Chapter Text
Emmet doesn't know how he feels about this whole predicament.
That's nothing new. He's always been notoriously bad at figuring out emotions, whether it be his own or belonging to others. Ingo is- was- is better than him in that aspect, if only because his brother has no difficulty finding the words to elucidate said emotions in detail. (Dealing with said emotions, however, is an equal struggle for both of them. But Elesa says she also has trouble with it, so maybe it's just a flaw inherent to the general human population. Verrry annoying design flaw, if you ask him.)
Of course, that isn't to say that Emmet never knows how he feels ever. When it comes to momentous stops in his life, there's always a prevailing emotion coupled together that comes from deep within his core, recognizable and unquestionable in its simplicity.
Exhilaration when he first set out on his pokémon journey with his twin.
Pride when Elesa took on the mantle of Nimbasa City Gym Leader.
Euphoria when he and Ingo became the head conductors of Gear Station, and again when they became Subway Masters of the then newly-established Battle Subway.
Despair when Ingo vanished one evening, followed by 4 years, 4 months, 4 days, 4 hours of slowly dwindling hope of him coming back home, safe and sound.
And, more recently, the all-encompassing grief when he came face-to-face with his brother's gravesite in Sinnoh.
No, his problem is with the complicated emotions that come with messy situations. It's easy to guess what feelings go together with achievements and what go with loss, but things get trickier when they don't fall into either car. Emmet would love to just ignore the phantom itch crawling under his skin, but it's been days and the inability to put a name to said itch is messing with his sleep schedule even worse than the lingering jetlag.
It's time for him to admit that he can't figure this out alone. And there is only one thing left for Emmet to do for a problem like this, something that would make their late mother proud:
Seeking spiritual guidance.
As Emmet finishes setting up the ouija board on their dining table, he briefly wonders if dear old mother had meant something a little different from a séance.
. . . Eh.
He clears his throat, eyes trained on the flickering candle he set up at the corner of the board. The feeble flame is working hard to keep the darkness at bay. A cold aura settles on the other side across Emmet, ready to answer his burning questions.
"I am Emmet. I cannot sleep. I want to know why so I can fix the issue and get back on track."
Silence, and then the wooden planchette slowly but deliberately moves along the surface of the board, gradually spelling out a single word.
G. U. I. L. T.
"Hmm . . . not a chance! I think I'd know what guilt feels like, brother."
The ghost pokémon floating a few inches above the dining table sighs. Yamasks are said to be protective of the golden masks bearing carvings of their faces in life, but right now Ingo looks halfway ready to chuck his mask at Emmet and strangle him, lack of opposable thumbs be damned.
Instead, Ingo picks up the planchette with both hands and sets it down again and again on the same letters with a bit more force.
G! U! I! L! T!
"That can't be it. I have nothing to feel guilty about. I have done nothing wrong, and I have proof."
Ingo shoots him an exasperated look, the frown on his face deepening. Despite the situation, a small thrill of happiness shoots through Emmet's heart at still being able to decipher his brother's disapproval, even on his new pokémon face. Even so . . .
"See, it's written there," Emmet points at the screen of the laptop he had set down on top of the kitchen counter, "that for the uncovering of historical burial sites to be classified as 'archeology', there must be a resolution on who has property rights over the remains. Just because the government of Sinnoh agreed to the excavation does not make it okay, because I did not give consent for it!"
His Yamask brother has floated back to the bowl of cereal he's been struggling to scoop into his mouth for the past hour, but he seems to be listening if the chirp he gives is any indication.
"Yes, Ingo, I know it says on the website that consent is retrieved from the descendants, but I'm your twin! I'm closer to you by blood than any hypothetical descendants- . . . wait, do you have any descendants?" he squints suspiciously at the ghost pokémon. "Did you get busy in ancient Sinnoh? Did you make many verrry tiny Ingos? Did you make me an uncle before we were even born?"
A squawk of mortification is all the warning Emmet gets before a solid gold mask smacks into his forehead painfully. "I am Emmet. I think you gave me a concussion."
Ingo just sticks his tongue out at him.
"So no descendants, then. Meaning that as your only living relative, the so-called 'archeologists' should have obtained my permission before digging up your final resting place. But they didn't. They are nothing but thieves. That makes any and all subsequent actions I took morally good in comparison."
Ingo makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort in between the crunching of his cereal. Which, rude! Emmet is entirely in the right. They desecrated his brother's grave first! If anything, he was just taking back what was stolen in the first place! And to think that he wouldn't have known about the transgression had Lenora not gone to that international archeology convention and learned about the new exhibits in Sinnoh. She was even kind enough to give Emmet her early access ticket exclusive to museum curators, the ticket that let him wander around the museum and burial sites unobstructed by red tape . . .
. . . The same ticket that would be traced back to Lenora once the museum found out what he did.
. . . Oh.
Whoops.
Maybe his brother isn't that off the rails with his answer.
"Hey, Ingo . . . do you think Lenora would accept an apology gift basket in exchange for potentially ruining her career?"
He takes Ingo hastily shoving more cereal into his face as a solid 'maybe'.
----
As soon as he phases out of Emmet's bedroom door, Ingo lets a sigh of relief escape him.
Thank goodness his brother has finally been able to fall asleep. Sure it had come at the cost of having to sift through much too many gift basket ideas online until both their eyes hurt and his brother just shut down, but he thinks it was worth it. The bloodshot eyes and eyelids constantly twitching as if a charged Joltik resided in his eyebrows was really starting to scare Ingo, a condition only exacerbated by Emmet pulling out his laptop as soon as they arrived home and spending the next 20 hours obsessively looking up international laws related to archeology and real estate in a manner that he immediately clocked as his brother trying to justify some sort of objectively guilty action.
(At least he was correct about the guilt being responsible for Emmet's insomnia. Guilt is a lot easier to fix than the volatile mixture of happiness and sadness he senses every time his brother lays eyes on him.)
To be honest, Ingo has no memory of what on earth Emmet did, although the search results dominating the laptop screen right before he floats over and switches the device off are pretty damning. He can't remember how exactly he fell into Emmet's grasp. One moment he was curling up on top of his grave, desperately clutching onto the memories he still retains despite the passage of years; the next he wakes up surrounded by warmth and darkness. It's comforting, yet confusing, so as soon as he recognized that he's buried underneath cloth he had attempted to wiggle out in search of light.
"Ingo, shh." A voice from somewhere above had softly admonished him, one that struck a familiar chord in his heart. Like a burst of electricity shifting his gears into overdrive, he had quickly poked his head out of the dark confinement and looks up.
A familiar face smiled down at him, a face that tugged at the few memories he managed to cling onto tightly despite the yawning abyss of nothingness threatening to consume him. ". . . Emmet?" he tried to whisper. His voice came out as a chirp, one he instinctively knew was indecipherable to humans, so he had wrapped his arms around his brother's chest in the hopes of conveying what he felt.
Emmet's smile grew bigger. His hand came down to pat Ingo's head a few times affectionately, before he gently maneuvered Ingo back in his coat. "We have to hide you, brother. We're on a plane."
A plane. The word summoned a memory of a very large contraption, one designed for transport through the skies. Ah, pokémon weren't allowed out of pokéballs on planes, were they? Safety hazard. Ingo had acquiesced and reentered the confines of his brother's coat, continuing to hug him even in the darkness. And there he had stayed until they made it home, unwilling to let go of the only passenger left in the rusty train of his memories.
Because isn't that the kicker? He spent years existing in a distant land in the distant past with no memories, regains them upon his untimely death, only to slowly lose said memories again to the ravages of time. He can't even remember how he died. Illness? Hypothermia? Eaten by a wild pokémon? Struck down by Sinnoh itself? Or did he simply drop dead, his body unable to keep up with his spirit?
What he does remember is hearing the heart-wrenching sound of Lady Sneasler's wails echo around the mountain. Was it for him, or for one of her children? Ingo never found out, not with his car determined to keep traversing the same tracks around and around Mt. Coronet, spiraling upwards to the peak and downwards to the base over and over and over, even after having left his physical body behind. Even after recovering his memories and realizing that he wasn't in his home country, that there was nothing for him in Hisui, that his family and friends are in Unova where he belonged, where he should have lived and died and been laid to rest. Despite everything, he had stayed on the path. Why?
Because of Akari.
Akari, the teenager who fell from the sky. Akari, who had been tasked by Sinnoh - by Arceus - to do the impossible. Akari, who Ingo had come to care for as family.
Akari, who had gone missing one day when she climbed the mountain. No one could find any trace of her, not her friend Rei, not the Galaxy Team, not the clans, not Ingo. He refused to give up searching for her, even after everyone else had decided that Akari had either perished in the wilds, or had returned to her own time. What if she was still out there, alive and hurting and in need of assistance? What kind of warden was he to not do everything in his power to locate a lost passenger?
The days turned to weeks turned to months turned to years turned to decades, and at some point his long-dead spirit had turned into a Yamask, but still he forged on. Because if he had stopped, if he had let himself register the fact that there was no hair nor hide of Akari on that mountain for a long time, that the only option left is that she had indeed managed to safely reach her destination all those years ago, then Ingo would have cracked. Would have allowed the suffocating pressure of his unending existence to consume him. Would have spoken out loud the thoughts he tried to bury deep in his heart, the thoughts he tried to squash under logic and compassion and understanding but still festered in his soul like an infected wound. Because if Akari had found the way home . . .
. . . then why didn't she take him with her like she promised?
No. Stop that. Ingo shakes his head vigorously, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Akari was not a malicious person, and to direct such bitterness towards a child forced to take on the burden of the world is unbecoming. If anything, it should've been his job to bring her home, both as a train conductor and as the adult between the two of them. He had accepted his fate a long time ago, on the day he finally forced himself to derail from his momentum and slumber on his grave instead of continuing on the endless, futile tracks. So why is he now returning to these shameful introspections . . . ?
. . . Ah. It's because he left his mask with Emmet, isn't it? The artifact had always served well in keeping the dark thoughts at bay. He glances back in the direction of Emmet's room. Ingo hates being separate from it, but he doesn't know how to make it incorporeal to pass through Emmet's closed door, and his lack of opposable thumbs makes it highly difficult to turn the doorknob. Perhaps he'll ask Chandelure to teach him how to use Psychic once he wakes up.
He pokes his head into the living room and fondly observes his partner whistling in his sleep. Chandelure had been so happy earlier, twirling Ingo around in circles and going, "Ingo! Ingo! Ingo!" until exhaustion caught up to him. (Chandelure wasn't surprised to see him, he had noticed, which confirms his suspicions that he was involved in whatever Emmet had done to get Ingo in his possession. He wonders if he should be worried.)
(. . . Eh.)
But for now, frayed nerves aside, Ingo is on a mission: to reacquiant himself with their home. Is it something he needs to accomplish at 3 in the morning? Probably not. Probably he's better off getting some rest himself and waiting for daylight, when Emmet and their pokémon are awake and eager to assist Ingo.
Except he wants to do this now, before he meets them. It's been so, so long, around a couple of centuries if Emmet's search results are to be trusted, and with the amount of memories he can dredge up since awakening being fairly limited, he fears he won't be able to recognize anyone else besides his twin and his ace. He doesn't want to disappoint.
And so Ingo floats around their kitchen, forgoing the living room to avoid disturbing the sleeping Chandelure. There's hardly anything here in terms of decorations, but the heavy-duty pots and pans on the drying rack spark a memory, one of him and Emmet collapsing in the kitchen together from being laden down by kitchenware they blew an entire month's shared salaries on after watching an episode of . . . of someone's favorite cooking show.
He pauses by the plates in the corner, squinting at them in the hopes that they would provide some insight on who that 'someone' was. A tingling sensation similar to electricity comes to mind. A fan of electric types? Hmm . . . her name started with an ‘E’, right?
E- . . . ?
Alas, the ceramicware kept their secrets. No matter. He'll find that station eventually. Nothing else is triggering any memories, though perhaps the mess of arts and crafts materials Emmet left in the wake of his quest to make a suitable gift basket had something to do with it. Perhaps in another room?
He passes over the dishes and goes through the wall, only to immediately freeze in his tracks.
The room he's in is dark and musty, with a layer of dust over every piece of furniture. The bed - his bed - looks like it would create an Alpha Dust Buneary if he so much as poked at it. A small stack of books occupy a desk, along with papers full of familiar train diagrams that he faintly recognizes as having been sketched by his own hand once upon a time. Pictures dotted the walls, a veritable treasure trove of memories that would have normally received his undivided attention had it not been for one significant detail.
There's a man in his bedroom.
The man is standing by the window, looking out into the city nightlife. His tall figure casts a sinister shadow across the room, one that flickers in a hypnotic, haunting fashion. Ingo can't see his face from this angle, but the man is attired with a coat and a hat, both dark enough to be barely perceptible in the dim lighting.
Emmet? No, his brother is sound asleep in the other room, and he was wearing pajamas when Ingo left him. A guest? Preposterous, Emmet would have mentioned having someone over. A trespasser?
Ingo slowly floats nearer, trepidation coursing throughout his ghostly body. Up close, the intruder appears a lot more inhuman than he initially perceived. His sleeves are pulled taut by the elbows and shoulders, as if his joints are too bulky for his clothes. So bulky, in fact, that small tears have developed in those areas, out of which protrude long, sharp metal spikes seemingly designed more for harm than defense. A rhythmic noise rattles around somewhere deep within the man's torso, the sound barely loud enough to puncture the silence.
The eerie stillness of the intruder is making his anxiety peak. Why isn't the man doing anything? The city lights are a sight to behold, but surely they aren't that captivating. If it wasn't for the odd rattling, he'd say the man isn't even breathing-
-click-
Ingo flinches back when the man's head swivels around, glowing white eyes locked onto the tiny Yamask. His memory may be a bit lacking, but he's fairly certain no human has ever been able to rotate their heads 180 degrees without sustaining fatal injury. The fiend takes a step towards him, body still twisted the wrong way, and Ingo scrambles backwards in alarm until he hits the bed. A cloud of dust suddenly obscures his vision, making him cough violently while he tries to squint through the haze. The only things he sees are the malevolent eyes possessing an unholy light, growing larger and larger as they get closer to the cowering pokémon-
An arm is thrust in his direction, the index finger barely an inch away from hitting Ingo. A split second later, a thunderous voice booms out from the specter, loud and distorted and sounding like it came from the depths of hell itself:
[“ALL ABboARdDDddD!!!!!!”]
Ingo couldn't help it. He screams.
Vaguely, he thinks he hears a dull thud from somewhere outside. A miracle considering the deafening, eardrum-rupturing shriek coming out of his own throat. He darts toward the door to escape, but the door slams open just before he reaches it.
"INGO!!!"
In the doorway stands Emmet, wild-eyed and breathing heavily, his hair sticking out everywhere. One hand rests on the doorknob, while his other is wrapped around . . . a machete? The absurd sight snaps Ingo out of his panic. Where on earth did his brother even get that?
"Is it the cops?! Museum curators?!" Emmet raises the machete menacingly, manic grin verging on a snarl that threatens grievous bodily harm. Behind him, Chandelure burns brighter, his purple flames enhancing the frightening glower on Emmet's face. "Where are they?!"
Ingo points shakily at the intruder. Ah, now he regrets screaming so loudly. Whatever Emmet is about to do will never be accepted by the police as self-defense, and Ingo is in no condition to be paying bail or helping his brother hide evidence. Emmet can't be sent to prison now, they've only just reunited! He can't spend another 20 years waiting just to see his twin again!
The only option left is to hide in the mountains. It's far from the optimal environment for a man used to civilization, but they can make it work. Ingo is confident he still has enough mountaineering and foraging skills ingrained in him to assist in Emmet's survival in the wild. Plus the benefit of him being dead is that only one of them needs to have plastic surgery done should Emmet wish to reintegrate back into society once the statute of limitations is up. It would be cruel to keep his brother away from the trains they love for the rest of his life.
And if anyone would still recognize Emmet afterwards and attempt to report him to the police, well . . . no one can prosecute a wild Yamask for behaving like the ghost pokémon that it is.
But instead of tearing into the man like a vengeful Zoroark and catalyzing Ingo's own descent into criminality, Emmet only blinks, a confused expression on his face. He lets go of the doorknob to pat at the wall until he finds the switch, and soon light floods the room, chasing away the darkness to reveal . . . him?
Ingo rubs at his eyes. No, he's not just seeing things. That is definitely him. Or at least, the Ingo from before Hisui. Same face, same hair, same uniform (in hindsight, it's embarrassing how he didn't even recognize the clothes he died in when in pristine condition). The only difference is the strange, almost delicate-looking texture of the skin. And the broken neck. And the garbled voice. And all the metal wires sticking out from the joints. And- yeah, okay, it still looks like an inhuman abomination, but it is very obviously an Ingo-like inhuman abomination, which only raises more questions.
Emmet tuts, wagging his finger at the . . . thing. “Ingo! Play nice." He takes a step closer, and the strange figure twists further to focus its attention on his brother as if it had some sort of sensor that detects proximity. Only it twists too far, and with a loud snap! the head lands on the bed, sending another puff of dust onto the air. "Hmm. You are sorely in need of repairs."
[“DddDue to unforeseen cir-circumstances, this train will be switching tracks for maintenance and will not continue operations for the rest of the dDDday. Please DI-di-disembark at the platform. You may transfer to the next train which will be arriving in 2 minutes. We apologize for the inconvenience!”]
"So, introductions! Ingo, meet Ingo. He's been keeping me company the past few years."
Ingo stares at his brother, then at the Ingo impostor, then finally at Chandelure, who simply shrugs at him. “Just go along with it,” he chimes. “That's what we do.”
He returns his gaze to Emmet, who is looking back at him expectantly. “You created this?” He points at the other Ingo with one hand and then at Emmet with the other.
Emmet nods happily. “Yup, I made him. I was verrry lonely. Oh, but don't think I was trying to replace you! In my heart you two are but two halves of the same Ingo I know and love. I care for you both in equal measure.” He pats both Ingos on the head reassuringly.
[“Please mindddDD the gap. Keep your hands and feet clear from the closing dDDdDoors, and keep an eye on your belongings at all times.”]
"Insightful as always, Ingo! It's a shame Elesa is scared of you, she would do well to listen to your advice and stop losing her stuff allll the time." Ah, Elesa! She's the one who liked watching the cutthroat cooking show, right? Ingo makes an inquisitive noise, Emmet tilting his head in response. “Hmm? Oh, wait . . . do you remember who Elesa is, brother? She's our honorary sister. We should tell her you're back, she'll be verrry happy. She'll probably be verrry annoying too since she was right about you being dead. But! I'll be having the last word once she finds out you and Ingo here are friends and that he isn't, and I quote, 'too creepy to not star in everyone's nightmares'.”
Ingo stares another moment longer at the artificial Ingo, scrutinizing every inch of the technological marvel (and possible affront to Arceus), before he finally nods. Well, if this thing means so much to his brother, then he'll just have to get along with it. Who knows, they might even end up as really good friends.
A loud screech claws its way out of the thing's voice box, making Ingo wince. . . . Maybe he can try getting along with it some other time.
----
“Elesa? Please open the door.”
“No.”
There's silence for a whole minute. Then:
“. . . Please, Elesa? We're really sorry.”
“No.”
Silence again, this time lasting slightly longer. She ignores the low murmurs of conversation on the other side of the door to bury her head further into her arms. Eventually the sound of retreating footsteps follows, and Elesa lets out a shaky sigh.
And to think today started out as a good day. A normal day-off free of responsibilities. No scheduled photoshoot, no gym challengers, just her and her pokémon heading out to the newly-opened spa a couple of blocks away before Emmet suddenly showed up at her apartment asking for a battle. Where did things go wrong?
A small part of her thinks it can all be traced back to the day Ingo disappeared more than 4 years ago. A larger part thinks that Emmet sending out his own dead twin as his first pokémon is the one to blame.
A soft clatter and a cold breeze draws Elesa's attention. She peeks out from the safety of her arms and sees the Yamask passing through her door, freezing like a Deerling in headlights at being caught. It babbles something unintelligible, probably apologies, before attempting to quickly phase back out of her room.
“Wait,” she croaks out.
The pokémon stops.
“Are you . . . really Ingo?”
Watching her carefully, the Yamask slowly nods in the affirmative. It curls its tail closer to itself, the mask that sent Elesa into tears earlier missing. Still on the other side of the door, she assumes. Without the image of Ingo's face engraved on a golden mask, she would never think the pokémon in front of her to be anything unusual.
Except, that isn't really true, is it? Not with the Yamask's mouth pulled down into a familiar frown, or that glitter of human-like intelligence in its eyes when its gaze lands on the spa flyer on the floor, very clearly reading the printed words . . .
. . . Or the familiar way the pokémon wrings its hands together as it looks back at her with concern, as if wanting to comfort her but not wanting to cross any boundaries.
Elesa tentatively offers a hand, and the Yamask- Ingo takes the cue. He holds her hand between his now much tinier ones, patting it gently as he gives her reassuring coos. The "choo, choo" sound emitting from his throat like a miniature train makes her chuckle.
They stay like that for a few minutes longer before Elesa heaves another sigh. She wipes her remaining tears away with her free hand and pulls herself up using the door. Ingo hums in question at her determined expression. She's spent long enough crying, the time is ripe for action. And right now there's only one thing to do.
Emmet is sitting on the couch, immediately getting up at the creak of the door. The smile on his face is strained, shrinking when she strides toward him with purpose, Ingo trailing behind her. “Elesa, I-”
“Is this why you went to Sinnoh alone?!” She punches Emmet in the arm with enough force to make him flinch. Ingo squawks in surprise. “Why didn't you take me with you, idiot?!”
Emmet averts his eyes. “. . . When Lenora called me about discovering Ingo's . . . fate . . . I thought about what you said last time. How you sounded certain that Ingo had . . . passed, and I insisted you were wrong. But Lenora had proof that you were right. So . . .”
Elesa stared at him in outrage as the pieces finally clicked. “You- you thought I'd be rubbing it in your face that Ingo's dead?!”
Emmet's smile twists into a grimace. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
She swiftly delivers another punch to his arm, Emmet whimpering a pathetic "ow", before she envelopes him in a fierce hug. “You . . . dumbass! You . . .” she sniffles. Great, so much for no more crying. Emmet's arms snake around her to return the hug with just as much strength.
“I am Emmet. I was a dumbass then. I am a dumbass now for trying to surprise you through a pokémon battle.”
“No, that doesn't make you a dumbass. That makes you a dick,” she counters. “That is not how you reintroduce your brother to society as a pokémon.” She glances over at Ingo, who is hovering next to them uncertainly, tail wrapped tightly around his reacquired mask. She frees one arm to pull him into their hug. “How are you even a Yamask? Yamasks don't come from people who've been dead for only 4 years.”
“Ingo has been dead for centuries.”
Elesa pulls back to stare at the two. The twins both nod at her seriously. “Really? How . . . ?”
Emmet shrugs. “Seems 'Alolan ultra wormhole theory' was the correct stop.”
“Still . . . Sinnoh? That's on the other side of the world. It's not like you were anywhere near the Cave of Being when you vanished.” A thought occurs to her. “Hey, do you remember what happened that day, Ingo? How you disappeared?”
Ingo shakes his head, frown deepening as he chirps.
"I guess that's understandable. It has been a few centuries on your end." It was just a normal day too, based on what she heard from Emmet. Elesa bites her lip at the memory. That night had been . . . hard. Emmet had blocked it out as far as she can tell, and given how distraught he was back then she never tried to bring it up ever for fear he might relive the night. She never meant to let it slip that she thought Ingo was dead, but . . .
Twins in Unova share a special bond. If anyone would be able to sense that Ingo had perished, it would be Emmet.
There was a reason why Elesa was so certain of the Truth.
Elesa shakes her head. No, there's no point bringing it up. The past is the past. The Ideal might not have become the Truth, but Ingo is back here with them, albeit in an unexpected form, and that's good enough for her. “I'm glad you're back, Ingo. You were definitely 85% of Emmet's impulse control.”
“He is not. I have enough impulse control on my own.”
“Oh really?” Elesa raises a brow at him. “Need I remind you of why you got temporarily suspended from work 4 years ago?”
“Elesa, no,” Emmet warns, panic evident despite the smile plastered on his face. Ingo, seeing Emmet's reaction, obviously has his curiosity piqued. He stares at her with the imploring gaze of someone ready to deliver judgment upon their younger sibling at the first hint of reported wrongdoing, so of course Elesa, with a well-practiced tattletale's grin, obliges.
“Emmet had a challenger on the Doubles Train. A tourist from Johto. Just some kid, maybe 12, but you know how young they start their pokémon journeys in those regions.” Elesa waves her hand. “Anyway! Kid wanted to try out Singles, but of course it was closed. So he went on the Doubles and went up against Emmet, and asked all innocently, ‘why isn't the Singles Train running?’”
“He didn't ask innocently, he was trash-talking me,” Emmet mumbles, face buried in his gloved hands.
"I watched the footage, Emmet, you can't fool me. You know what this doofus said to the poor kid, Ingo? The poor orphan kid? He said, 'My brother went to the cigarette store and never came back. Or was that your father?'"
Ingo glowers at Emmet, who is very determined to not meet his brother's eyes. He mumbles something that sounded suspiciously like, “not my fault he can't take a joke”. Unfortunately for him, Ingo hears that, screeching in response and slapping him upside the head.
“Ow. Why must you two show your love through violence?” Emmet whines, dodging Ingo's next ‘act of love’.
“Oh, psh, you'll live.” Elesa waves him off, not even bothering to hide her smirk. “This is payback for using your suspension and your engineering degree to bring Paper-maché Ingo into existence.” She leans in closer to the Yamask and stage-whispers, "Do you know how many kids he traumatized with that thing at Gear Station before the mayor himself had to come down and demand Emmet keep it at home? How Gastly, right?"
"That's barely even a pun, Elesa. I am disappointed at your lack of effort."
Elesa paid him no mind, not when the Yamask's frown screws up into a familiar not-smile as he laughs a familiar loud, hiccuping laugh. Heh, still got it.
----
Elsewhere, in a dilapidated temple on the peak of a particular mountain, a missing young girl is finally found, injured and crying but very much alive.
“Everything will be okay,” Cynthia tries to soothe her. The emergency medical services she phoned will be arriving soon. “You're safe now, Dawn, you're back home.”
Dawn only cries harder.