Chapter Text
“Emmet.”
Emmet breathes his way into awareness. There’s a great bright light before him, blinding and awful in its glory. It engulfs the endless darkness within which it resides, drawing everything in towards it, allowing nothing but itself.
Emmet, still languid with sleep, does not quite comprehend this. He has the brief, fleeting thought that he should shield his eyes lest they be burned away, but the thought slips away as quick as it came. He has no eyes to cover and no limbs to cover them with regardless.
“I am Emmet,” He says, for once an apt response.
The light throbs- shifts- pulses- sways- it moves, and Emmet is awash with a wave of feeling.
Pity. Sorrow. Guilt. Apology. Determination. A bit of pride. A bit of love. It’s all mangled and mushed together into some overwhelming amalgamation that is, somehow, paradoxically, diluted so severely that it feels like nothing at all, a distant and holy apathy.
“What are you?” Emmet asks, for nothing human or otherwise mortal could exist in such a fashion.
Another shift in the light. Though there is no influx of emotion to pair with it, the power of it resonates deep in Emmet’s chest (or what approximates as a chest- he is not much of anything, right now). An iceberg’s cliff of glory breaks and crashes into the ocean contained within him.
“I am that which humans call Arceus,” It conveys (because it speaks no words, truly- it’s more akin to an inkling of an impression of a thought that Emmet has to try to splice together on his own).
Emmet repeats the name into the emptiness. Arceus. He knows that name. It’s… The Sinnohan creator god, correct? It created the Lake Guardians, if memory serves correct, and the Creation Trio, and at the very least Sinnoh, if not the entirety of the world. …He thinks.
“Yes,” It- Arceus- murmurs, almost proud, “Mine hands did create the land upon which thee endures.”
Emmet cannot think of anything that would be appropriate to say in response. What could anyone say, really, when faced with some lambent might that has designated itself the Almighty? This is as off-script as off-script gets.
Arceus does not seem to mind his silence, if it even notices. “I visit thee to right wrongs that were only allowed to occur due to ignorance and pride in the face of evil.”
Despite that making no sense to Emmet, his heart starts to jackhammer anyways, just a second’s worth, some anticipatory thrill that he has no reason for yet. Almost immediately, it’s calmed by a warm, soft comfort that settles over him like snow. There is no doubt in his mind that these feelings, both now and earlier, so distinctly alien to him, are those of Arceus, bleeding out and over to him.
The light gains a distinctly embarrassed glow to it. Emmet does not know how this is possible, and yet it is so.
“Ah. So you can read my mind, then?”
“Aye. Thou hast nothing that can be hidden from me. Not in this realm.”
“How horrifying,” Emmet says aloud, just to spite it. Luckily for his everlasting soul, cupped in the palm of Arceus’s hand as it is, the deity is only amused.
“I apologize. There is nothing I can do to quell it.” The light shifts once again, giving the impression of a man adjusting his clothing before preparing to speak; lo and behold, Arceus does. “It is only due to a most grievous error on my end that thine brother was ripped from thee.”
What.
In an instant, all of the air exits Emmet’s chest, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. Even Arceus’s artificial blanket of divine love is not enough; despite having no lungs to breathe with, Emmet is near to wheezing for air, what amounts to his body responding in the only way it knows how. It’s as if a freight train of grief has run him right over. His very soul feels battered and bruised by the strength of it.
Arceus continues on, heedless to his struggling. “I have come to rectify this mistake directly. I have learned from my last attempt; staying out of things does not yield the results I desire. The hero has succeeded in their divine mission, but, in doing so, has changed the events of history so completely that I fear the stream of time may have divulged into a new river.”
“Stop,” Emmet gasps out, “Stop.” Arceus stops.
Ingo has been missing for a very, very long time. Some might say that three years is not very long at all, but it has felt like whole lifetimes to Emmet. There’s an awful, gaping wound at his side that has only festered and never healed. He refuses to let it; He picks at it and picks at it and picks at it. Ingo is not dead- he knows this- and no matter what people tell him, he will not settle down long enough to let the concept sink its fangs into him. He keeps Ingo at his side through grief and memory.
This last year, especially, has been hell. In the metaphor of a wound, this is the stage of feverous delirium brought about by an unhealed injury. Emmet has been sleeping less and less every day that passes. His mind is in constant overdrive and never seems to operate as it should. He suspects that it may have long overheated, perhaps irreparably, but he will not slow down to investigate. Something has been prodding at him for months now, and recently, he has felt as if he was on the cusp of something just out of reach- if he just turns the right corner, checks the right stone, something will happen. Something important.
He has not stepped foot inside Gear Station for nearly four months. He did not mean for this to happen- he left with intentions to return- but even just the thought of going back alone is nauseating. Instead, he has dedicated all of his time to the search. The local police have proved inept. The national police found nothing and gave up within the first six months. Interpol is full of half-mad men and women who provide him with nothing. He’s made the move to nonhuman help. A week was spent creating an extensive and detailed list of any Pokémon that could have even a sliver of a chance to help, and since that week at the beginning of the four months, he has been making his way steadily down. The regular Pokémon have long since been examined and dismissed. He has hit the section of mythical and legendary Pokémon.
Perhaps this is why Arceus has summoned him here. It intends to warn him, maybe, to stop him in advance before he meddles in affairs he should not. (The possibility that Arceus may offer him assistance crosses his mind- it is on the list, after all- but he quickly dismisses it as an absurdity. It was only on there as an absolute last resort.)
Arceus may desire to punish him, even. He’s already searched for Jirachi- He was very focused on that until he hit dead end after dead end after dead end. He’s letting the beaten Ponyta lie, for now, but he does intend to return to following Jirachi’s trail. Is it disgraceful, maybe, to be considering the capture of a fellow deity when placed before the creator of the universe?
Shit. It hits him quite suddenly. The searching, and the sleepless nights, and the mania, and the fact that he’s literally stood before God. He feels slightly ill. Normally he can put such thoughts on pause if he has an outlet of energy, but here in the endless void, he has no body to move with, so it’s all just- festering inside him, boiling up and up and up- Fuck, he wishes he could just move-
And it is so.
Between one second and the next, Emmet exists past the immaterial, still in his pajamas from when he went to bed. He’s standing upright, sort of- It’s hard to comprehend linear occupancy when there is nothing but yourself, the creator of all, and a distinct absence of anything else. The ground, or what approximates as the ground, is solid beneath his feet. He lets himself crumble down to sit and draws his knees up to his chest. His kneecaps dig into his eyes and his hands find their opposite legs to clutch at.
In, and out. In, and out. He lets go of his legs long enough to shake out his hands like a dog shaking out water, then squeezes himself again. Repeat.
Indeterminable time passes. Or maybe it doesn’t. Emmet collects his thoughts enough to communicate. He needs to know what exactly is going on.
“My brother. Where is he?” He demands, uncaring of the potential consequence. (He does not look up.)
“Safe,” Arceus says. It almost seems gentle.
Emmet spits his words out anyways. “That is not what I asked.”
Arceus- thrums. That’s the only way he can think to describe it. A mildly annoyed thrum.
“I was attempting to tell thee, before I was stopped. Should thou permit it, I will continue.” Sarcasm. Lovely. He’s getting sarcasm from God.
Emmet looks up. He’s desperate, and despondent, and a little bit hysteric, at this point. It has been over three years since he has last seen his brother. He is not above begging and pleading at Arceus’s feet for even a moment’s more time. In fact, he’s gearing up to do just that when Arceus speaks.
“There will be no need for any of that.” The pity in its voice is awful, but Emmet will not dispute being pitiful. Not now. Any brownie points are fair game. He will gladly let Arceus think him weak if it means getting what he wants.
There’s a tremendous sigh from Arceus, and then the light shifts. Warps. In the distance, the visage people have carved into wooden statues and stone walls stands, white and gold and green and grey and powerful. It looks very, very far away, but it’s within reach in only a few great strides. Emmet wonders at just how insurmountable the size of the light must have been.
It lowers its head and gently presses itself against Emmet’s… entire upper body, really. It is rather large. It nudges at him like an incessant Purrloin until he reaches over and puts him palm to the top of its head. The texture is so strange that he almost pulls away immediately, but after a moment to get used to it, it’s actually quite pleasant. Aside from that, it’s cool to the touch, which does not make much sense to Emmet. Should a blazing bright being such as Arceus not be as hot as the flames it seemed to have been made up of?
“I am here to help,” Arceus says, its voice no less overpowering despite its more manageable size. It rams at him again, still gentle. “Thy brother is as safe as he can be, right now. I intend to give him to thee once again, without tearing him away from those he has come to cherish, as has been done unto him in the past. This is my apology to thee.
“He is with my chosen, the hero, Akari. They are both roughly one-hundred and thirty years in the past, in the region then known as Hisui, now known as Sinnoh. Akari’s actions have shifted the tides of history enough so that my children, Palkia and Dialga, have created a new timeline, so as to preserve this one, rather than risking the total unraveling of all of space-time. Snipping a thread so as to preserve the entire tapestry, so to speak.
“While the decision irks me, made without my consent as it was, it also provides ample opportunity for me to perform actions I would not otherwise be able to perform.” Arceus prods at him once again until he looks it in the face. Eyes trained on Arceus’s brow, Emmet feels the power of a vow from the Almighty wash over him. “I will strive to create a passageway betwixt worlds, so that thou, thy brother, and anyone else thee deems worthy may traverse at thy discretion.”
Emmet, at some point, had begun mindlessly stroking his hand over Arceus’s head. He worries that this may be inappropriate, and that Arceus may do something like smite him for it, but Arceus somehow manages to convey the sensation of nipping at him despite having no mouth to nip with when he attempts to stop. He continues to pet the creator.
“...Allow me to repeat what you have just said, so that I may ensure we are traveling the same tracks.” Emmet begins to count on his fingers with his unoccupied hand. “My brother- the one who has been utterly untraceable for three years- is in the past,”
“Aye.”
“In another region,”
“Aye.”
“In another universe.”
“Not quite so. It is identical to the one you know, up until the creation of a deal ‘tween man and god.”
“I will not ask you to elaborate.” Not Ingo? Don’t care.
“An acceptable choice. But I digress; The timeline of now and the timeline within which Ingo resides is…” Arceus pauses. There is a sensation like something prodding at the inside of Emmet’s head. “I suppose it would be comparable to two identical trains, manufactured at the same time, by the same people. One train is built to completion, but the second train is stopped halfway through and sent off to another company to finish the work.”
“Is this distinction at all important to me?” Emmet asks, ignoring what he suspects was Arceus searching his head for train metaphors.
“...Nay. I do not believe it so.”
“Then I don’t care.”
Arceus huffs out what Emmet thinks may be a laugh, or whatever a soundless, barely-coherent equivalent to a laugh may be. He doesn’t know. Being in this place so devoid of mortality is starting to make his head hurt. If he looks away from Arceus for too long, the emptiness burns his eyes.
It’s not really darkness- like when you close your eyes and see shapes and colors swirling around- nor is it quite like looking down a massive pit, squinting to glimpse the bottom. It’s nothing. It’s the active absence of everything. It’s the origin of creation. It’s the birthplace of Arceus.
“I feel as if I am not meant to be here,” Emmet blurts, struck by a sudden overwhelm. It comes in the form of a hyperawareness of his situation, sitting on the floor (or something close to it) in the birthplace of God with his hands all over the capital-i It, all the while still being in his pajamas. It’s very surreal.
Arceus hums. The sound presses against Emmet’s eardrums like he’s gone underwater. “Nothing is meant to be here, truly,” It muses, “Even my children cannot stand it for very long.” It turns to glance out at the void, then looks back at Emmet. "Do not fret. There are many, many precautions in place. The last two who passed through my realm were stripped of their memories. I am making an active effort to keep yours in place.”
A shock of cold fear bolts through Emmet. “I would prefer to depart from this station with all of my mind intact, thank you very much. Is there perhaps another way for you to tell me what you know? Or- another way entirely?” He’s pushing his luck and he knows it, talking to Arceus the way that he is, but as the knowledge that this deity looked away from Ingo’s disappearance slowly sinks in, any modicum of respect he may have had for it has begun to dissipate.
There’s something wholly horrifying, to him, about the idea of losing his memories. What would he be without them, at this point? He does not know if he could even fully operate without them. He relies on past encounters to make it through regular conversation. He carries Ingo with him through memory every day. He puts himself to sleep reminiscing. Just the thought of having them stripped from him is nothing short of awful.
Arceus manages to pull a face at him, despite having no discernable features. Sourly, it asks, “Would thouhave preferred for me to approach thee at thy place of work? Thy home?”
“Yes,” Emmet replies, blunt as can be, “I would accept either of those options, actually. I would enjoy not losing my memories very much.” He knows Arceus won’t actually do such a thing, of course. It’s notorious throughout its mythos for restraining itself to dreams and signs.
Arceus narrows its eyes. Foreign emotions flood Emmet again. Competitiveness. Intrigue. (Amusement? Excitement?) Emmet does not like any of it. It puts him on edge. He doesn’t like that something he said has managed to make Arceus competitive.
“I can make thou eat thy words, as they say.”
…What the fuck. No, no, no, nope-
“Nobody says that,” Emmet replies before his mind catches up to his mouth. “Nobody says ‘thou’ or ‘thy’ anymore.” He pretends that he isn’t metaphorically sweating bullets. “May I ask what the hell is happening? I think that we may be operating in two different stations right now. I am not following the conversation.” Is Arceus going to challenge him to a fight? He isn’t sure if he could take Arceus in a fight. He’ll make an attempt, of course, but he is loathe to admit that the scales are probably very skewed, and they aren’t favoring him.
“Thou hast presented me with both a challenge and a solution.”
“What.” Oh, fuck, did he offend it? Being smote was not how he expected to go out.
“‘Twas a correct move, doubting thy safety in this environment. I am doubtful of it as well. Though powerful, I am not infallible. However, I felt that I had no other realistic choices, and, working under that assumption, I chose to bring thou before me anyways.”
Oh, God. (Can he even say that here?) Emmet thinks he can see where this is going. He does not like it. He feels he has made a grave mistake.
“Thou hast given me permission to visit thee in the mortal plane. As this is the much safer course of action-”
“Fuck,” Emmet barks. This is what he gets for being spiteful, apparently.
“I will allow thee return to thy body, and will make a visit to the physical plane posthaste. Prepare thine self. Be ready.”
…
…
…
Emmet wakes up.