Mott is very worried.

"Mott, don't worry," Lenny says.

Mott is still worried.

It's been a week since Lenny woke up, and the bandages have come off bit by bit each day. The burns are mostly healed with the worst of them still lingering along his paper-thin arms—those will likely scar forever, Ada said. She said they shouldn't stay red forever, though, but a faded version of Lenny's vibrant green. That made Mott release something small inside himself that he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. The thought of Lenny marred with painful, hideous red burns for the rest of his life made Mott's stomach twist with guilt.

Lenny's recovery is nothing short of miraculous. Not only did he somehow manage to survive, he's made leaps and bounds towards getting himself healed up again. He's even caught up with Mott in terms of progress. Ada sweetly yet scathingly reminded him that Mott's slow healing is due to his own stubborn refusal to rest, which is ridiculous. Well, no, she's right. But in his defense…

...He has no defense.

The point is, they've both reached a point where Ada has deemed them healthy enough to travel again. With the news that they were in steady, decent condition, Florian took his leave, citing important family matters he had to attend to. Torquil left a day later, stuffing his family crest in his bag and out of sight, off to mingle with the common people. After that, Lenny started getting antsy, eager to hit the road and travel again. Mott has managed to delay Lenny's impulse for three days, but Lenny is nothing if not persistent.

And stubborn. So, so stubborn.

"Ada says I'm fine. As long as I wear the bandages for a few more days, avoid strenuous activity, and take regular breaks, I'll be good as new!" Lenny insists, packing their bags. "So, come on; let's stop lazing around and get back on the road."

"We really should just wait until your wounds are completely healed," Mott protests, gingerly trying to nudge Lenny away from the bags and back to bed. Lenny waves him away and continues packing. "We have time."

"The more time we waste, the more people Zekrom can hurt. There are other towns that need our help."

Mott shuffles anxiously. "I know, but…"

"Mott. I'm okay. Really, I am," Lenny assures, squishing Mott's face between his hands. "I'm not gonna blow away in the wind, y'hear?"

With his cheeks squished together, his voice comes out muffled as he says, "But 'm shtill worried 'bout yew."

Lenny releases his face to bop him on the nose and return to packing. "Who would've thought a big, strong guy like you would be such a worrywart?"

Mott frowns, eyebrows furrowed. He is worrying a perfectly acceptable amount for someone whose partner just got roasted alive, thank you very much.

"Besides, you're injured too. Why aren't you fussing over your own wounds so much?"

"My injuries aren't half as bad as yours," Mott denies. Lenny looks up from their bags to give Mott a disbelieving look and a slow, judgemental once over.

"...Right."

"I wasn't the one unconscious for a whole day, Lenny!"

"Okay, okay, no need to shout."

Their little spat doesn't go much further than that, because Ada pokes her head in the door. She does a quick appraisal of their bandages and injuries, giving them both a relieved look when no opened wounds or complications come up.

"Seems like you two have recovered a lot in these past days. Mott, you should be better by tonight. Feel free to take off the bandages by then." Mott nods. "Lenny, you still have a few days where I would caution you against taking off the bandages. But once the redness of the remaining burns fades, you should be fine to remove them."

"Thank you for everything, Ada," Lenny says, clapping his hands together in delight. "You've really been a dear. I hope we didn't overstay our welcome."

"Not at all. You two are wonderful to have around, and the teens seem to like you quite a bit."

Lenny and Ada engage in a few minutes of energetic chatter and flattery before she bids them farewell and heads off to work. Turning back to their bags, Lenny hums to himself as he finishes stuffing the last of their things inside. Mott keeps a careful eye on his bandaged arms and upper torso all the while.

Once their bags are packed, they head out the door with the teens clinging to their ankles and begging them to stay one more day. Mott gives a pointed look to Lenny—see, even they want us to stay a little longer! Lenny rolls his eyes and playfully bumps his shoulder against Mott's. In Lenny-speak, that's a firm 'no.' Mott sighs, and after patting the teens heads and promising to visit sometime, they're released.

Part of Mott can't believe he's still doing this, chasing after Zekrom. After what happened, the sensible part of him wants to turn and flee. And yet…

For some reason, he can't bring himself to do it.

Every logical reasoning points toward abandoning this reckless mission. Without the crest to motivate him, he should have no problem quitting this. But for whatever reason, everytime he thinks about changing his course of action, something deep inside him compels him to stick with it. It's all very confusing. It makes no sense.

So for now, bouncing off his talk with Torquil, he's decided to ignore his lack of motivation and strive for something else: doing what makes him happy. And that's staying by Lenny's side. So, where Lenny leads, he'll follow.

That doesn't mean there aren't some ground rules, though. "Lenny."

Lenny looks up at him, blinking.

"I think it's stupid that we're not waiting a few more days for you to heal." Lenny opens his mouth to argue, but Mott beats him to it. "But! But, I'll allow it—on one condition."

Lenny arches a brow.

"You've gotta ride on my back until your burns are healed," he states, sitting down so Lenny can mount. "There's no way you're walking all that distance with injuries like this."

"Deal!" Lenny hops on, maybe a little too eagerly. Has he been waiting to do this? Pointing to the horizon like an intrepid explorer, Lenny declares, "Now, mush!"

"You know what, I think I'll sit here for a few minutes. Or hours."

"Oh, then I'll just get off."

"No, no, I'm going!" Mott hastily snaps, standing. Lenny snickers and wraps his arms around his neck. Little shit. "So. Where are we going?"

A pair of hands squish his face and pull it up. Mott blinks up at a perplexed and slightly worried looking Lenny.

"You're letting me choose where we go? Are you sick?" Lenny asks, placing a hand over his forehead to check his temperature. He presses his other hand to his own face to compare. "You feel a little warm to me…"

Mott scoffs, shaking himself free. "I'm not sick. I just thought I'd let you take the lead for a little bit."

Lenny gives him a skeptical look. Mott is almost offended. He can give up control now and then, thank you very much! He's not a control freak!

Not all the time, at least.

"You're the temporary leader," he pronounces, and Lenny's eyes widen like saucers. Suddenly feeling like he's made a mistake, he adds, "It's a privilege. Don't abuse or squander it."

Lenny strikes a thoughtful pose. "Well, as the new team leader—"

"Temporary team leader."

"—I vote we sing a song as we travel."

"No."

"As the new team leader, I have to reprimand your insubversion."

"Are you trying to say insubordination?"

"As the new team leader—"

"Say that again and I'm revoking your leadership privileges."

A half an hour of this passes before they exit the city gates, overlooking the coastline stretching before them. The shores around Roselake City are rocky and jagged, far too dangerous to travel without proper care and experience. Considering the conditions they're in now, avoiding the coast would probably be the best option. When Mott suggests heading inland, Lenny nods in agreement.

"That's fine, I was looking to head that way anyhow."

Mott looks up at him, surprised. "You already know where you want to go?"

"Yup! Sitting in bed recovering for days didn't give me much to do but read the newspaper, and I read all about a town southeast of here that's being bled dry by the noble lord that rules over it. I was hoping we could help some folks out down there."

Mott thinks back to the note the curator left him before she passed: the address of the professor who might have all the answers regarding Zekrom and the stone. He rummages through his bad and pulls it out, reading over it.

Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St.

"Is this place on the way to Stawford Town?" he asks, pocketing the slip.

Lenny nods. "Yup, it's right between us and Stawford. It's called New Crestmount City, ever heard of it?"

Mott tenses.

"Um." He pauses, uncomfortable. "Yeah."

Lenny leans against his head, frowning down at him. "You sound hesitant."

"Yeah, uh. New Crestmount City… my uncle is the lord over that place."

Lenny stares down at him. Mott stares back.

"Nuh-uh."

"Uh," Mott says, glancing back and forth. "Yuh-huh?"

"Your uncle is a lord? Oh, wait, you come from a noble family." Then, Lenny laughs. "To be honest, I sorta forgot you was rich."

Mott doesn't know what to say to that. He's pretty sure his past self would've been incredibly insulted. But current Mott just feels relieved. Since when did he stop wanting people to view him as a noble…?

It doesn't matter right now, anyways, so he pushes the thought aside. Lenny is currently interrogating him about his feelings, saying things like, "I just want to be one-hundred percent sure that you're okay with going to your uncle's town, I know family reunions can be awkward, like everytime I see my Great Aunt Mildred she's always yelling at me for the one time I broke her window when I was like, seven and it's really super awkward so—" and Mott has to keep assuring him that he's fine going to New Crestmount. It takes about ten minutes of repetitive back-and-forth, but he eventually convinces Lenny that it really, truly is not a big deal.

Honestly, it isn't. Most of his father's siblings keep each other at a cautious, resentful distance, so Mott doesn't see aunts and uncles too often. He can't remember the last time he saw his uncle, so there's no bad blood for him to even remember. Any potential animosity that could have even built up between them would've come up when he was barely a toddler. As petty as his family is, he's pretty sure they aren't ridiculous enough to start beef with a kid who's barely toilet trained.

The only reason it might be awkward is due to Mott's new status in the family. Gossip spreads fast in noble circles, and he has no doubt that his uncle has heard all about Mott's banishment from the Alcott family. And when aristocrats have dirt on you, they latch onto it like hungry monsters. Any meeting between him and his uncle will probably end in Mott being laughed out of the estate.

So, talking directly to his uncle is not going to be easy. But in order to get him to lessen the burdens on his people, Mott is limited on options.

Lenny hugs his neck and asks, "What's your uncle like, Mott?"

Mott shrugs. "Like most older nobles: stuffy, pretentious, kinda a stick in the mud. I don't know much about him other than he's my father's younger brother and there was some huge family drama between them when he inherited New Crestmount from my grandpa instead of my father. They don't talk much unless it's to send each other backhanded holiday cards."

"Do you think you could convince him to go easy on the people?"

"Probably not. But I can try."

Lenny nuzzles the top of his head. "All I ask is that you do your best. We'll figure the rest out if it doesn't work!"

Mott nods, trying to ignore the insidious voice in his head.

Failure.

"Hey, if anyone can do it, we can—together!" Lenny proclaims, pumping a fist vehemently in the air.

Mott's heart jumps in his throat. "Lenny don't exacerbateyourwounds—!"


By the time they arrive in New Crestmount, Mott can practically smell the corruption a mile away. Unlike Moressley Town, where everyone was suffering under the hands of cruel outsiders, this is clearly an internal issue. The homeless sag against walls gilded in gold, the poor gnaw on moldy food outside a flourishing marketplace, and the poor beg for change on illustrious marble stairs. New Crestmount City is clearly a place where the rich get richer and everyone else is tossed into the slums. Clearly, this town has fallen victim to his uncle's greed. And if he had any doubts, they'd be quickly dashed away by the sheer amount of tax collectors buzzing through the streets.

Wherever there's a civilian, there's a snooty tax collector tailing them. Nasally voices pierce the air with thousands of calls for due payments. Frustration and irritation flicker through the people's eyes as they're hounded, but it dies out as soon as it ignites. Resigned and empty, the people empty their pockets. One person tries to resist, shouting vitriol and spite at the tax collectors. The only result is that one collector grabs them while the other swipes their dues.

"In the name of the Alcotts, you all will pay your dues!" One of the collectors announces haughtily, their nose in the air. "Lord Theobald Alcott decrees it!"

Mott's stomach twists at the sight of his own name being used for… this. His impulse is to step forward and call it off—the child of a family patriarch can sometimes outrank their aunts and uncles, after all—but rationale stops him. Technically, he has no claim to that power anymore, not after losing rights to the family name. Trying to use that power would prove both fruitless and embarrassing.

The tax collectors seem satisfied with whatever they've drained from the people around here, so they stuff their pockets and march off to bother some other part of the city. The tense air seems to travel with them, but it's not replaced with anything better. Rather, a deep, profound burden of desolation and helplessness weighs over the street. Even though they've been stripped of everything they own, the people seem to sag like they're carrying something heavy. Mott suddenly feels like he should have tried harder to do something while the collectors were still there, but what could he have done? And what can he do now?

He's still at a loss of how to proceed when Lenny hops off his back. Mott's heart nearly jumps out of his throat and he sputters some nonsense about Lenny overworking himself, but Lenny doesn't pay him any heed. Instead, he walks toward the townsperson who put up a fight. The townsperson is sitting in the dirt, weary and defeated.

"Hi, I'm Lenny," he greets, bending down despite the immense pain it must cause him. Holding out a piece of bread from their travel pack, he says, "You look like you could use something to eat."

The townsperson regards him skeptically for a moment, like the piece of bread might suddenly grow teeth and attack. But after a few moments of deliberation, they accept the offering with a quiet 'thanks' and nibble on it.

While Lenny is kneeling on the ground, Mott notices a small drop of blood coming through his bandages. Dread trickles through him and his breath hitches. Hastily, before Lenny can push himself any further, he leans his snout down and nudges the side of Lenny's face to get his attention. When Lenny looks up at him, he gestures to his back, and Lenny understands the silent request to return.

They need to get to an inn, soon. After a long day to travel, Lenny needs to rest.

But… he can't just leave these people here like this, now can he?

There's a stack of large boxes in the center of the street. Mott climbs on top of them, standing high enough for everyone to see him as he states, "People of New Crestmount: we're going to do everything we can to lessen the burden of your taxation."

Civilians regard him at best like a curious creature in a cage, at worst like a lying scoundrel. They mutter amongst themselves, evidently distrustful of his claims.

"A lot of people say they're gonna fix this," the townsperson with Lenny's bread pipes up. "What makes you any different?"

"Because," Mott says, ignoring his own distaste for his next words: "I'm an Alcott."

The muttering changes tune, gasps rising up from the crowd as faces change from disgruntled to astonished. Quiet utterances of 'Alcott' are passed around most often, as if it's a puzzle the people are trying to solve. Disbelief is still evident in their faces, but it's starting to fade in place of flickering, hesitant hope. These are people who have had their hopes crushed time and time again, so often that the mere feeling of hope makes them preemptively flinch, but now they muster the courage to hope again. And their hopeful gazes are trained solely on him.

Mott sweats and thinks, oh no.

"We have faith in you," one of them says, their eyes glittering with admiration. "We know you can save us."

A cheer rises up from the crowd, loud and wild. Mott forces a smile and hopes it doesn't appear stiff with nerves. These people went from resigning to crushed dreams to daring to dream again, all because of Mott. That's… a big responsibility. Almost too big. What if he lets them down? It's not like he has any internal drive pushing him forward. He's untethered, lost. They shouldn't trust him so much, not when he's directionless and motiveless.

Frozen, he stares out at the roaring crowd and anxiously laments all his life choices before Lenny squishes his face and pulls it up to make eye contact. Lenny frowns down at him for a second, as if concerned, but the moment passes so quickly Mott figures he must've imagined it. With a bright smile, Lenny asks, "Can we head to an inn? I'm starting to get a little tuckered out."

He never thought in a million years Lenny would suggest resting, so he leaps on the opportunity, already descending from the boxes. "Yes. Yes, let's get you somewhere to relax."

It takes a bit longer than he'd like to finally travel toward the inn, mostly because everyone in town wants to thank him and praise him like he's some godsend. Some people even play music and hail him as a savior. He knows he should be soaking this in; this is how nobles should expect to be treated. At the very least, he should be grateful. But all he feels is a pit of nausea deep in his stomach.

He doesn't want their praise. He hasn't even done anything. What if he screws up and lets them down? Then they'll see the real him, the directionless him, the… the…

Failure.

"Shut up," he mutters to himself.

Lenny looks down at him. "Hmm? Mott, did you say something?"

Startled out of his daze, Mott stammers, "Oh, uh, no. No, I didn't say anything."

They finally make it through the crowd after receiving a stifling amount of compliments and worship and gratitude. Out on the open street, Mott takes a moment to finally breathe. In and out. The air is clear, but he still feels like he's choking. He pushes onward and hopes that getting to the inn will make him feel less suffocated.

The inn isn't too far, and when they reach it, Mott is overwhelmed by a profound sense of relief. He just wants to get Lenny inside and resting, and he wants to retreat from everyone and everything for a while. But right before he opens the door, something catches his eye and gives him pause.

On the door, there's an emblem: a deep blue shield with a silver sword cutting across it.

The Alcott family crest.

A rush of emotion floods him at the sight, and none of them are particularly good. A quick glance around reveals a dozen other crests decorating various locations, such as lampposts, gates, and statues. It's not uncommon for lords or ladies of certain cities to display their crest as a reminder of their power and wealth. Seeing the family crest in different cities always used to fill Mott with a sense of pride and power. But now, it's as if the crests are glaring at him and waiting for him to make a wrong move.

He quickly slips inside before his feelings spiral out of control.

Renting and entering the room is a blur, and honestly, Mott doesn't remember most of it. It was almost as if he was detached from his body, watching a stranger operate him like a machine. When they finally get to the room and Lenny closes the door, he turns and fixes Mott with a small smile.

"How are you feeling?" Lenny asks.

Mott blinks at him, confused. Why is Lenny asking how Mott is? He's not injured.

"I'm… fine? How are you?"

Lenny studies him for a moment, as if he's sizing him up. His smile grows, just slightly, as if he's trying to be soothing. "I'm great, thank you."

What's with this weird mood?

He shakes it off. "You rest. I'm gonna go request an audience with my uncle. Even with my dubious standing in noble spheres right now, I'm sure he'll at least give me time to make an appearance."

"You don't gotta go now, you can rest," Lenny insists, sitting on one of the beds. "We can go together after."

"I don't need to rest," he denies, and when Lenny gives him a skeptical look, he can't help the laugh that escapes him. Pressing their foreheads together affectionately, he assures, "Really, Len. I'm fine. You rest."

Lenny sticks his tongue out to be defiant. Mott snorts, gently nudging him to lie down. Lenny flails over like he's been brutally shoved.

"Mott, you're so cruel!" Throwing a hand dramatically over his head, he cries, "Don't you know I'm but a frail, wounded little bug?"

"Yeah, right. Go to sleep," Mott scoffs, tugging a blanket over him. "I'll be back later."

Lenny makes some incomprehensible noise as he snuggles deeper into the blankets, sighing with contentment. As Mott walks out the door, he faintly hears Lenny's drowsy utterance of: "Do good."

A small smile tugs on his face as he quietly closes the door.


It occurs to Mott, as soon as he reaches his uncle's estate, that he hasn't been to a rich person's estate in a long, long time. He forgot how big they are.

The estate sprawls across lush, green acres adorned in fountains, statues, and gardens. The building towers over him with pillars of gold, shining down on him as if it's trying to replicate the sun. It's almost palatial, this estate, and Mott wouldn't be surprised if he saw the king himself wandering around here. After walking up several flights of marble stairs to reach the glittering gates, Mott catches his breath and curses noble architects. Why are there so many stairs?!

This estate, in truth, is much smaller than his father's. Mott has lived in an estate double the size of this one for twenty years, yet somehow this mansion feels larger. Is it because he's gotten accustomed to a commoner's life? Or is it because this estate is so grandiose compared to the rest of the town?

New Crestmount City is not in disrepair like Bela's Moressley Town was, but there are certainly staggering levels of inequality. After wandering around the streets and watching tax collectors loot people's pockets, arriving at such a grand mansion provides a stark contrast. It's kind of… gross, for lack of a better word. It's gross how the lord over the city thrives on the backs of the people he's supposed to care for.

And it just so happens this lord is his uncle. So he either has the best shot at fixing things or he's about to make holidays awkward for himself for all of eternity.

When he reaches the gate, the gatekeeper arches a brow at him incredulously. Mott is aware that arriving at a noble's gate uninvited is pretty presumptuous, but he doesn't have the time to care. The tax collectors won't pause their looting for him to get an invitation, so he's not going to bother with decorum. As confidently as he can, he states, "My name is Montgomery Alcott. I've come to request an audience with Lord Theobald Alcott, my uncle."

His add on of 'my uncle' seems to change things in the gatekeeper's eyes, but not by much. After arching their brow the slightest bit higher, they open the gate and say, "Right this way."

Mott follows them along the sophisticated, orderly cobblestone path. Closer to the estate, he can see the statues in greater detail. They're all marble depictions of his uncle, presenting him as an esteemed, powerful dewott. He swallows a scoff, turning away from the statues. Those images are glorious and wildly inaccurate, making his uncle look like a hero. Mott knows the man looks more like a wiry weasel.

When they arrive at the doors, a giant version of the family crest glares him in the face. He swallows and averts his gaze.

The doors open slowly to reveal a majestic foyer adorned in elegant silvers and blues—the official Alcott family colors. Paintings of his uncle cover every wall, just as greatly exaggerated as the statues outside. It makes looking at the actual man quite a chore.

Uncle Theobald stands in the center of the room, pacing as he lectures a semicircle of tax collectors. His nose twitches like he's smelled something dreadful as he shrills, "Is this really all you could collect?" Gesturing out the window, he points furiously at dozens of carts overflowing with money. "Thousands of people live in my city, and this is what you return with?"

The tax collector shuffle shamefully, as if displeasing him is the worst thing they've ever done. Mott saw them sucking the townsfolk dry mere hours ago, and they had no shame then.

One of the collectors weakly explains that people are resistant to pay their dues, but Uncle Theobald interrupts them. "No, no, no; no excuses. I don't care if they're resistant, find a way around it. This is my city, and I want my dues. Dismissed!"

Bowing their heads and swiftly retreating, the tax collectors hurry out the doors and conspire to swipe even more from the people tomorrow. Mott scowls at their backs, which bear a bag with the Alcott crest.

"Lord Theobald." The gatekeeper announces themself with a bow. Uncle Theobald arches a brow at them, then at Mott. His expression doesn't hold half the disdain Mott was expecting, considering the stain Mott is on their family name right now. Then again, chances are his uncle doesn't even recognize him. "Your nephew, Montgomery Alcott, is here to request an audience with you."

The slightest flicker of recognition lights up Uncle Theobald's eyes. And just like that, his muted and indifferent expression turns to that of joy.

"Montgomery! My goodness, I didn't even recognize you, seeing you evolved." Uncle Theobald's voice is honeyed and thick with cloying, false sentiment. "How are you progressing with taking over estate affairs? Can I expect to see you as the new Alcott patriarch, soon?"

Mott forces a smile. He's pretty sure it looks more like a cringe.

"That's Preston, Uncle. My older brother," he explains, patiently. "I'm the middle child. I'm not inheriting any titles."

Certainly not as the Alcott patriarch. But after seeing what the Callahan patriarch title has done to Florian, Mott is secretly glad he's not the firstborn.

"Ah yes, silly me. Ruling over these unruly townspeople has gotten so difficult, I've begun to forget even the simplest of things," Uncle Theobald bemoans, painting himself as a pitiful victim of stress rather than a forgetful and absent uncle. It's a miracle that Mott resists the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his skull. "So you're the one who's been banished from the family, hmm?"

The nonchalance in his tone throws Mott for a loop. Most nobles foam at the mouth in either pure hatred or feverish delight when they remember his current status. With equal parts hesitance and awkwardness, he responds, "...Yup. That was me."

"Wonderful of you to stop by, truly; I'm in great need of your help," his uncle insists, jumping to the next topic with ease. "This city is the only plot of land I inherited from my father and your grandfather—may he rest in peace—and it stands to reason that I should own everything in this city, but the commoners are pesky and stubborn. They absolutely refuse to obey and pay their dues."

Probably because their dues are exorbitant and outrageous. Still, in an attempt to humor his uncle while still maintaining his own sanity, he deadpans, "That's wild."

"You're absolutely right!" Uncle Theobald proclaims, huffing and stomping his foot like a child. "Ungrateful bastards!"

Mott decides to cut to the chase. "I came to ask you—"

"Who do they think they are, defying me? I earned this plot of land fair and square, it's my birthright and I deserve to use it as I see fit!" His uncle interrupts, ranting furiously and completely ignoring him. Sighing pathetically like he might fall and swoon into a nearby couch, he laments, "Alas, I am only one man, and I cannot reach my control to every part of the city at once…"

"That sucks. So, anyways—"

In a flash, Uncle Theobald's weakened, withering persona dashes away and makes room for a bright smile. Snapping his fingers, he states, "That's it! Montgomery, you can stay with me and help me collect the taxes I deserve. Two Alcotts are always better than one, after all!"

Mott somehow manages to restrain himself from physically recoiling. "No."

"Why not? If you do good enough work, I'll even put in a word with your father to permit you back into the family."

Mott wants to deny the offer, but something closes in his throat.

"You might even get your family crest," his uncle adds.

His throat tightens.

Before he can dwell on the feeling or even think about what it may mean, he says, "Listen, I'm not here to help you. I'm here to ask you to stop taxing the people at such exorbitant rates."

His uncle whips his head around to stare at him, eyes nearly bugging out of his head. Incredulously, he asks, "Why on Earth would you want me to stop that?"

"Because it's unethical."

"The only unethical things about this situation is that they won't pay what they rightfully owe," his uncle declares, brows furrowed. "It's the law, and they're disobeying it. Isn't that the real issue?"

An immediate retort springs from him. "Laws don't dictate morality; when laws uphold corrupt systems then they're inherently immoral."

"I own this city, bequeathed to me by my father, as my inherent right as a member of the Alcott family. Since it is mine, I reserve the right to do with it as I please, and anyone interfering with that is dishonorable—wouldn't you agree?"

"Not if what you own directly impacts the lives of thousands. You hold a responsibility to them," Mott argues, his voice raising. He catches himself before he starts shouting, though, and takes a deep, measured breath. It's been a long time since he's gotten in a dispute with a noble. He forgot how philosophically twisted they could be: full of big words with empty meaning. "Listen: just reduce your rates. It'll be better for you in the long-run, anyways. It'll promote harmony between you and your citizens and make the town flourish. Riches will pour in for everyone, that way."

Uncle Theobald scoffs. "That's where your naivety comes in, Montgomery—this was never about everyone. It's about the Alcotts."

Mott clenches his jaw, tight. Any tighter and he'd be grinding his teeth to dust.

"You used to understand that," his uncle sighs, shaking his head like he's dealing with some impetuous brat. "You were such an obedient child. What changed?"

"I met someone," he says without thinking, "who deserves a lot better than me, but he still stays. So, I'm doing everything I can to be better. I'm learning, and I'm following after him."

At that, his uncle snorts, as if amused. Mott feels a vein pop in his forehead.

"That's a load of shit, my dear nephew, and you know it."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me: whose footsteps do you see me following in? Do you see your father following after someone? Did your grandfather, and his father before him, and every Alcott patriarch in our great past settle for idly following?"

Before Mott can reply, Uncle Theobald answers his own question with a sneer and a pointed look. "Alcotts do not follow, my boy. They lead. Do you think we became the king's most trusted allies because we sat meekly in the shadows? Do you think we grew to such esteem and power by trailing after others? No! If you can't carve a path for yourself, you'll end up wandering through life with no direction."

"That's not true," Mott states on reflex.

"Then tell me: what are your goals? What motivates you?"

Mott opens his mouth to say—something. He's sure. But nothing comes out.

He doesn't know what motivates him. He hasn't for a while, now. He's been trying to ignore how directionless and confused he is by following after Lenny, but is it enough? When he lets his guard down, when his mind wanders into murky territory, the insidious voice that haunts him emerges from the dark. And it always, always knows just what to say.

Failure.

"You're failing the Alcott name. No wonder you were banished," Uncle Theobald muses nonchalantly to himself, as if his words aren't sharpened daggers. "You follow blindly because you have no direction. No motivation. Living an empty life like that will turn you just as empty."

He wants to argue. He wants to say that he's following Lenny for a purpose, but—but the only reason he decided to follow was because he lost all sense of purpose. When removing the family crest from the equation, Mott is motivated by nothing. Even if his uncle is an ass, is it possible that he's right about Mott?

Is Mott becoming empty?

Worthless, useless, no-good waste of time.

"Empty men are worthless men to the Alcott family," his uncle continues, pacing around him. "You've been uselessly wandering about with some outsider, following after this nobody and wasting your time. Wasting our family's time." He stops, just inside the corner of Mott's eye, and narrows his eyes at him. "Considering this, I think it's rather obvious that you've never gotten your family crest."

Failure.

Mott can't become empty. He can't become even more of a failure than he already is; he can't drag Lenny into danger after danger after danger without a justifiable reason. Otherwise, he's risking Lenny's life for—for what?

For nothing?

"Montgomery, look at me." Mott turns his head to his uncle, who is regarding him with sickening sympathy. "You're confused. You've been away from the family for far too long. It's not your fault that you've lost all sense of direction, poor thing, you've been so alone that you've forgotten what really matters."

Uncle Theobald speaks with such certainty. What Mott wouldn't give for a sliver of that self-assuredness right now; something to tether him in this monstrous void.

"Stay for a little while. As long as you'd like," his uncle offers, flashing him a toothy, honeyed smile. "I'll catch you up to speed on Alcott affairs, and I'll even allow you to help me with collecting my dues. You'll feel like yourself in no time: confident and clear-headed. You'll remember what drives you and you'll be back to feeling normal in no time."

There's a kernel of truth to what his uncle is saying, maybe even more than that. Mott is directionless. He's confused. Everything he thought he knew about his desires and his identity has been stripped away, leaving him bare and lost in the wilderness. Ever since his banishment, his life has been one upheaval after another.

He's leading himself and Lenny to their deaths without even knowing why.

He needs to pause. He needs to take a step back. Chasing Zekrom is a bad idea right now. He needs stability. He needs things to go back to normal. It'll be just long enough to get his head back on right and figure things out so he's not charging straight to Death's Door without a reason.

Lenny said so himself: no one does anything without a reason. If Mott has no reason for what he's doing, why should he do it at all? Should he do it?

He looks away from his uncle to stare at his feet, as if they will help him sort out his thoughts. Before he can do any of that, though, he notices the rug beneath him for the first time: a picture perfect replica of the Alcott family crest.

It's always been just beneath the surface of who he is, hasn't it? It's always been his foundation. Who is he if he's not chasing after it?

Failure. How old are you, and you still don't have your family's approval? You worthless, useless, no-good waste of time.

He looks up at Uncle Theobald. His facial features are schooled into such perfect neutrality that it makes his uncle beam with pride.

"Okay," he says, slowly, "I will help you."

Uncle Theobald claps his hands together with delight. "Wonderful! Just wonderful! I know you'll accomplish great things for the Alcott family, just wait and see!"

Turning his head and shouting down a corridor, his uncle summons the tax collectors back into the room. They all share confused glances with each other as they size Mott up. Mott stares back at them, deliberately feeling nothing.

This is what he wants.

"Everyone, I'd like to introduce you to your newest overseer: Montgomery Alcott!"