Chapter 13: Northwest Passage

How then am I so different from the first men through this way?
Like them, I left a settled life, I threw it all away.

-Stan Rogers

"...You want to shoot my planes out of a cave?"

"Great idea, huh?" Katsuragi's enthusiastic voice squawked in his ear through the cell phone as the exasperated pilot rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I came up with it myself, and Takao is on board. He can put his people to work on it right away."

He was lounging on his bunk, still dressed in grease-stained coveralls and exhausted from the day's labours. He'd been in and out of every filthy compartment on those jets, having to closely supervise the navy mechanics who had no experience working on the Avengers. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, too tired to even get up to get some dinner, when Katsuragi had called him up and now insisted on talking his ear off.

She was clearly proud of herself, and Bishop stopped himself from telling her too bluntly what he thought of her plan. The idea was for a large cave in one of the mountains overlooking Tokyo-3 to be turned into a base for his motley collection of fighters. They would be launched via catapult out of a tunnel in the side of the mountain, rapidly accelerating to takeoff speed using the same electromagnetic rails the Eva launch system used, and recovered via arrestor wires stretched across the highway below. Not unlike how an aircraft carrier functioned. The jets would then taxi off the road, into another tunnel at ground level, and onto an elevator that would bring them back up to the main cave, where they could be quickly refueled and rearmed if necessary.

There were certainly arguments to be made in favour of it, he supposed. The cavern was already used as a storage facility for spare Eva parts, with a direct elevator connection to headquarters, and would take up none of Tokyo-3's precious space. They would be well protected from attack and away from prying eyes. And he begrudgingly admitted that if, by some miracle it actually worked, it would indeed be a quick and efficient means of launching fighters at a moment's notice. However, any arguments in favour were far outweighed by the risks involved.

"Look, Katsuragi..." he began carefully, "I'm not sure you've entirely thought this through." He heard an annoyed grunt on the other end of the line, and pressed on before she could respond. "Let's say something goes wrong during launch, and I or one of my pilots needs to eject. On an airbase or a carrier, no problem, but in a bloody cave? Presumably with a low ceiling? There'd be nothing left but a red smear on the rocks."

"Our Eva launch system has never once failed through thousands of hours of tests. Worst case scenario, you can eject once you've been shot out of the cave. Is that all you're worried about?" She said brusquely.

Bristling at what he saw as a very valid concern being brushed off so easily, he continued in a more pointed tone. "No, that is certainly not all. What about the jet exhaust? There'll presumably be ground crew in there with the aircraft, and they'll suffocate in a matter of seconds from the engines being run in such a confined space..."

"So we'll install the best ventilation we have available. No problem."

"Well, what about the jets themselves? Arrestor wire landings are incredibly hard on an aircraft's landing gear. Carrier planes are built to take it, but the Avenger is not. It wouldn't survive more than few sorties."

"Takao has already drawn up modifications for the landing gear. He says it won't be an issue, in fact, he can send you the plans and the mechanics there can get it done right on the ship in a few days."

"Okay..." Time to play the trump card. "But I have zero experience with carrier ops. Carrier pilots go through months of training before-"

"You're on board a carrier right now, are you not?" she brusquely cut him off.

"Yes..."

"Well, then get some experience." With that, the woman promptly hung up the phone, leaving the pilot working his jaw in irritation. It was clear the plan was to proceed whether he liked it or not, and now he had three weeks to become a carrier pilot, in addition to the already daunting tasks of making the Avengers airworthy and finding pilots to fly them. They'd only been at sea a day, and already he was on the hook for far more than he wanted to be.

Welcome to the life of a soldier, he though idly as he cast a glance around the grey metal walls and ceiling of his spartan quarters. It was a spare officer's stateroom; usually shared by two men, but he had it all to himself, making him one of a privileged few on board with their own quarters. It was small, but not cramped, with a reasonably comfortable bunk bed, a desk that folded into the wall, and a few compartments for storage. Of course, it wasn't nearly enough storage space for everything crammed into the room, which was nearly all of his worldly possessions.

He had left most of his stuff in a storage unit back in Ontario when he'd first departed for Japan, and while in Halifax had asked the company to send him a box of extra clothes he wanted to take back with him. There had been a mix-up however, and instead they'd sent him the entire contents of the unit. It arrived late, just hours before the ship was set to depart, and the delivery driver refused to take it back, so he had no choice but to lug it all up to his stateroom from the quay.

Not that it truly amounted to much. His duffle bag, a few boxes of clothes and other odds and ends, a beat-up guitar case, and his footlocker. All he had to show for his 32 years on earth. He'd always told himself that it was a good thing. He was free and unattached, with nothing and no-one tying him down. Looking out over the sum of his possessions now, though, he felt only the bitterness of a life wasted, a life spent looking back instead of forwards.

And on that subject... He hadn't opened his footlocker in several years. Sitting up on the bed, he decided to have a rummage through. Wracking his brain to remember the combination to the lock on the front, he popped it open, the rusty hinges giving a squeal of complaint as he lifted the lid of the heavy steel container.

Can't even remember what the hell I put in here. He knew that most of his medals and decorations were inside, as well as some important documents and letters, valuables, and a couple of old uniforms. As he peered into the locker's contents, he suddenly remembered what else he had in there, and cast an anxious glance around the room despite being completely alone.

His service weapons. A standard-issue Browning pistol, with several spare magazines and a box of 9mm ammunition, along with his ornate sabre. The ancient symbol of an officer's authority, it was purely ceremonial and only to be worn on formal occasions, though he'd still had a razor's edge put on the blade. Just in case. It was the gun that made him nervous, though: he could probably get in serious trouble if it were known he had brought a firearm with live ammo aboard the ship...

In addition to the sidearms, as he lifted a few things out of way, he saw that his rifle was still there as well. It was the same rifle he'd been issued when he first arrived at his regiment, the rifle he carried to hell and back. He'd taken it with him when he transferred to the Air Force, figuring he owed the weapon a good home after all the faithful service it had given him. It had been stored in here ever since, impeccably clean and oiled, complete with bayonet and 100 rounds of ammunition in five 20-round magazines.

He reached in to run a hand over the rifle's stock. Each dent and scratch in the wood represented a memory, none of them pleasant. As he was about to lift the weapon from its place to inspect it, however, he was startled by a knock at the door, and quickly shut and locked the lid before shouting for whoever was there to enter.

A young navy officer in a crisp white uniform stepped through and offered him a smart salute, which the pilot halfheartedly returned before gesturing for the kid to speak.

"Lieutenant Collins, sir, aide to Admiral Barlow." The young officer introduced himself with all appropriate pomp, Bishop noting his upper-class English accent. "The Admiral sends his compliments. He'll be hosting a dinner and reception tonight in the flag quarters for the fleet's senior officers, along with our...distinguished passengers, and would be pleased if you would attend."

Great. Bishop wasn't enthused by the thought of spending the evening hobnobbing with a bunch of stuffy old Navy types. He would just as soon fall back into his bunk and catch up on some sleep. Then again, a decent meal was certainly a tempting prospect; no doubt, the admiral and his ilk ate better food than the slop they served to the rest of the ship's company. Hell, if he was lucky, they might even be serving alcohol, which was otherwise strictly forbidden on board.

"Very well, Lieutenant," he said wearily. "Tell the Admiral I'll be there. What time?"

"Six bells, sir."

"In English, please."

"Nineteen-hundred hours." The posh Brit looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow at the state of his appearance. "...All officers attending will of course be expected to appear in full dress. If you don't have an appropriate uniform, perhaps I can find one for you to borrow..." He trailed off as Bishop fixed him with a threatening look, hurriedly saluting and excusing himself from the room without further comment.

...Smarmy little shit.

Bishop was still fuming over the snobbish attitude the Admiral's aide had taken with him as he followed a sailor through the carrier's maze of corridors and passageways. The class divide between himself and most of his fellow officers was a constant sore spot for the pilot, and there was nothing he hated more than being talked down to. It was out of pure spite, then, that he'd pulled out all the stops to look the part for the evening's affair. Upon his hot, itchy full dress tunic, he wore his entire chest-full of medals, save for the VC he'd given to Shinji, and his gilded sabre hung at his side from an embroidered blue and gold silk belt.

It was far from the standard officer's smallsword, a gift from his old Army regiment after the war. It was instead modeled after the curved cavalry sabres traditionally carried by officers of the light infantry, and it was truthfully more a work of art than a weapon, one he took great pride in. The guard and pommel were gold-plated bronze, while the grip was made of shark skin wrapped in gold wire. The lower half of the immaculately polished blade was deeply blued, and inscribed with intricate gold scrollwork surrounding the royal cypher.

"Here we are sir," his guide abruptly stopped gestured to an open watertight door guarded by a pair of rifle-armed Marines. Bishop was utterly lost, but figured they were somewhere amidships, probably underneath the bridge and other command spaces. Nodding his thanks to the sailor, the pilot dusted himself off and rested his left hand on the sabre's hilt before ducking through the opening.

It was like stepping into a completely different world. In contrast to the drab utilitarianism of the rest of the ship, the Admiral's suite was more like some Victorian gentleman's club. The room he'd entered was larger than his apartment in Tokyo-3, and seemed to be a sitting/dining area, while several doors led to yet more rooms, probably sleeping quarters and offices. The floors were polished hardwood, which continued halfway up the wall, where it stopped and was replaced by white plaster. The half of the room nearest him held several wingback chairs upholstered with rich, deep brown leather, while the far end was dominated by a huge polished wood dining table, with places set for about twenty people. Presumably meant for the various officers milling about, all in formal white Navy dress uniforms, and all casting a curious glance at the new arrival.

From out of nowhere, a steward appeared at Bishop's side, dressed like a waiter in a fancy restaurant and balancing a silver tray which held the prettiest sight he'd seen all day. Taking one of the proffered champagne flutes, he quickly downed one glass of the fizzy stuff, placing it back and the tray and grabbing another to sip on before turning to face a huge white-uniformed man quickly striding towards him from across the room.

"Major Bishop!" the stranger greeted him as though they were old friends, forgoing any military etiquette and instead grasping the pilot's hand in a crushing shake. His booming voice carried a distinct English accent, though less posh and more gruff than the young Lieutenant's had been. From his grey hair and matching bushy moustache, along with a row of medals that dwarfed even his own, Bishop reasoned that this was the Admiral. He was built more like a linebacker than a naval officer, though.

"Admiral Barlow," he replied cooly. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Bah!" The man clapped a huge paw onto one of Bishop's shoulders, waving away his attempt at formality. "There'll be no need for 'sirs' or any of that nonsense. We're brothers in arms, you and I."

"...We are?" Bishop could not recall ever having met the man.

"Indeed we are. We served the same king in the same war. That makes us old comrades as far as I'm concerned, and I'll not be kowtowed to by a man who fought alongside me. Now, you must be hungry." He steered the pilot over to a sideboard underneath a giant map of the world mounted on one of the walls, and gestured to the various tasty-looking hors d'oeuvres arrayed across it. The pilot had to restrain himself from stuffing his face in an undignified manner, instead taking one of the dainty appetizers and nibbling on it for a moment as he regarded the jovial Admiral, before he suddenly remembered hearing the name 'Barlow' before.

"Wait a minute, are you the same Barlow who commanded the Iron Duke?" The Admiral just gave him a small smile and a wink, and Bishop felt a profound respect for the man. During the war, the Royal's Navy's frigates played a constant game of cat and mouse with American submarines on the stormy North Atlantic, protecting the convoys bringing desperately needed aide for the war effort in Canada. HMS Iron Duke was one such ship that won fame for her prowess in this dangerous game, and her success was due in no small part to her brilliant and fearless Captain, who was a much a hero in Britain as Bishop used to be in his own country.

Bishop shook his head in disbelief. "Pardon my asking sir, but what are you doing working for the UN?" He would think the Brits would go to any lengths to avoid losing such a man.

The Admiral gave a heavy sigh and turned to survey the party. "A sailor has to go where the wind blows, I suppose," he said with a small smile. "The RN promoted me to Rear Admiral after the war and gave me an important desk job in London. I hated every minute of it, begged to be allowed to go back to sea, but they refused me every time. Too valuable to risk, they said." The huge man laughed, the booming sound echoing through the room. "Then the UN came along and offered me command of the Pacific fleet. A seagoing command, in charge of the biggest and best equipped naval force in the world. How could I refuse?"

The Canadian nodded in understanding as the Admiral continued in a more melancholy tone. "I do miss it, though. Being on His Majesty's service, that is. We knew what we were fighting for, then, knew who the enemy was. Now we fight for a bunch of damned bureaucrats, parking our ships off the coast of whatever poor blasted country needs to be intimidated into paying their dues. No better than bloody gangsters, we are..."

Giving his head a shake, probably to clear away any potentially treasonous thoughts, he turned to fix his gaze on the pilot. "And what about you?" he asked pointedly. "What's this I hear about you working for those NERV characters? I wouldn't think a man of your standing would get involved with cloak and dagger types such as them."

Now it was Bishop's turn to sigh. He and the Admiral were two of a kind, he supposed. "Yeah, well, I don't have much standing these days," he said with a chuckle. "And his Majesty's service isn't what it used to be. They stuck me in a desk job just like you, and then the UN came along and made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I didn't know who or what NERV was until I got there."

"What do they want with those bloody jets of yours, anyways?" the naval officer asked. "Buggers, making me sacrifice half my hangar space to accommodate those things. They act like they have authority over god himself."

Bishop couldn't help but smirk. The Admiral was more right than he could have known. "Sorry sir, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say."

"Hm." He grunted his disapproval at Bishop's refusal to spill the beans, but didn't pry any further. "Anyways," he proclaimed, again laying a hand on the Canadian's shoulder to guide him forward. "Let me introduce you to some of our mess mates for tonight."

With that, Bishop was led around the room, meeting the other officers in attendance in a tedious parade of handshakes and pleasantries. Most were Skippers of the other warships in the fleet they'd joined outside of Halifax, including several other carriers, and all four of the ancient Iowa class battleships. It was nearly the entire strength of the Pacific fleet, their job to escort a small convoy of cargo ships safely through the Northwest passage to Japan. Whatever was on those ships, aside from a batch of God's arrow projectiles, must have been pretty damn important to warrant this level of protection.

Most of them were Americans, to be expected as most of the UN's ships were ex-US navy. Some were frosty towards him, but most seemed to harbour no grudges from the war, or at least were polite enough to keep such feelings to themselves. He cordially breezed through an appropriate amount of small talk, trying to get to the only officer among them he actually wanted to speak to: Over the Rainbow's Air group commander, among whose pilots Bishop wanted to scout for potential recruits for his unit back in Japan.

Before he made it that far into the introductions, however, an aide came hurrying up to whisper in the Admiral's ear. The huge man's smile fell, his face settling into a grimace as he cast a glance towards the door. "Very well, show them in," he said quietly, sending the aide scurrying to the door before turning to face Bishop.

"As I'm sure you're aware, your fighters aren't the only NERV assets taking up room on my flagship," he muttered in a decidedly annoyed tone. Bishop thought for a moment the Admiral was talking about him, and was about to make a very unprofessional reply which he thankfully stifled when he saw that man was looking past his shoulder when he spoke.

Turning, the pilot idly took a sip from his champagne flute, a sip which he nearly choked on when he saw the two people making their way directly towards him from the entrance to the richly appointed quarters. He knew them, if not by name, and he was fairly sure they knew him, but the Admiral nonetheless felt it necessary to make the appropriate introductions.

"Major Bishop," he said with a frosty glance at the new arrivals. "Allow me to introduce our, *ahem*, guests sailing with us to Japan. This is Special Inspector Ryoji Kaji of NERV's European Division," he gestured to the ponytailed Japanese man Bishop had encountered in the clothing store the day before, who was now clean shaven, and wore an easygoing smile along with a dark blue NERV uniform. He shook the pilot's hand wordlessly. The Admiral then directed his attention to the redheaded girl standing at Kaji's side, dressed in a bright red evening gown and smiling sweetly up at him. Too sweetly.

"And this, of course, is-"

"Asuka Langley Soryu, pilot of Evangelion unit two." She cut the burly man off, taking a cocky step towards the bemused Canadian to offer her hand.

"Charmed, huh?"

Dubiously eyeing the meal placed in front of her by the formally dressed mess waiters, Asuka briefly picked at the roast beef and vegetables on her plate, before turning her burning eyes back on the man seated across from her. The food was palatable she supposed, probably spectacular to these uncivilized military types, but didn't hold a candle to the fare to be found on the Langley estate. To her annoyance, she was the only person seated at the long table without a glass of wine to sip on, despite her insistence that she was usually permitted a glass or two at formal meals back home.

That was only a minor annoyance, however, compared with the sickening display across the table. The Canadian aviator who had been so rude to her, her of all people, was now happily chatting away with Kaji as though the pair were the best of friends. Once she found out that he worked for NERV, and was coming back to Japan with them, she'd devised all sorts of ways to exact her revenge; most of which involved holding the incident in the clothing store over his head.

It was much to her chagrin, then, when he unwittingly threw a wrench in her plans and explained the entire thing to Kaji shortly after the two men were introduced. Her guardian simply joined the Canadian in laughing it off, and they soon they were getting along famously. Asuka didn't understand what Kaji found so interesting about him, in fact, she'd be hard pressed to find two people with less in common. Her Kaji was a true gentleman: always charming and polite, while the Canadian was... not.

Nonetheless, they struck up a lively conversation, and the man's war stories captivated the other officers around the table. Asuka wasn't used to not being the centre of attention. She didn't care for it.

"Well, whaddya know, Asuka," her handsome guardian said with his usual wry smile. "We get to sail with a real flying ace."

"Wunderbar..." she mumbled dryly through a mouthful of equally dry roast beef.

"Hey, I'm serious." Kaji didn't seem to take the hint, clapping the Canadian on the shoulder. "The Major here was a real celebrity back in the day. I sold newspapers while I was saving up for college, and anytime they printed his picture, I'd sell out in minutes. All the girls bought them up to swoon over him!" he said with a laugh, which caused the man to blush slightly while Asuka rolled her eyes.

"Puh-lease," she spat, unable to stomach any more bare flattery. "I don't see what the big deal is. Modern air combat just boils down to shooting missiles at each other from a hundred miles away, and any idiot can become an ace by pressing a button. I mean, it's not like piloting an Eva, where you have to fight your enemy up close and personal." She jutted her chin out proudly. "Now that takes real skill."

Her verbal challenge failed to get a rise out of the Canadian, who just calmly shook his head with a small smile as he replied. "Well, I did my fair share of fighting up close and personal, as you say. Rules of engagement, the yanks were our allies up until second impact, and they used the same IFF codes, so we often had to visually confirm a target's identity before engaging. That meant a lot of scraps happened at very close range, close enough for the issue to be settled with guns, and you can be damn sure that it took skill to survive those fights, let alone do any killing."

Most of the other conversation around the table fell silent, the officers keen on listening to the Canadian. For his part, the man's attention was entirely focused on Asuka, his strange grey eyes never leaving her. "I never really cared for dogfighting, though. Too risky. A missile from over the horizon was my preferred means of conducting business, that or any other way I could kill the other guy without giving him a chance to kill me."

"Hmph. Not very honourable if ask you me."

"Indeed it wasn't," the man replied evenly. "Honour never entered the equation. Our job was to kill the enemy, plain and simple. Pilots who fight fair don't live long enough to become aces. Been that way since the first world war, ever heard of the Red Baron?"

"Of course I've heard of him!" she scoffed proudly. "He's a distant ancestor, my great grandmother's second cousin or something like that. Why?"

The Canadian nodded, seemingly impressed. "Well, I consider myself a student of your ancestor's tactics. He was successful because he killed coldly and clinically. He was a predator, stalking his prey and pouncing at just the right moment, not giving them an opening to fight back. That's how I learned to fight, and that's how I taught my pilots. All that matters is the kill, making sure you get home alive and the other guy doesn't." He leaned forward, his voice becoming low and intense as he locked eyes with the girl. "There's no such thing as a fair fight out in the real world. You'd best remember that if you want to survive where we're going, Miss Soryu."

"Yeah, yeah." She was in no mood to be lectured, especially not by him. "I've been training to fight Angels since I could walk, so don't try to scare me. They're the ones that should be afraid."

The Canadian snorted in amusement, taking a bite of his meal and a sip of wine before responding. "...You ever actually seen an Angel, Miss Soryu?"

"I've seen pictures."

"Hm." The man's smile fell as his gaze drifted towards the ceiling. "I was there when they got the last one. Damn thing had to be knocked out from over five kilometres away with a giant sniper rifle, because the pilot would have been killed instantly if an Eva tried to approach any closer than that."

"So what?" she asked, unperturbed. "Maybe if you had a competent pilot who had the guts to get the job done, things might have gone differently."

"Maybe," he said, scratching his chin, "But I suspect not. Cockiness will get you killed just as surely as stupidity or cowardice in my experience."

"I am not cocky." Asuka seethed at the implication. "I simply have confidence in my own abilities."

"And so you should, Miss," the Canadian answered in an infuriatingly innocent tone. "Just wanted to offer a bit of friendly advice. There's a fine line between confidence and foolishness, and I've seen a lot of people die crossing it."

"Hmph." The girl crossed her arms and turned up her nose at the vexing man. "Well, thank you for the advice, Mister. If I want any more tips on how to fight a war from ten years ago, I'll ask. Unless you have any wisdom specifically regarding Eva piloting, though, I wouldn't hold my breath."

"Asuka..." Kaji finally interjected gingerly.

"It's okay." The Major cut him off with a wave of the hand. "The game you kids play is just the same as the one I did, Miss Soryu, and I was damn good at it. The weapons and the teams may have changed, but the rules are the same as they've always been."

"Really..." She replied dubiously.

"Sure." He smiled sadly at her, taking another sip of wine. "Rule number one: kill to win. Rule number two: win or die."

Bishop didn't see the redheaded girl again for the next week after that first night at sea. Her guardian, on the other hand, had become a frequent drinking companion at the ship's canteen, where in the evenings the pair could be found spiking the non-alcoholic drinks served there with rum the pilot had stashed in his footlocker for just such an emergency. A sailor's tot of rum was a long and proud tradition in the commonwealth navies, and liquor being banned aboard this particular godforsaken tub wouldn't stop him from partaking.

Kaji made for fine company, better than anyone else aboard the ship anyways. They both worked for NERV, after all, and were of a similar age. The Japanese man was two years his junior, but close enough to be able to bond over their shared experiences of young adulthood in the wake of second impact. Bishop was intrigued to hear his stories of just how bad it got in Japan in those days. As rough as things were in Canada, there was never a serious shortage of resources, one of a few countries in the world still able to provide most of its people with three square meals a day from its own farms.

Japan wasn't so lucky. Much of the nation's farmland, which wasn't enough to feed its population without imports at the best of times, was reclaimed by the ocean. Millions starved, entire towns and villages of people wasting away to nothing. Many of those left, such as a young Ryoji Kaji, took to a life of crime to feed themselves. Bishop had himself experienced hunger; real, all-consuming hunger, during the darkest days of the siege of Ottawa, when supplies across the river slowed to a trickle and the city's defenders were very nearly starved into submission. They survived on whatever they could get their hands on; rats, plump from feasting on the plentiful corpses, were a considered a delicacy. Suffice to say, he could sympathize with the foreigner, confident in the knowledge that he would have done the same facing a choice to steal or starve.

Still, there was something he found... off about the man. He skillfully dodged the question whenever Bishop inquired as to what exactly he did for NERV, and seemed to have a general shiftiness about him. His dark eyes were always on the move, always taking in every bit of information they could garner. In fact, he vaguely reminded the pilot of some the intelligence officers he'd met in the service. Perhaps he was one of the 'cloak and dagger' types the Admiral had warned him about.

Well, whatever intrigues he was involved in didn't concern Bishop, who had plenty of his own problems. The enigmatic man was leaning casually against one wall of the ship's massive hangar, watching with an amused smirk as his Canadian friend stood on a chair to speak to the carrier's assembled fighter pilots. Their commander had graciously permitted him to try and recruit from among them, probably because he didn't think any would be stupid enough to take such a risky job.

"This, ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed to the multinational group, gesturing the aircraft towering behind him. "...Is the finest interceptor ever to grace the sky. She's got nearly twice the thrust on tap and carries twice the payload of those commie rust buckets the UN has you flying, and she'll go a third again higher and faster. Now, for any among you who'd like to fly a real fighter, here's your chance. I need pilots, pilots with plenty of carrier experience. I'm not a liberty to say exactly what sort of flying you'll be doing, but rest assured that it will be difficult and dangerous."

A murmur went through the crowd as he continued. "But, you will be paid significantly more than what you currently make. If you're interested," he stepped down off of his chair, and picked up an open notebook from the workbench beside it. "Write your name, rank, and flying hours in this book, and you'll hear from me at some point in the next few days. Oh, and some level of proficiency in Japanese is a requirement, fluent speakers will receive preference."

With that, the pilot left the open book on the workbench, and strode across the Hangar to where Kaji was lounging against the wall with a cigarette, greeting the man and accepting one from the case in his outstretched hand.

"Quite the speech. I was just about moved to tears," his Japanese friend said with a chuckle.

"Bite me." The pilot muttered out of the side of his mouth as he lit the cigarette, taking a puff and casting a glance around. "By the way, smoking's strictly forbidden in the hangar. Lots of flammable stiff in here, y'know."

Kaji just waved him off with his usual smirk. "Eh, relax. We're with NERV, that makes us pretty much untouchable on UN property."

"Does it now?" he said idly, turning to watch with some satisfaction as a long line of pilots formed in front of the workbench beneath the Avenger's nose. "I ought to try breaking in to the Admiral's liquor cabinet, then."

"Heh, he'd probably let you. He's a big fan of yours."

"What can I say, the man has taste," the pilot replied with a haughty air. "So, what brings you all the way down here? Bored?"

"Well, yes, but that's not why I'm here," Kaji said, gazing out across the bustling cavernous space. The carrier's hangar was its heart and soul, and much of it was currently being taken up by Bishop's jets, which were both much larger than and lacked the folding wings of the ship's own Sukhoi fighters. "...Actually, I have a bit of a favour to ask," he eventually said casually.

"Oh?" Bishop turned to look at him. "I kind of have my hands full already, and every time I do a favour for one of you NERV people, I usually wind up even deeper in this bullshit than I already am..."

Kaji snickered for a moment, before pressing on. "Well, this is hardly even a favour really. You don't even have to do anything if all goes well."

"...If all goes well?"

"Yeah." The ponytailed man took a drag on his cigarette, refusing to meet the pilot's eyes. "I have to leave the ship for a few days. Urgent NERV business in the states, can't be helped, I'm afraid."

The Canadian gave a snort of amusement. "The states? How do you intend to get there? In case you haven't noticed, we're about a thousand miles north of nowhere."

Kaji gestured to a far corner of the hangar, where a squat little two-seater fighter jet that Bishop hadn't noticed before sat, overshadowed by its much larger cousins surrounding it. "That's mine. The UN were kind enough to loan it to me as a runabout, I even have my own pilot on standby."

"Yak-38 huh? Cute." Bishop chortled at the sight of the diminutive jet: the Soviet Union's failed attempt at a competitor to the legendary Harrier, which served on both sides of the North American war with distinction. "...We're in the middle of the Davis strait, pal. That go-kart won't get you halfway to the nearest airstrip, let alone all the way to the states."

"Meh," Kaji replied with an indifferent shrug. "The pilot tells me that with external tanks, we'll get far enough to land and refuel. I'm not too concerned."

Bishop furrowed his brow as he mentally pictured a map of northern Canada. "Well, if you're headed straight south, the nearest place that'd have jet fuel on hand would be Labrador city, and there's about two thousand kilometres of freezing ocean and polar bear-infested tundra between here and there. Better hope the Russians used the good duct tape when they put that tin can together."

"Thanks for the well wishes." Kaji brushed off the Canadian's doomsaying, pressing on to the matter at hand. "Anyways, since you're the only other NERV employee on board, I was hoping you'd keep an eye on Asuka for me while I'm gone..."

"You want me to babysit that brat?" Bishop asked incredulously. "Look, I'm a man of many talents, but 'nanny' isn't exactly on my resume."

"She's fourteen, and she can take care of herself. I'm not asking you to tuck her in and read her a bedtime story-"

"If she can take care of herself, what the hell do you need me for?" He cut Kaji off, quickly becoming annoyed. "Besides, she hates my guts. Probably rightfully so. I don't think she'd take too kindly to the idea."

"Ah, I don't think she really hates you. You two are cut from the same cloth, all that stuff you said about killing and winning could just as easily have come from her." Kaji clapped the pilot on the shoulder, his smirk returning. "In fact, I think she respects you, now that she knows who you are. Most people would have wound up with a fork jammed in their eye socket if they spoke to her the way you did."

The pilot took a puff on his cigarette with a resigned sigh. "Well, as long we're clear that teenager-wrangling is, and will remain, very low down on my list of priorities around here. Where's she quartered?"

"The Captain's in-port cabin, just down the hall from the Admiral's suite, and just as luxurious. Queen-sized bed, dining room and kitchen, lounge, even a private washroom."

Bishop gave a low whistle. "Bet the Captain wasn't too keen it give it up."

Kaji shrugged. "He doesn't mind, he has another stateroom up near the bridge that he uses at sea, and the only way Asuka agreed to come along was if she got the best quarters in the fleet." The pair's cigarettes had almost disappeared by this point, and they both allowed the butts to fall to the metal floor, crushing them out with their shoes. "Anyways, all I ask is that you check in on her once in a while, and I'll tell her to only bother you if it's an emergency. It's all just a formality really, as an Eva pilot she's supposed to be in the custody of NERV personnel at all times, need a name to put on the paperwork in case the bureaucrats give me any static."

"Uh-huh," Bishop muttered dubiously. He strongly suspected it wouldn't be that simple, sensing a looming pain in the ass. Just one more among many he supposed.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Kaji said over his shoulder as he turned to part company with the pilot. "I'll have a talk with her before I leave, she won't give you any trouble." He paused for a moment, before adding "And if she does... well, just try to be the bigger person, alright?"

With that bit of wisdom, he bid the Canadian adieu, ducking though a watertight door that led out of the hangar.

"Bigger person, huh?" he muttered under his breath "...thanks, asshole." Shaking his head, Bishop put his newfound responsibilities out of his mind for the moment and turned to make his way back towards the nearest Avenger, serial number 110302.

302 was the nearest to being airworthy, potentially with only a few more day's worth of work, and was already being fitted with the improvised carrier compatibility modifications. The pilots had cleared out by now, and arriving at the workbench under the nose, Bishop found about twenty names written in the book. Many seemed to be JSSDF transfers. Those would be his first choices.

Not bad. No doubt the list would narrow considerably once he started screening the candidates more thoroughly, but he may just wind up with a few pilots up to the task. His preferred route would have been to recruit current or former RCAF pilots with experience on the Avenger, who he knew would jump at the opportunity to fly the beloved fighter again, but the language requirement made that an impossibility.

With a sigh, he shut the notebook and turned to survey the work being done on the aircraft, watching as a crew of mechanics struggled to jury-rig the catapult launch bar to the nose landing gear.

God, I hope that brat keeps to herself. The work was proceeding faster than anticipated, though he was still on a tight deadline, and the last thing he needed now was some punk teenager pestering him. Well, at least now I can put 'nanny' on my resume, he thought with a smirk.

He could see it now: Robert Bishop, VC, DSO, DFC with Bar. The Devil's right hand, hell's handmaiden, ace of aces, and babysitter for child soldiers.