A Glass of Wine (Chapter 16)
The priority commuter train consisted of first class interior cabins, each containing a pair of twin-passenger padded seats facing one another, and a window through which to view the transition from street-level in Tokyo-3 to the cavern of the GeoFront. Illumination tunnels bored into the ceiling allowed the cavern to maintain a similar day/night cycle to the city above, and the transition would have been as seamless as entering and exiting an above-ground tunnel if it weren't for the fact that the buildings suddenly sprouted down instead of up.
That this was one of the least-absurd elements of his life was a fact that Kozo Fuyutski found both funny and daunting in equal measure. More days than not since 2001, he had mused that he was living in some false reality. He wondered if he had really died back then from some mundane tragedy—a car accident, perhaps, or a freak heart attack—and this was just a fever dream he experienced at death, its duration indefinitely extended by the chemical trauma his dying brain inflicted on itself. It would go some way toward explaining the giant monsters, future cities, super computers, conspiracies, and world-ending disasters that had entered the life of an otherwise ordinary professor of metaphysical biology.
Aside from all the evidence of his five senses, perhaps the main thing keeping him from genuinely believing those daydream musings was that he could not imagine that his brain would make him the second-place player in the drama. If this world truly was his hallucination, he certainly wouldn't be spending it following around the underachieving student activist that he had once bailed out of jail.
For his part, Commander Ikari spent the train ride looking out the window. They were with one another almost every hour of every day. Fuyutski did the boring work and helped him brainstorm as Ikari managed the dozens of sudden crises that arose each week, but the Sub-Commander often wondered how useful he really was.
In the early days, Fuyutski had worked hands-on with major projects. Each had led to something incredible, be it the Evangelions, the Magi, or the defense grid in the city above. For a time, it had seemed that he and Ikari were, if not friends, then at least colleagues of a sort. He'd had objections to the financing, to the way Seele fleeced the world's economy to funnel everything here, but he made what peace he could and moved forward. The young ones had all joked with him. "Old Man Kozo," they had called him, but under the jabs there had been respect. They were all twenty-somethings, dragged out of academia and thrust into this shadowy bio-tech startup. They had needed guidance, and he had enjoyed giving it.
Then the deaths came—first Yui, then Naoko, and the belated suffering of Kyoko—and things changed. The projects shifted, the organization changed names, and where before there had been labcoats, now there were suddenly uniforms. He was no longer a professor, but a Sub-Commander. Before he knew it, all the young minds were gone except one, and Fuyutski was left with Ikari.
"The Americans are being very forward," Ikari said suddenly.
Fuyutski looked up, jerked from his reverie. "Can you blame them?" he said.
"Pushing the third Unit into our care on such short notice. It makes things inconvenient."
"True, but at least it gives us an excuse to keep Unit 02 off the combat roster until Akagi can sort out the glitch. If it's any consolation, the committee's questions the other day seemed flustered. They didn't seem to know what to do with the news of Unit 02's incident."
"Of course not. It wasn't scheduled."
Fuyutski chuckled. "We tried to tell them. Events not foreseen in the Dead Sea Scrolls were bound to come to pass. Perhaps this will shake them out of their complacency."
"Perhaps." Ikari kept his eyes on the moving vista beyond the window. "Akagi is running a synchronicity test today."
"Yes," Fuyutski answered, though he knew it wasn't a question.
"I'd like you to check her results."
"Of course. Any particular reason why?"
"Simple best practice. She's run too long without peer review."
"You don't want her to burn out."
"More or less."
Fuyutski wanted to ask if she was still sharing Ikari's bed, though he knew better than to bring that up openly. Still, the desire to poke the beast was an old one, and once it reared its head, he found he had to fulfill it.
"What about the Third Child?" he said, instead.
"You'll have to be more specific."
"He's back with Katsuragi." Fuyutski watched his old colleague. "I had his security stand down and he took the initiative. Between that and the Second Child's behavior during the last battle, I should think that whatever effects Katsuragi's meddling may have had, the result has been a net positive."
"Is that a question, Professor?"
"Merely an observation, Commander."
Ikari's mannerisms did not change. "It is appreciated," he said.
They sat in silence for the remainder of the ride.
((()))
The plug's thrum was off. Asuka noticed it immediately—a higher-pitched drone than she was used to, the change almost imperceptible on the edge of her hearing, but there nonetheless. It was only when she closed her eyes and began to concentrate that she realized the noise wasn't the only difference. She tried to let her mind drift, to sink into the synchronicity, but no matter how she tried, her mind could not dip as far as she wanted. It was a sensation somewhere between falling asleep and stepping into a swimming pool only to find it was not as deep as anticipated. It was as if something were blocking her.
She realized what it was. The test plug wasn't connected to Unit 02. Normally, the conjunctive cables ran through a pattern buffer before relaying signals to the Unit's dormant core system. It was a safety measure, first and foremost, but it allowed for useful data with minimal interference.
What she was feeling now was just the pattern buffer with nothing beyond it. If she blanked enough, she could feel her thoughts flowing back to her—a ghostly feedback bouncing off the buffer.
Her hands tightened on her control yokes. Her jaw clenched. Akagi could talk all she wanted about how it wasn't her, it was the Unit, but that was bull. They didn't trust her. After everything she had done for them, after all the pain and work, they couldn't even trust her to do remotely synch with it. What was the point of this test? To see if she could think properly, like some useless trainee? This is the kind of crap they had her do when she was a kid!
It was all just so pathetically stupid.
Her communications link opened. Lieutenant Ibuki's voice reached her. "Asuka, you destabilized. Is everything alright?"
"Just fine." She released her yokes and took a breath.
"Try to relax. It's just a test."
"I am relaxed!" she said. "I can't concentrate with you talking to me! Now butt out and let me work!"
Ibuki butted out without comment.
((()))
The control booth was unusually quiet. The technicians spoke back and forth as they adjusted the feed from the test plugs to the monitors, coalesced data, and ensured direct feed to the Magi, but otherwise it was an uneventful test. Misato watched the pilots, each on their individual screen, their eyes closed in concentration. She hovered over Lieutenant Ibuki's console for a moment, checking the data.
Synchronization data, like most of the data related to the Evangelions, mostly resembled a scrambled mess of graphs to Misato. There was one figure called a Destrudo manifestation approximate which was always rendered in three figures with a dash between each, as in 239-242-245, with the center figure always bolded. She had no idea what it meant, but it popped up on every data printout and would be mentioned at most meetings. Misato always nodded, feigning understanding, and moved to the synchronization ratio, which was a percentage and something that she could actually understand.
That's what most of adult life seemed to be—a lot of knowing when to nod and when not to nod, and how to move conversations to things you actually understood.
"What do you think, ma'am?" Ibuki said, noticing her.
"Shinji's ratio seems higher," she said.
"Yes, ma'am. His median D.M. is commensurate, too."
"Yep."
Misato heard a snort from behind her. She turned and saw Dr. Akagi shaking her head as she worked at her datapad. Akagi had seen right through her. It should have made her angry, but she found herself smiling.
She walked across the control box and stood by her old roommate. "Something funny, Doctor?"
"'Yep,'" Akagi replied.
Misato grinned despite herself. "Look, I don't do the technical stuff. Operations management is about high level strategy."
"Yep."
"Shut up," Misato said, but laughed herself. Ritsuko grinned and sighed, which was as close to a laugh as she would let herself have. They both drew looks from the nearby techs, who had, in a low, intuitive way, realized the two department heads had been on thin ice for a few weeks. It had made for an awkward working environment.
"You know, we used to be friends," Misato said.
"Pretty good ones, too," Ritsuko said.
"Some would say best friends."
"Some might, yes."
Misato dropped her voice. "That thing with the Second Branch got me thinking about things."
"That's not a good sign."
"Oh, don't be you for a moment," Misato said. "All those people worked for months on the recovered S2 organ, tried to synthesize it, get it installed in Unit 04. That's a lot of work, and it all ended in a split second."
"Yes," Ritsuko said. No bitchy side comment to go along with it, no questioning of her intelligence. In Misato's experience, tragedy had a way of making people feel lonely. Maybe Ritsuko was feeling it, too.
Misato decided to trust herself. "I just think about what we're doing here. I've known you my whole adult life, Rits. I work with you every day, and it could all end in a heartbeat. I don't want us to be like this." She pointed back and forth between them. "Whatever this is, it's stupid."
There it was, then. An olive branch. It took a lot for her to put it out there, to make the leap of faith and place the future of their friendship in something that was more than an admission but not quite an apology. If Ritsuko wanted, she could shut it down right here, permanently.
The doctor lowered her datapad into her pocket. "Look, Misato, I had professional problems with things you've done recently."
"You've said as much."
"I had problems. I don't have them anymore." Ritsuko looked around the control box, as if checking for something. She frowned. "I shouldn't tell you this," she said, "but some of what you hypothesized, about Shinji and Asuka, might have been correct."
"What do you mean?"
"I swear, if you tell anyone I told you this—"
"Never," she said.
Ritsuko held her gaze for a moment. Then she spoke without reservation or hesitation. "Unit 02 pulled Unit 01 free of the Angel. The working hypothesis is that the pilot's emotional fixation may have instigated the berserk event."
"You're joking."
"I have it on video."
"The Commander saw this?"
Ritsuko looked at her. "What do you think?"
"I think I really want to rub this in your face right now."
"Please don't be like that."
"I can give you one I-told-you-so right now, or I can give a hundred of them behind your back to Kaji."
Ritsuko's mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile. "Okay, but just once."
"I fucking told you so!" she said, perhaps a little too loud. The heads swiveled again, this time faster and with more regularity. Misato looked at them. "Back to work!"
The heads went back to work.
Ritsuko smiled—an actual smile, this time. "Feel better?"
"Extremely," Misato said. "For the record, I'm also sorry. No matter what happened, I shouldn't have treated you like I did these past weeks. That's on me."
"Yes, it is," Ritsuko said. "But I'm sorry, too. Especially about yesterday. That thing with Asuka did not go well."
"Hey, it's okay. We'll get her past it." Misato nodded, as if something official had taken place. "I'm glad we're friends again."
"Whatever works." Ritsuko shook her head as she fished her datapad back out.
"What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?" Misato said.
"I'm actually busy."
"A big date?"
"Not quite," Ritsuko said. "I have to go fetch our new pilot."
((()))
After the test, Asuka found herself in the locker room with Ayanami. It was easy to avoid the First Child. Despite the locker room being designated for pilots only, it was still sized for what seemed like a full baseball team's worth of occupants. This was a common enough feature of the facility, Asuka had realized. There were dozens of Evangelion cages that went unused. Whole wings of the facility given over to dormitories, break rooms, gymnasiums, and kitchens. It was clear that someone involved in the planning had anticipated that more than three Evangelions would be sent to the site.
As she showered, Asuka tried to imagine what it would be like as one of a squadron instead of one of a trio. Maybe she would have greater success socializing if she had a bigger pool to choose from.
When she was finished, she stepped out, dried off, and started dressing. Rei sat at the other end of the bench from her, back to her. Asuka glanced at her as she dressed and felt again the nagging memory of their last conversation. Wondergirl had gone out of her way to see her in the hospital, and all she had done was fire back some childish insult.
She had played like Ayanami's actions did not matter. She had made it clear that they were not friends, nor would they ever be. It was a sentiment that had once been true. Though most of her still felt the same, perhaps, Asuka thought, it was less true now. They did not have to be friends, necessarily, but it would be nice if they at least got along.
Asuka slid her right foot into her shoe. She thought about the moment, a few weeks back, when she had punched Ayanami in the face. The memory made her cringe. She went to shrug the feeling away, bury it, but instead she decided to sit in the feeling a moment. She forced herself to feel the shame. Her thoughts did not want to cooperate.
Hitting her doesn't matter. She's just an emotionless doll.
No, Asuka thought. She isn't emotionless. She likes that stooge, just like you like Shinji. She's not an emotionless doll.
You don't owe her anything.
Maybe not, but it won't hurt to do something. Asuka laced her shoe. An apology could get her, while maybe not friendship, at least a way out of this irritating guilt.
Ayanami stood up to leave. She grabbed her school bag and closed her locker.
Asuka shot up, too. "Hey, Wondergirl," she said.
Ayanami turned to look at her. She said nothing.
"I just wanted to say thanks," Asuka said.
"What for?"
"For coming to see me the other day. I wasn't really in a great mood, and coming by at another time would have been better for me, but I still should've treated you better. For that. For coming to see me."
Ayanami looked at her, face unchanging.
"I also wanted to say that I apologize for hitting you. It was a bad day for me and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have done that." Asuka took a breath. "So there you go. Maybe we can be better friends moving forward."
Ayanami narrowed her eyes. "I wonder," she said, "do you only give apologies when you want something out of someone else?"
"What the hell does that mean?" Asuka said, stammering to find more words to counter her co-pilot. "You don't know what I mean or what I want! How could you? You're an emotionless, wind-up puppet!"
Ayanami turned and walked away. "Goodbye," she said, though it couldn't be heard over Asuka's spluttering.
"Get back here!" she shouted, but Ayanami was already gone. Asuka moved to follow her and realized she was still holding her left shoe in her hand. She hurriedly sat down and pulled it on, lacing it while she muttered to herself. "That arrogant, stuck-up, idiot toy soldier. Thinks she knows everything."
She stood up, still muttering, and grabbed her duffel bag in one hand. She left the locker room at a jog, hurrying to catch up with Ayanami. If that little wind-up brat thought she was going to have the last word, she had another thing coming.
She rounded a corner leading to the elevators and stopped.
Ayanami was at the elevator bank with Shinji. His back was to her, so he had not seen her yet.
Asuka dipped back out of sight. She did it without conscious thought; the sight of Shinji made her jump back out of instinct. She hated herself for it. The boy had said he loved her just four days ago, and now she was here, hugging the wall, too afraid to go talk to him.
She put her back to the wall and listened around the corner. She heard them talking. Ayanami's voice was a quiet murmur from which she could discern nothing, while Shinji's voice was tantalizingly close to making audible words. The tone was cordial, but there was nothing definite.
After a minute, the elevator dinged, and she heard the sound of the doors parting. Footsteps. The doors sliding closed again.
Asuka leaned out from around the corner. The hallway was empty. She held slid her duffel bag onto her shoulder and let out a sigh.
"Spying, are we?" said a voice, right in her ear.
She jumped, screaming, and turned around to find a familiar face smirking down at her.
"Kaji!" she said. "Don't sneak up on girls like that."
"I wasn't even sneaking," he said. "I was walking normally. You'd have heard me if you weren't so preoccupied."
"Shut up," she said, though she could not find the enthusiasm to make it convincing.
Kaji looked at her for a moment, as if he were making up his mind about something. "Tell you what," he said. "Take a ride with me. I've got something to show you."
((()))
The elevator marked each floor as they ascended, drawing a quiet tick-tick-tick that cut through the silence. Shinji stood leaning his shoulder against the wall. Ayanami was by the doors. They had fallen into silence after the basic round of questions had come to an end. Hey, Rei, how are you? Fine. How was your test? Fine.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Shinji took a breath and decided to break the silence.
"So, you ready for school tomorrow?"
"I am not going."
"Oh. What are you doing instead?"
"I have tests all day with Dr. Akagi. I will be back at school on Thursday."
"Okay. Are you sick or something?"
"No."
The silence returned. The elevator stopped and they got out, walking together to the train terminal. They boarded together. Commuters streamed in and out of the open car, jostling their briefcases and backpacks, talking on cell phones and to one another—the work crowd heading home for the night. The train would take them to Ayanami's district first, then further out to his.
Ayanami found a seat. She didn't seem to care if he sat with her or not. For Shinji, being friends with Ayanami often resulted in confusion. She did not seem to care if he was present or not, and she never offered any information beyond what was strictly required by a question. Conversations were hard.
Which made it even harder for him to understand how in the world she had ended up with Kensuke.
He decided to sit down next to her. She looked at him briefly, but did not seem to care.
He cleared his throat. "Does Kensuke know you'll be gone tomorrow?" he said.
"No," she said.
Shinji looked away, trying to figure out how to keep this up. He had not talked with Ayanami one-on-one in what felt like weeks. He knew things between her and Asuka had become pretty terrible, but he had hoped that whatever friendship they had—if it could even be called friendship—wouldn't be affected. Perhaps he had been wrong.
"Should I have told him?" she said, suddenly.
Shinji looked at her, surprised she had spoken. "Probably, yeah."
"Why?"
"Well, if Asuka wasn't going to be at school, I would want to know."
"Pilot Soryu doesn't go to school anymore."
"Well, yeah. But if she did, is what I mean."
"Why would you want to know?"
"I don't know. Because I want to see her, and make sure she's okay. All that stuff."
Ayanami shifted in her seat, and an expression approaching worry graced her features, if only for a moment.
"Uh," Shinji started. "I could talk to him, if you want."
"About what?"
"About this. I can explain why you're gone."
"Thank you."
"No problem," Shinji said. "We pilots have to stick out for each other, right?"
Ayanami looked at him in that way she had that invariably made the last thing he said sound stupid and hollow. Silence returned. Shinji tapped out a rythym on his legs and looked around, regretting his last comment and wondering if he could come up with an excuse to walk away.
"Do you feel like you have a bond with me?" Ayanami said.
Shinji looked back at her. Her red eyes bored into him.
"I think so," he said.
"Why?"
"Well, we're both Evangelion pilots. There are only three of us who do this job. No one else gets it." Shinji shrugged. "That's got to be some kind of bond."
"Where we stick out for each other," she said, so seriously that it made him laugh.
"Yeah," he said. "Sorry. Yes."
"What does that mean?"
"It means…" He trailed off, trying to put it into words. "Like, we have to care for each other and work together well."
"Do you believe that?" she said.
He had not believed it when he said it. He had been making a joke, trying to fill dead air and kill the awkwardness he felt. But now, as she asked him, he considered it. The train around them was full, yet he felt no connection to any one of the civilians standing around them. He had the same sensation that he did when he considered the size of the planet, or the length of history, or any other of a dozen such thoughts which reach a person in the middle of the night and make him feel small, insignificant, and fleeting.
And in all that, he realized he felt towards no one the way he did towards his fellow Children.
"Yeah," he said, "I do."
The train came to a stop at her station. Passengers began exiting the train. Ayanami stood up, grabbing her bag.
"I will see you on Thursday, Pilot Ikari," she said.
"You can call me Shinji," he said. "I think we've known each other long enough."
"Very well, Shinji."
She left, and the doors closed behind her. Shinji looked out the window as the train pulled away, watching her walk down the stairs and out of sight, her blue hair a beacon in the crowd.
((()))
"What are these?" Asuka said. She crouched in the dirt, looking at the rounded gourd in front of her. She ran her fingers over it, feeling the slick drops of moisture on its green skin. When she pressed it between her palms and lifted, she realized it was heavier than she thought. "Some kind of pumpkin?"
Kaji laughed. "You don't know what a watermelon is?"
"Don't make fun of me! I'm not used to Japanese vegetables."
"Watermelons aren't a Japanese anything. They're found everywhere. And they're not a vegetable. They're a fruit."
"'They're not a vegetable, they're a fruit,'" Asuka said, under her breath. "You grow these?"
"I do."
"Don't they sell these things at a store?"
"They do."
"Then what are we doing out here?"
Kaji had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He bent over by an outdoor faucet, filling a watering can with water. "Learning, among other things."
"Learning what?" she asked, standing up.
"Whatever we can," Kaji said. He was next to her, the watering can held out to her, handle-first. He shook it slightly.
Asuka raised an eyebrow. "You want me to work for you?"
"Yes," he said. "Unless the task is too difficult for the great Second Child to accomplish. I could always find someone else to—"
The water can was yanked from his hand.
"How do I do this?" she said, turning it around in her grasp.
He showed her, and she began. She started out aggressively, making sure to hit the same melon thoroughly, until he stopped her.
"Don't drown them," he said, smiling. "It's called sprinkling for a reason. Just use a little. Keep it moving, and don't step on the vines."
She adjusted. The torrent became a trickle. She moved up and down the lines of watermelons, turning from side to side. Eventually she decided to do one line at a time, then go back down the same path to do the opposite line. She concentrated on it, holding the can's handle in a deathgrip, her eyes never leaving the melons. By the time her water can was empty, she felt like she was good at it.
Kaji was trimming a vine when she got to him. "I'm done," she said, holding the water can upside down in evidence.
He didn't look up. "Fill it up and do the rest."
"Come on," she said, stamping her foot.
"If you think you can't handle it—"
The faucet came on, the can filled, and she went back at it.
Another line, a second, and a third. She loosened her grip on the handle, moved it from hand-to-hand as she went. She kept focused, but let her eyes drift. Despite all the time she had spent in Tokyo-3, she realized she had never stood outside HQ in the GeoFront. She had known that there was an entire ecology in the cavern, and had seen it from train windows and screens enough times, but this was her first time ever standing in the middle of it. She could see the pyramidal headquarters building to her left, rising above the treetops. Overhead were the retracted defense buildings hanging like stalactites from the cavern ceiling, and all around were the glittering trails of train cars circumnavigating the chamber's massive walls, so distant as to be hazy in the amber light.
The light in the GeoFront lessened slightly as evening settled in. When the can was empty again, she refilled it without complaint and returned to her work. She let her mind drift as she watered, thinking through days gone by and days to come. Mostly she thought of Shinji, and for the first time in days, she wasn't afraid to think about him. She thought about him wearing his apron, standing in the kitchen. She thought of him at school, looking away quickly when she caught him staring. Mostly she thought of his smile, about how rare it was and how much she loved pulling it out of him.
She thought about him trying, unsuccessfully, to talk to her for the past four days. She wanted to fix that, but couldn't think of a way to do it, and soon she didn't need a water can to sprinkle the garden.
Kaji walked over to her, taking off his gardening gloves. "It'll be dark here in a few. Think we'd better get going."
"Yeah, okay," she said, wiping her eyes.
"Oh." Kaji leaned down, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, kid. What's going on?"
She pulled away. "I'm fine."
"You're really not."
"I'm fine!" she repeated. The water can hit the dirt with a hollow thud and she put both hands to her face. "I'm fine! Just leave me alone!"
"Okay, okay. You're fine." Kaji moved closer, but did not try to touch her. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with you."
"I'm a freak!"
"You're not a freak."
"I am! I'm a freak!"
"You're a good kid, Asuka."
Her dad dropped her off at the front desk and told her to go on ahead. He had to sign in, and she knew the way. She ran all the way there. Her head was filled with all the things she wanted to tell her—that she'd passed the test, that she'd been chosen, that she would be the Second Child, an elite pilot, the best in the whole world.
"I'm the reason she's dead!" she said. The words flowed easier when she couldn't see Kaji, as if she was wailing to a voice that didn't count. "She's gone and I'm still here!"
"What?"
The door stayed open for a long time. No one came to find her. When she focused on it, she could see the room as it had been—the cold winter light from outside, the overhead fluorescents shut off from lack of movement in the room. The bed was turned down precisely, as if she had done it deliberately, calmly, before setting up the rope. Where did she get the rope?
"And if he ever finds out that I did that, he'll never love me again!"
"What are you talking about? You didn't do anything."
Her feet were blue. The bones in her ankles seemed like they were trying to push through her skin. Why didn't they let her have slippers? Did she live like that all the time, walking around with bare feet on those white floors? They let her have the doll but not any shoes. The doll was there, too, hanging in a noose meant for her. She hanged the wrong daughter.
"She's dead because of me."
"Asuka—"
Her dad found her. He grabbed her and pulled her back from the doorway. "Goddamnit!" he shouted, "Somebody help!" They came running, shoes clicking on cold tile. They ran into the room. One of them closed the door, but not before she saw an orderly grab the body around the waist and lift, to make slack.
Every visit, she watched her talk to that doll, hug it, dress it in small clothes and feed it from dry bottles. She never went in. She wanted to pound the glass, scream at her 'I'm right here!'. She never did, and her mother died never knowing that her real daughter was right there, just beyond the glass. If she had, maybe she would have gotten better.
"I never did anything to help!"
"Asuka, you were a child."
"Like that matters!" She fell into the dirt, landing on her knees, hands pressed to her eyes, fingertips in the roots of her bangs.
She cried into her hands, but made as little sound as she could. Her shoulders wracked with each sob, but she bit down on her lower lip, keeping the sound clenched in, fighting it back. She breathed deep, exhaling slowly. She repeated the process until she was able to push it under control. She got to her feet, then wiped her face and then wiped her hands on her jeans, destroying any evidence that she had ever broken, even momentarily.
When she opened her eyes, the world seemed brighter than before; a symptom of her momentarily blinded eyes catching up.
"Sorry about that," she said, looking up at him.
Kaji shook his head. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he said.
"I didn't know you knew about all that."
"I should have told you."
"I guess it makes sense that you do. Doesn't matter." She knelt down and picked up her water can. "Where does this go?"
"We can talk about this if you want to."
"There's nothing to talk about."
Kaji looked at her, tight-lipped. "Asuka…" he began.
"What?" she said. Her eyes were red, but her face was dry. "There's nothing to say. It's done. Now where does this go?"
The two looked at one another for a long moment. A hundred feet away, back by the trail through this section of gardens, lampposts ignited their bulbs and began to warm the path with artificial light.
"I'll take care of it," he said, grabbing the can. "I'll meet you at the car."
"'Kay," she said, and walked away.
((()))
Streetlights flashed across the blue hood of the Alpine A310 as it cruised, its custom electric motivators carrying it silently forward, leaving nothing but the hum of the tires to grace the ear. She had purchased the car just after college—a gift to herself for graduating, and a way to commemorate her at-the-time fresh job with Nerv. The conversions from petrol to electric and a left-to-right steering column hadn't come cheap, but they were worth it. The car handled like a dream.
Other little touches had been added over time so that her dashboard and center console now bloomed with a GPS screen, a satellite uplink phone, and a laptop mounted on a gimbal. The first time Ritsuko had ridden in it, she had asked if it was a car or a tank.
Misato let the wheel spin in her grip, driving on reflex. She was glad she had patched things up with her old friend. Things had become too tense for too long. It was excusable to a point—they were in a war, after all—but it had still sat poorly with her. Hopefully, things would be different now.
And then there was the matter of the new pilot.
Her satellite phone rang, and she picked it up without thinking. "Katsuragi. Go ahead."
"It's me," said Kaji. "I just dropped Asuka off at your place."
"I'm on my way home now. I figured you'd have had her home an hour ago."
"We took a detour."
"Let me guess," she said. "Ice cream?"
"Gardening, actually."
"Come again?"
"I have a garden," Kaji said.
"You're full of surprises."
"Yeah."
He was quieter than usual. She expected him to bounce back at her joke, but more than anything he just sounded tired.
"What's up?" she said.
"Has Asuka ever talked with you about her mother?"
Misato placed the phone in the crook of her shoulder as she took another turn, bringing her off the highway and into her apartment's residential district. "When she was much younger, yes. But not in any detail. She doesn't like to talk about it."
"That's not surprising." Kaji took a breath. "She mentioned it to me tonight. It didn't go well."
"Can you give me details?"
Kaji was quiet. Misato pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at the dial screen on its back, checking the connection. It was still green.
"You there?" she said.
"Yes," he said. "Just keep an eye on her. She's pretty volatile right now."
Misato wanted more information, but realized he wouldn't be forthcoming. "I'll do that," she said, instead.
"Good night, Misato."
The line disconnected. She hung up the phone.
A few minutes later, she pulled into a parking spot in the empty lot in front of her building. She turned the car off and sat for a moment, wondering how she had repaired one relationship only to see two more wilt in a single day. Kaji was unforthcoming, and Asuka was more closed-off than ever. Shinji was back, but he seemed isolated still, locked in his own world more than not.
The dual role of commanding officer and parental figure had always been a problem, but now it was more difficult than ever. In this moment, the parental side of her won out. Until she could get everything under control, she wouldn't introduce any new stress into the kids' lives.
She looked at herself in the rearview mirror, and decided not to tell either of them about Toji Suzuhara.
Author's Note: Two updates in two weeks? What have I become?
Hope you liked it. I'm pretty proud of the Asuka/Kaji scene. I really enjoyed writing it, which is why it's 1.5k words on its own.
Please let me know your thoughts. If you caught any typos, PM me and I'll take care of them.
Stay safe.