The boy stared at the note on the table, with the twenty-dollar bill next to it. Late again, it said, Very sorry. Pizza on us. A phone number sat under the words, for the closest pizzeria. The boy stared at the note, the twelfth this month. He glanced into the kitchen, then back down at the note. Another night cooking for one…and another twenty-dollar bill pocketed. He had a small collection going,
It was a little after 6, and he had just gotten home. He spent two hours after school every day, one hour private lessons on the cello and one hour private lessons in pencil drawing. It was busy work, the kind of thing a kid was made to do after school to keep them occupied. He refused to go to college prep courses, and had no interest in athletics. So…the cello and art. And some other things, here and there…
He turned on the television in the kitchen, and began channel-surfing. News, sports, more news, bad movie, somewhat bad movie…amusing movie, but not in the mood for it now. Cartoons. He lingered a moment. This particular show was meant for little girls…but the tone and humor was well above their age group, one of those shows that tried to appeal to parents sitting down with their kids. It's biggest fan-base, in fact, was college age kids. He see-sawed, for a bare moment, on the guilty-pleasure show. He would never admit having it on to any of his friends, but the back and forth patter of the female voices was soothing. It didn't matter what they spoke about…it just made it sound like someone was in the house.
The boy put down the controller, and pulled a skillet from out of one of the bottom cupboards. He scrounged through the fridge…his guardians, when they could be bothered to cook, were epicureans, and had a decent taste when it came to food. He had a wide range of ingredients to choose from, and pulled out a thawed pound of ground beef, some squash, zucchini, onion, bell peppers…tomato paste…what else was there? Milk, can't forget that…mozzarella, can't forget that either, Sapin mozzarella nonetheless…
He pawed through the ingredients for a bit, and satisfied he had found enough items, lined them up on the island. He raided the spice cabinet for more items, fetched two cutting boards, a few bowels, some knives, a whisk…throw it together and see what came out.
The boy never cooked with recipes. He knew recipes, read them when he could, but for the most part he would just wing it. He had that rare talent for looking at a pile of raw food items, and have the sense to plan and plot them together into larger and more delicious meals. It was just a talent…a gift.
The process was purposed, but not mechanical. He moved with the sense of knowing where he was going, without really knowing what the result would be. He set the oven for 400 degrees, and pan-cooked the hamburger with some chopped onions and garlic, as well as enough tomato paste and salt to give it some flavor. He boiled some noodles, and placed another skillet down for more onions and the rest of the veggies. He then placed yet another pot down for milk, tomato paste, a few other items to get a good sauce going. He stirred each item, letting them cook in their own time and losing himself in the process of managing the various ingredients. He drained the grease from the hamburger into a jar he kept under the sink, saving up excess oil and grease to dispose of in a proper manner. He drained the water from the noodles into the sink, spritzed them with some olive oil. Stirred the veggies, stirred the sauce, fetched a small baking pan, put down the veggies, the noddles, and the meat. He stirred them together, soaked them in the sauce, and layered a healthy amount of cheese on top of it. The oven dinged ready, and he put the whole mess in for twenty-five minutes.
No sooner had he done that when the doorbell rang. He turned off the television and walked cautiously to the front door. He peered through the peephole, and saw violet hair (violet, really) and a blue uniform. He stepped back, confused. The doorbell rang again. He opened it, and there stood a very pretty woman (gorgeous, really) in a blue skirt and blue jacket of an officer in the Air Defense Force. She had a briefcase in one hand, and her cap in the other. She wasn't wearing makeup, but didn't seem to need any. She was probably the most striking woman Shinji had ever met, and he swallowed nervously.
"Hello," she said in a sweet voice, "My name is Misato Katsuargi, I'm a Captain in the Air Defense Force. I'm looking for Shinji Ikari."
There was an old saying that those who did not do, taught. It could be adjusted, in this case, to say that those who did not fly did scut work. Well…it wasn't exactly scut work, but given the choice between flying a supersonic aircraft versus looking for a teenage kid, a fighter pilot had an easy decision to make.
If the fighter pilot in question could no longer fly, however, she had to do whatever else she was told to do. Needs of the service and all that. Which was why Misato Katuragi had found herself in Lt. Col. Cody Pucifer's office at McNealy Air Force Base, looking at a picture of a girl. Except that it wasn't a girl, it was a boy, if the adjacent information was to be believed. He looked like a girl…
"That's the son of Dr. Gendo Ikari, the Director-in-Chief of the Nerve Program based at Basset Space Center," the executive officer was saying. "We've received a request that someone retrieve him, and bring him to his father. And yours was the first name that came to mind." The thin man smiled coolly, and Misato gave him an ugly look. One did not give ugly looks to the XO of a major unit. That was a blasphemy just shy of kicking a prophet in the groin. Pucifer's grin became a toothy one, however, and Misato turned red.
"The hell is this?…sir!" she snapped, not loudly but testily. "What do you mean my name came to mind? Are you trying to say something about my abilities? Just come out and say it."
The officer held up a placating hand. "Katsuragi, don't skin me just yet." He reached across the table and took the folder from her, and flipped through a few pages. "See this memorandum? It's a request for a new flight officer to oversee parts of the Nerv Program's experimental aircraft division. They'd like an officer with a pay-grade of at least O-4 to manage it. Someone with extensive flight experience, I might add."
She eyed him suspiciously. "Keep going."
"Touchy, aren't we?" he chided, but he understood. Ever since that little accident and the oh-so-invasive surgery that followed, Misato Katsuragi had been grounded. She was one of their up-and-coming pilots, and had a long and fruitful career ahead of her if not for that little problem. She was testy, and touchy, and generally bristly to everyone in the command section of McNealy that she had to work with. She could also be charming, witty, intelligent, and a riot in the officer's club. She didn't know it, but Pucifer (and in no small part Col. Amy Whitten, his immediate superior) had shielded Katsuragi from the consequences her greater excesses could bring, knowing they still had a good officer to use if they could just shake her of this bitterness over flying.
He flipped over the memorandum, and behind it was a set of orders. Misato looked at them, and felt her jaw drop without intending it to. "Dependent on reporting…immediate promotion…what…what!? Sir, I don't…understand this…" She picked up the orders with two fingers as though it was a dead thing she had just discovered in her sink.
"Upon reporting to Basset Space Center, you, Capt. Katsuragi, will be immediately promoted to the permanent rank of Major. You will oversee all of our ADF attachments there, and most likely also head the entire ground security team as well. And if the presence at that facility expands, expect your rank to grow appropriate. You could be Lt. Col. Katsuragi in as little as two years with this posting."
"Eh…I…no, no, no! The military doesn't work like that! Does it?" She seemed very flustered, and Pucifer hid his amusement behind a wan smile.
"All right, here's the deal: promotion in the ADF goes to those who fly, right? Sure, you can be a talented officer and see a long and fruitful career heading up a group of technical squadrons, managing a base, managing a base defense wing, but in the end, it's the pilots that get the rewards and reap the benefits, right?"
"Well, yeah, but…"
"And you've been moping…and let's be fair, it's been a little bit more than that…about not being able to fly anymore. You have a permanent profile, you're grounded until they can be convinced your heart won't stop beating at excess G-stress. Frankly, unless you pick another branch, your career is stalled, and even if you do find that branch…you won't be as promotable as someone who did that job from the moment they commissioned."
"That's true, but…"
"This posting, it looks like a scut posting, I know. Babysitting scientists and all that, but this is about as close to a dream job as you can get. You get to wear civilian clothing, be paid at an O-4 pay grade, accrue time in active service, and possibly see a jump to O-5, because it will be easier to promote you than find someone else to do the job you'll be posted with. Your career can continue, and grow…through this. And you can have a little fun doing it, too. This is the big time, whether it looks like it or not. It's not as flashy as dogfighting over the Pacific, but this will open doors for you. Maybe even stars…if you stay with us that long."
Misato's mouth was working like a landed fish's, and her teeth clicked each time her mouth closed. "Uh…" she finally managed. "Um…well…" She looked at her hands, folded now in her lap. She shrugged. "Um…okay, yeah. Yeah. I see your point."
"Of course you do. You're smart, and you know when the XO tells you you have a good deal, you have a good deal." Pucifer smiled, and Misato smiled back, nervously.
"Maj. Katsuragi," she said, bobbing her head with the syllables.
"Gold oak leaves will look good on your shoulder," Pucifer said.
"Lt. Col. Katsuragi," she said, a little bolder.
"All right, tiger, don't get ahead of yourself," Pucifer said. "I'll get a flight scheduled for you to go get this kid, pick him up, give him this," he tossed a heavy envelope into her lap, and she squeaked trying to catch it, "and take him to his pop. Remember, it's not actually at Bassett itself, there's a test field about forty miles north on the other side of the Riddlebacks. That's where you'll go. Keep your MIB card handy, they'll have you in the system by the time you arrive."
"Actually, I think I'll drive out," Misato suggested.
"Drive? The kid's in Bana City, that's on the other side of the country."
"It's only a twenty-hour drive," Misato said.
"Twenty-hours if you drive a hundred-and-ten the whole way there without stopping to sleep," Pucifer said in disbelief.
Misato shrugged. "See? Twenty hours."
"Plane tickets," he began, and she waved him off.
"Sir, I'll drive and stop at a hotel. I swear. No speeding, no reckless endangerment of myself or someone else's minor. Nice and slow granny driving the whole way. I just want to have some time to process this. I mean, I have a week, right?"
"Yeah, a week before you have to report in," he confirmed, checking the orders.
"Easy. I can go and be packed now, have my trunks mailed to Basset. They'll get there when I do. Perfect. Right?" She gave him a winning smile, and he grumbled, defeated. "Fine. Fine, be off with you. No reckless driving, no speeding…"
"Scout's honor, sir," she beamed. And she did as she said…for the most part. She did speed a little in there, but when you had a red, sporty little two door, how could you not speed? She took I-10 along the Southern Coast, passing Basset Space Center proper, with it's massive rail gun complex glimmering in the sun. Several times on her trip, the road weaved south towards the Pacific Ocean, allowing her a beautiful view of the ocean for most of the trip. She stopped a few times for gas and coffee energy-drinks, and once for a four hour catnap.
She made it to Bana City at around 1500 the next day, checked into a hotel, showered, napped, and got back into her uniform to go see Shinji and his guardians the (the Rokubungis) at 1800. She found the house at 1824, parked, and rang the doorbell. She stood feeling twitchy after so long without a good, solid rest, and rang the doorbell again. A teenage boy in blue jeans and a t-shirt answered the door.
The boy looked at her with owl-eyes. He was so skinny, practically petite. Meeting him in person, Misato assumed he would look more masculine, since all she had was a head shot from a school photo. No dice…if anything, he seemed more feminine. Misato pushed that thought down and smiled at him. "Hello. My name is Misato Katsuargi, I'm a Captain in the Air Defense Force. I'm looking for Shinji Ikari," she said politely. He looked at her, and her uniform, and seemed caught between saying one thing or another.
"If it helps you decide what to say, I know you happen to be Shinji Ikari," she said sweetly. He blinked at that, and seemed unsure as to what to say next.
"Uh…yeah, that's me," he finally managed, crossing his arms.
"Are your guardians in?" she asked. He shook his head.
"I'm sorry, why are you here?" he asked.
"I've been given instructions to take you to your father," she said. At the word 'father,' his face went blank, and Misato had the feeling she had said something wrong. He stiffened, and looked back behind him as if searching for a path of escape.
"Why?" he asked. The question caught Misato off guard, and she frowned. There was something she was missing in this conversation.
"I…don't know, actually. I was simply told to pick you up and bring you to Basset Space Center. He's the director of an important aeronautical program there, who works in close conjunction with the military. That's part of the reason why I'm here." He nodded, and looked down, his eyes focused on her shoes. She was wearing a skirt with her uniform, and in any other boy she would assume he was staring at her legs, but his gaze seemed unfocused and wooden. She began to feel uncomfortable herself, as the silence stretched on, standing there on the porch.
"I should…come back. I can leave some contact information, when you're guardians come back…"
"They're not coming back tonight," Shinji said flatly. "Well, not till late, anyway. They're always busy." It was an odd answer, and caught Misato off-guard.
"Oh," she said, cocking her head. "That's fine. I can go, if I need to…"
Something rebelled in Shinji, and he felt that he himself had done something wrong. "I was cooking myself some dinner. Would you like to stay and have some?" It seemed the appropriate thing to say.
Misato's eyebrows quirked. The tone and the feel of the question was purely innocent, but as a fourteen-year-old boy, Shinji had to know that, one, it was not smart to invite stranger's into the home, and two, it was especially out of pocket for a teenage boy to invite an older woman into his home. He seemed ignorant of both points, and something rang a warning bell in Misato's mind. Not a warning of danger…merely of damage. Misato had a crummy childhood growing up, and she had a bloodhound's nose for detecting when things were off in others.
Against her instincts, she nodded and said, "That'd be fine. Thanks." She followed him in, and examined the house. It was large and spacious, if not overly luxurious. She had seen that his guardians were engineering professors at Bana City University, and had made a good amount of their extra-income through consultative work. She saw a dining room table in view of the door, and walked over to it, dropping her cap and briefcase on the surface.
"It'll be about twenty more minutes," he said, "In the meantime…you said…you said my father wanted to see me?"
"Yes, he did," Misato said, still smiling. She fished the folder out of the briefcase, and laid it on the table. "I have a permission form, proof of identity, proof of request, a whole bunch of legal stuff in there. Oh, yeah…" She pulled out a large envelope. "This, too. It's addressed to you." She slid it across the table, and his hand flicked out and stopped it with surprising grace. She blinked. It seemed a very natural and unhurried gesture, and yet swift and smooth in a way that seemed…almost animal like…
She shook her head, and began opening the folder and pulling out legal forms. "This'll be fun for a kid like you, believe me. You'll be on the Basset Space Center's Rainbow Flat Airfield. Lots of jet fighters, experimental craft, it'll be hog heaven for a boy." She looked up, and he was holding the envelope carefully, not quite listening to her.
"I mean, yeah, you'll miss your friends and all, but…"
"I don't have any friends," he mumbled, one of his thumbs caressing the envelope in thought. She blinked in surprise.
"What…no friends? That can't be true."
"No, it is," he mumbled. "This is my father's handwriting."
Misato studied the boy, and decided her instincts had proved correct. This kid had some serious issues rattling around in his head. "If it's his handwriting, it must mean he wants you to open it," she said, smiling.
Shinji made a face, and tore open the side of the envelope. He pulled out a boxy electronic item with headphones, a few pamphlets, a written note, and a MIB card. "Hmm," Misato said, cocking her head. "That's an S-DAT player. I thought they stopped making those," she murmured. She picked up the MIB card, and saw that it had Shinji's face on it, printed over from the same picture she had in her possession. Someone was wasting no time in prepping this kid.
It then occurred to her that whoever it was…herself included, really…had made a lot of assumptions that this kid would up and go when she showed up. There was nothing saying he had to, she pondered. She smiled, though, and decided to continue being warm and friendly. The kid was frosty, but he looked so miserable that Misato couldn't help it. She sympathized with him…a lot.
"This is a Military Identification Badge," she said. "Usually, dependents get a different ID. This is the full deal. That's pretty cool, right?"
"Maybe…" he mumbled. She cocked her head to the side, and he realized she was looking at him. He glanced up at her, then hid his face, blushing. He didn't like being scrutinized like that. Fortunately, the oven rang, meaning that his dinner was ready. "I have to get that," he said, disappearing into the kitchen. He returned later with two plates, and matching knives and forks. He retreated again, and came out with a hot pan and spatula. Whatever it was smelled very…very good. Considering that Misato had lived on fast-food for the past two days, her stomach rumbled in curiosity.
"What is that?" she asked.
"Just…something I made," he said, smiling nervously. He seemed more comfortable, just a bit. He scooped out a serving for Misato, showing he had some understanding of manners, at least, then served himself. "Would you like anything to drink?"
She fought the instinct to say beer, and said, "Water, or soda, if you have any."
"Orange soda," he said. "Is that okay?"
"Orange soda it is," she said with a brilliant smile. He blushed again, and this time Misato felt a little pleased with herself. Not that she should go around making boys blush, of course, but it was nice to know that she could.
He returned with two glasses, and they ate. He opened up a little during the dinner, but he went from being sullen and evasive to being wide-eyed and curious. If he didn't ask questions, his body language implied them. Misato talked about her career flying F-15s and F-16s for the ADF, and against his attempts to be distant, Shinji couldn't help but lean forward and listen. Misato was a natural storyteller, and had a fighter pilot's talent for embellishment. She was in the middle of a particular heated mock-dogfight, discussing how she and her wingman were about to one up a pair from the 145th Squadron (because they were jerks, plain and simple) when the door opened and Prof. Griffin Rokubungi and his wife, Dr. Ilsa Rokubungi, stepped through. They spotted Misato, and Shinji, and both seemed at a loss for what to say.
"Good evening, sir…ma'am," Misato said, smoothly rising and taking charge of the situation. "My name is Capt. Misato Katsuragi. I'm actually here in an official capacity, if you can believe that. I apologize for intruding like this, but I need to speak to you in regards to Shinji."
"Um…that's fine, that's fine," Griffin mumbled, taking his coat off. His wife, a Belkan who had immigrated to Osea, still seemed unsure of what to say. It wasn't often one came home to find a military officer in the house.
Shinji watched the adults talking, and felt that he had somehow made the situation awkward. Perhaps it shouldn't have invited Misato in…he felt a little embarrassed, now, but Misato was navigating the situation with well enough. She was an assertive woman, and it was hard not to be drawn in by her.
"So, Miss…I mean, Capt. Katsuragi… you're from Ugellas, originally?" Ilsa was asking, trying to be polite.
"No, actually. My grandparents on both sides are, but my parents are native-born Oseans. From the Yamato community in Oured," she explained. "Before Ulysses, if that's what you're wondering."
"Ah," he said. Anything that followed seemed to phase out of the boy's awareness, as he stared at the MIB card. He shuffled through the pamphlets…a lot of things about Basset Space Center, Rainbow Flats Airfield…touristy crap. He looked at the note:
Shinji,
You're presence is requested at Basset Space Center at your earliest convenience.
-Your father,
Gendo Ikari
The letter felt like an afterthought, scribbled on paper and shoved into an envelope. There, have at it and be done. Shinji's fingers worked nervously, and he tried to picture his father. He had vague memories, nothing firm or fixed enough for him to understand.
"What do you say, Shinji?" Griffin asked. The boy looked at him, surprised.
"What?" he asked.
"About…leaving. Going to your father? What do you say?" Ilsa asked gently. He looked at her, and then Griffin, and back at the S-DAT. His uncle and aunt were not bad people, and they had raised him as they best knew how. They were a busy people, however, and never had time for him. They knew nothing about raising kids, and generally wanted to see what his thoughts and feelings were on things before deciding for themselves. He had the feeling he wouldn't be missed if he left.
"I haven't seen him since I was four…" he mumbled. That didn't seem to be the confirmation they were looking for, so he said, "Okay. Okay. I'm…sure. Sure. Why not?" He exhibited some nervous energy with that. Misato leaned forward.
"Are you sure, Shinji?"
He blinked, looking at Misato. She was smiling gently at him, waiting patiently. He swallowed, feeling bashful, and shrugged. "Why not? I mean…it might be good for me, right?" It was a weak excuse, but he seemed more on the side of going than not.
"Good. Good," she smiled. Misato and his guardians discussed the mechanics of leaving, which should be sooner rather than later. They could pack his possessions in some boxes and have it shipped out to the base as soon as possible, whereas if Shinji was ready to go, they could leave tomorrow. Anything concerning his school could be handled via the Federal Office in Bana City. He tuned them out, tracing circles on the note with his fingertips.
Why…did his father want to see him? Why the S-DAT…Shinji didn't know, and something about that frightened him.
Notes from GobHobblin: I try not to give long author's notes, and I prefer to explain things in the story as much as possible, but there are some points I wanted to address that won't actually appear in this fic. Basically, there are things to be said about the character of Misato Katsuragi. She is a great character, very strong, but also with serious failings in her assigned role as guardian of Shinji Ikari. She had a distinct fear of interacting with others, or at least allowing herself to slip into something more than a shallow and easy-to-leave relationship. Her instability and failure to act as a guardian figure to Shinji is one of the key plot points of Evangelion, which led to a whole slew of character breakdowns and arguably Third Impact. That's not saying it's Misato's fault: it is, however, one of the many points when the path to destruction could have been averted, and was not.
Why is Misato seemingly stable here? Simple: Misato was not involved in Second Impact (which in this case was the fall of Ulysses1994XF04), and her own flight accident. Clearly the larger portion of her neuroses stemmed from Second Impact in the original series. As for the accident, parallel to her physical rehabilitation, the ADF (being patterned on the US Air Force, or at least a very high-functioning, slightly idealized version of it) would have also sent her through a slew of counselors. Generally, this is something a member of the military cannot be forced to do, but in this version of Strangereal, as an Osean pilot, Misato was required as part of her recuperation after the crash. As she is around 26 in this continuity (which is about the age a very talented First Lieutenant could expect to be a Captain, hence her shock at the possibility of being a Major so quickly…) and already has a support network in upper officers and some NCOs who are eager to see her career progress…which is what proper officers and NCOs should do. Combined with the intense counseling following her crash, a lot of personal issues were brought to light and addressed. Not fixed, but at least acknowledged, and given a chance to air out and be noted. And do note, she still displays some key psychological injuries, inherent in irritability, mood swings, inappropriate emotional reactions at certain times…take the talk with Lt. Col. Pucifer. Even in a joking context, you never get angry and snap at a Lieutenant-Colonel. Which also demonstrates how patient her superiors are, for that matter…
