"Of the sixty million Japanese deaths directly and indirectly incurred by the Antarctic Eruption, sixty-six percent of those numbers would be accounted for in a matter of days." Opening lines of "Surviving Armageddon" episode eight's segment on Japan.
I
With an "oomph", he daydreamed into uniformed malice. As their narrowed eyes burned like coals, Shinji Ikari knew he was in bottomless trouble. Kenpeitai did not understand forgiveness.
He'd left the corner shop after a successful late grocery run not a few moments before. His backpack weighed heavily on his shoulders, filled with goodies for his shelves. Head down and drenched in rain, a question dogged him as it had been doing all day.
What does he want? After all this time?
Now, his heart hammered like thunder against a tightened chest. Two khaki uniformed secret policemen stood in front of him, one greying the other still youthful. Each had a sword and pistol strapped to their black leather belts.
The contents of the younger's coffee cup, steam still curling off, now covered his tunic like a bloodstain. Initially bewildered, his lip slowly lifted into a snarl.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" He barked.
Shinji raised his trembling hands. "S-sir, I'm so sorry-" A savage right hook cracked into the teenager's jaw.
"Sorry!? I'll make you sorry, you little shit!"
The world spun. A solid mass slammed Shinji to the ground, backpack crushed beneath him. His head smacked against the pavement, trapped between it and a barrage of punches. Every blow shattered his thoughts as it did bone. He tasted blood.
"Ichiro. Enough." A gruffer voice, the one of the elder, commanded.
The Kenpei's assault trailed off, with a few strikes more for good measure. The teenager allowed his eyes to crack open after what seemed an eternity, head heavy and dizzy. He tiredly looked up at the two men who towered over him. Throngs of people on the pavement passed by as if the secret police and their victim weren't there. Their shoes splashed in reddened puddles.
Wiping blood not his own off his chin, Shinji's assailant caught his breath through clenched teeth as the elder Kenpei walked over. Insignia marked the greying man as a 2nd lieutenant. Upon a closer look, Shinji realised the two men looked alike.
They look as unfriendly as each other. But the eyes are the same. Brown…related, perhaps?
"Congratulations." The lieutenant said to the younger, dryly. "You've caught a public menace."
The other Kenpei sniffed. "Should show proper respect, sir."
"Did I give you permission to speak, sergeant Kaza?"
"No, lieutenant Maeda." He stiffened.
The elder Kenpei pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. The three, the officers and the boy, remained motionless to the sound of a thousand footfalls and raindrops. Pensive, Maeda tiredly looked down on Shinji.
"Watch where you're going in future, boy." He said.
Shinji nodded. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. Everything throbbed.
The lieutenant put a black booted foot forward. "Did you not hear me?"
"Y-yes sir!" Shinji scrambled back.
The Kenpei hmphed in satisfaction. "Come on, sergeant." He beckoned to his subordinate. "We're done here."
White gloved hands clasped behind his back, the embodiment of the Japanese Police State continued his patrol. The sergeant gave one final glower at the teenager before, like an obedient dog, he followed his master.
Shinji lay there for a while, to let his head feel less fuzzy and for the Kenpeitai to disappear into the crowd. Refreshing rain droplets splashed on his face.
I'm an idiot.
He groggily sat up as pain stabbed through his head, cursing his carelessness. The Kenpeitai were brutal. Anyone with a brain looked out for them. Only a fool wrapped up in their own little world would dare cross their path, intentionally or otherwise.
He'd been lucky, though.
Kenpeitai did not understand forgiveness, and Shinji had seen how far that lack of understanding went. Unlike those put up against a wall and shot, luck had smiled on him today.
Shinji almost laughed at the idea of fortune favouring him. Slowly he stood up, disorientated muscle screaming at him. Gingerly, he rubbed his pointed nose and thankfully felt it remain firm.
Oh well. Can't look too much worse.
Even without the bruises, dribble and blood, Shinji didn't think of himself as handsome. His face was gaunt and sharp, mousey chocolate brown hair almost reaching down to his cerulean blue eyes. Tall but unhealthily slim, one would think he'd caught Antarctic Flu as a child.
He didn't consider himself very clever either. How else could one run afoul of Marshal Motichka's hounds?
Off in my own little world. Shinji grit his teeth. That stupid letter.
He rubbed the back of his head, able to think clearly now. With some dismay, he remembered his backpack crushed by the Kenpei's fury. Shinji unslung and unzipped it. He groaned.
Eggs, milk, tea, bread, all ruined.
Shinji fought the urge to kick himself. His daydreaming had wasted time, money, and ruined his backpack. He sighed a sigh too weary for his age.
Looking over his shoulder at the still open shops, he thought for a moment. Surely it wouldn't hurt to dash back and get what was needed for a near empty fridge? He shook his head and muttered "no." Soaked to the skin, bruised, bloody, his grocery run in tatters, he didn't have it in him.
No Tamagoyaki tonight.
Soggy rucksack held by the strap, the teenager walked down the street. He uselessly tried to focus on what waited for him at home, a shower, hot tea, music and a good book, but tonight's humiliation, and memories conjured by the envelope that currently sat unwanted on his table, hung over his head like storm clouds. A disappearing back and a child's wails foggily floated up from the back of his mind. Shinji scowled. His fist curled into a ball.
You can wait. I see you enough in my dreams.
Shinji observed his surroundings as a distraction. Ahead and behind him was a street of downtown Kure, one of the most populous cities in Japan. Once, telephone wires crisscrossed above. Now, with wireless technology perfected, those had long been cleared away. The occasional holo-ad, usually of a fizzy drink, bathed him in luminescent blue light. Great Hinomaru flags were draped from every building. To not fly the flag, to fail to show patriotism in general, was considered suspect by the authorities.
Far above, the navigation lights of Imperial Aviation Corps and commercial aircraft glinted on a canvas of black. Angular Kaze fighter craft screamed through the heavens on patrol routes. At the heart of the swarm, hovering at ten thousand feet, was a Susanno class Flight Capable Vessel. Downward katana shaped, the flying battleship shielded a three-hundred-metre-long stretch of land from the rain.
Held aloft by layers of Hawking-Fields, produced by powerful Manmitsu reactors, they possessed enough firepower to level a city. FCV's were the idea of the 21st century made manifest. War had been its song so far, driven forth by these strange energy fields that gave unlimited power, and many believed they were in but an interlude of the orchestra.
An uncomfortable blanket of thick and warm air clung to him. Claustrophobic and everlasting, the global Summer caused by the catastrophic Antarctic Eruption denied comfort in the great outdoors. There was scarcely a soul out of the unending crowd bustling past him without beads of sweat to wipe from their brows. Even the darkness of night provided no relief.
No spring, no autumn, no winter. What must snowball fights have been like?
After a miserable five-minute walk, Shinji was home. Grey and cuboid, the apartment complex had been frantically thrown up in the years after the Eruption, when millions didn't have food in their bellies, let alone roofs over their heads.
Mentally exhausted, he slid the card through the door lock and stepped inside. The trek to his apartment was mercifully short, only one floor up. There were elevators, but no one trusted them. They sat dilapidated and unused.
Cramped and spartan, the interior was joyless. Dimly lit and damp in the walls, it smelt of alcohol and vomit. The complex, dismal and falling apart, emulated the time it came from well. Still, it was a home.
Could be worse. I remember when you found needles all over the place. Sure as hell put a spring in some people's step! Shinji smiled a little.
Flat 27, his home, was tucked away in the corner of the first floor. A window allowed some light to trickle through onto the door, but it was a lonely place. Unlike almost everyone else, Shinji had one neighbouring apartment, whilst the rest usually had two. The one next to him stood empty, as it had done for as long as he could remember. It suited him, as he only had to deal with loud music from upstairs.
He passed a few other residents whose names he didn't know in the corridor. Shinji gave a quick "good evening" and bow of the head but pushed on regardless.
We've all got better things to do than talk.
Finally, tired, thirsty, and soaked to the skin, Shinji let his apartment's door shut behind him. He emptied his bag's ruined contents into his bin and dropped it next to the washing machine before he made his way to the shower.
Like the rest of the street, his apartment was compact if not cramped. A small corridor led straight into his living room and kitchen. Merged into one unit, it was smaller than some bedrooms. Bedroom and bathroom faced one another in the corridor. Having only one window in the lounge that never faced the sun, lightbulbs illuminated the stained white walls and sickly cream carpet. There was no television, only a radio. In the corner, a polished cello proudly stood.
Hot steamy water cascaded down upon him, washing away the dampness. Every muscle untensed, every bruise felt gentler. Shinji rolled his head back and allowed the shower's water to drench his face. The few remaining trickles of blood were swept away.
It would be fifteen minutes before he reluctantly turned off the hot water. Getting out of the shower, he rubbed himself down in the mirror with a blue towel. Dried, Shinji paused to stare at the face which looked back at him.
Though lanky and gaunt, his eyes betrayed a youth of fifteen years with an old, circular scar in his right leg. Adulthood encroached, nonetheless. He kept growing and only two years, a month, and one day stood between him and eighteen.
I don't feel ready to be sixteen, let alone…that…
Was that really him in the mirror? Had the discarded, podgy little boy from the other side of the country grown into this, a sickly-looking teenager who grew his fringe to hide his eyes and forever trudged through life with bitterness? This wouldn't be good enough for the Imperial Japanese Navy, let alone his mother.
Will there ever be a day where I don't let you down?
Minutes later, he slid into his pyjamas and returned to the lounge. In an area like this, homes were rarely this tidy. The carpet was immaculate, kitchen and bathroom spotless, bed sheets crisply ironed, and shelves thoroughly dusted. A Hinomaru flag even hung on his wall. It wasn't much, but it was home and his job to keep in order.
His small bookshelf and tea awaited him. As he walked into the kitchen, thinking of brew and books, he couldn't help but glance at the unopened envelope on the table. He and the letter had something in common; they were both unwanted.
Shinji growled and carried on to the kettle.
Soon enough the sensual aroma of green tea, or "Sencha" as his people called it, filled the apartment. Still too hot to sip, let alone drink, Shinji filled his nostrils with its grassy scent.
To think, those weirdoes in Britain put milk in theirs! Baka gaijin. Dark thoughts of the distant Tasman Sea, that great flashpoint, were conjured. I hope the Navy puts their fleet at the bottom of the sea. What are they even doing on this side of the world?
He dismissed those thoughts, and curled up on the sofa, letting himself sink into it. The fabric was cool, but it would soon warm up from his body heat. Shinji sipped his tea, shifting a little. His fingers traced over the fabric. He shifted again. Usually soft, his sofa felt coarse and hard now, the urge to fidget insatiable.
Resting on the table, the letter's sheer mundanity taunted him and chased away any thought of peace for the night. Since the morning it had grasped his attention.
To all, the letter would seem ordinary at first glance. Shinji had thought that when he'd first picked it up, believing it to be some other tax office unaware his teacher was two years dead. He flipped it over and his blood ran cold. A symbol was stamped on the back, a slanted half maple leaf. Beneath was a foreign word that everyone knew, even in the English alphabet.
Nerv.
The letter had been promptly slammed on the table and not touched since.
Father…Shinji's hand squeezed fiercely tight. Beat by quickening beat, his heart hammered as invisible fingers tugged at his stomach. Nerv was among the most influential and secretive organizations on the planet, a PMC that held a tremendous amount of clout in the United Nations to the chagrin of everyone else. At the top of this great pyramid was a man with whom he looked much alike. That man, the CEO of Nerv, was Gendo Ikari.
The letter had to be from him. Over the years, once or twice, a handwritten note had come his way that detailed changes in schedule for their visit to his mother's grave mere days before it was meant to happen. To Gendo's credit, he wrote them himself instead of leaving them to a secretary.
Almost spectrally, the teenager could picture those cold blue eyes, gazing down at him from behind a pair of glasses. There was never a smile.
Shinji slammed his hand down and snarled. Abruptly standing up, the teenager stormed over to a cupboard, threw it open, and wrenched out his vacuum cleaner. Switched on to full blast, he happily let its roar drown out his thoughts, to try and chase away the wails of an abandoned child. All too soon, alas, the futility of his task became apparent.
He entered his small kitchen and thrashed around for any dirty cutlery or crumbs. There was none, they'd been attended to hours ago. He threw his bag into the wash, but that didn't take five minutes. Desperately, he shot a look at his bookshelf, half tempted to dive into a faraway place. Not even the fields of the Shire or Pellanor would provide escape from the letter, though.
Reluctantly, Shinji took a deep breath and walked over to the coffee table. His hand clenched again. He forced it to unflex and reached out for the letter. If neither housework nor books could distract him, music, let alone sleep, would be just as useless.
The paper was light as a feather, an irony for something that carried such weight. He sat back down on the sofa, sipped his tea, and slit it open.
Cerulean eyes darted over the words. Shinji paused and reread as his eyebrows knitted together. The frown soon contorted into a scowl. Astonished, he read aloud. "Come immediately. Accommodation has been arranged."
A tsunami of fury coursed through his veins. Shinji ground his teeth together, deaf to the sound of paper crumpling in his hand.
After all this time, this is it? No "hello, Shinji, how are you?" just fucking "Come?" Bastard!
He tossed the letter aside and hissed. After all these years, this was the best his father could do? Shinji seethed, nails digging into the palm of his hand as he fought for control with his feelings. He wanted to tear the letter up and flush it down the toilet or use a match to set it alight.
How dare he. How fucking dare he.
That would never do, of course. Shinji took a few deep breaths, remembering how he had been taught to control his anger.
Nothing wrong with getting angry, just squeeze it all out. I haven't forgotten, mother. He untensed and smiled sadly.
Thoughts collected, Shinji rummaged about in the envelope to check if he'd missed anything and found three more items: an ID card, a train ticket, and a photo.
The card caught his attention first, namely because of his face being on it. Next to the copy of his passport photo, his details and Levav Base: Third Grade Security Clearance were marked in red ink. Atop them all was stamped the half leaf symbol.
"Security clearance…Levav Base?" Shinji squinted, unsure if his eyes were deceiving him. Any Nerv Base was meant to a hub of top-secret technology, but Levav was more. It was Nerv's beating heart, right beneath Japan's modern capital: Nakisawame.
And he's invited me there? Stupefied, Shinji chuckled. Must really want to impress me. It's a bit late for that, though.
Setting the card aside, he turned to the ticket. It was for an economy class seat on a train to Nakisawame, departing Kure station at 1:00pm the next day.
Shinji explosively sighed. Utterly unexpected and short notice, it was clear nothing had changed between him and his father.
It still enticed him. A paid for trip to the capital was not something lightly passed up, especially if it gave access to Levav Base itself. Even he, who took little to no interest in Nerv's work, couldn't help but find the prospect fascinating. Regardless of his feelings towards his father, this could be used to his benefit.
Shinji shook his head, admiring his cynicism. He picked up the photo. His eyes bulged into saucers.
Clad in a tightly fitting yellow shirt and blue hotpants, was divinity for his hormonal mind. Voluptuous, she couldn't have been older than thirty. A pair of doughy brown eyes, one winking the other seductive, looked out at him. Chin pointed and face angular, silky black hair spilled over her shoulders.
Drawn in marker pen, an arrow pointed directly to her exposed and impressive chest. Everything about the photo was designed to attract, arouse, or embarrass, and it worked. Shinji's face turned beetroot red as he wrestled with the growing bulge in his pyjama bottoms.
On the right-hand corner, the letters "P.T.O" were inscribed by the same pen that drew the arrow. Shinji dutifully turned the photo over.
Her handwriting couldn't be more different to his father, soft and sloppy compared to crisp and machine like. "Hey there, Shinji-kun. My name's Misato Katsuragi. I work for your father. I'll be your chauffeur for the day when you arrive. See you at Sekigahara Central's entrance, eighteen hundred hours sharp. Can't wait to meet you! X." Beneath was a phone number, "If you get lost" written next to it.
Unfamiliarity twisted around intrigue as Shinji gawped. He set the photo down and whistled with the silliest of smiles. Not once in his life had anyone spoken to him like that, let alone a beautiful woman.
Alright, he's really trying to get me over there. Maybe…he just wants to talk to me.
He scratched the back of his head and tutted. "If he thinks this changes anything…"
What else would his father want him in Nakisawame for but reconciliation? For this to come out of the blue after years of silence could mean nothing else. A part of his heart sang with joy at the prospect whilst the rest seethed.
Thirteen years too fucking late for that kind of trash.
To be chauffeured around the capital and mythical Levav Base by a beautiful woman for no expense, was not an offer easily turned down, however. Besides, Gendo had looked like he'd pulled out all the stops.
Maybe…maybe…he really just wants to make things right?
Shinji's lips pressed together. A memory surfaced, one of sitting on broad shoulders with strong hands clasped on his small shins. A toddler's phantom laugh gently echoed, until it hideously morphed into a wail, as he was left on that train platform again.
He had to fight back anger that had simmered for over a decade, as his mouth twisted and his nostrils flared.
I know I should try and hear him out. Mother would want me to. He is my father after all…but I can't let go of what happened.
He scanned over the letter one more time.
Five years and "Come" is the only thing he can manage? That son of a bitch.
Shinji unceremoniously dumped it on the table.
"I'll sleep on it."