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for i_am_emmet
[Ingo has been in this land for a little while now.
There wasn't any grand cataclysm. No rift that he's aware of. He did not fall from the sky. One day, he simply woke up here, lying on the side of the road with a stranger fussing over him in a language that he hardly understood.
He'd quickly made excuses - which he's quite sure she did not understand - and fled into the nearby forest. That's where he's been living, if one could call it that. How do you cope with losing your home, your people, everything you know, for a second time? How do you keep going when you do remember what you've lost, and know that there's no way home?
For a while, he didn't. He doesn't know how many days he passed in a blur of grief and despair, too hollowed-out to consider doing anything but sleep or mourn. It was his Pokemon who cared for him then. He offered to break their Pokeballs and set them free, guilt-ridden that he'd dragged them away from their home too, but none of them left. Instead Gliscor and Tangrowth took it in turns to go out and gather food for everyone. Machamp built a shelter of logs and branches, and Alakazam sat with him and woke him from his nightmares. They all guarded him from wild Pokemon. There aren't too many, or else they aren't so aggressive here. Once, there was a strange black-furred Zoroark, but they attacked it so fiercely that it never even attempted to become Ingo-in-white.
If not for them, he would not have survived this second derailment.
And it's for their sake that he eventually forces himself to begin moving again. He cannot let them waste their lives on him like this. No matter what it feels like, his tracks have not reached an end just yet.
But where do they lead? His first tentative venture out of the forest brings several discoveries. For one: he can't communicate very well with the people here. The language is one he understands! Sort of! But it feels like old, rusty gears in his mind. Written words are easier, but the people just speak too fast and too much. No one will pause to let him try and translate. In fact, most of the people he sees on the road avoid him altogether. It seems outsiders aren't welcome in this land - or, maybe, he just cuts a rather unpleasant figure. His standards of living have slipped.
And this place! To the east of his forest, there's an enormous bridge made of towering metal and glass; to the west, there's a city that's very similar. He attempts to venture into it once, only to find the lights and noise overwhelming. With a blinding headache, he flees back to the forest.
Maybe if he spent time there, he could get used to it. But what's the point? Why should he start from scratch again, carving out a place for himself in a strange land, when it can be torn away from him again so easily? He can't go through it all over again. He won't live through this a third time. The loss of his memories was probably the only reason he settled into Hisui so easily. As much as he's always wondered who he used to be, he's starting to think the amnesia was a blessing. But he didn't forget Hisui when he came here, so he doubts he'll forget this place if he's ever taken somewhere else.
No. There's no place for him here. He doesn't want to fight to make one. So eventually, after having managed to acquire a map, he forms a different plan. This region has a large port city. If he gets there, and finds a way to earn his keep, surely he can barter passage back to Hisui? It's clear to him by now that he won't find any of his friends or clanmates waiting. There's no going home for him. But however long it may have been, the land will still be there. He can return to the familiarity of Mount Coronet, and maybe one day his bones will rest near those of his clan. It will be no less lonely than living here in the forest, but at least he will know where he is and how he fits.
The first step of the journey is to get through the city - Nimbasa, according to the map - and exit by the southern road. It's an intimidating prospect. There are no guards or city walls, but they obviously don't much like outsiders, and he cannot pass for a local. What, then, to do? He spends a day or two scouting it out. The bustle barely dies down even at night. How do they keep the lights burning so long? When do these people sleep?
Ingo finally decides to set out in the early hours of the morning. The streets are still brightly lit, but at least they're quiet then; most of the people have gone. It should be fine? But maybe he's just developed some sort of aversion to the place - his head still starts pounding before he's even halfway through. It's the sort of headache that makes it hard to see, much less navigate. Luckily, he isn't the only one with a good sense of direction here; he releases Probopass.]
We are trying to leave this city to the south. Can you help guide me there?
[Probopass offers him a floating stone arm to lean on. And they move through Nimbasa like that - a little slow, Ingo leaning heavily on his Pokemon. He's a shadow of the man he was in Hisui: gaunt, bedraggled, shaggy and bearded. He hasn't been eating even as well as he used to, and certainly hasn't been attending to his usual grooming standards. Well, who's left to care how he looks?]
There wasn't any grand cataclysm. No rift that he's aware of. He did not fall from the sky. One day, he simply woke up here, lying on the side of the road with a stranger fussing over him in a language that he hardly understood.
He'd quickly made excuses - which he's quite sure she did not understand - and fled into the nearby forest. That's where he's been living, if one could call it that. How do you cope with losing your home, your people, everything you know, for a second time? How do you keep going when you do remember what you've lost, and know that there's no way home?
For a while, he didn't. He doesn't know how many days he passed in a blur of grief and despair, too hollowed-out to consider doing anything but sleep or mourn. It was his Pokemon who cared for him then. He offered to break their Pokeballs and set them free, guilt-ridden that he'd dragged them away from their home too, but none of them left. Instead Gliscor and Tangrowth took it in turns to go out and gather food for everyone. Machamp built a shelter of logs and branches, and Alakazam sat with him and woke him from his nightmares. They all guarded him from wild Pokemon. There aren't too many, or else they aren't so aggressive here. Once, there was a strange black-furred Zoroark, but they attacked it so fiercely that it never even attempted to become Ingo-in-white.
If not for them, he would not have survived this second derailment.
And it's for their sake that he eventually forces himself to begin moving again. He cannot let them waste their lives on him like this. No matter what it feels like, his tracks have not reached an end just yet.
But where do they lead? His first tentative venture out of the forest brings several discoveries. For one: he can't communicate very well with the people here. The language is one he understands! Sort of! But it feels like old, rusty gears in his mind. Written words are easier, but the people just speak too fast and too much. No one will pause to let him try and translate. In fact, most of the people he sees on the road avoid him altogether. It seems outsiders aren't welcome in this land - or, maybe, he just cuts a rather unpleasant figure. His standards of living have slipped.
And this place! To the east of his forest, there's an enormous bridge made of towering metal and glass; to the west, there's a city that's very similar. He attempts to venture into it once, only to find the lights and noise overwhelming. With a blinding headache, he flees back to the forest.
Maybe if he spent time there, he could get used to it. But what's the point? Why should he start from scratch again, carving out a place for himself in a strange land, when it can be torn away from him again so easily? He can't go through it all over again. He won't live through this a third time. The loss of his memories was probably the only reason he settled into Hisui so easily. As much as he's always wondered who he used to be, he's starting to think the amnesia was a blessing. But he didn't forget Hisui when he came here, so he doubts he'll forget this place if he's ever taken somewhere else.
No. There's no place for him here. He doesn't want to fight to make one. So eventually, after having managed to acquire a map, he forms a different plan. This region has a large port city. If he gets there, and finds a way to earn his keep, surely he can barter passage back to Hisui? It's clear to him by now that he won't find any of his friends or clanmates waiting. There's no going home for him. But however long it may have been, the land will still be there. He can return to the familiarity of Mount Coronet, and maybe one day his bones will rest near those of his clan. It will be no less lonely than living here in the forest, but at least he will know where he is and how he fits.
The first step of the journey is to get through the city - Nimbasa, according to the map - and exit by the southern road. It's an intimidating prospect. There are no guards or city walls, but they obviously don't much like outsiders, and he cannot pass for a local. What, then, to do? He spends a day or two scouting it out. The bustle barely dies down even at night. How do they keep the lights burning so long? When do these people sleep?
Ingo finally decides to set out in the early hours of the morning. The streets are still brightly lit, but at least they're quiet then; most of the people have gone. It should be fine? But maybe he's just developed some sort of aversion to the place - his head still starts pounding before he's even halfway through. It's the sort of headache that makes it hard to see, much less navigate. Luckily, he isn't the only one with a good sense of direction here; he releases Probopass.]
We are trying to leave this city to the south. Can you help guide me there?
[Probopass offers him a floating stone arm to lean on. And they move through Nimbasa like that - a little slow, Ingo leaning heavily on his Pokemon. He's a shadow of the man he was in Hisui: gaunt, bedraggled, shaggy and bearded. He hasn't been eating even as well as he used to, and certainly hasn't been attending to his usual grooming standards. Well, who's left to care how he looks?]
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[Ingo didn't actually recognize most of the mushrooms! He only knew they were safe because the Pokemon were the ones to gather them, and Tangrowth at least would know.]
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[He had it much easier back home, of course; there were Gingko merchants, and the people in Jubilife and back with the clan. Ingo never would have had to go hungry, if he failed to hunt or forage sufficiently. But of course he preferred to provide for himself as much as possible!]
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[He doesn't, exactly, but it's clear enough that Emmet can get someone else to cook for him. Maybe like Beni. Ingo hopes that won't be too expensive, but he's starting to realize that there's little use in protesting along those lines.]
Either way, I do not have a weak stomach. [He'd probably reconsider if he actually saw what pizza is, though!]
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[It's not particularly processed, of course, so it seems like eggs are safe.]