(Appreciation)

It occurred to me that I should say something.

Not during the dinner with the Commander, but later still:

A passing idea that came to me incidentally, a result of stray strains of thoughts prolonging themselves and clicking together as I had gone about my business, its beginnings being a passing distraction that I blinked away while trying to concentrate on my latest backup- and calibration session in the Dummy Plug plant, the end of it, a cold hard certainty that I would acknowledge, more than conclude, while strewn atop my bed in the evening, gazing blankly at the ceiling.

Would that the thought had come to me earlier, before I'd left, still at the outer edgeof that cone of light surrounding the Ramen stand, when I suppose it would have been appropriate to state it – do humans do that? Trying to consider it, I wasn't sure that I could think of any salient examples, not in my memories of situations that I'd happened to observe, nor in any books I'd read.

I suppose I was busy thinking of other things then.

Perhaps, it would not have been possible to reach the conclusion without having some time to process it, or let it sink in.

Now I would have to bring it up, out of nowhere.

Though my sense of this was poor, I had the impression that this was not something that humans commonly did.

Still – I would have to begin it, or nothing would happen. And it was in realizing that certainty, I found myself pondering if there really was a need to say it.

If there really was a point.

I didn't really think that it would change anything, but, that had never been a possibility to begin with. The act of stating it would have mostly been a matter of principle, something I did for my own sake, because I wanted it stated, and because, perhaps, something might happen that I didn't suspect – just as when I had bluntly expressed my consternation to Ikari-kun on that mountain.

If I said it, it might well change absolutely nothing, but if I didn't, I might be left regretting it, never knowing what might have been.

Besides, I did realize that I could not expect others to know what I thought until I said it.

They could not feature into their decisions that which they knew nothing about, and if though they might not understand all the same, at least then it might be a little bit less by fault.

The question then turned to the how, and the when.

The next joint synchronization test seemed the obvious choice, but I never really decided on it, there was no guarantee there would be a suitable opportunity.

Nonetheless, I'd ambled there with the half-formed, not quite committed intention floating around in my mind, as a thread of a possible future reality tugging on this one.

I was usually the first to arrive, so I had been thinking that perhaps there would be time to converse with the other pilots before the experiment started, but when I turned the corner, I found Dr. Akagi and Major Katsuragi already present and engaged in rapt conversation – perhaps there was something they had wished to discuss with each other, leading the Major to bring the other two pilots right along with her. They were gathered here, but to speak up to address them might have interfered with the adults' conversation, and as soon as they saw me, the synchronization test was set to begin.

Speaking during the test itself was out of the question, of course.

There was a window of time, just as we were climbing out of our plugs in the end, but the Second as usual was quick, light-footed and vigorous in her motions, and had jumped out and ran up to Ikari-kun before I knew it, leveling some comment at him before rushing off to inspect her results in the control room – and as soon as she asked, naturally enough, Dr. Akagi and the Major began discussing our results, which were after all, the only reason we were truly here, quite independent of my extraneous consideration.

The results were good, if nothing particularly special. Dr. Akagi was pleased that Ikari-kun was still keeping pace with the Second Child.

It was all a matter of routine by now – even Ikari-kun seemed bored of it, his mind already wholly occupied with possible ideas for today's dinner, for which his roommates had various suggestion.

Even Dr. Akagi had allowed herself a sensible chuckle and what I believed to be a humorous remark about how his culinary arts were ensuring an optimal level of vegetable consumption for the members of his household.

I wondered distantly what they might end up eating, what the food might taste like, and what manner of topics they would be discussing among themselves.

I suppose most likely, it wouldn't be anything much worth pondering about, just basic matters of everyday life, or their choice of entertainment…

And then, in the very instant that I realized that I'd let myself get lost in found, it started to become clear to me that I might already have missed my chance, wasted yet another one of my limited days:

I heard Dr. Akagi calling my name, beckoning for me to follow her while the other two were getting ready to follow Major Katsuragi to the lockers.

Of course. I still had a few more experiments down in Terminal Dogma scheduled for today.

I would not be seeing the other pilots until Monday.

The Doctor stood waiting for me to come, to follow as I always did, parting ways from the others.

For a moment I stood frozen, not knowing what to do.
Alas, the Doctor noticed:
"Rei? What's the matter?"

I felt put on the spot, but, at least her question gave me something specific to respond to.

"I- I wish to tell something to the Second Child."

"What, me?!" she was only the bluntest in expressing the bafflemen written on everyone else's faces. Was that such a strange thought, that I may have something to say?

Still there was the impulse to clarify, to ensure that no one would think that I had forgotten my purpose, especially not the Doctor:

"It will only take a moment. Is that alright?"

But she seemed to stumped to have formed any suspicion.

She eyed me as one might a bizarre yet intriguing equipment malfunction.

"I don't see why not. Go ahead."

I turned toward the Second and took a step in her direction.

Then, I froze again – it wasn't clear how to continue.

There was no script to refer to. There were no orders for this, no guidebooks, I had never done such a thing before.

It didn't help that she was peering at me with suspicion, her irritation visibly mounting the longer I stood silent. She was bound to lose patience soon, so, in the end I just blurted it out blunt and unpolished:

"Thank you. For inviting me to the celebration. And the previous one, too, though I could not come."

"Ah – what are you, an an idiot? That was just a formality!"

But her denial came too late, too forced, displacing the first impulse that, just for a second, had led her lips to curl into a genuine smile.

This had not gone unnoticed by Major Katsuragi, who regarded her ward with a knowing, fond expression: "Now come on, Asuka. Kindness and consideration are nothing to be ashamed of."

"It's not nothing to do with that – it's just that we're both pilots, so, it would be practical to work together. I didn't invite her 'cause I like her, it's just part of doing my job."

"Still, that doesn't mean that it's easy, and we all know this…" saying this, some thought seemed to occur to her, a brief flash of something darker passing over her face. When the Major spoke again, her voice was a bit softened, having lost the air of a lecturing older sister: "- Actually- Asuka, Rei? I think need to tell you something as well."

She moved a few steps forward so that she was facing us both directly from a midway point, steadying her spine as she might have when making an important declaration to her staff, or a report to the Commander.

"I realized just now, I think that I never actually thanked either of you for doing all of this.

Both of you have been part of Project E for so long that we all just got used to it.

We saw you every day, so, we allowed ourselves to pretend that it was normal to put you through all this hardship despite your young age."

"Now come on!" protested the Second, "Who do you take me for? I'm a trained elite pilot, you know, not some little brat. I don't believe in feeling sorry for myself. I'm not like Baka Shinji. I don't need your coddling."

"No, Asuka, it's all right – I know that you've always been proud of being a pilot, and, well, Rei is Rei. Both of you have born your burden bravely and without complaining.

But that doesn't mean that you should have been asked to, or that your hardship didn't matter. I know myself that carrying a burden well doesn't mean that it's not heavy – and still, I allowed myself not to think about how it must all be affecting you, because we needed pilots, because there was no other choice –

It's only when Shinji-kun first joined us and had all this difficulty that we were all forced to confront what we were actually doing. How cruel it was of us, to ask the three of you to sacrifice the only childhood you would ever have.

I want you know how deeply I wish that we didn't have to ask this of you – I won't ask you to forgive us, but, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for doing it anyway."

That was… something, I would say.

Not something I had ever expected to hear.

I wasn't going to protest, as I didn't think I could really explain it all, nor did I want to take up more time and attention with this, but it didn't seem correct to be thanked, like I was doing something that was some great deed of sacrifice or heroism.

If I were not at NERV, I could not live.

I wasn't here by choice.

If anything, it would be me who would be the grateful one, since, in giving me the ability to serve as a pilot, they were giving me a purpose, and a chance to be useful, to connect to the world outside of me in the only way I really could, through the only thing I was good for.

But there is no way I could possibly have expressed that.

If I tried, they would have been confused, if not possibly disturbed.

So I just kept standing there, leaving Major Katsuragi to wind down from her speech.

I suppose, at the very least, it was some comfort to know that my existence had been noticed.

"You know, " the Major continued, having shifted back to a more jovial tone of voice, "I can't say how I glad I am to see the three of you finally starting to get along. It gives me hope that, with our hands united, we might be able to secure a future for humanity after all – for all of us."

As she spoke this, her voice swelled with a firm sense of conviction and warmth that made one wonder if all her previous professions of confidence and optimism had been little more than a bluff.

How ironic.

The moment she turned her back, Dr. Akagi would be descending with me to Terminal Dogma, to continue in the preparations for the promised day, to bring about, by our own hands, what Major Katsuragi was so determined to prevent, never mind their casual friendly banter just moments before.

But was I really any different?

I wondered then, if I would ever have to pay the price for it.

For everything that I had not told them.

As far as Doctor Akagi was concerned, the matter was clear: She was part of an intentional deception that was purely instrumental, a matter of pragmatism, the means to an end: The things she told Major Katsuragi were lies to children, akin to Santa Claus and the tooth fairy, something you would tell a naive, impulsive person unable to put their idealistic wishes and hot passions in their proper context: Her loyalty was to Commander Ikari and the plan, her superficial friendship, perhaps a remnant from a different time, when she was a different person, like a dress that no longer fit.

But what of me?

I had not really perceived it as a contradiction, nor even thought of how it fit together.

I had just must needs existed in the only way I could, doing what was asked of me in every situation, speaking not of what could not be spoken:

I could not speak of Terminal Dogma in school.

I could not be a human schoolgirl in Terminal Dogma. If there had been one, she would not have survived. There would have been no place for her down there.

And the thing that was created in Terminal Dogma could only ever pretend to be a pale facsimile of a schoolgirl – I no more felt a dissonance than a computer might when it started to run a different program, maybe switching between both in different windows, keeping various tabs open.

Plainly, all the places existed, so there could not really be a contradiction between them, seeing that I had not been annihilated out of existence on account of my supposed oxymoronic impossibility.

There could not be a contradiction in something that never truly existed to begin with – fictions could be made up to have whatever characteristics are desired.

Perhaps then it was no wonder that I had never felt that I was ever really fully a part of anything, when the only thing present was a set of faulty procedures plucked to fill the needs of the situation and be of use as it requires.

Whether above or below the surface, in a sense I was only ever watching as my part in the script played itself out.

It wasn't that I was deceiving.

I meant most of what I said, exactly how I meant it.

I probably wouldn't be skilled at deceiving, if I should ever attempt to do so.

But there was no reason.

I meant exactly what I said -

it is just that wherever I went, there would at most be this very slight, superficial part of me that was really involved.

What each purpose or task or setting had demanded, what could be said in each place.

No matter where I went, or what others saw of me, there would always be the rest of this massive cavernous realm within me filled with nooks and crevices that had never seen the light.

How could it be otherwise, when there was so much in there that I could hardly even put into words?

How could I express what could not even be articulated?

How could I bare to others what risked shattering the fragile illusion of the familiar, exposing all of my filthy inhumanity to the screams of their revulsion?

How could they possibly comprehend what even I didn't always understand?

I don't think that even Commander Ikari fully understood what it is that he put inside of the empty vessel he had created me as.

Nobody could possibly have these answers, nobody in the entire world – it was something that lay beyond the boundaries of human knowledge, something entirely unprecedented.

Not even our creators of the First Ancestral Race might have anticipate that such as thing as I would ever come to be. I was not a part of their original plan.

And even if there had been someone who could possibly have understood, I could not possibly have explained.

It was beyond me to put it into words – if words could be put to it at all.

But in the end, the result was all the same, for even if I could have given rhyme or reason to the raw splinters of my consciousness, there was no way I could say them, and nobody to say them to.

The conclusion would be the same.

All these impressions would vanish along with me, never leaving the confines of my soul.

Major Katsuragi had spoken of hope.

In fact, by then, the very last of our unambiguous victories was already squarely behind us.


Thus concludes the first act, I suppose. We are now at least one third done.

Once again, I wish to thank all the commentators, especially the regular ones.