Begin.
A green ember in the void—faint, blinking. The digital glow of an alarm clock that had yet to summon its fury.
She rose from the bed, disoriented. The mattress felt lighter, like it had been deflated. Or maybe she had been deflated—no, hollowed out.
The room was wrong. Darker than it should have been, the air heavy with the smell of dust and old wood, like a memory poorly kept. Jamais Vu? No
She chalked it up to the fog of sleep, that peculiar liminality where dreams haven't yet loosened their grip.
The corridors stretched out before her, strangely familiar but undeniably alien. The flickering outline of an old apartment—but wasn't that place long gone? It didn't matter. The world was static now, a winter morning forever stuck on pause.
Strange for it should've been summer
She had to get to the bathroom, had to be up early to take them to school.
The bathroom light snapped on, a brutal tungsten blaze stabbing at her retinas. She winced, the pain a cruel favor: it brought focus, clarity. She reached for the toothbrush and began the mechanical task of brushing her teeth, the rhythm soothing. Left. Right. Up. Down. She spat into the sink and glanced into the mirror, expecting to see herself staring back.
But something wasn't right.
Her face—smaller. Lighter. The weight of years scraped away as if someone had taken an eraser to the edges of her existence. She rubbed her eyes, desperate to clear the mirage.
But no, the reflection didn't lie.
And then came the scream.
A high-pitched, ragged thing, tearing through the early morning quiet. Tumbling footsteps followed—hurried, panicked. Shinji burst into the bathroom, crashing into the doorframe. His face was pale, his eyes wide with fear.
"What's wrong?!" His voice was sharp, frantic. And then he saw her. Really saw her.
"Asuka… You're a kid again!"
"What about you?!" She shoved herself aside and gestured at the mirror. His reflection joined hers, a boy's face staring back with the same sick realization.
Another scream. This time, it was both of them.
From her bedroom, Misato stirred.
"Jesus Christ, it's five in the goddamn morning!" she bellowed, voice hoarse and laced with fury. She stomped into the bathroom, her disheveled hair framing bloodshot eyes. "What the hell is going on—"
And then they saw her, their breathes hitched.
"You're alive," Shinji and Asuka said in unison, their voices trembling.
"Of course, I'm alive!" Misato barked, anger quickly morphing into confusion.
They screamed.
"STOP SCREAMING!" she roared back, her voice cracking under the weight of exhaustion. The echo of her words did nothing to quell their panic. The screaming only grew louder, a cacophony of existential terror bouncing off the bathroom tiles.
Later.
They sat around the low living room table, a trio of mismatched figures in the cold dawn light. Misato, groggy and clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee, stared at the two children sitting across from her. Shinji and Asuka, barely able to process the events unfolding, shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
"What's with you two?" Misato asked, her tone flat, devoid of patience.
Silence hung between them. The clock ticked on the wall, oblivious to the surreal absurdity of the situation.
How do you explain the inexplicable? That the universe has rewritten itself overnight, leaving its passengers to pick up the fragments of what once made sense?
"I… I don't know," Asuka finally said, breaking the silence. Her voice, usually sharp and biting, now sounded fragile, as if it might shatter under its own weight. "I'm a kid again, and you're alive, and—"
"What do you mean, you're a kid again?" Misato interrupted, eyebrows raised, her tone skeptical and sharp. "You've always been a kid."
"No," Asuka snapped, frustration bubbling to the surface, only to falter as the weight of her words caught up to her. "No. This—this is all over. We moved past this. We mourned you, you're dead. You're…" Her voice cracked, the words choking her. Her fists clenched, trembling with suppressed emotion.
Shinji reached out, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice calm, though his face betrayed the exhaustion of someone barely holding it together.
Misato tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. "When did you two get so close?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Well…" Shinji hesitated, his face turning crimson as he avoided her gaze.
"I mean…" Misato waved her hand vaguely. "I expected something eventually, but I thought it'd be more… I don't know, sibling-like. And wait—" She straightened up, her expression shifting as a thought struck her. "What do you mean, you mourned me? I'm not dead."
Shinji let out a sigh, heavy and hollow, as if the weight of countless unspoken truths had been compressed into a single exhalation. "You… you will be," he said finally, his voice tinged with sorrow.
"No, I won't," Misato replied, her tone dismissive, unshaken.
"Yes, you…" Shinji began, then stopped himself. His shoulders sagged, and he looked at the floor, his words evaporating into the room's tense silence. "This has to be some kind of cruel joke," he muttered. "Why are we here again? Why this? What kind of fucked up punishment is this?"
"Oh my God," Asuka said suddenly, her eyes wide with panic. "The kids. What happened to the kids?"
"What kids?" Misato asked, her confusion now tinged with genuine concern. She leaned forward, scrutinizing them both as if trying to decode some elaborate prank. "Are you two suffering some kind of psychotic break? What's going on?"
"That's what we're trying to figure out." Shinji replied, "one moment we're in bed and then the next we're here, living in our past."
"You're past?" Misato asked
"Yes." Shinji replied.
"Everything, this place, this city…it's all gone." Asuka said, her voice firm and defiant, "This is our past."
"A past that took months—and, years—to accept and get over," Shinji added, his voice subdued but resolute. "The therapy, the counselling, the meetings…"
"All that effort," Asuka continued bitterly, her fists clenching.
"Why would anyone do this to us?" Shinji asked, his voice breaking under the weight of his confusion and despair.
Misato leaned back, crossing her arms. Her expression was caught between concern and disbelief. "Yeah, okay. Definitely a psychotic break," she said, her voice dripping with skepticism.
"No!" Asuka and Shinji yelled in unison, their voices echoing off the walls.
"Well, what do you expect me to say?" Misato shot back, her tone rising in frustration. "You want me to believe you're from the future?"
They both paused, staring at her—and then at each other.
"You see? Sounds crazy when you say it out loud, doesn't it?" Misato said, crossing her arms and wearing an unmistakable I told you so expression.
"But how?" Shinji muttered, almost to himself.
"There's no denying that I'm in my younger body right now," Asuka said firmly. "And we can't be sharing the same dream, also there's no tech on Earth that could simulate this."
Misato's scoff broke their train of thought. She clamped a hand over her mouth, failing to suppress the laugh bubbling up. "This is a prank, isn't it? Kaji put you up to this, didn't he?"
"No," Asuka said sharply, her eyes blazing. "We're telling you the truth. Most likely None of this is real."
Misato blinked, momentarily taken aback. She glanced down at her hands, flexing her fingers, then back up at them. "Pretty sure I'm real," she said defensively.
"Are you?" Shinji asked, his tone quiet but pointed. "Or maybe you just think you are because you were designed to."
"No, Shinji," Misato said, cutting him off with a glare. "I'm not in the mood for pseudo-philosophical nonsense."
"Just saying," Shinji muttered, averting his eyes.
"You can believe in giant robots, and angels." Asuka retorted, her tone acidic, "but you can't believe that maybe we're from a different time."
"Yes," Misato said flatly. "Because I can see the giant robots and angels. That makes sense."
"Well, I can see that this is my past," Asuka shot back, her voice rising, sharp as broken glass. Her eyes burned with frustration, daring Misato to argue.
"Mmm-hmmm," Misato murmured nonchalantly, pulling her phone from her pocket and scrolling through her contacts with deliberate calm. "I'm gonna schedule an appointment with Ritsuko. Both of you are clearly overdue for a check-up."
"Urgh!" Asuka groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation. Her foot tapped against the floor with a rapid, impatient rhythm as if the sheer stupidity of the situation was too much to bear.
Shinji rubbed the back of his neck, his voice hesitant. "Misato, we're not crazy. We're telling you the truth—"
"Sure, sure," Misato interrupted, not looking up from her phone. "And next, you're going to tell me you know tomorrow's lottery numbers. Or that Pen-Pen is actually a time traveller, too. Honestly, it's a miracle you two didn't start this rant with tinfoil hats."
Asuka glared at her, her fists clenched. "You're impossible."
"No, I'm logical," Misato countered, her tone pointed, still scrolling. "And logic says you two are either pulling my leg or cracking under the pressure." She glanced up, her gaze softening just slightly. "And if it's the second one, I'm not mad. But we need to take it seriously, okay? That's why Ritsuko's getting a call."
"Goddammit," Asuka muttered under her breath, shooting Shinji a look that screamed, well, do something
Shinji sighed and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. "This isn't going to be easy," he murmured.
NERV.
A monument to cold functionality wrapped in polished sterility. Neither of them missed this place. Its corporate, business-military façade was a grim antithesis to the almost religious—no, cult-like—zeal that permeated its corridors.
Now, beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and the steady pulse of scanning equipment, Shinji and Asuka sat like exhibits in a museum of psychological oddities. Their movements restrained, their eyes occasionally darting toward one another, searching for anchors in an ocean of disbelief.
And Ritsuko, poised behind the glow of monitors and diagnostic printouts, finally spoke, her voice clinical and sharp:
"There's nothing wrong with them."
Misato's stare hit her like a hammer—a thousand doubts condensed into a singular glare, as if questioning Ritsuko's scientific credibility in one swift, unspoken accusation.
"Seriously," Ritsuko repeated, exasperated but unwavering. "Their brain scans show no abnormalities, no complications. There's nothing unusual to be spoken of."
Misato folded her arms, leaning against the edge of the desk with a deep scowl. "But they think they're from the future." Her tone carried equal parts disbelief and simmering frustration.
Ritsuko shrugged with the nonchalance of someone unbothered by the absurdities of human experience.
"Tell me again—where exactly did you buy your bachelor's and PhD from?" Misato jabbed, her words sharp enough to draw blood.
"The same place you bought yours," Ritsuko fired back, her voice like ice cracking underfoot.
Misato's hands gripped the desk tighter, her frustration bubbling over. "They're cracking, Rits. Clearly, something is wrong with them."
"And the data says otherwise." Ritsuko turned the monitor toward her, rows of sterile numbers and clean diagnostic graphs glowing faintly. "All scans, bloodwork, neurological activity—normal. Perfectly healthy. If they're broken, it's not something we can measure."
Misato stepped back, running a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. "The data. Right. Because that's never been misleading before."
"I deal in facts." Ritsuko said evenly, her tone carrying the weight of wearied professionalism. "You want certainty? There isn't any. But if you're asking for proof of anything physiological—there's none. Psychologically?" She gestured vaguely toward the pair of children behind the glass. "That's someone else's territory."
Silence hung between them, heavy and electric. Misato turned to glance at the observation room. Asuka sat stiffly, arms crossed, glaring daggers at a blank section of wall. Shinji fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve, his eyes fixed on the floor like the answers to their shared nightmare might be scrawled there in invisible ink.
"You're telling me I'm supposed to just… what? Ignore this?" Misato finally said, her voice quieter now, but no less laced with tension.
"I'm telling you the numbers don't lie," Ritsuko replied. "But maybe you're asking the wrong questions."
Misato crossed her arms, her tone sharp but curious. "Elaborate."
Instead of responding directly, Ritsuko pressed a button on the console. Her voice carried smoothly through the intercom into the observation room.
"Why do you think you're from the future?" she asked.
Asuka groaned, rolling her eyes. "I never specifically said we're from the future. I said a different time. "
"And I'm still not convinced this is real," Shinji muttered, his gaze low and distant. "Feels more like a nightmare, or maybe a simulation. Something's off."
"I assure you, Shinji, this is very real," Ritsuko replied coolly. Her tone held a clinical edge, as if she were presenting a dissection report.
Misato leaned toward the console, raising an eyebrow. "She says another time, but the only other time is the future. Unless one of them has invented time travel."
Ritsuko shook her head, an exasperated. "Has to be some prank Kaji cooked up. We can't waste our money and resources indulging this kind of nonsense."
"I know, right?" Misato said, a note of relief creeping into her voice as she latched onto the idea. "How much did he pay them? They're really committed to the bit."
From behind the glass, Asuka's eyes flared. "We'll prove it."
"Prove what?" Ritsuko asked flatly, leaning closer to the microphone.
"That we're from a different time," Asuka shot back, her voice rising with defiance.
"All of this is in our past," Shinji added, his voice quieter but steady. "So ask us anything."
Ritsuko smirked, resting her chin on her hand. "Alright. How many cats do I have at home?"
Shinji blinked, his face a blank slate of confusion.
"That's not fair! You never told me you even had a cat! Or cats!" he stammered. "I… it's been a while, since In-"
Ritsuko's smirk widened. "Fine. What am I going to ask you next?"
"What?" Shinji asked, bewildered.
"If this is your past," Ritsuko explained, her tone almost condescending, "And everything that's about to happen has already happened, then you should know what I'm about to ask, Right?"
Shinji opened his mouth, then closed it, his expression sinking further into frustration. "That's not fair either. The past I remember didn't… go like this."
Ritsuko scribbled something in her notes, her noncommittal "Mmm-hmm" like a gavel hammering down on their credibility.
Asuka let out a sharp, exasperated breath, her patience gone. Her next words were a torrent, sharp and biting:
"Fine. You want proof? Here's proof: SEELE, the shadow cabal behind NERV, is orchestrating everything in order to trigger Third Impact. Their goal? Instrumentality—turning all of humanity into one giant, collective consciousness.
Ryoji Kaji? He's a double agent, spying on NERV for the United Nations. Not sure how far along the timeline we are, but Evangelion Unit-03 is going to be infected by an Angel, and Toji —yes, Toji is the designated pilot - is going to be ripped apart by Shinji.
Rei Ayanami? She's a clone of Shinji's mother, and you've got a whole collection of her stashed in Terminal Dogma or whatever. Oh, and speaking of Terminal Dogma, Lilith is down there too—that's why the Angels are attacking. They're trying to get to her to trigger their version of Third Impact.
The EVAs? They house the souls of our dead mothers. And her—" Asuka jabbed a finger toward Ritsuko's blurry figure behind the glass, her voice sharp and venomous— "she's sleeping with Shinji's dad.
The Dead Sea Scrolls? They're SEELE's little instruction manual for all this insanity. The final Angel? Kaworu Nagisa. He looks like a boy but he's not. And SEELE? They're secretly developing a whole series of mass-production EVAs, complete with S2 engines, and those things are basically going to maul me to death.
And if you don't know what an S2 engine is, you're going to stumble upon the idea eventually.
Oh, and here's the kicker: in the end, you're all going to die. Every single one of you. How's that for proof?"
The room fell into stunned silence.
Misato's mouth hung slightly open, her soda can nearly dropping from her fingers. Ritsuko froze, pen suspended mid-note. The two exchanged a long, weighted glance, their faces carefully unreadable.
Then, Ritsuko turned back to the console. "I'll run another scan," she said, her voice unusually tight.
Misato nodded, her voice a strained echo of its usual self. "Yeah. You… you should do that."
END.