" The path to victory may not be direct, but the right direction will lead you straight to it. Do you have the right coordinations to reach your destination? " ( affiliated PKMN rp blog for Subway Master Ingo. )
☼ - for my character’s reaction to having found yours, fast asleep.
One could scarcely fathom that this young man had once been the notorious Natural Harmonia Gropius. His smiles are as sparing as his words, each of them keen and arrived at through careful consideration. It was clear he lived without excess, was a constant employer of rumination as made plain by his questions, his frankness, and his courage to remain categorical about his past. There was no room to second guess his sincerity, although Ingo had never looked unfavorably on his background. As it stands, light political and metaphysical discourse had led the Subway Master to find even less reason not to respect Natural.
He travels to make reparations, to absorb the reality and assimilate within which Pokemon and humans dwell in harmony. It was the stigmatic image projected upon him by the elder Gropius that perpetually cast a defaming shadow behind the ex-Plasma, but Natural does not utter a word concerning his relation to his father. Ingo does not ask.
While the Battle Subway strongly begged to differ under the fire of Plasma’s ideals, Ingo adopted a midway stance on the convictions preached by Natural in particular. Continues to, in fact, and extended his sentiments truthfully and without ambiguity through the gentle steam of simple but choice tea.
When Ingo returns with the young man’s cup refilled, he finds he has grown motionless, eyes either downcast or shut. He does not respond even as the depot chief stoops to place his beverage on the coffee table between them. The smile lingering on his features is tranquil, the rise and fall of his chest gradual. His hand rests comfortably in the dark, soft tufts of his Zorua’s mane. The Pokemon appears to slumber deeply with his head upon his trainer’s head, but pops a single impish eye open as Ingo approaches with his conductor’s coat in hand.
The Subway Master yields, gesturing soundlessly, touching a gloved finger to his lips. Zorua‘ s eloquent eyes read a watchful ceding, his gaze remaining on Ingo as he stretches his arms before him. The fox Pokemon springs to his feet, treading in tiny circles upon the chesterfield cushion as Ingo covers his trainer with the makeshift blanket. He then pads onto the draping jacket and restores his former place on Natural’s lap. The young man’s hand moves languidly back across the Pokemon’s fur, stilling there.
Ingo adjusts the thermostat of the room and returns to his seat on the sofa opposite of the sleeping pair, crossing his legs and lacing his fingers. Gazes at them with fleeting thoughts on mind, before shutting his own eyes, pensive. Had his insight been of some help after all?
☼ - for my character’s reaction to having found yours, fast asleep.
She has a way with making the most of her talents, as is evident with the way she burns herself out by the end of the day. The Whitney he had acquainted with on day one had only posed one side of her, a volatile streak, or so it seemed to him. It was no overstatement to suggest that her gusty, tearful reaction to her initial defeat in the Battle Subway had been enough to cause Ingo bouts of cold sweat when in her presence. Despite being well versed on the essentials of motivation, consolation has certainly never been a strong suit.
Thankfully, the days that followed served to appropriately reveal otherwise of the type of personality Whitney truly is.
Beneath the alarming proclivity towards winning was, in fact, a particularly endearing young woman who seems to keep a heart of gold atop of her fine tastes for adventure and enjoyment. Following his direction on the succession of stops to make on the metro line, she was met with much success venturing into her Unovan tour-slash-shopping-spree. She had then stopped by Gear Station to request Ingo’s company on her way home, only to fall asleep in the employees’ commons lounge before the Subway Master could return from a Multi Train challenge.
He approaches her slumbering form, which dozes on the sofa among a great arsenal of colorful shopping bags. Ever circumspect, her Delcatty springs from next to her to the floor. The ruff around her neck thickens imposingly. Quizzical almond eyes glower up at Ingo, subtly reminding of his place, and he raises a hand carefully to demonstrate his worthiness of trust, holding the feline’s gaze. The thump of Whitney falling over onto the cushions interrupts them. They watch as she draws her knees up and cushions the side of her face with her arms, a tiny, fulfilled grin adorning her features as she mumbles in her dreams.
“Mmn… Cake…”
Ingo and the feline exchange looks, her gaze prompting him to make an appropriate choice. Under pressure, Ingo swallows quietly. Adjusts his cap uncomfortably, before tentatively removing his uniform jacket at last.
With a slight pompous air of satisfaction about her, the prim Pokemon jumps weightlessly back onto the sofa. Curling up by her trainer’s head, she watches as the depot chief drapes the coat modestly over her. Straightens himself with an odd look of flusterment, turns, and shuffles away stiffly to make a transceiver call outside the door of the lounge. On his way out, he misses the navy blue gift bag sitting on top the lounge table. The note card attached to its shoestring handles read:
For Mr. Ingo! Sorry I’m totally not very good at picking things that aren’t cute! Just a little something something! Which I hope you will like… – Yours Truly, Whitney
☼ - for my character’s reaction to having found yours, fast asleep.
She is a soundest of sleepers, yet not, he reckons, the most refined.
Granted, the novelist is industrious in her line of work. At times, wholly tireless. Her publications, be they stories or novels, seem to make that fact conspicuous by reading plain like day with their highly empirical stances on the great many trainer experiences she waxes lyrical about.
Indeed, the Subway Master finds her works to be engrossing, in a way which remains true to both life and author. At the same time, they hold a quality which propels the audience through a dramatically changeable ride. It reflects on how Shauntal, who seems to make precise use of literary devices and elements, exhausts herself in order to exact the conveyance of her stories.
“Miss Shauntal?”
Ingo stands by the coffee table, stiff as a board, two mugs filled with steaming tea occupying both hands. He watches as she rests upon unmanageable towers of notebooks and uneven stacks of papers. The manner which the young woman sprawls upon the edge of the table strikes a brief spell of apprehension in him, and the thought of her having blacked out crosses his mind. He then glances at the clock mounted nearby, and reminds himself that they have just topped their second day of interviews.
Without question, she is a tireless young woman. It is no wonder she sits among the most notable of trainers within the region.
Following a moment of contemplative idling, he finally excuses himself under his breath. Setting the cups noiselessly upon a free corner of the makeshift desk, Ingo duly slides the long uniform jacket from his shoulders and eases it around the slumbering novelist. A hand pauses as it passes over her hands, careful not to wake her as it pries a pen from one listless grasp, and a small, silver voice recorder from the other. Ingo powers the device off and sets it aside, before returning to his original seat on the couch directly opposite of hers with tea mug in hand.
He then picks up one of Shauntal’s books, opening it up to page one.
☼ - for my character’s reaction to having found yours, fast asleep.
Something is offbeat, as one would find the second hand of a clock ticking back and forth, perpetually stuck between two seconds. The lights are down in the lounge room, but the subtle, pasty form curled up upon the chesterfield does not go disregarded. A child sleeps. The downy plushy of an Archen is nestled expectantly in Emmet’s tiny arms, as though the tighter the hold, the quicker the realization of the dream the twins share. One day, their starry-eyed archaeologicalinterests would see the renaissance of the Mesozoic era - one fraction of it, at the very least, as children have the tendency to fashion a world out of small articles discovered in the most obscure corners of geographical magazines. Fossil Pokemon had been all of the rage.
Even Ingo had once been so passionate that he would smuggle a flashlight beneath the covers with his younger brother, so that they may intrigue one another over their dream Pokemon team over the monthly digests. Where had that childish ingenuity gone?
“Emmet.”
Ingo’s voice comes out as a low hush. He hesitates when he realizes Emmet is sound asleep, and removes his hand from his shoulder. From atop of his trainer, Archer lifts his head and sleepily regards the older brother, his prismatic wings fanned out like a makeshift blanket. Ingo signals quietly with a hand, before smoothing a palm over the Pokemon’s head, rewarding him for the good behavior.
He tucks a file folder of paperwork beneath his arm, changes his mind, and sets it down upon the coffee table behind him. The manila surface reads, tbc by Emmet. Due 2015-05-20.
Ingo reaches for the fleece throw draped across the back of the sofa. Allows Archer to clamber groggily towards Emmet’s feet, before tucking the blanket around the man’s form. Archer nestles himself by his trainer’s arms. Ingo watches in mild awe as Emmet hums contently, lifts an arm and cuddles the Archeops. An untroubled smile graces his features. The occupants of the sofa are fast asleep once more.
The childhood ingenuity Ingo once had is safe and sound in his younger twin’s possession.
"I remember that you enjoyed this brand of tea so I made it especially for you," Morty says with a pleasant smile, his hand fingering the seal in his pocket. He prays that the paralyzing effects of the tea lasts long enough for him to slap a seal on his 'friend'. He needs to ensure that Ingo returns to his former self. It's his fault for exposing him to spirits in the first place and untrained as he was, it's easy for spirits to possess the man. Well, this one's going to learn a painful lesson.
Possession meme: AU
Interference.
Something about the young man presence feels alien, even to the knowledgeable entity which dwells as a comfortable intruder in this body, with the intelligence of two at its disposal. A search through Ingo’s memory for a name turns up short, much to his mystification. Even hazier are the memories, which could have shed some light upon the Subway Master’s association with this man, who wears the appearance of a fair-haired, upstanding bore with the perpetually mild expression of one who can’t be read into.
Evidently, his claim about the tea is no fib. Ingo’s olfactory receptors pick the scent up favorably, indicating sure history between them. Within graphite eyes a glint of distrust flickers, like the quizzical lash of a Seviper’s tail.
A pity he must share in the battle-crazed man’s tastes and all manner of liking – yet again, perhaps not all. Some manner of liking: he does not share the same criminal feeling of rapport as Ingo does towards this man. Moreover, the interference of Ingo’s whims and physical memories must mean the host has somehow regained some semblance of conscience, and begun challenging him for repossession.
But why so suddenly? Why would he react now, after having slept for so long ever since he lost all jurisdiction over his body? What on earth does this man mean to the Subway Master that he would experience a change of state in his presence? Surely, he must be about as spectacular as the underwhelming way which he dresses. It comes to him as little surprise that Ingo himself appears to feel otherwise. Such respect. In that regard, he has reason to believe that the two really had shared a significant cordiality betwen them. Birds of a feather flock together, after all.
The aroma of the steaming concoction set out before him beckons.
“I remember that you enjoyed this brand of tea so I made it especially for you.”
How pleasant. It would seem that it is time to play charades once more. He wraps his hands around the simple, oriental tea cup. The heat seems to sear through Ingo’s gloves, and a snarl flits across his features beneath the cover of the visor of his hat. The hands being scalded had originally belonged to Ingo, but he feels the pain all the same.
“This tea…”
Not a single instance of memory surfaces to enlighten him even of the label of the beverage. Curses. This timing is too ill for the host to be interfering. After this ordeal, he will be sure to subdue him beyond eternal sleep, so much that recovery will no longer be an option. This body is no longer his right to commandeer.
“Ah, that is…” He places the rim of the cup to his lips, allowing the steam to gather upon Ingo’s skin before he samples it at last. For a moment, he feels as though he isn’t himself.
“I feel pleased to learn that you remembered my fondness for it. You are very considerate… Just as I’ve always known you to be.” He improvises, unwitting to the mistake he has made in the assumption that Ingo and the man have known each other for long. “But if you’ll permit me to ask, why d…”
–?!
He trails off, words derailing from Ingo’s tongue. The tea cup topples from his rigid hands, tossing the remaining contents across the table as he grapples to check the unexpected loss of all sensation. The Subway Master’s joints buckle, but he struggles to sustain balance, struggling to find leverage, but to no avail. This sensation is like plunging earthbound from the atmosphere —— or having the control of his own body robbed from him.
...! …!!
His back hits the floor. The impact knocks his hat away defenselessly. He is pale, his eyes appear alarmed and deceived.
₴ "Ingo...what's happening to you? You're scaring me..."
₴ - Possession Meme.
The dread in the duplicate of his voice earns the other man his interest at last.
Incredible. In the rough two hours that he has endured in this Emmet’s company, he has learned one thing. One thing only: that the Subway Master Ingo’s twin is nothing but a childish excuse for a man. A mere minute spent with the younger of them had already given him the genuine notion to toss this poor, wretched body in front of a docking train. If not for the fact that he had gone through such agonizing lengths to take possession of this body, he may very well do so, just to thoroughly devastate the perpetual state of happiness on Emmet’s face.
Ingo may have put up with it. ‘He’, on the other hand, can hardly withstand it. One hundred and eight existences within him chorus in agreement. To what exact proportions did the Subway Master Ingo’s patience extend, so monumental as to tolerate an entire lifetime of such insufferable antics coming from a carbon copy of his own face?
He wheels around to face him, donning the blank features of Emmet’s dear, cherished older brother. Unlike the vacant gazes he likely always fed him, this expression has some honest substance to it.
Indifference.
“Do you understand why I swallowed the Odd Keystone, Emmet?” He suddenly tests, sparing not a moment of mercy in revealing the very answer to Emmet’s initial question. “Knowing me, Ingo, what is the answer you arrive at after you think, and think twice, and think thrice?”
He takes a seat in the depot chief’s office chair. Gloved fingers lace before him as he stares at the younger man, gaze boring into him intently. He loses interest when his trivia elicits no dismayed reaction, nothing exciting, only a crestfallen look of puzzlement. He then stares through what Ingo once called ‘counterpart’, calculating options with greater potential to them. A single forefinger taps testily at a knuckle. It is the distant rumble of thunder before the inbound storm. The counter runs out of time.
“—- The answer is: there is no way to know! That is, no way for you.”
A simple little brother, and a pitiable, kind older brother who was silly enough to show compassion towards a Pokemon that is known - has always been known - to be of incorrigibly malevolent nature. It is Ingo, who had chosen to let his guard down, who is to blame. Emmet only has his dear twin to condemn for this turnout. But first and foremost, ‘he’ must trash this preposterous attachment that remains between Subway Master Emmet and the shell of the Subway Master Ingo. This is an opportunity for ‘him’ do to what he does very best, to wreak havoc upon all things which all one-hundred and eight souls within him were denied.
Make that one-hundred and nine. One of them is not like the others.
“There is no need for you to think so hard! Don’t waste your time on something you never had any talent for. Instead, strive to spare a minute of consideration from your busy, cluttered mind for all of the inconveniences you have caused us. Troubles you have caused me.”
The tides shift again in Ingo’s stony expression, revealing mockery.
“–’I am Emmet. I won together with Ingo!’ is the tall tale you like to claim before the trainers.” Ingo’s face falls coldly, despite never having changed once in the past hour.“Veerrryyyyy optimistic, are we? It must be fun going all out in a battle when you have someone to clean up after your shortcomings.
“… ‘Everybody smile!’”The grin is a jagged gap, like a fissure in rock. “But I guess there was a reason why your brother was never able to do it, right?”
dailybridgerton
jacobvanloon
areudirty
2087
izzy806
jbbartram-illu
titsay
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
