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1

The sun was setting far to the east, the sky a pale and deadened yellow fading to gray, filled with the sounds of chirping cicadas. Out to the east, across the long, airy cemetery filled with identical white markers set in even rows, fields of wheat blown by the wind faded off into the horizon. From the opposite direction came the sounds of cars and trucks roaring by on the highway. Standing in front of a white pristine grave marker, set in an arbitrary row of the vast memorial yard, stood Shinji Ikari (Male Student No. 2, Second Year Class C, Kurikawa Junior High School). He stood dry eyed but darkened, his face down turned and shadowed, his eyes lingering on the name that was engraved on the marker before him:

Yui Ikari.

1966-1993

Since she had died, he had never come here alone, as he was now, but he found himself enjoying it far more than he had last time- and dreading the company he knew was soon coming. Since his mother's death in an undisclosed accident (Shinji had never been told how she had died, and he had never asked for an explanation. In the Republic of Greater East Asia, asking questions was never a good idea, and he had known that just as much as a child of eight as he did now), he had come here twice with his father, and on the last occurrence he had run away, refusing to come back with, and had never stepped foot here again. He had not seen his father since, and for the most part, had never wanted to. At least, he thought he didn't want to. Now, as he waited for him to appear as suddenly as the letter ordering him to meet here on the anniversary of his mother's death had arrived unanticipated, his thoughts chased each other around and around in an endless circle, redundantly going through the same questions and anxious fears as the dozen's of times before.

Hoping to take his mind off the subject, Shinji reached into his pocket and took out his Mini-Disk player, an old, outdated piece of equipment he had been using for years. Before he could play it though, a sound from behind caught his attention. It was the soft but insistent roar of an expensive engine, much more subtle than the strained whine of the public bus Shinji had ridden here. He turned around.

A peach colored military car, small and compact like any domestic vehicle, pulled to a stop at the empty parking lot overlooking the cemetery. Instantly the back door opened and a tall, wide shouldered man in a military uniform stepped out. As he had throughout all of Shinji's life, Gendo Ikari, his father, moved much to fast to allow for mental rehearsal. He strode immediately down the steps leading to the cemetery and walked crisply towards his wife's grave.

"Shinji. You've come." His voice was as soft as a concrete pillow, layered with tones of impatience and hints of disapproval.

"Y-yes. Father. I wanted to…" Shinji said, avoiding his eyes. "To see mom."

"You did not reply." Gendo Ikari said, speaking of the letter he, or more likely his secretary, had sent his son after four years of silence. "I was certain you'd run away again."

"I came." Shinji said, slightly defiant. His father did not respond. Silent, they stared at the grave for several minutes. Shinji's tilted his eyes sideways, staring at his father, but his expression was inscrutable behind his dark glasses. Since he'd last seen him, he'd grown a proper beard, rather than the errant stubble he'd worn as a younger man. Mom always used to bug him about that…

"It's been three years since we last came here together." His father said. Another man might have said, "you've grown so much" or "I wish I'd come sooner," or maybe even, "I've missed you." Gendo said none of these- he was a man of very few words.

"Yeah. I've always wanted to come back. But I never…" He trailed off. Never wanted to come alone.

"I've avoided this place as well." His father said. "This grave is an artifice, nothing more. There is no body here. Yui never even set foot in this place. It does little to remind me of who she was. I've thrown away every photograph I had."

"No pictures?" Shinji asked

"None. I keep my memories of her in my heart. I'm satisfied with that." He said. Again, there was a stretch of silence.

"Um, father?" Shinji asked. "Why did you want me to come here today? After all this time?"

"Yui taught me something very important long ago." He said, almost as if he hadn't heard Shinji at all. "I came here to affirm that memory, so that I could keep it at hand in the days to come. I thought you may have something similar. Something you needed to remember." A memory flashed through Shinji's mind. I mustn't run away.

"Yeah. I do have something." He said.

"Shinji, our time is up. I'm leaving." Shinji turned in surprise, but was more shocked by his next words. "I will be seeing you again, soon." He turned to return to his car.

"F-father!" Shinji called. He stopped, and turned around. "It was good to talk with you." Was all he could think of to say.

"Indeed." Gendo said, and continued on to his car. Shinji watched, torn between shouting after him or turning back to the grave, when a slender figure stepped out of the car. Wha-? A girl? He stared. A young girl, fourteen years old, had stepped out of the car and was opening the door for his father. She was extremely thin, dressed in a familiar looking school uniform, staring at Gendo with a warm smile on her face. Her skin was pale, almost white in the summer sun, and her hair, as well, was soft and colorless, with a hint of blue. She looked foreign, exotic, strange and yet extremely familiar in some unexplainable way.

That's her. Shinji thought. He had heard, years ago, after he had run away and refused to return to his father, that he had adopted another child, a girl by the name of Rei Ayanami. He had never seen her, but he had always wondered: what kind of child would make a man like his father happy? What sort of child had he replaced his own son with? A breeze suddenly blew between them, and something made the girl glance in his direction. Their eyes met.

Her smile had vanished, replaced by a look that was cold, silent, empty and meaningless. Her face was like that of a lifelike doll's- exquisite, beautiful crafted, but utterly devoid of any spark of human warmth. She was looking at him, Shinji realized, as one looks at a bug about to be squashed, with cold, detached indifference. Before he could respond, she turned away and slid into the seat beside her (his) father and pulled shut the door.

The car drove away, leaving him alone but for the sound of cicadas.

32 Students Remaining.