You cast your highly intelligent, in your opinion, gaze about, searching for a vent. Aha! There's one above the elevator doors. You attempt to get the bottom two screws out so you can pop it up enough for you to crawl in, but you don't have a drill, a screwdriver, or a pocket knife to use as a screw driver. Eying the vent, and then your hands, you pull yourself up to where you're holding onto the vent with one hand, feet planted firmly against the doors. You draw your pistol with your free hand and eye the screws.

You place the barrel of the pistol against the top-left screw, flick the safety off, and pull the trigger. The report of the pistol is extremely loud in the confines of an elevator shaft, and your ears explode with ringing. Shaking your head roughly, you jam the pistol against another screw and fire again, repeating once more. One screw left, but your head is killing you now. You switch the safety back on, holster your pistol, and pull yourself all the way up.

This is a bad idea. You know this is a bad idea. You know what else was a bad idea? Joining the British Army in 2004. That was a bad idea, too, that didn't turn out so bad, in the long run. You can't successfully predict the long run, or even the short run here. Just that there's an inviting vent hole beckoning you onwards. So you climb in.

It's a decent crawl, and you're surprised the vents are big enough to fit you, but you dismiss that as happenstance. In a facility as big as the Geofront, being able to vent lots of air at once is a good idea, in case of enemy chemical weapons attack. Or using chemical weapons one's self. But that's a Really Bad Idea, so you dismiss that thought in favor of the final vent in front of you.

You're already fast headed down the path to tinnitus, might as well go whole hog. You carefully crawl backwards a little, draw your pistol, and fire four times.

Now your ears are quite literally trying to kill you. But on the plus side, vent's busted out. You holster the pistol, crawl forward, and shimmy out of the vent, trying not to land on your head. Instead you land on your back with a crack. Staring at the oddly orange-looking ceiling for a moment, you marshal your will, and force yourself up.

To be confronted with a nightmare. Ears ringing, back aching, there's a voice in the back of your head, a rough scent in your nostrils, and a taste filling your mouth. It sounds like your mother, smells like lavender and laundry detergent, the scent of your mother, and the taste is chocolate chip cookies that are slightly burnt, but still delicious because Mother baked them. Eyes widening, you stumble backwards, pushing your back against the wall. You slide down, one hand holding your head and begin screaming, a wordless noise that erupts from your diaphragm. You draw your pistol and empty the last nine shots in it at the Angel because that's what it's got to be. All of them slide off an invisible wall in front of it.

'Where one bullet doesn't work, always apply more,' the helpful voice of the Sergeant that conducted your basic training pipes up, and you comply, burning through the remaining five magazines as fast as you can, before settling for throwing the empty gun and magazines at it even as you attempt to gibber something defiant in the face of mankind's enemy. Then something slams into the back of your skull and you know blackness.

When you wake the Subcommander is sitting next to you, reading something. You can't tell what, though. The hospital bed is warm in the artificial sunlight, but at the sight of the Subcommander himself sitting next to your hospital bed, your blood runs cold. When he sees you've awakened, he closes his book and holds up a hand.

"We don't want to know what you were doing down there, Agent. The drawbacks of employing highly intelligent people is that often, they're highly curious. This turned out to be your case. Yes, we have an Angel in our basement. No, it cannot harm us. Yes, we're going to use it to lure the rest of the Angels to us. No, we don't know how many there are. This siege of humanity could last forever. Which is where you come in. You've stumbled upon a secret, Agent. The Commander doesn't like people knowing his secrets, but nor does he like having to lose highly intelligent, highly capable people with backgrounds in the SAS and the like. It's extremely hard to recruit those types, as most aren't willing to part with families. We understand that. We understand you have no family worth mentioning left."

His tone so far has been friendly, even grandfatherly, but here it turns cold as he leans forward. "So, Agent. You never descended past Level 90 of the Geofront. You were on Level 90 to investigate a noise that turned out to be a rat. You never saw anything of vital importance to the future of humankind. You never fired six magazines, then proceeded to throw the magazines and pistol at the nonexistent secret. Things are secret for a reason. The nonexistent secret below Level 90 will remain precisely that, or we'll have you woken up in the middle of the night with a bullet in your skull."

"Have a good evening, Agent." You swallow heavily as soon as he's gone and let your head thump against the pillow. If that's what the Subcommander was like, you didn't want to know what the Commander was like when angry. The ceiling is a featureless mass of white, but that doesn't matter. You definitely will not be sticking your nose past Level 90 again.

You try to sleep. You really do. But whenever you close your eyes the smell of your mother lingers in your nose, you can hear her voice in your ears, and your hand longs for the familiar comfort of a firearm. Slipping out of the bed, you find a freshly laundered suit of clothing, including underwear, socks, and shoes sitting next to your shaving kit on another chair, in the corner. Desperate for a shave and a shower, you grab all of it. Underneath there's a note. "Three days enforced sick leave. Come back with your head on straight. - Commander."

Swallowing grimly, you thank your lucky stars you weren't taken to an incinerator, shot, and your body dumped into the flames. You've done it yourself, to a mole in Section Two from Russia. It's all too easy for bodies to 'disappear' when there's no family or friends to worry. NERV loves maladjusted young men with quick minds and quicker trigger fingers.

You make your way to a locker room. It's empty. You place your clothing on a bench and take your shaving kit with you into the shower, where it's mercifully hot, as you try to scrub the fear-smell off of yourself. Finally satisfied, you shave quickly before emerging into the steam, where you towel off quickly and dress. Leaving the hospital gown in the locker, you head for an elevator. You need fresh air, and you're not going to get that in the Geofront.

The elevator has someone in it, a Japanese man with a five o'clock shadow and casually rumpled shirt. "So you know," he says quietly, under the Muzak playing over the Elevator's speakers.

"I don't know anything," you reply just as quietly, hoping to the God you're not sure if you believe in anymore he'll shut up.

"That sure is some nothing, huh, Agent?" He's a persistent bugger, but maybe if you're silent he'll go away. "What you need to do, Agent, is forget about it." Yes, that's precisely what you're trying to do. Orders from the Commander himself are like orders from the Pope. You don't disregard them. At all.

"But always be asking one thing, Agent: What's humanity's future worth?" The elevator slides to a halt with a ding, he steps out, and you watch him walk away as the doors close. The elevator resumes the smooth glide upwards, and you feel naked without a pistol, but there's nowhere to really conceal one with what you're wearing, khakis and a short sleeved button-down shirt. You'll retrieve one from a dead drop in the city later. Right now you need a bit of everything.

You know a decent English-style pub that's got mighty cheeseburgers. Despite being English, the Paddy's Lament also serves a decent Scotch. You need food, and you can't think of anything better than a thick, greasy, piping hot, thick burger patty or two with about four slices of cheese on a lightly toasted bun with bacon. And the bottle of Scotch. That's definitely the most important thing right now.

To that end, you head for the motor pool. You threaten the hapless clerk with dunking his head in a urinal until he gives what you want, a fast motorcycle that can hit about 200 miles per hour and a pistol in the center, between the handlebars.

You take the scenic route to the Lament, ignoring traffic laws, cops, and speed limits, hoping the rush of the road and the wind in your face will help clear your head. It does, surprisingly, and you take the opportunity to review what you know:
1. NERV is dedicated to the destruction of the Angels, the beings that caused Second Impact, and preventing Third Impact.
2. NERV's oversight is headed by the Committee for the Human Instrumentality Project.
3. There's an Angel in the basement.
4. You're not paid to think about this shit, you're paid to kill people when they need killing and protect the Geofront against hostile infantry.

Yeah. If NERV wants to keep an Angel in the basement, that's up to the higher ups. You're just following orders. (You know that shit didn't fly when Hitler's dudes tried it, but you're also not an officer any more, and that lack of responsibility for others is refreshing.)

The rest of the ride passes smoothly and you arrive at the Lament with a minimum of fanfare. Taking the pistol from its slot in between the console, you slide it into the back of your waistband, before sticking the two extra magazines in your pockets. You enter the Lament and are greeted with a chorus of jeers from the patrons and the proprietor.

"Shut up, shut up," you demand good naturally, before taking a seat at the bar. "Tricky Dicky," you bellow. "I need a bottle of your cheapest Scotch and I need a genuine Tricky Dicky burger, as soon as possible." The patrons, mainly American and British expats in Tokyo-3 for NERV, go back to their conversations and the rugby game on the television as Richard finds a bottle of fresh Scotch, probably not more than a week old for you.

"Be about eight minutes on the burger, hoss," he informs you. Then he jerks his head to the side and you look over. It's Captain Katsuragi, with some of that shitty Japanese beer no one likes.

"DICK," you yell at him, right in front of you, as he's trying to fix another patron's margarita. "I need a, a uh, shit, a stout from the Auld Sod for the pretty lady next to me. Not that local piss she's drinking."

"The Auld Sod, as you call it, you goddamned Mick, is drowned, like Florida and New Orleans and London, after Second Impact. Get out of here with that "Auld Sod" business, you're more British than Irish." But he complies, complaining the entire time. Katsuragi shoots you a look, but you wink, and finish with Dick, first.

"Dick," you lean forward conspiratorially. "I'm from Northern Ireland." He erupts into sputters of outrage, bushy eyebrows seeming to become even bushier underneath his cap, before he glares at you with hate-filled eyes one final time, and sidles down the bar, so he can ignore you. You turn to the Captain, and grin easily.

"Afternoon, Cap'n. How'd the fight go?" It's an innocent question, you think, considering you were unconscious for at least two hours.

"Badly until the Eva went berserk and killed the Angel with almost no trouble. Up until that point, Shinji seemed to think you could have helped him somehow."

You scoff. "All I did was yell at him until he got in the goddamned robot." Dick walks up with Katsuragi's drink, a stout from England, flown over on ice, and places it in front of her.

"Well, his synch score was a little over forty-nine percent, so whatever you did seemed to have worked." She's slurring a little, but nothing serious. She's probably only two drinks or so in.

"Huh," you say noncommittally. "So I found a thing," you lead in with. She turns to look at you, takes a sip of her drink, and trails her eyes down your figure. You want to squirm uncomfortably for a moment, but knock back another shot of the Scotch.

"Is this a thing I can find," she asks, and she's probably drunker than you realized. With frantic motions, you beckon Dick over.

"How long has she been here, damn it?"

"Oh, I'd say about four hours." You cross yourself at that, and then Katsuragi's trying to drape herself across from you.

"Nope," you say adamantly. "Despite there being no fraternization rules for Section Two and Command Staff, I'm not going to take advantage of a drunk woman. Christ, is there anyone I can call for you?" Katsuragi shakes her head, and begins insisting loudly you call her Misato.

"Christ," you swear. "I'll call you goddamned Misato. Can I eat my goddamned burger?" She nods at you and when it arrives, you stare it sadly, before cutting it in half with a knife and fork. Then you jam one half into your mouth and begin chewing as fast as humanly possible.

"Arghlghle garghle," you tell Dick, and he stares at you, even as you're bringing the second half up to your mouth while you're still swallowing the first part of the burger. Slowly, he crosses himself as you swallow the second half, leaving only the tomatoes. You hate goddamned tomatoes.

Snagging your bottle of Scotch in one hand, you pick Misato up bridal style and carry her to her car. Lighting up a smoke, you run the driver's seat of her car back and slide in, cigarette dangling from your mouth. The drive back is silent, as you think she's sleeping and you don't want to wake her.

The apartment building is quiet this time of the day, around ten PM, and you wonder where everyone is. Then you remember that Captain Thierry had everyone other than Misato rounded up and moved to different apartment buildings, so he could place teams in each apartment surrounding her's in every direction.

You carry her up the stairs the same way you got her out to her car, and you're trying to figure out how to pick her lock when you remember you've got her keys in your hand. Feeling not quite as intelligent as you usually do, you get the door open and manage to find her bedroom, trying not stumble over her mess. You place her on the futon and you're about to turn and leave when a quiet voice interrupts you.

"Please don't leave."

Shrugging, you agree. "I'll stay, then. I won't be coming back into your room, but I'll be out here." Something approximating acceptance emerges from her bed, and you cover her up before leaving the room quietly. Taking a sip from your Scotch bottle, you settle yourself onto Misato's couch and begin perusing late night television, wondering why there were only infomercials. Eventually you settle onto a History channel, discussing the First World War, and sit there in the dark of a woman's apartment, your only company a bottle of Scotch, the television, and your thoughts. Until-

"Wark." Turning only your head, you stare. It's a penguin. And not even an Emperor penguin. It's some kind of messed up. There's only one thing to do. Slowly, eyes locked, you take a sip from your Scotch bottle.

"Sup," you greet. "Want some?" You offer the mouth of the bottle to the penguin, and it steps forward. It sticks its beak into the mouth, tilts its head back, and proceeds to finish your bottle of Scotch. "'s cool," you offer. "I didn't need to get drunk anyway. Someone's gotta make sure Misato in there doesn't drown in her own puke."

"Wark," offers the penguin, and you nod in appreciation at its sage word of wisdom. It settles onto the couch next to you, and you begin to pet it.

"Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like if I had been crippled by that grenade during the Wars," you say quietly. "I like to think I'd have bounced back, but there are some nights where I wake up and I can't feel my leg. That's scary shit, little penguin buddy."

"Wark," it says, seeming to enjoy being petted.

"Yeah."

When you wake up, Misato is standing over you. The History channel is still playing, there's still a penguin sitting next to you on her couch, and your back isn't doing you any favors.

In a man's life, it's odd times for him to wake up with a superior officer standing over him, wearing really short jean shorts, and a very revealing T-shirt. It's odd for him to wake up next to a penguin, with the History channel on. In these times, there is only one clear option for a man to take. You pick up the penguin, shove him into Misato's arms, and dive over the back of the couch.

"I NEVER MEANT TO PROPOSE LIKE THAT, I'M SO SORRY!" Something flies over your head, 'wark'ing angrily. Scrambling backwards, you try to offer a compliment, to appease the angry superior officer hungering for your blood. "You look good with bedhead?" A Scotch bottle rockets overhead, clocking in at you're sure is 100 miles per hour. Diving for the bathroom, you offer, "Morning. Sleep well?"

A cast iron skillet thuds into the wall beside you. Goddamn, the Dallas Rangers should get this woman to pitch for them. "THE PENGUIN," you try to scream as manfully as possible, "CAN VOUCH FOR MY ACTIONS. And if he says otherwise, he's a dirty goddamn liar!"

Nothing works. There is no stopping Misato on her bloody quest for your is nowhere left. There is nothing to do. She is coming. Vengeance and blood will be her's, you can hear her padding quietly to the bathroom door RIGHT NOW.

What.

You grab the iron skillet and head for the bathroom window. It's just big enough for you to dangle half-way in, half-way out. "Misato. MISATO. You asked me to stay! I certainly didn't invite myself to stay. I was going to take a train back to the Lament and have another burger and more Scotch. I certainly didn't want to wind up sleeping next to a penguin, which, by the way, is pretty cool."

She comes through the door, holding a can of that Japanese brew she seems to love so much. "You," she pointed a deadly finger at you, "will explain to me why you felt it acceptable to stay."

"You asked me to," you insist, getting angry yourself. "Christ, I could have been doing paperwork, I could have been out following a cult or something, I could have been buying the Third that beer I said I owed him. But nooooo, Tactical Commander Captain Katsuragi wants me to stay! Shit's not a goddamn game," you finish lamely, your anger leaving just as suddenly as it came. You want a drink. You want a cigarette, you want to fight something, anything.

Pulling yourself back into the bathroom, you stand as far from her as possible, watching her warily. She seems to have deflated as well. "You're right," she finally offers. "It was wrong of me to get angry. Please- please go." Dropping the skillet, you push past her and out the apartment. You stop suddenly, and turn.

"I'm not an enemy, Captain. Just because I don't have a country anymore doesn't mean I don't have a heart."