot down on your list of mistakes.

Cue: the first night.

City sounds are completely different from small town sounds. They're louder and harsher and way more annoying than you'd thought that they would be.

At home, the worst thing in your neighborhood was some stray that occasionally yowled just before sunset.

Here, the worst thing (so far) seemed to be a tie between the upstairs neighbor doing a workout routine in the very early morning hours that involved some kind of exercise ball and the people next door who had passionate relationship consisting of door slamming, endless arguing, and occasional musicals – with a flute, of all things?

The air mattress that you'd hurriedly bought overnight was a small mercy, and much better than whatever this decrepit monster was that came with the place. It was yet another bullet point to add to the list of things you were expected to have thought about first – who thought about buying a whole dang bed?

You stared at the ceiling, counting the bubbles in the paint, and wondered if this was what it was supposed to feel like to strike it out on your own. To be an adult for real. Lonely and terrified, shopping at the corner store for earplugs and an inflatable bed at midnight because the soundtrack of Nimbasa was hard-core grunge metal and not "soft tunes to fall asleep to."

Day two brought the discovery that the hot plate's settings were black and white: the option marked as "on" was a mild sputtering of warm water, and the only other option, "high", was boiling water powered by the anger of a thousand supernovas exploding all at once.

That whole discovery introduced you to the neighbors properly when you'd burned the ramen and set off the fire alarms at 10 at night. They looked too frustrated to speak and gave you the silent treatment, arms crossed in a very judging manner.

Thankfully, the clerk at your new favorite 24/7 corner store had the tact to not ask questions about the burn mark on your cheek while you bought a hot water kettle and a new pot. Though he did give you the industry standard "you poor soul" look when you'd dropped the change into his hands.

After three days of acclimating in preparation for the rest of your life, yet another bullet point was added to that growing list in apartment selection failures: You had left for real food, optimistic for such a simple concept to go well. But instead, you'd made it to the sidewalk outside, glanced down at your phone, and groaned. Judging by the empty list of nearby attractions, you'd somehow managed to rent the one place in Nimbasa that was in the middle of nothing at all.

The grocery store was a fifteen-minute walk. The nearest coffee shop that did not charge the equivalent of your firstborn child was twenty minutes in the other direction. No fast food places existed within a walkable radius, and there were no reasonable alternatives for a quick bite.

Best of all, your new job was just a little more than a half-hour commute that involved two different train lines and what you were learning to recognize as the big city brand of public transportation chaos – the colors and numbers of transit lines kept mixing together into a confusing mess.

No one had told you that you were supposed to research this stuff! You were only focused on whether the place wasn't going to get you murdered in your sleep, not if the commute was reasonable or that a pizza place actually delivered to you!

That's how you found yourself standing on the platform at Gear Station at seven the next morning. Armed dangerously with a cup of increasingly questionable coffee and staring up at the departure board like it might suddenly start beaming the information directly into your brain.

Past events had taught you that you'd desperately needed to perform at least a few trial runs of the work commute before it was too late to figure out without consequences. So. Here you are.

The day had started at a reasonable time, early enough to both find Gear Station and enter it, but that had fallen apart quickly. The map on your phone didn't seem to work in such a congested part of town – maybe the cell towers were too overwhelmed during morning rush - so you'd ended up asking an overly polite man with a briefcase who'd given pretty decent directions.

When you finally arrived at that glittering palace of transit, things didn't suddenly get better. You stood at the threshold and found yourself overwhelmed. Still, you had to try, so you put one foot in front of the other and made your way inside.

The first attempt was so terrible that you'd walked right back out of the station to compose yourself after you had stepped on someone's foot after running into them and got scared off by their aggressive Yamper. The second had, thankfully, brought you past the threshold and the welcome section, all the way to the information board.

The board itself was impressive in the way that suggested either cutting edge technology or someone's extremely expensive obsession with digital displays. Multiple lines, multiple destinations, and departure times that seemed to shift every few minutes based on some system of logic that remained entirely mysterious to you. Possibly delays? It was hard to tell.

The colors and abbreviations did nothing helpful for your addled brain, instead making think of alphabet soup as a form of communication. How was anyone supposed to navigate this mess without being able to multitask faster than a well-oiled machine?

Normal commuters streamed past your sides, confident in where they were going or particularly good at pretending to look it.

"The 7:15 to Central Plaza has been delayed ten minutes due to a Joltik on the tracks," a voice announced over the intercom. It had that particular brand of professional enthusiasm that suggested dedication to their job and/or access to better coffee than what you were cradling right now. "We apologize for the inconvenience and thank you for your patience!"

You checked your phone.

7:19.

That's very tight.

A few days in, and you were already developing a relationship with punctuality and its complete absence thereof.

The thing is – and of course this occurred to you as you stood there feeling increasingly lost among the morning crowd – you'd never actually lived somewhere that needed the use of public transportation. Growing up in a small town meant that you either walked places or your parents drove you, and college had been small enough that everything was within reasonable walking distance as well.

Schedules and transfers and platform numbers were an entirely new language for you to learn, and there was no one ready to teach you. It would've been fine, normally, except that the consequences of not knowing the secret rules included being late for your first day at work and potential unemployment before the end of the day. Are the colors the same as the numbers, or are the tracks referring to the station and not the platform it was on? Who was keeping any of this straight?

These are not the proper stakes for a gentle learning curve!

Every moment that passed only raised the stakes further.

No other choice. You gathered your courage, picked the line that seemed like it was the most likely to be correct, and continued on your journey.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you had begun to develop what could jokingly be called a routine and more appropriately described as "tempered morning panic followed by total surrender to the situation."

The voice on the intercom became familiar. Always precise, always apologetic, always managing to make even the simplest announcements sound like they mattered. There was something reassuring about it, actually.

In a city where you had the timid hope that nobody and had managed to burn instant ramen like you had (which still seemed like it should have violated the laws of physics), hearing the same voice explain service disruptions with a genuine tone of concern felt like the closest thing to friendly encouragement that you'd had so far.

You also began to notice the patterns.

The 7:12 was less crowded but only ran on weekdays.

The 7:15 was dependable but packed.

The 7:23 was your backup choice, though it meant a tighter connection later on.

The 7:28... well, the 7:28 was what happened when everything else went wrong, and you'd learned not to rely on it for anything resembling a clock-in of reasonable enough timing to avoid a performance review.

It was all fascinating, in some indescribable way. Kept you sane and focused. This entire system of interconnected schedules and dependencies that somehow managed to move thousands of people across the city every day.

Fascinating and occasionally infuriating when some minor disruption sent a ripple effect through the entire network, but mostly just... impressive. Someone, or likely several someone’s, had put considerable thought into making this work as well as it did.

Which made it even more of a stark contrast when things didn't work.

"We are currently experiencing delays on all eastbound lines due to regular maintenance that has extended beyond its original scheduled window," came the announcement one morning, and you could hear the thinly veiled frustration in the speaker's voice. "Alternative routing suggestions are available at the information desk, and we sincerely apologize for the disruption to your morning schedules and commutes. Thank you for your patience."

You looked around the platform, which was quickly becoming more crowded than usual as people tried to figure out their alternatives and found yourself wondering what it felt like to be the person making that announcement. To know that your voice was reaching hundreds of frustrated commuters who just wanted to get to work on time, and to have to deliver news that was going to make everyone's day just a little bit worse.

Probably not the most enjoyable part of the job.

It was roughly a month from the start of your journey before you saw the great man behind (one of) the voices.

Work had started proper, though not for real – you were still stuck in the cold hell that was a solid week of corporate training videos whose narrators had voices so grating that they haunted your dreams.

You were running unusually early, which was a minor miracle in and of itself involving setting your alarm correctly for once and discovering that your building's hot water situation was more reliable than you'd initially thought it to be, when you noticed someone in a conductor's uniform pacing near the information board and speaking quietly into a radio.

He was tall. Way tall. Silver hair that looked like it had been styled with geometric precision, and a face that seemed to be set in a permanent frown. Not angry, but profoundly serious. Like someone who took their job too seriously and had opinions about the proper way to manage a transit system.

Which, given the level of care that went into those daily announcements, you were willing to bet something on being entirely too correct.

The uniform was immaculate in a way that made you jealous, and the long black fabric was clearly well dry cleaned. The silver adornments caught all the harsh station lighting in just the right way without being overly blinding, and the interesting stylistic choice of the railroad track pattern of the stripes really brought the whole ensemble together.

He would be intimidating if he didn't also have the look of a man with a properly folded ascot who would throw his coat down on a dirty puddle for a lady on the town.

It all came together into a harsh but reassuring presence.

He finished his radio conversation and began walking along the platform, checking something on a tablet and occasionally stopping to observe the crowd patterns. He moved in a strict pattern, like he was gathering data rather than just observing.

Professional curiosity satisfied, you turned your attention back to waiting for your train but slowly found your gaze drifting back to him. He'd stopped near the information desk and was frowning at some paper that the employee must have given him (well, frowning more than usual) while making more unknown notes on his tablet.

A loud announcement startled you as the 7:12 arrived with its usual gusto, finally breaking this weird thing that was going on with you and your brain.

Still, as you boarded, you caught sight of him once more through the window. He was still absorbed in whatever great observations he was making.

But you know what? It was comforting, seeing someone who clearly cared that much about the details. Even if you had no idea what those details were, or how impressive they really were.

You didn't see him again for a while after that, though you did begin paying more attention to the various Gear Station employees you met during your daily commute. Most of them seemed competent enough, but there was a difference between competent and invested. The voice making the morning announcements was definitely in the latter category, and you found yourself wondering if the silver-haired man was connected to that incredible attention to detail.

Not that it mattered, really.

You were just a commuter, one face among the many who passed through the system every day. The chances of any meaningful interaction with someone who was clearly competent beyond your understanding were nonexistent.

Such things that didn't even directly involve you, and so long as the trains still ran, that would never change.

Which was why it was so surprising when, while running late a few days later, you nearly collided with someone while rushing toward the platform in your panic-driven blitz.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly, looking up to find yourself face-to-face with the same silver-haired man that you'd noticed weeks earlier. "Uh…"

Up close, his frown was even more pronounced, though it didn't seem to be directed at you specifically. More like a resting expression that suggested he was always considering some great philosophical question of life itself. His coat was impeccable, every detail precisely arranged, and his silver eyes held a focused gaze that made you feel like he was cataloging information about the interaction.

"No harm done," he said, and you recognized the voice immediately. The same one that had been apologizing for service delays and announcing platform changes for your stint of new residency. "Though I would recommend allowing additional time for platform navigation during morning peak hours."

It was such a perfectly candid and overly complicated thing to say that you almost smiled. "Right. Yes. I'm still... learning the timing."

"Adjustment periods can be challenging!" There was a strain in his voice that suggested lots of personal experience with the concept. He patted his coat down to remove the ruffles from the collision and continued, "The system has its rhythms. Most passengers adapt within four to six weeks."

You raised an eyebrow. "And if you're a slow learner?"

A flicker of almost-amusement spread across his face. "Then you develop contingency strategies. Alternative routes, backup departure times, flexible scheduling where possible. Make tracks as the situation allows."

The 7:15 was pulling into the station, and you realized you should probably get moving.

"Thank you," you said, nodding. "For the guidance."

He gave a small, formal nod back. "Passenger assistance is part of maintaining operational efficiency!"

With a curt and timid, "Goodbye," you placed yourself into the stream of commuters flowing into the open doors of the 7:15 before your brain could catch up with whatever that was.

As you tucked your bag tightly against your lap and fiddled with the arm rest, you caught yourself glancing back through the window like it was a habit… which it was quickly becoming. Mister Tall was walking away, tablet in hand, attention turned to whatever routine thing he'd been doing before your awkward intrusion into his day.

But for just a moment, the interaction had felt friendly. Professional, certainly, but with an undercurrent of a genuine effort to help rather than mere duty.

Refreshing in a way you'd never felt in your hometown, where everyone was conserving their time in a bid to leave before they were trapped in small town madness forever.

No one took their jobs seriously, there, and this? This was nice.

A week passed, hard-won achievements in adulting were acquired, and you began to notice the more subtle aspects of how Gear Station operated. Not purposely, at first, more out of boredom, but it passed the time and honestly seemed like a neat thing as the stray threads all came together.

The morning announcements weren't just routine updates. They included detailed information about alternative routes when there were delays, suggestions for optimal boarding positions, even occasional reminders about peak hours and crowd management.

Someone was putting considerable thought into making the system as user-friendly as possible, even for details that most people took for granted.

Based on overheard conversations and the reverence that other staff members showed towards mister tall, he was clearly in some kind of leadership role. The kind of person responsible for making sure everything ran at all, which explained both his methodical approach to observing the platform and his encyclopedic knowledge of scheduling alternatives.

Not that you had any further interactions with him.

Your paths crossed occasionally – a glimpse of him checking departure boards, brief moments when his voice came over the intercom with particularly detailed service updates – but nothing that rose to the level of actual conversation. Every time it seemed like your paths would cross again, he would instead pass you by in the crowd, some critical issue garnering his attention instead.

Which was appropriate? Fine. You were getting better at navigating the system, developing your own understanding of timing and routes, becoming just another regular face who knew which car was likely to be less crowded and which platform changes were worth the extra walking.

Still, there was something oddly reassuring about his presence.

Knowing that someone with that level of diligence was helping to manage the controlled chaos of urban transit made the whole experience feel more dependable, somehow, even if it wasn't. Even if it was.

Even if you were just one anonymous face among hundreds who benefited from that reliability.

That was also when you started your actual job, finally. It was easier than you expected but harder on your frazzled mind, especially after the training videos had (overly) prepared you for what amounted to sitting at a desk all day.

The first couple of days were fine. Ice breakers, less-than-effective team building exercises, and lots of on-the-job training via shadowing your new cubicle neighbor as he slowly typed into the spreadsheet program.

They'd ended up placing you into simple data entry, which was only simple for the first day until they thought you could manage more. The mental exhaustion set in quickly, and the demanding pressure to stay organized until tight deadlines and critical dependencies that were wholly based on you getting your job done yesterday was a lot to handle on top of the basic city survival skills course you were still enrolled in (against your will).

Every day there was another juggling act, but the office itself was friendly as it could be. Your coworkers were courteous but busy, only truly having time to talk over lunch or the water cooler and helped you get up to speed quickly. Most of your own breaks were spent either researching future lunch opportunities close to the office or better commute ideas on your phone.

The whole thing felt like being dropped into someone else's life in a bad anime.

Still, you learned the rules and the guidelines, and it all became easier before it became harder.

Commuting became routine faster than the job did, which was backwards but also made sense because it had always felt like the easiest part of the day unless some catastrophic delay happened. At least the trains were predictable, for the most part, as a contrast to your work consisting of marginally controlled chaos.

Things became familiar and comforting, rather than panic inducing situations that you'd been prone to initially. You ran into a lot of the station workers predictably, who were as punctual as you were trying to be. Lots more friendly chit chat (because you were too polite for this world and if someone said good morning you had to continue the dang conversation) and lots of small but refreshing encounters with the boss man, who was somehow more approachable than the information desk or the information board that still moved too fast for you. The masterplan was coming together without you throwing the table in frustration over a small detail.

At least, until you noticed it.

The shift happened gradually, so gradually that you wouldn't have noticed it if things hadn't been stressing out a little too much that day.

It started with the minute details. A brief nod of recognition when you passed each other on the platform. How the polite good mornings seemed to be becoming more genuine. The way his morning announcements seemed to include information that was particularly relevant to your usual route, at the exact times that you would be walking onto the platform. Not directed at you specifically, of course, but helpful, nonetheless.

Then, one morning, when you were obviously running late and looking frenzied because the power had gone out and your alarm had decided that "snooze" meant "half an hour without any noise at all", he appeared beside you as you studied the departures section of the board with growing panic.

"The 7:23 will still allow sufficient time for your usual connection," he said quietly, coming out of nowhere and apparently having observed your regular travel patterns. "Platform 3. The boarding process is typically more efficient on that line."

You startled, twisting around to look at him, surprised by the unprompted assistance. You'd been so focused that he'd snuck up on you without meaning to. Or he was just really quiet. "Thank you. I. Err." you paused, thoughtful. Wait. "How did you know which connection I usually take?"

"Passenger flow patterns," he said simply and quickly, as if that explained everything and should have been obvious. He made some kind of gesture that was overly enthusiastic, but you didn't know the meaning of. "Regular commuters develop consistent routing preferences. Observing those patterns is part of maintaining operational efficiency!"

But deep in his voice, you thought you could hear something embarrassed about the way he said it, as if he'd realized that admitting to detailed observation of individual passengers might sound strange.

In any other job, maybe it was. But this was fine, this makes sense, you thought. It's incredibly thoughtful to both the employees and the people littering the station to genuinely pay attention to their needs, and it's not like he was pushing some sacred boundary and stalking you.

"Well, I appreciate the pattern recognition and am genuinely impressed that you're so good at it," you said honestly, and were rewarded with what might have been the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his perpetual frown. It dissipated almost instantly – so fast that you could have imagined it - but you were fairly sure that's what it was.

"You must really care about the people here," you added, encouraged by the expression.

But he let the moment hang, and it quickly seemed like he didn't know what to say. His iron-clad professionalism wavered, and it gave you the impression that while he'd had plenty of work-related discussions, he'd never had experience with actual small talk. He glanced at the tablet, then back at you, then toward the information display as if it would also talk to him.

"The morning rush can be an overwhelming event for new residents," he finally said, settling back into routine work talk. "If you encounter any routing difficulties, the information desk can assist you with verbal scheduling options if the electronic display is too inefficient for your specific needs."

Yeah, that was clearly a step back into more professional territory. Had you overstepped? Should you just never say anything beyond "good morning” or "thank you"?

Mercifully, the 7:23 chose that moment to arrive, so you took the opportunity to nod politely and… run away. You boarded into your usual section, being careful not to look out the window this time, and found yourself thinking that maybe, just maybe, you were more than just another anonymous face in the crowd to at least one person in this city.

Not friends, certainly. You didn't even know his name. But perhaps... familiar strangers? People who recognized each other, who shared brief moments of practical interaction within the larger system of urban transit? It would be nice.

It was a small thing, but in a city where you were still learning to feel at home, trivial things mattered more than they probably should have.

And as the train pulled away from the station, you caught yourself hoping that tomorrow, when you inevitably found yourself studying the departure board with your usual morning confusion, he might be there again.

Tablet in tow, frown ready to go, and professional as ever.

Ready to offer another piece of guidance to someone who was still, despite weeks of practice, figuring out how to navigate the controlled complexity of city life.

Chapter Text

It only took three. Whole. Months. Before you stopped getting hopelessly lost.

Which was progress!

Real, measurable progress that involved knowing which exit led to the quickest way to the street you actually wanted and understanding that the 7:15 was consistently seven minutes late on Wednesdays due to some scheduling quirk that nobody was interested in explaining to you but was still confusingly precise.

You'd also developed what could be called "expertise" in the fine art of platform navigation during peak hours. Mostly this involved picking which car would be least crowded, positioning yourself for the quickest and least person-packed boarding efficiency, and accepting that sometimes you were going to be pressed against someone's backpack for twenty minutes while questioning your recent life choices or squished against the side of someone's Lucario while its fur tickled your nose.

Urban living at its finest.

But there were the good bits.

Mrs. Chen's coffee cart, for instance, had become a crucial part of your morning routine. Though you'd only discovered it because Ingo had mentioned it during one of your brief platform encounters.

"If you require the procurement of caffeine before boarding," he'd said in his usual formal tone after your typical and polite good morning exchanges, and you'd complained about the poor quality of canned coffee again, "Mrs. Chen's mobile refreshment deployment area provides superior beverage quality compared to the vending machines that are normally provided for regular passengers."

You'd almost laughed at how he managed to make a coffee recommendation sound like a technical specification or project guideline.

But he'd been right.

Mrs. Chen set up near Platform 2 every weekday at 6:45 sharp, dispensed coffee that actually tasted like coffee instead of bitter regret laced with the tears of the damned, and somehow remembered everyone's usual order after only three interactions. Her Munna floated around her adorably, holding the cups with telekinesis when she'd needed an extra hand from the influx of morning rush customers.

"Regular coffee, extra shot, light cream," she'd say before you even reached the counter, already reaching for the right cup as her Munna fetched the cream container. "You're looking less confused than usual today. Might not even need the extra shot."

"I'm adapting to the ecosystem," you replied sarcastically, handing over exact change. Mrs. Chen appreciated exact change.

"Ecosystem." She chuckled, handing you the steaming cup. "That's one way to describe this place."

But really? It did feel like an ecosystem. Not just in the way that your offhand comment implied, no. Complex, interconnected, with its own rhythms and relationships that you were slowly beginning to understand. There were the morning regulars who always took the same train. The Gear Station employees who moved through the crowds with practiced efficiency. The occasional tourists who stood in everyone's way while consulting maps and looking confused as to how they'd got there.

And, of course, everyone's favorite boss-level employees.

You'd begun noticing them over the past few weeks. Not just the silver-haired conductor you'd only briefly met and did not awkwardly run into very often, stop talking you stupid brain, but others who moved through the station with the same purposeful authority. They wore similar uniforms, carried tablets or radios or some kind of fancy equipment, and had the kind of situational awareness that suggested proper and extensive training. They carried fancy name tags and all, which was how you'd learned that they were called Depot Agents.

But the silver-haired one was definitely in charge of something important.

Thursday morning brought you running on time, which meant exceedingly early by your previous standards and notably punctual by the current city standards, when you noticed a commotion near your precious home Platform 4. Not a super big commotion, nor anything dramatic or alarming. Just a cluster of people looking confused and mildly frustrated, which in Gear Station terms usually meant scheduling complications pending some mild disaster in the distance.

The departure section of the board showed normal service, but there was clearly some kind of bottleneck happening that wasn't reflected in the official information.

Being a decent human being who'd learned to appreciate when people provided helpful guidance, you wandered over to see if there was anything you could do.

Which was how you found yourself witnessing what could only be described as a sparkling masterclass in professional people with problems handling.

The Boss was stationed near the platform entrance, tablet in one hand, radio in the other, managing what appeared to be a complex logistical challenge involving track maintenance, passenger rerouting, and timetable adjustments.

"Platform 4 services are temporarily suspended due to a signal switch issue!" He was explaining to a growing crowd of confused commuters in his usual load voice and pointing as he talked. "Alternative routing via Platform 6 will add approximately eight minutes to eastbound travel times! Platform 2 services remain unaffected for westbound destinations!"

His voice carried the same stark, professional clarity you'd heard in daily announcements, but seeing him manage the situation in person was different. He wasn't just reciting information. He was actively solving people's transit problems, coordinating with other staff members, and ensuring that everyone understood their options.

"What about connections at Central Plaza?" someone called out.

"Eastbound delays will be communicated to connecting services," he replied immediately. "Platform 6 boarding will be expedited to minimize connection impacts!"

He knew the answer instantly. Not just a general answer, but a specific, practical response that addressed the actual concern.

You found yourself immediately impressed despite having no real understanding of transit coordination or what they actually entailed, difficult or otherwise.

The crowd began to disperse as people made their routing decisions, and you realized you should probably get moving toward your own platform as even the conductor dissolved into the crowd. But as you turned to leave, you managed to seamlessly execute what was becoming your signature battle move: "Near Collision with random Person!"

This time, it was him.

Again.

"We really need to stop meeting like this," you said without thinking, then immediately felt stupid for making such a casual comment to someone who was clearly busy managing actual important problems as embarrassment heated your face.

But instead of looking annoyed or dismissive, he seemed amused? The corner of his frown shifted slightly and stayed that way, which you were learning to recognize as his version of a smile.

"Collision frequency does suggest the need for improved pedestrian flow management," he said. There was an awkward pause before he continued, "Though current incident rates remain within acceptable parameters."

It took you a moment to realize he was making a joke. A very formal, extremely hard to understand by the average person joke, but definitely a joke.

"I'll work on my spatial awareness," you promised, chuckling a little to yourself. "Though…" You looked around at the now considerably more organized chaos. "I have to say, that was impressive. The way you handled that whole situation."

"Standard operational procedures," he replied, as he tried and failed to hide the pleased tone in his voice. "Passenger communication during service disruptions is essential for maintaining system efficiency."

"Still impressive," you insisted. "Most people would have just put up a sign and hoped for the best. I don't think I've ever seen someone as dedicated as you."

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering your perspective, and you could see the moment he'd dismissed it in his eyes when the glint in them shifted into something different. "Insufficient information leads to sub optimal passenger decisions and increased frustration levels. Clear communication prevents compounding delays."

You nodded in agreement, though you were struck by how he thought about everything in terms of systems and optimization. Not in an abstract way, but literally, as if the train cars were people too. He genuinely cared about making sure people could get where they needed to go.

You glanced down at your watch, making note of the time. "I should let you get back to..." you gestured vaguely at his tablet and radio, hoping the point got across, "...maintaining operational efficiency."

"And you should make tracks to your usual platform to avoid missing the 7:15," he said, then looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing. "Though given current boarding conditions, the 7:18 might offer a more permissible travel experience today."

Oh, he'd done it again.

He knew your schedule and offered specific, helpful guidance without being asked.

"Thank you," you said, meaning it. "I don't think I've properly introduced myself. I'm-"

"Next stop, all aboard!" came a cheerful voice from somewhere behind you, and you turned to see another man in a conductor's uniform approaching. White hat and coat instead of black, bright smile instead of focused frown, but otherwise identical.

The resemblance was unmistakable: twins. They were clearly twins.

"Ingo!" the newcomer said, coming to a stop beside your new collision buddy. "The Platform 6 situation is all sorted out. Boarding times are back on schedule, and I talked to the Central Plaza connections office about the delay notifications. We cannot have the board doing that again."

Ingo.

So that was his name.

"Excellent," Ingo replied, nodding. "Thank you, Emmet."

Emmet's attention shifted to you, and his smile somehow became even brighter. "Hello there! I don't think we've met. I am Emmet!" He gestured enthusiastically toward his brother. "And this is Ingo, but you two seem to already know each other."

"We've had a few brief encounters," you said, trying not to stare at the obvious twin situation. "I'm a regular commuter. Still learning the system."

"The best way to learn!" Emmet said with genuine enthusiasm, though he kept a side eye on Ingo the whole time. "Everyone starts somewhere, and Ingo's verrry good at explaining how everything works. He knows more about transit efficiency than anyone else in the region. Maybe the world?"

Ingo's expression shifted into embarrassment, and he adjusted his cap slightly in some kind of a nervous tick. "Emmet tends to overstate my qualifications."

"Nope!" Emmet replied cheerfully, waggling his finger right in Ingo's face. "I'm very accurate about these things. If I'm the best, you are too!"

You glanced between them, fascinated by the dynamic. They were clearly close, comfortable with each other in the way that suggested years of professionally working together. But their personalities seemed completely opposite – Ingo's careful formality versus Emmet's overflowing enthusiasm. You'd never seen twins so in sync and yet so different before.

They shared a look, clearly communicating telepathically using twin magic, before Emmet continued without prompting. "By the way, do you battle? What's your team? What's your win loss ratio?"

Uh.

"I… should really get to my platform," you said, deciding to ignore those questions before things got out of hand. "But thank you again for the routing advice."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Emmet said, stepping into your path with his hands raised in a friendly but way too determined gesture. "You can't just leave without answering! Do you have Pokemon? Even one Pokemon? What about battle experience? Have you ever been to a Gym? How many badges?"

The questions came rapid fire, and his smile never wavered, but his attention was so laser focused on you specifically in a very interrogative manner. Even if it was more like a friendly interrogation conducted by someone who had never had a thought about why anyone wouldn't want to discuss competitive battling strategy, it was a little hard to bear.

"I... don't really..." you started, then looked helplessly at Ingo.

Please save me! you mentally shouted as you tried to piggyback on the twin magic and broadcast into his brain.

"Emmet," Ingo said quietly, a hard warning in his tone. "Platform departure schedules remain fixed regardless of passenger consultation preferences, yours or the passenger's."

"But this is important research!" Emmet protested, though he did take a half-step back. "How can we provide optimal Battle Line recommendations without understanding current experience levels and team composition and preferred battle formats?"

"Perhaps," Ingo suggested with careful diplomacy and the tone of someone who had a lot of dealing with this in the past, "passenger preferences regarding battle-related inquiries should be established before conducting detailed strategic interviews."

Emmet blinked, then looked at you with sudden realization. "Oh! You don't want to answer the questions. That's fine! We can share tips for competitive strategy at a later date, when you are better prepared."

"It's okay," you said, though you were grateful for Ingo's intervention, and it was not okay, but you would not be saying that part aloud. "I just don't really know anything about Pokemon battles. Like, at all."

"That's even better!" Emmet's enthusiasm returned immediately, but this time he stayed a respectable distance away. "Beginners are the best! So much potential for improvement and learning new strategies!"

"Passenger assistance is always available," Ingo said formally, but his tone was warmer than usual. He glanced over at Emmet pointedly.

"Hmm. Yep!" Emmet added, returning the glance with a look that you couldn't read. "We're here every morning, so if you ever have questions about anything, just ask. Any time after that, you can find us on the Lines!"

Ingo took the opportunity to capitalize on the pause in the conversation and returned to his duties, grasping Emmet by the shoulder and gently leading him away along with him. As they started some other conversation about their schedules, you smiled and turned to make your way to your home platform.

Learning Ingo's name was a simple thing, and it felt considerably less impersonal than calling him the tall guy in your head. Not friendship, but something approaching actual acquaintance. And of course, meeting Emmet just added another layer to the cake of how all this works. They clearly managed things together, considering the matching uniforms that were twins like they were.

Mrs. Chen was restocking her coffee supplies when you reached her cart, and you found yourself lingering with the newly paid for coffee instead of immediately heading to queue for your favorite train car on the platform.

"You look thoughtful today," she observed, not looking up from arranging pastries, and Munna made some noise that must've signified agreement.

"I just met one of the station bosses," you said. "Well, properly met him. And his twin brother."

"Ingo and Emmet," she said immediately. "Good boys. Very professional, the both of them. Ingo's the serious one; Emmet's the cheerful one. Been working here for... oh, boy. Since before me. I wouldn't be surprised if they were born in this station, honestly."

That seemed accurate, from what you'd seen. "They seem dedicated."

"Dedicated is one word for it." Mrs. Chen smiled, grabbing some floating napkins from Munna as it attempted to create a stack on its head. "Ingo stops by here every morning. Orders the same thing every day: black coffee, one sugar, no cream. Always has exact change, always says thank you, always asks how business is doing."

"That sounds… consistent," you said, choosing to be diplomatic about a schedule that precise.

"That's Ingo for you. Everything has to be exactly on time. But he's sweet, in his own formal way. Emmet's more obviously friendly, but Ingo isn't a slouch, just has a different approach."

You found yourself smiling at that. "He seems like he pays attention to details."

"Details and people," Mrs. Chen agreed, trailing off in thought. Then she looked at you with sudden curiosity. "Wait. He actually recommended my coffee to you, didn't he? He told you to come here?"

"He mentioned superior beverage quality compared to the vending machines," you said, mimicking his tone without thinking.

Mrs. Chen's eyes widened. "Well, I'll be. In three years, I've rarely heard him talk about anything except trains and schedules and passenger safety. You must have made quite an impression."

The comment caught you off guard. "What? I don't think- I mean, we've barely talked. Just small talk on the platform when I'm waiting for the trains."

"Honey," Mrs. Chen said, giving you a knowing look, "Ingo doesn't make small talk. Ever. If he's recommending coffee shops to you, that's not his usual operational efficiency speech. That's him being personal."

The 7:15 was approaching Platform 2, and you realized you should get moving before someone steals your favorite seat. But as you walked away from Mrs. Chen, her words echoed in your mind. Ingo was some big bad Subway Boss. Noticed patterns and preferences. Offered genuine guidance without being asked, even if it was probably part of the job regardless.

For someone who approached everything with such clinical precision, he seemed remarkably attuned to the human element.

Your human element?

Maybe that was what made the whole operation work so well. Technical competence combined with genuine care about the people.

Probably had nothing to do with you specifically.

Boarding your train and grabbing your seat, you caught yourself hoping you'd have another chance to talk with him. Not just brief platform encounters, but an actual, real conversation.

Dangerous thoughts.

Maybe learn more about how someone develops such detailed knowledge of transport and trains and running such a tight ship of a transit station. Or maybe just understand what it was like to care that much about helping strangers navigate their daily routines.

Getting too dangerous now, oh boy.

Through the window, you could see Ingo and Emmet near the information board, discussing something likely work-related. Even from a distance, they stood out among the hustle and bustle. Ingo studying his tablet with focused attention, Emmet gesturing animatedly while making some point.

Partners in keeping the controlled chaos running smoothly.

It was funny, actually – Ingo spoke so clearly and concisely that you could just barely read his lips from your perch on the train. Something about Emmet doing something on purpose?

Still, you were beginning to feel like more than just another face in their crowd. It was a nice feeling, nothing like your hometown. Worth the early mornings, and the occasionally questionable coffee, and the ongoing challenge of not colliding with people on crowded platforms.

Maybe you should visit the move deleter and get rid of that attack.

The following day brought a series of misery. Not disasters, since those would have stopped you in your journey entirely, but the kind of small, clumped together issues that made you wonder if the universe was testing your new skills.

Your building's hot water decided to fail.

Your office's air conditioning system apparently died sometime over the night, turning the workday into a sweaty endurance marathon.

The 24/7 corner store where you'd been buying reasonably priced lunch stuffs changed their food supplier, which immediately doubled all the prices and got rid of your favorite sauce option.

Fun times.

But the real challenge came from you having overslept. Not just slightly overslept like last time. Dramatically overslept, in the way that included every backup plan and contingency evaporating into a cloud of smoke.

You woke up at 7:30.

Which meant you'd already missed all of your usual planned trains and their backups. The next reasonable option was the 7:35, which would get you to work about fifteen minutes late, assuming everything went perfectly, and you ran faster than you ever had before. And nothing had been going perfectly, so…

Still, you'd learned enough about city living to know that panicking wouldn't help. You threw on yesterday's clothes, grabbed your bag, and rushed out the door without even taking the time to look in a mirror, which felt like giving up on any semblance of normalcy.

The streets were already buzzing with the morning rush, but you made good time to Gear Station despite having to navigate around a cluster of tourists who'd apparently decided that the middle of the sidewalk was the perfect place to unfold a huge map and debate their sightseeing strategies.

Navigating things any time after 7:30 was tricky. It felt like everyone who didn't have an urgent need to be somewhere came out of the woodwork, then. The 7:35 was technically reliable, but it connected to the Red Line instead of your usual line, which meant a different platform at Central Plaza and a slightly longer walk on the other end. Not terrible, but definitely not your preferred route.

You were studying the departures list, trying to calculate whether the Red Line connection would actually be faster by the time you made the connection or if you should wait for the 7:38 normal line, when someone magically appeared beside you.

"Transportation difficulties this morning?" Ingo asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. As if your physical presence here wasn't enough to fill in the blanks.

You turned to find him holding his usual tablet, though this time he was also carrying a steaming cup of coffee that smelled pretty amazing.

"Overslept pretty badly," you admitted, breathing heavily from the running marathon you'd just done. "Trying to figure out the least terrible way to get to work."

"The 7:35 Red Line connection will provide optimal arrival time given current scheduling constraints," he said immediately, rigidly pointing toward a different section of the station. "Platform 7, car 2 will offer the most efficient boarding position for Central Plaza transfers."

Car 2. Of course, he knew which car would be best positioned to the doors.

"Thank you," you said, then hesitated. "I'm hopelessly late anyway, so I've been meaning to ask. And, uh, this is probably too personal a question, but do you ever… have trouble too? Like, does the person who runs the trains ever actually miss the trains?"

The regular spark of amusement flickered across his expression. "Personal scheduling protocols prevent most operational conflicts. However, equipment failures and unexpected delays can affect even optimally planned departure times. No one creature is infallible in their habits."

Which was a very formal way of saying "yes, sometimes I miss the train too."

"That's reassuring," you said, imagining Ingo conducting his own train to work with his usual overly enthusiastic gusto after he misses his normal train. "Though I bet your backup plans have backup plans."

"Contingency scheduling is essential for maintaining reliable transit operations," he replied. "And personal peace of mind."

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the 7:35 was pulling in, and you really needed to get moving. But you were still really curious about the whole thing.

"Do you take the trains to work, or do you live here?" you asked, hoping to get one last line in before you had to continue the rushed morning. "Like, literally live at the station?"

As if it was possible, he looked fondly annoyed by the question, like people had asked him that enough times that the answer was becoming funny. "Residential facilities for all Depot Agents and employees are located a reasonable eight minutes from Gear Station via the Blue Line," he said. "Morning commute scheduling allows for comprehensive operational review prior to passenger service hours, which I'm sure you can agree is essential for regular performance upkeep."

So, he took the trains to work just like everyone else. Less like some kind of transit management robot and more like a person who happened to be really, really good at understanding schedules.

"Well, thank you for the routing advice," you said, joining the flow of passengers toward the platform before it left without you. "Again."

"Passenger assistance remains available as needed," he replied formally, but there was definitely warmth in his voice this time.

Boarding the second car as Ingo suggested, you found a seat near the window and watched the people slide past as the train pulled away. You could see Ingo near the information board, likely already back to the complex logistical considerations that filled his mornings.

This time it felt… weird. Personal, in the way Mrs. Chen had mentioned. He'd offered specific help without being asked, and there had been something genuine about discussing backup plans and peace of mind.

Maybe it was just his way of being professional. Or maybe Mrs. Chen had been right about him making an exception to his usual working demeanor.

Either way, the connection worked exactly as he'd predicted. Car 2 positioned you perfectly for the Central Plaza transfer, the timing aligned smoothly, and you arrived at work only a few minutes late instead of the fifteen or more that you'd been expecting.

Ingo was amazing at this. People like him were what made the difference between a transportation system that simply functioned and one that actually helped people navigate their daily lives.

Come Friday, you were presented with another test, though this time the challenge wasn't oversleeping. This time, it was your first encounter with what the departure board described as "Service Disruption – Estimated Delay 15-20 Minutes."

No explanation. No alternative suggestions. Just a digital shrug that left a bundle of commuters staring at the information display like it might start offering more details if they looked hard enough.

You'd been through minor delays before, but nothing this significant during morning rush hour. The platform was getting crowded as people tried to decide whether to wait it out or find alternative routes, and the general mood was quickly shifting from mild annoyance toward actual frustration.

"Passengers please be aware," came the familiar voice over the intercom, "we are currently experiencing equipment difficulties on the Blue Line. Technical teams are now working to restore normal service as quickly as possible. Alternative routing recommendations are available at the information desk."

But the information desk had a line twenty people deep, and most of those people looked like they had places to be fifteen minutes ago.

You were debating whether it was worth joining the queue when you spotted Emmet moving quickly through the crowd, apparently conducting some kind of passenger mood check. Unlike his brother's information-based approach, Emmet seemed to be gauging the situation by actually talking to people.

"Excuse me," you called out as he passed nearby. "Any idea of how long this might actually take?"

"Ah! Our favorite friendly passenger," he responded, narrowly avoiding a group of commuters as he hurried to close the small gap between you. "The optimistic estimate is twelve minutes. The realistic estimate is probably closer to twenty-five. But!" He held up one finger with theatrical enthusiasm as he blasted you with his characteristic bright smile. "There are definitely better options than standing here getting frustrated."

That sounded good to you. "I'm listening."

Of course, your brain chose the moment after you'd already spoken to process what Emmet had said. Wait. Did he say 'our favor-

"Red Line to Central Plaza, bit of a walk, transfer to the Yellow Line, hop off at Commerce. Adds about eight minutes to your total travel time, but you'll definitely get there faster than waiting here," he said proudly, pointing at the platform where you knew the Red Line would be showing up soon and interrupting your traitorous thoughts before they could finish.

It was, of course, just as useful as Ingo's usual rerouting directions, but delivered with completely different energy. Whereas Ingo presented information like technical specifications, Emmet offered it like helpful suggestions from a friend.

"That's... actually exactly what I needed to know," you said, a little taken aback from the difference in the instructions and struggling to not to read too much into the, once again, completely valid and relevant nature of them. "Thank you."

"It's no problem!" he said loudly, though not as loudly as his brother. "However, if you're not in a super hurry, the delay might resolve faster than expected. Sometimes the lower estimates are actually accurate."

"Sometimes?" You raised an eyebrow critically.

"Maybe thirty percent of the time?" Emmet grinned in that extra enthusiastic way again. "Which aren’t terrible odds, but probably not great enough to risk being late to work. Definitely not for us, anyway," he said, waving the idea off as if it were an unpleasant smell.

You found yourself smiling back. His enthusiasm was genuinely infectious, and there was something refreshing about getting realistic information about the whole thing instead of standard "we apologize for the inconvenience" announcements.

"Red Line it is," you decided, but also... "I have to ask – do you and your brother have some kind of supernatural ability to know exactly which route everyone should take?"

"Supernatural? Nope!" Emmet's smile started emulating a mischievous sun. "Just lots and lots of practice. We just have to know where you're going and where you started! And Ingo's verrry good at the scheduling part. I'm better at reading whether people are about to lose their patience."

That's actually a pretty efficient split of specialties, you thought to yourself. And after that reveal, you would've never been able to satisfy your curiosity if you didn't ask: "How's the patience level looking today, mister expert?"

He startled a little as if he didn't think you'd ask for a demonstration of such a talent. After a long pause where he seemed to gather himself back together, he glanced around the crowded platform, likely taking in the body language and facial expressions of all the waiting passengers.

It took a solid 30 seconds or so, but when he looked back at you with an extremely smug look, you knew he had taken this as a serious test of his skills. "Good! Most people seem more confused than angry. Though that lady over there-" he gestured not so subtly toward a woman in a business suit who was aggressively tapping away at her phone, "-is about five seconds away from demanding to speak to someone in charge."

And right on cue, the woman marched toward the information desk, face contorting into something just lesser than rage.

"Impressive," you said, clapping. "That's definitely not a skill they teach in most jobs." Even if you were fairly sure that he took this as a challenge and just had to prove himself.

"Customer service in a transit system is only applied psychology," Emmet explained cheerfully. "Plus, Ingo and I have been doing this long enough that we've seen pretty much every type of passenger reaction to every type of delay."

There was a huge whoosh from the platforms as the Red Line train pulled in, and you were rapidly losing your chance to follow his routing advice.

"Thank you for this," you said, gathering your things back together quickly. "The routing suggestion and your 'award-winning' passenger assessment."

"Any time! Oh, and don't forget to sign up for the Battle Subway Lines before too much longer! We always appreciate a friendly passenger," he added quickly, winking like a perfectly dressed gremlin.

You turned around in surprise. "Battle Subway?"

But the train doors were opening, and the boarding passengers were flowing around you with the single-minded determination of people who had places to be urgently. Emmet gave you a cheerful wave as a goodbye in lieu of an actual goodbye as you were forced to join the flow of the crowd, and you made a mental note to ask about whatever the Battle Subway was the next time you saw him.

The Red Line connection worked exactly as predicted, even if the Yellow Line transfer required much more walking than you'd expected from Emmet's flippant dismissal of the distance. Still, you arrived at work on time, which was a satisfactory victory given the morning's complications.

The rest of the workday was spent contemplating if you were missing something important just because you barely read the news or tabloids. More and more you seemed to be falling out of the loop in your home.

As you set your alarm for the next day, you resolved to change that.

Saturday mornings were your favorite part of the week, even if it was mostly because they didn't involve commuting to work or navigating the chaos of rush hour.

Instead, they involved sleeping until a reasonable hour, making actual breakfast instead of grabbing something from Mrs. Chen's cart, and potentially doing something that resembled having a life outside of work.

Which was why it was particularly strange to find yourself at Gear Station on such a morning, clutching a coffee and staring at the departure board like you had somewhere important to be.

You didn't.

What you actually had was curiosity and a growing sense that you'd been experiencing only a fraction of what this place actually offered. Emmet's offhand mention of the Battle Subway had been stuck in your head, so you'd decided that Saturday morning was the perfect time to investigate.

The station felt drastically different on weekends. Less rushed, more relaxed, but still complete with an entirely different crowd of people. Tourists with cameras and maps, families with kids, and what appeared to be serious-looking trainers carrying fancy Pokeballs and discussing battle strategies.

Right. Because Gear Station wasn't just a transport hub. It was also some kind of competitive Pokemon battling facility.

Which explained a lot about the station's design, actually. All those platforms you'd never paid attention to – the ones that weren't connected to the regular commuter routes. The overly sophisticated electronic displays that seemed too advanced for simple scheduling information. The fact that Ingo and Emmet carried themselves with the kind of authority that suggested they were responsible for more than just making sure trains ran on time (even if that was also impressive).

You'd been thinking of them as transit managers, but they were apparently something much more.

Following the signs toward what was labeled as "Battle Subway Registration & Services," you found yourself in a section of the station that was clearly designed for a completely different purpose. The platforms here were wider, equipped with what looked like sophisticated electronic monitoring systems and filled with people who were definitely not commuting to work.

"First time checking out the Battle Lines?"

You turned to find a depot agent approaching, though he was dressed slightly differently than usual. Same uniform, but with additional equipment you didn’t notice during your morning platform adventures. A belt with specialized Pokeballs, some kind of communication device outside of the normal radios, and what appeared to be a tablet designed for tracking battle statistics rather than train schedules.

"I was curious," you admitted. "I… heard someone mention it yesterday, and I realized I've been using this station for months without understanding what it is."

"It's the Battle Subway!" he said with genuine enthusiasm. "Trainers can ride special battle cars while conducting Pokemon battles. Different lines offer different challenges- Singles, Doubles, Multi battles. The goal is to complete consecutive victories to face the Subway Bosses."

"Subway Bosses?"

"Bosses Ingo and Emmet!" His smile became even brighter. "Think of it as competitive transit with a twist?"

The concept was so uniquely bizarre that you couldn't help but be fascinated. "So, people take trains specifically to have Pokemon battles on those trains?"

"Exactly!" he nodded enthusiastically. "It combines two of the best things: efficient transportation and excellent battling. Plus, the moving environment adds an extra strategic element that you don't get in the traditional battle facilities."

A group of trainers were boarding what appeared to be a specialized battle car, their Pokeballs at the ready and expressions focused in a way that suggested some serious competitive interests.

"That's... actually really cool," you said, meaning it. "Though I have to admit, I don't have any Pokemon. Or battle experience. Or really any understanding of how competitive battling works."

"That's totally fine!" he replied cheerfully. "Lots of people just ride the regular Battle Line routes to watch."

What? "Really?"

"It's a bit like watching a live concert," he explained with a wink, "the sounds and sights just aren't the same on the recordings."

All you could think of was a stray blast of energy hitting the audience. "Would that be... safe?"

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "How else would we have been running the place for so long? Plus, there are beginner-friendly lines with simpler battle formats and extra safety protocols, if it's too much for a first timer."

You grimaced at the thought, and the agent took notice.

"Ah," he looked down thoughtfully, finger to his lips in thought. "Let's start over. I am Ramses. I tag into the Super Lines occasionally when my work in the Admin Office is too slow. It is nice to meet you."

He held out a hand, and you shook it gingerly.

On the platform, you could see one of the battle cars burst into activity, and glimpses of what appeared to be an actual battle taking place inside. Flashes of light, controlled blasts of elemental energy, and the kind of sharp shouting of commands that showed that this was some serious competitive display of talents. They must've been too excited to wait for departure to get going.

"This is what they do," you said, suddenly understanding as the booms in the distance joggled your brain a little. "Not just managing train schedules. Running a competitive battling facility that happens to be on trains."

"The Bosses?" he asked. "Scheduling and logistics are definitely part of it. Coordinating battle timing, mixing up car configurations, safety- it requires the same kind of special touch as regular management."

You thought back to Emmet's earlier comments and laughed a little, mostly to yourself. "Plus applied psychology?"

He laughed. "You sound like Emmet. Even more applied psychology, actually. Battle strategy, reading opponents, understanding dynamics – it's all about figuring out how people think and what they're likely to do next."

A voice over the intercom announced the departure of what was apparently the "Singles Line," and you watched as the car full of very serious-looking trainers pulled away from the platform.

"Is that where Ingo is now?" you asked.

"Probably. Saturday mornings are busy for the Singles Lines. Lots of trainers use the weekends to attempt longer challenge runs, and the Super Lines generally don't get a long enough streak until past midday to warrant the Bosses to show up."

"Longer challenge runs?" That sounded like a lot.

"The regular Battle Lines involve twenty consecutive victories, with the 'Subway Boss' battle at the end," he explained. "The Super Lines go indefinitely – you keep battling 'til you lose, trying to set new records for consecutive wins. You still face the Bosses in set increments, though."

The scale of what they'd built here was genuinely impressive. Not just a novelty attraction, but a sophisticated competitive facility that somehow integrated seamlessly with regular transit operations.

"Do you have something simpler for spectators?" you asked. "It seems like being in the action would be… a little much, for me." After all, you were already here, on the platform; even if being directly in the action was too much, there had to be something you could still participate in.

"The Multi Lines have observation cars specifically for spectators. Great way to understand battle strategy without jumping directly into competition." Ramses paused, taking a moment to think. "I think they would be the most appropriate for you?"

"Observation cars," you sighed. You shouldn't be surprised. "Of course they do."

"Safety and accessibility are the topmost concerns at this facility," he said, sounding exactly like Ingo when he gets too into the current topic. "Everyone should be able to experience the Battle Subway, regardless of their background."

As he led you toward what appeared to be the Multi Line platform (and you let him), you thought about how much you'd underestimated this place.

You'd been treating Gear Station as a run-of-the-mill building that just happened to house the main train station of the region, but it was actually something much… more.

It was ambitious and thoughtful and unlike anything you'd ever seen before.

Maybe a lot for you and your sensibilities, especially for someone who had never had or held a battle of their own, but.

You know what? It's worth a shot.

Chapter Text

Ramses quickly and efficiently led you through the station's battle platforms.

The vibe was different from the commuter areas you'd gotten used to; less of a "please move aside or I'm going to be late for work and starve" energy, and more of a "I'm about to trounce everyone around me in Pokemon warfare and I am very excited about it" mood.

The platforms here were wider still – probably to accommodate large, fully evolved Pokemon. More space for people to cluster in excited groups, discussing strategies or comparing teams with an intensity you'd seen in sports fans or people arguing about the best place in the city for pizza.

A decent number of trainers and spectators were already clustered on the platform; a crude mix of enthusiastic fans who looked like they'd done this a million times before and everyday-looking folk who seemed completely unbothered by the whole "battles on moving trains" concept.

Ramses’ pocket beeped, and he paused between steps to pull out a tablet not unlike the ones you'd seen Ingo tapping away at to check something. His expression shifted from helpful guide mode to something more serious.

"Looks like I'm actually needed today," he said, glancing up from the screen with a mix of surprise and excitement. "I was just on standby, but one of the staff trainers called out sick. I'm scheduled for the Multi Line now – the same one you're going to be riding! Not my typical thing, but no matter. I'm paired with Furze today, so it's fine!" The enthusiasm was genuine, and you found yourself caught up in it despite having no idea who Furze was.

Before leaving, Ramses leaned in close to another depot agent standing a short way away in the boarding area and whispered something you couldn't quite catch. Then he waved goodbye with an infectious energy, looking like he would burst with excitement. Or maybe he was simply happy to escape desk duty.

The new agent – Depot Agent Isadore, according to her name tag – took over without much fanfare.

"Don't worry about a ticket," Isadore said conspiratorially, with a small wink. "Ramses said to let you on as a 'special treat.'"

Oh. You hadn't even thought about tickets. That would have been embarrassing.

But then Isadore pulled out a laminated safety card, and your brief moment of relief evaporated.

"Just need to go over the standard safety procedures," she said, acting like the card like this was the most boring part of her job. Maybe it was? "The observation car features reinforced triple-layer polymer barriers rated for Electric-type discharges up to 50,000 volts, and can withstand forces equivalent to an extreme earthquake..."

Wait, what?

"In the event of barrier breach, emergency protocols require immediate evacuation via the rear exits..."

Those were words that should not go together in a sentence when describing a place where you were planning to sit.

"If you smell burning, please alert a nearby depot agent immediately, as this may indicate Pokemon energy move overflow..."

Burning. Overflow? Overflow!

"Though that's not really a problem anymore," Isadore added offhandedly, like that was somehow reassuring.

Anymore. Implying it had been a problem before!?

"Emergency exits are marked with lit indicators that activate automatically during power disruptions..."

Why would the power disrupt? What kind of battles were happening that could disrupt power?

Each detail Isadore calmly recited made you more nervous, and more and more you were failing miserably at looking like this was all normal information that didn't bother you at all.

You tried to look calm. Like someone who regularly observed Pokemon battles on reinforced train cars designed to withstand the force of earthquakes. Those people were strong, right?

You still failed at it.

The other waiting spectators looked unbothered by Isadore's safety briefing. Most of them weren't even paying attention, having clearly heard it all before.

One elderly woman was literally knitting while waiting, her needles clicking away with a peaceful rhythm that was not at all concerned about death and/or dismemberment.

How is everyone so casual about this?

A couple nearby was discussing what sounded like lunch plans. Lunch plans! While standing near a platform where Pokemon battles apparently got intense enough to require 50,000-volt shielding and earthquake-resistant construction.

You glanced back at the knitting grandma, trying to take comfort in her complete lack of concern. If a woman of her age could sit here peacefully making what looked like a scarf, then surely you could survive watching from behind triple-layer polymer barriers. Surely.

Isadore looked up from her safety card, expectant. "I need verbal confirmation that you understand the emergency procedures."

"I... yes. I understand." Did you? Not really. But saying "no" seemed like it would involve listening to the whole thing again, and you weren't sure your nerves could handle a second round of barrier breach protocols.

"Great." She gestured toward the waiting area. "The Multi Line train should arrive in about five minutes. You'll want to be ready to board quickly – observation car fills up fast on weekends."

Right. Five minutes until you voluntarily got on a train specifically designed for professional Pokemon battles.

In the distance, you could see Ramses heading toward a different section of the platform. He caught your eye and waved enthusiastically. "Wish me luck! First match is always the hardest – gotta get into the groove!"

You waved back, trying to match his energy and trying not to broadcast your nervousness too much.

The five minutes between then and boarding felt both too long and not nearly long enough. You spent them alternating between studying the platform layout and watching the other spectators, trying to gauge what level of concern was appropriate for this situation.

The knitting grandma had settled onto a bench and was making steady progress on her scarf. The couple had moved on from lunch plans to discussing whether they should try the Singles Line next week. Everyone seemed remarkably chill about the whole thing.

Maybe you were overthinking this.

Or maybe everyone else was just too desensitized to the danger of Pokemon battles on moving trains.

Surely not the latter?

The Multi Line train pulled in, and it was immediately clear this wasn't like the commuter trains you'd gotten used to over the past few months.

The design was different. Way more specialized. You could see the battle arena section through the windows, and it looked like someone had taken a normal train car and transformed it into something that belonged in a Pokemon League stadium.

The car itself was pristine, gleaming and waiting for its first battles of the day. Through the windows you could see the specialized flooring, the referee positions marked on the floors, and the reinforced barriers that would separate you from whatever was about to happen in there.

The observation car itself was clearly marked with bright text. Which made sense – probably better to keep the people who were just watching away from the actual combat zone and make sure no one was dense enough to walk into a battle car by accident.

It was both impressive and deeply concerning.

The other spectators were already moving toward the observation car entrance, casual and unconcerned like this was just another Saturday activity. The knitting grandma was tucking away her needles, the couple was still debating their lunch options, and everyone seemed utterly unbothered by the prospect of watching Pokemon battles in an enclosed moving vehicle.

You took a deep breath.

Okay. Here we go.

Isadore guided you toward the entrance with the merciful patience of someone who had seen plenty of nervous first timers, leaving you with the impression that this happened more than you thought it did.

The interior of the observation car was... even worse?

Reinforced windows with a slight blue tint ran along both sides – energy shielding, probably. The kind that could handle way too many volts, according to that safety briefing you'd barely survived.

The seating was arranged in rows facing what would be the battle arena, like a movie theater except the movie was live Pokemon battles happening right in front of you.

Other passengers were filing in around you, and you may have been standing in their way.

Isadore pointed toward a seat in the middle section. "Middle row, left side offers the best angles for Multi Lines. You'll be able to see both trainers and their Pokemon. Oh, and for first timers, I would recommend taking it easy and just focusing on the strategy rather than the battle as whole."

You took the suggested seat with an appreciative nod, trying not to grip the armrests too obviously.

The seat was comfortable, at least. Cushioned and positioned at just the right angles. Which was a less than subtle reminder that you'd be sitting here for a while, watching Pokemon attacks fly around an enclosed space.

The observation car was filling up quickly, too. The knitting grandma from the platform took the seat next to you, already pulling out her needles again like she was settling in for a normal train ride.

You tried to take comfort in how calm everyone else seemed. If that grandma could knit through this, surely you could survive just watching.

Surely.

"Welcome to the Multi Line on our award-winning Battle Subway!", the intercom sputtered to life. "Please ensure you're seated in your designated observation area. Do not attempt to exit the cars while the train is in motion. Today's viewing experience will feature live feeds from active Multi Line battle cars throughout the system."

You gulped.

"Current available feeds include Cars 10, 12, and 15," the announcer continued. "Please use the voting screen located on your armrest to select which battle you'd like to watch. All battles are broadcast in high definition with full audio integration and immersive virtual reality projection."

Wait- Virtual reality?

You glanced down at your armrest and spotted a small touchscreen you hadn't noticed before.

This wasn't just watching a movie at a theater.

This was a virtual viewing theater.

Large screens at the front of the car were already displaying the available battle options. Car 10 showed two trainers sizing each other up. Car 12 had a match that looked like it was just getting started but had progressed enough for there to be scorch marks on the floor. Car 15's feed showed what appeared to be an even more advanced battle already in progress, a show of colors and light preventing you from seeing much of anything.

The audio system was already active because you could hear sounds from the preview feeds. Pokemon cries, trainer commands, the thud of attacks hitting their targets. Some of these battles must be getting pretty heated already.

You weren't sure if that made it better or worse.

The train started moving, which you barely noticed because you were too busy staring at the armrest touchscreen trying to figure out how voting worked.

Apparently, you just tapped the car number you wanted to watch. Simple enough – just a standard touch screen.

Around you, other passengers were making their selections. The family with kids all seemed to be voting for Car 15 – probably the most exciting-looking battle. The group of battle enthusiasts were going for Car 10, likely wanting to analyze strategies from the beginning.

You hesitated, finger hovering over the screen.

Okay. Deep breath. Just pick one.

You studied the preview feeds more carefully, trying to identify which battle looked the least terrifying.

Car 15 had what looked like a Gigalith and a Machamp. Hard pass. Anything that buff was not what you needed for your first experience.

Car 12 showed trainers with Electric-types – you could see the sparks flying about in the preview. Also, a hard pass.

Car 10, though... Car 10 had Pokemon that looked almost... cute? A Lilligant and a Reuniclus. They looked softer, somehow. Less likely to cause the kind of damage that required triple-layer polymer barriers.

So, you tapped Car 10.

The voting ended quickly after that – it looked like enough people had made their selections. The main screens shifted to show Car 10 as the primary feed.

And then the virtual reality kicked in.

The entire car transformed. The screens weren't just displaying images. They were projecting the entire battle arena around you in full 360-degree immersion.

It felt like you were standing right there in the car for real. The walls, the floor, the specialized equipment- all projected with crystal-clear clarity. If you couldn't still see your own hands, you would've been convinced that you'd suddenly become a ghost cursed to watch Pokemon battles on a train for the rest of eternity.

The battle car's doors "opened" right in front of you – or at least, the projection made it look that way.

Two pairs of trainers fizzled into (virtual) reality. Multi Battle format, just like the announcer had said. Teams of two facing off in 2v2 combat.

They looked serious. Not just casual weekend goers, but people who knew exactly what they were doing and were ready to do it. Professional stance, focused faces, the kind of confidence that came from lots of experience and time.

And everything was life-sized.

The VR projection made them appear at full scale, like they were standing in the same space as you. Which was... immediately intense.

Their Pokemon were already out on the field, and suddenly the cute, soft-looking teams you'd selected didn't seem quite so harmless anymore.

The Lilligant that had looked almost delicate in the preview feed was bigger than you'd expected when standing this close. The flower petals around its head swayed gently, and you could see the subtle green glow of Grass-type energy radiating from it.

The blobby mass that was Reuniclus floated nearby, its psychic aura pulsing visibly. The translucent green gel that made up its body rippled with each movement, and the air around it seemed to shimmer.

On the other side, a Scrafty cracked its knuckles – the sound clear through the surround system. It looked tough, ready for a fight, muscles coiled and ready.

And a Conkeldurr hefting its concrete pillars like they weighed nothing, each movement demonstrating its raw, physical power.

Oh no.

Oh no oh no oh no.

This is TOO realistic.

This was a terrible idea.

You'd thought that watching from behind safety barriers would make it manageable. Safe. But the VR made it feel like you were standing right there in the arena with them. No distance, and definitely no separation. Just you and these massive Pokemon that could probably flatten you without even trying and make it look like an accident.

This wasn't any better than being in the actual battle car. Well, it was probably much safer, but it didn’t feel that way.

The other spectators seemed excited, leaning forward in their seats with interest. You were shrinking back instead, white-knuckled, trying to remember how to breathe normally and the steps to prevent a panic attack.

Realistically, you knew it was just a projection. The Pokemon weren't actually here. You were safe in the observation car with triple-layer polymer barriers and earthquake-resistant materials between you and any real danger.

Your brain didn't care about that logic. Your brain was convinced you were about to get caught in the crossfire, and every animal instinct left in your DNA was screaming at you to get out of here.

"Trainers at the ready?" The referee's voice cut through your panic.

The trainers nodded, taking their positions.

The referee lowered his hand. "Begin!"

And then it was chaos.

Immediate explosions of action that made you flinch.

Commands being shouted, Pokemon cries, the sound of attacks being charged, launched, and connecting. The surround sound made every impact feel like it was happening right next to you.

The Litigant’s and Reunion’s energies clashed in a swirl of flashing purple and neon green, energy blasts flying through the air in brilliant displays of overwhelming power.

Pokemon were darting around the arena, attacks coming toward the camera as their trainers were gesturing and calling out strategies as they danced around the designated section that they were supposed to stand in.

Your brain couldn't process it all. Too much happening at once. Too loud, too bright, too fast.

Someone had mentioned focusing on strategy, right? Maybe Ramses? You couldn't remember, couldn't think through the sensory overload.

All you could do was grip the chair tighter and try not to panic.

An Energy Ball from the Lilligant shot across the arena, and the projection made it look like it was coming right at you.

You jerked back, heart hammering, even though you knew-- you knew- it was just a projection.

The attack hit something "behind" you – the Scrafty, maybe? - and the sound boomed through the observation car.

Other spectators barely reacted. Some even cheered.

The knitting grandma hadn't even looked up from her needles.

Everyone else is fine. Why am I the only one freaking out?

But you couldn't help it. Every attack that came near the camera made you flinch. Every loud impact made you grip the armrests harder. Every bright flash of energy made you want to close your eyes.

This was supposed to be entertainment!

A gentle voice came from beside you, cutting through the battle noise.

"First time, dear?"

You turned to find the knitting grandma leaning forward slightly in her seat, needles still clicking away but her attention now on you instead of her scarf.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Just nodded instead, throat tight with anxiety.

She smiled, kind but clearly amused by your distress. "I remember my first time here. Nearly fainted when a Thunderbolt hit near the camera."

That made you feel a little better? Knowing you weren't the first person to completely panic during their first experience. It would be even worse if you had paid to be tortured like this.

"I've been coming for three years now," she continued, oblivious to your inside turmoil, her needles never stopping their rhythm. "Love watching the strategy unfold. It started because my grandson is a trainer, but now I come nearly every week." She chuckled softly. "He gave up after getting 19 wins five times in a row. Poor dear couldn't break through to face the Subway Bosses. But I still enjoy watching, even if he's not the one in the ring. Retired life gets boring without a little excitement."

Three years. She'd been doing this for three years and was calm enough to knit through it.

"The experience is worse than the actual danger, you know," she added gently. "It's all just video. Very realistic video, but still just video. You're perfectly safe here. And…" she grinned as she leaned in a little. "If I may offer some advice to a youngster? Focus on one thing at a time. Don't try to watch everything at once- that's what gets overwhelming."

That made sense. You'd been trying to track every single burst of perceived danger, and your brain couldn't handle it.

"Just remember, all that noise and light is just for atmosphere," she leaned back again. "And if you need to close your eyes during the loud parts?" She added with a knowing smile, "No one will judge you. I still do it sometimes when the attacks get particularly too flashy for these old eyes."

You managed a shaky, "Thank you," your voice finally working again.

She patted your armrest reassuringly, then went back to her knitting, satisfied that you weren't about to bolt from your seat and hit the emergency lever.

You took a deep breath and tried to follow her advice.

Focus on one Pokemon. Just one.

You picked Lilligant. The one seemed like a good start? Started watching just its movements. How it positioned itself on the field. The way its petals shifted when it prepared an attack.

It was busy running about and setting up something. The way it kept moving to specific spots, leaving behind traces of powder...

Sleep Powder, maybe? Creating danger zones where the opposing Pokemon would have to avoid or risk falling asleep.

And its partner, Reuniclus, was providing plenty of cover. Psychic barriers were deflecting attacks, giving the Lilligant time to set up its strategy.

They were working together. Actually coordinating, not just attacking randomly.

You started to see the pattern. The rhythm.

Commands were being called by the trainers – and you could hear them now, instead of it all being noise. The Pokemon responding, adjusting their positions and moving about as commanded.

Still scary. Still overwhelming. But also, kind of fascinating?

You found yourself leaning forward slightly, interested in seeing how the whole thing would play out.

Then a Focus Blast from the Conkeldurr slammed into the arena floor as it swept past its intended target with a crash that made the whole observation car feel like it shook up your bones, and you flinched hard, back to terror mode immediately.

But of course, like a true stone-cold expert in battle appreciation, the knitting old lady didn't even pause.

Right. Baby steps. This is fine.

The battle was reaching its climax. You could feel the intensity building, even through the fear dripping down your back.

Both teams were down to one Pokemon each – the Lilligant and the Scrafty, circling each other warily. Their partners had fallen, and now it was one-on-one.

The tension shifted noticeably. Even the casual spectators were sitting up straighter now, paying closer attention. You found yourself leaning further forward too, despite everything. Invested in the outcome even though you'd spent most of the battle trying not to panic.

The trainers called out their final commands simultaneously.

Petal Dance from the Lilligant – petals swirling in a devastating storm.

High Jump Kick from the Scrafty – a powerful attack launched with true, expert precision.

The attacks connected at the same moment, and there was a brilliant flash of light, followed by a deafening impact echoing through every fiber of your being as the sound system did its job too well.

When the smoke cleared, both Pokemon were down.

Double knockout.

It was a draw.

The referee's voice cut through the sudden silence: "Match over! Double knockout. Result: Draw!"

Both teams handled it well. Good sportsmanship, trainers congratulating each other on a close match, recalling their Pokemon with obvious care, handshakes all around.

No drama, no arguing. Just... acceptance that sometimes battles ended without a clear winner. You weren't sure if you would have been able to take a competition as intense as that without a win or loss. It felt… incomplete?

The VR display faded slightly as the battle car's cameras shifted focus and the announcer started saying something about how draws don't count as wins for the streaks. Someone must have been actively staffing the display and decided to shift the scene, as it instead started showing a wider view of the battle car as trainers and their Pokemon exited.

Some people were gathering their things, planning to get off at the next station. Others were settling in more comfortably, intending to watch more battles.

The knitting grandma was still working on her scarf, needles clicking steadily. She glanced over at you with a questioning look. "You staying for another round?"

You opened your mouth to say something but hesitated.

That had been terrifying. Overwhelming. Considerably more intense than you'd expected, even with all the safety warnings and explanations.

But also... you'd survived. Well. "Survived" was probably the wrong word since you'd never been in any actual danger, but still? You'd made it through without running away or completely panicking.

You'd actually started to understand what was happening toward the end. Seen the strategy, appreciated the teamwork.

Part of you wanted to see if the next battle would be less scary. If you could handle it better now that you knew what to expect. The other part of you wanted to flee while you still could.

The grandma was waiting patiently for your answer, her needles paused mid-stitch with an eyebrow raised quizzically.

You thought about it.

Internal pep talk time?

Moved to a new city. Started a new job. Learned how to function. Mostly. Surely watching Pokemon battles can't be worse than getting fired from a new job or angering your neighbors with burnt noodles?

This is just more adulting. Uncomfortable adulting, but still.

Maybe one more battle.

Just to prove you could handle it.

The train slowed to a stop as it reached the station, spectators shuffling in and out, all while the old woman was still looking at you expectantly.

"I'll... stay for one more," you finally said, trying to sound more confident than you felt.

She nodded, patting your shoulder approvingly instead of the chair this time. "Good. The second one is always easier than the first. You know what to expect now."

You hoped she was right.

A crackle, and the next announcement came over the intercom.

"Due to the result of this match, this Car is no longer available for viewing. Next broadcast will feature Car 7. New trainers are entering the arena now."

The display shifted, showing the preview of Car 7. Different trainers, different Pokemon. Neither side had released their Pokemon yet, but the anticipation didn't do anything good for your expectations of imminent disaster.

Your stomach made a nervous flip.

But you'd committed now. One more battle.

The VR display was already starting to transform the observation car again, projecting Car 7's battle arena around you, and the train shook back into motion as it sped toward the next station.

You gripped the armrests with a small amount less of a death grip than last time, trying to ignore the worrying thoughts that would only get in the way.

Here we go again.

The new battle began, four trainers entering the projected arena.

You applied what you'd learned: focus on one Pokemon at a time, and don't get overwhelmed by everything happening all at once.

Your eyes landed on the young woman on the left side. She had a Leavanny, more than ready for battle. She was paired with a man using a Probopass that was already doing that weird magnet-compass-thing that they do.

Their opponents were an Ace Trainer with a Marowak and a Parasol Lady with a Seismitoad, obvious from their distinctive outfits and the confident way they carried themselves.

The battle started, and you immediately noticed something different about this woman.

She was... really good.

Her commands were confident. No hesitation. The Leavanny and her partner's Probopass moved in perfect coordination, their strategies complementing each other seamlessly.

You found yourself actually engaged, watching her strategy unfold.

Oh, she's using String Shot to slow them down while setting up some kind of combination attack.

That's clever.

The plan worked perfectly. The Ace Trainer's Marowak got caught in the webbing, and while it was slowed, the coordinated Grass and Steel-type attacks from both Pokemon were devastating. The Parasol Lady's Seismitoad tried to compensate, but it couldn't handle the mounting pressure and failed to dodge the worst of the attacks.

Less than a minute had passed since the start of the battle, and her team had already won.

The announcement came: "Victory to the challengers. You may proceed to the next challenge or disembark."

The duo chose to continue without hesitation.

The grandma leaned over, noticing your increased interest. "Looks like we might have a streak going."

You nodded, eyes still on the projected battle arena where new opponents were entering. If anyone else were looking too closely at you right now, you wouldn't be surprised if they found sparkles in your eyes.

Battle after battle. The two challengers kept winning.

Not always decisively, but consistently, and without any significant injury.

Battle 3: easy win. The woman switched out to a Whimsicott, adapting her strategy to counter a pair of Ghost-types.

Battle 5: another win, although this one was a little closer. Her partner's Probopass took a few heavy hits but held on without fainting.

Battle 7: they barely scraped by after some excessive status-effect moves from the opponents, but still advanced.

You were completely absorbed now, the fear from earlier battles fading into the back of your mind.

Time passed without you noticing. The woman kept adapting her strategy each battle, using different Pokemon, different move combinations, different timing.

When did you stop being terrified and start enjoying this?

The display in the corner showed their current record: "Battle Streak: 15 wins."

They were still going. Fifteen consecutive wins.

The grandma had even stopped knitting, watching with the same focused energy as everyone else in the observation car.

"My grandson was never this good," she murmured, mostly to herself. "These two are really something."

Battle 18 came and went. Another win, although it was getting harder. You could see the fatigue starting to show.

Battle 19 was close. Really, really close. The woman's Whimsicott went down, and for a moment it looked like they might lose for real.

But then they pulled through with a combination attack that caught their opponents off guard, and it was a steady victory.

Then battle 20. The quickest of any of them – an easy win that almost seemed like a rest period with how fast it was over. Maybe it was set up as a freebie before the next fight after such a long streak?

The next announcement came with different weight this time: "Win streak of 20 achieved! Trainers have earned the right to challenge the Subway Bosses. Please stand by as the train approaches Central Station."

The observation car buzzed with excited chatter. People leaning forward in their seats, the energy completely different from the casual atmosphere of earlier battles. No one was going to get off here, not when something like this was happening right in front of them.

Then something occurred to you. You remembered what Ramses had said earlier – something about the Lines not getting long enough streaks to warrant the Subway Bosses showing up until past midday.

You glanced at your watch, and- Oh.

It was past midday. Way past.

You'd been on this train for hours, completely absorbed in watching these battles.

The fear from your first match felt like a distant memory now.

The train slowed, pulling into Central Station. You could feel the difference as everyone ignored the open doors- this wasn't like the regular stops throughout the journey. This felt significant.

The VR display showed the battle car's doors opening, but instead of new, regular challengers entering, two remarkably familiar figures stepped into the arena, and your breath caught in your throat.

Ingo and Emmet.

In full-on-big-bad Subway Boss mode.

Black and white coats pristine, hats perfectly positioned, moving with a synchronized precision that made your morning platform encounters seem like playground matters by comparison.

This was them in their element. They were composed of a completely different energy. Professional. Powerful. In control. If you didn't know better, you would have thought that they were different people all together.

The announcement confirmed what you were seeing: "Introducing Subway Bosses Ingo and Emmet! Trainers ready for the final challenge!"

The grandma sat up straighter, setting aside her knitting completely. "Oh, how wonderful! I was hoping we'd get to see them today, and they've been gone for so long!"

You gave her a look of confusion. Don't they work here?

A knowing smile spread across her face. "It's been just over a month since anyone made it this far on the Multi Line."

Oh. Over a month. That's how rare this was.

Your eyes drifted back to the projection, the scene locking your eyes into place. You had never expected this. Had never seen them like this before.

The observation car felt more crowded suddenly, as if everyone's presence was pushing against your own to get a better vantage point.

This was clearly the main event. In all ways that mattered.

Ingo stepped forward first, tone formal and commanding.

"I am Subway Boss Ingo." His loud voice carried through the air with perfect clarity. He gestured to his twin. "The fellow over to my side is also a Subway Boss, Emmet. Will a Multi Battle help us cover each other's weakness? Or will you show your overwhelming power?"

There was genuine anticipation in his tone, like he wanted to see how the challengers would perform.

"I look forward to seeing how well you fight. However, it is difficult to win unless you and your partner are in total sync."

It was clearly a script he'd delivered countless times, but even so, it sounded like he meant it.

Then it was Emmet's turn, rapid-fire delivery with his signature brightness.

"Follow the rules! Everybody smile! Aim for victory! All aboard!"

The moment the introductions ended, their entire demeanor shifted – pure focus, total concentration. They struck two perfectly mirrored poses, pointing in that way that they seemed to always do, and released their Pokemon in perfect synchronization. The balls seemed to hit the ground at almost the same time.

Emmet's Klinklang began rotating its gears threateningly. Ingo's Excadrill positioned itself, claws at the ready, looking as if it was about to tear through anything in its path.

The woman with the Leavanny looked nervous but determined. Her partner steadied himself, adjusting his stance, and the two shared a look of hopeful confidence.

The referee shifted, arm raised, and the battle began.

It was immediately different from every previous battle you'd watched. If you'd seen any before now, you imagined it would have been different from even those.

Ingo and Emmet moved like one unit. Their commands didn't just complement each other – they overlapped, creating strategies that were layered and complex in ways you could barely follow. Of course, neither could the challengers.

"Terrain advantage established!" Ingo called out, his Excadrill using a move you didn't recognize that seemed to shake up the entire battlefield.

"Verrry good strategy! But we're better!" Emmet responded, his Klinklang shifting its gears faster and faster. "Let's show them teamwork!"

They were having a conversation through the battle. Not just with each other, but with the challengers too. Teaching even while competing.

The woman and her partner were trying. Honestly trying. Landing hits, using their own strategies that had previously carried them through twenty battles. But it was clear they were grossly outmatched.

The old saying, "No plan survives contact with the enemy" went through your head unbidden.

Ingo and Emmet controlled the battlefield completely. Every move the challengers made had already been anticipated, every counter had been prepared for. It seems as if the challengers couldn't even take a step without falling into a pitfall, literal or metaphorical.

You found yourself watching their faces as things seemed increasingly conclusive. Ingo's frown deepened when he was calculating strategies. Emmet's smile brightened when they executed perfect combinations.

There was genuine joy radiating from them. Not just the confidence of winning, but the entire process. The strategy, the coordination, the challenge.

The challengers were good and were obviously skilled trainers who'd made it through their past battles by adapting to different opponents and working together effectively.

But Ingo and Emmet were operating on an entirely different level. Beyond Champion level, maybe? You didn't really have any goalpost for measuring that kind of skill, but it seemed like the right description for what you were watching.

You finally understood why they ran this place, why people traveled to challenge them specifically. This was what they were meant to do – not just managing train schedules or helping confused commuters find their platforms, though they clearly cared about that too.

This was battle. Strategy at its highest level. Perfect synchronization. Mentorship disguised as competition, all in some crazy transformation of what would've been a normal Pokemon battle in any other context.

It didn’t seem like the battle had been going on for exceedingly long before the end came swiftly and mercilessly.

Ingo and Emmet's final coordinated attack built to a devastating crescendo of sounds and sights, with Excadrill and Klinklang combining their power in a massive explosion of a combo move that filled the entire projection with a blinding flash and what felt like a sonic boom, even from where you sat. If that car was any decent distance away from yours, that was impressive.

When your eyes were able to refocus, the challengers' Pokemon had fallen.

Battle over, and the referee's voice drove the nail into the coffin: "Victory to Subway Bosses Ingo and Emmet!"

But the twins didn't gloat, or celebrate, or even acknowledge the win, really.

Instead, Ingo approached the challengers slowly and deliberately. "Bravo! It is true that your battle with us ended in loss, however, your abilities are very impressive. Your coordination improved significantly throughout your streak."

Emmet was right beside him, his regular enthusiasm for battle practically dripping from his voice. "You still made it to 20 wins! That's verrry impressive! You should be proud!"

They both sounded sincere.

Ingo continued spouting extremely specific strategy advice, pointing out the exact moments where the challengers had made clever choices and where they had failed to anticipate a counterattack. His analysis was extremely detailed and well thought out, not to mention it being completely off the cuff after having just performed the battle that he was speaking so expertly about.

Emmet encouraged them to try again, his smile a radiant sun, with his joy contagious despite having just demolished their team so thoroughly.

The woman and her partner looked disappointed but not crushed. They seemed encouraged by the feedback, nodding along with the suggestions and asking a question every now and then about what they should've done instead.

It wasn't just about defeating challengers. It was about building them up, even in loss. They would come back because they wanted to, not because they had to.

The observation car began to erupt into applause. The grandma was clapping enthusiastically, her knitting forgotten in a clump beside her.

You joined in, your hands coming together to join the chorus almost without thinking. The applause was earned and well deserved for everyone involved. Your palms stung slightly from the force of your enthusiasm, but you didn't care. You'd just witnessed something incredible.

Ingo and Emmet were still talking with the challengers, offering more advice and encouragement, and the observation car was buzzing with excited conversation as the doors opened with a pleasant chime. Everyone was still discussing the battle, analyzing the twins' strategies and comparing them to other Boss battles they'd seen.

The old woman turned to you with a light in her eyes. "Wasn't that wonderful? They're even better than last time I saw them!"

You went to nod but stopped when you realized you were trembling slightly. Not from fear, thankfully – but from excitement, adrenaline, the thrill of watching something incredible unfold.

"That was..." You struggled to find words. "I didn't know battles could be like that."

"Oh, dear, the Subway Bosses are special," the grandma said warmly. "Master trainers, the both of them. They could be in the Elite Four if they wanted, but they prefer running the Battle Subway."

Master level. That tracked.

"And that wasn't even them at full strength," she added casually, as if that wasn't some huge thing. "They hold back on the regular lines."

And didn't that just blow your mind. That was them holding back?

You thought about Ingo on the morning platform, holding some small child's hand while he guided them back to their distraught mother. Someone that powerful choosing to help ordinary people.

Then him in battle – powerful, completely in command down to the most minute detail – dominating every aspect of the match.

He was the same person, but… more. It was like seeing someone's true purpose in life.

The woman started packing up her knitting, tucking the needles and partially finished scarf into her bag with practiced efficiency.

"I usually get off at the next station after a Boss battle," she said. "How are you holding up?"

You glanced down to check your watch again, reality crashing back.

The whole morning had disappeared into watching battles – it was way past any reasonable time that could still be called the afternoon.

Even then, part of you still wanted to stay, to see if there would be more battles, to watch more trainers come into their own.

The fear you'd felt at the start seemed ridiculous now. Yes, it had been overwhelming and terrifying and awful, but you'd pushed past it. More than that, actually – you'd enjoyed it once you'd gotten past the initial panic.

And seeing Ingo and Emmet battle... that had been worth every moment of anxiety.

"I should probably get off too," you said finally. "This has been a lot for one day."

The grandma smiled knowingly. "But you did well, dear. Stayed for the whole thing, even got to see a Boss battle. That's more than most people manage on their first visit, consistency of the win streaks aside."

The VR display faded completely, the observation car returning to its most innocent appearance. Just a regular train car with comfortable seats and those mysterious, blue-tinted windows. It seemed like whoever was staffing the display thought enough passengers were disembarking that it was a good idea to pause the theatrics.

Other passengers started gathering their belongings, and you stood, legs unsteady after sitting for so long.

The old woman gave you a warm smile and a small wave as you parted ways in the quickly forming queue.

"Hope to see you again, dear. You've got a good eye for strategy."

"Thank you for all your help," you smiled back.

"Any time." She nodded sagely. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend."

After a length of time lost to the queue of people trying to exit, you stepped onto the platform at Gear Station proper.

And nearly collided with someone.

Again.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," came a familiar voice.

You looked up to find Ingo standing there, still in his signature Subway Boss attire, but the battle intensity had faded back to his usual friendly demeanor.

He recognized you immediately, and his expression shifted – surprise, then something else you couldn't quite read.

"We really must establish better pedestrian protocols." he smiled a little, though it was probably too subtle of a thing for anyone else around you to notice it. "And… you attended the Multi Line observation experience."

You nodded, suddenly nervous. "I. Uh. Yes! I saw your battle."

Ingo adjusted his hat very deliberately, and your brain stuttered. Was that… a nervous tell?

"Our performance was within the standard Subway Boss performance parameters," he said, deflecting any form of compliment with formal language like he always did.

And he was trying to be modest. After what you'd just witnessed, "standard" didn't even begin to cover it.

You shook your head quickly, though maybe a little too quickly after the rush you'd just had. "No, really. That was amazing. The way you and Emmet worked together! The coordination, the strategy, everything! You two set up that crazy field advantage with the ground at the start, and it was genius!" You could feel yourself reliving the battle, getting excited all over again.

Ingo seemed genuinely uncertain how to respond to the praise this time. Not used to it from morning commuters, apparently. Surely the challengers said something similar from time to time?

"Your observation skills have improved considerably since your initial platform experiences," he said finally, turning the assessment back on you. "From confusion regarding departure boards to analyzing Multi Battle strategies."

Wait, was he... complimenting you?

You felt the warmth of embarrassment creep up your neck. "Uh. Err. I was pretty bad at first. The old lady with the knitting helped me a lot. It wasn't just me."

"Ah. Mrs. Won." Ingo's expression shifted into simple recognition. "She's been a regular observer for… three years? Excellent choice of mentor for initial battle observation." He paused, seeming to consider something. "Ah, yes! Her grandson showed considerable potential as a trainer. Unfortunately, he discontinued his challenges prematurely after his repeated attempts at the twentieth victory threshold were not met with optimal outcomes."

Of course, he knew the regulars and their battle records.

There was a pause, the length of it bordering on awkward, before Ingo spoke again. "Will you be returning for further observations?" There was a look that you couldn't decipher in his eyes as he said it.

You hesitated, thinking about the question and if the hope in his voice was something you mistakenly perceived or was actually there.

Honest answer? "I... don't know? It was terrifying at first."

Ingo nodded, understanding. "Initial exposure to battle observation can be overwhelming. Your perseverance today demonstrated considerable resilience."

You laughed, embarrassed. "I almost ran away a few times."

"But you remained," Ingo pointed out. "For multiple battles. Including the culmination of events that led to the Subway Boss – to Emmet and I."

He was right, of course. You had stayed. Faced the fear.

"I wanted to see you and Emmet battle," you said. "Everyone seemed to be talking about how amazing you two are, and they weren't wrong. That was incredible to watch."

Ingo's expression showed what might have been pride, though his modesty quickly reasserted itself. "We have developed effective coordination through extensive practice. While the positive reception from regular observers is appreciated, it is not always warranted, in my opinion."

That was probably the closest he'd come to acknowledging that they had fans. Which they definitely did, based on how excited everyone in the observation car had been. Probably even a fanatical fun club or two. Twin clubs? Heh.

"Ingo! There you are!"

Emmet emerged from the crowd, his attire as pristine as ever, weaving through the platform crowd with practiced ease. He looked a little too annoyed for someone who'd just won at the thing they seem to love.

"Ramses just told me we need to 'tone it down' and 'actually let someone win for once,'" he said, making air quotes with his fingers – and that explained it. "Can you believe that? We're supposed to be challenging! That's the whole point!"

Ingo's expression suggested this was a familiar and similarly frequent complaint. "We do have a tendency to become overly invested in demonstrations of optimal strategy. The non-Super lines are intended to be more accessible to developing trainers."

"But we give them feedback and strategy advice!" Emmet protested.

"Not before defeating them so comprehensively," Ingo pointed out, finger raised as he made the point.

Emmet seemed about to argue further but instead noticed you standing there. His smile returned to full force immediately, the annoyance evaporating as if it had never been there in the first place.

"Oh! You came to watch! And you stayed for our battle!" He said it with genuine delight. "That was your first time, right? What did you think? How good was it? We haven't been on the non-Super Multi Line in forever!"

You were hit full force with Emmet's enthusiasm, which was a lot to process after the more level-headed Ingo.

"It was... really impressive," you said after a moment of composure. "You two are amazing together."

Emmet beamed. "We've been battling together since we were kids! Ingo's the best partner anyone could ask for!"

Ingo looked uncomfortable with the praise, but there was warmth in his expression. Being twins would probably do that to a person.

"Emmet excels at adaptability and opponent analysis," he said, finding it in him to return the compliment.

The back and forth was both sweet and slightly embarrassing to witness.

Emmet turned his attention back to you with an eager gleam in his eyes. "So, when are you going to challenge one of the lines? Singles? Doubles? Multi? Surely not Super?"

Oh no. He wanted to battle you. And you very definitely did not own any Pokemon. At all. Ever. Which felt like something you should probably be embarrassed about admitting to two people who clearly lived and breathed Pokemon battles like it was the very air they breathed.

"I'm... still just watching for now," you said carefully, mentally cursing the familiar heat creeping into your face. "Learning the… strategies."

Emmet looked puzzled. "But watching is just the first step! The real fun is battling!"

You felt your face heating up more and more. How do you explain that you'd never owned a Pokemon without sounding completely out of place in a city where everyone seemed to have at least one?

"Emmet," Ingo said quietly, and you looked at his surprisingly solemn expression. "Observation provides valuable educational experience regardless of participation."

But Emmet was already connecting dots you really didn't want him to connect. "Wait, do you not have a team yet? That's okay! Everyone starts somewhere! The Singles Line is perfect for beginners, and we can recommend some great-"

"I should probably head home," you cut in, desperately looking for an escape route. "It's getting late."

The platform announcement chimed in to save you: "Next train departing in three minutes."

You gestured toward the general direction of the platform that the train was arriving on. "That's my train. I should-"

"Right! Of course!" Emmet's smile never wavered, even if he looked disappointed. "But you'll come back? Watch more battles, right?"

"Maybe," you said, already backing up toward the platform and refusing to commit to anything when it involved Emmet and his battling enthusiasm. "Today was... is… a lot to process."

Ingo nodded in understanding. "Saturday afternoon schedules offer reliable service for return journeys. You should have a pleasant and consistent path homeward."

Still helpful with transit information, even now.

"See you Monday morning!" Emmet called out, waving enthusiastically.

You waved back, relieved to have an exit to this conversation. "Yeah. Monday morning."

As you started to walk away, Ingo's voice carried across the platform.

"Also! Your adaptability has been noteworthy! Bravo!"

You glanced back. He wasn't quite smiling, but it was close. In that Ingo specific way. "Continued observation experiences may prove beneficial!" He added when you locked eyes, and he knew you were still listening.

You were sure that this was his way of saying, "I hope you come back!"

You smiled at the thought, despite your embarrassment. "I'll think about it!"

Finding a seat by the window, you pulled out your phone and stared at the screen. And… that was a large number of notifications.

Right, the rest of your life still existed.

Mostly work messages. Of course it was work messages. Three from your coworker about a project deadline. One from your supervisor. All of them not worth thinking about because – it was Saturday. Saturday afternoon, and people were still messaging about work, and that's not fair to you or your work-life balance?

You'd moved to this city for the job. Spent months getting settled, learning the commute, figuring out the whole "adult living in the big city" thing. And what did you have to show for it besides becoming the embodiment of a ball of stress?

Work. Just work. And an apartment that was still half-baked because you were too tired after work to deal with it.

No new friends yet. No hobbies. No life outside of the office and your disaster of an apartment.

Until today, apparently. When you'd accidentally spent an entire Saturday morning watching Pokemon battles and enjoyed it.

The train hummed along toward the Arts District, and you watched the city slide past.

Maybe you should head to that taco place someone at work had mentioned? Then walk around, look at the art galleries, pretend you were the kind of person who did things on weekends besides catching up on sleep and dread Monday.

Your phone shook again. Another work message.

You huffed and turned it face-down.

For now, you were content to just sit there, watching the buildings pass by, thinking about how you'd survived your first Battle Subway experience.

At least it was something that wasn't work, wasn't your apartment, and wasn't the same routine of commute-office-commute-sleep. Not bad for someone who’s most exciting life achievement so far was not getting lost in a confined space (anymore).

Chapter Text

Emmet noticed things.

It was part of the job. Reading opponents during battles, spotting when passengers were getting frustrated and catching the tiny details that meant the difference between a good day and complete disaster. That was his specialty! Ingo oversaw the fixing part, swooping in with solutions and schedules and perfect organization without making them even more ornery. They worked as a two-car train that way.

So of course, he noticed when his brother started acting weird.

Not weird, weird. They were both a little weird – that was fine. Normal is overrated anyway. But this was a different kind of weird.

It was small. Ingo adjusted his route through the morning platforms. Just slightly. A deviation of maybe thirty seconds from his usual inspection pattern, but consistent. Every single morning.

Emmet knew his twin's routines better than anyone. Ingo's morning inspection route had been the same for two years. Exactly the same. Even then, it had only changed due to the addition of a new line. If Emmet knew exactly what time it was, he would be able to locate Ingo within seconds.

Until one morning, when Emmet had gone to talk to Ingo about something before they left for the Battle Lines and found him missing. Not missing, since there were obvious signs that Ingo had been doing his job that morning since his home platform wasn't currently on fire, but certainly not where his tight schedule said he would be.

After a simple interrogation of one of Ingo's main depot agents, he found out that Ingo had made a point of passing by Platform 2 around 7. Making sure the information desk was stocked. Observing the departure board for any discrepancies. Perfectly normal Subway Boss activities.

Except Platform 2 wasn't part of his usual route – that was supposed to be Emmet's section. The only recent exception had been when Ingo had detoured there to deal with a difficult passenger at the information desk in the morning. After that incident, instead of returning to his normal pattern, he'd just... kept going to Platform 2. Every. Single. Day.

"Hey," Emmet said the next morning, catching up to his brother near the information desk on his platform. "You changed your morning pattern."

Ingo looked up from his tablet. "Operational efficiency requires periodic route optimization."

"Yep! Sure does!" Emmet agreed cheerfully, even though Ingo's previous route had been planned to within an inch of its life. "Any good optimizations?"

"Passenger flow data collection has been enhanced. Nothing of concern," he said offhandedly, returning to his work on the tablet.

So, Emmet let it go.

For now.

He could be patient when he wanted to be!

But then he overheard something even weirder.

Ingo was talking to one of the depot agents near the staff break room, and Emmet caught the tail end of the conversation as he passed by.

"...recommending beverage options to passengers," Ingo was saying in his usual overly professional tone, "what phrasing would be considered appropriately helpful without overstepping professional boundaries?"

The depot agent sounded confused. A fair reaction, given who was doing the asking. "Uh. You mean like telling someone about Mrs. Chen's cart?"

"Precisely. The correct method for suggesting superior coffee quality to a regular commuter who has expressed dissatisfaction with vending machine options."

Wait. Ingo was asking for advice on how to recommend coffee to someone?

Emmet ducked back around the corner, listening closely and trying to sink into the shadows as much as one could with a coat this bright.

"Just... tell them Mrs. Chen has better coffee?" the agent said, baffled by the very concept of the question. "It's not that complicated, Boss."

Some fabric rustled – probably Ingo's coat. "But the delivery must be appropriate. Professional, yet accordingly helpful."

"Boss," the agent sighed, and Emmet suspected that they were mentally facepalming right now. Maybe even physically. "You're overthinking this."

A pause. Then Ingo's voice, uncertain: "…Perhaps."

Emmet waited until they'd finished and Ingo had walked away in the other direction before emerging from the darkness. So, his brother was getting coaching on casual conversation techniques now? For a specific passenger? Who he knew liked coffee, but not the cheap stuff? And how did any of this happen without him noticing?

Interesting.

So, Emmet started paying real attention.

The pattern became clearer. Ingo's route brought him past Platform 2 during a verrry specific time window, not just "around 7." He'd linger, tablet in hand but not doing much, like he was waiting for someone.

And then Emmet saw them.

A passenger. Regular commuter type, always looked confused by the departure boards, usually running behind schedule. Nothing out of the ordinary for their typical clientele, except…

Ingo noticed them.

Not in the general "observing passenger flow patterns for optimal efficiency" way he was always talking about. But actually noticed. Made eye contact. Nodded in recognition. Offered routing advice without being asked. There was even small talk!

And he somehow knew their route. Their specific route, their usual timing, where they were headed and when.

Sure, they were both good at schedules and routes; that was the job. But they didn't memorize individual commuter patterns. That would be crazy. They tracked their own routes, station-wide traffic flow, general hour to hour trends only.

But Ingo knew exactly where this passenger was going and when they needed to be there.

And. Well. That was a different Ingo entirely.

Emmet watched from a distance one morning as Ingo nearly collided with the passenger – there would have stars if this were a cartoon, from the force of it – and instead of his usual short apology and swiftly moving on because he very obviously was much too busy, he stopped. Actually stopped and had a conversation. Emmet couldn't hear what was being said, but he could see his brother's body language. The way Ingo stood slightly closer than his usual professional distance. How his frown softened when the passenger smiled and thanked him. He even did that little nervous tell with his cap that Emmet had chosen not to tell him about in case it ever came in handy.

And wow, did it come in handy, considering the way Ingo watched them board the 7:15, tablet forgotten in his hand for more than ten seconds after the train pulled away.

Ten seconds of Ingo not checking data or optimizing schedules.

Just standing there.

Emmet's smile grew wider.

If he were a detective, he would say "got you!" and shut his dusty notebook with dramatic flair as he solved some huge case.

"So," he said later in that afternoon, when they were reviewing the day's battle statistics in their office over lunch, "I noticed something interesting."

Ingo didn't look up from his report. "Battle performance metrics have been within acceptable parameters."

"Yep! Not about the battles, though." Emmet leaned against the desk. "About passenger interactions. One specific passenger."

Ingo's pen stopped moving. Just for a second.

"Platform 2," Emmet continued cheerfully. "Morning commuter. You've been verrry helpful with their routing!"

"Emmet." Ingo still didn't look up. "We are currently considering the efficiency of the day's battle performance. This is not something that we should be discussing at the moment."

But Emmet said nothing, he just sat there. Menacingly. Letting the silence do the talking.

Ingo was crossing out some mistake he'd just made when their eyes met, and he must've realized from the look in Emmet's own eyes that the conversation wasn't over.

"I will only say that consistent passengers benefit from individualized guidance," he offered, placating.

"Right! Professional!" Emmet tilted his head. "Except you don't usually track individual patterns. Or recommend coffee. Or change your routes. And funny timing! All pretty recently. Right when Platform 2 became your new favorite spot."

Ingo finally looked up, pen forgotten. "I have no idea what you're implying."

"Not implying! Just observing!" Emmet's grin was probably too wide. "Verrry interesting passenger you've been observing! Maybe I should observe them too. You know. For operational efficiency. Right after I kick you off my platform."

"That won't be necessary," Ingo said quickly, just a bit too sharp, and then seemed to catch himself. "Your enthusiasm for analyzing routine operational interactions is unneeded."

"Is it routine, though? You know their trains. Their connections. Probably their entire work schedule-"

"Pattern recognition is essential for-"

"-operational efficiency! Yep! I know!" Emmet pushed off the desk and spun in his chair, jostling the pile of paperwork in the process. "Just seems verrry specific for one passenger!"

Ingo returned his attention to the report with a determined focus, steadying the pile with his other hand. "Your interpretation of standard professional conduct is becoming increasingly inaccurate, brother."

"Mmhm. Sure," Emmet mocked. "Nothing unusual about suddenly caring about one specific passenger's coffee preferences."

"I don't-" Ingo snapped, paused for a bit, and then reset like he was short-circuiting. "The recommendation was purely practical application."

"And the routing information?"

"Optimization."

"The personalized advice?"

"Efficient resource allocation."

"Watching their train after they’ve left for a whole ten seconds-"

"Emmet." The word came out flat, exasperated, as Ingo was nearing some strange breaking point.

But he is who he is, and he couldn't help himself. "I am Emmet!"

Ingo's frown deepened, but he said nothing more. He picked up his pen, shuffled the paperwork to block his view of his poor concerned brother, and went right back to work.

"Fine!" Emmet got up and moved toward the door, recognizing defeat but also refusing to let it go without one last attempt. "You know what's 'radical'? Conversations. About things other than boarding positions and connections. Wild concept! But it's allowed. Even for Subway Bosses."

Ingo's expression shifted from annoyance to confusion as he peered over the pile. "Passenger interactions should maintain appropriate professional boundaries."

"Sure! But you could introduce yourself. Learn their name. Talk about something. Anything!"

Ingo scoffed. Scoffed! "That would be unnecessary."

"Would it?" Emmet teased. "You're already going out of your way. Helping them. Might as well make it less awkward. Stop mysteriously appearing with exact routing information at the exact moment they need it and introduce yourself properly for once. That's not creepy at all, by the way." He paused, then added more gently, "Besides, they seem nice. Polite. Good qualities."

Ingo's eyes narrowed. "I haven't assessed their personal qualities beyond their navigation capabilities."

"Right," Emmet rolled his eyes. "Because you definitely haven't noticed how they smile when you help them. Or how they also wait by the Platform 2 departure board now, almost like they know you'll walk by around the same time."

"That's coincidental platform selection based on optimal boarding positions!" Ingo's voice was just a little too loud, the kind of loud that he got when he was panicking over something and not the normal enthusiastic volume that he used for his daily life.

"Yuuup! Coincidence. Sure!"

This was the most fun Emmet had in a while. His brother, the expert in all things trains and schedule, car so completely derailed by a passenger who smiled at him and said, 'thank you.'

It was adorable. And absolutely hilarious.

"Just saying," Emmet continued, ignoring the burning glare he could feel coming from a certain Subway Boss, "that if you wanted to actually talk to them, find out their name, have a conversation that doesn't involve commuting... I think that would be okay. You're allowed to have conversations with people, Ingo."

His pen was working a mile a minute now. "I have conversations regularly. With staff. With challengers. With you."

"Work conversations! Battle strategy! Schedules!" Emmet waved his hand about dismissively. "I mean real conversations! Personal ones! Ones that matter!"

Ingo had the audacity to look genuinely confused. "Train schedules matter."

"Yes, but-" Emmet stopped, laughed, and realized this was becoming a brick wall of a conversation. "You know what? Never mind. Keep doing your thing. Verrry normal Subway Boss behavior."

He left before Ingo could form another technically-accurate-but-missing-the-point response.

Still, even as he walked toward the Doubles Line, Emmet found himself stuck thinking on the conversation.

Because Ingo deserved good things. Deserved connections beyond their work. Friends, even! It was too hard to make those with their work schedules.

He deserved someone who appreciated him for all of who he was.

Even if that someone was currently just a confused commuter who didn't realize they'd become the subject of Ingo's most thorough passenger analysis to date.

Emmet smiled to himself mischievously as he exited the back offices, ignoring how a potential challenger that was queued to register for his Line took one look at the expression and fled from the platform.

Good thing Emmet was excellent at helping people figure things out.

Chapter Text

The thing about becoming an adult and having a proper routine is that it gives you way too much time to think about things in the dull moments.

It's not the simple things that live rent-free in your brain, no – it's the complicated questions of life. You can't be bothered to worry about leaving the stove (hot plate) on if you're too busy staring down the unfathomable abyss that is your social life.

It had been a good four months now since you'd uprooted everything. The start of the week had been fine. Or at least it had been, right until you started getting caught up in your own thoughts again.

The day was simple. Easy. Grab coffee from everyone's favorite cart, attempt to memorize the departure board in case of catastrophic collapse of the transit system, make sure to give Ingo a polite nod or a quick quip about something witty, and make sure to arrive at work exactly on time.

And then… what? After eight full hours of data entry, the uneventful commute home, a slightly cold in the middle microwave dinner and snuggling into the blanket draped over yourself as you watched your favorite shows… it all just didn't seem like much.

The problem couldn't be the routine itself. It wasn't bad, per se – it was actually pretty great now that you'd figured the train system out, given the circumstances. You weren't in any danger of being mugged in your sleep or being kicked onto the streets now that you were steadily watching the numbers in your bank account go up again. Which all felt like a lot, since the greatest achievement that you'd had back home was managing to get the best spot in street parking after the street sweepers had come through.

No, the problem was the space between it all. The weekends when you had nowhere to be. The evening hours when you realized that your entire human interaction consisted of water cooler talk and brief platform encounters. The slow, dawning awareness that you'd moved to a city of people and their Pokemon, and yet still somehow managed to stay completely disconnected from all of it.

And then there was the whole issue with your Pokemon. Well, your lack thereof.

You'd dealt with it like you were dealing with most other things right now: don't think about it. Unfortunately, that was becoming increasingly difficult, what with almost everyone seeming to have one. You couldn't help the little pang of strange guilt, even if it was just Mrs. Chen's Munna doing cute little flips in the air when it handed you a napkin. Even the random commuters had little companions (or large ones) - a Lillipup here, an Emolga there – and it was starting to wear you down.

At this point, you wouldn't be surprised if you were the only person in the entire city who didn't have a Pokemon. Which, uh? Was fine. Totally fine – normal, even. Not weird at all.

… Okay, fine, it was weird. And getting weirder by the day.

It's not that you didn't like them – you did! Some of them were admittedly a little off-putting, like the living knives or the forces of nature that you weren't convinced weren't walking disasters waiting to happen. But you'd never owned one. Never even had to take care of one, really. The stage of life you were in never seemed to let you breathe enough to even consider the idea of it – until now, apparently.

Now you were an adult in a major city where everyone assumed you had a Pokemon, and it was confusing for all parties if you assumed the opposite.

Most of your exposure had been to working Pokemon or the "safe" ones – stuff like a farmhand Herdier or a Pansear working at the local restaurant. Back home, you weren't so different from everyone else. Everyone had gotten along fine in life without them.

Here, though? It felt like you were missing the most obvious final piece in the puzzle of life. You'd shown up to a huge party and managed to botch the dress code that no one had remembered to tell you about.

It was getting to the point where it felt like people were starting to notice.

Not in an obvious way. There wasn't pointing and laughing or any similar playground bully moments, thankfully. Instead, what had been few and far between was becoming a topic that came up often. Of course everyone was polite about it – even Emmet, technically, if you could count that whole kerfuffle as a polite Emmet brand Subway Boss conversation - but it seemed like your only real answers to the question was to either run away or avoid the topic entirely. You'd taken to just nodding along to Pokemon related conversations at work as if you knew what they were talking about.

Even Ingo seemed to be carefully avoiding the topic, which was somehow worse than if he'd just asked you directly and brought the whole thing out into the open. You could tell he'd noticed – of course he'd noticed, considering Ingo being Ingo and probably memorizing all sorts of random details about everything – but he must've been too polite to bring it up. Of course, it could also be a result of Emmet's insane drilling about the subject, but you didn't think such things would really bother him since the twins must be used to dealing with each other by this point.

End result: you're the Pokemon-less commuter that everyone was being overly considerate to like a delicate piece of fine China. Great.

It was all ridiculous, because it's not like you were one of those extremist groups who were against the idea of having a Pokemon at all. You didn't think that they were all some dangerous beasts or stealing everyone's eternal souls or whatever else was circulating on the internet at the time.

Lately, though? Seeing everyone so in sync with their companions? It looked… nice. To have a pal who is a companion and maybe also part force of nature.

So, you decided. Firmly and concretely, with no more room for wavering: you were going to get a Pokemon.

Work piled up over the next few days, so that revelation was quickly put on the metaphorical back burner.

It didn't help. You'd been doing some heavy contemplating about types and moves and match ups – both personality and needs. The internet was full of those stupid click-bait articles that were just circles of the same bad recommendations over and over (your least favorite being "Top 10 Reasons You Should ONLY Get a Fairy Type!!!") which was increasingly unhelpful.

Of course, things like that only last untouched for a limited amount of time in your life lately.

The issue reared its ugly head on what should've been a perfect day. Everything was normal. You were on time, had gotten your fill of caffeine, and were making your way to the board (and also Ingo) when you noticed a big commotion in the middle of the walkway.

A huge group of people were gathered in a circle around something, mostly blocking your path. A few commuters were having luck squeezing by at the corners of the circle, but it didn't seem like you'd have much luck as you could visibly see the circle grow as more and more people joined.

With no other good options, you wandered over to investigate what all the commotion was about.

What you were greeted with was dazzling – also somewhat literally, with how many little green sparkles were floating in the air. Within the epicenter of the chaos was a trainer proudly displaying what you assumed was a shiny Whirlipede as it used Struggle Bug to create a light show in the air around it. Its rings were a vibrant green instead of the red that you'd seen on the internet, and its skin – chitin? shell? - was a considerably deeper shade of purple than the usual pallor one.

"Found her just outside the city limits," the trainer was eagerly explaining to the crowd. "Took me three weeks of camping, and I'm still not sure that she wasn't just super lost, but it was totally worth it! Just look at those colors!"

People were taking photos, asking questions about its move set and breeding, the whole nine yards. This was a little too much enthusiasm for the early morning for you.

The Whirlipede started posing, moving this way and that in the eye of the hurricane that was this crowd. It even started doing what you could only describe as "super cool drifting" as it spun in little circles.

Yeah, too much. Plus, you'd be late for work if you stayed to gawk here forever.

You turned to leave, and – oh! There was Ingo, pushing his way to the front of the crowd with a look on his face that seemed like a disgruntled teacher about to discipline his students.

Your eyes met, despite the density of people, and he diverged from his hell path to make his way to you instead.

"Impressive specimen," Ingo said, though his tone suggested he was more interested in the currently pending crowd management rather than true Pokemon appreciation. "Shiny variants occur at approximately a one in over an eight thousand rate in wild populations. A statistically significant encounter."

"Oh, so it really is a shiny," you said. Makes sense. "Are the odds really that terrible? Though I guess you of all people around here would know."

"Oh, yes," he replied, adjusting his position so that he could tap away at his tablet without crossing elbows with someone. "Quite so. Most civilians do not prioritize acquiring such information for their daily activities. However, regular management of both Gear Station and the Battle Subway requires extensive knowledge of all currently known species."

The Whirlipede began spinning aggressively, faster and faster, until it seemed like it was about to burst through the ground. Was that Rollout?

Ingo's reaction was immediate, though.

"Attention!" Ingo's voice boomed across the platform with considerably more force than his usual announcements. "Trainer and Whirlipede! Demonstrations are strictly prohibited in passenger transit areas! Rollout-class attacks pose severe structural damage risks to platform infrastructure and present imminent safety hazards to civilian commuters! Please recall your Pokemon immediately!"

The crowd shuffled to part around you and Ingo quickly – not because of the spinning Whirlipede (though they probably should have), but because Ingo looked genuinely angry. His usual professional demeanor had shifted into something much more commanding and slightly terrifying.

The trainer fumbled to recall their Pokemon, looking sheepish under Ingo's venomous stare as they nearly dropped the ball a few times.

"High-energy moves are strictly prohibited in passenger areas," Ingo continued, striding toward the trainer with his tablet clutched like a weapon. "Battle demonstrations are restricted to designated Battle Line platforms for precisely this reason. Do you have any idea what Rollout could do to station support structures? Or to other passengers?"

The trainer mumbled an apology, his previous enthusiasm quickly withering to nothing, but Ingo wasn't finished.

"This is a commuter transit facility, not an exhibition hall. If you wish to showcase Pokemon abilities, please utilize the appropriate Battle Subway services rather than endangering civilian passengers." He looked away for just a moment, tapped a few times on his tablet, then back again. "I'm afraid that I will have to ban you from regular transit activities until you have completed the appropriate classes in both trainer and passerby safety."

The trainer's face went white. "B-ban? But I need the trains for work- I can't just-"

"You should have considered that before using dangerous moves in a crowded public space," Ingo replied curtly, continuing to tap away at his tablet with sharp, precise movements. "Your trainer identification card, please."

The crowd started dispersing rapidly now that the source of entertainment was gone, though it might've also been because no one wanted to get caught in the crossfire of whatever bureaucratic nightmare Ingo was unleashing.

You still hadn't moved, though. You found yourself frozen in place, caught between wanting to flee the station and being way too impressed at Ingo going full "Boss" mode.

He was terrifying, sure, but it was efficient. Not only had he cleared the crowd, but he’d also shut down the trainer without much of a fight in… what, less than 5 seconds?

"Safety violations are taken seriously at Gear Station," Ingo continued as the trainer reluctantly handed over their trainer card. "Pokemon-related incidents in passenger areas can result in serious injury or property damage. These protocols exist for good reason."

The trainer just mumbled something that was probably a few empty apologies as he was handed back the card and slunk away toward the exit, choosing the only correct option (in your opinion) that was escaping the situation before Ingo decided that they were also loitering and added even more terrible consequences to their morning.

Ingo watched them go, glare at full force all the while, then turned his attention to the tablet as he likely wrote some report that would make the trainer's life difficult in the station for the near future.

There didn't seem like an effective way for you to escape the situation, though. You decided to settle for something simple.

"Well," you said, as the silence continued to stretch on without end. "That was... quick."

Ingo looked up, and his expression immediately shifted back toward something softer as if he'd only just remembered that you were standing there. The terrifying Boss authority faded, replaced by his usual professional demeanor.

"Reckless trainer behavior is a persistent operational challenge," he said, the edge of frustration in his voice fading. "Pokemon safety protocols exist for the protection of all passengers. Violations cannot be tolerated."

"Sure…?" you said, a little overwhelmed. "But-"

"Ingo!" A remarkably familiar voice shouted from across the platform. "I heard you encountered a shiny Whirlipede! That is verrry exciting! I am Emmet, and I like rare Pokemon! Why didn't you alert me immediately for collaborative observation?"

Emmet appeared at Ingo's side with the kind of speed that suggested that he'd been running across the station as fast as he could (wasn't that against the rules?), and his usual bright smile had quite the undertone of genuine disappointment to it. It kind of reminded you of a kid who was trying to stay positive after they'd been told that their birthday was canceled.

"Safety protocols supersede Pokemon appreciation, Emmet," Ingo replied dryly, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitch slightly. "The trainer was using Rollout in a crowded passenger area."

"But it was shiny," Emmet protested, gesturing dramatically. "Do you know how rare shiny Pokemon are? I like rare Pokemon, and I missed it because you had to prioritize operational efficiency!" He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Also... Are you even allowed to ban people from my platform? It's my jurisdiction... don't you need my signature on the paperwork?"

Ingo looked suddenly uncomfortable, adjusting his cap in that nervous way. "Emergency safety protocols override... jurisdictional boundaries?"

It sounded more like a question than a statement.

"No! Nope!" Emmet said cheerfully, though his smile had gained a distinctly sharp edge. "Emergency protocols require notification of the platform supervisor – that's me – within fifteen minutes of incident resolution. And bans require dual authorization for anything longer than twenty-four hours."

Ingo's looked increasingly uncomfortable. "The situation required immediate intervention-"

"I am not arguing with the safety protocols! Follow the rules!" Emmet interrupted, his enthusiasm cranked up to a level that felt dangerous. "But now I cannot battle the shiny Whirlipede because you banned them! You know how excited I get about rare Pokemon. You know how often I get to see shiny Pokemon. This is a crime, Ingo."

"Perhaps," Ingo said carefully, "the ban could be... modified to allow Battle Line access while maintaining restrictions on passenger area violations. It is a first-time offense, after all."

"Oh, so now you want to modify it," Emmet groaned, but his expression was noticeably brighter now. "Fine! But I'm handling the revisions on the paperwork. And I want a full report on the Whirlipede's move set and coloration patterns!" The look on his face shifted a little as the two made direct eye contact, and his expression became more thoughtful than ornery brother. "This was the first offense. You went straight to a ban. That is harsh. Why did you not issue a warning?" 

Ingo shifted uncomfortably, his grip tightening on his tablet. “It was imminently charging a fully powered Rollout and would have executed the move long before you arrived to admonish them. The severity of potential consequences required immediate deterrent measures.”

"Right. Consequences." Emmet's eyes narrowed, and you couldn't tell if it was because he was annoyed or because Ingo was being… difficult? You couldn't quite find the word for it.

Maybe they were communicating using twin magic again? It seemed like some silent conversation was happening between the words that they said aloud.

"I should probably get going," you said, sensing that this was turning into a more personal discussion and thus attempting to remove yourself from the equation before it got awkward. "Don't want to be late for work."

But before you could make your escape, Emmet turned to you with sudden interest. "Wait! You saw the whole thing, right? What did it look like? I can't believe I missed a shiny!"

"Oh, uh," your brain stuttered at the sudden attention. "Very… sparkly? Green ones everywhere. And the purple was way deeper than the normal ones."

"Ugh!" Emmet threw his hands up dramatically. "A shiny Whirlipede! Right here at Gear Station! And I missed it because I was doing paperwork!" He shot a pointed look at Ingo. "This is why safety violations should involve calling the platform supervisor immediately."

"The depot agents alerted me first because I was already on the platform conducting routine inspections," Ingo replied stiffly.

"Fine, but next time at least take a picture," Emmet grumbled. Then he turned to you. "Wait a second – why are you here so early? Don't you usually arrive much later than this?" His eyes darted between you and Ingo.

"Oh, come on, Emmet, I'm not that chronically late," you whined, even if you usually were. "I'm completely 'on schedule' today, mister."

"Hmm, that is also fine," Emmet said, his smile shifting into the mischievous one that you were learning to be wary of. "Speaking of Pokemon, you clearly know a good one when you see it…"

Oh no. You could see exactly where this was going, and it was some uncomfortably familiar territory.

"I should get to work," you said quickly, taking a cautious step back toward the platform. "I don't want to be late, and I'm sure you two have very important and official Subway Boss things to discuss. Without me."

"But you haven't answered the question!" Emmet protested, eyes snapping to your backwards advance with that determined smile still plastered on his face. "I am Emmet, and I like helping people build strong teams! You should get a good fighter! Something with excellent battle potential! I could help you select optimal move sets and-"

"Emmet," you interrupted, attempting to diffuse his eagerness. You took a deep breath and tried to stifle down the embarrassment at the admission you were about to make: "I don't have any Pokemon. At all. Never have."

"Wait, what!?" Emmet shouted, his expression shifting to genuine surprise. "You have no Pokemon at all? None? I thought you just had a baby Pokemon that couldn't battle yet! How have you been navigating around the city without a Pokemon partner?"

Ingo remained notably silent throughout this exchange, though he did seem like he was distracted, fiddling with his tablet with unusual intensity. He clearly wasn't going to save you this time.

"You don't have to have a Pokemon to walk across the street," you tried. "It's not like I would die or something."

"But... but everyone has Pokemon," Emmet said, looking greatly confused by this revelation. "Even people who don't battle have at least a companion Pokemon. For safety, or companionship, or just because..." He gestured vaguely, as if the concept of not having a Pokemon was some eldritch concept that he wasn't able to find the proper words for. "…Because."

"I've noticed," you said, rubbing the back of your neck nervously. "I just… I dunno, never got around to it? It wasn't common, back home, and I've been focused on work and the city and not getting lost and stuff…"

"Months!" Emmet exclaimed, his volume drawing a few confused glances from the passing commuters. "You've been here for months! And you know enough about Pokemon! You recognized the Whirlipede was shiny, you understand battle strategies from watching the observation cars..."

Ingo finally looked up from his tablet, but his expression was carefully neutral. Like he was deliberately not showing any opinion on the matter as if the minefield you'd stepped into was too much, even for him.

"Work responsibilities can be quite demanding," Ingo said, breaking his silence in what seemed like a meek attempt to diffuse the situation. "Adjustment periods require significant time allocation for basic life management tasks."

"But- oh, that's it!" Emmet exclaimed, snapping his fingers like he'd just solved a complex equation. "Weekends! You're not working weekends, right? That's the perfect time for non-work things! Like going to adoption centers!"

"Uh…" You did not like where this was going.

He turned to his brother with sudden excitement. "And what a coincidence! Ingo has extensive experience with Pokemon adoption procedures! And he's taking one of my Joltik to an adoption center this weekend! Aren't you, Ingo?"

Ingo's expression went very carefully blank. "I… was planning on such an excursion?"

"Perfect!" Emmet said, his smile reaching blinding levels that should probably be illegal before 8 AM. "You could go together! Ingo knows all about Pokemon care, and you could look around while he's there anyway!"

"That's really not necessary," you said quickly, looking between the twins and trying to figure out how this entire conversation had spiraled so far out of control. "I couldn't impose on your weekend plans... and I do barely know you guys."

Ingo's grip on the tablet tightened like you'd said something wrong – maybe you had? He had that strange look on his face again.

"It wouldn't be an imposition," he said quietly, though his voice sounded a little strained. "Adoption centers encourage potential adopters to observe the selection process. There is educational value in witnessing proper placement protocols."

Emmet looked way too delighted by this turn of events, and apparently still oblivious to his brother's reaction. "See? Educational! Ingo loves 'educational!' And you need to learn about Pokemon! It's perfect!"

This was definitely out of hand now. You opened your mouth to protest further, but Ingo spoke before you could say anything.

"If you're genuinely interested in Pokemon adoption," he said carefully, "accompanying me to the center could provide valuable preliminary exposure to the process."

There was an odd question in his voice – something formal but hopeful – that made it harder to refuse than it should have been. Emmet clearly wanted to help, and even if the invitation had been completely manufactured by his overly enthusiastic brother, the look on Ingo's face broadcasted quite clearly that he wasn't against it.

"I…" you started, trying to refuse. To just say "no" out loud. But it was hard when with the duo's gaze on you – Emmet, who was practically vibrating with excitement, and Ingo, watching you with a careful, focused attention – it felt like some serious peer pressure.

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world? You'd made up your mind about getting a Pokemon anyway and going with someone who actually knew what they were doing (especially on the professional level like they do) seemed like a considerably smarter idea than just wandering in on one of your off days and pathetically asking for help.

"Okay," you said finally. "If you're sure that I wouldn't be imposing too much. It would... be nice to have your guidance."

Emmet made a sound that was probably supposed to be a cheer but came out more like a delighted squeak. "Excellent! Now, Ingo, when were you planning on making tracks to the adoption center?"

Ingo had likely given up on controlling the situation as much as you had, and he sighed. "Assuming optimal travel timing…" he seemed to think a little. "The seven o'clock departure from Central Plaza would provide the most optimal experience."

"Seven?" you repeated, brain already thinking about how much coffee you were going to need… and maybe also that you'd agreed to spend your Saturday with a Pokemon professional during a Pokemon related activity. "That's kinda early for a weekend. I normally sleep in for longer, ha ha..." Yeah, there was no way that you were stopping that nervous chuckle.

"The Joltik requires delivery with the appropriate paperwork to be processed for same-day adoption availability," Ingo explained, like it was obvious, and everyone should know how adoption center paperwork functions. "Earlier arrival ensures proper documentation review and optimal placement timing."

"Plus," Emmet added with that mischievous grin, "Ingo's always up verrry early anyway. He probably has his entire weekend scheduled down to the minute." He turned to look Ingo right in the eye. "Right?"

Ingo's return look suggested that this was both accurate and something he didn't particularly want pointed out right now.

"Uh. Seven it is," you tried to diffuse things a little by butting in before they devolved back into bickering. "Central Plaza. Where do you want to meet up?"

"Platform entrance, north side," Ingo confirmed. "It will provide direct access to the adoption facility with minimal transfers."

Oh, yup, there's good old professional train Ingo. Optimal route memorized.

"Great," you said, pulling out your phone. "Let's exchange numbers? In case something comes up, or I get lost or-"

"Phone…?" Ingo went very still, staring at your phone like you'd just offered him a live Electrode.

"Uh. You know. So, we can… coordinate? And all?" you said, feeling like you made some terrible social error. "I can delete it after if that's what you're worried about…?"

"Delete it?" Ingo's voice went a little higher, alarm flitting across his expression.

Okay, now you were convinced that you'd done something wrong. Was that offensive?

"No-" And then he just... froze. Completely and totally. Like his brain had encountered some kind of fatal error and he needed to restart.

"This is taking too long!" Emmet said, rolling his eyes and plucking your phone right out of your hands before Ingo could malfunction further. "I'll input his contact information! Much more efficient this way! Ingo always takes a verrry long time to process new procedures!"

"Emmet!" Ingo protested weakly, though he still looked like he was processing some kind of internal crisis. Definitely not done rebooting.

Emmet, of course, ignored him, tapping away at your phone.

"There!" he said cheerfully, handing you your phone back and pointedly ignoring his poor brother's weak protests. "Now you can text him if you need anything. Fair warning though – he texts with verrry formal precision! Every message is like an official announcement!"

Ingo looked down in the same way that you'd imagine someone would ask the floor gods to swallow them whole. Well, it's a train platform so… train gods?

"Clear and precise communication prevents operational confusion," he managed to say.

"Sure…?" you weren't sure what to do with a broken Ingo.

Emmet had it covered, though, because he gave you wink and then looked at Ingo. "Hmm. Yup! See you Saturday!" he said with a friendly wave, shifting to drag his half-functioning brother away. "Seven AM sharp!"

You watched them go, Emmet hauling Ingo along like luggage while (attempting) to chat about something involving some kind of "awful paperwork." Ingo wasn't being much of a conversation partner, though, since he still looked a little shell-shocked. Surely this hadn't been that awkward of an interaction.

Actually, no, that's fair. You still weren't entirely sure how Emmet managed to get you both to agree to this.

One minute you'd been trying to escape an awkward conversation about your complete lack of Pokemon, and the next you had plans to spend Saturday morning with Ingo at an adoption center. Plus, his phone number, which had devolved the entire thing into a fever dream of a panic attack.

Your own breakdown could come later. Maybe after work.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a friendly chime as your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see that you had a new message from- oh, yeah, that tracks. Emmet had labeled the contact "The Other Subway Boss (Ingo)"

Of course he had.

You opened the chat log and chuckled a little, since it wasn’t what you were expecting.

The Other Subway Boss:  Hey it's Emmet lol stole Ingo's phone again. He's still malfunctioning or something. Anyway don't worry about Saturday. He'll probably send you like 47 formal messages later. Have a good day at work!!!!

Emmet don't steal your brother's phone. But thanks!

Yeah, that explained why he'd sent a message so quickly. You couldn't imagine that Ingo had fully recovered yet, and not enough to send a text. You wondered if he would be mad at his brother for that when he finally got enough sense back to look at his phone.

You were surprised when the phone chimed again, but from a different contact. No one usually messaged you this early, so…? You looked back down, and… oh, yup.

The Best Subway Boss: I also added my number lol

You shook your head slowly, tucking your phone away when your train arrived at the platform in its usual dramatic whoosh and made a mental note to fix their contact names later. Apparently, Emmet had not only done… all that, but he'd also decided to put his own contact info into your phone as well. You probably wouldn't have noticed if he didn't immediately message you to – what, gloat? - about it.

Yeah, it's not even Saturday yet and these two would probably be the death of you.

You'd barely finished dinner when your phone chimed with a sound that you didn't recognize immediately. And- oh, it's the default text chime. Normally you customized everyone's notification sounds by person, but considering who it probably was, you weren't sure if you were going to do that this time.

Ingo: I apologize for my brother's interference in our exchange this morning. Emmet's enthusiasm for problem-solving occasionally supersedes his common sense. His intentions were constructive.

It's totally fine! He was just trying to help

Ingo: Thank you for your understanding. Regarding the excursion to the adoption facility: the adoption center operates weekend services from 0700 to 1600 hours. Early arrival ensures optimal selection availability and proper consultation time with adoption specialists.

Ingo: The facility maintains detailed records of each Pokemon's temperament assessments, medical history, and compatibility recommendations.

Ingo: Their approach is comprehensive and results in an extremely high placement success rate.

That sounds really helpful? Though it makes me a little nervous

Ingo: Nervousness regarding significant life decisions is entirely appropriate. Pokemon adoption represents a substantial lifestyle adjustment requiring careful evaluation of compatibility factors.

Yeah, you're right. I promise I won't stress too bad

Ingo: I hope the experience proves both educational and beneficial for your Pokemon adoption journey. Rest well to ensure optimal decision-making capacity during facility consultations. The 7AM departure time remains confirmed.

ദ്ദി ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ )

Work the next few days was torturous as you replayed that scene in your head. You couldn't stop thinking about what you'd gotten yourself into, by accident or otherwise. Not to mention how you'd somehow ended the day with both of their numbers?

Which was probably why you were standing in the office break room, only just now processing that coffee was overflowing from the pot and spilling all over the counter, because you'd been way too distracted to notice that it was full.

"Oh, no no no," you whined, scrambling for paper towels as the coffee pooled dangerously close to the edge of the countertop.

Of course, someone had to notice, because you heard a laugh behind you as you rolled up your sleeves to stop them from dipping into the counter coffee.

"Rough morning?" your coworker asked, standing in the doorway with perfect timing to witness your latest disaster.

"Sorry! It's- I- Something like that?" you said, still trying to mop up the mess. "I'm just distracted, I guess."

"Yeah, well, try not to flood the building," he said with a sly grin. "And maybe chill a little? We don't work together much, but you always seem like a personified ball of stress whenever I see you."

"That's… fair," you admitted, tossing the (admittedly large) bundle of wet paper towels into the trash bin. "Though I don't think I'm usually that bad."

He didn't seem convinced. "You just created a coffee waterfall because you were being spacey," he pointed out, both literally and figuratively.

"Look," he said as he reached into the cabinets to grab a fresh pot since the current one was still in your drenched hands, "I don't know what's going on, but maybe try some stress management? Take a step back and realize that not everything has to be a world-ending disaster."

"Sure," you agreed, though your brain was still spiraling through all the ways that Saturday could go wrong. "No world-ending disasters. Got it."

The look he gave you as he put the pot on suggested that he was still not convinced that you'd heard what he said, but he didn't push the issue.

So, you retreated to your desk (without coffee because that was a lost cause right now), and stared at the computer screen, trying to focus on cells and spreadsheets and stifle the nervous knot in your stomach.

It's simple. It's just adoption. And Ingo. People do it all the time. Though maybe not with Ingo?

It'll be fine!

Chapter Text

The time passed quickly, and the prophesied day of Pokemon adoption arrived without much fanfare. You’d made sure to go to bed early, had a decent dinner, and psyched yourself up before bed to prevent any wild dreams.

Despite all of that, there was an odd, pervasive fog clouding your thoughts as you woke up.

You remembered setting your alarm for six in the morning, giving yourself a quick pep talk before tucking into bed, and then… not much else. Your exhaustion must've been bone deep if you'd fallen asleep that quickly. And you really, really didn't want to get out from under the covers. They were so cool and nice, and perfectly snug around you like a gentle hug.

Still, a semblance of sanity returned to you bit by bit as your brain slowly realized that you were no longer asleep.

Your phone alarm went off again, and this time you were aware enough to grab it off the table and slam it down on its face, effectively hitting the snooze button as you took your last, sweet moments of half-asleep reasoning to eke out an extra minute of peace.

After gathering yourself together mentally, you flipped the phone back over and disconnected the charging cable, turning to get ready for-

Wait.

You looked back down at the phone screen.

6:47!?

You launched yourself out of the bed with all the grace of a newborn Deerling, scrambling out of the nest of covers and onto the floor with a loud thud. As you raided your collection of clothes for something decent and absently brushed your hair, you thought wildly about how this could’ve happened. You must’ve hit snooze in your sleep, over and over, until the noise had finally roused you enough to wake up the properly conscious part of your brain.

Ingo was going to be there at seven. Exactly seven. Because it’s Ingo, and he just will be – the man was probably there, you thought with a pang of guilt – and you were going to show up late and make him late too.

You didn’t know how important this whole Joltik adoption thing was, but that didn’t mean you had the right to derail his entire day before it even began properly.

Yeah, this was a disaster. He was going to give you that disappointing look. The one that felt like your parents scolding you for doing something stupid that you also knew was stupid, but you did it anyway and now all parties regretted the entire situation. A special brand of professional disapproval with a dash of genuine concern that felt poisonous to your guts.

Coffee could wait. It absolutely couldn't, but it would have to. You'd just have to suffer through this completely caffeine free and deal with the consequences later.

Thus began the Saturday that you'd been (reasonably?) dreading all week.

The ride to Central Plaza was uneventful, though you’d nearly broken down and stopped for coffee when the train took just a little too long to leave. That would have been a terrible idea, and you were marginally relieved when the doors closed a while after the stupid thought passed you by.

There weren’t any real crowds and delays, nor any of the possible transit nightmares you’d seen in your city adventures, despite your traitorous brain expecting at least one of them to happen.

So instead of being squished against a hiker’s overfilled backpack, you were sitting patiently, arms crossed as you watched the stations tick by with an agonizing slowness. Each passing minute drew you closer to your ultimate fate. Every shudder or bump in the track felt like an angry, ticking clock, and it wasn’t long before your leg started bouncing nervously while you drummed your fingers across your side.

You sent a quick text to Ingo explaining things, because that seemed like the responsible, adult thing to do when you were late, especially with the man who lived and breathed schedules.

You: Running a little late, I’m sorry!!! Will be there ASAP, promise

Maybe that would calm your nerves, and you could relax for the short amount of- oh, he’d already messaged back.

Ingo: Understood. I will wait at the designated meeting location. Please travel safely and do not rush to the point of compromising passenger safety protocols.

Well, at least he wasn’t mad. Or maybe he was mad, and that was professionally mad at the late person Ingo who texts the same as normal Ingo. It was hard to tell.

Still, as the train arrived and you made your way through the usual chaos of the morning rush hour and narrowly avoided a few passenger collisions, you couldn’t help but cross your fingers and stop looking at the clock. At this point, you were little more than a slightly behind schedule, caffeine-deprived commuter on a time-sensitive mission to find a tall man in an exceptionally large crowd of people.

You lost some of your gusto when you paused to make sure you were going the right way and realized that you had no idea which way north was. You'd been to Central Plaza plenty of times for work and transfers, but you'd never actually paid attention to which entrance was which. They all looked the same. Gear Station had way better guide markings than this one.

You eventually found a sign that pointed you in the right direction, and you speed-walked as quickly as you could toward what you desperately hoped was the correct meeting spot. Not running, because running in the station was definitely against Ingo's precious safety protocols, and he would somehow know that you’d done it.

Your sense of direction had been correct for the first time in a while.

Ingo stood a short way from the entrance with his usual perfect posture, hands clasped behind his back and looking every bit the professional transit authority that he was. He wasn’t even checking a watch or tapping his foot or showing any actual signs of impatience – he just stood there and waited for you, exactly like he’d said he would.

He looked a little odd out of his usual uniform, wearing what must be his usual nondescript casual outfit for outside of work made up entirely of dark colors and a cozy looking coat. He still had his trademark Gear Station branded cap on, though.

You took a deep breath and made your way toward him, your heart making a weird little flip when your eyes met a short distance away from each other. His mouth quirked oddly, and it seemed like he was most of the way toward a trademark Ingo smile.

“Morning, Ingo,” you said, a little breathless from all the speed-walking. “I’m so, so sorry I’m late. I probably hit snooze by accident a ton in my sleep, so then I stayed asleep and didn’t wake up until it was way later, and---

“Please do not fret,” Ingo interrupted, stopping your rant before it could get even more rambling. His tone was carefully gentle, nothing like the dismissive and judgmental one that you’d been expecting. “Your arrival time falls within acceptable deviation parameters for weekend scheduling. Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds constitutes a minor delay, not a significant disruption to planned activities.”

How did he even know exactly how late you were? Down to the second! He didn’t even look at a watch!

“Still,” you said, the guilt gnawing at your insides, “I know you guys are busy, and it’s not fair for me to waste your time-”

“Time spent waiting for a companion is not wasted,” he interrupted again, though something about the way his voice shifted a little when he said ‘companion’ made your face grow hot. “Besides,” he said, gesturing toward the tablet poking out of his bag, “early arrival allowed for preliminary route optimization review. Our current arrival window remains optimal for placement consideration.”

Yes. Right. Pokemon adoption. You were not here to see Ingo; you were here to accompany Ingo on his way to an adoption center. He seemed oddly fine with you being late when it seemed like he would normally go ballistic on any delays in life otherwise.

“Ingo,” you said, looking him directly in the eye like the sudden suspect he was, “did you plan on me being late?”

Ingo’s expression went sour as it shifted into a cross between guilt and the stubborn face of someone trying not to show their emotions but failing at it. He even tugged at his cap a little as he did that nervous tell that was becoming too common in your conversations lately.

“I… may have calculated multiple arrival scenarios,” he admitted slowly. “The seven o'clock meeting time was selected with the understanding that weekend punctuality often differs from weekday standards.”

You stared at him even harder. “So, you assumed that I’d be late.”

"I anticipated a reasonable probability of minor scheduling variance," he corrected, still trying to avoid your eyes. "The actual meeting time was calculated to be 7:06, which would still provide optimal facility arrival timing at 7:30."

“Okay, okay, we’re gonna circle back to that later,” you managed to grumble out, internally sobbing at how consistently late you must be to be so predictable. “I don’t know how you managed that, and I don’t think I want to.”

"Pattern recognition is essential for operational efficiency," Ingo said quickly, his favorite backup of a professional mask sliding back into place. "And ensuring passenger comfort requires accommodation of individual scheduling capabilities."

You raised an eyebrow. "I'm not a passenger right now, though."

His whole face twitched as he did something with his expression that you couldn’t quite read. "No," he said quietly, though you could still hear him over the crowd. "You're not."

And that must’ve been your limit too because you were having an out of body experience as you watched yourself ramble. “Okay. Yep? Nooo, we are getting distracted, and you are a train getting derailed and we both need to get going. Yep.”

A million different things flashed across his face – Surprise? Embarrassment? It was hard to tell – but he recovered quickly enough this time that you weren’t sure that you hadn’t imagined it.

“Agreed,” he said, his voice possibly a little higher than normal. "Optimal departure timing requires immediate track progression." He pointed toward the platform exit with a stiff and well-practiced movement. “Following the designated pedestrian route will ensure timely arrival. All aboard!”

You followed him out of the station and into the crisp morning air, which was considerably more peaceful than its interior. Fewer people combined with a stiff morning breeze made for exactly the kind of pleasant weekend atmosphere that you needed right now. It was soothing, and it seemed to be having a similar effect on Ingo, even if neither of you had spoken a single word after that awkward exchange.

It was a simple thing that made you genuinely happy that you’d moved here.

Ingo kept a steady walking pace beside you, not too fast but not at the speed of someone on a leisurely morning stroll. His strides were much longer than yours, considering the height difference – you found yourself having to take a few leaping steps occasionally to keep from falling too far behind.

He seemed too engrossed in crowd avoidance and his phone to notice much else. From what little you could see (you would not be snooping today), he seemed to be checking a map. Maybe he was making sure you didn’t get lost? Though he must’ve been to the adoption center before, surely...?

You were somewhere into double digits of awkward leaps when he glanced over at you and finally noticed your slightly exasperated look.

“Oh… thanks,” you nodded gratefully as he slowed his pace to match your own. “Sorry I’m not as fast paced. My parents used to say that I have ‘no sense of urgency’ when I’m going somewhere.”

"Your current pace is entirely appropriate for pedestrian transit," Ingo said, looking somewhat embarrassed that he hadn't noticed the issue sooner. "I have a tendency to default to such a speed even during non-professional activities. Emmet frequently reminds me that not all situations require a swiftness akin to the Super Lines."

You grinned lopsidedly as you imagined the scene played out in your head. “Does he actually say it like that, or does he just tell you to slow down?”

“He typically phrases it as ‘Ingo, stop walking like the train is about to leave without you,’” Ingo admitted with a fondness in his voice. He paused to sidestep a large crack in the sidewalk, and you scrambled to do the same. “It is technically an accurate criticism, even if I find the comparison reductive. I am often the conductor of my own train, after all.”

The conversation lapsed back into silence when you couldn’t find the words to respond to that without sounding reductive, though this one was a comfortable one rather than the decidedly tense one from before.

You followed Ingo through a quieter section of the city, far away from the main commercial districts. Residential buildings gave way to more of a mixed-use area full of small mom-and-pop businesses, community centers, and humble neighborhood hangout spots that were clearly meant for the people who lived here rather than the usual tourist.

You broke first, of course, because you were worried about not filling the silence. Most people didn’t like it when you let it go on like this, even if it wasn’t bothering you.

“So. About the whole Joltik situation,” you said, absently admiring an impressive community garden. “It’s one of Emmet’s?”

Ingo’s frown lessened a little as he looked at you, though your eyes didn’t meet properly because you were still trying to gauge the size of the cucumbers. “Correct,” he said as he tucked his phone fully back into his pocket after checking your route one last time. “Emmet maintains a professional Pokemon breeding operation during non-operational hours. It provides considerable fulfillment for both of us – though his recent pursuits have resulted in somewhat elevated enthusiasm. His current destination consists of hatching a shiny Joltik.”

You didn’t process Ingo’s words at first, but as soon as it dawned on you what he was implying, you felt a little guilty. “What- Oh, that’s why he was so bummed about the shiny at the station,” you realized.

"Emmet has been attempting to breed a shiny Joltik for approximately eight months," Ingo continued, his tired tone suggesting that he was less than stellar about the current state of affairs. "Statistical probability suggests that he should have achieved his objective by now."

You nodded along, pretending to understand what an undertaking of that scale entailed. At least you knew a little bit about it thanks to Ingo’s comments about the regrettably low encounter rates.

“He’s limited to a maximum of three Joltik in our living quarters at once,” Ingo added, and the way he said it suggested that this was not a rule that Emmet had implemented willingly. “His initial enthusiasm resulted in... great challenges.”

You imagined what that translated to from Ingo speak. Your brain refused to conjure anything except the image of Ingo drowning in an electric sea storm of yellow fluff and beady little eyes as Emmet stood to the side, none the worse for wear. Ingo shuddered a little, and you decided that this was more accurate than you’d initially thought it was.

You were about to make a snarky comment about it but stopped when you finally realized what was missing from your morning stroll.

“Ingo… where’s the Joltik?” you asked, turning to him in confusion. “Aren’t you dropping it off?”

Ingo’s steps stuttered and he very pointedly did not look at you. He just hummed a little as a response, and that was so decidedly not very Ingo-like that you were now even more confused.

“Ingoooo,” you whined, peering behind him as he refused to answer you. There must be a carrier or a bag or something holding a little yellow puffball on his person. “Where is iiiiit?”

He met your eyes for only a moment, quickly turning back to look directly ahead and very much not at you. He made that weird humming sound again in lieu of a response, and you found yourself becoming irrationally upset at the lack of words.

Your displeasure took over before reason could.

“Are you making fun of me? Was this some kind of a set up?” You grabbed his arm and forcibly stopped him mid-step, nearly causing both of you to tumble off the sidewalk ledge and into a nearby bush. Even if you regretted it almost instantly as he finally met your eyes, you felt a tiny sliver of satisfaction at stopping the moving train that is Ingo.

“What? No!” he said quickly, looking alarmed at the accusation despite what you’d just done. “I would never-! Would not-! This is a completely legitimate adoption facility visit!”

He his free hand sprang up in a placating gesture as you continued to grip his other arm, still blinded by your sudden frustration. You could feel the cool fabric beneath your fingers and the very solid presence of the arm beneath it as the moment went on for too long. Your manic state quickly faded, and suddenly you were very aware that you’d just physically assaulted Subway Boss Ingo in the middle of a public sidewalk.

The offending arm snapped away to your side quickly, heat flooding your face as you clasped your other hand over it as if he’d stung you. “I… Then where’s the Joltik?”

Ingo moved to adjust his cap in the usual fashion but aborted the movement halfway through and instead raised the brim a little, revealing something very small and very much not the color of his hair.

The shape shifted a little, and you realized how much of an idiot you’d been all at once.

A tiny puffball no bigger than your palm had been nestled peacefully atop Ingo’s head the entire time, expertly hidden under the impressive brim of the conductor’s cap. That must’ve been why he was wearing the cap out of uniform – though it was also entirely possible that both he and his twin just wore them everywhere. It seemed like something they’d do.

The Joltik made a static-filled buzz of a noise as blinked down at you with enormous blue eyes, perfectly content in its little hat nest.

“Oh,” you said, letting the guilt you felt overwhelm your senses entirely. “It’s right there. Under your hat. As you do. Perfectly normal.”

"I’d hoped to avoid any inconvenient exchange on the topic, but Joltik naturally seek elevated positions for improved electrical discharge efficiency," Ingo explained plainly, as if having a Pokemon living in his hat was a completely normal day-to-day situation that needed no real justification. "The cap provides optimal coverage while maintaining proximity to a trusted individual."

The Joltik made another soft buzzing noise that made your hair stand on end a little, seeming to agree with Ingo’s assessment.

“Right,” you said, still processing the mental image of Ingo walking around with a secret Joltik all morning just because he could. “So, you’ve been carrying it around like that the whole time?”

“Longer than you assume,” he said distractedly, waggling a finger next to the little spider as it chirped gleefully. It took a few seconds before his eyes suddenly darted toward yours with a wild look in them as he seemed to realize what he’d just admitted to.

That must be why he’d been hesitating to admit to the Joltik’s location, because that meant…

“How long?” you asked, meeting his expression head on.

Ingo looked like he was seriously considering walking into traffic to escape this conversation. His hand was still near the Joltik, frozen mid-wiggle, and you could practically see him trying to calculate the least embarrassing way to answer.

“This particular specimen has been residing with me since… just before our initial platform encounter,” he reluctantly admitted, his voice falling back into the overly formal tone he used whenever he was desperately trying to maintain a semblance of composure.

You did the math in your head. That probably meant… what, a week before? Which was…

"You've been housing a Joltik in your hat for over four months," you said slowly, your voice going slightly higher with each word. "The entire time I've known you, you've had a Pokemon secretly living under your conductor's cap."

“Yes,” Ingo said, once again appealing to the concrete to open up and swallow him whole. That wouldn’t happen, of course, because you now knew that the train gods were the only ones who would favor him. “Emmet informed me that the adoption placement would occur at the earliest possible opportunity. However, the Joltik developed particularly slowly, and it also became… accustomed to the arrangement. And I...” He paused, seeming to struggle with the admission. “I did as well.”

The Joltik in question made a happy little chirp and nuzzled into its hairy nest, either completely oblivious to Ingo’s embarrassment or simply choosing not to care.

“Aww, you got attached to the wittle guy,” you cooed at the Joltik, halfheartedly trying to keep the smile out of your voice. It failed, of course, because this was adorable.

“It is an unavoidable occupational hazard,” Ingo said stiffly, face scrunching a little as he seemed to brace himself for your reaction. “I understand this may seem... irregular."

“Nah,” you said, shaking you head slowly. “It’s really cute, actually. I mean, look at the little guy!” You chuckled as the creature and its nest wiggled animatedly in reaction to your comment. “He’s having the time of his life. No harm done, and it’s not that weird.”

When he didn’t say anything for a while, you glanced over at him, confused. You caught his eye, and he startled, suddenly realizing that you were waiting for a response.

Ingo cleared his throat with a rough cough and made a trademark Ingo Smile, the frown tilting the wrong way ever so slightly in the corners. “Thank you. However, the arrangement cannot continue. I already maintain a full competitive team, and Emmet's breeding operations require consistent adoption placements to remain sustainable."

You smiled lopsidedly as the scrunched look on his face faded back into something neutral. Surely both of you were happy that the situation had diffused itself into nothing more than a funny exchange over a man with a Joltik in his hat.

Ingo carefully adjusted his hat, gently pushing the little spider back into the shadows beneath its brim. It made a sharp chirp in protest but still settled in without much more fuss.

You decided not to comment further, letting Ingo have whatever kind of a victory this was. The guilt continued to gnaw at your insides, though- grabbing his arm like that, accusing him of setting up a cruel prank- what had your stupid brain been thinking? Had the lack of caffeine made it that dysfunctional? Ingo had been nothing but kind and genuine since the moment you’d met him. He didn’t deserve an interrogation just because you’d let your anxiety get the better of you.

Ingo glanced down at his watch, and his eyes widened slightly. "We should resume our journey. Timely arrival requires immediate departure."

"Right, yeah," you said quickly, falling back into step beside him as you both started walking again. "Sorry about... you know. That. It was really terrible of me."

"I should have been more forthcoming about the Joltik's location. The situation was admittedly unusual," Ingo said, though there was something in his tone that suggested he was trying extremely hard to sound professional about it.

"Still," you pressed, refusing to let this go without him fully understanding just how bad you felt, "I shouldn't have assumed that you were messing with me. That was... mean."

Ingo waved a hand dismissively. "Overly enthusiastic fans have done considerably worse in the past. Your reaction was mild by comparison."

You looked at him with alarm. "Considerably worse? What does that even mean?"

"I would prefer not to elaborate," Ingo said, his expression suggesting he'd seen things that couldn't be unseen. "Suffice to say, physical boundaries are often disregarded by particularly compassionate individuals.”

Maybe you didn’t want to know. The mental image that your brain conjured made you shudder. "That's horrifying. I can't imagine being that famous."

"It has its challenges," Ingo agreed diplomatically. “If you had asked Emmet, he would have referred to it as ‘suffering from success.’”

The adoption center came into view only a few minutes later – an unassuming, modest looking building with a fresh coat of a strikingly garish color of yellow paint. It almost looked like it was reminiscent of a school bus, though maybe that was intentional? The large, round windows were immaculately cleaned, and you could see the large reception area easily from outside the large doors.

The neon sign buzzed above your head happily: “Klefki to Your Heart: Pokemon Adoption Center.” A small, jaggedly drawn and clearly hand-painted Pokeball on the main door completed the humble look.

“We have arrived at our stop,” Ingo announced, which was very obvious, but you decided not to point that out. He paused, turning to look at you with a contemplative look. "Before we proceed inside, I should clarify the facility's standard procedures."

The Joltik poked out from under the hat and blinked its eyes innocently. It must’ve assumed that you’d arrived after the movement stopped again.

“Okay?” You were a little distracted as the Joltik batted its eyelashes at you innocently.

"The adoption process involves multiple stages," Ingo explained, falling into his favorite topic of lengthy explanations. "Initial consultation, species compatibility assessment, temperament evaluation, lifestyle compatibility review, and finally, if all parameters align favorably, adoption placement approval."

“Makes sense.” None of that seemed to be too bad, honestly. You’d been hoping for something a bit like “pick a Pokeball, see if you like it, and take it home” of a process, but it was obvious that it wouldn’t be that easy.

"Responsible adoption requires comprehensive evaluation," Ingo said seriously. "Unsuccessful placements result in Pokemon being returned to the facility, which can be traumatic for all parties involved. The center maintains its exceptionally high successful placement rate specifically because of their rigorous assessment protocols."

It seemed like he was trying to imply something else, but you were still captivated by his yellow stowaway and thus picked up on absolutely no hidden meanings in Ingo’s words.

When you didn’t respond immediately (you were supposed to?), Ingo coughed into his hand awkwardly to get your attention.

Confused, you looked at him, the Joltik making a sad noise as you stopped paying it attention. “What?”

Ingo shifted his weight from side to side, looking uncomfortable in way that you didn’t think you’d really seen from him before – at least, not like this.

"I simply want to ensure that you understand the... gravity of the proceedings. First impressions during the consultation phase can significantly impact the adoption specialists' assessments of candidate suitability."

You blinked at him, still lost. “Okay?”

“What I mean to say is-” He paused, finally realizing that he’d not been getting through to you with any actual meaning from anything he’d said so far. His lip quivered a little as he continued, “Presenting oneself in a manner that demonstrates appropriate responsibility will facilitate positive outcomes.”

Your brain stuttered as you tried to figure out what he was dancing around actually saying. It was Ingo, and he’s an innocent and well-meaning guy, so it couldn’t be anything negative…

“Ingo,” you said slowly, the realization finally setting in, “Are you telling me to behave myself?”

"I would not characterize it as such," he said quickly, though the way he couldn't quite meet your eyes suggested otherwise. "The staff here are professional and thorough, and they will be evaluating whether-" He stopped himself mid-sentence, seeming to struggle with how to phrase whatever he was trying to say without it sounding rude.

“If I’m responsible enough to adopt a Pokemon,” you finished for him, tone soft and gentle. The effort to make it not sound like an insult seemed to be causing quite an internal conflict. Unfortunately, Ingo seemed to ignore your efforts, because his face twisted strangely anyway.

"I did not intend to imply..." He trailed off, looking genuinely distressed.

“No, it’s fine.” You cut him off from what was likely shaping up to be an elaborate apology paired with a forward and multiple supporting citations. “You’re right, I’ll try to make a good impression. I get it.”

Ingo still looked troubled, like he was worried that he’d offended you despite your assurances and you quite literally saying that he hadn’t. “I wish to ensure that you are adequately prepared for the evaluation process. The staff can be quite thorough in their assessments."

"Ingo," you said, reaching out to pat his arm without thinking, then second-guessing the gesture but committing to it anyway because stopping halfway would be even weirder. "I promise I won't embarrass you. Or myself.” A sharp chirp sounded from inside Ingo’s hair. “...Or the Joltik."

The Joltik chirped rapidly in what you assumed was its equivalent of a laughing fit, and Ingo took a slow, deep breath. "I have confidence in your ability to navigate the process successfully. Your observational skills and adaptability have been consistently demonstrated throughout our acquaintance."

The compliment warmed your face despite the cool morning air. “So, uh. Shall we head inside?”

“Yes!” Ingo seemed relieved to move forward with the actual plan for the morning. “We should proceed without further delay.”

He pushed open the door, and it was obvious that the place was busy. You were smacked in the face with the sounds and smells of an adoption center in full operation: various cries and calls, the scent of Pokemon food and cleaning supplies, and the general organized chaos of creatures and people coexisting in close quarters combined into a chaotic symphony.

The reception area was larger than it had seemed from the view outside, with colorful posters covering the walls showing various Pokemon species and their care requirements. Many of the posters were in various states of disrepair, with shiny new posters covering the frayed edges of the older ones.

It was still early in the morning, so there was only one single actual customer in the waiting area, flanked on either side by a duo of workers with a broom and a map. The waiting woman held a Lillipup tightly in her lap, glaring at the worker with broom every time its bristles swept across the floor with an unpleasant scratching noise. She looked up eagerly as you and Ingo entered, but her smile dropped away when she realized that you were not whatever she was waiting for.

The front desk was staffed by a woman with bright pink hair and an equally pink name tag that read “Skylar,” though she didn’t look up from her computer when you entered. She was too engrossed in the phone conversation she seemed to be having, nodding along to whatever the person on the other end was saying while keeping the receiver in place with her shoulder so that she could type rapidly on the keyboard at the same time.

You turned to make sure that the door had closed properly, but the movement only resulted in you crashing your head into Ingo’s arm as he continued to hold the door open for you. You hadn’t even realized that he’d done so- you’d been too engrossed in your entrance debut to realize that he must’ve been holding the door open for you to enter the whole time.

“Thanks… sorry,” you muttered, ducking under his arm as you untangled yourself and trying to pretend that that hadn’t happened. Your face was getting hot again, and this was not what Ingo had in mind when he’d told you to make a good first impression. Thankfully, Skylar was still too distracted to have noticed.

“No harm done.” Ingo gave you a few more moments to shuffle out of the way before he let the door close in full. “Let us make our way onward.”

You followed Ingo like a lost child toward the reception desk, though you noticed he was moving much more slowly than usual, probably trying to avoid further incidents. He'd also adjusted his cap to better conceal his fuzzy passenger- the little guy seemed content to stay hidden for now, probably sensing this wasn't the time to make a grand entrance.

Neither of you said much as you waited patiently for the receptionist to notice that you were there. There wasn’t a bell or a button to press, and even if there were it felt like it would've been rude to press for attention from someone who was currently less than a foot away from you.

From somewhere deeper in the building, you could hear what sounded like a Growlithe barking enthusiastically, followed by someone's muffled laughter and the distant cries of an Audino quickly after. At least you weren’t part of whatever calamity that must’ve been.

You were contemplating if you should ask Ingo how long you two should wait before interrupting when he took the initiative first and coughed extremely loudly into his fist.

Skylar glanced up and made a small O with her mouth in surprise. "-yes, that's correct. Tuesday at two. Perfect. See you then." She wrapped up the conversation quickly, shrugging the receiver off from her shoulder and hanging it up quickly. Her smile exploded into something that was not the level of enthusiasm that you would have been able to have if you worked at the front desk at such a place.

“Ingo!” She leaned forward conspiratorially over the desk, eyes bright with barely concealed curiosity. “I wasn’t expecting you today. Emmet usually handles the errant Joltik deliveries.” She glanced around as if Emmet might materialize from behind a potted plant. She didn’t even seem to notice your presence. "Is he running late, or...?"

Oh, you thought, too disappointed to be annoyed. She’s just a huge Emmet fan.

“Emmet is not part of our two-car train today,” Ingo stated, sounding exactly like he did when he made delay announcements. "I am conducting today's adoption placement independently."

He looked over at you, and you were still too busy pouting about being invisible to see the look that spread across his face. “...somewhat.”

Skylar finally seemed to recognize that Ingo wasn’t alone, and her demeanor transformed from a gossipy front desk attendant to professional greeter in the span of an instant. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there! Welcome to Klefki to Your Heart: Pokemon Adoption Center!"

No duh.

She pulled out a clipboard from under the desk with a single, smooth movement. "Are you here for a consultation, or just observing today's placement?"

“Consultation,” you said confidently, trying hard to come across as a person who has their life together. "I'm looking to adopt."

Skylar's eyes lit up, and her enthusiasm seemed genuine now – not just the Emmet specific variety. “Wonderful! Are you a first timer?”

Might as well get this out of the way. “Yes. Never even owned a Pokemon before.”

If she found it unusual, she didn’t show it. Not on her face, anyway. She just nodded and started scribbling some notes on her clipboard. “That’s totally fine. We work with plenty of first timers.”

Yeah, you didn’t really believe her. Not unless she was referring to small children.

“It’ll be nice, since you won’t have any bad habits or preconceived notions about Pokemon care,” she continued, blissfully ignorant of your internal monologue. She turned her gaze to Ingo. “And you’re here as a reference?”

"Companion," Ingo corrected quickly, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "Providing guidance and support during the consultation process. In a professional advisory capacity."

You were sure "companion" was not typically used in a “professional advisory capacity,” but Skylar didn't seem bothered by the word choice and you weren’t going to comment on it.

"Perfect! We love it when adopters bring experienced trainers for support. Shows that they actually care." She typed something into her computer. "Let me just pull up our current availability and we can get started with the initial interview while Ingo does the paperwork for the Joltik.”

"Paperwork," Ingo echoed, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a folder that looked suspiciously well-organized. "Complete medical documentation, temperament assessment records, breeding lineage verification, and socialization history logs."

"Of course you brought everything," Skylar said, accepting the folder with a knowing smile. She flipped it open and leafed through the pages slowly. "Emmet's paperwork is always thorough, and I appreciate not having to waste the extra paper." Her hand stalled on what looked like an extremely crowded and colorful graph. “Is this a day-today observational chart?”

Ingo nodded proudly. “I believe you can appreciate comprehensive documentation.”

Skylar's expression softened as she studied the chart a little more. "Ingo... this is four months of daily observations."

“Correct.” He did not elaborate in the slightest.

She studied the chart for a few seconds longer, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “He’s just as bad as his brother.” Still, Ingo didn’t seem to notice, and she closed the folder with an approving nod. "Alright, let's get the official processing started. I'll need to do a quick health check and update the database before we can list the Joltik as available for adoption."

She glanced up at Ingo expectantly. "You can bring it out whenever you're ready."

Ingo hesitated, his hand twitching slightly. The Joltik must have sensed something was happening because you could see a tiny yellow shape shifting under the brim, though you didn’t think that it was visible from where Skylar was.

Yeah, this won’t do.

You took a few steps off to the side, pretending to look for something on the desk. Her eyes followed you, confused, and you took the opportunity readily. “Do you have a business card? You know, in case I need it later?” You tried your hardest to look sincere.

“Yeah, I haven’t put them out for the day yet.” She pinned the clipboard against her side and crouched down and out of sight, rummaging in a large box just behind the counter. “They’re in here somewhere...”

You glanced back at Ingo, being careful not to telegraph it too much. Thankfully, it seemed he had understood what you were trying to do, since he quickly reached up and removed his cap.

The Joltik blinked rapidly in the sudden light, its fuzzy body no longer hidden in the slightest. It made a soft questioning chirp, looking around the unfamiliar environment with those enormous blue eyes, before dutifully crawling onto Ingo’s outstretched finger.

"Found them!" Skylar popped back up, holding a small stack of business cards. She held it out to you, and you made a show of slowly taking it and being appreciative of the gesture. As you stashed the card into your front pocket, you could see Ingo moving out of the corner of your eye as he tried to stop the Joltik from trying to burrow into the safety of his sleeves.

That didn’t matter much, since you could see the exact moment that the receptionist spotted the fuzzball, as her eyes lit up like a light. “Aw, look at how tiny-”

The Joltik chose that exact moment to let out a loud, static-filled screech that made all of you jump, and one of the workers dropped their broom with a loud thunk.

"I apologize!" Ingo said quickly, trying to soothe the suddenly agitated Pokemon who was becoming increasingly upset at being unable to climb back onto the top of his head. "This is atypical behavior-”

“It’s fine, it happens,” Skylar said, though she’d taken a few cautious steps back from the desk. “Most young Pokemon get pretty attached. Understandable, honestly.” She set her clipboard down on the desk and grabbed a bundle of paperwork from the other side of the computer monitor. “Why don't we get started with the intake process? That'll give the little guy some time to adjust while we do the paperwork.”

The Joltik screeched again, though it wasn’t as loud as last time. You could see a few tiny sparks dance across its fuzz, though – not dangerous ones, but it was clearly meant as a warning.

“Perhaps…” Ingo looked torn between his need to soothe the Joltik and following the proper procedures.

“It’s fine,” Skylar assured him, already moving around the desk and exiting around the back. “We have a quiet room for intake. Less stimulation usually helps.” She gestured toward a hallway off to the side. “Please sir, if you’ll follow me?”

Ingo hesitated, glancing at you.

"I won’t implode without you," you said quickly, realizing he was silently asking permission to leave you alone.

“Your consult can start while we’re off processing the Joltik,” Skylar snapped her fingers at the woman with the mop who had been not so subtly watching the whole exchange. “Tammy! Can you take our new adoption candidate to the second interview room and get them started on the prelim questionnaire?”

The worker perked up. “Of course!” She placed the mop back into its cart and nudged the Wet Floor sign over the part of the floor she’d stopped at, giving you a friendly, customer service worthy smile. “Right this way!”

Ingo disappeared down a hallway in the opposite direction with the receptionist with a hesitant nod of acknowledgment, the Joltik’s ornery noises gradually fading away into the background. Part of you felt bad for the little guy, since it didn’t seem to understand why it was being tortured in such a manner, but you were more relieved that Ingo wasn’t there to cause a negative feedback loop of nervous energy.

“Sooooo,” Tammy sang, the word drawn out and melodic as she led you down a different hallway, her shoes squeaking a little as you passed the freshly mopped spot on the floor. “How we feelin’ so far?”

She didn’t seem to be asking as part of some test, but you weren’t sure how honest to be. “A little nervous,” you decided to say. That seemed safe.

Tammy smirked as she led you past several doors with small, sometimes barred windows that showed you varied glimpses of different Pokemon enclosures. “Everyone’s like that. I don’t get why! This should be fun!” She paused to hold open a large, heavily reinforced door for you. “Pluuus,” she leaned in conspiratorially as you passed, whispering so loudly that she might as well have been talking normally. “You brought a whole Subway Boss with you! Can’t say I’ve ever seen that before.”

That was a good point, actually? How in the world would you describe this situation to people?

“He’s helping as a favor,” you decided to say. It was the most accurate thing you could think of.

Actually. Does that mean that you owe them a favor? It better be an Ingo favor, because an Emmet favor would likely consist of having a Pokemon Battle against your will, somehow. Ingo would probably just ask you to bring him an extra coffee in the morning, the innocent cinnamon roll.

"Uh-huh," Tammy said, her smirk growing wider as she paired it with an exaggerated wink. “I’ll watch for you in the tabloids tomorrow.”

You should’ve just said nothing.

"Relax, I'm just teasing!" She laughed, pushing open a door inconspicuously labeled with the text “IR #2” across its top. "But seriously, having someone experienced with you is smart. I wonder if he’d agree to help with other people?"

“...No.” He was barely managing as it was.

The interview room was small but comfy, with a table, three soft-looking padded chairs, and walls covered in even more Pokemon care posters. A large window looked out over what seemed to be an outdoor play area where several Pokemon were currently splashing about in a large, inflatable pool while a man stood off the side in supervision.

Tammy turned and made her way toward a large and moderately well-used filing cabinet, gesturing for you to sit with her other hand as she rummaged around. You settled into the closest chair as she slammed a pile of paperwork onto the table with a dull thunk.

“Right.” She plopped down into the chair opposite you and leafed through the top through sheets absently. “This is the preliminary questionnaire. Most of it is pretty straightforward – stuff like living situation, work schedule, et cetera, et cetera. There is one odd bit that I want to get out of the way first, though…” She made a little happy noise and plucked an exceptionally busy sheet full of strange shapes, grinning as she swung it around to face you. “Have you heard of those weird personality tests they have online? This is kinda like one of those.”

You peered down at the cryptic sheet. It seemed to be comprised of ten different boxes with odd, blotchy shapes and a line underneath where the instructions said that you were meant to “identify the Pokemon.”

“Uh.” You looked back up at her, utterly lost. “None of these are… readable?”

“Hm? Oh, you’ve never seen one of these? You just put what you see. I would give you an example but then it’ll bias you, so. Just guess. No wrong answers.” She produced a pile of extremely brightly colored pens, placing the pile just off to your side. “Please begin!”

Uh. Okay? You grabbed the lime green pen and tried to focus on the strange blots.

It’s got the little bits and wings so… Volcarona. Easy.

Two. Has… two? Is “two of x” and choice? Well, no wrong answers, so… Two Mandibuzz.

Each box was increasingly abstract, and the extra colors only made it more confusing. You weren’t sure if you were meant to ignore the colors to take them into account, so it was strangely stressful?

When you finally decided that the last two were Darmanitan and an oddly colored Crawdaunt, you made a vow to yourself that you would decline if anyone ever asked you to do one of these again, no matter the consequences.

You paused to ruminate on your choices. Which was not allowed, since Tammy snatched the paper away before you could second-guess any of your answers, ignoring the affronted sound you made in surprise. She studied it for a moment, then let out a small laugh. "Oh wow, I've never seen someone put 'two Mandibuzz' before. That's-" She caught herself, slapping a hand over her mouth. "Oops! I'm not supposed to comment on these anymore. Pretend I didn't say anything!" She grinned sheepishly and gave you a dramatic wink.

Your paranoia instantly spiked. “What’s wrong with two Mandibuzz?”

“Nooooothing! Nothing’s wrong!” She tucked the sheet into a folder with extremely suspicious speed before you could snatch it back. “The owner is just fond of this test to get your general compatibility and personality type. I don’t think much of it, personally, but he’s a huge fan.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you deadpanned.

“Moving on!” The forced cheer in her voice was amped up to eleven as she slid what was thankfully a completely normal looking set of stapled papers. “Basic stuff now. Name, address, employment. The super boring stuff, I promise.”

You reluctantly let the inkblot test go, opting to instead grab the pen once more to start filling out the form. It did end up being standard, though you did have to skip several sections regarding roommates, joint ownership, and property values, since you had none of that.

Then you hit the section labeled “Current/Past Ownership Experience” and your pen hovered over the page without moving for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Skip that. Skip this. Zero. No. Not applicable.

When you got to the end of the section, you realized that you had skipped nearly three pages worth of questions. You stared down at them, not sure if what you were doing was… right? It almost felt like you were committing some great sin when this questionnaire was clearly intended for trainers with literally any semblance of experience outside of searching online.

You must’ve been telegraphing your emotions clearly since Tammy spoke up.

“Don’t worry about anything you have to skip,” she said kindly. “Doesn’t make it any less worthy of an app.”

You still couldn’t break yourself out of the spiral of thoughts, your hand unmoving.

"Plus, you brought expert backup, remember? That Subway Boss of yours probably knows more about Pokemon care than any of our staff."

“He’s not-” You started automatically, then gave up when you realized what you were saying. “Never mind.”

Tammy didn’t believe you, and her knowing smirk was clearly communicating that. “Anyway, next section is the housing part. Living situation, rent or own, indoor and outdoor access, that stuff.”

Which was all perfectly fine, and you were able to fill that section out with considerably more confidence after Tammy’s burning stare finally faded into something bearable. Small apartment, small square footage. Technically it has outdoor access, but it wasn’t private. Though you weren’t sure about the “existing fees paid” section, since it seemed to be referencing rental fees based on the size and temperament of current Pokemon occupants. You really hoped that your landlord wasn’t going to hike up your rent by a ton if you came home with a new companion.

Tammy moved down the form, her finger guiding you. “Work schedule?”

"Monday through Friday, eight to five," you said. "Sometimes I work from home if there's a big project, but that’s only happened once or twice."

She nodded approvingly. "That's good. Consistent schedules make everything easier for everyone."

The questionnaire continued for another forever of a lifetime. You answered each section as honestly as you could, encouraged as each section seemed to become less and less stressful. Tammy made encouraging noises throughout, occasionally asking follow-up questions or clarifying what a certain section meant when you’d misunderstood the intention.

"Alright, last page," Tammy finally announced, flipping to the back of the packet. "This is just the legal stuff. Acknowledgment that you understand Pokemon are ‘living creatures requiring care and commitment’, that you agree to follow local Pokemon welfare regulations, standard liability waivers, that stuff and such."

You skimmed through it, signed and initialed where indicated, and pushed the completed packet back across the table with an immense sense of relief.

"Great!" Tammy gathered up the papers and tapped the stack against the table to straighten them out of the jagged mess that you had left them in. "That wasn't so bad, right?"

Your hand was cramping from all the writing. So. "It was fine," you lied. Like a liar.

“Good job! Now it’s time for the fun part.” She stood up, tucking the paper into a folder, and gestured for you to follow. "We're going to go meet some Pokemon and see if any of them might be a good match based on your questionnaire results."

Your stomach made a nervous flip as you followed her out the door. “Already? Don’t you have to… I dunno, process the answers first?”

“I did!” Tammy said, tapping her temple. “I’ve been doing this for a while. I can usually tell what someone needs before they finish the second page. I will still drop the packet off to be properly evaluated, though, so no worries there.”

She led you out and back into the main hallway, past the reception area and toward where you assumed Ingo and Skylar must’ve disappeared to. This hallway had more windows and large doors, each leading into a well-decorated enclosure where multiple Pokemon were happily going about their own business.

You stopped to peek in on one, which turned out to be a Miniccino meticulously grooming itself while a pair of Lillipup attempted to ruin all of its efforts. The pair twirled around in a flurry of play fighting while the Miniccino attempted to dodge any particularly heavy blows.

You reluctantly took your eyes away from the window and looked back at Tammy when snapped her fingers to get your attention. “So, here’s how this is gonna work. I’m gonna introduce you to three Pokemon that I think might be good fits for you based on what you’ve put down in the paperwork. You get a limited amount of time with each one – not too long, or you’ll both get overwhelmed – and we’ll see how you feel about it. No pressure to pick one today, and most folks don’t, but it’ll give you a good sense of what you’re actually looking for when you meet your expectations in person.”

There had to be dozens and dozens of Pokemon here. “Only three?”

“It’s a good number,” She nodded. “Too many too quickly gets to be overwhelming, and we spend the entirety of business hours making no decisions at all. Better to take it easy.” She stopped in front of an open door with a large, red “C” atop it, and made an enthusiastic, beckoning gesture toward its inside.

“Ready to get started?”

No, absolutely not. But you were here, and you were determined to not make a fool of yourself - even if your palms were getting sweaty and your heart was hammering without end, you could do this.

But before you could step through the doorway, footsteps echoed quickly down the hallway behind you.

"Apologies for the delay!”

You turned to find Ingo rapidly making his way toward you with his usual purposeful stride and thankfully looking much more composed than you’d left him as. It seemed that he was now free of any small, yellow passengers, since his cap was perfectly back in place, and his expression had settled back into its regular calmness, though there was something tiring in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

"Ingo!" Tammy said brightly. "Perfect timing! We're just about to start the introductions."

"How'd it go?" you asked, though you had a rather good idea based on the expression.

"The Joltik has been successfully processed," Ingo reported, though his tone suggested the process had been less than pleasant. " The separation proved... more challenging than anticipated."

So, the Joltik had thrown a fit, and Ingo had hated every second of it.

"Well, you're here now," Tammy said diplomatically. "And just in time for the fun part." She gestured toward the open doorway. "Ready to meet some Pokemon?"

For once, you actually were ready.

The room was bigger than you'd expected; it was the size of a small classroom, with padded flooring, various toys and enrichment items scattered around, and large, orb-like overhead lights that let in natural light. It felt more like a cozy playroom than an institutional space – all together pretty comfy. It did wonders for your mood, and you were steadily hyping yourself up.

You and Ingo settled into the chairs along one wall while Tammy bustled around making final preparations. Ingo sat with his usual perfect posture, hands folded in his lap, though you noticed that he kept fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly.

"I am functional," Ingo said, which was not the same as okay, but was probably the most honest answer you were going to get.

“It’ll be fine,” you said sympathetically. “He’s gonna go to a good home with a cool trainer and a loving family.” Despite your experience with the paperwork, it seemed like the place was capable of it.

"Indeed." He was quiet for a moment, then added, “The Joltik deserves a permanent home with dedicated care rather than temporary companionship from someone who cannot commit to long-term ownership."

You got the impression he was trying to convince himself as much as he was explaining it to you, and you wished that Emmet was here to offer proper comfort to his brother. You weren’t stupid, and Emmet hadn’t been particularly good at hiding the fact that this had been a visit originally intended for both of them. Surely you weren’t doing any better than his own brother would have been able to.

The side door opened, and Tammy stepped through, leading a small Pokemon by what could generously be called a hand - more of a leaf-like appendage, really.

What waddled in beside her was a Swadloon: small, round, and wrapped in leaves like a tiny green burrito with stubby little legs.

“This is Clover,” Tammy introduced, patting the shy creature on the head encouragingly. "She's about six months old, came to us when her original trainer moved overseas and couldn't take her along. Very calm temperament, low energy needs, perfect for apartment living. A bit small for her age, but no health issues - she just evolved a little early.”

Tammy gently released its leaf-hand and stepped back. The leafy creature didn’t spare you a glance, though; she immediately spotted a colorful ball across the room and began waddling toward it with fierce determination and extraordinarily little success. After making it about halfway there, she seemed to lose all determination for what she was doing and stopped in the middle of the floor, looking vaguely annoyed and made a loud, ruffling noise with her leaves.

“You should approach her,” Tammy encouraged. “She’s just being shy. Most Swadloon are like that.”

Fair enough. You slid off your chair and carefully made your way over to Clover, kneeling at what you judged to be a respectable distance away from where it had stopped moving. The Swadloon watched you with enormous, tired eyes, not moving closer but retreating away either.

“Hey,” You cooed softly, holding out your palm encouragingly. “I’m- uh. Hi.”

Clover tilted her head, her leaves rustling in a manner not unlike a hiss.

"Very articulate," Ingo murmured from his chair, and you shot him a look that promised revenge later.

You tried again, being careful to keep your voice friendly and gentle. “Sorry, little guy. Not very good at this. Give me a chance?”

Clover made another odd rustling noise, this time sounding less hostile and more... judgmental? Were Swadloon known for being judgmental? You were fairly sure this one was.

“Grass types generally respond well to gentle petting along their leaf structures,” Ingo suggested from his high and mighty observation post. He was probably right, and you knew it, but you were still allowed to be snarky about it.

"Right," you said, slowly extending your hand toward Clover's leafy exterior. "Is this okay?"

The Swadloon watched your hand approach with those tired, unimpressed eyes. When your fingers were about an inch away, she suddenly shifted backward with surprising speed for something that had struggled to cross the room, putting herself just out of reach.

“…or not.” You pulled your back, disappointed.

“Hm. Why don't you try sitting still and letting her come to you?" Tammy walked over to Clover, who she didn’t seem to have any problems with, and gave her an enthusiastic pat. “Go on.”

You settled into a more comfortable position, legs crossed on the floor, and waited. Clover continued to stare at you with an expression that suggested she was deeply unimpressed by your entire existence.

Several minutes passed. Clover did not move closer. In fact, she turned slightly away from you and seemed to become extremely interested in Ingo instead, which you were trying to not be offended by.

“…How much time do you normally give this?” You asked quietly as your legs began to fall asleep.

“I usually do a max of fifteen minutes,” Tammy said with a sigh. It seemed even her enthusiasm had waned after the lack of interaction. “But honestly, let’s call this one. Some Pokemon just don’t click with certain people, and that’s fine. It’s just not meant to be.”

Your knees were grateful as you stood, brushing off your pants and deciding that this wasn’t too bad for a first try. Clover didn’t acknowledge the movement, too busy still starting at Ingo with a strange fixation.

“It’s not personal,” Tammy assured you as she scooped up the creature in a single, smooth movement. The Swadloon made a protesting rustle but didn’t struggle too much in her arms. “These guys are fussy. You’re probably both nervous.” She paused, following its gaze with an amused expression. “Plus, I think this one is distracted by your Subway Boss, there. Look – same frown!”

You looked at Clover and Ingo. The resemblance was kind of uncanny, with both having the same unimpressed, vaguely disapproving expression that wasn’t mean, but still seemed serious.

Ingo, thankfully, seemed to find it funny, though he didn’t comment on the insinuation that his trademark frown was the equivalent of a grumpy Swadloon. Instead, he chuckled and diplomatically ignored the comment. “The first introduction is rarely successful. Your next encounter will surely bring you to new heights.”

Tammy headed over to the side door with Clover nestled tightly into her arms. “I’ll bring the next one over in a bit after I get this one settled back into their spot.”

She exited through the door, leaving the two of you alone as the silence stretched out in heavy anticipation.

"That wasn't terrible," Ingo offered after a moment.

You looked at him, eyes narrowed. “She hated me,” you said, tone flat.

"Disinterest is not equivalent to hatred," Ingo corrected. "You were not compatible and are now aware of incorrect placement parameters."

You picked up a chew toy, turning it over in your hands idly. “I know. But I’ve got the little voice in my head that keeps saying, ‘What if none of them like me?’”

Ingo was quiet, unsure how to respond while the moment dragged on and on.

Eventually, after you attempted to juggle the chew toy and nearly smacked yourself in the face with it, he found his answer.

“It is not a measure of personal worth.” He had obviously chosen the words carefully. “The correct match exists; it simply requires patience.”

You wanted to believe him. Really, you did.

The side door opened again, and Tammy's cheerful voice called out, "Ready for round two?"

You set down the toy, took a deep breath, and readied yourself.

“Tada!”

Tammy burst through the side door with a dramatic flair, holding a small Pokemon in the air above her like a sports trophy as the little thing giggled with a melodic and echoey voice.

The small creature resembled a lit, cream-colored candle, except with an adorable little smile and big, yellow eyes. Its top was lit with a slowly burning purple flame, which emanated from its wick in more of an oozing movement than a normal flame would.

Ingo leaned forward and smiled a little. “Ah, a Litwick.”

Tammy carefully placed it down just beside you, handing it a tiny piece of charcoal to… nibble on, apparently, since it immediately started chewing on the end.

She nodded at Ingo. “You would know, huh? He’s about a year old, and he came to us last week when his trainer had to move into a building with a strict no Fire or flames policy. Apparently, it includes Ghost types, which makes no sense, but I’m not the landlord.”

She brushed the charcoal dust off her hands and stepped back to give more room to the little candle. “Super calm, very affectionate, and never had an accident with her flame.”

The Litwick looked at you and Ingo with big, yellow eyes, his flame flickering about gently. He made a soft, whispery sound that reminded you of wind chimes on a breezy day, and you couldn’t help but smile at it.

“What a cute little candle,” you complimented, sliding off your chair and kneeling on the ground again. Better start this one off right, after all.

“Ghost candle,” Tammy corrected with a smirk. “She’ll warm up to you quickly! Pun intended.”

You decided to ignore that affront to all puns everywhere and focused back on the Litwick, who had paused his charcoal-chewing to watch your movements with a curious look. Its flame sparked a little, casting dancing shadows across the floor despite the overhead lighting.

“Hey there bud,” you cooed softly, keeping your voice carefully gentle. “I’d like to be your new person- er, trainer- if you agree?”

It tiled its entire body to the side, which you supposed was the candle equivalent of a head tilt. The only problem was that it tilted so far that it made a loud whistle in distress and then fell over in a lump. It deformed slightly and made affronted, yet still somehow melodical, noises, which you interpreted as a plea for help.

“Oh! Oh no!” You gathered the waxy body into your hands, carefully helping it right itself in your palm. It gripped tightly onto your thumb, twisting around the fingers and it tried to put itself back into shape. The result was less candle and more finger puppet, but the Litwick seemed to be having too much fun as it twirled around your fingers to care.

The wax itself was pleasantly warm, kind of like hot tea that had just cooled enough to drink without burning your tongue. It wasn’t as sticky as it looked at first glance, either- it was more of an elastic, bouncy material. Though the contact did seem to be leaving an eerie, staticky feeling on your skin.

“Is this good?” You asked, watching as it continued to happily wrap itself around your fingers in a strange dance. You honestly couldn’t tell, especially with a Ghost type.

“Completely normal,” Tammy assured you, looking delighted by the scene. “They’re very tactile- at least until they evolve. They like physical contact, especially when they’re in a good mood or feel particularly comfortable with someone. The fact that he’s doing that already is a good sign!”

“The temperature is acceptable?” Ingo leaned forward with concern on his face. “Litwick bodies can range between 40 and 50 degrees Celsius. Prolonged exposure can cause minor burns.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” It didn’t seem hot enough to burn your skin, but the staticky feeling was getting stronger. It wasn’t painful, but it was kind of like your muscles were overstimulated. Less hand falling asleep with pins-and-needles and more of a gentle, electric buzz. “Feels weird, though.”

Ingo’s expression shifted into what you recognized as his “I’m about to deliver a dissertation” look. "That would be the passive life energy absorption. Litwick sustain themselves by absorbing tiny amounts of life force from living beings in their vicinity. The sensation is typically described as light fatigue or a tingling numbness."

“What.” You looked down at Litwick in alarm. How could something so cute be draining your life?

“Only tiny amounts!” Tammy said quickly. “You'd have to be around one constantly for weeks, alone, before you'd notice any actual fatigue.”

You weren’t the first person to react that way, huh?

“The common Pokedex entries are considerably exaggerated,” Ingo added helpfully. “Popular media has sensationalized Ghost types in many regards.”

The Litwik, of course, was completely ignoring your alarmed expression. It was much too preoccupied attempting to balance itself on top of your point finger with varying degrees of success. Its flame flickered lazily as it made a single, long, whistle-like noise. You looked down at the little life-sucker, contemplative. If they said it wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t, but still.

“So, he won’t kill me. That’s good?”

Tammy’s laugh echoed loudly through the room. “That’s ‘good.’ Worst case, you might feel a teeny bit tired after spending quality time with him. Just imagine it a social battery draining, heh.”

Fair enough. A social battery was something you could understand. At least it wasn’t trying to suck your blood or eat your fingers.

All things considered, he was cute. Even if it was a sentient, soul-sucking candle. It’s not like it was being evil or malicious about it – and it didn’t seem to dislike you? It made more breezy noises as it struggled, attempting to… what, show off?

Guess the real question was if it was the right fit for you.

It made an echoey cry and jumped off your hand, floating to the ground as if it were lighter than a feather. Must be a Ghost thing? It pounced on the blackened lump of what was left of the charcoal snack and nibbled steadily, switching to soft, content noises.

The apartment was small, and you’d be around the little guy constantly. You didn’t live with anyone else, and despite what you believed, Ghost types had a stigma for being maliciously mischievous – that meant that you couldn’t bring it to work with you.

The Litwick had finished the charcoal and was now looking around the room with a curious twinkle in its candle-lit eyes. At least he didn’t seem to have the dislike that Clover had demonstrated; it was still a little insulting to be so invisible.

Maybe you just didn’t mesh well with Grass types? Your single, potted plant would agree with you on most days, especially when it looked like a sad shrub from lack of watering.

Movement in your peripheral vision made you glace back over. Litwick had gotten bored without its snack and was now waddling toward Ingo, making a long whistling noise that sounded like a stiff breeze through trees. The little candle quickly reached Ingo’s shoe and stretched up its little waxy arms toward his palm, making the universal “pick me up please” gesture.

Ingo instead pulled his hand back into himself a little, his expression apologetic. “I’m afraid I’m already taken,” he said with complete seriousness.

You couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe not the best choice of words?

It made a loud and short disappointed sound and retreated, waddling back toward you with a noticeable droop in its flame as it flickered a little less energetically.

You scooped it back up as it reached you, letting him settle back onto your palm with a content and wheezy puff of candle smoke. The tingling immediately spread back through your fingertips, and you realized that despite the Pokemon seemingly loving having the company, you couldn’t tell if it liked you specifically. It seemed like it could get along with anyone with how friendly it was being.

He was adorable. Sweet. Very well behaved.

But…

The tingling sensation slowly creeping its way through your wrist was a constant reminder. You would be coming home from work, every day, to a social butterfly of a Pokemon who would need active attention and care and considerably more energy than you normally would have by the end of the day. It just wasn’t your personality- you weren’t outgoing or chatty or gossipy, and you certainly wouldn’t be having dinner parties.

And beyond all that, he’d be happier with a socialite with a bigger “social battery.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to take care of him properly,” you finally said, the words coming out slow and quiet like a poisonous admission of guilt.

Tammy’s expression softened. “That’s fine. A lot of people tend go for the cute factor and get blinded by everything else.” She gently detangled it from your hands. The Litwick made a questioning sound but didn’t resist.

Ingo nodded sagely off to your side. “You are being responsible. Forcing connection serves neither party well.”

You felt sensation return fully to your hand as it was carried away, leaving little but a faint warmth on the very tips of your fingers. The little guy looked back at you over Tammy’s shoulder, its flame flickering in an odd, zig-zag pattern that might have been curiosity or goodbye – you weren’t able to tell.

“He really is sweet,” you said, meaning it. “I’m just not the right person for the little light.”

“Better to know now rather than three weeks from now when you’ve driven each other to misery,” Tammy assured you while fidgeting with the side door’s latch. It took a good few more clicks before it popped open, and she made a small noise of success in tandem with the Litwick.

She stepped into the door, paused, then popped her head back in. “Get ready for number three. Last one for today.”

Well, maybe third try’s the charm?

You glanced at Ingo, who gave you an encouraging nod.

“Okay.” You stood, dusting the residual charcoal dust and soot off your pants. “Let’s try number three.”

It wasn’t exceptionally long before the door opened again, Tammy stepping through with what looked like a raggedly plush toy in her hand. Except it was moving. And had glowing red eyes with a zipper for a mouth that seemed to be positioned into an unsettling grin.

Tammy seemed particularly enthusiastic about this one, based on the look on her face. “This is-!”

Ingo stood from his chair with alarming speed. “No.”

You blinked. “What?”

He moved to position himself between you and the creature, frown as severe as it had ever been. “Absolutely not. Banette are unsuitable for this passenger’s lifestyle and personality.”

Tammy had frozen mid step, looking between Ingo and the Banette with thinly veiled confusion. The Banette itself was unbothered by the rejection, though its crimson eyes were fixed on you with a worrying intensity. Its smile quirked a little, like it found the situation amusing rather than insulting.

Maybe you should try to diffuse this a little? He seemed to be entirely too fired up, especially since you hadn't even introduced yourself to the Pokemon yet. “I haven’t even-”

“Banette require experienced emotional management and thrive on grudges and negative emotional energy,” Ingo stated, and wow, he was really going to completely ignore whatever you tried to say. It felt like he was ticking points off a checklist for a formal report to his boss. “They demonstrate kind, conflict-avoidant behavior and actively seek to minimize tension. Incompatible.”

Was that a compliment or a psychoanalysis straight from Emmet about you being a huge pushover? You couldn't tell... and you weren’t sure which you wanted it to be.

“Furthermore,” he pressed on, and oh no he’s still going and is completely ignoring your embarrassment, “Banette exhibit possessive attachment behaviors and require owners with firm boundary-setting capabilities and consistent disciplinary frameworks. This is an overwhelming prospect for a first-time owner.”

“That’s not-” You tried to interrupt.

It didn't work.

“I have observed, on several occasions, where you have apologized for circumstances entirely outside of your control,” he kept going. “This would easily provide fuel for a stressful dynamic with the Pokemon’s habit to aggravate such behavior.”

Tammy was watching this unfold with barely concealed amusement, still holding the Banette, who seemed equally entertained.

Ingo, apparently still not done, continued. "Banette are known to require substantial nighttime attention due to their nocturnal activity patterns. You've mentioned experiencing difficulty with sleep schedules, and adding a Pokemon with opposing rest cycles would be counterproductive to your health."

That one was fair. Though he didn’t seem like one to talk – it seemed more like the pot calling the kettle black.

Still, your face was burning now, even if it wasn’t entirely from the embarrassment. Ingo’s professional explanation proved that he’d been paying considerable attention to what you’d only been saying in passing, and you couldn’t say that you’d been doing the same.

"And finally," Ingo concluded, his formal tone softening somewhat, "Banette can be quite demanding and manipulative through guilt-based emotional pressure. Based on our conversations, I believe this would create an unnecessarily stressful environment unsuited to your needs."

The room went quiet.

“…You’ve really thought about this,” you said eventually, still trying to process that catalog of persona investigation.

Ingo seemed to suddenly realize how much he'd just revealed, sheepishly looking you in the eyes as he quickly sat back down. "I- You- passenger wellbeing is important. We must consider all relevant factors.”

“Relevant. Factors.” You repeated, unable to keep a small smirk from forming despite your embarrassment as a funny thought occurred to you. “I think we can agree that you just don’t want to deal with a second Emmet in gremlin form.”

Ingo stopped mid-movement, his expression doing something complicated between offense and defeated acknowledgement. "Emmet's capacity for mischief is already operating at maximum safe velocity."

The Banette made a sound that might have been a laugh, its zipper mouth somehow grinning even wider.

"So... no Banette?" Tammy asked, clearly trying not to laugh herself.

"No Banette," you and Ingo said simultaneously, then looked at each other in surprise.

Tammy shook her head, leading the still-grinning Banette away by the hand. "Alright, alright. I can take a hint." She paused at the door. "Though for the record, that was the most thorough rejection I've ever witnessed. You two make quite the team."

She disappeared through the door before either of you could respond to that, leaving you and Ingo alone in suddenly very awkward silence.

"You might have been paying a little too much attention," you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt.

Ingo adjusted his cap again, looking anywhere but directly at you. "Comfort and safety are a priority. Regular commuters... their wellbeing matters."

"Right," you said softly. "Regular commuters. Even when they're not actually commuting. Like right now."

More importantly, you were three for three on failures.

"Maybe I'm just not meant to have Pokemon," you muttered. “I’ll wait another thirty years at this rate.”

"That is demonstrably false," Ingo said immediately, his voice taking on an edge that surprised you. "You would be an excellent Pokemon owner for the right species."

You looked back at him, confused. He sounded remarkably sure about the topic. “You really think so?”

He nodded. "I would not have accompanied you otherwise."

You know what? Fine. It was time for that conversation.

"Ingo," you said, watching him straighten slightly. "Can we just... be honest here? You spent your Saturday helping a random commuter look for Pokemon. That's not standard passenger assistance protocol."

 “No,” he admitted, face tense yet oddly stoic. “It is not.”

“So then, what is it?”

His look became something exceptionally complicated. "I consider you a friend. If... if that is an acceptable classification."

“Aw,” you smiled. “I'd like to be friends. Pretty sure we already are."

His entire expression transformed into something still not a smile, but definitely something pleased. "I am... glad to hear that."

"Me too," you said honestly. "Even if today was a complete bust."

The door opened again, and Tammy poked her head through. "So, uh. Calling it for today?"

You looked at Ingo, who gave you a small nod.

"Yeah," you said, standing up and brushing off your pants for the umpteenth time today. "But I'll be back. We'll figure this out eventually."

"Of course you will," Tammy said with a knowing smile.

As you and Ingo made your way up and out of the adoption center – making sure to ignore Skylar’s sarcastic waving as you escaped into the afternoon sun – the disappointment felt less heavy than you were expecting it to.

So, you acknowledged the reason for it.

“Thanks,” you said, the two of you standing in a shadier spot, outside of the heat. “For all of that. Helped me not explode.”

"Friends provide support," Ingo said simply, but his tone was warm.

"Then as your friend," you replied, "I'm buying you coffee. The good kind."

Ingo looked surprised, then pleased. "That would be acceptable."

So, you made your way to a nearby coffee shop, Ingo suddenly spouting statistics about why it had exceptional quality of coffee beans and decided that the day hadn’t been too bad.

Sure, your goal hadn’t been met, and you weren’t going home with a Pokemon...

But you’d gotten a friend instead.

Ingo: While today's adoption consultation did not result in successful Pokemon placement, please do not be discouraged by this outcome.

Ingo: I would be pleased to accompany you during next week's scheduled Battle Line maintenance period, should you wish to make another attempt.

Thanks!! I know it didn't go super well

and the Banette thing

which I guess we just aren't going to mention to Emmet

But I bet I'll find the perfect little guy next week! And second try's the charm?? Probably!

Ingo: Regardless of the duration required to locate suitable placement, please do not allow concern to derail your efforts.

Ingo: We will navigate this journey to your destination together.

Ingo: As friends.

👈(ﾟヮﾟ👈)

Ingo: I do not know what that means, but I agree nonetheless.

Emojis? Just pick one and send it, they’re not that hard to figure out

Ingo: 1️⃣

Ingo: Is this correct?

lol yes good job!!

Emmet: you have been sending weird emojis to Ingo

Emmet: stop

Emmet: I cannot handle emoji Ingo

Emmet: he asked me what they mean

Emmet: which was fine

Emmet: but now he’s found the trains

Emmet: I have discovered there is such a thing as too many trains

Ohno did it include the brotherly love and support train

Maybe you should get on it

(.❛ ᴗ ❛ .)

Emmet: you

Emmet: will rue the day