Wilson had recently taken on an apprentice, but guiding the kid was giving him a massive headache.
If it were just about drilling basics and building skills, Wilson had plenty of tricks up his sleeve.
But his own training methods? Way too brutal for the young guy.
Not to mention his bond with the apprentice's old man—Wilson himself couldn't stomach putting the kid through that kind of grinder.
He'd been stewing over it, but eyeing Emerson now sparked an idea.
Emerson had mentored him from the ground up, handing over every technique he knew, and now with these wild abilities on top?
In family terms, the apprentice ought to call Emerson "uncle" or something like that!
No harm in a mentor passing wisdom to the next generation!
With the plan hatched, Wilson floated it out there, zero worry about getting shot down.
Around Emerson, he dropped the big-shot act entirely. Worst case? He'd just pester him like back in the day—no shame in that.
Emerson waited for Wilson's pitch, clueless about the whirlwind of schemes spinning in his buddy's head.
"Emerson, get this—I've got a new apprentice now. That makes you an uncle figure to the kid."
Wilson kept it light, like they were swapping casual chit-chat over coffee.
But the words hit Emerson like a gut punch.
A bad vibe crept in the second "apprentice" left Wilson's lips.
By the end, Emerson knew he'd been roped in.
Wilson was clearly angling for him to babysit the kid during his mission, banking on his skills to keep things smooth!
Emerson could already guess the follow-up line.
"Since you're so capable, why not take the little guy along? It'll be good experience for him!"
Emerson fired back, face dead serious.
But something felt off—though racking his brain, he couldn't pin it down.
Wilson brushed off the stare. Growing up glued at the hip, he'd built immunity to Emerson's laser-focused glares ages ago; they bounced right off.
No instant no? Wilson figured that meant yes.
"Thanks, bro!"
"Hold up!"
Emerson had been puzzling over the weird feeling, but Wilson's words snapped it into focus.
Why did Wilson's vibe feel so... offbeat? Like chatting with an old-timer from back home.
No wonder it bugged him—it was all in Wilson's delivery.
"What? Something wrong?"
Wilson blinked, totally lost, staring back puzzled.
"Nah, but spill—where'd you pick up that way of talking?"
Emerson skipped answering, flipping the question.
"You mean this? Pretty spot-on for a rugged type, huh?"
Wilson caught on quick, puffing up a bit with pride.
Emerson: "..."
He was stumped. When had Wilson turned into this character? How'd he miss it before?
If not for the same old look, Wilson could've passed for some grizzled vet from the old neighborhood.
"When'd you start talking like that?"
Emerson leaned in, grilling him like a suspect.
"Remember that line?"
Wilson dodged the direct hit, tossing back a question.
"Which one?"
Emerson blanked, no clue what he meant.
Seeing the confusion, Wilson straightened his bulk, facing Emerson square-on with a grave look, reciting that unforgettable phrase in a deep, resolute tone.
"Those who harm the innocent will face justice, no matter how far they run!"
His face stayed solemn, like disrespecting it would be a crime.
Emerson went quiet for a sec, voice steady when he spoke.
"You still remember that?"
How could he forget? He'd pulled it from his past life, planting it in this world.
If memory served, he'd only used it once, in that bloody mess, and never brought it up again.
Wilson had asked about it later, sure, but Emerson never dreamed it'd stick this long.
"Emerson, that line? It opened my eyes to a whole new mindset!"
"I've never heard anything so bold and unyielding!"
"So you went and adopted that style just because of it?"
Emerson hadn't pegged the impact as this huge; he wanted confirmation.
"Nah, not exactly. I just figured, growing up with you shaping me, I ought to carry a piece of that fire."
Wilson deflated a tad, rubbing the back of his neck.
"A piece?"
Emerson echoed, eyebrow raised in doubt.
Wilson scooted closer, eager to explain.
"Emerson, you raised me half the time, taught me every move I know."
Seeing the nod, Wilson plowed on.
"After all those years side by side, sure, I look the same on the outside, but inside? I'm wired like you—tough, principled, ready to stand ground."
"Plus, I dug into some old philosophies on my own, so claiming that influence? Not a stretch!"
"Fair enough—you're spot on."
Emerson rolled with it.
His mind wandered to their shared past; he hadn't realized his sway ran this deep.
He'd turned this straight-up street tough into a guy with a code, a blend of grit and honor.
Emerson felt a swell of pride—he'd passed on values that stuck, with real results.
But he didn't linger on it. Since Wilson had already soaked up those lessons, chasing the source might lead to awkward spots.
A half-grin tugged at Emerson's lips as he switched gears.
"Alright, but if I'm the one who trained you, shouldn't your apprentice call me something like 'mentor' or 'coach'?"
Wilson: "..."
Spotting that smirk, Wilson braced for a trap—but not this one.
Still, he wasn't that naive kid anymore; he fired back quick.
"Nope, bro—it's different."
"Technically, I'm like your brother. We're family through and through."
Wilson shut down the loophole fast; no way he'd let Emerson weaponize it later. He knew his buddy's playful streaks too well!
"Fine, have it your way."
Emerson saw the dodge and let it slide. No point dragging out the semantics—it was all in fun.
He'd just been messing with Wilson, steering the chat elsewhere.
The sun hung lower now, painting the cabin in warm oranges and stretching shadows across the wooden floor. Outside, the forest hummed with evening sounds—birds settling in, distant rustles in the underbrush. Emerson glanced out the window, mind already drifting to the Blood Orchid expedition and how this apprentice wrinkle fit in.
Wilson, sensing the shift, leaned back with a satisfied nod. "So, about the kid—name's Alex. He's got potential, but needs polishing without the rough stuff I went through. Think you could show him the ropes while you're out there? Keep an eye on him, teach him a thing or two?"
Emerson rubbed his chin, weighing it. Adding a tag-along complicated things, but for Wilson? He'd make it work. "Alright, but he better pull his weight. No dead weight on a trip like this."
"Deal—he's eager, you'll see." Wilson clapped a hand on the table, sealing it. The two shared a look, that old bond kicking in, ready for whatever came next.
As night crept in, they hashed out details over the dying light—logistics, timelines, what the apprentice needed to know. Emerson couldn't shake a mix of excitement and caution; this was stepping deeper into Wilson's world, but with Pokémon on the horizon, maybe it was time to blend their paths more.
By the time Wilson headed out, stars dotted the sky, and Emerson sat alone, Poké Ball in hand, pondering the road ahead.