Chapter Text
When Emmet comes to, he takes a painfully long time to realise that something is Wrong. Really Wrong. So Wrong in fact that he’s decided to use capital letters for emphasis because this is Rrrrrrreally Wrong and he’s a grand total of three millimetres and half a lightbulb away from screaming into the abyss.
Why is everything wrong? Emmet briefly ponders this fact, seemingly putting the question out to his imaginary Twitch Chat like he’s a dollar store Jerma. Or maybe he’s actually the shady social media website Jerma. No. Worse. He’s Vimeo Jerma. Maybe even malware Jerma. Emmet is only just missing a few strange pop-ups for ‘hot singles battles in your area’ and ‘Viruses, in my computer? It’s more likely than you think’ or some other clickbaity nonsense that’ll hook Uncle Drayden like he’s a level one Magikarp facing a simple rod. Everything is fine, rrrrright? Everything has gone to plan, right Chat? Yet the bid for reassurance doesn’t not manifest any pleasant chatters or bits dropping from the heavens. So Emmet quickly focuses, straining a handful of his muscles near his temples as he conjures a stream of ‘pogs’, ‘sub trains’ and weird little emoticons that feel particularly Iono-coded. Rainbow names and plentiful memes. Better.
Still. The matter at hand.
It’s going to be alrrrrright, rrrrright? He repeats once more to the imaginary audience. Yes?
But it’s not right. Everything is still Wrong, he realises, as he scans his surroundings. This place isn’t quite what he expected for the late nineteenth century. In fact, this landing place of his is a little bit too modern . A little bit too shiny . A little bit too… Kalosian .
“Oh.” Emmet mutters, moments before the three millimetres and unfortunately broken bulb smacks his brain into first gear. “Oh no.”
This isn’t Hisui, this is Kalos! It’s like, the furthest you can even get from the Ransei continent. Heck, this is like walking into a coffee shop and being given one of those teeny weeny little pocket screwdrivers that you lose in like two days tops. In summary: two completely different things!
Emmet has been scammed. Scammed ! Scammed by that little winged Oddish! How dare.
He feels like cursing, like screaming all of his frustrations out into the world. Or maybe into the grass. Or Johto. One of those will do. Emmet isn’t a picky man, he’ll accept whatever and whenever.
But screaming isn't going to fix Emmet’s little red, white and baguette problem. So he’ll have to work something else out. Shame though, because a bit of cursing won’t hurt nobody (since Emmet luckily didn't share Ingo’s foghorn volumes) and if it did then that’s a whole ‘them problem’.
So it turns out that maybe attempting to re-steal your brother from a literal god and also time wasn’t probably the best idea Emmet had. It’s not the worst though, that award goes solely to the ‘Great Joltik Invasion’ back a good decade or so ago when Emmet was a fresh-faced lad of eighteen who was righteously upset about the decrease in the little yellow fuzzballs’ drop in popularity. That had been his worst idea of all time.
Well. Not much can be done now. What’s done is done. The onion has scuppered and Emmet’s corner shop stop through time has been thoroughly bungled.
Emmet could mope for a bit. Could do a little sad. Perhaps even maybe do a big sad. Or! Or maybe move into that whole cycle of grief or whatever people who have been fleeced by a moving piece of salad do.
But that wouldn’t really be helpful. Nope. Nada. No no.
Instead, Emmet attempts to converse with the locals. Badly.
The first attempt at communication was dubious at best, and a momentary trip down memory lane at worst. Just like college. Dragons, the umbrella lady even gave him ‘ the look ’. As he slowly (and admittedly a little obnoxiously) tries to interact.“Ga-larrrianné? Tu speak gah-larianné?”
The drawling enunciation is terrible. Probably even a bit offensive. It’s a mockery of both Galarian and Kalosian, forming one giant terrible, no good offspring of the two.
The woman shakes her head, frowning and backing away. “Je ne comprends pas.” She shuffles again. “Je ne comprends pas.”
This is going to farrrr harder than expected.
Attempt number five starts to mark Emmet’s decline into exhaustion. He doesn’t even consider putting on the accent as he tiredly asks “Ransei?”
Once again, he receives a head shake and a vague dismissive motion. “Ah, non.”
With a sigh, Emmet trudges further into the depths of Lumiose City. May Unova have mercy.
Attempt number… Eight? No, nine. Or perhaps was it ten…? Hm. Maybe seventeen? Ah, who cares. The final attempt of Emmet’s communication speedrun (massive fail by the way) goes the same as the many previous encounters.
He stands before a group that appears to be formed of half-drunk university youths, lacking only the traditional red cups, at the end of their nightly booze run. Not the best group to try, but Emmet is quite frankly at the end of his already very, very frayed tether.
“Galarian?” Emmet has even scrapped the neutral accent he uses for the subway. “Do you-”
He doesn’t even get to finish his question before he’s greeted by pointing and laughing. “Unovan!”
“I am-”
“Unovan!” The cheering and giggling gets louder. It’s like the move Uproar, but if Uproar inflicted psychic damage to one’s self esteem. “ Unovan !”
Emmet decides that he’s going to end that onion the moment he figures out how to either get home. Or at least to Johto. Whatever's easiest.
Until then, plans Z to A are in action. With a sigh, Emmet decides to reroute and instead find some pale ghost of familiarity.
The Metro.