"...the ploughman said. 'When will they take it away? '
'When the war's over.' So the talk began –
One minute and an interval of ten,
A minute more and the same interval.
'Have you been out? ' 'No.' 'And don't want to, perhaps? '
'If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm, I shouldn't want to lose
A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,
I should want nothing more...Have many gone
From here? ' 'Yes.' 'Many lost? ' 'Yes, a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates—'"

Shinji yawned, lowering the little red book. He looked to his bad arm, holding it up to the light. He felt a twinge as he tried to bend it, and his eyes flicked to the painkillers.

One tablet every four hours. No more than eight tablets a day.

The liquid painkiller was much better. Up to three times a day, for no more than a week at the most. Any more, and he'd have trouble stopping... apparently. He had taken it thrice already, just to be sure. It made him a bit light-headed, but it seemed to be doing the trick. He felt just fine.

Tomorrow morning, on the other hand, was going to be difficult... and would tell him just how much pain he was really in, under all the drugs.

He edged the vial of bitter, vile-tasting liquid a little closer to the edge of his table, together with the bottle of Coca-Cola Misato had furnished him with to help wash it down. He carefully - nigh reverently - set the string bookmark and placed the tome under his pillow.

Everything set and stowed, he lay back under the unfamiliar ceiling.

The shower had been nice. Hot - well, warm given the length of his guardian's shower - water was a real luxury. It made cleaning much easier, too. He had cleaned the kitchen quite thoroughly that night. The bulk of the rubbish was just wrappers and packaging which hadn't quite made it to the bin. A lot of it was foreign stuff, snacks and finger-foods. He didn't see a single meal ticket or ration coupon about the place, which was odd; he had meant to ask about her meal plan. She was eating a lot of pre-prepared stuff, too. If he had to guess - which he didn't, of course, but asking her about her eating habits seemed a bit personal - he'd say Misato seldom cooked proper meals for herself. There was little sign of the bones and dog-ends of vegetables that one would expect to find amongst the trash. Did she even have a vegetable garden here? Tinned vegetables came already prepared, of course, and meat came in tins as well. And besides, whole meat wasn't something that was eaten everyday even in his hometown, even in his Uncle's moderately well-to-do household...

Home wasn't a very welcoming or hospitable place, but he still missed it. How crazy was that?

The cicadas shut up as a convoy rumbled past, the engines droning and rumbling as they passed.

He wasn't a guest here. He was a part of her household, now. He had effectively been adopted into the Katsuragi family.

As far as everyone else was knew he was a Katsuragi, and not an Ikari.

For the most thought, that thought did not bother him.

The convoy left silence in its wake.

It may not be a man's place, but he felt obliged to do more to take care of himself given that she was providing for them both. The kitchen was a start. Now if he could be more active in it everyday, too, that would probably be a big help.

And maybe it would mean less of...whatever it was they had been eating today.

He'd had worse, but even then, that stuff was a special brand of... "Unique", as his Aunt would often say whenever she wanted avoid offending someone else's attempts at cooking. There was a fair bit of meat though, surely it had to be black-market stuff. He thought it could be horse. Then again, it was decidedly hard to tell just what her food was supposed to be until she told you.

He'd noticed a few crates half-hidden under some blankets in what was apparently the cloth-cupboard. They might've been the origin of some or all of it. The Japanese-and-English stamps on them had said they were US Navy property and provided a telephone number for good-natured citizens to report their whereabouts to should they encounter said property. Shinji knew people bought things from the military sometimes. He knew that sometimes they 'went missing' too - he wasn't totally naive. He didn't want to ask her how she'd got them, because then he might not like what he heard, and he'd rather not know where they came from than hear it from her they were stolen property. He hadn't heard good things about military food, but it was better than nothing in a pinch. Food supplies were generally reliable these days - reliably poor, perhaps - but if more of the monstrous Angels came - as Miss Katsuragi certainly seemed to think they would - then what man could tell?

The drawn out chirping of a cicada reached him through the open window. The noise was almost hesitant, as if it didn't quite know what to make of the light coming from the solitary street-lamp in the parking lot.

His Aunt wouldn't approve of Miss Katsuragi. 'Flappers', she'd called them - independent women, that is - though he had no idea. "They can't keep house," she had often said, "and what good is a woman who both usurps her husband's natural role as provider and cannot run a household? No one person can juggle the responsibilities of motherhood and a career. If it wasn't for us I don't know how your mother would have coped."

The cicadas were quiet, now. The night was still, and calming.

He missed his bedding-mat, and his old room. It was small, but he had thought it cosy. It made him feel safe. This... foreign-style bed was raised off the floor and in the middle of the room, facing away from the door. It made him feel... unsafe. An exposed sacrifice to the monstrous spirits of the night.

After a few more moments spent feeling increasingly agitated, he got off the bed and with some effort turned it around and pushed it into the corner of the room furthest from the door. After he had oh-so-carefully-moved the heavily-laden table he settled under the covers again, wondering again what his Aunt would make of Miss Katsuragi, and what Miss Katsuragi would think of his Aunt, if they ever met.

He doubted they ever would.

Their goodbye had been so final, so absolute...

They didn't have a telephone at home, but they had promised that they would write him once a month, so maybe he would hear from them soon. He reached under his pillow and touched the book, as if for reassurance, and looked to the ceiling again. 'My ceiling now, I guess'.

Shinji Ikari awoke from a night of troubled dreams to discover that he had turned into a giant bug.

Screaming, he flailed around knocking a few things off his bed-side table before falling out of bed proper, hitting his head on the table on the way down. He curled up a little the floor, clutching at his head. He tried to move his trapped arm out from underneath him, but it was stiff and he couldn't move it. It ached a little around his elbow. Lifting himself off the floor with his moveable arm, he sat back against the bed and took in the sight of his other arm in a cast. He tried to remember when he had gotten it, and why. And why he had been in a European-style bed in a bedroom that was not his. It didn't quite come to him, but what he did know is that it was safe here and it would be alright, he hoped. He noticed that he was wet; he had been laying in a damp patch on the carpet. There was an overturned glass not far away from him, with a little water still in it. There was his red book, which was now wet... he hurried to dry it off on his clothes. Thankfully the pages themselves hadn't been exposed, it had just been the covers. He placed it back on the table and noticed the other things around him; a couple of pens, a plain manila folder, and a photograph of a woman in a slightly suggestive pose. He tilted his head to look at it her properly just as he reached under his to adjust his under-pants, which had bunched up uncomfortably at the front in the commotion. She looked vaguely familiar.

He froze as the door burst inwards to admit the woman from the photo. Their eyes met for a moment and he remembered her. Miss Katsuragi looked worried at first, but she seemed put at ease by his expression. She quickly glanced about him, assessing the situation, but her eyes stopped their scan at his midsection, and stayed there. After a few seconds he followed her gaze and froze.

A few seconds after that, he looked back up at Misato without moving anything but his eyes. He suddenly reminded her of a cat she had once seen in her headlights. Her eyes drifted a little to one side as she tried to remember just what had happened to the poor thing. She had been pretty drunk at the time, to be honest, and she really wasn't sure. She really wasn't a morning person...

In the time it had taken her to think that through and realise that the atmosphere hadn't gotten any less awkward, Shinji had brought his good arm around clutch at his other arm, hugging himself and attempting to hide his embarrassment beneath his non-existent hair. He seemed to realise it wasn't working at about the same time she decided to break the ice with a joke. She summoned her best teasing tone.

"Please, don't mind me. Do you mind if I watch?"

It took him a couple of seconds to get it, but when he did, his reaction was priceless. Even if she couldn't see his face from this angle, what with him doing his best to hide it behind his arm. She allowed herself a little chuckle at his expense. "Just kidding", she said as she walked into the room proper and crouched down opposite him. He sneaked a look her way from under his arm. "I like it better when they don't know I'm watching."

His arm dropped and an expression of sheer horror crossed his features. That killed her. She burst out laughing and gave him a friendly little punch in the (good) arm before sitting back so she wasn't laughing right in his face. Maybe it was a little mean of her, but she was sure it had worked out for the best when Shinji sat up properly and wiped the sleep from eyes, which looked like they would rather not be forced open quite so early in the morning.

She was employing that searching look of hers, now. He returned her gaze with a squint through strained eyes. Her tone was all seriousness and business as she asked of him, "Bad dream?"

He nodded. Then said, "Yeah...". Just in case he hadn't made himself clear. Somehow.

"Heh. Well, you've got better reasons than most to be having them. I mean, just look at your haircut."

You could hear the cicadas at it again. Even at this early hour the sound of a lone cicada could be heard through the open window.

"Okay, lame joke. Cut me some slack. You really okay, though?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay. Well, we've got a busy day ahead of us. We need you to recover the Eva and bring it back to the cages for repairs. We were going to leave in about three hours but, seeing as you're up already we might as well roll with it. You think you can be ready in an hour?"

He nodded.

"'Kay. No hot water in the mornings, sorry, that's just the way the damn thing works. I've put some toast - got some wheat bread yesterday, don't ask where. Tea?"

Another nod.

"Be careful, lad. There isnae rush. Just take yer time. We don't want yeh fallin' over now. It doesnae matter one way or t'other, 's long as yeh get back without destroyin' 'alf the city."

"Yes, sir."

The radio headphones were too loud, but he didn't know how to adjust the volume.

He didn't have to watch his step so much now that he had made it onto one of the four-lane boulevards that divided the entire city into neat grids. He was still a little unsteady on his feet. He had nearly fallen over twice already. They cut the control/response feed to the Eva's damaged arm until he got it back to the workshop for treatment. He steadily walked it to the nearest section of exposed railway where an Eva carriage sat straddling several tracks. The former-rifle was clutched in his good hand, and the revolver—which was practically untouched—was in a new bandolier. The old one was gone, presumed destroyed. The new one hung loose on the Eva's frame. The Chief Engineer (what was his name again?) had told him not to bother with strapping it on properly since he would just have to take it off again in a few minutes. He probably couldn't have done it anyway with just one hand. Shinji remembered the armourer saying he didn't like the look of the rifle, but they could still strip it for parts back at base once they got a proper look at it.

He couldn't help but wonder, as he plodded along slowly and unsteadily, why the machine—the Eva—seemed so much more difficult to handle this time. Was it always this hard to control? He supposed it was damage from the Angel, the Angel he didn't remember killing. He asked Misato what had happened, but she said to ask Miss Akagi when he saw her. All he knew was, the Angel blew up and this is what happened. But Shinji didn't remember anything from after he fainted until he woke up in the hospital.

They said they had retrieved him from the Eva by helicopter. Today he got a birds-eye view of the area the Angel had destroyed when the transport corps had helicoptered them all to the Eva recovery site. He hadn't actually been able to see the Eva, which was covered from head to toe in tarpaulins, but from what he could see it had taken a real beating. It had been lying in a heap, face-first at the edge of a small sea of gore and devastation. Every building in a hundred-metre radius had been flattened. The recovery team had strategically bulldozed its way along the former streets to cut a path to the Evangelion. The Chief said they wouldn't have bothered if the Eva's batteries hadn't been depleted. They used helicopters again for the power cable connection, but it was cheaper to let the cable trail along the streets and pay for minor damages than to suspend it from a chain of helicopters. The legal department had people here too, he had said, to witness the property damage and take not of it. His chest itched a little, and he scratched it absent-mindedly. He wondered just how expensive an Eva...

Eh, wait... what?

He thought he had seen the fingers on his deactivated arm twitching. He had deactivated it himself. They had shown him the switches under the panel on his belt, and he had flicked the switch that had the luminescent etching that matched up with the ones on his bad arm. He was sure of it. The fingers couldn't have been moving... they should have just been hanging limp like the rest of the arm. He moved the fingers on his bad hand, experimentally. Nothing. Huh. But he had been so sure... he decided to give it anoth-

"-Woah, steady there, lad! Watch yer bloody step! I don't care how y'walk normally, y'ken crawl on yer hands an' knees fer all I care, but you watch yer bloody step now or I'll tear y'a'new one. Right?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Don't be sorry, lad, jus' do it, that's what. Jus' you think about not screwin' up these last few steps, right? Jus'try not t'kill anyone today."

His last words were bitter. Pained, even.

"...sir?"

"I... I'm... look, I'm sorry, but will yeh jus' get t'the station now, right? There's a good lad. "

He didn't like the Chief Engineer's choice of words. Anyone today, he had said. Like it had happened before. He was too afraid to ask, though, just in case he actually had... but no, he couldn't have, right? He didn't remember anything. He wouldn't do that. He would never do that, kill someone, he wasn't like that, it must have been an accident. But so what if it was an accident? That was still someone, wasn't it? But he didn't want to know, he really didn't, because if he asked he might be told yes. And he'd rather not know and fear that he had than ask and be told that he had. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right?

He was practically at the station already. He unplugged the power cable as the Chief Engineer had told him, reaching around for it and depressing the switch as he yanked it out. He remembered Misato telling him it was like a petroleum pump at a motor-refueling station. He placed it on the back of a waiting mining truck and started the slightly awkward progress of trying to sit the Eva on its transport carriage. It was like he was trying to sit down in a delicate and awkwardly made seat. With limbs that were numb from being 'asleep'. He shifted his weight a little too quickly and tried to steady himself with his bad arm. He mentally kicked himself as he stumbled to his feet and tried all over again. Eventually he managed it. The carriage had a built-in power umbilical which was ready to go the moment he managed to sit the Eva back properly with only a few seconds of the electrical batteries' one minute-life left. He manhandled the limp arm into position and reached around for the radio transmission switch.

"I'm...Eva Unit 01 is ready for transport."

"A'right lad, I'll be seein' ya. Try not ta make so much werk fer us next time."

"Sir."

That was it, Shinji guessed.

"Lad?"

"Sir?"

"... stay alive, y'hear? You tell that arm o' yours to hurry up a'mendin' itself, now."

"Sir."

And That was really it. The carriage started to accelerate. Shinji thought long and hard about everything the man had said to him. He didn't feel any better for it.

It was a few minutes before he realised something; the hand of his injured arm couldn't reach the switches to de-activate his other limbs.

'But last time, they had activated everything just before I got off the carriage...'

He tried raised his hand experimentally. The Eva's hand moved with it.

He thumbed the radio switch and called for help, but there was no response. He gave up after half a minute and started to count off the minutes. It was—what—five…ten minutes to the cages at HQ?

His back began to itch.

He sighed.

The hatch opened. It was the same men as before—the ones who had strapped him in.

"How was it? Did she handle okay?"

"Yes, thanks. I think it was a bit less responsive than before."

"Hmm. That's not my field. Not just the arm then?"

"No, just... everything."

They got to work unclipping the lines and leads and detaching the removable components.

"Could be the neural input. Your hair grew back a little."

"Like that'd really have anything to do with it. My mate says they're barely needed at all."

"Bullshit. Of course they are. Remind me who has the PhD here?"

"Yeah, but isn't your PhD in, uh, physics? He's been doing electronic computers for a decade now. He worked with Turing!"

"Isn't he dead?"

"No. Well. Poisoned, but he got better."

"Suicide..? I heard-"

"-Don't think so. KGB, I reckon. Last I heard he was working with the Third Branch."

"You sure? I'd've thought it'd be second..."

"No, it's the third, I'm sure of it. He's English, wasn't... isn't, he?"

They hadn't introduced themselves and the moment was never right for him to ask. If he asked right now then it would be awkward, so he didn't. They had nametags, but they were never in the right position for him to read. They kept moving around all the time and they left as soon as they were done. They didn't really say much to him, but they always talked to each other like they did just now. To him they'd say "Good morning" and "How do you do?" and things like that... 'but they don't really mean it. It's just a formality.'

"Oh, uh... Ikari. Ikari."

That got his attention.

"A.D. Akagi wants to see you when you're done. The moment you're back in civvies, she wants you in her office. You know where it is?"

He shook his head.

"I'll get someone from security to take you, so be quick about it."

He stepped back and hooked his thumbs in his belt, admiring his handiwork.

"Okay, that's you done. Quick, now."

Shinji clambered up the plug's ribbed walls and burst out onto the catwalk. He made the mistake of looking through the grille to the water below.

It was a long way down, and the metal decking of the catwalk seemed very thin all of a sudden.

He hurried on his way.

'All done.'

The internal communications phone rang. 'Perfect timing.' Ritsuko Akagi put her pen down atop the pile of read reports and completed forms and picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"It's the Third Child to see you, ma'am."

"Send him in."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door opened, revealing the Third Child. After a moment's hesitation, during which he appeared uncertain how to proceed, he settled for shutting the door quietly behind him and just standing there like an idiot.

"Please take a seat."

He sat in the chair she motioned to and rested his backpack in his lap, clutching at it a little for reassurance. She looked him straight in the eyes. He stared right back with equal intensity and depth of perception... at the papers which sat firmly in her out-tray, laid low in the shame and ignominy of defeat. The topmost sheet was in Cyrillic, the one under that in English...

"How's the arm?"

Interest and a hint of concern. Perhaps a little forced on both counts.

"It's... okay. Uh... how are you, Ma'am?"

She was taken a little aback, but there was really no reason why a little nicety like that should be a surprise. It was just polite after all. Introverted people were not necessarily without manners.

"I'm fine, thanks. Now, how's the Eva? Is it handling okay?"

"...I... think it was a little less responsive today."

She seemed to expect him to go on. It took her saying, "And?" for him to actually do so.

"Er... do you know why?"

She looked ready to answer that one. Eager, even, by her standards.

"Damage sustained during the attack, we suspect. We're running through the data recorders as we speak."

She licked her lips. He still appeared to be examining her out-tray though she knew better.

"I'm sure you'd like to know how you survived." A statement? If it was a question, it was an oddly put one as she didn't wait for him to make his thoughts known. "That would be our backup system. It activated after you fell unconscious. It's a little... savage. I can't say I'm not glad it worked, but I would prefer you to be firmly in control next time. Primal barbarism has its place, but I believe that far more can be achieved through the use of weaponry, tactics and discipline. Or so Captain Katsuragi advises me."

She didn't really expected him to say anything. She waited a few seconds anyway, during which time he remained unmoving, before speaking again.

"Now, I'm sure you're aware that the workings of Nerv are a sensitive matter. I don't know if you took the time to read your contract properly—under the circumstances I doubt it—but you are under obligation to keep quiet about what we do here. Pilots and those close to them have died because of such security breaches."

She paused. He looked like he wanted to say something. She hoped he would. Better for him to be too cautious than, well...

"... died?"

"Just last year now. John Brown, the fourth child. Someone blew up his house." Her eyes still firmly on him, she turned off her electronic calculator with one hand. "The Third Branch was up in arms about it. They were accusing the Second Branch of killing their sole pilot..."

She noted the added blankness in his expression of dull shock.

"The Third Branch is based out of Cambridge. The Second Branch is a Soviet venture."

He knew his geography, apparently. The knowledge added a furrowed brow of troubled-ness to the mix.

"That's not the first time either. We nearly lost the second child about... ten years ago now. She survived, but her guardian wasn't so lucky. The First Branch blamed us for that one. Her new guardian was one of our people. I don't have to tell you what that looks like."

She had come a little too close to going off-topic there. She shifted a little in her seat. His knuckles were white now as they crushed the edges of the bag he hugged tight to his chest. If his face was anything to gauge his feelings by, he was sufficiently worried enough that she shouldn't need to further impress the seriousness of the situation upon him. That was good. She had read his profile thoroughly, but one could never quite tell with men his age.

"I shouldn't worry if I were you. Those two were special cases to begin with, and the security net around you and Rei is quite tight. That said, it's best that people don't know you're a pilot. As long as you keep quiet, you shouldn't be in any real danger. Which brings us to your 'cover story'. I'm guessing you haven't read any Ian Fleming?"

He shook his head.

"Hmm. It's a good thing you haven't, really. First-world intelligence agencies consider him something of a mixed blessing."

She opened a drawer in her desk, rummaged around for a second and produced a thin folder which she gave to Shinji.

"It's simple: you, Shinji Katsuragi, and Rei Ayanami have rare neurological conditions which we are studying here. Your father is head of the institute, though he is too busy to take care of you."

His face darkened perceptibly with that line - she had been watching for it, truth be told. She didn't have to word it that way, or even mention it at all - he'd doubtless have read it in the folder even if she hadn't. She'd just wanted to confirm something for herself.

The best cover stories had their roots in truth, after all.

"He has his own private shelter in case of emergencies. You're living with your aunt, Misato Katsuragi. You moved to Tokyo-3 because your other aunt and uncle are too old to take care of you anymore. Don't go making up unnecessary details. Lie outright if someone questions you about sensitive matters, and always tell the same lies. Keep it simple and consistent and people will believe you. Okay?"

She thought she had covered all relevant potential questions already, but she gave him the opportunity to ask anyway. He had nothing to ask, though.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Now, you'd best get going. It wouldn't do to be excessively late one's first day of school."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am"

He bowed, hoisted his bag up to his shoulder, bolted out the door, and pulled it shut behind him.

A thought would catch up with her at moments like this, when she stopped for a moment and reflected upon what it was she was doing. Not what she was doing right now, obviously, which was nothing productive.

Sometimes, she caught herself thinking about what her work meant, in practical terms, for Shinji, and the others.

Feeling, actually, more than thinking. She'd been over this many, many times before. With humanity's collective back to the wall... there was no alternative to the pilots, whichever way one looked at it.

The sentiment was never swayed by her logic, though. It could, however, be put on the mental back-burner. Again.

It was only a matter of time before her in-tray was inundated again, but she didn't feel like waiting. She picked up the internal comm's telephone and dialled the operator. There was always more work to do, more work that could be done.