"So, you got a meeting with your uncle today? Does that mean your meeting yesterday went well?"

Mott nods absentmindedly as he searches for his bag.

"That's great! Earlier, you said you didn't think you could convince him, but look at you now! And do you think the meeting will go well?"

Again, Mott nods. Where is that darn bag? He could've sworn he'd left it beside his bed last night…

Ah, there it is. Right on the nightstand, right in front of his face. What's going on with him today? It's like his head just isn't working with him right now.

"Is it gonna be super official and stuffy? Are you gonna have to do all your fancy etiquette? Do you even remember all that fancy etiquette?"

Mott nods, strapping an empty satchel over his back. He waited until Lenny was asleep to empty the contents of the bag and hide them under his bed. He can't collect his uncle's dues with an already full bag. Even so, he's still wondering if one bag is enough. Collecting so much from each person will fill the bag pretty quick; perhaps he should consider buying another bag today…

As he's silently doing the math in his head, he doesn't notice Lenny walk over to him until there's a tap on his shoulder. When he looks down, Lenny looks up like he's studying him. A moment of silence drifts over them, but Lenny's gaze doesn't grow any less perceptive. If anything, it's almost like he can see right through Mott.

His heart skips a beat at the thought. Does Lenny know?

Of course not. How would he? Lenny smiles at him, none the wiser.

"I know this ain't easy, trying to convince family members to change their ways. Especially when you already have such a tense relationship with your family," Lenny says, rubbing his arm. "But you're pushing through it and doing the right thing, anyway. I'm proud of you."

Mott swallows, and nods, and ignores every feeling that rises up in his chest.

Lenny beams like a bright idea suddenly struck him. Hurrying over to the fireplace, he chirps, "I'm gonna make you a cake."

"What?"

"I'm gonna make you a cake, for being so great!" Lenny proclaims, shuffling through bags beside the fire.

"You don't need to do that," Mott says, hastily.

"I know, but you deserve it," Lenny insists. His stomach churns. He opens his mouth, but Lenny beats him to the chase. "And don't you dare say you don't. You deserve nice things, y'hear?"

"...You really should just rest," Mott eventually suggests, nudging Lenny to the bed. Lenny stubbornly stays put, humming to himself as he rummages through their bags for some cash and supplies. After a moment of watching this, feeling a creeping sense of nausea, Mott turns away and says, "I'm gonna head out. Please rest, okay?"

Lenny playfully salutes him. "Yessir! When you come home, there'll be a yummy cake waiting for you!"

He heads out.


Counting money is a familiar task. He used to do it all the time for his father's estate, checking over the books and making an inventory of their assets. This kind of work suits him. Returning to it has brought him a certain level of comfort. A relief. For the first time since he's been thrown out of his family's carriage, he feels powerful again. Any apprehensions he may have had about returning to this drift away like smoke in the wind.

One of the tax collectors presents a satchel of dues at his feet, bowing their head and quietly exiting the room. They don't make eye contact with him once. It's not a subtle snub—it's a sign of deferential respect. As an Alcott, one of the richest families in the region, there aren't many people who can look him in the eyes as an equal.

Tugging the new satchel over to his desk, Mott rummages through the contents to get a general idea of what's been brought to him. There's mostly copper and silver coins, a few golden pieces interspersed in there, and a few trinkets that appear to be family heirlooms of some sort. Buried beneath some necklaces and coins, a half-eaten, moldy piece of bread lies. Mott grimaces, plucking it out and tossing it aside. Is that really the best thing they could get from someone?

He starts portioning out the contents of the bag, organizing them into categories and counting them. The familiarity of the task is soothing, much different from the constant fear and self-doubt that gripped him in his Zekrom quest. The task is so natural, in fact, that he begins to zone out and think of other things: like how to convince Lenny to stay.

He can't tell Lenny what he's doing for his uncle, not yet. Lenny wouldn't understand. So until he finds a way to make Lenny understand, he has to provide a reason for staying in this town for so long. He's not quite sure what that reason will be, yet.

Regardless, they'll be staying for a while. Too long to keep holed up in the inn. With the shares of the earnings his uncle granted him, he could buy a nice little house for them to stay. Instead of hopping from town to town, travelling by aching foot, they could live in comfort.

Suddenly, Mott snaps out of it. What on earth is he thinking, buying a little house for himself off the taxation?

With all this money, he can afford a huge house!

He can see it now: everyday, he goes to work with his uncle and reclaims his standing in the Alcott family. He'll keep books just like he is now, never to be plagued with worries or insecurities again. After that, he'll come home to Lenny, who'll probably be cooking or singing badly or accidentally knocking something over. Maybe he'll even invite Torquil and Florian over sometimes, if Florian promises not to be an asshole.

The more Mott thinks about it, the nicer this fantasy seems. This future… Mott likes it. He can't believe he left this life for as long as he has.

Rummaging through his bag, he searches for any coins that may have gotten left behind, hidden in the folds of the fabric, but he finds none. Instead, he spots a folded scrap of paper. Furrowing his brow, he pulls it out and tries to recall where it came from. It's not until he opens it that he recalls.

Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St.

Oh. Right. The lead from the curator.

The dead curator.

The sudden reminder of her is jarring and unpleasant. Or, more accurately, the sudden reminder of what happened to her is the upsetting part. She died for his old cause—defeating Zekrom. Her last moments were spent trying to aid Mott and Lenny in their quest. And now, Mott is here. Counting taxes.

He… doesn't like how that makes him feel.

Shaking himself off, he tries to cast the thought aside so he can get back to work, but it lingers in the back of his mind and refuses to fade. The persisting existence of this thought itches under his skin and frustrates him. Just two minutes ago, he was on top of the world. He was feeling as powerful and whole as he always used to, but then one little scrap of paper made its way into his hands and now he feels indecisive and… and…

Uncomfortable.

He feels uncomfortable, for lack of a better word. It's like he's trying to learn how to walk for the first time, and he's floundering. What he's doing now—counting dues—used to be his old task in his family estate. It's nothing new. So why does he feel like an imposter in his own skin?

He wants to rip up the note. For whatever terrible feelings it's plaguing him with, he wants to cast it into the fireplace and forget it. He should. He really should; it would serve this stupid Zekrom quest just right to be tossed aside and neglected forever. Yet, he can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he finds himself tucking it carefully into the pocket of his bag, folding it back in place.

If he thought that burying it back in his satchel would solve anything, he'd be dead wrong. If anything, he's even more conflicted now, and he doesn't even know why. Guilt gnaws at his chest until it feels hollow.

There isn't much time to think about it, because soon enough, his uncle bursts theatrically through the doors. Mott doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. When Uncle Theobald struts in and sees the haul of money in the corner, his eyes glimmer.

"Why, did you bring all of this in today?" He exclaims, gasping with delight. Surveying the bounty, he proclaims, "This is outstanding! Just outstanding! I knew two Alcotts working together could get wonderful things done, but I'd have never guessed how powerful we can be together."

Mott stares at his uncle, blinking with surprise. Did he just… praise him? That's not really how things work in this family.

Nonetheless, he's appreciative of the gesture. It even makes the burden in his chest lighten, just a little. So, somewhat dumbed by shock, he replies, "Uh, thanks."

"We really make a good team, don't we Montgomery?"

Mott doesn't know why that makes him wince, nor why it makes the conflict in his chest rage even stronger.


Mott returns to the inn, a satisfying ache in his joints as he stretches them out. After a long, hard day, he's glad to be back home. He'd only had one little moment where the day wasn't so good, when he saw the curator's note, but that didn't last long. His uncle had wanted Mott to show him the financial records he'd drafted up, so any dark thoughts had been swiftly swept aside.

While he was showing his uncle the books, he could hardly go a minute without being praised in some way. It was strange, but not unwelcome. As if his uncle could tell he was suffering from an internal conflict, he'd been sure to shower Mott in abundant praise to soften the ache in his chest. Soon enough, he was forgetting all about his worries and diving into the world he'd so longed to return to.

All in all, it was a satisfying day. Returning to the warm inn is like a cherry on top. As soon as he closes the door behind him, a familiar, buggy head pokes out from behind a dresser.

"You're back!" Lenny exclaims, beaming. He pulls himself to his feet, his burned limbs trembling slightly. Mott moves to help him up, but Lenny brushes him off. "So? How did it go? Is your uncle gonna lessen the taxes on the people? Ooh, was it really awkward talking to him about that? I can imagine that being really awkward."

Mott smiles, booping their heads together. "It was great."

A look of delighted relief washes over Lenny. "So does that mean—?"

"He's not gonna lower the taxes, yet," Mott says with a natural shrug. Maybe this is how he can convince Lenny to stay: say he needs just one more day to convince his uncle, over and over again. "I'll have to visit again tomorrow and see what I can do."

Lenny clucks and shakes his head, frowning. "Well, he sure sounds like a piece of work. Thank you for handling all that. I can't imagine it's all that fun."

"Honestly," Mott says, grinning, "it's more fun than you'd think."

They start to settle down for the night, Lenny making them a small dinner and Mott reading one of the inn's books aloud to him: a murder mystery. Every sentence or two, Lenny interrupts to ask about a dozen questions—who's this character again? wait, why are they chasing the duke? what did they jump in the well for?—and Mott quickly loses his own train of thought. In the end, he ends up laughing at Lenny's impression of the terribly written main character, the book lying forgotten beside him.

As Lenny serves their dinner, he says, "Oh, I almost forgot! Mott, I never got to bake your cake!"

Between bites, Mott responds, "It's not a big deal, don't worry about it."

"I really meant to, honest! But you see, I went out and bought the ingredients and was fixing to come back and make it but then I saw a family who was looking awfully hungry and I thought, 'well, I can't just let them starve, now can I?' and I gave the ingredients to them."

"It's fine, Len."

"So then I figured, 'I guess I oughta go buy some more ingredients, then,' and so I went all the way back to the market but those darn tax collectors were roaming all around the place and they asked me for my money and so I told them, 'well, sirs, I don't live here' but then they said, 'well you're gonna have to prove it, mister."

"You don't need to bake me a cake."

"I spent a good twenty minutes trying awfully hard to prove I don't live here, but they wanted to see my birth certificate as proof, and I don't know about you but I don't even have a birth certificate, much less one to carry around wherever I go. So I had to give them some money, so I returned to the inn to get more money to buy the ingredients but by the time I got back you got here so I decided I oughta start fixing up dinner instead and that I could just make the cake tomorrow."

"You really should just focus on healing," Mott suggests, nodding to his injuries. Even if they're faded compared to before, they're still unsightly and incredibly painful looking. "Just stay in here and rest tomorrow, okay?"

"You know I can't do that," Lenny denies, bumping into his shoulder affectionately. "I can't just laze around in here while you're doing so much work to try and help these people. It wouldn't be right."

Mott takes a bite of his food and says nothing, deliberately ignoring the return of the aching gnaw in his chest. Why is this feeling coming back to him now? He wasn't even thinking of the curator's note or the Zekrom quest! In fact, he'd been entirely content to forget all about those things. So why can't he stick to being happy?

His emotions have been fluctuating all day. One minute, he'll feel on top of the world, like his father had never thrown him out of that carriage all those months ago, and then the next he feels like a stranger in his own body. He goes from his highest highest to his lowest lows at the drop of a hat. Whenever he's at his highest, he feels pleasantly numb to the rest of the world. But at his lowest, he feels it all crashing down on him with keen and torturous perception.

Sometimes, there's nothing he wants to do more than help his uncle. But sometimes, just the thought of associating himself with the man makes his skin crawl.

But what else is he going to do? He has nowhere else to go. He won't—can't—return to his doomed Zekrom quest. If he tried to beg his father for grace, he'd be berated straight out the door, and the thought of seeing his father make's him queasy.

This is his only option. He won't be made to feel guilty about this.

If only he could get himself on board with that.


"My, my, Montgomery, you're back bright and early!" Uncle Theobald commends, clasping his hands together in delight. Leaning forward to glance at the accounting books Mott works with, he says, "Quite good work ethic you have!"

Mott still isn't used to being praised by family, so he can only manage a stiff nod.

"Really, I couldn't ask for a better helper. We've already seen an increase in profits with you around!" Uncle Theobald claps a friendly hand on his back. Mott doesn't know how to react to that. He offers an awkward and painful smile. "At this rate, you'll be back in the family and have the crest in no time at all."

At that, Mott actually perks up. "You think so?"

"Why, certainly," his uncle responds smoothly. "With all the help you've given me, I'd be honored to speak to your father on your behalf."

Mott's heart skips a beat. He's not sure why, but it doesn't feel like it's precisely due to excitement. He ignores this thought so he can answer his uncle. "That would be great," he says, because it would be. Objectively, it would be great to be reaccepted into the Alcott family. Logically, too. And… several other reasons.

So, yeah. It would be great.

This is what he wants.

Uncle Theobald nods to himself for a moment before his gaze slides back to Mott. "That is, of course, assuming your productivity continues."

"It will," he assures on reflex, much more used to this kind of treatment from family. Constantly having to affirm his capabilities to family members is a familiar chore. "In fact, I was just about to go into town and oversee the tax collection myself."

"Very good, very good," his uncle says, although he doesn't sound particularly pleased. He glances once more at the books. He looks up at Mott, a flare of impatience in his eyes. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get on it!"

It's not a long walk to the town, but for whatever reason, Mott feels drained by the time he gets there. Most of the tax collectors are already hard at work, their bags filled to the brim. One of them is playing tug-of-war with an elderly lady over a scraggly old blanket. She stubbornly refuses to release it no matter how much they insist. Impatiently, Mott walks over and swipes it away.

The old woman stares up at him with disbelief that soon hardens itself into crestfallen resignation. She mutters, "We shoulda known betta than to trust an Alcott."

He steadfastly ignores her, turning to the nearest tax collector. "Let's wrap this up quickly." Turning away and muttering to himself, he says, "I can't stand being here any longer."

The night grows dark as the tax collectors' work comes to a close. Their pouches are overflowing with money and goods, but Mott finds no satisfaction in it. Townsfolk shuffle into their huts, weary and gaunt, closing their rickety doors behind them. With no other people to collect from, the work comes to a halt.

"Good work," he robotically commends, ignoring the hollowness gnawing at him. "Go home; we'll collect more tomorrow."

Murmurs of consent and agreement rise up from the collectors, and they gradually disperse. Soon enough, Mott is alone in the dark, empty streets. He stares at the flickering torch light illuminating the dirty huts around him, lost in thought.

There's a soft sound behind him—a pained sound. He turns.

Immediately, hot fingers of horror creep up his spine.

It's Lenny.

"Lenny," he croaks, his throat suddenly dry. How long has he been standing there? How much did he see? "What are you doing? You should be resting."

Lenny stares at him. Mott stares back, taking in the state of his bandages. Some of them are bleeding around the arms; probably the wounds were exacerbated by the box Lenny is carrying in his hands. It makes Mott's heart lurch, and he takes a step forward.

Lenny takes a flinching step back.

Mott halts. Lenny's eyes flicker with something unplaceable. Then they shift down, pointedly staring at the tax collector's bag slung around him.

His heart stops.

"Listen, I can explain—"

Lenny doesn't wait to hear it. With an entirely blank expression, Lenny drops the box to the ground, the contents spilling out messily. He turns and walks away.

"Lenny, wait!" Mott shouts, chasing after him. He steps in something sticky. Looking down, he sees Lenny's box at his feet, he sees creme on his foot. Trying to shake it off, he yells, "Lenny!"

Lenny doesn't stop. He doesn't even pause. No matter how much Mott calls for him, he doesn't return. Well, fine. Fine! Screw him; he can go straight to hell! Mott has a great new life that doesn't involve Lenny at all. And he's happy with it. He really is. He could never see Lenny again, and that would be okay. Really.

The creme is drying on his foot. Aggravated, he makes a sound of frustration, vigorously and fruitlessly trying to shake the crusted creme off. All he accomplishes is kicking the box aside, revealing the destroyed contents inside.

It's a cake. On the top, scribbled in clumsy, earnest letters, is a short message paired with a smiley face: you're the best!