Prologue

The hospital room was small but serviceable, which was more than what the rest of the country had access to. It was February of 2001, and Japan was still in chaos. Refugee camps had risen seemingly overnight, some on dry land, some just off the newly-marked coastlines. The riots and wars had died away, but there was still work to do. Places and lives to restore. New Yokosuka. Tokyo-2. Dead cities brought back to life.

Scrap and build, the news named it, calling back to a term of the previous century to usher in this new, dark millennium.

But here in Hakone, things were brighter. Funds, pumped into the city by extant benefactors, kept it intact, habitable, and thriving. While the rest of their countrymen struggled to rebuild, the scientists and engineers in Hakone lived comfortably. Scientists like the two in that small hospital room.

She was four months from her due date, in early June. Today, when the doctor finally returned, she would learn what gender that baby would be. She did not have a preference. An adult life spent wanting a child, and she had never thought about the gender. The analytical part of her figured it was irrelevant. New life for a new world. She would love it the same either way.

He was thirty-three years old. Older than her, but not necessarily more mature. Where he paced constantly, she sat on the bed, thumb rubbing at the hem of her paper-thin sterile gown. When he looked out the window, he had to squint into the mid-morning sun. He didn't wear glasses back then—wouldn't for another three years, until she finally pestered him into it.

He spoke while they waited. "I got another call this morning," he said. "The United Nations want their own people on the expedition. Oversight, they said."

"They want transparency," she said.

"It's just political convenience," he said. "Besides, we can always put our own people on the trip. You have any suggestions?"

She thought about it. "Fuyutsuki?" she said.

"I'd thought about that," he said. "It wouldn't be bad to have him close. Just in case."

She watched his back. There was tension in him. The questions, the constant decisions, were getting to him. He was capable, but the weight of responsibility was a heavy one, and did not easily accommodate moments like this—moments where she needed a husband, not a project director. He needed a distraction.

"Have you thought of names yet?" she said. It was a decision she had placed in his hands months ago. He did not want a child. He never said so, but she could tell. At her best, she knew him better than he knew himself. She hoped that naming the child would give him a sense of ownership in the decision, send a message that it was his baby, too.

He turned and came to her bedside. "I have, actually."

"Do tell," she said.

"If it's a boy, we'll name him Shinji," he said. "If it's a girl, Rei."

She cocked her head to the side and looked up at the ceiling, rolling the names over in her mind. "Shinji. Rei."

"What do you think?" he said.

"Nice names," she said. "Good work, Director Ikari."

The use of his title brought out a rare, small grin on his face. "I'm honored, Chief Scientist Ikari."

His hand found hers, and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back. A moment later, the doctor returned, rolling in an ultrasound machine.

It was a girl.