The boy violently shakes while seated in the cockpit of the mechanized humanoid he was tasked with piloting. His mind raptures with thoughts of
death,
isolation,
loneliness,
depression,
insanity,
horror,
agony,
despair,
anguish,
decay.
Decay.
Decay.
Decay.
Decay.
Desperation.
He slammed on the controls in front of him but the behemoth he was within stayed unmoving, crucified through the hands with holy spears of manmade design. His own hands burned in agony as they bled from no discernable holes. He had just seen the desecrated corpse of his friend's EVA, plucked apart by these… monsters, demons, hellish beings… he hated them, he hated the world, he hated her… he hated himself.
He was weak.
He was lonely.
He was pathetic.
He didn't deserve to live.
As his anger boiled, his emanating vitriol awakened something in the Mechanized beast he inhabited. It screamed out, retching its hands back in impossible ways, ripping away from the spears. It grabs them both in its hands, shuddering as its AT Field flairs to life once again, blasting away the white monstrosities following it into the air. The boy nearly foamed at the mouth in anger, he was broken, all that was left was his malice now. As he raged everything went hazy for him, the last thing he saw, EVA Unit-01, gingerly kneeling over EVA Unit-02's desecrated corpse.
"And when nothing else is left in a man, it always turns to death or rage."- Quote attribution unknown.
I slam my hoe into the ground once more, plowing away at the fertile soil, I slowly but surely work my way down the field. Overturning any weeds I find while plucking any rocks or small pebbles along the way, this soils already aerated enough as is. I pinch some of the loam between my thumb and index finger, watching it mash and crumble beneath my finger tips.
"Yup" I think to myself. "This soil is just right for watermelons"
I'm pleased with my accomplishments and I stare down over the field I had just expanded. Call it a hobby I picked up from an old mentor, but I think by this point I might have surpassed him. My lips curl into a slight grin at the idea as I walk over to the green grass of a yonder hill where I had placed my water jug. I collapse down onto the soft grass as I stare up into the sky, clouds running overhead providing me temporary shade from the hot summer sun. I breathe a sigh of relief and satisfaction as a brisk wind overruns my form.
It's been 8 years since the Third Impacts failure and 4 years since I left Tokyo-3. I left a lot behind at the time, and looking back maybe I was just running away again. However, considering my current circumstance. I was just finding somewhere to grow, I suppose. I lean up, the view of the picture-esq rolling hills calming my mind as I reflect.
"Where is she?" The half dead 14 year old Shinji asks through the respirator, coughing violently, blood splattering against the thick plastic.
The doctor responds incredulously, "He's conscious?!" Sweeping his eyes over all of the nurses in the room, one currently frantically trying to remove and clean his respirator mask and checking for a punctured lung.
"Asuka…" The kid whispers, barely keeping any form of consciousness. He's hooked to dozens of machines endlessly beeping and whirring just to sustain his measly shape. He's been like this for months, though awake, he was catatonic. And now he finally speaks, requesting to see someone… Someone who left the country 6 months ago, and didn't pay him a second mind as she left. She had her reasons no doubt, but Shinji no matter how hard he tried couldn't even begin to understand why. Nothing she had done before this was able to hurt him the way her actions now had.
I sigh and grimace as I get up, my legs sore from the manual labor. As I swing my hoe upon my shoulder and take a second to smell the air. At the faint smell of rain on the horizon I internally celebrate, this will be great for my watermelons.
I soon return to my house, a small two bedroom affair I got for cheap since its previous inhabitants were moving to the city based on some unexpected promotion the husband had got. I open the door with my free hand, the other holding my water jug. As the door slowly pushes open I take off my shoes with deft practice, leaving them in the entryway. Closing the door behind me lazily I walk deeper into my house, slinging my water jug onto the table without looking, it slides to a halt in the middle without worry of falling over.
I waltz my way towards the bathroom, flicking on the lights, one overhead and three vanity propped around an old silver mirror, made before the second impact. I turn over the valve on the shower letting the water warm up as it cascades down my hand. I slip out of my dirt-caked clothes and hop in, letting my muscles relax, their hidden tensions giving way. I lean my head up letting the water caress my weary face and I begin lathering my hair. In the 4 years since I left Tokyo-3 I still constantly think about my past in downtimes like this, maybe because it was part of my healing process turned habit, but I'm getting bored of such thoughts. So they will soon probably fade, however one question still stings in my head every time I wonder,
"What is she up to?"
I lightly scowl at the question.
"Whatever she's doing, she's probably leading a successful career." I reply to myself, knowing it's a canned response to get my mind off the subject.
I shake my head to clear it of the warm water, slowly stepping out of the shower onto a neatly placed drying rug. I reach into the bathroom closet that came with the place. I thought it was a waste of space at first really but now I've come to see its value. Pulling a dark gray towel from the small space, I begin drying myself off. I look in the mirror, my eyes gravitating to my hands, where two identical scars lay on either one, their size and placement making it seem like whatever caused it would have led to both hands being permanently out of commission. I ball up the towel, walking into my bedroom, flinging it into the awaiting laundry hamper alongside my dirty clothes. I then turn to my closet, flinging it open and pulling a white t-shirt from its depths, I slide it on leisurely before dealing with my bare lower half.
I find my way to the living room of my house, picking up my cello from its stand, I flip unconcerned through a book of sheet music. A new one of course, I learned most of the compositions in the last one I was using. The print quality on this new one is fine but I don't like the font size being so small, it's hard to see from a resting position. I begin practicing the first piece I like the look of, running my fingers up and down the neck of the cello, sliding the bow along its strings. I let the playing enthrall me for a while before stopping, having made it through the piece in full twice.
Responding to my stomach's pangs of hunger I hop up from the chair I was seated at, lovingly replacing my cello to its humble resting place. I wander my way into my kitchen, pulling a pan from a cabinet near the floor. I close its door with my foot as I set the pan over the propane flame of the oven. I flick my hand out catching the fridge door without looking as I pull a set of now fully brined filets out. I pour oil over them as I watch the pan heat. Dripping water onto the pan I find its heat acceptable as it skids over the skillet. Finishing up my meal, I put it in the now warm oven, as I wash all of my dishes, drying and putting them away in the cupboards and cabinets.
I pull the filet mignons back out of the oven, placing them on the table I am approaching. Before I feast however I walk back into my living room flicking on the TV, it starts blaring about some unremarkable news week. I return, taking a seat, my water jug still there from earlier, the condensation on its sides still denoting its coolness. I begin cutting into my filet, and eat.
Once I am finished with my hearty meal I finish up the process by washing the dishes once more. I pull a slice of watermelon from the fridge as dessert, flopping out on my old worn leather couch just as the news station gets an emergency broadcast. As the words blare on screen, I idly read them to myself before my jaw drops.
"Citizens of Tokyo-3 and any externalities there by in its vicinity, an alert for evacuation from the city is in progress." White text on a blue background, an alarm blares from the screen violently invading my brain.
"An Angel has been confirmed to be approaching and will make landfall two weeks from now."
"W-what?!" I sputter out, my face contorting into a frame of shock and horror. "No, no, no, no, it's not possible, it can't be" I mutter flicking through the channels, trying to find any other news, when that comes up short, I head to my office, to my computer.
Just what has my father been up to since I left?
The young boy was still in the hospital, asleep, his lungs slowly moving up and down. Interrupted every so often by a coughing fit which would leave him gasping for air.
Gendo Ikari looked on without concern. The Third Impact had failed, sure, but his son had essentially stopped SEELE & the JSSDF in its tracks, dismantling the whole invading force as Unit-01's A.T. Field spread across the entire Geofront, the energy of which slammed through the now stretched thin JSSDF forces, somehow avoiding any and all NERV personnel in the process. As for the Mass Produced EVAs, Unit-01 brutalized every last one of them, mashing their skulls in, tearing out their S2 Engines one by one and assimilating them into its being. Thanks to this, now it was again only a matter of time till he could return to his scheming, a Fourth Impact as it would be, this time without the Dead Sea Scrolls, he still had everything he needed. But… the spear… and Unit-01… both of which were taken away from him at the last moment, he needed Unit-01 to be his catalyst, to hone the godlike power he wished to control. Yet it had left. Of its own volition it had ejected Shinji's plug and spread its A.T. Field like wings flying off into orbit, taking the Spear of Longinus with it.
This would be a problem.
It's been a week since that news report, so I tried to reach back out to Toji, Kensuke, or Hikari, Misato even. But, understandably none of them would pick up, doubly for Misato. So, I got my affairs in order, packed my bags, and said goodbye to my watermelon farm. Though I had left Tokyo-3, I had not run from my responsibilities, and now was as good a time as any to repay old debts to my once friends.
