Chapter 7: And They Gave Me a Gun
And they marched me away to the war.
Maj R.M Bishop, VC, DSO, DFC & Bar
Royal Canadian Air Force
Head of Flight Testing, NERV Weapons R&D Division
Among the other office doors in the corridor, the nameplate on this one stood out like a sore thumb, being the only one printed in English. Shinji tried his best to decipher the meaning behind the bewildering array of letters that followed the name, though the years of English lessons in school proved little help.
"W-what are we doing here?" he turned and looked up at one his black-clad escorts. "I thought you were taking me straight to the train station..."
The agent shook his head. "Change of plans, we were asked to bring you here first. Apparently the Major wants to see you." He shrugged and gestured to the door. "Go on in, he should be expecting you. We'll be waiting down at the end of the hall." The man pointed towards the lounge area they had passed on the way here, before motioning to his companion to follow as he strode towards it.
Watching the two men depart for a moment, Shinji then turned to the door and swallowed nervously. What could the pilot possibly want with him? Just to say goodbye, perhaps? That didn't make much sense: sure, the man had been kinder to him than most, but he still barely knew him, really.
Well, only one way to find out. Screwing up his courage, he gave the door a few tentative knocks.
"It's open" came the curt reply from within. Shinji hit the button on the wall beside it, and stepped through into a small, sparsely furnished office as the door slid open with a hiss.
The Major was seated at a plain, grey metal desk, half hidden behind a stack of paperwork. He took a sheet off the top of the pile, running his eyes over it briefly before scribbling his signature at the bottom.
"Bloody reports," he muttered to himself in English, before sighing and meeting Shinji's eyes as he stood in the doorway. "Morning, kid." he greeted him in Japanese with a tired smile, giving him a brief nod before turning his eyes back down to his desk. "Have a seat, I just need to get through a few more of these forms here, won't be a minute." He gestured to one of the chairs in front of the desk.
Shinji silently took the proffered chair, sitting on the edge of the seat and shifting uncomfortably as the Major continued to scribble away at his paperwork. At the sight of his sharp uniform and neatly combed hair, the boy was became acutely aware of his own disheveled state. Two days on the road and a night in the holding cell had left him looking like a vagrant, and in this man's presence he certainly felt like one as well.
He cast a quick glance around the office. He noted that it was impeccably clean and tidy; even the stack of papers on the desk was perfectly straight. Certainly a contrast to the state of affairs in the Katsuragi household. The only decoration seemed to be a miniature red-and-white flag in a holder at the front of the desk, and the only other evidence that the office was occupied was a wedge-shaped cap and a wooden cane hanging from hooks on the wall beside the door.
Cane? Shinji had never noticed him using a cane before. Maybe it was some sort of uniform accessory.
On the other chair in front of the desk, Shinji noticed what seemed to be a small gift basket. It was filled with various types of delicious looking fruit, and a simple note taped to the side read 'Welcome back!' in Kanji script.
His stomach gave a covetous growl at the sight of the fruit. He hadn't eaten anything since the meagre meal section-2 provided him for dinner last night. The Major seemed to notice him eyeing the basket.
"Just a little gift from the Engineers. I guess they aren't too mad at me for breaking their jet." He chuckled and nodded towards it. "Help yourself if you're hungry." Shinji didn't need to be told twice, selecting a perfectly ripe apple and taking a bite. It was crisp, sweet, and just a bit tart without being sour. Certainly the tastiest thing he had eaten in many days, and he contentedly munched on it while the Major returned to his paperwork.
The two sat in silence for a few moments, before the Major cleared his throat and finally spoke up.
"I, uh, I never got a chance to thank you for saving my life that day. Three times, by my count." His voice was low, and he kept his eyes down on the paper before him. "So, for whatever it's worth to you, thank you."
Shinji tossed the apple core into the garbage can beside the desk and looked up at the man. He was not used to receiving gratitude from an elder; or anyone else, really.
"Oh. Um, well, you're welcome, sir." The stammered response was all he could think to come up with. He thought for a moment, before adding "...Is that why you wanted to see me?"
"Not entirely, Shinji." The Major looked up at him now, finally dropping his pen and leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "...Miss Katsuragi tells me you're leaving."
Ah. It all made sense now. Misato couldn't face him herself, so she'd convinced the pilot to try and talk him into staying. His mood soured at the realization that this was just one more attempt to manipulate him into piloting the Eva, and he eyed his tall counterpart with mounting suspicion as he answered.
"Yes, that's right. I was just on my way to the train station. A-and you can tell Miss Misato that she's wasting your time with this. My mind's made up." He crossed his arms and jutted out his chin in a show of defiance.
A small smile crossed the Major's lips as he shook his head. "Relax, kid. I'm not gonna try to stop you." Shinji raised a curious eyebrow, but remained defiant as the Major paused to choose his words.
"No, I just thought it might be good for you to... talk about what happened to you out there before you left. Y'know, one pilot to another."
"Oh. Well, I don't want to talk about it. Is that all?"
He sighed. "Look, kid. I can tell you're struggling with it. I've seen it before, and I understand how you feel..."
Shinji was incensed at that last remark, and his anger towards Misato, towards NERV, towards the Angels and the Eva, and especially towards his father all seemed to boil to the surface at once. He stood and balled his fists at his sides, meeting the man's impassive gaze with an enraged glare.
"How can you sit there and say that me?" he shouted, "Understand? how could you or anyone else possibly understand, huh? You don't have to get in the Eva and fight the Angels, and neither does Misato or anyone else who tries to tell me they understand!"
"I was out there fighting that thing too."
"Yeah, but you were in an airplane. It's hardly the same."
"How so?" he asked calmly, seemingly unperturbed at being the recipient of the boy's pent-up fury.
"I-it's hard to explain..." Shinji was caught off guard by the Major's lack of reaction, and his anger was beginning to falter.
"Try me," came the cool reply.
He took a deep breath. "Well, when you're in the Eva, you... feel everything that happens to it. Like it were happening to you." Shinji fell back into the chair and felt himself deflate as the memories of that day came rushing back.
The Major nodded slowly, a disturbed look beginning to cross his face. "So you mean, when it stabbed the Eva in the chest..."
"It felt like a knife in my heart."
"...And the explosion?"
"It felt like I was being burned alive," he said quietly, looking at his shoes.
Bishop was silent for a moment as he absorbed what Shinji had related to him.
"Fucking psychopaths," he muttered to himself. Who would else would design such a thing? Flying a fighter was certainly no picnic, but at least he didn't feel his own arm being torn away when the Avenger lost its wing.
He hadn't been surprised in the least by Shinji's anger; he'd met enough PTSD cases to know a few of the many ways that the affliction manifested itself, and sudden bouts of rage were certainly one of them. He had to be patient, he reminded himself. It may hurt the kid to relive those memories, but he knew from bitter experience that keeping them inside would hurt much more in the long run.
"Shinji," he began carefully, "You're right, to a degree. Flying, even in combat, is nothing like fighting on the ground. But believe it or not, I can understand what you went through out there."
"How?" the boy answered in a defeated voice, still staring at his shoes.
Bishop smiled sadly. He supposed he would have to relive some painful memories of his own if he wanted to get through to the kid.
"I wasn't always a pampered fighter pilot, you know." he said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. "Let me tell you a story. Have you ever heard of a place called Ottawa, Shinji?"
That seemed to pique his curiosity, and the boy looked back up at him with a confused expression. "Y-yeah. It's the capital city of Canada, right?"
Bishop nodded, impressed. "Very good. How'd you know that?"
The boy shrugged. "My teacher mentioned it once, when we were learning about the impact wars."
"Ah. I suppose you know there was a battle there, then?"
The boy shook his head at that, so Bishop braced himself as he went on. "Well, there was. A terrible battle, and I was there for all of it."
"A-as a pilot?" the boy asked
He shook his head. "Rifleman. B company, third battalion, Prince of Wales' North-West Light Infantry."
"Congratulations, son. You're doing your king and country proud." he suddenly heard the recruiting Sergeant's voice, and felt the man's huge paw crushing his hand in a firm shake as though he were standing in front of him now.
"I joined up in September two-thousand-one. I was eighteen. I would have been drafted anyways, so I figured I'd volunteer so I could serve in the same regiment my Grandfather had. We had less than a month of basic training at the regimental depot, before the Yanks invaded at the start of October and they sent us out east. We were supposed to have another two months of training in Quebec, but when they reached the outskirts of Ottawa in November, we were moved up to the front."
Bishop's gaze shifted from the boy, who he noted was listening intently, to the window behind him. He could see it now, reflected in the glass.
The streets of Gatineau were deserted, and eerily silent save for the sound of boots on the pavement. The once bustling city, just across the river from the capital, was completely emptied of its residents. First by the floods, then by the approach of the invader's armies; the first to set foot on Canadian soil in two centuries.
It felt strange to the soldiers to be able to march out in the open. For two weeks they had moved through the dense forests to the north at a snail's pace, scrambling for cover any time they heard an aircraft overhead. It would have taken less than a day to drive the distance they'd come, but American fighter-bombers constantly prowled over the roads looking for easy prey, forcing them to move through the woods on foot.
Here, though, they were under the protection of the multitude of anti-air defences assembled on the northern bank of the Ottawa river. The enemy had thoroughly destroyed the few bridges not washed away in the floods, and so the plethora of AA guns and missiles were needed to protect the fleet of boats tasked with supplying and reinforcing the city's beleaguered defenders. On their account, the soldiers could look up at the sky without fear for first time since the start of their long march. It had even stopped raining for a change, though the low grey clouds and a thick fog remained.
As they marched south, a noise other than their footsteps became audible, growing louder as they approached the river's edge. It sounded a bit like popping corn: the continuous crackle of small arms fire. It was punctuated occasionally by the deeper crump of a shell detonating, or the roar of a jet engine as a solitary aircraft braved the hail of AA fire to dive on a target somewhere across the river.
After an hour's marching through the abandoned suburbs, the battalion reached a forested park just above the waterline which served as the final staging area for troops crossing into Ottawa. It used to be over a kilometre from the river, but the influx of saltwater from the overflowing Atlantic 500 miles to the east had turned the narrow waterway into a wide, muddy estuary.
Normally, when permitted a moment's rest, the soldiers would drop their heavy packs and rifles and flop to the ground. Now, however, they just stood and cast disbelieving eyes at the sight that greeted them from across the vast stretch of murky water.
They had seen the glow on the horizon the night before, but it hadn't prepared them in the slightest for what they saw now. The low clouds reflected the orange glow of the countless infernos blazing in the embattled city, silhouetting the blackened shells of ruined skyscrapers through the low fog over the water. A dense pall of smoke drifted across the river, its acrid smell mixing with the sulfurous odour of gunpowder and the sickly-sweet stink of decay as it reached the young men's nostrils.
"Alright, third battalion, assemble on me and listen up!" The Colonel's booming voice cut through the clamour of activity in the park, and the 500 or so new arrivals snapped their attention away from the ruined city and crowded around their commander as he stood on a crate to address them.
"Gentlemen, the situation in the city has become critical, and we will not be waiting until nightfall to cross as originally planned. Instead, third battalion and the rest of the brigade will be going now." He paused to allow an anxious murmur to ripple through the ranks, before the men were silenced by a look from the regimental Sergeant Major.
"As you all know, we've been assigned to second corps, who are defending a salient centred around parliament hill. We still hold all of the downtown area, and that means that the enemy does not have any positions in the tall buildings overlooking the river. Except," he said, pointing at a fuzzy outline through the haze, "for that one. It sits on the far western edge of downtown, and an American attack captured it late last night. It looks directly out onto the ferry routes, and from the upper floors they can fire down on them and direct artillery. So, as soon as we're across, we will be joining a counterattack to retake it."
He again paused to allow that to sink in. "I know it seems risky to cross now, but it has to be done. Every minute the enemy holds that building is another minute for him to dig in and reinforce the position, and will make it that much harder to retake. And it must be retaken, gentlemen. If the flow of supplies across the river is cut, then it only becomes a matter of time until the city falls. Our arty is pounding the entire area with smoke rounds, so hopefully they won't see us coming."
The Colonel puffed himself up, trying to project a confidence he surely didn't feel. "Now, I won't try to sugar-coat it for you. Things are rough over there, and we have a hard fight ahead of us, but I expect every last one of you to do his duty, and to uphold this regiment's fine reputation. We are the last reserves, Gentlemen. His Majesty has entrusted us with the task of defending the capital, and we will do so at any cost. You are the last line of defence between the invader and your families, and your standing orders from now on are to stop them by any means necessary. We will not give up one more inch of Canadian ground, Is that clear?"
"YES SIR!" the soldiers cried out in unison.
With that, the battalion broke up into its constituent companies. "Listen, boys." the Captain called out the assembled troops of B company, "I want you to take off your packs and get rid of anything you don't need to fight or survive. Personal effects, care packages, extra clothes, whatever. It'll all be dead weight over there." he gestured towards the inferno they would soon enter. "Then, break off into platoons and get over to the supply dump. Grab as many spare mags, grenades, and rations as you can carry, as well as an extra belt for your section's machine gun. No telling when we'll get fresh supplies again once we're across. Capiche?"
"YES SIR!"
Fifteen minutes later, with his pack weighed down by the extra supplies, Private Bishop stood with the rest of his platoon at the water's edge. Before them stretched several blocks of semi-submerged buildings, and the first wave of boats were already navigating their ways through the flooded streets towards the wide stretch of open water they would have to cross.
The soldiers cast a dubious eye on their assigned means of transport: an ancient-looking white rowboat. It was just one of a huge and eclectic collection of commandeered watercraft being used to carry men and materiel into the besieged capital. Looking around, Bishop saw everything from tiny inflatable dinghies to an honest-to-god gunboat.
It was fairly large at least; likely it was a ship's lifeboat at some point, but for thirty soldiers with all their gear plus the dozen navy men manning the oars it would be a tight squeeze. Packed in like sardines; not only would they make an easy target, but the low gunwales would offer little cover should they come under fire.
The sailors pushed their decrepit vessel across the grass and out into the water, until it they were knee deep and the boat was free-floating. "Alright, you guys, let's go" the chief of the rowing crew called to the soldiers as his charges clambered into the boat and manned their stations.
The lieutenant, a college boy not much older than Bishop, was the first to wade into the frigid water.
"You heard the man," the ever-enthusiastic young officer called behind him. The soldiers didn't budge until their Sergeants followed. One by one, they waded out and clambered into the boat, tossing their packs and rifles in first. Eventually, with their vessel riding low from its heavy load, the last man was aboard, and the sailors dipped their oars into the still water.
Bishop was seated a little ways back from the front of the boat. To his left was Private Tennant, his section's machine gunner, who jostled him as he struggled to find a comfortable position for his bulky weapon. To his right was one of the navy guys, puffing as he pulled away at his oar.
It was a bit surreal, floating through the flooded city streets. If it weren't for the din of the battle raging across the river, he could almost imagine he was cruising through the canals of Venice aboard a gondola.
Nudging the sailor with his elbow, the young soldier turned and nervously whispered to him.
"Is it rough out there?" he asked, referring to the river crossing.
The sailor looked annoyed at the question, but answered him anyways.
"We haven't been across yet today, so I couldn't tell ya. We usually get a bit of arty, but it's pretty sporadic and they hardly ever hit a boat. Might be a bit hotter today now the bastards are in that building though..." he trailed off when he saw the look of utter terror on Bishop's face, and smiled reassuringly.
"Don't worry private, we'll get ya across in one piece. After that, well, best of luck to ya."
Hardly feeling reassured, the young soldier returned his gaze forward. He instinctively reached into the inside breast pocket of his olive-drab uniform and retrieved the photo he religiously kept there. He gazed longingly at the girl he'd promised to come back to.
Just then, the noise of the battle washed over him like a wave as the boat emerged from the last bit of protection offered by the flooded city and out into the open water. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to keep his promise to her, but the hope of doing so was fading with every second as the vision of hell on south bank grew closer.
He heard a low whistle from over his left shoulder. "Damn, Bishop," Tennant said with a wry smile.
"You cut that out of a magazine or somethin'? No way in hell a lanky fuck like you could land a chick like that."
He chuckled as he tucked the photo back into the pocket and gave it a pat through his uniform.
"What's the matter there, short stuff? You jealous nobody's waiting for you to come back to that frozen shithole you crawled out of?"
The stout machine gunner, who was about the same age as Bishop and one of his closest friends in the unit, puffed up with indignation and gave his counterpart a punch on the arm.
"Listen here, you little bastard. You can insult me all you want, I will not sit idly by while the fine city of Edmonton is besmirched by the likes of you."
Their banter was silenced by an deafening tearing sound in the air above the river. It sounded like someone ripping a giant piece of cloth, and it took the young soldier a moment to register that it was the sound of howitzer rounds passing overhead on their way into the city. He hoped they found their mark well.
They didn't. The wind was picking up, and blew the cloud of white smoke from the bursting shells away from their target. With mounting sense of dread, Bishop realized he could see the battered building clearly as it emerged from the haze and loomed over the steep riverbank a kilometre in front of them.
As if in answer to his fears, a huge spout of water seemed to appear out of nowhere amongst the first wave of boats; about two hundred metres in front of him. There then came another, and another, until the water around the frail-looking vessels seemed to come alive. The fire was clearly being directed by a well-trained observer. It was not sporadic or random.
One boat was caught a direct hit. It was reduced to matchsticks, its occupants instantly vaporized into a fine red mist. Another was overturned by near miss, and those aboard not cut to ribbons by the shrapnel were quickly dragged below by their heavy packs and sodden clothes, without even time to scream before their lungs filled with brackish water.
The soldiers in the old rowboat tried to make themselves small, and tilted their helmets towards the wall of death they knew would rise up to meet them any moment now. For what little protection the tin hat could offer, it may as well have been made of paper, but it still gave Bishop some modicum of comfort.
From somewhere behind him, he heard someone throw up, either from fear or seasickness, and a moment later he felt vomit sloshing against his boots. That caused more men to spill their guts into the bilge, and soon the sound of retching became a cacophony that was only drowned out by the first shell reaching them a moment later.
It hit barely fifty metres in front of their boat. The concussion seemed to suck the air right out of Bishop's lungs, and the noise caused a ringing in his ears that mercifully drowned out the screams. They were drenched by the fountain of water and peppered with shrapnel. Most of it was spent, no more painful than a shot from a pellet gun, but some of the bigger pieces could slice off a limb, as evidenced by the blood starting to mix with the vomit in the bottom the boat.
The boys desperately sought cover, but there was none to be had, so they cowered as best they could among the filth in the bottom of the boat.
"Pull, you bastards! Pull!" cried the chief to the rowers, who tugged at the oars with renewed vigour as more shells began to find their mark.
The explosions seemed to blend together into one continuous roar, punctuated by the bone-chilling wail of rockets as a volley of the fiery projectiles lent their terrifying voice to the barrage. Bishop's whole body trembled, and he was dimly aware of that he'd lost control of his bladder. He had expected to be afraid, but never in his worst nightmares could he have dreamed up anything like the paralyzing, all-consuming fear that now gripped him.
Halfway across, and the boat was rocked violently by another near miss, but they somehow remained afloat. Bishop dared to look forward, and saw a series of flashes in the dark windows of the American-held building. They heralded a new sound, one more instrument in the hellish orchestra of battle: the whistle of bullets whipping by.
The clatter of the machine guns could be faintly heard now over the din of the artillery. They were too far away to fire accurately, but the random shower of rounds still had a devastating effect on the tightly packed troops.
Bishop suddenly felt something warm on his face. He reached up to wipe it away, and looking down saw his hand covered in blood. It took a panicked moment to realize that it wasn't his. Looking over, he saw Tennant desperately trying to stem the bleeding from his throat where a bullet had torn it away. his mouth flopped open as he tried to say something, but more blood simply poured out, and with a final gasp he collapsed into the bottom of the boat. There he lay, his last bit of life leaking into the disgusting mess sloshing in the bilge, staring wide-eyed up at his still-living pal.
It was the first dead body he had ever seen up close, and Bishop was horrified at the realization that he had been exchanging friendly japes with it just a few moments ago.
There was nothing else to do. The young soldier closed his eyes and waited for the grisly end he was sure was coming. He saw her now, smiling warmly at him, and he knew in his gut that he was never going to see her again. He began to cry at the thought, and he felt no shame at the hot tears on his cheeks.
In that moment, he didn't care about the war anymore. He didn't care about serving his country, he didn't care about doing his duty or being a man, and he sure as hell didn't care about the regiment's reputation. He just wanted to go home.
Suddenly, he felt the bottom of the boat scrape onto dry land, and someone was yelling for them to get out. He was too afraid to move. Eventually, a strong hand grabbed him by the collar and turned him around. It was the sailor he had spoken to earlier. The Man was yelling at him and pointing at something, but Bishop's frayed senses couldn't comprehend what he wanted. Eventually, the sailor pulled him to his feet and roughly shoved him over the gunwale.
He landed hard, and the pain jolted him back to his senses as he stood on rubbery legs. He unslung his rifle from his shoulder and clutched it to his chest, taking in the chaotic scene on the riverbank. They were on a thin stretch of rocky beach, shielded by a steep hill which concealed it from the city above. There was no semblance of organization or cohesion among the dozens of heavily laden soldiers who slid and stumbled their way over the loose gravel as they scrambled away from the river.
Despite the barrage, quite a few boats had made it across, but not without loss. The dead were being manhandled out of the vessels and unceremoniously piled on the ground in order to make room for the wounded being evacuated back to the north bank.
Stretchers lined the rocky beach, their pitiful occupants bearing every conceivable type of injury. The lucky few that could walk staggered to their feet and clambered for a spot in the boats. The rest had to wait their turn to be carried, while the exhausted medics tended to the worst cases and tried their best to stabilize them enough to survive to trip back.
As he stumbled his way up the bank, Bishop recognized the Captain's voice, and found what remained of B company assembling around him at the base of the hill. It was once part of a pleasant riverside park, but the rain and shellfire had since churned the steep rise into a grey, muddy quagmire.
It was crisscrossed with trenches leading up towards the city, and after a brief discussion with another officer, the captain ducked into one and shouted for his men to follow. Too dazed and terrified to do anything else, they obeyed, and began the long climb into hell.
"Six months, Shinji. We turned that city into a fortress and defended it for six long months, fighting street to street, building to building, and room to room. We lived like rats under the ruins, and we fought like animals. With rifle butts, bayonets, knives, teeth and fists if we had to."
The Major paused for a moment to steady himself, clearly agitated from the memory of the events he was relating.
"Six months of being constantly on edge, knowing one tiny slip-up, one peek through the wrong window could get you killed in an instant. Sometimes, it wasn't even a mistake that got you, it was just pure dumb luck."
Shinji was speechless as he tried to comprehend the horror of what the Major had just described to him. The man rolled up his sleeves and explained the origins of the seemingly endless scars on his forearms. A few were stab wounds while most, he explained, were a result of shrapnel from grenades or artillery.
"This one," he said, pointing to the jagged white line at the top of his forehead, "was a piece of buddy's helmet. He was standing a few yards away from me when a mortar shell hit him. There wasn't much left of him except for a chunk of steel that buried itself in my scalp."
Shinji shuddered at the mental image as the Major rolled his sleeves back down and pointed to his chest.
"I managed to get through Ottawa without getting shot, but a sniper got me right here a couple months later. Came as close to dying as you can get, I suppose."
With that, he leaned forward and fixed the boy with a stern gaze.
"Now look, If you really don't want to talk about what happened out there, then so be it. I can't force you. But don't try to tell me that I wouldn't understand. I know how it feels to be shot, stabbed and burned, and sure as hell I know how what it's like to look your enemy in the eye while he tries to kill you and you try to kill him."
The Major let out a breath. "I know that's some heavy stuff to lay on a kid, but I think you needed to hear it. You need to understand that you're not alone in what you're feeling right now. You're feeling what I felt back then, what I still feel sometimes now. I can see it in your eyes. Now, If I can manage to talk about Ottawa, surely you can tell me about what it was like fighting that angel. One soldier to another."
"I-I was scared!" Shinji blurted out. "It was terrifying, and I just wanted to curl up into ball and shut my eyes. I wanted to run away."
"Hm. And why didn't you?"
Shinji pondered the simple question for a moment. Why hadn't he run away? What did he care if Tokyo-3 got destroyed? They all hated him anyways, that much was clear from the still faintly visible bruise over his left eye.
That was why he was running away now, wasn't it?
"Because..." he began carefully, "because miss Misato ordered me to fight."
That answer seemed to amuse the Major, much to Shinji's confusion. "Really?" he asked with a knowing smile. "Just following orders, eh? That's not what Katsuragi told me."
"...What did she tell you?"
"She told me the opposite. She said she gave you a direct order to retreat when the Angel started coming after me, and that you disobeyed it to save me and those two kids."
"Oh." He supposed that excuse rang just as hollow to the Major as it did to him.
"Well, I guess I just... didn't want anyone to get hurt because of me. Get hurt because I'm a coward."
That answer seemed to perplex the foreigner.
"What makes you think you're a coward?" he asked gently.
"D-during the first battle, I was so afraid that I couldn't even move. The Eva was acting on its own when it killed the Angel, and people got hurt because of it."
"But you didn't freeze up the second time."
"No... but I was still scared out of my mind. I-I have nightmares about it every night."
"And you think that makes you a coward?"
"Doesn't it?" Shinji asked, looking up to meet the Major's eyes. He saw there something he wasn't used to seeing: sympathy.
"I still get nightmares too, kid. When we were crossing that river into Ottawa, I was so scared that I wet myself. I'm not ashamed to admit it. But not even then was I as afraid as I was when that thing was chasing me. Do you think that makes me a coward?"
Shinji could hardly call a war hero a coward. "No..." he murmured.
"No, it doesn't, and it doesn't make you one either." he replied in a firm tone.
"There's no shame in being afraid Shinji, that's not what cowardice is. A coward is someone who lets the fear overtake him, who runs away from his duties and responsibilities because of it. Sure you might have frozen up, but you still went out there and you faced those things. You did it despite the fear, and that's what courage is, kid."
That just made Shinji feel worse about what he was doing now. "So I guess you think I'm a coward for leaving, then?"
The Major thought on that for a moment. "Well," he said slowly, "For the record, no. If it were up to me, you never would have been sent out there in the first place. You're just a kid. Hell, I was young when I went to war, but at least I got a few years to be a normal teenager. No, in a just world, this burden wouldn't have ever been yours to bear, and I sure as hell don't blame for not wanting to carry it anymore. But what I think doesn't matter, what matters is what you think."
"What I think?"
"Yes. I'm of the opinion that duty isn't something that can be assigned to you. It's something you feel deep down, an obligation to do what you know is right. So ask yourself, do you feel a duty to stay here and protect this city? Do you feel you're responsible for it?"
"I-I don't know," he replied truthfully.
"Well, think on it."
He did think on it, and after a moment he had the beginnings of an answer.
"Well, I know... I know I'm the only one who can pilot it, and I know that a lot of people will probably die if I don't. But at the same time, I just don't want to fight. Why should I care? Why should I face all that pain and horror when all i get in return is beaten up and yelled at?"
The Major shrugged. "A soldier doesn't fight for praise or reward, Shinji. At least not the good ones. I mean, look at what happened to me. Sure, they gave me a few medals and called me a hero, but all it took was one disagreement with the government for them to toss me aside like yesterday's trash."
"Then why fight at all? Why did you do it, then? Why endure all that stuff you just told me about? Didn't you want to run away too?"
"Every second of every day," the man replied flatly.
"Then why didn't you?"
"Well, for one thing," he said with a chuckle. "In the army, running away was called desertion, and the punishment was a date with the firing squad." Seeing that his attempt at dark humour was not having the intended effect, the Major cleared his throat and went on in a more serious tone.
"More to the point though, Shinji, I didn't run away because it was my duty to stay and fight. Not just because my superiors told me it was, but because I knew deep down that it was the right thing to do. I believed that I was doing it to protect my home and my family, and I believed that I owed it to the guy in the foxhole next to me because I knew he'd do the same for me. I didn't run away because even though I wanted to, even though I was tired, hungry, cold and scared, I knew that that living with the shame of shirking those duties would be worse than anything the enemy could do to me."
"B-but miss Misato said I should only fight if I want to..."
He sighed. "She means well, but I think she's bit off the mark there. Look kid, the fact that you don't want to go to war means you're sane. Nobody in their right mind wants to fight, but sometimes duty takes precedence over what we want for ourselves. So it's up to you. You've got to ask yourself if you think you'll be able to look yourself in the eye if you leave. What I, or Katsuragi, or anyone else thinks doesn't matter because you're the one who'll have to live with your decision."
"...And what if I don't think it's my duty to stay?"
Another shrug. "Then leave with your head held high. No one should have to fight for a cause they don't believe in."
There was a tap on the glass from the window looking out into the hallway. Turning, Shinji saw one of the Agents pointing to his watch. The Major just nodded and waved him away.
The officer checked his own watch, and looked back up at Shinji with a concerned grimace. "Christ, sorry kid, I've kept you here for over an hour now. Don't you have a train to catch?"
Shinji hadn't noticed the minutes going by. He had never had a conversation like this before, never spoken so candidly about his feelings or had anyone speak to him so earnestly in return. He had to admit, knowing he wasn't alone in his fear, sorrow and confusion, and hearing that he needn't be ashamed from this man who had endured so much of the same left him feeling a little more at peace with himself, if only a little.
But at the same time, that knowledge left him seriously questioning the decision he had been so confident of earlier. He supposed it would be rude to keep the agents waiting much longer, but there was so much more he wanted to ask.
Resigned, he boy nodded slowly. "Yeah, I-I guess so. I mean, I have to go, they've already formally discharged me from NERV. But... what you said about duty. I think I know deep down that I should stay, but every time I think about getting in the Eva, it just makes me more sure that I want to leave. I-I need to time to think."
"Hm. Looks like time to think might be a luxury you don't have."
"W-what do I do? Please, just tell me, Major!" Shinji looked at the man with pleading eyes.
He creased his forehead in thought, before smiling sadly back at him. "Go, Shinji." he said softly. "You can always come back if you change your mind, right?"
Shinji shook his head, starting to feel tears in his eyes. "No! They said I can't have contact with anyone from NERV if I leave. I won't even be able to talk to you, or miss Misato, or anyone else here. They'd never let me change my mind."
With a heavy sigh, the Major stood walked around the desk. Shinji was dimly aware of the limp in his step, before he felt a strong hand on his shoulder.
"C'mon kid, why we don't we take a walk. Might help you clear your head."
Shinji wiped his eyes and looked up at him. "B-but the agents-"
"If they want to take you before you're ready to go, they'll have to get through me," he said with a lopsided grin.
Shinji stood and followed as the Major grabbed the cane from its hook and made his way out the door. The Agents weren't there, so the two headed down the corridor, away from the break room where the men in black were waiting.
"Just an old sports injury," the man tapped his leg with the cane as he noticed Shinji eyeing it. "Flares up once in a while."
They walked in silence for a minute, before he piped up. "Have you said goodbye to miss Katsuragi yet?" he asked as they slowly made their way down the corridor.
"No..."
"Are you going to?"
"Why should I? She's the one who told me to leave in the first place. And why do you care? You know she pretty much ordered me to let the Angel kill you, right?"
To Shinji's surprise, the man just snorted in amusement before replying. "I can hardly hold that against her. She had a tough call to make, from her perspective it was either my life, or yours and all of humanity. Leaders sometimes have to make decisions like that, and I would have made the same call in her position."
That hardly made Shinji feel any better, but the Major added. "Y'know, she may have a funny way of showing it, but she really does care about you, kid."
"How would you know?" Shinji asked suspiciously.
"Well, it was her idea for us to have this little talk. I know it couldn't have been easy for you to relive that stuff, I ought to know, but I bet you feel better for having got it off your chest, huh?"
"A-a little, I guess..."
"See? She sent you to see me, even knowing I would probably tell you get as far away from this place as you can. She did it because she just wanted to help you, even it means she'd never get to see you again."
"Hm." Shinji supposed it was a nice gesture, but he remained unconvinced. "So you do think I should leave, then?" he asked, reading into the Major's comment.
He gave Shinji a glace, seemingly annoyed with himself at having overplayed his hand. "Well, I hate to see anyone, especially someone so young, have to go through what my generation did. Although, I suppose that ship has pretty well sailed by now."
He stopped walking to fix Shinji with a serious gaze.
"I won't bullshit you, kid. you're never going to forget what happened to you out there for as long as you live, and if you keep fighting It'll only get worse. But like I've been trying to tell you, It might hurt you even more in the long run to know you ran away from it."
"That's... not very helpful."
The Major could could only shrug at that as he turned to keep walking. "I'm sorry, but I can't make the choice for you. All I can do is try to inform your decision as best as I can."
Shinji chewed on that in silence for a while. Everyone else in his life had always just told him what to do. Being treated like an adult, being entrusted to make his own decisions was a novel experience for him.
Wasn't this what he always wanted? The freedom to make his own choice? Wasn't this the feeling he was longing for as he watched the Major's silver jet dancing through the sky? Now that he was actually experiencing it, he wasn't so sure.
With his mind still in turmoil, the pair turned down another corridor, and were immediately spotted by a pair of black-suited figures at the other end.
"HEY, YOU!" one of them yelled out, "STOP RIGHT THERE!"
As the agents sprinted down the hall, The Major took a step towards them, putting himself between Shinji and his ticked-off escorts.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked innocently as the Section 2 men came to a stop a few metres front in front of the tall foreigner.
They ignored his glib comment and tried to step around him. "Alright, that's enough, you're coming with us." The bigger of the two made to grab Shinji by the collar, but found his wrist caught in the Major's iron grip. The blue-clad officer gave the black-suited man a hard shove that send him sprawling backwards, and raised the wooden cane to threaten the other agent as he tried to make a move. The cane may have seemed like a poor weapon, but Shinji reckoned someone of the Major's size and strength could probably smash in a skull with it.
The Agents seemed to agree, and both backed off a few steps. They sized up their opponent, and didn't seem to fancy their chances in a physical confrontation. Instead, they exchanged a look, before simultaneously reaching into their suit jackets and drawing their pistols.
"Sorry, Major," one of them said as they both leveled their guns at the officer. "But we have orders directly from the Commander to escort pilot Ikari out of Tokyo-3. Now, stand aside please, sir. We don't want any trouble."
The pilot was unmoved by the threat, and took another step towards the men. "He'll go with you when he decides he's ready, and not a damn minute before," he said in a tone that left no room for argument.
The agents simply responded by cocking the hammers on their pistols. Shinji could see that there was going to be serious trouble if he didn't do something.
"I-it's okay." he said, taking a step forward to stand beside the Major. He looked up to meet the man's eyes. "I'll go with them. I'm ready."
The Major seemed unconvinced, lowering his improvised weapon to kneel down to Shinji's eye level.
"Are you sure, kid?" he asked quietly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. Shinji wasn't, but tried his best to project certainty as he nodded solemnly. The Major seemed to understand, and cast a frosty glace towards the two agents.
"Alright..." he said, standing as Shinji took a step towards the black-suited men, who still kept their guns firmly pointed at the foreigner. With a deep breath, he committed himself to his chosen course of action, and began the long walk down the hall.
"Hey, uh, kid." he turned at the sound of the Major's voice, and to his surprise saw him snap to attention and salute. Shinji wasn't sure how to respond.
"You should always return an officer's salute," the Major said with a smirk, seeing the boy's confusion. After a moment, Shinji felt a small smile creep onto his face, and he imitated the gesture of respect, snapping his hand back down to his side after the man did the same.
Bishop watched until the three were out of sight around a corner, one of the Agents keeping a firm grip on the boy's elbow.
With a heavy sigh, he turned and began to hobble back the way he had come. What the hell was he thinking? Why the hell had he felt so responsible for him? Was he really about to take a bullet for that damn kid?
That'd certainly be an anticlimactic death, he thought with a smirk. Getting shot for some foreign teenager he barely knew after all the narrow escapes from death over the years.
Though he may not have known him all that well, he certainly wished him the best. He hoped for the kid's sake that he believed he was doing the right thing, not that the pair of interlopers left him much choice.
This was what Bishop wanted, after all, wasn't it? For that kid not to have to endure what he had, become what he became.
Sure, he'd given a fine speech about duty and moral courage, about doing the right thing even if it wasn't easy, even if it hurt. He supposed he still believed somewhere deep down that he had fought for the right cause; hell, he wouldn't still be wearing this uniform if he didn't. But he also conveniently neglected to mention the part about how war had turned him into an unfeeling monster, about how he'd spent the latter part of his service fighting not because it was his duty, but because he wanted vengeance. Because he wanted to kill.
He'd neglected to mention everything the war took from him, and it truly was everything. His family, his friends, his humanity. Everything.
Maybe that was for the best. He'd traumatized the kid enough for one day.
His words about duty rang hollow to himself for another reason. Was he not doing exactly the same thing? He was leaving too, abandoning these people to their fate. Sure, their use of child soldiers was deplorable, but did he really have the moral high ground here? They were going to send kids fight whether he was here or not, and if by staying he could take some of the burden off them, was it not his duty to do so?
Distracted by philosophizing to himself as he slowly limped along, Bishop suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew this feeling well; he was being watched.
Looking up, he found himself in the middle of a long, narrow service corridor, far off the beaten path. There was no one ahead of him. Casting an anxious glance over his shoulder, he spied a figure standing about twenty-five yards behind him, where he had passed just a few moments ago.
Whirling to confront whoever was tailing him, he saw to his surprise that it was a young girl. She was wearing what looked to Bishop like some sort of school uniform, a white blouse beneath a sky blue jumper, with a matching blue pleated skirt. She was deathly pale, and her short hair was like none that Bishop had ever seen; it was a pale blue-grey, akin to a lightened shade of the colour of his uniform. Her eyes were equally strange, a deep crimson that made them appear somehow... inhuman.
The sight of her sent an alarmed shiver down his spine, though he had no discernible reason to fear her. She was tiny: thin, frail, and not even tall enough to reach his shoulder. She appeared to be unarmed, and made no move to threaten him; or any move at all, really. She just stood there, fixing him with a detached gaze.
After blinking a few times to confirm he wasn't just seeing things, he cleared his throat and addressed the ghostly girl.
"Um, hello there, miss."
There was no response.
"Are you... lost or something? Do you need help?"
Nothing, not so much as a wayward twitch to acknowledge that she had heard him. Just those two crimson eyes boring into his soul.
He felt a sudden urge to glance behind him; maybe this girl was being used as bait to distract his attention while someone else snuck up on him. A quick look behind revealed only an empty corridor, however.
His head again snapped forward, and he promptly stumbled backwards in shock.
She was gone.
There was no trace of her anywhere. The smooth walls had no doorways or alcoves she could have ducked into, and she had been nowhere near the end of the narrow hallway. Even if she had somehow sprinted the distance in the split second he had his head turned, surely he would have heard footsteps.
"What the fuck..." he uttered for what seemed like the millionth time since his arrival in this godforsaken city.
He stood stock still for a long moment, his mind desperately trying to rationalize what had just occurred. It was only a growing burning sensation on his back that returned him to reality, and he remembered it was past time for another dose of painkillers.
Reaching into his pocket to retrieve the bottle, his gaze lingered on the label.
...Maybe I ought to stop drinking while I'm taking these, he thought as he popped a pair of the capsules; without the usual sip from the flask he kept in the inside pocket of his tunic. Yeah, that's it. Just a hallucination. A side effect of mixing drugs.
Convinced as he may have been that she was just a figment of his imagination, he still picked up the pace as he made his way back to his office, casting a glance over his shoulder every few seconds.
Just a hallucination...