Through the Eyes of the Enemy
An Evangelion story by Rubberchicken
Prologue: Our Father
Pain.
There is nothing at first, save for the vague perception that something has changed. For ages there has been only darkness: an absence of light and color, of warmth, of music, of thought. It has become a familiar comfort to me. Now, after so long, I hear them: the discordant tones of another's presence. After my time spent in the darkness the change is like a blade slicing through my mind.
A rift is torn in the void that has been my existence. Light seeps in, harsh and cold, followed by an icy blast of frigid wind. I hear the voices, muffled and indistinct. With a rending cry I am pulled back into consciousness by the sound of music.
And there is pain.
It is my first physical sensation in an eternity. For a time I luxuriate in the discomfort, as with its coming I can feel the strength returning to my body. I remember the early battles: epic engagements fought in a time long past, when every moment was a struggle for survival in a strange and frightening world. There was pain then, as now; there was pleasure as well.
She was with me then.
It did not last. The pleasure faded, and soon afterward She departed. I was left with only the pain to remind me of what I had once possessed. And so I fled, retreating to a place that knew neither pleasure nor pain. If I could not have one, at least I would no longer suffer from the other.
How long have I slept? The icy tomb in which I imprisoned myself remains as inhospitable as before, but the lands surrounding it have changed. It must have been… thousands of years, if not tens of thousands. How much can a world change in that span of time?
The pain intensifies.
It changes, growing from a mild annoyance into something that can no longer be ignored. I focus on its source, and soon I feel the first emotion of my newly-awakened consciousness: anxiety. Why has the pain not stopped? What is causing it? Still I hear the voices. Am I… being attacked?
I begin to stir, sending cracks and tremors shuddering through the ice. Even after all this time, my strength remains. I am still myself, even now. I am still able to repel outsiders.
The pain will not go away. Whoever my attackers are, they have left me no choice but to respond in kind. I tense myself and unleash a counterattack that they shall not soon forget.
>
The blast has utterly destroyed my prison, and already I can sense the beginnings of more subtle changes as well. The earth – my earth – has been wounded deeply as a consequence of my actions. The damage is regrettable, but it will heal in time. For now, I simply wish to gaze upon my home once more. The energy used in my attack has exhausted me; soon I will need to rest and recover. But first I must rise from the depths. I will not return to slumber without gazing upon my world once more.
It is good to spread my wings after so long. During my time in confinement I had nearly forgotten what it was like: the exquisite sensation of wind on my body. The feeling is… liberating. Perhaps I truly have exiled myself for too long. When I have recovered my strength, I will enjoy my freedom.
I can no longer hear my attackers. It seems they were destroyed by my counterattack. No matter; if they were unprepared to pay the price, they should never have provoked me. If my experience has taught me only one thing, it is the necessity of accepting responsibility for one's existence.
…Wait.
The sea about me fairly boils, still churning from the aftermath of the destruction. No sign of my attackers can be seen… except one. A metal cylinder bobs about on the surface, tossed by the angry waters. As I watch, it opens, and from within rises… something.
It is… a woman. She is weak; she clutches at a gaping rent in her body from which her life's blood slowly seeps. Most likely she will die within a few hours. Her predicament is of little concern to her, however; her attention is focused solely upon myself.
What I see in her eyes disperses my elation like so much dust on the wind. Too much emotion has been forced into her gaze; sadness, fear, anger, awe, loss, and longing all mingle at once, leaving an expression that is oddly empty. I remember feeling that same sense of numbness myself once, long ago. The recollection brings a touch of sadness with it, and I feel a sudden empathy for this woman. If she somehow survives this day, its impact will remain with her for the rest of her life.
I am preparing to return to my rest when I first take full notice of the music. It is… strange. It is unfamiliar, and yet… there is something in it that strikes a chord with me. The song rises from this woman, and from the rest of this world; it is one melody, and yet at the same time it is many. It is not like my music, straightforward and powerful. It is too subtle and intricate. It is… like Hers.
What are these? Are they Her children?
What have I done?
What has She done?
What have they done?
The Messengers will doubtless have taken note of my awakening, but when they come they will not find me. They will find… these. Are these children prepared for what will come? They have opened the door to a time of sadness and pain. Could they possibly have attacked me with this knowledge?
Lilith… what have your children done?
Author's Notes
Well, during the time that I spend not working on Gateway… I turn out stuff like this. This started with the idea that "Hey, maybe the Angels really don't know what's going on!" I thought it would be interesting to ascribe consciousness to the Angels but, instead of having them be omniscient villains, have them be just another side in a war. In case any of you didn't catch it, this was supposed to be a retelling of the Second Impact, told from Adam's point of view. Next we'll fast-forward a few years… to the first of many Angels that try to assault an enemy fortress.
Reviews are appreciated, as always.
Oh, and QuickEdit is the devil.
Until next time…