Cold Ground

by Daltarit24x7

Summary:

14 Years…Village 03.
Shinji Ikari wakes not only to find his mistakes waiting, but ghosts with eyes. With
Asuka–forever fourteen and fading–quietly watching over what could’ve been.
Cooler boxes and Questions.

Chapter 1: Cold Ground

Plink—plop. Two water droplets kissed the side of his head.

Morning, the kind that forgets to breathe.

A cracked faucet dribbled in the corner; wind teased the tin roof with a tired whistle. The tatami pressed splinters of ache into Shinji's spine.

Getting up was treason against what little comfort remained. He hissed—pain's tiny punctuation—then shrugged deeper into Toji's sun-bleached jacket, the blanket a threadbare apology sliding from his shoulders.

Across the room, Asuka hovered at the stove, Kensuke's green bomber swallowing her slight frame.

Hand-me-down Armour, He thought. mismatched like the two of them. We're wearing our friends jackets. No one's wearing me. There's no one I could give anything to.

As if she tasted the line forming in his head, Asuka flicked her gaze over one shoulder—sharp, surgical.

He looked back, and with the click of her tongue, she turned away. The kettle exhaled. So did whatever remained of his dignity.

Routine filled the silence because words would drown in it. Shinji rinsed rice while beans soaked like bruises in a dented pot.

The Protein bricks still lurked on the shelf. Exactly where they were, when she'd forced them down his throat a few days prior; he couldn't look at them without feeling the corners of her frustration scraping his oesophagus.

Two bowls landed on the low table. One steamed. The other waited, cooling in the draft. Asuka didn't sit. She crossed her arms, the bomber creaking, eyes tracing the ceiling as if searching for something.

The faucet kept its metronome: plink—plop—plink. A lullaby for people who'd run out of them.

"Why isn't it fixed?" she asked, without looking at him.

"It should've been," he murmured. "Kensuke—"

"Kenken should've done it himself." Her voice cut in without hesitation. "Should've known not to trust you to do anything."

Shinji didn't flinch. He just kept eating his rice. Slowly. Mechanically.

The words didn't sting. Not anymore. They just… accumulated. Like dust in the corners of his mind.

He almost laughed. Almost.

A breath caught sideways in his chest, crooked and dry. Of course she said that. Of course it was true. Failure wasn't an event—it was a scent, an aura. And he carried it like mould.

Rei's words had pulled him from the depths, but Asuka's always build a ladder back down.

He sighed, not for her benefit, and pushed away the familiar lump in his throat. His tears had all been used up by now. So he could only chew. Swallowing.

Because what else could he do with the feelings Asuka left him? That she made him feel?

Swallow them. Until the taste was gone—or he was.

When he finished his bowl, she wasn't there. She'd gone off somewhere in the shack, or maybe out. It didn't matter. He didn't ask. He didn't care.

Outside, the sky was wide and empty. A blank page no one had the energy to write on. Wind moved in low gusts over the open plain, tugging gently at the edges of his borrowed clothes.

He didn't head toward the ruins—he never would again. Instead, he turned toward the other edge of town, where the fishing traps lined the shallows. Kensuke had told him not to come help today. "You've done enough, Ikari. Take a break."

But somehow that was worse. Breaks meant unlimited time. Time to sit, time to think.

Being around Asuka was like living beside a landmine—beautifully deadly. Forgotten until it reminded you. Every step needed calculation. Every silence could be fatal. He was sure, she was tired of it too. He could feel it.

Maybe it would be better if—

A sudden collision. Small. Fast. Human.

"Whoa!"

A boy stumbled back from him, nearly toppling under the weight of gear and awkward momentum.

Shinji steadied him instinctively. The kid looked… off. Foreign somehow. Not entirely, but something in his cheekbones, his skin tone, his eyes. Japanese, yes—but not only. Like a mirror cracked at the edge.

"Sorry there!" the boy said, breathless and bright. His fishing gear rattled as he adjusted it—hastily tied nets, improvised boots, a toolkit hanging off his side like a sword.

"It's okay," Shinji rasped, surprised at how rough his voice had gotten. Maybe Asuka had done more damage than he thought. "Why were you—?"

"Oh! Just gotta get these fish to the market real quick, helps with the old lady's request." the boy laughed, already half looking past Shinji, bouncing on his heels.

"Oh… okay. Well, I hope it goes well. Your… endeavor." Your real life. Your post-apocalypse errand. Your normal.

"No problem," the boy grinned, still scanning behind him. Waiting.

Shinji, confused, started to step aside—and that's when he saw her.

A girl, same age, sprinting up the hill with cooler boxes stacked in her arms like siege weapons. Red-faced, hair tangled, eyes burning with effort.

Twins?

They matched, almost unnervingly so. Echoes in a world where echoes were dangerous. But what unnerved Shinji more was their presence. They had the same worn hands, the same speed, the same coordination that came from being alive every day.

Not from waking up in a different world with a boy's body and a man's sins.

They reminded him of his former self. Not exactly. But enough.

He blinked, and for a second, didn't know what age he was. What self he was. Fourteen years, they'd said. A blink. A grave. A thousand endings, stapled together in the shape of a boy.

One moment it was dark. The next, Kaworu's head exploded in front of him. Then silence. Then her—Asuka—dragging him by the wrist like a corpse that wouldn't stay dead.

This was all his fault. Because he acted. Because he thought saving one person meant anything.

"Hey, sis!" the boy called behind Shinji. "C'mon!"

"I'm coming!" she barked back, shifting the load on her arms.

And for one second—

Just one—

Shinji didn't see the girl.

He saw Asuka.

The breath left his body like a plug had been pulled. His foot caught on the dirt path, and he nearly pitched forward.

"Whoa there!" the boy barked from behind, catching Shinji's stumble with a surprised grin. "Looks like you're the one falling now."

Shinji blinked—hard. "No, it's…"

He didn't finish the sentence. Because how could he explain the way her hair moved beneath that worn sun-hat? How the angle of her jaw in motion caught the light just so? He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or grieving. Maybe both.

Probably both.

"Sorry," the girl said, coming to a full stop in front of them.

It was the hat. That's what did it. The way it shadowed her hair, made it look like that impossible blend—half auburn, half brunette. And the way she walked. Confident. Efficient. Like someone used to dragging the dead weight of others.

It wasn't her.

But it was close enough to hurt.

"You can ignore my brother," she added with a dramatic sigh, adjusting her grip on the cooler boxes. "Wanna help?"

"I don't think that's necessary," the boy chimed in. "We're not supposed to bother people."

"We're not bothering him," she snapped. "Are we?" She turned those eyes on Shinji—bright, searching. Halfway between child and adult. The moment stretched thin.

He was still trying to convince himself Asuka wasn't in front of him.

But looking closer… there was something of Rei in her too.

Great, he thought. I'm going crazy.

He shook his head to clear the static.

"No," he said. "You're not bothering me. I can help."

She smiled, and the smile was new. It wasn't hers. not Asuka's, or Rei', not anyone's.

It belonged completely to this strange girl with her coolers and her cool brother.

"Thanks," she said brightly. "You can take the lighter ones."

"It's fine," Shinji offered. "I can do the heavy one."

"No. I insist." Her smile turned wry. Practical. "Let me do the heavy one. It's easier for me that way."

"Why isn't your brother helping?" he asked—genuine confusion, maybe a little sarcasm too.

The girl whipped around and fixed her brother with a glare. The universal look of sibling judgment:
Go on. Defend your selfish laziness.

The boy raised a hand to his heart in mock pain. "Yesterday she made me carry them. Alone. No help." His voice cracked with theatrical suffering.

They stared each other down. She raised an eyebrow. He rolled his eyes.

It was the kind of moment that belonged to people who'd known each other forever. Who didn't have to ask why they were still here.

Shinji watched them, coolers between them like some ancient domestic argument re-enacted for the end of the world.

He didn't know why, but it made his chest ache.

"Sorry I asked," Shinji muttered. "Let's just go…"

He took the lighter box from the girl—and immediately regretted pretending to be fine. It was not light. She'd lied. Or maybe she just hadn't noticed. Or maybe she thought he was stronger than he looked.

He stumbled. Again. Just enough to lose a little dignity.

"Holdin' up okay?" the boy asked, grinning with far too many teeth.

"Yeah…" Shinji groaned. "Just fine."

They began the slow climb up the slope, cooler boxes bobbing awkwardly at their sides, the village coming into view like a waking machine. Always moving. Always lifting. Always fixing. Men hauling crates, tracks churning, pulleys squeaking like broken music.

How they kept the fuel running—how they kept anything running—Shinji didn't want to know. Probably one of those monolithic Anti-L Field pillars humming away somewhere.

"Come on, we need to hurry," the boy said, pacing ahead with the ease of someone who didn't overthink where to place his feet.

"So you can do nothing the rest of the day," his sister shot at him.

"You know me so well," he smirked.

Shinji watched them for a second, the easy rhythm of siblings who didn't know how rare they were.

"Where do you guys stay?" he asked.

"One of the houses farther out," the girl replied. "Not in the village really—but far enough from the Eva corpses."

He felt his stomach twist. He hadn't really given them much—those hulking, half-living husks dotting the landscape like tombstones with spines. What had Kaworu said? A Failure of infinity.

He winced. Another thing to blame himself for. Another form in the ever-expanding graveyard he carried behind his eyes.

And they looked like Unit-01. Of course they did. His shame always had the same face.

He sighed—quiet, guttural, almost involuntary.

"Are we boring you?" the girl asked, noticing.

"No, it's just…" He hesitated, the words failing before they formed. "I was thinking."

"Try not to think too much," the boy offered, still smiling but with a strange wisdom behind it. "You can set yourself in a very bad shape that way."

"Good thing you don't have a brain," his sister replied, grinning.

"Haha," he said, unamused. Then to Shinji: "Seriously though. Try not to spend too much time in your head. It's bad in there. I've seen that look before."

"Easy for you to say," Shinji said—and to his own surprise, almost laughed.

The girl glanced at him. Something softened behind her expression.

"We've all done some pretty bad things to stay alive in this world," she said quietly. "You're not the only one with a weight on your shoulders."

"Maybe," he said. "But this is all my fault. I did this. I'm the reason so many people are dead. I'm the reason they all had to fight. It's all…"

He couldn't finish. The sentence collapsed in his mouth. He was tired of saying it. Tired of hearing it. Tired of being it.

They kept walking. No one said anything at first.

He got the creeping sense he'd just made it awkward. Of course he had. That's what he did. He broke things. He broke people. Maybe he'd broken their lives, too. Maybe they were only here because they'd lost parents in the chaos he'd created.

He felt another sigh rising—but the girl spoke before it escaped.

"That might be true," she said. "But you're also the reason we're here at all."

Shinji blinked.

"You fought for us," she said. "Even if you didn't win."

"I know I wouldn't have," the boy added, grinning again. "Not without pay."

It was a joke. But not entirely. There was something sincere beneath the punchline.

"You were given a bad hand," the girl said. "And still… if you hadn't done anything, we'd all be dead. You fought, and only most of us died. That's not winning. But it's not losing either."

"At least, that's what the old lady says," the boy chimed in again, groaning theatrically. "The one whose gonna be mad her stuff is late."

Shinji exhaled—not quite a laugh. Not quite relief. Just… an exhale. Something ancient shifting inside his ribcage.

The guilt didn't leave. But maybe, for the first time in a long while, it got lighter.

They arrived at the fishing post just as the morning crowd began to thin.

Baskets of fish lay open on tarps, slick and staring. A few men gutted carp with short, ugly knives while others salted them or smoked them over low coals.

The smell hit Shinji immediately—brine, blood, charcoal, and some kind of spice he couldn't name. Kaji would've known. He talked about smells once.

He stood there awkwardly, trying not to get in the way, trying not to stare. It was a kind of life he didn't recognize. Honest, maybe. Or at least necessary.

The twins approached a squat old woman behind a folding table, still wearing the rubber gloves from her last dissection. They handed her two of their cooler boxes, and she lit into the boy immediately.

"What the hell took you so long?! You think I've got time to sit around waiting for children?! I told you—eight o'clock sharp!"

The boy didn't flinch. Just squared his shoulders and took it head on. "Sorry, ma'am," he said with the weird dignity only teenagers could fake.

Shinji blinked. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed. Just a puff of air. Nothing loud. But real.

The girl rolled her eyes and hoisted the last remaining box onto her hip. They were already turning to leave when one of the workers tossed her a small cloth bag—drawn tight at the neck with string.

She caught it mid-air and handed it to her brother.

"What's that?" Shinji asked, watching the way the boy gave it a shake, like it might bark or explode.

"Oh, something we've gotta deliver to the old lady," the boy said, holding it up by the cord.

"The one who just yelled at you?" Shinji asked.

"No," the girl said, brushing past him. "The one up the hill."

He hesitated. "Oh."

She turned back toward him, adjusting her load.

"You can come if you want," she said. Casual. But not dismissive. "You don't have to. I mean… thanks for the help with the boxes."

"Yeah, thanks," the boy echoed, fishing around in his coat. He pulled out a slightly crumpled protein brick and held it out solemnly, like he was bestowing a family heirloom. "As thanks."

Shinji stared at it. Brown wrapping. Military seal. The same kind Asuka had once force-fed him. He almost winced—but didn't.

"No problem," he murmured, taking it. The bar felt dense in his hand. Like memory.

He glanced at the road stretching uphill. At the dust still hanging in the morning air.

"I've got nothing to do anyway," he said quietly. "So…"

"Sure," the boy grinned. "Let's go."

They set off.

Shinji didn't ask what was in the bag. He didn't care. Not really.

It wasn't the contents that mattered. It was the company.

For once, he wasn't alone. No guilt clawing at his throat. No silent apartment. No Asuka with her back turned, barely breathing the same air. Just these two—this boy and girl, squabbling softly, existing like people. They reminded him of Kensuke and Toji back in high school.

Which, in his internal clock, was only a week ago.

But enough of that—he was starting to accept it now. That he'd slept through time. That the world had moved on without him. That he had moved without realizing it.

The trek was long and winding. Not difficult—just eerily familiar. Like the path to Kensuke's shack, but messier. More overgrowth. Shrubs with burrs. Ferns clawing through rusted fencing. The twins walked like people who'd done it a thousand times. No hesitation. No second glances.

Usually a scene like this would come with cicadas. With birdsong. A gentle wind playing backup.

But this was a dead world. No choir. Just the rustle of underbrush and the scrape of their soles on dry earth. The sound of people alive in a place that wasn't.

Shinji kept watching them. The way the two of them moved in sync, always a half-step apart. Familiar and alien. Like notes from a song he used to play on the cello, now warped by dust and years.

He wondered—hadn't really focused on it before, but now he did.

Were they really his age?

The boy was taller than him. Centimetres, sure, but enough to notice. Maybe even taller than Asuka.

And the girl, too. She had a presence that stood just slightly above him, even if only by two centimetres. A meaningless difference that suddenly felt enormous.

And from the back, as the sun broke through the canopy of trees, it hit her hair in a way that made it flare—brighter than brown, richer than auburn.

Almost red.

Almost ginger.

"Here we are," the boy said casually.

And that's when Shinji saw it.

The back of Kensuke's shack.

He stopped walking.

It hit him like a cold wind to the lungs. Not the shack itself—but the angle of it. The way the slope rose and the fencing bent. He knew this place. He'd just left it.

But It felt wrong now. Like the stage had shifted two degrees off centre.

The twins turned to face him.

"What's wrong?" the boy asked, eyebrows raised. "Don't tell me you're scared of her too?"

"She's not that bad once you get to know her," the girl added, almost smiling.

Shinji opened his mouth. "No, it's just—"

He didn't get to finish. The girl had already jogged back, grabbed his wrist like they were old friends, and tugged him forward with ease.

"Come on," she said, voice light.

She had no idea.

And Shinji followed—because his legs moved before his brain could decide.

Because part of him already knew.

They reached the top of the hill just as Asuka stepped out of Kensuke's battered red SUV.

She spotted them immediately. The twins. And then Shinji, trailing behind them like an afterthought.

She walked over, fast. The green bomber jacket was gone, replaced only by the plug suit. Worn like a second skin.

There was irritation in her step. Anger, maybe. Something in her eye—half a glare, half something else. Fear? No. That wasn't right. Not fear. Not from Asuka. But Shinji couldn't name it.

"Hey, old lady!" the boy called, far too loud. "Been a while!"

"You're late," Asuka replied flatly.

"We got caught up," the boy shrugged.

"Somebody didn't wanna help with the cooler boxes," the girl added, nodding toward her brother.

"Oh, come on," he groaned. "Yesterday you-"

"You carried nothing. I almost broke my back."

"Enough," Asuka said—quietly, but it stopped them like a hand on the throat.

She turned toward them. "Do you have my package?"

"Sure do," the boy said, loosening the cloth rope from his neck and handing it to his sister. "This isn't the longest we've gone without seeing you, you know."

"I was on a mission," Asuka replied. Her gaze slid back to Shinji. Sharper now. Sharper than it needed to be.

"To rescue a certain idiotic brat."

She didn't even bother with his name. Just looked at him like he was the last cigarette in the box—and she'd already quit.

The twins turned to Shinji with renewed interest.

"You?" the girl asked, blinking.

"You're the guy," said the boy.

"The guy?" Shinji echoed, lost.

"Thé idiot," the boy clarified.

"She talks about you all the time," the girl said.

"Only when I'm mad," Asuka cut in.

"So basically all the time," the girl said, grinning.

The boy snapped his fingers, mock-surprised. "Should've guessed. Only three Eva pilots I know of, anyway."

Asuka sighed. Just a little. Like even breathing near him cost something.

"You have my package?"

"Yeah," the boy said again, passing it to his sister, who stepped forward and placed it carefully in Asuka's outstretched hand.

It was small. Nothing special. Just a cloth pouch tied at the top with string. But she reached for it slowly—too slowly. Like she was buying time.

"Sorry it's not as strong this time," the girl said. "The old lady must've used a different oil."

"It's fine," Asuka replied, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not sure I'd notice the difference anymore."

She stared at the girl for a second too long.

Her hand lingered where the cloth bag had been.

What's going on?  She wondered

She masked it well. Her usual blank soldier-face. But Shinji could see the crack—just a hairline fracture. In her stance. In the way she leaned ever so slightly forward, like she was trying to hold onto something near without touching it.

The boy shifted his weight, swung the empty cooler bag off his shoulder and passed it back to his sister. The moment broke.

Asuka stepped back.

"Where'd you pick him up?" she asked, jerking her chin at Shinji, as if trying to refocus herself.

"Oh, he was going to fish," the girl said. "But he decided to help us carry the boxes."

"He's not as bad as you made him out to be."

"He's worse," Asuka said flatly.

It wasn't playful. It wasn't cruel either. It was a defence. A line drawn with trembling chalk.

Shinji didn't flinch. He didn't smile either. He just stood there, unsure—how long had she been seeing them?

"Oh well," the boy said, scratching the back of his head. "Guess that's about it… we better head back."

"You should thank us," the girl added with mock pride. "We basically showed you another way home."

Shinji opened his mouth—meant to say something clever, maybe even charming. Nothing came. His thoughts were molasses. His breath stuck.

"Are you okay?" the girl asked.

That voice—curious, kind, sharp at the edges. It cut too close. For a moment, he saw her. Not the girl—Asuka. The same tilt of the head. The same concern she'd always buried beneath a frown. It flickered in front of him like a memory trying to override the present.

He shook it off.

"I'm fine," he said, softly. "Thanks."

The boy had already started downhill, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder. "See you on your next order!" he called. "And hey, maybe Shinji'll ask for something next time."

Shinji froze.

She told them my name?

No. That wasn't it. Everyone knew his name. Everyone knew Shinji Ikari—the boy who ended the world. It was just... odd, the way they'd treated him. Kindly. Playfully.

Is that what Rei meant? That people just… like me?
Or is it because Asuka told them? Shaped him in their minds before they'd ever met?

He watched them go. The girl walked just a little ahead, arguing over nothing. Their voices fading. The sound of footsteps on gravel—then nothing.

He turned.

Asuka stood a few steps away, still clutching the cloth bag, not looking at him. Her gaze was fixed on the fabric, her thumb running over the stitching like she was trying to memorize it. She brought it slightly closer. Not enough to sniff. Just… near. As if the warmth was what she really wanted.

"Who were they?" he asked.

No answer.

"Asuka," he said again, softer now.

She didn't look at him.

"It's better if you don't know," she said, eyes on the bag. "Your fragile little mind would break."

And just like that, he almost collapsed. His knees gave a whisper beneath him.

"When?" he croaked. "How?"

But she was already walking away. Into the house. The door slid open and closed without ceremony.

Shinji stood in the sun-dusted silence a moment longer before he followed, dragging his limbs like they weren't attached to him.

By the time he reached the main room, she was already halfway into the shower, her plug suit a discarded second skin, hung.

Steam billowed out past the threshold: thick, wet, and alive. It rolled over the wooden floor like fog.

She stood within it, calm and ritualistic— the cloth bag had been left at the nearest desk, and from it came the soap in her hands.

Shinji didn't say a word.

He stopped exactly where he had, days ago. The first time he'd stepped into this house, the second time she'd challenged him.

She hadn't even flinched back then.

The DSS choker gleamed under the vapor, jet black and red. Her body—naked in the haze, more symbol than skin. Shinji stood still, just watching. She wasn't doing anything special, just... showering. But it felt like a ceremony. A reckoning.

Then…he stepped forward.

Asuka turned.

Water dripped from her hair, trailing down her face, neck, and chest. Her arms crossed reflexively across her body, like folding into a defence she'd long since given up on. She stared at him.

Dared him to look.

He didn't. Not really. Not where she thought he would.

He looked at her face. At the eye. The one she still had.

And–

"When?" he asked. The water barely touched him. It felt like it shouldn't. The smell of lavender soap hung in the air—too soft, too clean.

She exhaled, slow, like she'd been holding something in since the world ended.

"You really wanna know?" she said.

He nodded. A small thing. Almost a flinch. A breath leaving a body too tired to house it anymore.

She stared for a moment longer, then spoke.

"After you decided to do nothing, and Unit-01 tore me apart, I figured that was it." She said, calm, too calm. "I thought I was done for, that it was over…for me and them…"

Her voice wavered. Just slightly. Like the world beneath it had shifted.

She swallowed something. Pride? Regret? Blood?

"But then," she said, almost spitting the words, "a miracle happened."

She didn't sound happy.

"They didn't, too," she muttered. Shinji didn't understand at first. But then he did. And it hit like concrete in his gut.

She was fighting something back. Grief, maybe. Or rage. Or whatever's left when both burn out. The water disguised it well—masked it in ritual, in warmth. Asuka's voice turned brittle.

"I was underage at the time... It's stupid. What we did."

"Asuka—"

"Shut up."

Soft. Final. Like a lullaby laced with cyanide.

"I still fought. I don't know why. Maybe I was trying to run. Maybe part of me was just... scared."
She paused, the kind of pause that takes the last of your strength. Shinji saw it, knew it cost her—especially in front of him. The one who'd watched. Who'd done nothing. Who had survived anyway.

"Eventually, the time came," she said. "And it was done in secret. Misato, Ritsuko and a handful of doctors, they're the only ones who know."

Her voice cracked.

"It was a C-section. This body it... it couldn't have…"

She staggered mid-sentence. The weight of it all, dragging her under.

Shinji reached out. Instinct. Guilt in motion.

But she slapped his hand away like it burned.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

"Don't… just… don't."

She was trembling now. But not from the heat. Not from weakness.

No, this was something else. A shaking soul.

Shinji didn't move.

He just stood there, burning in silence. Not from shame. Not from fear.

From understanding.

And the weight of what he couldn't undo.

"Do they know?" he asked, finally. A whisper. An offering.

"No." She shook her head. "They don't…"

There was a silence, brief but suffocating. Then she spoke again, quieter now—like each word was another piece of her splintering ribcage.

"I hated them at first," she said. "Every time I looked at them, all I saw was your stupid face. Your cowardice. Your idiotic... indecisive... cowardice."
She said it twice. Not a mistake. A scar.

She swallowed—visibly this time. He caught it, and for some reason, it hurt worse than if she'd screamed.

"But I loved them." Her voice thinned, faltered. "I couldn't stop. They were mine. I carried them. I..."

One step. Just one. That's all he took.

No closer. He didn't deserve closer.

Behind the eyepatch, something shimmered. The Angel. Blue light seeping through like a memory that refused to die.

"All these years…" he asked, barely breathing, "You've been watching them grow?"

And she almost smiled.

Almost.

"I'm just some old lady," she said, and the phrase hit like a brick wrapped in silk. "He calls me that. 'Old lady.' I used to call him 'kid,' back when he was still... small."
A chuckle, dry as ash. "I stood there. Taking packages from their hands like a stranger. Pretending.
While this body refused to grow. Stayed locked in time… Fourteen years…Trapped."

Fourteen years of standing still while the world marched on without her.

Then, softly—like a knife made of glass:

"They're not yours."

He blinked. Pain does that—makes you slow.

"But—"

"They're mine." Her voice cracked. Not a break, just a fracture. A warning.
"They're mine... Don't ruin this… too."

She didn't say "please."

She didn't have to.

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

He just stood there in the fog and the heat. In the terrible weight of history.

Wanting to reach out.

Knowing he shouldn't.

Knowing it wouldn't matter.

Chapter 2: Ma Quale Idea

Notes:

Admittedly this chapter is a first draft, but I felt so bad that the first chapter is all darkness and I had no light to counter it, so I wanted to get this out as fast as possible. I might tweak it a bit

The morning had come slow and heavy—dragging itself across the sky like an old man in layered robes. Shinji woke to the familiar dark of Kensuke's shack, spine aching and mind raw. Nothing had made sense to him anymore

A son and daughter. He thought, a heavy sigh left him. There was nothing he could do, and so he left at first light.

Taking a long walk Down to the river, where everything felt still. Not quiet but still. The kind of stillness that made you want to bow, to some god or another.

The water moved lazily, like it didn't care. Clear enough to see the fish drifting below—slow and steady, as though they'd forgotten what it meant to fear.

Shinji now stood on the riverbank, with fishing spear in hand. He held it the way he'd remembered seeing from a schoolbook, or TV. It didn't matter either way. The point was sharp enough.

The fish swam in strange patterns. Fluid. Circular. Like they were dancing around a thought too big for words. He lowered the spear, but didn't strike.

Something in the way one of them moved—hesitating, pausing mid-current—stopped him. It tilted sideways, exposing its pale belly to the sun, and he could've sworn it looked right at him.

What's wrong? it seemed to say.

All the scene was missing was a Shishi-Odoshi clicking over stone, and a bald old man brewing tea under a persimmon tree.

Shinji almost laughed at the thought, but then the wind stirred the water, and the fish scattered.

Gone. Just like that.

Shinji didn't feel disappointed. Only… acknowledged. Like the river had seen him and decided to let him be.

And then—

"Hey."

He turned.

The boy from yesterday. His son.

Messy hair, sleeves rolled, breathless from climbing the embankment. A fishing spear of his own slung casually over one shoulder. He looked like he belonged there—like someone had carved him out of the hillside.

"Morning," the boy said, nodding. "Didn't think I'd find you here."

Shinji blinked. The river still whispered behind him.

"Morning." He greeted.

The boy smiled—not wide, but honest.

"Cool spear," the boy said, stepping down onto the bank beside him, boots crunching soft over the wet earth. "Though I doubt you'll be catching anything with that."

Shinji almost smiled.

Almost.

"I don't think I was really trying to," he replied, shifting his grip on the spear. "I was just looking… for something."

The boy tilted his head, curious. "Something like?"

"I…" Shinji hesitated. The wind brushed past them, carrying a dampness that smelled like moss and old metal. "I don't know."

"You came here looking for something you don't know you're looking for?"

"Yeah…"

The boy blinked. "You're weird."

He laughed—not meanly, but with a kind of gentle incredulity. As if Shinji had just said he was hunting ghosts or waiting for watermelons to speak.

"I see the current starting to pick up," the boy said, pointing the end of his own spear toward the ripples forming farther downstream. "That means the water's waking... Fish'll start darting soon. Gotta move fast or not at all."

"Right," Shinji muttered, though he didn't lift his spear. He only kept looking to the boy like he might reveal something to him—another face, maybe. A past. A version of himself that didn't believe existed.

"Sometimes I like to come here too," the boy continued. "When I need to think. Or not think. Depends."

Shinji turned slightly toward him, just enough to glance.

"Spend a lot of time in your head as well?"

"Not really?" he replied, "I told you yesterday that's bad practice."

A fish leapt upstream, a quick glint of silver and shadow. Neither of them moved to catch it.

"Hey…" Shinji said, quietly. Like the river might overhear. "Who took care of you? All these years…"

The boy turned, brow cocked.

"Why do you ask?"

Shinji shrugged, eyes down.

"Just curious," he muttered. "I… messed everything up, so…"

The boy gave a dry little exhale. Not quite a laugh—more like amused disbelief.

"You ask everyone whose lives you ruined what they did while you were gone?" he said, already turning toward the water.

Shinji nearly smiled. "Maybe I should."

"Come on," the boy said, already stepping into the current, "I'll tell you in the river."

The water lapped up to his calves, and he turned, waiting. Shinji didn't move.

"Well?" the boy asked, hands on hips.

"I'm not… I don't have the right clothes."

"So?"

"I mean, river water is—"

Before he could finish, the boy lunged—far stronger than he looked—and with one swift pull Shinji found himself knee-deep in freezing current, the breath knocked clean from his lungs.

"Wait—!"

Too late.

The water bit up his legs like electricity. Fish scattered again beneath the surface, and Shinji swore they were laughing.

He made a strange brrrrrrkkk sound through clenched teeth.

The boy just grinned. "Feel that?"

"F-f-f-f-freezing!" Shinji stuttered, arms wrapped tightly around his torso. Every joint in his body felt like it had been individually insulted by the cold.

"That's life," the boy said, in the smug, philosophical tone of a teenager who'd just read one good poem. "Cold. Pulling. Hard. And if it goes down the wrong pipe, it kills you. But also…"

He raised his arms dramatically, as if baptizing the landscape.

"…it gives. It sustains. Without it, we'd be dead. Water."

"I-I-I-I'm d-d-d-dying in it," Shinji groaned, barely able to form the syllables.

"You'll get used to it," the boy replied. "Besides, we gotta head upstream if we want the fish. Our movements muddy the water otherwise."

Shinji stared at him, incredulous.

"Why couldn't we just move by the bank?"

The boy stopped. Thought about it. His face said yeah, that is smarter.

But his mouth said: "This is more fun."

They trudged upstream, Shinji dragging his feet through the soft silt, shoes squelching like wet paper bags. The river wasn't deep, but it had a way of humbling you—each step felt like a negotiation with nature.

"You're lucky I didn't push you all the way in," the boy said, grinning, eyes squinting against the sun.

Shinji rolled his eyes. "That is all the way in."

"Oh no," the boy replied, wading effortlessly ahead. "All the way in is chest-deep and screaming…practically underwater"

Not a pleasurable thought.

Shinji shivered again. His pants clung to him like regret.

Upstream, the water got clearer—less churned. They stopped beside a moss-covered rock, smooth and ancient. Shinji caught himself staring at it like it might say something important.

"Alright," the boy said, gripping his spear. "Now we wait."

"For what?"

"For the fish?"
He squinted at the current. "They always come back."

Shinji didn't reply. He was watching the way the water moved now. Spear in hand, slow spirals around ankle and shin. The way it caught light like glass. It sort of reminded him of Kaworu's piano key's but underwater. Or maybe an old dream. A dream he forgot to wake up from.

"You never answered my question," Shinji said, teeth clicking slightly as another shiver passed through him. "Who took care of you?"

The boy didn't look back. He was too focused—scanning the water's surface with the hungry calm of someone who knew how to wait.

"People," he said at last. "A few different ones. The best were this old couple. Real sweet, tragic kind of love, y'know? The quiet kind that lingers even when they're not saying anything."

He shifted the spear, resting it against his shoulder. "But they were good to us. Really good."

Shinji watched the water pass. Still. Clear. Relentless.

"Where are they now?"

"Gone." The boy's voice was soft but firm. "May they rest in peace."

"…Sorry."

"Don't be," he replied, and there wasn't even a blink of bitterness. "Some people don't get even a little bit of kindness. We got it. That's enough."

Shinji nodded, unsure if he agreed. Unsure if he was included in that we.

"And now?" he asked. "You said you live out on the outskirts?"

"A house farther out, yeah," the boy said, squinting upstream. "It's like… what did they call them before the world got all red and biblical? An orphanage. Except no creepy priests or sob story tropes. Just a place for strays."

"Run by someone?"

"Couple of ex-Wille folks. Retired. Real tight ship. You'd like 'em."
He chuckled.

"Maybe," Shinji admitted.

There was a pause—long enough to breathe in the wind, long enough to miss a fish. The boy saw the flicker and reacted, hurling his spear.

Splash.

Nothing. Just a ripple of sunlight and shame.

"Damn," he muttered. "I'm usually better than this."

"Maybe you scared them off," Shinji offered.

"Yeah. All this talking," the boy sighed dramatically. "I'm usually out here with gruff men who smell like salt and regret. Real fisherman types."

"Sorry."

"I don't mind the company," the boy said. Then, after a second: "It's nice to have someone interested In you once in a while."

"Oh…" Shinji said, "you're welcome…I guess."

"No problem." The boy replied, continuing his deep stare into the waters.

"In any case," Shinji began, "how long have you been delivering soap to Asuka?"

"Wait, it's soap?" the boy blinked. "I always thought it was tea leaves or something."

"You didn't even know?" Shinji tilted his head.

"Well, I mean, they're in different bags sometimes," he said defensively. "The big ones smell earthy, the little ones smell clean. But I never—soap? Really?"

He paused, realization dawning.

"She knew," he said flatly, referring to his sister. "She definitely knew. And didn't tell me. Great... I'm officially the stupid one."

"Asuka used to call me that…" Shinji said, voice drifting into memory. "Back when…"

He hesitated. He wanted to say a few weeks ago, but time, like water, had moved on. Left him submerged in something else.

"…fourteen years ago, I guess."

"Oh yeah. We know," the boy grinned. "Idiot Shinji. It's got a nice ring to it. Kind of iconic."

"You can take it, if you love it so much."

The boy smirked. "Cheeky."

"Sorry."

"Don't be," the boy said, and looked back to the current. "It suits you better anyway."

"Real funny," Shinji muttered, but there was a smile there—unforced, if only a little crooked. The kind that tugged at something still sore.

"How long?" he asked again, softer now. "How long have you been doing this?"

The boy rolled his spear absently in his hands, considering. "Since I could start running properly, I think. Four… maybe five years ago? Must've been ten. Or nine. That's when I met the old lady."

"Old lady," Shinji echoed. "Asuka."

The boy nodded. "She was grumpy at first. Always angry and tired-looking. Always calling me 'kid' like she wasn't one herself. Although considering how she hasn't changed a bit from when I first met her…well… she might be older than she lets on. But she never turned us away."

He raised his spear a little, gesturing vaguely toward nothing. "Sis came later…she was the one who'd always ask her things, like…stories."

"What kind of stories?" Shinji asked.

"At first, small stuff—clothes, how to clean a jacket properly, how to boil water without wasting fuel, how to avoid stepping on unstable ground. She gave of the short hair military survivalist chick vibe at the time."

He smiled faintly. "But then came the bigger ones. Sis would ask about EVA's. She was obsessed with em. Wanted to know everything, what it felt like. The cockpit, the rush, the terror, how did the old lady put it…the silence before the LCL fills your lungs."

He turned slightly toward Shinji, brow raised. "She said it felt like flying and drowning at the same time."

Shinji's breath caught.

"but also fun…."

"She told you all that?" Shinji asked.

"And more," the boy answered. "But that's another story. We have fish to catch."

"Right," Shinji said, trying to return to the moment. Trying to stay grounded. But his mind was elsewhere.

They stood again in silence, the river flowing quietly past them. A few fish darted below the surface, unknowingly swimming through a space where memory and reality blurred. Where the past stood knee-deep with the present.

Shinji adjusted his grip.

"Do you ever feel like you're supposed to be something, but you're not sure what?" Shinji asked, barely louder than the river.

The boy didn't answer right away. He just stood there, watching the current wrap around their legs.

Then, loudly came: "Naaahhhhh."

Shinji blinked.

"But," the boy added, tilting his head thoughtfully, "sometimes I feel like I already am something. And everyone else just forgot to tell me what it is."

There was silence. And then Shinji laughed.

Just once.

But it was real.

The kind of laugh you forget is possible until it slips out of you, unexpected and unpolished.

The boy smiled. A little smug. A little proud.

And then they both fell silent again, eyes on the river, waiting for the fish that may or may not come.

Not speaking. Not needing to.

Just standing there—together—in the chill of the morning current.

Alive.

---

Earlier.

The morning came fast and heavy.
She hadn't slept—not really. Just closed her eyes and turned, over and over, cycling through every way she could've told him off better the day before. Every version of his stupid bratty selfish face. Every silence she could've filled with something crueller.

And then, just before first light, the idiot left the shack—loudly. Stumbling like some wet dog trying to find the door in the dark. Toji's borrowed jacket made too much noise. His footsteps, too slow. The bastard even had the audacity to sigh before leaving.

She lay still for a moment, eyes open.
And then the leak started.
Plink–Plonk.
Water dripping from the cracked faucet, the same one he should've fixed.
Had he not gotten the point by now.

She clicked her tongue, sat up.
"Idiot," she muttered, not even trying to hide it.

The shack was colder than it had any right to be, and she was already angry before her feet touched the floor. She looked at the blanket he hadn't folded. The empty mug on the floor. The streak of mud from his boots. He'd tracked it in again. Because of course he had.

I can't deal with this.

She powered on her handheld console, gripped it too tight, and had to stop. The buttons were sticking. The screen was scratched. She hadn't charged it properly anyway. Everything was too loud. Too broken.

A dry, bland protein bar stared back at her from the shelf.
She bit into it like it owed her money.

Then, the plugsuit.
Still smelled faintly of LCL and lavender soap. The twins had brought her the good kind at least.

She slid into it like an exoskeleton. Too tight. Too familiar.

Outside, the sun had begun its slow crawl. Pale and honest.

She climbed the watchtower bolted to Kensuke's roof, step by step.
It creaked—like it always did. She could've asked him to fix that too.
But he was too busy working with the village or more likely polishing his stupid camera.

The wind up top was dry. Dust on her teeth.
She stood there, arms folded, watching the world below.

Village-03 yawned itself awake.

The older villagers were already at work—hauling crates of old steel, building filters, cooking porridge over woodsmoke.

Children weaved between machines and grownups, fetching tools, laughing at nothing. Someone had tied ribbons to the broken old wind turbine again—idiotic—but the colour looked nice against the rust.

Staring at the sight long enough would make her forget sometimes––that for a moment––she hated it here.

It was a lie of a life. A postcard version of peace.
They had power but not enough light. Food but no flavour.
People talked but no one said anything real.

Asuka kept watching.
She always watched.

Sometimes she liked to count the cracks in the pavement, the rust on the girders, the number of birds still dumb enough to return. She imagined a sniper's scope—not to kill, just to see more clearly. To focus. To feel distance and control. Like the plug—clean separation.

But then—from down below—movement.

"Hey!" the girl called, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Wanna come down?"

Asuka didn't move.
From this height, the girl looked no bigger than a pen tapping against the dirt—bright hair, bright smile, bright everything. And Too loud for this hour.

"You gonna say something?" the girl shouted again. "I got another package! It's for you!"

Asuka sighed.

She began the slow climb down the tower, plug-suit soles stretching one after another, trudging through the house with the exact posture of a child dragging herself towards school.

She opened the front door with minimal grace.
The girl was waiting—beaming—holding a slightly larger cloth bag than yesterday's.

Shower leaves, Asuka thought immediately. The kind she hung over the shower head to mask the rusted tap and her own aging senses. The scent wouldn't last. Nothing ever did.

"The old lady said yesterday's batch didn't turn out good," the girl said, chipper as ever. "So she sent me with this instead. Said to tell you she used a different oil."

Asuka stepped forward, calm and silent.
She reached for the bag.

But before her fingers could touch it, the girl yanked it back with a grin.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"

"No," Asuka said instantly.

She reached again. The girl leaned back again.

"It'll be quick."

"No."

"C'mon, I—"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pleeeease?"

"No."

The girl pouted now, just enough to make it theatrical.

"I deliver soap and leaves to you like every other day…"

"I didn't ask you to," Asuka replied dryly,

"Yeah but—technically—you do order it," the girl said, raising an eyebrow.

Asuka's expression didn't change. But something behind the eye patch twitched—like a glitch.

Another second passed.

"…Fine," Asuka said at last. "One question. If it's stupid, I'm closing the door."

The girl lit up.

Asuka braced for impact.

"What's up with you and Shinji?" the girl asked, all curiosity and zero shame.

Asuka sighed.
How did I know you'd ask that? she muttered inwardly, dragging a hand down her face.

"Nothing," she said aloud, deadpan. Clipped. Surgical.

"Really?" the girl tilted her head. "Cause I could feel the tension when you saw him. Like... I could cut through it with a knife."

"Nothing," Asuka repeated. This time flatter, like concrete poured into a mould.

"I mean, it's weird," the girl continued, relentless. "You're the one who told us not to be too hard on him."

"Yeah, well," Asuka exhaled through her teeth, "that was before that brat failed to listen, ran off to his daddy, and escalated our situation drastically."

"Ohhh…" The girl nodded, the sound half gasp, half giggle. "So you got in a fight."

Asuka looked off toward the sky like she was begging a higher power to intervene.

"Yes. We got in a fight."

"Did you lose?"

"No."

Pause.

"…My Unit-02 just ran out of power."

"So you lost," the girl grinned.

"No," Asuka deadpanned. "I didn't lose. She ran out of power."

"Thereby contributing… to your loss," the girl concluded, eyes twinkling.

Asuka sighed again. If she sighed one more time, she'd turn into a ceiling fan.

"Fine. I lost. Is that what you wanna hear?"

"Nope," the girl shrugged. "I wanna know how you got here, without the Wunder."

Asuka grunted. "Dragged that brat across the wasteland. Him and the Ayanami-type. Didn't even say thank you. Getting him out of the entry plug was like wrestling with a wet mattress."

The last part came out low. Mumbled.

"But eventually KenKen found us." She shrugged. "Thank god. Otherwise the brat would've been toast."

"Wow," the girl blinked. "You really hate him, don't you?"

There was a silence.

Asuka stared at her. Then off into the middle distance. Then back again.
If she rolled her eye any harder, it might detach.

"If I hated him," she said coolly, "I would've left him right there in the plug. Or when he wouldn't eat. Or when he stared blankly into space like a kicked puppy for three whole days."

The girl frowned slightly.

"I would've let him die," Asuka added, voice a little quieter now. "A long time ago."

You don't get to take the easy way out.

Another pause.

"…But you didn't," the girl said. "Why?"

She knew why. Of course she did. But couldn't bring herself to say it.
Some truths didn't come out easy, not when tired and spoken.
Not when the wind carried that scent of wet earth and old guilt.

The girl watched her. She saw it—the flicker of something behind that soldier's mask: a twitch in the jaw, the slow crush of her eye narrowing. Stoicism giving way to irritation, then something uglier, rage maybe?

Then something even worse: acceptance. The sour, shameful kind.

Another sigh.

God, she was tired of sighing.

That sigh made her sigh again.

"I don't know," Asuka said finally. Her voice was too quiet to be cruel, but too sharp to be kind. "Maybe I have a soft spot for small idiotic broken things."

The anger wasn't pointed—it wasn't meant for the girl. It was raw, misdirected. Heavy.
Mad sadness, hanging off her words like wet laundry.

The girl just smiled. Calm. Knowing.

She held the cloth bag forward.

Asuka took it. Slowly. Like it weighed something more than herbs.
The girl stepped in, just a bit—and for once, Asuka didn't pull back.

There was warmth in the gesture. Something small and human.

And when the bag fully traded hands, she looked up at her. Gently.

"Thank you," Asuka said, her voice rasped at the edge. "I appreciate it."

"No problem," the girl replied.

And then came the bomb.

"You knew who my parents were, didn't you?"

It landed quiet, but it echoed.

Asuka didn't flinch, but it stopped her cold.
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

If she sighed one more time, she was going to kick herself.

So she did.

"I knew them," she said. Voice tight. Professional. "Yes."

"But it's better if you forgot about them."

"Why?" the girl asked.

A genuine question. No suspicion, no hostility, just curiosity. Earnest, plain and bright.

Asuka looked at her for a long time.

Then finally said—

"…Because some things are better left buried."

"I wanna know," the girl said, and there it was—almost a demand, but wrapped in an adolescent insistence that made it bearable.

"I can't tell you," Asuka replied. Her voice was flat, but not harsh.

"Why?"

"I just…" She stopped herself.

The instinct to reach out came fast—reflexive. Her hand almost moved, to touch the girl's shoulder, or cheek, or something.
But she fought it. She'd been fighting it for years.

"I just can't, okay…"

"MMMMMMMMMMMMM," the girl groaned, dragging the sound out like a frustrated kettle. She clearly didn't buy it—but swallowed her protest anyway. Her arms dropped, defeated.

"Fine…" she said.

"Thank you," Asuka exhaled—almost a sigh. Almost.
She caught herself just in time.
No more sighs today. You've hit the quota.

"But we're not done," the girl added, pointing a finger, a promise more than a threat. "I'll be back."

"Sure you will," Asuka said, barely hiding the upward curve of her lips. She almost patted the girl's head—again almost—but the gesture halted in mid-air. She let it fall.

"You won't be so declining next time," the girl warned, striding backwards now. "I'll get you to talk."

"I'll be ready," Asuka said, smiling softly. That rare kind—crooked, tired, but real.
"Now get outta here."

The girl grinned and turned, walking off with the same determined bounce she always had.

Asuka stood there for a long moment, cloth bag in hand.

Then she looked up at the pale blue morning sky.

"…Damn brat," she muttered.

But she was still smiling.

Chapter 3: Everybody Loves The Sunshine

Notes:

I didn't write this chapter alone, I had help from @VarysTheDegen on ff.net, thanks for helping spruce this one up.

The day went by as usual.

The portable handheld console sat blank on the table. She'd drained its battery button-mashing during the late morning haze, hoping something, anything, would fire the dopamine receptors in her brain.

But nothing did. The music chip glitched. The screen glitched. The mission log glitched. Everything around her kept glitching.

Except her.

Fourteen years and not a scratch––not from combat at least. Not even an inch taller. Still the same plugsuit-ready corpse of a girl who'd only ever know the cockpit of an EVA.

Asuka sat on the edge of Kensuke's couch with one leg tucked under the other, elbow digging into her knee, cheek resting on the heel of her palm. The wind outside made that plastic hanging thing clatter against the eaves again. She hated that thing.

But It was quiet now, too quiet.

She stood up slowly, shaking off dust that isn't there.

Her eye drifted to the window. Somewhere out there, past the trees and the shivering wind, that Brat Shinji was busy doing god knows what, and probably acting like a child about it. She almost felt something twist in her stomach. She almost let it.

Scary.

Instead, she walked over to the window and stood for a while, arms rested on the window stool.

This wasn't a home. It was just another post. Another base between fights. The walls were too thin. The food too bland. The silence too patient, like it was waiting for her to talk back.

And yet, for all her cursing, she hadn't left…

The door creaked open sometime later, unannounced. She didn't flinch. She knew the sound of those boots. Not Shinji—he shuffled. These were worn leather, light but firm, and steady. Kensuke.

"Shikinami…" he said gently. He didn't need to ask if she was okay.

She didn't turn around. "The faucet is still leaking."

"Oh yeah, I'll get to it soon." He set something down on the table. Maybe a toolbox. Maybe a ration tin. Maybe another of those tea sets he swore were 'salvaged' and not stolen. "You should eat."

"Already did."

He knew that was a lie. He didn't comment. Instead, he moved to the window, not quite beside her, but enough to make it a presence. She was watching the sun shift past the clouds, lighting up patches of Village-03 like it meant something.

"You talked to them again?" he asked softly.

Asuka didn't respond at first.

"Maybe," she said, after a while of thinking.

"Does Ikari know?" he asked.

Asuka groaned.
"I'll take that as a no." Kensuke said

"He knows." Asuka replied, "I just hope he's not doing something stupid about it."

He gave her his newfound quiet and neutral calm smile. Never pity. Just presence.

"It's good that you told him." He said, "He deserved to know."

Asuka scoffed, "Disagree. Plus, it's not like I told him. He found out on his own."

"Still for the best," He replied, gaze fixed on the sterile, humming horizon beyond the reinforced glass. "Maybe it'll give him something to cling to."

"Why him and not me?" The question cracked, sharp and sudden.

"You already have yours," He answered, voice low.

"What? My glorious, half-crippled Unit-02?" A bitter laugh escaped her. "More endless battles against Gendo Ikari?"

"No." He finally turned, his glasses reflecting the cold, fluorescent light. turning his eyes into opaque discs. "Your place… Here."

"Here?" She spat the word like poison. "I hate it here."

He chuckled lightly, a dry, papery sound. "Maybe… but it's still your home."

A guttural groan vibrated in her throat. He instinctively took a half-step back, hands rising slightly in surrender.

"Or… y'know… A place where you can lay your head down…with a vending machine that doesn't work."

"Shut up, Kenken!" she snapped, the command edging dangerously close to a pout. Another chuckle escaped Kensuke – brittle, but persistent. A defence mechanism polished by years orbiting her supernova intensity.

"The people down there think you're hero Shikinami…" He said, almost solemnly "You're like an action hero…Or an anime fighting girl." He chuckled again, the sound tinged with an awkward awe. "They might even start plastering your face on cheap posters. Believe it."

"God, shut up, Kenken."

But she didn't really mean it, and Kensuke knew.

Of course he knew. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was thick with the ghosts of battles fought and losses mourned.

Then, soft as a falling feather, yet heavy as a tombstone:

"They don't know me…" She said, a hint of raw sadness, sharp and unexpected, bled into her voice. "And they definitely don't know him…if he screws this up. If he..."

"He won't," Kensuke stated, simple, stubborn faith cutting through the gloom.

"You don't know him like I do!" The words burst out, sharp and defensive. "To you, he's just your awkward friend. To me…" She trailed off, pinching the bridge of her nose as if trying to crush a burgeoning headache, or perhaps a tidal wave of complicated history. "It's just… I don't know."

Kensuke didn't argue. He just shifted his weight, hands sinking deeper into the pockets of his practical, slightly-too-large jacket. His posture was that of a broken tripod, still pointed resolutely out the window, scanning the outside for meaning.

"If you're that worried," he offered, "Why not go into the village yourself."

"No." She exhaled, the word brittle. "I can't… I just… I can't."

Kensuke didn't push. He just stood there, watching the sun bleed into the horizon with her, the silence stretching like an old scar. And after a while, he nodded.

"I understand."

Kensuke didn't try to fix her. Didn't shovel empty reassurances into the quiet. He just let it sit between them, heavy but comfortable, like snowfall muffling the world.

That was the kindness of him—He just stayed.

"Thank you." She said.

Somewhere outside, in the distance, a voice called out. Faint, but unmistakable.

Somewhere beyond the brush, a voice cut through the stillness—faint, but unmistakable.

"I think I see the house!"

Asuka stiffened.

Kensuke squinted past the overgrowth. Two figures now, distorted by the heat-haze rising.

Shinji and the boy, Dirty and soaked up to their knees, trudging like survivors of some minor, self-inflicted apocalypse.

"You gonna let them in?" Kensuke asked, gentle, like he was nudging a stray cat toward an open door.

Asuka didn't answer. She stayed rooted at the window, arms now crossing as the boy—overzealous, overbalanced—tripped over a gnarled root.

Shinji lunged, a half-second too late, and they both went down in a clumsy explosion of dust and flailing limbs.

The boy howled with laughter, rolling onto his back like it was the funniest damn thing that had ever happened to anyone, ever.

Shinji, meanwhile—ever the human sponge for awkwardness and second-hand embarrassment—just knelt there, blinking, his expression caught somewhere between mild suffering and vague, bemused concern.

Then their daughter walked up, arms crossed in perfect mimicry of her mother, and stared down at the two of them like they were—

"Idiots." Asuka muttered.

---

Earlier.

They'd managed to catch about five fish.

The stain on the soul—heavy, black, slick with guilt—hadn't been removed. But it felt lighter. Shinji Ikari could breathe again. For now, anyway.

There was still a weariness in his bones. A spiritual fatigue. Something cold and permanent that no good deed or small joy could fully thaw.

The afternoon arrived slow and late, like a train pulling into a ghost station.

What had Kensuke said once?
"Our quota's one fish a week, you'll have another chance."

Well, we beat that, Shinji thought. Maybe I'll take a bow.

The walk back to Village-03 was long and quiet. Cold wind felt in the pants, along with wet socks In drying sandy shoes. The smell of river water clung to him like a confession. His unknowing son would laugh whenever he complained.

"You're chatty all of a sudden."

"That's 'cause I'm cold," Shinji muttered.

"Yeah well, yapping won't warm you up."

Where did he get this snarkiness from? Shinji wondered. Not from me. Maybe not from Asuka either. A third, more chaotic party must've intervened.

Back at the village, the old lady didn't yell as much this time. Just muttered something about "rations" and "grace," then let them keep one fish each—cleaned, deboned, and wrapped in brown wax paper like a gift from an older, harsher world.

"Been a while since I've cooked," Shinji said, mostly to himself.

"You cook?" The boy arched an eyebrow, skeptic

"Yeah." Shinji nodded, a flicker of something almost like enthusiasm in his voice. "I should… cook for you sometime. I think you'd like it."

"Sure, why not." The boy shrugged, a small, easy smile tugging at his lips. "You heading back to the old lady's place?"

Shinji hesitated. A shadow passed over his face—brief, but unmistakable. Kensuke's house didn't feel like home yet. Not with Asuka prowling the halls like a caged wolf, her glare sharp enough to flay skin. Sometimes, he swore she was measuring him for a coffin.

"Not yet," he replied. "Maybe I'll look around the village for a while. Rei checked up on me a few days ago, so… maybe I'll check up on her."

"That sounds cool." The boy rocked back on his heels, then flashed a grin. "Orrrr you could play some ball with us?"

"Ball?" Shinji blinked.

"Soccer." The boy rolled his eyes, fondly exasperated. "Football. You kick?"

"I've… never really played."

The boy's grin turned sly. "Good. You'll fit right in."

"What do you—?" But before Shinji could finish, his son was already bolting, kicking up dust like a startled hare.

"Wait—!" Shinji scrambled after him, fish still clutched awkwardly in hand.

Village-03's makeshift plaza gave way to an abandoned building - some old schoolhouse, its walls cracked but stubbornly upright. Beyond it lay a wounded field where grass pushed through faded chalk lines and broken concrete.

One of those ominous Anti-L Sealing pillars loomed in the distance, a few workers crawling over its base like ants on a monolith.

The afternoon sun bathed everything in liquid gold. Even the rusted goalposts gleamed like sacred relics in that light.

Shinji slowed as they reached the edge of the field. A scattered tribe of kids - mostly young, a few older - were racing, gambling with worn cards, or just lounging in the ruins of what might've once been a proper schoolyard.

"Welcome to the Quad," the boy announced.

"The...Quad?" Shinji echoed.

"Yeah, the Quad," the boy said, kicking a pebble. "We hang here...sometimes…"

"Why only sometimes?"

The boy's grin turned sharp. "Gets dicey when adults come sniffing around."

Shinji almost said I am an adult, before remembering his body had been frozen at fourteen while the world kept turning.

"Dicey how?"

"Doesn't matter," the boy shrugged, already heading towards the field.

Shinji followed but then froze mid-step, a sudden glare of light catching the corner of his vision like a camera flash.

"Ayanami?" The name left his lips before he could stop it.

She was standing still in the middle of it all, like a statue placed by mistake in a playground.

Her plugsuit gleamed under the harsh afternoon sun, too bright, too artificial against the faded tones of the ruined quad.

She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, like she was waiting for a command that hadn't been issued yet.

One of the younger boys kicked a ball toward her. A light pass, a challenge, maybe even a joke. She tilted her head at it—calculating, patient—and then, after a pause long enough to be uncomfortable, kicked it back.

Not hard. Not clumsly. Just… deliberate.

It rolled straight to the boy. A perfect line. He grinned.

"Nice one!" someone called.

Rei-Q said nothing, but her eyes followed the ball this time, not the people. That was new.

Then she saw him. Their eyes met, across the field.

She raised a hand, uncertain.

He waved back.

Then, slowly, Rei turned her gaze back to the others. To the children. And when the ball rolled her way again, she didn't wait this time. She moved—still too graceful, too smooth to look normal—but she moved nonetheless.

"That's... odd," Shinji murmured.

He watched as Rei pivoted mechanically, sending the ball arcing off her heel toward a girl near the goal. A half-hearted cheer rose from the scattered players.

And there he stood. A damp, fish-clutching statue in the middle of this absurd tableau.

Is she actually playing soccer? The thought bounced around his skull like the ball at her feet. There was something surreal about watching her expressionless face as she jogged across the field, moving with that same eerie precision whether evading tackles or passing to teammates.

The kids weren't playing seriously, but Rei's clinical participation made it look like some strange anthropological experiment.

Another ball whistled past his face close enough that the wind snapped at his eyelashes.

"Woah—!" Shinji staggered back, the fish in his hand flopping limply in protest, as if offended by his lack of situational awareness.

"Well come on!" His son said, waving at him , face half-shadowed by the golden sun, half-lit by something like genuine excitement.

"Let's play."

"I've never really played," Shinji called back, awkwardly cradling the fish like a newborn mistake. "I'm not even—"

Another boy came from behind and pushed him further into the quad. "Just put the fish down and play."

A laugh escaped from a teen in a sleeveless jacket. Dust kicked up as others gathered. There weren't teams so much as clusters. Order didn't matter out here—only movement. Shinji placed the fish on the edge of a bench like a fragile offering to normalcy, stripped off his jacket, and stepped barefoot unto the quad.

The ball was already moving.

"Just don't use your hands," the boy said, grinning.

"Or your head…much," someone added, and a ripple of knowing chuckles ran through the kids.

Shinji winced. "What…?"

Was there something in that ball?

They passed it to him. It came slow. Mercifully slow. I can do this. He thought.

He raised one foot and kicked…but there was no sound. The ball had passed in the space between thought and motion. the ball trickled right between his legs. Soft. Humbling.

A pause.

No one laughed—yet.

Then:
"Who is this guy?"

Silence.

Followed by a cough.
Then a single clap. Sarcastic. Echoing.
Then everyone tried not to laugh, which made it worse. One kid turned red from the effort. Another one doubled over behind a tree.

"I've never seen a miss, that bad," someone whispered.

"He missed… in slow motion."

"Wait, is he okay? Do we check if he's okay?"

Shinji just stood there. Stock still.
Emotionless.
Processing.
This was worse than being in an Eva.

He turned to leave.

"Hey, hey, don't go! You scared it off! Try again!"

They rolled the ball back to him. It hit his shoe gently, then rolled away again like it changed its mind.

Someone finally burst out laughing. The whole group followed like a dam breaking.
But it wasn't cruel—it was contagious. Even Shinji, after a beat, let out a short, helpless wheeze.

He tried again.

It bounced off his shin awkwardly, and Rei-Q, standing to the side, tilted her head again. Observing. Calculating.

They began playing, really playing, and the game soon found a rhythm despite him. Bodies in motion. Half-goals. Accidental strategy.

Rei jogged along in her own game—stiffly—after the ball, and kicked it back with robotic grace. No celebration. No smile. Just Rei…present. Participating.

Then at the corner of his eye, he noticed his daughter.

She was walking with two other girls—older maybe, but just as tough, laughing about something that smelled like trouble and pickled vegetables. She saw him, eyes squinting in the light. And smiled.

"Go Shinji!" she called out, loudly. Playfully.

Shinji froze.

The ball rolled past him like it had somewhere better to be.

The others caught it—caught the name. The full name.

Everything quieted once again. Not with reverence or comedy. But recognition.

A scraping noise. One of the boys—older, broader, all scars and bruises—hopped down from a crumbling platform at the edge of the makeshift pitch.

"Shinji Ikari…" he repeated, slowly. Like tasting something bitter.
He started walking forward.

Shinji felt the chill before the wind picked up. The boy had the walk of someone who'd had to bury someone too young.

"You're the Shinji Ikari," the boy said, voice to quiet. Too calm.
"The one who turned the sky red…"

Shinji opened his mouth. Then closed it. What was he supposed to say?

Sorry?

The boy was in front of him now, taller. Hands at his sides––clenched.

"My little brother died because of you."

The words hit like a gut punch. Shinji's throat closed. "I—I'm... I'm—"

"Sorry?" The boy's mouth twisted into something ugly. "Nah. You're not sorry."

Fabric ripped as the boy lunged—too fast, too angry—grabbing Shinji's jacket. Shinji's hands moved on instinct, clamping around the boy's wrist. He didn't know why. Didn't know how to fight back. Just held on like a man clinging to a cliff edge.

"Hey!" Shinji's Unknowing son shoved forward. "Leave him alone!"

"Stay out of this, A," the boy snarled, spit flying.

"He didn't do anything to you!"

"He's the reason we're all in this fucking mess!" The words tore out of him, raw and bleeding. Shinji felt the boy's muscles coil tighter under his grip.

"Let him go. Now." The unknowing son's fists clenched—knuckles white, shoulders squared. The crowd of kids stared, but no one breathed. No one blinked.

Shinji braced himself. His son ever racing to his rescue.

The angry boy yanked his arm back—this would be a punch—Shinji's lungs locked, and then–

"Enough."

The voice cut through the tension like a knife.

A new figure stepped into the circle—lean muscle under a patched-up uniform, sleeveless jacket and hair so dark it seemed violet.

A small pack of boys hovered behind him, tense but ready.

"Let him go," the newcomer said, calm as a sniper's exhale.

"Fuck off, Kaji," the angry boy spat.

Kaji didn't blink. "Let. Him. Go." Each word landed like a hammer strike.

For one long second, no one moved. Then—

Kaji's crew began to step forward, just slightly. Just enough.

The boy shoved Shinji—threw him, really.
And Shinji hit the ground with a dull thud, air punched out of his lungs, grit biting into his palms.

The angry boy stepped back, sneering.
"You're not worth it," he muttered, to no one in particular, to everyone.
Then walked off, shoulder-checking one of Kaji's boys on the way out.

Shinji sat there in the dust, stunned.

His unknowing son dropped beside him in a crouch, frantic. "You okay?"
He nodded, or tried to. "Yeah… yeah, I'm okay."

Kaji stepped forward now, casting a shadow that felt both familiar and strange.
Up close, the resemblance was unmistakable.

The name hadn't been said, but Shinji knew.
The walk, the look, the poise. Misato's steadiness. Kaji's calm. Their child, somehow, right here.
The realization hit like a wave.

"You took that better than I expected," He said, with a smile.

"I didn't do anything," he said.

"Exactly." He offered a hand, half-amused. "On brand."

Shinji took it.

And just like that, the world unfroze. Dust stirred again. Sounds came back in all their banality—kids shuffling, someone coughing, the distant clang of metal on metal. Life resumed, but it didn't feel the same.

He blinked. "Why help me?"

Kaji shrugged. "Why not help you?" His voice was steady and unpolished, "We start handing out blame like it's candy, no one walks away clean. Not me. Not you. Not anyone."

Shinji didn't know what to say to that. He barely understood it. "I don't really understand… but thanks…Kaji."

"No problem." Kaji nodded, the name sitting strangely on his own shoulders. A hand-me-down. "But you better head out. Some of these guys still wanna punch the harbinger of doom, if you catch my drift."

"Yeah…" Shinji muttered.

His unknowing son stepped in. "Let's get outta here."

His unknowing daughter joined them, leaving her friends behind with a nervous little wave. "I'm really sorry about that," she said, her voice soft, like she'd just learned shame was a thing people could feel for others.

"It's okay," Shinji replied, pulling on his shoes with the slow resignation of someone who's been knocked over too many times to flinch anymore. The jacket—Toji's old thing—still smelled faintly like river water and forest.

"Smooth move, sis," her brother grunted. "Really couldn't have figured people might hate his guts?"

"I was happy in the moment," she shot back, scowling. "I didn't think about that."

Shinji just nodded, his breath slow and fogging in the cooler air. "I'm fine, really. Just…"

He turned in a small, sad circle. "Where's the fish?"

They all paused.

The siblings looked around. Empty gravel. A few cigarette butts. No paper wrap. No river-fresh catch.

"Shit," the boy muttered.

Shinji exhaled. Not angry—just tired. "Someone must've taken it."

"I left mine with the old lady," the boy offered. "We can swing by and grab it."

"Yeah…" Shinji said. That sounded like something a person with a life might do. Pick up fish. Head to Kensuke's and Eat.

"We'll walk you back," the girl said, hands behind her back, trying not to meet his eye.

It felt surreal. Ridiculous. Two strangers who looked like someone he might've raised, offering to escort him like a wounded war hero.

He nodded again and said nothing.

The three of them walked—father and children, none of them knowing the full shape of it—into the setting sun…to where the fish had waited.

---

The road back to Kensuke's house was long and uneven. Shinji's pants had started to dry somewhere between the village plaza and the rice paddies, but then the boy had spotted frogs in the irrigation trench and decided they had to investigate.

One misstep. One splash. And Shinji's knees were wet again.

He hadn't even protested. Just followed. Like always.

By the time they emerged from the tree line, sunburnt and smelling faintly of riverweed and something like old vinegar, Shinji saw it—the house. And in the topmost window: her.

Asuka…Staring

The sight of her hit like a low-impact collision. No violence, just inertia.

She didn't wave. Didn't blink. Just stood there, silhouetted by heat-haze and judgment.

Kensuke's figure appeared next. Leaning out with a hand to his brow, the calm lighthouse keeper waiting to see if the ship coming in was salvageable.

Then it happened.

The boy's boot caught on a root—gnarled, mean-looking—and he pitched forward with all the grace of a capsizing grocery cart.

"Wait—!" Shinji lunged instinctively, but he was half a second late and twice as uncoordinated. His foot slipped. Gravity made its cruel argument.

Dust rose.

Skin met earth.

And then the boy was laughing. Laughing like he'd never known shame, like the world wasn't built to punish joy.

Shinji, meanwhile, just knelt there in the dirt, one hand braced on the ground, the other caught between helping and apologizing.

He could already feel her eyes on him.

That singular, suffocating sensation of being observed—Judged, catalogued. Like a curious bird pinned to a page in a taxonomy book titled: Disappointments I Have Known.

He looked up in time to see his daughter—a miniature Asuka in posture and presence—step into view. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised.

Shinji braced himself for commentary.

"Idiots," she muttered, with perfect deadpan delivery. And they kept walking.

They reached the door, and Asuka opened it. Kensuke was just behind.

She didn't speak.

Didn't step aside.

Just stood there, one hand on the frame, her eye scanning the group like it was an unfamiliar photograph from a life she didn't remember choosing. Shinji and the twins.

Her gaze didn't sharpen. It dulled. Like a knife that's already cut too much.

And for a moment, no one moved.

Not even the wind.

The boy tried first—brave and stupid. "We brought fish," he said, raising the parcel like an apology. His smile faltered halfway through and died in the corner of his mouth.

Shinji didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

He knew that look. The one Asuka wore.

She sighed.

Not loudly. Just enough to say: I'm not doing this again...

Then she turned and walked back inside.

The door stayed open, and the breeze caught it and held it there like a dare.

Kensuke stood a few paces off, hands in the pockets of a jacket that had outlived multiple battles and one broken heart.

He watched her walk away, then turned to the ragged lot on the step. A girl with muddy shoes and too much curiosity. A boy scuffed at the knees and snarky as ever. And Shinji.

Especially Shinji.

"You guys might be in trouble," Kensuke said, lips pursed around the ghost of a grin.

"Shut up," the girl replied, already pushing past him to get inside.

"We're screwed," the boy muttered, still holding the fish like it might shield him from consequence.

Shinji sighed. The kind of sigh that goes straight to the spine and unspools every vertebrae.

Kensuke chuckled. A low, knowing thing.

"Come on in," he said. "Can't cook fish, so dinner's on you, Ikari."

The door creaked once behind them, but it didn't close.

It just swayed there in the warm evening air.

Open.

Still open.

Like a wound.
Like a chance.

Chapter 4: And The Beat Goes On

Notes:

I think I need to sprinkle in some more (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧Depression✧ﾟ･: *ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ) jk, jk...rowling...don't leave…don't leave…not yet(ಥ﹏ಥ)

This one is gonna be a short one, or not it's hard to tell outside of word. but the count is low.

 

He'd gotten back into the rhythm of it. Vinegar and Nostalgia

Shinji's hands moved on muscle memory, dicing daikon, rice cooker humming its familiar tune, steam curling like the ghost of simpler meals.

Pickled vegetables and Evenly cooked rice.

His motions didn't feel like a performance. The knife against the board wasn't hesitant. The simmering pot didn't threaten to boil over with his insecurities.

Just rhythm. A rhythm that, somewhere between during Near-third Impact, he'd forgotten his bones still knew.

The fish—already stripped of bone, blood, and memory—lay pale and glistening beneath the shack's dim kitchen light. It caught the dull shine of evening fading to night. Flesh cool beneath his fingers, supple as silence.

With steady hands, Shinji ran the blade along the grain, slicing each fillet into even portions. Each cut was deliberate. Like a breath held. Like an apology. Like a prayer he wasn't sure anyone heard anymore.

One half he salted gently and laid over the binchōtan coals, the crackle soft as ash drifting from a long-dead fire. The other, he brushed with soy and a splash of sake—or something like it, Kensuke had brought it back from an old cellar, floral and slightly fermented, like spring clinging to decay.

He added a touch of mirin, and whisper of sesame oil. The pan hissed, a low exhale, as the edges browned and curled inwards like sleeping petals.

"Nice." He whispered to himself.

He plated with quiet precision: pickled daikon, still crisp. A dusting of yuzu peel, bright and bitter, along with tea.

The aroma rose—clean, sharp, and fleeting. Oceanic and familiar. A small moment of perfection before it was swallowed.

And then—

"That's… weird," Shinji muttered, frowning as he took a test bite from the edge of the seared fillet.

There was salt. Technically. But it was mostly bland. The sesame oil, the mirin, the sharp tang of the yuzu—all things he had smelled—didn't come through at all on the tongue. It tasted like warm water and ash.

He tried again and still nothing. A flat, salty dullness.

"What…?" He blinked at the plate. That doesn't make any sense.

He raised his voice slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Hey—can you come here a second?"

His unknowing son poked his head into the kitchen, looking already halfway out the door in spirit, desperate to escape Asuka's silent gravitational pull from across the room.

"What's up?" the boy asked, edging forward with the hesitance of someone who knew full well who else was in the house.

Shinji gestured to the plate. "Try this. Just… tell me what you taste."

The boy shrugged and took a bite. He chewed theatrically, lips pursed, making a series of exaggerated "hmmmmm" and "ahhhmmm" noises like a parody of a food critic.

"Tastes good," he said finally, thumbs up. "Can we eat now? The old lady's scaring me."

Shinji glanced past him.

Asuka hadn't moved from her place at the table. But her stare had fixed onto him with the intensity of a dog defending territory. Not barking—just watching. One eye gleamed with something cold and ancient, smouldering, slow and deep. The eyepatch caught the light, and for a second Shinji could've sworn it was glowing, like the coal-black gaze of an Evangelion just before activation.

Kensuke sat nearby with his usual quiet diplomacy, wearing that neutral smile that somehow stayed intact no matter how many knives were under the table. And the girl—his daughter––looked like she was two seconds away from poking Asuka with a chopstick, just to see what would happen.

Would she get bitten ? Or flayed alive?

"Okay, but…" Shinji rubbed at his temple and stared down at the plate again.

Something was wrong.

The food was fine. The plating was precise. The seasoning was correct.

So why couldn't he taste it?

Why did everything feel… muted?

Something was missing.

"Stop that!" Asuka hissed suddenly.

Shinji looked up just in time to see their daughter snap back into a neutral posture, hands folded neatly on the table, like she hadn't just been reaching toward danger. She stared straight ahead, blinking slowly, like a cat pretending it hadn't knocked something off a shelf.

"Sorry," Asuka muttered a moment later, her voice quieter, more automatic.

Kensuke gave a soft huff, A laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Fine," Shinji said, with a sigh that was halfway to surrender. "I'll dish up. You can go back."

"I'm not going back there alone," the boy shot back immediately, eyes wide. He jerked his thumb toward the table like it was a war zone.

"What? Are you afraid?" Shinji asked, not accusing—just curious. Like someone poking at an old scar to see if it still hurt.

"Aren't you?" his son fired back.

They both turned slowly to glance at her.

Asuka. Sitting perfectly still.

The growl wasn't audible.

It lived under the surface, behind the one working eye and the ever-so-slight tremor of her jaw. There was a heat in the room, and it was all coming from her direction.

Shinji didn't flinch…Much.

"Maybe," he admitted, and it almost came out as a joke. Almost.

Asuka's chair scraped against the floor.

The sound was soft, but they both stiffened like they'd heard a gun cock.

"We're coming," Shinji said quickly, lifting the plates with a kind of ceremonial calm. "It's almost done."

"No problem," Kensuke said from the table, ever the diplomatic monk in the middle of a domestic cold war. "Smells good."

Asuka hadn't moved to stand. But she'd shifted. Sat straighter. Back taut like a bowstring, one elbow resting on the edge of the table like it might splinter under her touch. The eye—the one hidden beneath the patch—was dull and hot. Like a low-burning coal. Anger and something else.

Their daughter watched it all unfold with a kind of delighted neutrality, eyes darting between players in the scene like she was keeping score.

Too smart for her own good, that one. Asuka didn't have to say it. She just felt it—like a premonition. Like the migraine of an angel forming behind her eye.

A smirk flickered at the edge of the girl's mouth. Not cruel. Just... curious.

"Whatever you're thinking," Asuka said, voice flat, "Just please don't."

"I won't," the girl replied, deadpan, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit.

Asuka narrowed her gaze, offended in a way she couldn't quite justify. "You were trying to poke me."

"You were staring daggers at him," she replied, arms crossed, face already mid-pout. "I wanted to see something."

"Like?"

"Nothing," she muttered, suddenly eleven years old again. Asuka caught herself mid-sigh, forced it back down like bile.

No. No more sighing. Not tonight.

Shinji entered with son in tow, both of them carrying plates like offerings at an altar. Fish. Rice, along with tea. The illusion of a meal.

Of Neutrality.

Of Family.

They had all gathered at the table like it was a ceasefire.

Kensuke sat—shoulders relaxed, eyes soft, the smile of a man who had learned the value of quiet neutrality.

The children took their seats with unease, and Shinji lowered himself down with the solemnity of someone waiting to be judged.

The plates had been set. Steam rose gently from the rice bowls, from the grilled fish, from the pickled vegetables arranged in careful, silent symmetry.

And then that moment.

The pause.

The unspoken ritual.

Shinji folded his hands. "Itadakimasu," he said, softly.

The others followed, more or less. Kensuke nodded, murmuring it without fuss. The boy said it too, but a beat too late. The girl mouthed it but didn't bother with her voice. And Asuka…

Asuka said nothing.

Just stared at her plate.

Then, finally, she picked up her chopsticks.

No other words followed—just the soft, practiced rustle of movement. Rice lifted to lips. A piece of fish folded neatly, bones already pulled, consumed in one or two bites.

The soundscape was minimal: chopsticks tapping gently against ceramic, the faint clink of cups, someone exhaling through their nose after too much.

No slurping, no slouching. Even tension, it seemed, had its etiquette.

"This is really good," his unknowing son said, already halfway through his portion, cheeks full and eyes wide.

"Yeah," his unknowing daughter agreed, squinting at her plate like it might reveal its secrets. "This is like… chef food. Restaurant food."

Shinji offered a nod, mechanical. "Thanks."

He chewed slowly. Carefully. As if trying to find the taste hidden somewhere in the act itself. But all he got was salt and muddy water. A texture like wet paper. The fish barely registered. The spices lingered at the very edge of sensation—ghosts of flavour that never quite arrived.

He wanted to like it. He remembered liking it.

But now… it just felt like chewing through a memory.

Across the table, Asuka watched him. Of course she did. She always had the unfortunate talent of noticing his quietest failures. His private humiliations. The way he twitched when he was uncomfortable. The way he blinked too much when he lied. His relationship with food, his breath, his spine. She knew his pathetic little tendencies better than anyone else.

"Something wrong?" she asked, not gently, but not unkindly either. Her own eating was mechanical—fuel, not pleasure.

Shinji hesitated, chopsticks suspended mid-air.

"No. Nothing," he said. Then, after a breath: "It's just…"

His voice trailed off, and for a moment the room dipped into that strange, hollow quiet—like a breath sucked in and held for too long.

"It's nothing," he said again, softer.

Asuka didn't press. She just stared at him through the steam rising from her tea, eye narrowed, like she already knew what the problem was.

After all, she could barely taste it either.

Kensuke watched them all—the oblivious kids, the hollowed-out pilots, the feast Shinji had prepared.

"This is nice," he said, smiling faintly as he scooped up some rice. "It's been a while since I ate with company…besides Shikinami of course."

"Bad company, and I won't deny," the boy sang under his breath, low and sly.

Asuka kicked him under the table. Not hard—but with intention.

Shinji almost laughed. It bubbled up, reflexive, something human—but Asuka's stare caught him mid-breath, and turned it to ash. He folded back into his plate, like his daughter had earlier. Eyes down. Mouth shut.

"It's can't deny," Kensuke added, amusement tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Still a good line, though."

There was a beat of silence.

Then: "Speaking of company," Asuka's daughter said, her tone so casual it could've been mistaken for innocence. "Did you know my parents?"

She aimed it squarely at Kensuke.

Shinji almost choked on a mouthful of tasteless fish.

Asuka's eye snapped to Kensuke, and for once—for once—there was no fury in it. Just desperation. A quiet, pleading panic. Like she was begging him to do the impossible: LIE YOU FOOL.

Kensuke put his chopsticks down. Laid back in his seat. The old soldier's sigh left his body slow, deliberate.

"Yeah," he said finally. "Yeah… I did."

Asuka's stare sharpened. Her hands clenched under the table.

"Really?" the girl asked, her tone unreadable—half curiosity, half something darker.

"Yeah," Kensuke repeated, with a slow nod and that too-gentle smile that said he was about to commit a sin of kindness. "They were good people. Had their problems. Didn't always get them myself, not completely. But back then… they were busy. Caught up in teenage things. You know. The kind of stuff you're probably dealing with now."

He didn't look at Shinji. Or Asuka. Just the girl.

It was a lie, technically.

But it was also the closest thing to the truth she could handle right now.

"Who were they?" she asked, this time with no smirk. No teasing. Just the kind of seriousness that only teenagers and soldiers seem to get right—clear-eyed and unafraid of the damage.

Kensuke's face didn't change much. Just a soft breath. A stillness.

"I don't think it's my place to tell you," he said gently. "After all… the closest people to your parents are sitting right next to you."

She turned, slow as gravity, to face them.

First Shinji. Then Asuka.

They didn't speak. Didn't flinch. But the silence between them tightened like a wire pulled taut.

That stoic look Asuka wore—it was a mask, but one built from real metal. Even so, the girl could see it now: it was a pressure-point away from cracking. The little tremor around her mouth. The way her fingers curled slightly beneath the table, as if gripping invisible reins.

"You knew my dad?" Shinji's son asked, softly.

And Shinji could only stare down at his tea. The steam curled upward, slow and meaningless. He sipped. Swallowed. Time moved like molasses around his throat.

"I…"

His son leaned in, voice quieter now, but more direct. Less a question. More a plea.

"Hey… you gotta tell me, man."

He looked at Shinji—not just at him, but into him. Like he knew there was something hidden there. Like he was trying to pry it loose with his gaze alone.

And Shinji, for a moment, looked ready to break.

"Well, I guessed so," his daughter muttered, arms crossed now, sharp-eyed and eerily calm. "I mean, it's obvious. But she won't tell me anything."

She nodded toward Asuka, not out of cruelty—but with the kind of irritated honesty that only comes from liking someone and feeling stonewalled.

Asuka didn't react.

Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

But her grip on her chopsticks had turned white-knuckled.

This was it.

That unspoken cliff edge they had all been tiptoeing around—now visible, now undeniable.

And the food on the table was growing cold.

"What are you, my dad?" the girl asked, looking straight at Kensuke.

Shinji nearly dropped his cup.

Asuka stared ahead like her soul had left her body and was politely refusing to return.

The boy smirked, but behind the grin, something shifted. Suspicion. A slow spark in his eyes. He was paying attention now.

Kensuke sipped his tea, unbothered. Smiled, chuckled softly.

"No," he said. "Can you imagine?"

He chuckled again, slightly heavier, as if the laugh was carrying something on its back. "I think your dad would probably hate me if that ever happened."

Asuka didn't move. But the mask had cracked. Shinji saw it—barely a flicker in her eye, the set of her jaw.

She looked tired in a way only he would recognize.

The twins caught it too.

"Why?" they asked in unison, like a knife drawn gently across a plate.

"Well," Kensuke began, setting his cup down with a soft clink, "Your dad was my friend."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes lifted to the ceiling like he was peering through memory.

"I never got to play the 'asshole who hits on his best friend's girl'… but maybe I could've." He glanced—subtly, and only for a second—toward Shinji. A tiny, sweet grin tugged at his lip. "In another world. One with iron maidens. Or a manga. I think I'd be good in a military manga."

The boy tilted his head. What does that mean? he thought, but didn't say.

Asuka was still in reboot mode. Staring straight ahead like Rei in a power cut.

"What's a manga?" Shinji's son asked, eyes narrowing.

"Well—"

"Just tell me who they were!" the girl snapped, her voice sharp now, stripped of humor. Frustration bleeding through. "You all talk like you knew them. So just say it."

A beat.

"If you don't want us to know," her brother added, quieter, "then just say so."

Another pause. Longer this time. It sat heavy in the room.

Kensuke sighed and looked down into his cup like he might find the answer in the dregs.

"All I can say is…" he began, voice level but tinged with something older, "your dad was a good man. Still is. He was lost—same as the rest of us—but he had more riding on him than most."

He paused to drink, slow and reverent, like the tea was sacred.

"He did the best he could with what he had. Played the cards he was dealt. I'd like to thank him. And I'd like to apologize to him—for not being the kind of friend who could help him carry the weight."

Silence.

Kensuke stared into the middle distance now, eyes glassed over with something between guilt and memory.

"And your mom…" He exhaled, long and slow. "She wasn't easy. Never wanted to be. But she cared—more than she'd ever admit." His thumb traced the rim of his cup. "Had a childhood that would've broken most people. Fought like hell just to exist. Took her years to find somewhere she belonged. And when she did…"

The cup emptied. The story unfinished. "I just wish she'd stopped being afraid… long enough to stay."

He looked at Asuka, but not directly. Just enough to acknowledge.

Another sip. The last one.

The table fell quiet again.

The food had long gone cold.

The wind outside rustled the old panels of the shack.

No one spoke.

The girl stared down at her empty plate. Her brother fiddled with his chopsticks. Kensuke remained still, arms crossed, his tea finished, his words spent.

Asuka hadn't moved.

Her hand rested on the table like she was holding something that wasn't there anymore.

Shinji opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words were there. I'm your father. She's your mother. We're sorry…But they caught in his throat like bone.

"You two should help with the dishes tonight," Kensuke said, setting his empty cup aside with the casual authority of a man who'd survived both bureaucracy and heartbreak.

The boy groaned. The girl rolled her eyes. Just enough noise to fracture the silence, barely.

"We're your guests," the boy protested. "What kind of host makes guests wash dishes?"

"Well actually—"Kensuke began, finger raised in mock professorial fashion.

Then—movement.

Asuka uncoiled from her chair with the suddenness of a tripwire snapping. The legs screeched against the floor. A sound that made the twins jolt and Shinji's shoulders hunch reflexively.

"Excuse me." She said, Flat. Final. She was already halfway to the door before the words finished leaving her mouth, vanishing into the swallowing dark of the hallway beyond.

To where? No one knew. The dark? The sea? Some place only she knew how to be miserable in peace.

Shinji stared after her for a second too long, then rose slowly, as if caught in the gravity of her absence.

"It's fine," he said. "I'll do the dishes. You guys can head out."

The boy opened his mouth to argue, but Shinji wasn't looking at him.

"At this hour?" Kensuke asked, frowning. "It's dark."

"Can you walk with them," Shinji replied. "please…"

His tone—quiet, flat, unfamiliar—settled over the table like dust. Not angry. Not loud. Just… final.

It wasn't a question––not really––it was more like a plea.

Kensuke blinked. Then nodded, slow.

"Alright."

The twins looked at each other, unsure. The girl glanced toward the dark where Asuka had vanished. The boy looked at his father—or whoever Shinji was in that moment.

Neither of them spoke.

They rose from the table like it was a funeral they didn't quite understand.

Chapter 5: I'll Keep My Light In My Window

Notes:

I wanna thank @VarysTheDegen for helping me out––again––with this one, originally it was over the top, my mind cranked up to an eleven. Thanks for helping me tone it down, and take it to the human level. (✿◠‿◠)

The water ran hot, too hot—not quite boiling, but enough to turn his skin an angry pink.

Steam fogged the window, erasing his reflection in slow, sweating waves.

Funny. He thought, I should've flinched.

Should've yanked his hands back. But the burn barely registered, just another distant alarm in a body full of them.

He recalled; the meal earlier hadn't tasted much like anything either. Just texture and obligation. Like that chalky protein brick Asuka had shoved down his throat.

Was that when it started?

At least she'd bothered to touch him without drawing blood.

Mock-Lilin, she'd called him.

The word rattled around his skull now, useless as a loose screw.

He wasn't sure anymore. Everything was reimagined now. Rearranged.

He drifted in the memory—the shouting, the choking, the way her hands had trembled even as she forced the brick down his throat––and didn't notice that his grip on a knife slipped.

It cut too deep, opening a red line across his palm. He hissed, the steel clattered into the sink and Shinji stared at his palm.

Soap bubbles.

And blood.

But it looked wrong. It swirled, too thin and too shimmery. Like someone had diluted it with something.

He blinked, leaning closer—was he imagining it?

Maybe.

He reached for it with his other hand, almost curious. And then—

"What are you doing?" Asuka's voice cracked the silence like a whip. His fist clenched automatically, hiding the cut.

When he turned, he found her mirroring him—hands balled up at her sides, knuckles scuffed and peeling.

From punching walls? Wood? Splinters.

The math was the same either way. She scanned him with her one good eye, lingering on the steam-reddened hands, the droplet of not-quite-blood on the counter.

"You're hurt." She said, flat and clinical.

"You too," he replied, nodding at her battered fists.

A beat.

The moment ached for thunder, for rain to pound the roof and give them an excuse to stop talking. But the world offered no such mercy—just the drip of the faucet, the creak of the house, and the vast, yawning silence between them.

"You gonna say something?" Asuka asked, voice clipped with boredom so thin it might crack.

Shinji shook his head.

She exhaled through her nose and stepped further into the kitchen. Her eyes dropped to his hand again.

"You're bleeding pretty bad," she said.

And he was. The pressure wasn't working.

The blood had soaked the length of his hand, dripped down his wrist in irregular heartbeats—too thin, too clean. It glittered faintly on the wood like spilled oil or melted glass.

He stared at his palm like it had betrayed him. Like it didn't belong to him anymore.

Asuka frowned. Not concerned—interested, maybe, or suspicious.

Shinji cradled the wound against his chest.

Asuka walked past him without ceremony. Her footsteps were tired, heavy with some quiet irritation. She moved to the far sink—the one used for blood, bones, and things better left unseen. She turned the tap. Hot water surged out in a cloud of steam.

She flinched.

Just the twitch of an eye, a half-grimace.

"Geyser's overheating again," she muttered, half to herself. "Figures."

Shinji didn't hear her. Not really. His eyes were fixed on his hand. The wound was closing now—too neatly, too fast. knitting together in a way that felt less like healing and more like time rewinding.

The blood had stopped, but what remained shimmered faintly in the flickering light. Not quite red.

What is this?

"What's happening to me?" he asked, voice low.

Asuka yawned, turning slightly from the sink. Not dramatically. Just… tired.

"I think you already know," she said. Then, after a beat—softer:
"How'd the food taste earlier?"

Shinji didn't answer.

"Bland?" she pressed. "Like wet paper? Like you cooked it in a dream?"

Still nothing. But his face gave him away—creased brow, twitching lids, jaw just tight enough to ache.

She didn't need a yes. She already knew.

She glanced at his hand again, watching the way the fluid caught the overhead light. It was too bright. Too clean. Like melted glass. Like liquid moonlight.

Asuka clicked her tongue.

"This is what you are now," she said. "You, me, four-eyed crony, and Original Batch."

Her tone was flat. Unimpressed. Like she was reading ingredients off a soup packet.

"Congratulations," she added. "You're gonna be fourteen forever."

She turned off the tap with a squeak of protest from the pipes. The hiss of the water stopped, leaving only silence and steam.

Shinji didn't move.

Fourteen forever.

Frozen. In between grief and guilt. With nothing left to grow into, and nowhere to decay.

Asuka didn't comfort him.

She just wiped her hands on a threadbare towel and walked past him again like this wasn't new.

Because it wasn't.

She hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Barely long enough to register. And then—

"What happens to our—"

Her fist hit the wall.

Hard.

The wood cracked, and Shinji flinched.

"I told you," she growled, voice low, shaking. "They're mine. Not—"

"Ours." Shinji stepped closer, closing the distance she kept trying to carve between them. "I have no right to claim responsibility for them… when I couldn't even take responsibility for my own actions."

Asuka whirled to face him fully, her eye blazing.

"Is that what you wanna say?" He pressed on, looming nearer still. She held her ground, meeting him eye to eye, close enough that he could see a fracture of light in her left iris—it glinted, hard and unyielding.

"Is that what you wanna say?" he asked, Not threatening—just there. Present. Like he hadn't been in years.

And Asuka—of course—accepted the challenge.

No flinching. No retreat.

She scoffed. Her mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a wound.

"Went outside once and suddenly you think you know everything."

"Not everything," he said. "Just what I'm learning now. Our—"

Her face twisted.

"Children," she corrected, biting the word like it tasted bad.

Shinji nodded. Swallowed hard.

"Our children. Yours and mine. They look like you. And me."

Asuka's stare sharpened into a dagger.

"Your stupid face is probably the reason they get bullied," she snapped.

I didn't know that. he wanted to say.

"You've spent what? A few hours with them? I've had fourteen years, you idiot."

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between rage and exhaustion.

"You don't know anything. So just... stay away."

"No," he said.

And she stepped forward. Close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her skin. Close enough that he had to step back.

He did.

And that—that—seemed to disappoint her.

"No?" she repeated, tilting her head.

"No," he said again.

Quieter. Firmer.

And it hung in the air between them like a match poised above oil.

"No." Asuka repeated it like a curse, her right hand coiling into a fist—knuckles still raw from earlier.

Shinji braced, shoulders tensing, but he didn't back down. "I'm not going anywhere, Asuka." His voice was quieter now, but firmer than she'd ever heard it. "You can be angry all you want. But I have to do this… for myself." For a heartbeat, he swore her fist would fly—her whole body thrummed with the threat of it.

But then—She turned away.

"Whatever." A shrug, sharp enough to draw blood. "Do what you want." She stalked back to the wall where she'd left her first dent, fingers trailing over the splintered plaster like it was an old friend.

Then—CRACK.

Her fist slammed back into the hole, twisting deeper, widening the wound in the wood with a grinding crunch. Small, satisfying cracks as splinters ground against skin.

Ans dust snowed onto the floor.

"But mess this up…" She didn't look at him as she spoke, just drilled her knuckles in harder, until the wall groaned. "...And that'll be you."

Another beat.

She yanked her hand free, shaking off splinters like they were someone else's problem, and vanished down into her room.

Leaving Shinji alone with the hole, the silence, and the unshakable sense that this was the closest thing to permission he'd ever get.

---

"Come onnnn," the girl whined, dragging the word out like it might wear him down by sheer length. "Tell meeee."

Kensuke didn't even look at her. Just sipped his flask with the serene confidence of a man who had spent decades being annoying in exactly this way.

"No."

She groaned, dramatic and undignified. "You're mean, you know that? You're, like, pathologically mean."

"Maybe," he replied, smiling.

A beat

"Pleaseeeee." She begged, And––

"No." he replied, still smiling.

The boy perked up suddenly, as if struck by inspiration. "Tell me who they were or are…and…I'll wash your car."

Kensuke tilted his head in mock-consideration. "Tempting…But No."

"Really!?" the boy said

"Yes." Kensuke replied, continuously smiling.

The girl huffed, "Not even A first letter. Come on. Just one letter."

Kensuke raised a finger, mightly. "No."

"Not even like… a star sign?"

"No."

She narrowed her eyes. "Blood type?"

"I…" he paused, "Don't know."

"What do you want, man?" Shinji's son asked, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "Shinji and Asuka are too messed up in the brain to tell us anything, don't tell me you are too."

"Hey!" Kensuke rebuked, half-shocked, half-amused. "Bit rude, don't you think?"

"It's true," the girl said plainly. "There's something wrong with those two."

Kensuke chuckled under his breath. The irony practically strangled him.

"Yeah," he admitted. "They've got problems."

"Piloting an Eva's gotta mess you up somehow," the girl muttered, as if diagnosing a patient she'd only seen across the room.

"Okay—enough," Kensuke said, raising both hands like a referee calling time-out, "Fine. I'll tell you who they were."

That got their attention.

And Instantly.

Silence…Twin stares, like spotlights turned on him.

"If—" he began.

A pause.

A beat too long.

"If you promise to stop asking for names," he said.

"What?" the girl blinked.

"What does that even mean?" her brother asked, incredulous.

"I'll tell you who they are—"

"So they are alive!" the girl interrupted, catching him in a verbal bear trap.
A sharp intake of breath.
Fuck.

Kensuke closed his eyes like he was biting into a lemon. "I'll tell you who they were if you stop doing this. No more dialogue traps, no more scheming, no more cornering me like I'm some NPC with a side quest. Got it?"

"Promise!" they both said in unnerving unison.

He sighed and It came out of his bones.

"Okay. You want to know who your parents were?"

"Yes," they echoed again. A little breathless this time. Eyes lit up in the moonlight, sparking with hunger.

"Then––" he leaned forward, let the moment hang for drama.

"Look in the mirror."

Silence. Followed by disappointment so profound you could bottle it and use it to poison wells.

"Wow," the girl deadpanned. "I bet you think you're real clever."

"I know I'm clever," Kensuke replied without flinching. "And watch it. I'm still older than you."

She clicked her tongue. He swore she gave him a middle finger—the subtl, ancient, kind. Passed down through generations of insolent teenagers.

"No, seriously," he said, catching them before they could turn away. "If you want to know the truth… look in the mirror. I mean it."

"You trying to say we're ugly?" Shinji's son shot back, brows drawn.

"Were our parents ugly?" the girl added, doubling down.

Kensuke sighed harder. "Dude. Just look in the mirror. It's not rocket science. Not a riddle either. Just—observe. Analyse. Use your brain. If you do that, you'll figure it out."

A quiet beat passed.

The wind drifted lazily through the trees, shaking loose the leaves like it, too, was tired of this conversation.

"…They were ugly, weren't they?" the girl said finally.

Kensuke didn't answer. He just kept walking.

---

Sleep had always been a fickle thing for Shinji Ikari, but tonight it felt like a taunt. Like a punishment.

A curse.

The universe had dangled the promise of rest just to yank it away the moment he reached for it.

He twisted and turned. Turned and then twisted.

Kicked at the sheets tangled around his legs like cables. The old floorboards groaned beneath him, their splinters biting into his jacket—small, real pains to anchor him.

His body, still stuck at fourteen, ached with phantom pains, muscles twitching with memories of wounds that should have killed him.

He curled tighter, cheek pressed to the cold wood, and squeezed his eyes shut until colours burst behind his lids.

Then the visions came, uninvited and relentless.

Kaworu's blood, warm and endless.

The scream of metal as he wrenched the spears free.

Asuka's voice, raw and shattered: "Lay down and take your punishment —"

Unit-13 impaling itself, like it could pierce its own soul.

Misato's scorn. Sakura's Suzuhara's smile. The hiss of LCL and the stink of ozone.

The twins.

The twins.

What's going to happen to them?

The question clawed at his ribs. He hadn't asked their names. Hadn't asked if they were happy. Hadn't asked—Did Asuka name them?

The thought flared, absurd and warm and achingly cruel. His chest tightened, his shoulder throbbed, his cut hand burned—not with blood, but with something older, something worse.

Then—Falling.

Wood.

Air.

Gravity.

His back slammed into something hard. His shoulder cracked against a beam. Then down, and down, into the swallowing dark.

No scream.

Just the ugly thud of his body meeting earth, a question mark snapped in half.

His ears rang. His lungs locked. And For a long, terrible moment, he couldn't move, couldn't remember how to breathe.

Slowly, the world stitched itself back together: Blurred outlines sharpened into trees. Trees into shadows. One shadow into her. Asuka stood over him, a monument carved from moonlight and spite.

Arms limp at her sides. Face unreadable.

Shinji coughed, and pain lit up his ribs like a fuse. His breath hitched, stuttered, a broken record skipping on the same awful note.

"A… Asuka…"His voice was a frayed thread, dusted with blood.

She didn't move. Just stared, like he was something half-buried, something she wasn't sure was worth digging up.

And for a heartbeat—He swore she'd just leave him there.

But then—Pressure.

A vice around his throat, iron and heat. His airway collapsed. He gasped, choking on nothing, drowning on dry land.

It squeezed tighter. A chime began to tick.

"Ikari."

k'tik

chk-tik

kchak

The heat rose. The air thickened. Time liquefied and pooled at his feet.

"Ikari."
The voice again, deeper now. Familiar. Mechanical.
kʰlɪtʰæk

kʰlɪtʰæk–

"Shinji."

Explosion.

Shinji jerked awake with a gasp, dragging in air like a man just pulled from the wreckage. He was soaked in cold sweat, shirt clinging to his back. Every breath scraped the inside of his lungs. His heart was a hammer out of sync with the world.

"Drink," Kensuke said, holding out a cup.

The water was bitter—earthy and sharp, with a strange aftertaste like copper and bark. He grimaced but swallowed it anyway.

It was only after the third gulp that he realized he had no memory of falling asleep. And if that was a dream, it felt far too real to be one.

"Wha-"

"Just keep drinking," Kensuke said, down on one knee. "They're your daughter's herbs. The ones Shikinami orders."

Shinji blinked. His throat burned.
The dream still lingered, but the taste in his mouth grounded him. Bitter and real.

So this was medicine, then. Or a sedative. Or a sacrament.
He wasn't sure of anything anymore.

But he drank nonetheless.

"What happened?" Kensuke asked, finally. His voice was quiet, not pressing. Just… there. Like a hand on your shoulder in the dark.
"And where's your cushion?"

"I got rid of it," Shinji replied.

Kensuke blinked, then sighed, scratching at his temple like this was somehow his fault. "Come on, man… You can't keep sleeping on the hard floor like this."

There was something about the way he said it—the inflection, maybe. Half-pity, half-annoyed older brother—and for a second, Shinji could almost see him again: fourteen, nerdy, glasses too big for his face, camera always on standby. That kid who used to wave at him through the classroom window.

"I should get another bed," Shinji muttered, voice low. "Eventually."

Kensuke flopped down beside him with a groan that sounded far too dramatic for someone still technically young.
"Oh man," he said. "This whole time you've been sleeping on the cold ground? Goddammit."

"It's okay," Shinji said.

"It's not," Kensuke snapped back, just a little too fast. "It's not…"

Silence, for a beat. Long enough to settle in their bones.

"You don't gotta punish yourself, you know," Kensuke continued, not quite looking at him. "Nobody's keeping score."

Shinji didn't respond right away. He just looked down at his hand—the one that had bled earlier. The skin was still tender, but the wound had vanished, like it'd never been there. Like nothing ever hurt long enough to leave a scar anymore.

"I don't know how to live," he said finally. "Like, properly. Not in the way that matters."

Kensuke tilted his head toward him, deadpan. "Yeah, well. None of us do. Not really. You think I asked to raise meta-human teenagers in a post-apocalypse with no manual, no therapy, and half a library of smuggled manga as a parenting guide?"

"…That explains a lot," Shinji said, almost smiling.

"Shut up," Kensuke said, with a weary chuckle. "Look. You're not alone in this, okay? Not anymore."

Shinji nodded slowly, like the words were something physical he had to chew before swallowing. He didn't quite believe them yet—but maybe he wanted to.

"Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper.

Kensuke bumped his shoulder lightly. "Anytime, man."

They sat there a while longer, two relics of the same war, holding quiet like it was a fragile thing.

"You know," Kensuke said after a while, "I don't know how Miss Misato did it. You two are a walking natural disaster. A wrecking ball of stress."

"Sorry," Shinji muttered, offering a faint, self-deprecating chuckle.

"And your kids?" Kensuke groaned—long and theatrical, like he was preparing to deliver a eulogy for his own patience. "Oh, man… they're like you and Shikinami but worse. Like if someone distilled unresolved tension, sarcasm, and parental abandonment issues into two vaguely humanoid shapes and then let them loose..."

"I get it," Shinji said, deadpan now. Serious. Almost too serious.

A pause.

"Do you?"

Shinji looked at him, blankly.

Kensuke pointed at him. "See? You see that face. That's exactly what they do to me."

Shinji sighed, rubbing his temples. In truth he wanted to laugh.

"Sorry okay."

They sat there for a little while longer. Neither speaking.

Just the sound of the leaking faucet ticking in the background—steady, almost rhythmic. 

---

Somewhere on the AAA Wunder, Misato slowly removed her captain’s hat and stared out the window, glasses catching the faint blue hum of the command screens.

Ritsuko glanced up from her tablet. “Something wrong?”

Misato didn’t blink. “I feel I’ve just been insulted.”

Ritsuko raised an eyebrow. “By who?”

“I don’t know,” Misato said, narrowing her eyes. “But I felt it.”

Notes:

I discovered phonetics, can you blame me for using em? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Chapter 6: Whisper In The Dark

Notes:

Can't thank @VarysTheDegen enough we're flowing like water.

"A name?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "I want you to give me a name."

He'd been standing in the ruins of Nerv's second branch tower(N109), fishing. The rod that Kensuke gave him still pulled strong, and the line thread shone like a line of silver on this sweet blue morning.

The waters beautiful, blue and stagnant. The edge of the world had never been so quiet.

Rei–Q stood behind him with that same blankness, eyes like polished rubies. Beautiful, unreadable, and all too eager.

"I want to stay here," She explained. "To do that, I need a name…I want you to give me one."

He turned toward her slowly, the reel still spinning in his hand. The line ticked softly. He looked puzzled.

"A name… for you?" he repeated. "…You're not Ayanami…"

"Any name will do." She replied, "I want one from you."

And far off.

Behind a shattered pillar, something––or rather someone, stirred.

A creature in red. Hair like warning lights. A lone eye narrowed in scrutiny.

Cue David Attenborough:

"And here… we observe Asuka Langely Shikinami in her natural habitat. Unmoving. Poised. A lethal protector. Her gaze fixed, her muscles coiled. See how she watches the unsuspecting male... unaware of the emotional trap he's about to trigger…"

Asuka crouched—not really hiding, more like loitering with purpose. She'd tell you she was being surveillant. Strategic overwatch. Holding the line.

And She'd say it with a straight face.

But really… she'd just been watching Shinji. Not in a romantic way. More like, a lioness watching a baby gazelle do something impossibly stupid. Hugging a crocodile for example.

From this distance, they couldn't see her. But she could see everything. Him and his stupid rod, The Ayanami type and her strange awkwardness.

Had she sought him out again, what for?, she wondered, jaw tight.

A strange weight pressed against her sternum. It sat there like a swallowed scream.

Tsch! Pathetic.

She shook her head and stayed still, a sniper in the bush. Or a woman trying her hardest to not admit that she cared. Her eye tracked every twitch, every shrug, every soft, contemplative tilt of Shinji's head.

He looked… calm. Thoughtful. The breeze ruffled his hair just slightly. Of course it did. Nature always had perfect comedic timing.

Asuka squinted harder.

her fingers twitching like they were trying to reach something that wasn't there.

And then––

"Hey."

She jolted, instinctively tensing, heel pivoting for a strike. But as she turned—

It was him.

Her son.

Standing just a few paces behind her with a crooked grin and a brow raised halfway to orbit.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Asuka blinked. "What are you doing?" she snapped back. "Geez, you scared me."

"Sorry," he said, a little too innocently. "But you were prowling. So I figured you were hunting something. This forest's got game sometimes."

"I'm not hunting anything," she muttered, brushing herself off. "I'm watching that idiotic brat and the original batch."

He followed her gaze. His face said it all.
Really? Them?

"Why?" he asked, plain as sky.

"Because…" she hesitated. "Those two are hopeless. If something goes wrong, I'm the only one that can stop it."

"Something…Like what?" he asked again, too genuine, too sincere.

"I don't know, Something." Asuka folded her arms.

He looked back at the two figures in the distance, then to the spot Asuka had been crouching behind.

"…So you were gonna stop, whatever it is you wanted to stop…from all the way over here?" he asked, deadpan.

There was a lot of ground between them and the ruins.
Like, a lot.

Asuka looked at him—stone-faced and dead serious.

"Yes."

The boy gave her a look. Not mocking. Just… resigned.
The kind of face that said: Okay…Sure.

"…You're weird," he finally said.

"I'm not weird," she snapped, rising to her full height. "I'm cautious."

"Whatever you say man." he replied. "You gonna crouch behind more rubble or can we go do something less creepy?"

"We?" Asuka echoed, brow raised.

"Yes. You and me." He said it like it was obvious. "I was gonna ask Shinji, but he's already fishing."

"I don't do fishing," Asuka replied flatly.

"Oh no, We're not fishing." Her sone replied.

"What are we you going to do then?" She asked

"We need some extra hands in the village clinic," he explained, "Moving and carrying stuff. Crates, boxes. Grown-up chores."

"Okay," Asuka said with a short nod. "Good luck with that."

"Wait—you're not gonna help?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She blinked at him like he was the one being weird. Did he seriously think she was going to say yes?

"Because I don't go into the village," she said.

"Why not?" he asked again, genuinely confused.

She sighed. "You don't understand. I don't live here. I protect this place."

"Protect it," he repeated.

"Yes."

"From…?"

She hesitated, then spoke like the answer was as plain as the colour of her hair.

"NERV," she said. "Obviously… I fight for you people."

He looked around. Gestured vaguely toward the ruined skyline and humming farmland.

"Yeah, but...NERV isn't here right now. And there aren't any Evas So…"

"I'm not going into the village."

"Why not?

"Stop saying that!" She snapped, eyes flashing. "I swear, you get this stubbornness from—"
She cut herself off. Pivoted.

"…From hanging around that idiot."

"Pretty sure I've always been this way," he said with a shrug. "Independent thought and all that."

"Independent my ass," she muttered.

"You're still coming with me though," he added.

"No, I'm not."

"Why not?"

They'd been bantering so long that Rei-Q had caught up—ghostlike, her footsteps swallowed by grass and gravel. She stood a polite distance away, blinking slow and deliberate like a lizard basking in human confusion.

Asuka noticed her first.

"Shikinami Type," Rei greeted, her voice as quiet as morning dew.

"Original Batch," Asuka returned, dry and unimpressed.

Off in the distance, Shinji waved like a lost man at sea. No one waved back.

This isn't about him, Asuka thought. He can cry alone.

Rei's gaze shifted to the boy beside Asuka. A flicker of curiosity touched her otherwise flat expression.

"You look like…" she squinted "Ik—"

"Shouldn't you be going?" Asuka cut in, fast and clipped.

Rei returned her gaze, not offended, not much of anything.

"Yes," she said. "I have to assist those in the village."

"Me too," the boy added, extending a hand. Rei looked at it like it might detonate. Eventually, cautiously, she took it.

"Okay…" he muttered, awkward now. "Nice to meet you. What's your name?"

"I do not have one," Rei said flatly. "I had asked Ikari to give me one. But, he is… uncertain."

"You came all the way out here just to ask him to name you?" Asuka scoffed. "How pathetic."

"And why did you come?" Rei asked back, the response clean and immediate—sharp as any blade.

"I'm being surveillan—"

"She's stalking you 'cause she's jealous," her son interrupted helpfully.

Asuka almost struck him on reflex. "Shut up."

He grinned, enjoying himself far too much. "Or confused."

"I said shut up."

"In any case," he continued, breezily, "The nameless blue-haired girl is coming. So by default, you should come too."

"No," Asuka snapped.

But the resistance felt worn. Brittle. Like she was arguing with a mirror.

He sighed, rolled his eyes and began walking, dragging the silence with him. Rei followed, naturally. Quietly. Like fog curling over early morning grass.

Asuka stood there. Watching them go. Arms crossed, lips drawn tight, brow furrowed in a way that screamed not angry, just tired.

Tired of herself, mostly.

They didn't look back. Not once. Not even a bat.

Tsch. She clicked her tongue, hard. "Whatever," she muttered. "I'm not going to the damn village."

And yet…

The path to the village stretched long and winding, the crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound between Rei and the boy—until another noise started.

Footsteps.

Not light or measured like Rei's. Nor like the boy's careless scuffing of dirt.

These were heavy. Purposeful. The kind of steps that punished the ground for being beneath them.

Asuka's boots—her plugsuit's soles—had betrayed her. At first, it was just a stubborn shuffle, her feet dragging like they were stuck in the mud. Then, against her will, faster. Faster. Until she was practically stomping. Her muttered curses carving through the quiet:

"Ridiculous, Idiotic, Goddamn sentimental son of a—"

She caught up with them at the edge of the woods.

Her son didn't even turn around. He Didn't need to. The smugness was radiating off him like heat from a sun-baked roof tile.

Asuka narrowed her eye. "Don't you dare say a word," she snapped, jabbing a finger toward his back like it was a weapon.

He shrugged, hands behind his head. "Didn't say anything. Just walking."

"Smartass." She said

"I take after my mother." He replied

That shut her up for a solid ten seconds.

"At least Kensuke said so." He explained, noticing the shock in her face.

Asuka had nearly choked on air. "What did Kensuke tell you exactly?"

"Nothing new. Same as what he said at dinner." Her son kicked a pebble, feigning nonchalance. "I just got the idea that she's how do say… difficult."

"Indeed," Rei chimed in.

Asuka whirled, staring at her like she'd just grown a second head. Was that—? No. Impossible.

Rei's face was as blank as ever, even if the words smelled like passive-aggression.

---

Earlier

She'd been staring at the mirror all yesternight, and now into the morning. Eyes bleary. Hands tired from twisting and tying her hair into every possible shape.

Tight braids, loose waves, slicked back, left wild. High ponytail. Low ponytail. One side. The other. Nothing worked.

Because no matter how many styles she tried, the same face always stared back.

What did he mean, "just look in the mirror"?
She had been looking. Hard. And so far all she'd seen was herself.

No grand revelation. No mystical flash of inherited insight. Just the same girl. Stubborn nose. Sharp chin. That one strand of hair that never listened. And a pair of eyes she was beginning to suspect were more tired than young eyes should be.

She leaned in. "Who are you supposed to look like?"

Then—

"What are you doing?"
A voice echoed behind her. Light, warm and curious.

She turned, and there stood one Ryoji Kaji Jr. Slouched against the doorframe like a stray cat who'd just won the lottery. Messy hair, sandals, and pyjama shorts that had no business looking that intentional. Infuriatingly charming for someone who'd clearly just rolled out of bed.

"Nothing," she snapped.

"Ah, so another existential crisis," he yawned, sauntering in. "What, sixth one this month?"

"Shut up."

He grinned, nodding at the mirror. "Bad therapist, by the way. Never gives actionable advice."

"I'm just thinking."

"Thinking?" He leaned over her shoulder, his reflection smirking beside hers. "Ohhh, that's worse. What's your brother's mantra again?"

"Don't spend too much time 'upstairs,'" she muttered.

"Exactly," Kaji said, popping the 't', "And yet here you are, renting a whole penthouse suite in your brain." He flopped into a chair nearby, stretching his legs across the table, hands behind his head like he was sunbathing. "No pillar duty today. Got the morning off. Everyone's either asleep or out. So naturally I find you here, brooding."

"What do you want, Kaji?"

"I'm bored," he declared, spinning on the chair, "Entertain me."

"Uh-huh?" she said, one brow raised.

"Come on, am I gonna have to try harder?"

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt, "Fine. I am hunting."

"For what?"

"Myself." She said, "Isn't that what we're all doing here?"

Kaji shrugged, but his smile flickered

A beat.

"Don't you ever wonder who your parents were?" she asked, softer now, like the words might break if spoken too loud.

Kaji blinked, "No."

"No?"

"No," Kaji said, with an alarming amount of confidence. "I mean… I used to. When I was little, I think. But eventually I figured, if they left, they had their reasons. And those reasons aren't mine. They're theirs." He squinted for a second. "Wait, did I say that right?"

She frowned. "So the issue of identity doesn't bother you at all?"

"It did," he admitted. "For a while… But then… I got over it."

A pause.

"Maybe they were spies. Maybe they were farmers. Maybe they're dead. Or jerks. Or just—normal." He shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. I don't think I need to know what kind of blood runs through my veins to decide who I am."

She stared at him. The simplicity of it. The ease. As if choosing not to care could ever be that easy.

"Really?" she said, disbelief curling into her voice. "You of all people?"

"I've got hands, feet, and a moral compass…" He paused, reconsidering. "On Most days that is... That's enough for me." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, still watching her. "What would it even solve? Knowing their names? Their faces? Their failures? What would that fix?"

"It might help me make sense of this," she said, gesturing vaguely at herself like she was presenting a cracked machine. "Of why I feel so… scrambled."

He tilted his head, that same lopsided curiosity. "And what if it doesn't?"

A beat. The kind of pause that feels like walking to the edge of a cliff and wondering if the ocean will catch you.

"Dammit, Kaji, don't you want to understand?" she asked. "Your habits? Your fears? The reasons for the way you laugh or sit or pull your sleeves up when you lie?"

He gave her a quiet shrug. "As I said… I've got all that and more. Reasons of my own. I don't need someone else's ghost to justify them."

Her gaze drifted back to the mirror. Her reflection looked different when he was in the room—like some of the blame slid off her face and onto his, just by proximity.

He watched her through the glass for a moment longer. Then added, gentler:

"But you're not like me, are you?"

She said nothing.

"Actually," he said, leaning back with a soft sigh, "I think you're braver than me. I made peace with not knowing. But you—you still want answers. That takes something else. Something I don't think I've got."

"They're alive," she said suddenly.

Kaji blinked. "And how do you know that?"

"Kensuke slipped," she muttered. "I made him slip, actually. But he did. Eventually."

"Mr. Aida?" Kaji raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, him." She shook her head, frustrated. "I don't know why, but I feel like I've met them before. Maybe when I was little. Or maybe just now. Like I'm one bad angle away. One blink. One wrong sentence. One misstep and there they'll be…"

She exhaled. A long, heavy breath. The kind of sigh that didn't just leave the lungs, but dragged the whole ribcage down with it.

Kaji watched her fists tighten against the edge of the table.

He didn't say anything at first. Just let the silence settle. Let it breathe.

Then, finally—

"If you're right," he said, "then maybe they're afraid too."

"I don't care if they're afraid." She said, "They need to take responsibility. I'm doing this for myself…so I can finally know."

Kaji tilted his head, the lazy grin fading from his face.

"You won't find yourself in them," He said. "If anything… it could leave you more broken than before."

"I don't care," she repeated. Firmer now. Almost daring him to say more.

"Sak—"

The door creaked open, interrupting him mid-thought. Her brother walked in, mid-sentence:

"Hey, have you seen my—" He paused. Frozen. His eyes locked on the unmistakable shade of violet hair first.

"Oh no bro," he said flatly.

Kaji winked and gave him twin finger guns. "Surprise."

The boy frowned, deeply unimpressed. "I thought you were going after Dr. Suzuhara's sister, not mine."

"Relax," Kaji said, sinking deeper into the chair, "Nothing's happened. Unless intense philosophical debates count."

"He's not my type," His sister said, without looking up. "What do you want?"

"My fishing gear," Her brother replied. "I'm kinda—" He paused again, eyes scanning the chaos. The dishevelled hair. The cluttered desk. The existential crater left in the air.

"What happened to you?"

He glanced between Kaji, the mirror, and the bed with rising suspicion. "No."

"I'm looking in the mirror, dumbass," she snapped. "Like Kensuke said."

"So you trashed your hair trying to see Mom?" He asked, deadpan. "You know he was messing with us, right?"

"He wasn't," she said. Voice low. Serious. A little haunted. "He slipped. I made him."

"So now you think you're gonna find her in your bangs?"

"She might already be in them," Kaji offered with a smirk.

"Don't help," the brother and sister said in unison.

"I borrowed it out," she replied, already turning back to the mirror. "Someone else needed it."

He blinked. "Okay… what about the spare gear?"

"Lent that to a friend," she said, starting to redo her hair—different parting this time. Maybe braids. Maybe war paint.

"Really?" he said. "You could've at least told me first."

"No," she answered bluntly. "You're off today. Go kick a ball, or punch a tree, or something."

"I was gonna fish with Ikari," he said.

"Spending an awful lot of time with him, huh?" Kaji asked, still lounged across the chair like a sunbather who didn't know what drama meant. "What's up with that?"

"He knows my father," the boy replied, matter-of-fact. "He seems calm and reasonable. If I can get him to trust me, get to know him better, maybe he'll talk."

Kaji gave a low whistle. "You two are really committed to this orphan noir act, huh?"

Ignored. Again.

"You're making fun of me cause I'm looking for Mom in my hair, " she said, tying a loose ribbon through one half, "But you're out here trying to find Dad in Shinji Ikari."

"He's a chill guy," her brother said, not budging.

"He's barely holding it together," She muttered. "I mean, I like him, but let's not kid ourselves. He's one bad fishing day away from a complete spiral."

"Still better than most adults around here," he countered.

"Low bar," she replied.

Kaji yawned loudly, arms flopped out dramatically. "God, you two are exhausting. You know that? All this trauma-hunting and existential detective work. No one asked you to solve the mystery of your tragic origins."

She threw him a look through the mirror. "Then why are you here?"

He smiled. "Entertainment."

"Parasite," she muttered.

"Mirror-obsessed," he replied, pointing.

"Go play soccer with your weird friends," she told the both of them. "I'm self-reflecting."

"Call it what it is," he said. "You're panicking in loops."

She tied her last knot and stared at his reflection.

He stared back at her, and stretched like a cat. "One of you's gonna cry by the end of today," he said, yawning. "And I'm taking bets."

"You're just as curious as we are," her brother said, turning on him. "If I find my dad… I find yours too."

Kaji raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"I've heard Suzuhara and Aida talk," the boy continued, arms folded.

"More like you spied on them," Kaji retorted.

"Same diff," he shrugged. "They know all our parents."

"And we're close to figuring it out," his sister added, eyes still locked on the mirror like it owed her something.

"Hmph. Whatever you say." Kaji stood up, slow and lazy, brushing imaginary dust off his shorts. "But you are gonna cry."

"You'll cry first," the girl called after him as he turned to leave.

He waved her off without looking back. "I'm going to. In the shower. Full breakdown. Gonna sob into the drain like a grown-up."

She rolled her eyes, and he was gone.

The boy groaned and sighed, "Well, I'm gonna miss my gear. Guess I'll find something else to do with Shinji. There's always something to do around here. "

His sister gave a lazy half-wave.

He paused at the doorway. "You should try the old lady's hair," he said over his shoulder. "Maybe she's our mom."

"No way." She scoffed. "That would…" A pause. Her eyes widened just a little. "No…"

"What?" her brother asked, narrowing his eyes. He knew that look. The face of gears turning dangerously fast.

"I need hair clips," she said.

"You don't seriously think—"

"Now!" she barked, scrambling for the drawer.

---

The path to the village stretched longer than she remembered. Or maybe she'd just forgotten how to walk it.

By the time they reached the outskirts, the place was already thrumming with life—merchants haggling over solar-charged tech, kids weaving through stalls playing tag with holographic markers, farmers repairing hydroponic rigs with scrap metal and stubborn hope.

The air smelled of fried dough and engine grease, of people pretending the world hadn't ended thrice.

Asuka stopped dead at the edge of it all, her one good eye scanning the crowd like she was looking for something she couldn't name.

"You look shocked," Her son said.

"Not shocked," she corrected, voice tight. "Just... surprised."

"How long's it been since you actually came down here?" He asked, "Y'know. To see the village that you… 'protect'?"

Asuka didn't answer right away. Between the battles and breakdowns, between watching the sky crack open and fighting to stitch it back together, she honestly couldn't recall.

"I don't know," she admitted. And for the first time, it hit her: Is this what I'm actually fighting for?

The whispers began before they even hit the main path. First a cough. Then a sideways glance. And then full-on sentences, not even bothering to lower their voices anymore:

"Is that Asuka?"
"How'd she get here without the Wunder?"
"Did something happen to Katsuragi and her crew?"
"She never comes down here."
"I've never even seen her before."
"She looks like that blue-haired girl, y'know, with that suit and all."
"Something bad must've happened—why else would she show up?"

Tsch, Asuka ignored them, or at least pretended to. Her posture sharpened, her stride grew stiff, like a soldier refusing to limp with a fresh wound.

"This is exactly why I didn't wanna come down here." She muttered under her breath.

Her son walked beside her, relaxed. "Why are you whispering?" He asked, at a considerably loud volume.

"Because I don't wanna talk in front of these people," she hissed, narrowing her eyes.

Rei meanwhile trailed just ahead, humming quietly to herself, a strange melody of no known origin.

"They've never seen you in town before." Her son shrugged, "of course they're gonna talk. You're something of living legend."

"You keep saying that, but all I hear is bad talk."

A pause. Then—

A small child ran up in front of them. Couldn't have been more than five. He stopped right in front of Asuka's path and stared at her with wide, glassy eyes—awed, confused, and slightly sticky.

Asuka froze.

"What—what is it doing?" she whispered, already stepping slightly behind her son.

The kid just stood there, blinking up at her like she was an alien made of fire.

"Get it away from me," She whispered, urgent. "Seriously."

Her son tried not to laugh. "It's just a child."

"Exactly." Asuka said, grimacing like she'd just stepped in something soft and unmentionable.

Rei stopped and looked back, completely unfazed.

"He is smiling," She observed. "Which means he is happy to see you."

"Great," Asuka deadpanned. "Can we move, like now!?"

The boy gave the kid a friendly nod and gently nudged him along. The child scampered off, giggling.

Asuka exhaled.

What just happened?

They had turned a corner near the old well, when Rei peeled away toward a knot of elderly women sitting beneath the shade of a fig tree.

Asuka paused.

She watched as they welcomed her––warmly. One of the old women even stood to greet her with a pat on the arm. Asuka's eye narrowed.

"…Since when do clones get fan clubs?" she muttered.

Her son tilted his head. "You jealous?"

"No," she said immediately. "Just shut up."

But she kept watching, just a little longer. Something stung in her chest—not envy, but recognition. Familiarity. A reflection she didn't want to see.

They made us to fight, she thought. And now one of us is planting seeds and listening to stories from old grannies.

"C'mon," Her son said. "She looks occupied, the clinic's this way."

"What's your sister doing?" Asuka asked, curious.

"Oh she's also by the clinic." Her son replied, "She should be helping out there too."

They didn't talk much after that. The road was uneven, and the village felt too alive.

Noisy with chickens, cart wheels, and a radio playing something nostalgic in the distance. Kids darted between crates like wild animals. Everything was too bright, too human.

It stung.

When they reached the clinic, they found workers unloading medical crates and exhausted nurses dragging equipment under a makeshift awning. People moved with a kind of tired, practiced rhythm that only came from routine and shared hardship.

So this is where Suzuhara works now, Asuka thought, spotting a clipboard with his name etched on the corner. Real hero stuff. Not punching EVA's. Just keeping people breathing.

And then—

"Asuka?"

She turned at the sound of the voice. It was a woman, tall now—mature in the way mothers and schoolteachers tend to be. Brown hair tied back. Freckles still there, like constellations she hadn't seen in years.

"…Hikari?"

Hikari approached slowly, blinking like she didn't trust her own eyes. "Is that…really you?..."

She took another step. And another. "It's been…so long…"

Asuka instinctively stepped back—only to bump into her son. He didn't budge. Just looked at her like, you gonna run from everything?

And then Hikari hugged her.

"Woah—hey—!" Asuka flinched, arms stuck awkwardly at her sides. "Personal space? We're still doing the personal space thing, right?"

Hikari didn't let go. Not right away. Her embrace was warm, gentle, and frighteningly genuine. A rare thing in Asuka's world—affection she hadn't realized she'd been starving for.

"The only other person who does this is four-eyed crony," Asuka muttered under her breath.

"I don't know who that is," Hikari whispered, sinking a little deeper into the hug.

"I know," Asuka said, voice low.

Hikari pulled back, smiling now—like nothing had changed. She reached up and almost patted Asuka on the head.

"You're still so young."

"It's not by choice, believe you me."

"What are you even doing here?" Hikari asked. "We hardly ever see you."

"This idiot convinced me to come help," Asuka said, thumbing toward her son.

Hikari turned—and her eyes widened just slightly. "Oh… Asuka?"

"The very same," the boy said with a proud little grin. She had named her son after herself, for the part of her that never got to grow up—the smiling child buried beneath steel and silence.

"Yeah," Shikinami muttered.

"Well, I'll have to thank him," Hikari replied. "I got to see an old friend today."

"No problem," Son-Asuka said.

"You can help us move the supplies inside," Hikari continued. "We're checking inventory before the Wunder arrives."

"How many days?" Shikinami asked, following her toward the clinic.

"A few." Hikari replied.

They probably just finished repairs on Unit-02 and Unit-08. Asuka Shikinami thought.

She trailed off as they stepped through the doorway.

And Asuka Langley Shikinami froze.

It was like walking into a memory—or a mistake. Her heart skipped a beat. Then stumbled. Then tried to sprint. Standing there just ahead of her...was… herself? Not exactly, but enough. The hair. The eyes. The stance. All familiar down to the last detail.

"Shikinami type?" the words escaped her in a panic, and then the girl turned.

It wasn't a clone—not in the traditional sense, but in the way Asuka had feared.

"Oh, this is Sakuya," Hikari said brightly. "Asuka's sister."

There was a flicker of confusion. Then realization.

No, Asuka thought. Her stomach dropped.

Her daughter.

Sakuya smiled—a wicked, knowing curve of the lips that felt far too much like her own.

"Hey," The girl said.

Notes:

I'm not so sure about this ending...might change it...maybe...

Chapter 7: Prison Song

Notes:

Okay, I paid the price for my hubris, kinda struggled with writing this one. (ಥ_ಥ)

The feeling was heavy and suffocating, like drowning in a tank filled with water.

Like waking up in the clone vat again, surrounded by dozens dead faces––each one resembling your own.

Each one a failure, a reminder that you were replaceable.

Then—

"Funny, huh?"

Hikari's voice yanked her back to the present.

Asuka blinked, breath caught halfway.

"She even did her hair like yours," Hikari said, lightly amused.

Then, turning to the girl: "Why did you do your hair like hers?"

Sakuya grinned, tilting her head just slightly—the angle so precise, it made the resemblance uncanny.

"I just thought it would look cool on me," She said sweetly. "Don't you think so?"

Hikari sighed, ruffling the girl's bangs with casual affection.

"Weirdo," She murmured with fondness. Then, looking back: "Come on, Asuka. You can help me out in the next room."

"Okay," Asuka's son offered, already stepping forward.

"Not you," Hikari corrected. "Her."

But Asuka didn't move.

She stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on Sakuya.
Not blinking. Not breathing. Just... staring.
Like if she broke contact, the girl might vanish. Or worse—turn into her.

"What's wrong?" Her son asked, voice suddenly careful.

Sakuya crouched lower, eyes wide with false innocence, leaning in until her face was just inches from Asuka's. Close enough to see the reflection in her eyes.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," she whispered.

A beat. Then, sing-song and cruelly delighted:

"Mmmmmm—Asuka."

"Guys, come on." Hikari clapped, sharp and efficient. "Get to work. You're supposed to be moving crates. Asuka's with me."

The boy opened his mouth—whether to protest or play dumb, who knew—but Hikari caught him with a look. One of those perfectly honed, maternal glances that could stop a train mid-track.

"Okay."

He got the hint. Turned and muttered something about "tyrants" under his breath.

Sakuya moved passed Asuka all too smooth and all too gentle. A smug little knowing smile on her face. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.

Asuka lingered a second longer than she meant to and then…

"Come on." Hikari called out to her, "Rest of the clinic is this way."

Asuka followed her into a room bigger than the last but still quite modest. Alive in a way that only necessity makes something alive.

Inside, crates were stacked half-open, linen bundles piled on chairs, and there was an array of mismatched-salvaged medical tools gleaming dully under solar lamps.

A makeshift autoclave lay in one corner—jury-rigged from what looked like an old rice cooker and a Nerv power unit.

"Come on," Hikari said, rolling up her sleeves. "I need someone with steady hands."

"Sure." Asuka muttered

They moved one of the heavier crates down together—Asuka taking most of the weight—and set it down with a dull thud onto the floor.

"Open it?" Hikari asked, flipping through a battered ledger.

Asuka popped the latch, and Inside they saw: gauze, antiseptic, and sealed suture kits. Some marked clearly with Nerv branding. Others stained by withered blood or faded.

"Take the ones marked for Nerv and put them in the Wille crate," Hikari instructed. "We'll give those to the Wunder."

"One crate won't be enough for the whole crew," Asuka said, already sorting.

"I know." Hikari sighed. "Which is why we've got our work cut out for us."

Asuka glanced up at the teetering towers of supply crates still waiting to be opened. "Are you sure this is a two-person job?"

"Nope," Hikari said cheerfully. "Usually I've got a team. But today most of 'em are off."

"And you decided to suffer in silence?"

"No…" Hikari looked at her and smiled—genuinely, annoyingly. "I decided I wanted to spend time with an old friend."

Asuka snorted. "Charming."

And so they got to work.

Hikari called out names from the ledger and Asuka sorted. Bandages in one pile. Syringes in another. Expired ampoules in a dish marked "FOAM" with a skull scribbled underneath.

"What is this stuff?" Asuka asked, holding it up like it might explode.

"It's death," Hikari replied flatly, without missing a beat. "Put it away gently."

Asuka didn't argue. She found an old padded crate and nestled the vial beside a tangle of IV tubes and two expired sedatives. Labelled in red: Do Not Touch.

The rhythm settled in. Hands moving. Minds drifting.

"It's a real good thing you guys have going on here," Asuka said, eyes sweeping across the clinic. "The clinic… and the village."

"Well, that's thanks to you and Wille," Hikari replied, checking the ledger again. "We couldn't have built this place without you guys fighting out there…And giving us the tech necessary to push back the fallout from N3I."

Asuka paused, lifting a tin of painkillers. "Yeah… but I imagine it must've been hard." She set them down a little slower than before.

Hikari laughed, dry and soft. "The early days were," she said. "Sometimes they still are."

Asuka noticed it then—a small twitch at the corner of Hikari's mouth. A shadow behind her eyes. A memory she didn't say out loud.

"Back then, we mostly did what we had to. To survive," Hikari continued. "Wasn't much room for anything else."

Asuka nodded, but said nothing.

"What about you?" Hikari glanced up from the list. "I heard you were blind at one point."

"Bandaged… Not blind."

"How could you see?"

Asuka smirked faintly. "That's my secret."

She finished sorting a stack of anti-radiation injectors, cracked her knuckles, and looked around at what still had to be done. More crates. More decisions. More trying not to remember.

"I see you're still class rep, even now," Asuka said suddenly, tossing a half-empty box onto the pile.

Hikari blinked. Then smiled. "Funny…I guess some things never change."

"That can be a curse, y'know."

"Maybe," Hikari replied, voice steady. "But I find the more things change, the more they stay the same anyway."

Asuka scoffed softly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Hikari looked up from the ledger, one brow raised, like she'd been waiting for that.

"History doesn't repeat itself but it often rhymes."

Asuka blinked, "Mark Twain? Really?"

"Yes, really." Hikari replied, unfazed, "I mean we got solar panels, ration tabs, and kids growing up under makeshift roofs with half-sane adults trying to holding everything together, with nothing but duct tape and bedtime stories," she explained. "But still, at the end of the day… Someone has to sweep the floor. Someone still has to clean the wounds. Someone still has to tell people 'no, you can't die just yet."

Asuka stared at her, half-amused, half-exhausted. "So what you're saying is: the world ends and you're one of the people that holds it all together…class rep."

Class of humanity, she thought. Naturally.

"A tad bit better than most," Hikari replied, smiling faintly. "Though I'm not invincible, even I need help sometimes."

A beat

"Maybe we don't really grow out of our own self-appointed roles…Maybe we grow into them."

"Well I guess I'm just gonna have to be a fighter forever then," Asuka said with a laugh so dry it could've been sandpaper. Hikari's words made her feel like a parody of herself, sealed in red and blue.

"Maybe you'll fight in a different way someday," Hikari said gently. "With less blood involved. I hope."

"Yeah… maybe," Asuka murmured. But her tone made it sound like "maybe" meant "not likely."

A small beat of silence passed. Dust floated in the shaft of light cutting through the room.

"I'm a mom, y'know," Hikari said, then quietly, like a confession. "I have a daughter. Her name's Tsubame."

Asuka raised an eyebrow, "With Suzuhara, I assume?"

"The one and only."

"Of course," Asuka replied, vaguely smirking. "Figured you had a thing for him the moment I saw the way you looked at him."

"Was I that obvious?" Hikari asked,

"Yes." Asuka replied, deadpan.

"Wow," Hikari chuckled, shaking her head. "I still feel like it was different for me."

"Different how?"

"I mean… it's not like I always knew I'd end up with Toji," Hikari admitted. "In fact, some days I still can't believe I did."

"So how'd you end up giving birth to his spawn?" Asuka seriously asked, arching an eyebrow for the second time.

"Don't say it like that—that's weird," Hikari laughed, swatting her lightly with a rolled-up inventory list. "But I don't know. Call it fate, or dumb luck, or maybe circumstance forcing us together during the bad years…Maybe a little bit of everything…" She shrugged, "But I do know I love him…I can say that with certainty now."

Was there ever a time you were uncertain?

Asuka almost scoffed. "As long as you're happy I guess."

Hikari tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Plus… if things really worked the way people assume, then you'd end up with Ikari."

That made Asuka actually scoff.

"What?" Hikari asked, now laughing. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," Asuka said flatly, already rummaging through the next crate like it had personally offended her.

"Am I?"

"Yes." She replied.

"But there was something there, right?" Hikari teased. "Some weird little spark in the middle of all that…conflict."

Asuka made a strangled noise that could've been a laugh or a snarl. "Yeah. Like gasoline and a match."

She really doesn't know, does she? Asuka thought. She has no idea.

"Too toxic?" Hikari asked, still flipping through the ledger.

"I'm not even sure if that's the word for it." Asuka said, thoughts drifting.

An uncomfortable pause ensued, and Hikari just kept writing, kept moving. Like if she stopped the air between them might go stale. "How is Ikari, by the way?" she asked casually. "I heard he's been staying with you and Kensuke."

Asuka rolled her eyes. "For now. Plus, he's doing fine, I guess. Eating. Sleeping. Being sad in small, manageable doses."

"That's… an improvement?" Hikari offered.

"Sure. Let's call it that." Asuka said. She reached for another crate, almost wrenching the lid off. "Anyway, I'd rather not think about his stupid face right now."

Hikari smiled knowingly, a soft hum in her throat. "I understand."

Once again, they fell back into the rhythm of it. Hikari called out labels and Asuka sorted. A cracked bottle, a needle still stained a faint pink, and another batch of cracked mirrors.

"You always this cheerful while cataloguing war debris?" Asuka asked, wiping her hands with a cloth that looked suspiciously like a torn Nerv flag.

"You get used to it," Hikari answered, "Some days it's this or chasing a chicken back into its coop."

Just then, the door creaked open. Toji stepped inside with the gentle authority of a man who'd given the idea of being a jock, but now wrangled small children like divine punishment. Beside him, Rei-Q entered—cradling something in her arms like it was glass.

Toji greeted Hikari, the same way sixties sitcom husbands greeted their wives in the reruns—some saccharine "Honey" followed by a quick kiss on the cheek. Asuka winced.

"Gross," She muttered under her breath, wrinkling her nose.

Toji turned, surprised. He blinked once—twice—before recognition settled in.

"Shikinami?"

"Yeah?" she replied flatly.

"Asuka Langley Shikinami?"

"Still me," She said, with the barest twitch of a smirk.

Toji let out a quiet laugh. "Man… didn't expect to see you down here. We barely even catch a glimpse of you."

"I told her the same thing," Hikari added, nudging Toji lightly.

"Well, I didn't come by choice," Asuka said. "I was dragged."

"Shinji bring you down?" Toji asked, an infuriating hopeful lilt in his voice.

"Ha," she scoffed. He doesn't have the gull.

Toji chuckled knowingly. "Still giving him hell, huh?"

She didn't answer.

"Then who?" He asked, looking around "Kensuke?"

"Doesn't matter," Asuka said, brushing it off. "Nice clinic though. Looks better than most Willie Labs I've been in."

"Well, it's not mine exactly," Toji said, rubbing the back of his neck. "But thanks. We've pieced it together over time. Bit of salvaging, and a bit of luck."

Asuka glanced around—at the solar lamps buzzing faintly overhead, the makeshift sterilizers, the shelf full of hand-written ledgers and rust-cleaned scissors.

Then her eyes caught Rei.

She stood silently nearby, cradling a child with a tenderness that felt alien to everything Asuka had ever known about their kind.

The way Rei held the baby was… careful.

Present.

Real.

Not like a clone, factory-issued and mass-produced.

No, she looked like a mother.

And that made Asuka's breath hitch in a way she didn't understand, and didn't want to.

Toji caught her staring. "Crazy, right?" he murmured, voice low. "Ayanami's surprisingly good with her. I think Tsubame likes her more than me."

"Obviously," Asuka scoffed. "A meathead like you is bound to scare something that small."

"Hey," Toji protested, but it dissolved into a laugh—the same one he'd used when Hikari had called them 'the three stooges'.

"Glad to see some things haven't changed."

"They have." Asuka said, but the words came out heavier than she intended. "You're a father. Hikari's a mother. The world's a disaster. And I'm…" She trailed off, the sentence crumbling like the ruins outside. "I don't know what I am."

Toji studied her for a moment, then shrugged—all post-Impact wisdom and scarred knuckles. "You'll figure it out." He said, "For now, just… enjoy the flow. Live in the moment."

Rei-Q stepped forward, moving with an uncanny grace, and carefully transferred the baby into Hikari's waiting arms.

"Tsubame weighs 4.2 kilograms today," Rei announced, as if reporting mission parameters.

"Thanks, Rei," Hikari replied, beaming.

Then she turned to Asuka, her smile softening. "This is Tsubame," she said, glowing with a pride that hurt to look at directly. "My daughter."

A beat.

"Do you want to hold her?"

"Oh no, I don't—"

But It was too late. Hikari had moved with relentless cheer, pressing the warm, squirming bundle into her arms. Tsubame blinked up at her, all wide eyes and tiny fingers, and Asuka stopped breathing.

There was nowhere to run—not without looking like a coward, not without dropping Hikari's baby.

The weight of the infant—light and terrifying—settled against her chest.

She stared down at the child. The impossibly soft breath. The flutter of tiny eyelids. The warm, trusting helplessness of something alive.

A living paradox, all tiny arms and grasping fingers.

Not programmed. Not factory-stamped. Not bred for war.

Her heart kicked once in her chest.

Tsubame gurgled, her tiny fist closing around Asuka's pinky with a grip that felt like the first real tether she'd had in years.

She didn't drop her, and she didn't panic. But somewhere beyond the haze, she heard Hikari's muffled laugh, Toji's poorly concealed snort, and Rei's somewhat concerned "Your posture is incorrect"—

But none of that mattered.

Instead, something unfamiliar cracked open inside her. Not envy, but awe. A kind of startled reverence.

This is life. She thought.

Not a pod filled with dead sisters. Not a glass coffin. Not endless replacement.

Life…

She had spent so long defining herself by what she wasn't. Not human. Not loved. Not chosen. That she'd convinced herself she didn't need this kind of softness.

But now, holding it…

She smiled. Small, and uncertain—but real.

Tsubame's warmth radiated through the fabric of her plug-suit. Tiny fingers, impossibly soft, twitched and curled near her collarbone. Another shallow breath rose and fell against her chest.

Evangelion had taken everything from her. Her childhood. Her body. Her name. Her future.

But in this baby's face—this ordinary little life—there was something fragile and terrifyingly beautiful.

Something worth all of it.

I'd forgotten this feeling…This is how I felt when…

And then, like a bad joke delivered by fate—her thought was interrupted. She felt them.

Eyes.

Burning, focused and familiar.

Across the clinic, barely visible between two crates, Sakuya stood.

Unmoving and unblinking.
Posture military. Eyes locked.
Expression blank in a way that felt painfully familiar.

Asuka's breath caught in her throat.

And then the warmth—all of it—vanished.
Her smile, gone.
Her shoulders, tensed.
Her grip on the baby didn't falter, but her spirit did.

Hikari noticed instantly. "Hey," she said gently. "What's wrong?"

Asuka didn't answer.

She looked down once more at the little girl in her arms. This fragile, innocent thing.
A future, a person and a beginning.

And then she looked away.

She handed the baby back—carefully, gently.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice tight. "She's… beautiful."

"Thanks, but…" Hikari's brows pinched together. "Are you okay?"

Before Asuka could answer, Toji stepped closer. His gaze sharp, and locked not on her—but on Rei.

"Wait a second," He asked, slow and careful. "Who did you say brought her here?"

Rei, as calm as ever, replied: "Asuka. And his sister. Sakuya."

There was a beat.

Toji's entire posture shifted—his jaw tightened, his shoulders raised almost imperceptibly.

Hikari saw it, and turned to him. "What?"

Toji didn't answer right away.

Then, quietly, without meeting Asuka's eyes, he said:

"Can we talk somewhere private?"

The moment Toji steered Hikari away, baby in arms, Asuka knew. If Hikari hadn't pieced it together yet, she would soon.

Rei stood motionless nearby, staring into the distance with that infuriatingly placid expression.

Asuka had once prided herself on being nothing like her—but now, the parallels clawed at her throat.

Rei noticed her stare and met it head-on. "If you have something to say," Rei began, voice flat as a monitor readout, "then spit it out already."

Asuka flinched, but held her tongue.

Rei seized the opening. "You once said I was programmed to feel affection towards Shinji."

"Yeah," Asuka muttered. "And you said you were fine with it…Even though it wasn't your choice."

"I am," Rei confirmed. Then, with terrifying precision: "But what about you?"

Asuka blinked. "Me?"

"Yes. You."

A pause.

"Are you also designed with the same parameters I am?"

"I don't know," Asuka muttered.

Rei didn't press. She let the silence fill the corners of the room, then quietly asked:

"Are you also programmed to feel––"

"I said I don't know," Asuka snapped. "…I don't know."

Rei tilted her head—not judgmental, just curious. Patient in the way only someone used to being ignored can be.

"I don't even know who my original is," Asuka said, the words falling like lead. "I don't know if she was brave. Or kind. Or loved. I don't even know what she wanted…Or what she felt. I don't even know what part of her lives in me."

Rei remained still.

"I do not know who my original is either," She said at last. "I don't think she wanted me to know."

"She or they?" Asuka murmured.

"Maybe both." Rei replied, honestly.

Another silence. Long and uneasy.

"You're content with that?" Asuka asked.

"No…" Rei said. "But I have grown to accept it…as do all my other sisters I assume."

And there it was again—that line between them.

Thin. Fragile and too easy to cross.

They were two girls made in the image of others.
Orbiting around a boy neither of them understood.
Carrying the weight of women they never got to be.

In the stillness of the storage room, with the hum of solar power overhead and the faint scent of alcohol and antiseptic in the air, Asuka realized something she hadn't wanted to admit.

I have no blueprint outside of battle.

No plan. No future-self imagined beyond plug-suits and war zones. She'd trained to be a weapon, excelled at it. Been proud of it. But…

When the world slowly limps back towards something softer. When a warrior princess is left without a throne or battlefield.

What then?

She looked at Rei—who had never once pretended to be anything more than what she was. A clone. A tool. Or a person in progress.

Asuka didn't hate her for it.
Just… envied her peace.

Once all this is over… I will be too.

The door creaked open behind her.

"Asuka, I am so—" Hikari started, her voice shaking.

"It's okay," Asuka cut in, turning to face her. "You didn't know. Only a handful of people do."

"I really am sorry, Shikinami," Toji said, stepping up beside his wife.

"It's not your fault." She said it plainly, but Hikari caught the shift in her posture. The quiet gathering of herself. The way soldiers always move just before leaving.

Asuka exhaled. "I've been acting like that idiot Shinji for a while now…"

Running away.

And with that, she moved to the door. Fingers on the handle.

"Will we see you again?" Hikari asked.

Asuka paused. Not turning back, just lifting her chin.

"Maybe," she said, a small, crooked smile touching her lips. "It was nice seeing you… Both of you."

And then she stepped out, walking through the room and into the sunlight.

The air felt warmer than before.

And waiting by the path were the twins. Sakuya no longer wore that charming, smug little grin. Her eyes had narrowed. And her brother stood still and straight beside her—saying nothing, yet somehow speaking volumes.

Asuka sighed through her nose.
Don't give me those looks, she thought, stepping forward.
I taught you that.

"Walk with me," was all Asuka could say as she stepped past them. Her voice was calm, but not cold—just distant, like she was already halfway to wherever she needed to be.
"I'll explain everything once we get to Kenken's place."

"No."
Sakuya's voice cut like wire. She turned toward her mother's retreating figure.
"I want to talk right no—"

"I want to have this conversation with your father as well." Asuka interrupted, voice sharp as she stopped, pivoted, and faced them with a rare sternness.

Not the usual soldier's bark, but something quieter. Almost heavier.

They both stared at her—not with rage, not yet—but with a quiet, poisonous ache that only comes from being left behind.

"Please," she said, softer now. Almost pleading.

Silence, and then—

"Fine," her son said, stepping forward, meeting her gaze with a firmness she wasn't used to. "But…no more lies."

Asuka looked at him fully then. Saw the slight furrow in his brow. The cautious tremor behind his strength.
She saw herself in him.
"No more lies," She repeated.

He nodded once. Then walked past her, up toward the path leading to Kensuke's house.

She turned—slowly—toward the only one who hadn't moved.

Sakuya stood there. Still as stone, with arms crossed. The sun hitting her at just the right angles, throwing shadows across her face.

She wore a sharp and knowing smile—curled in at the corners of her mouth.

There were moments when Asuka was afraid of her daughter. Not for what she was, but for how familiar she looked when angry. Like Shinji, when he'd snapped. His face twisted into something cruel. She hadn't known that softness could harden like that.

Sakuya stepped forward.

"Back there," She said softly, indicating to the clinic, "I saw you with Miss Suzuhara's baby."

Her voice didn't rise.

"You held her like she was yours…"

A beat, and her eyes narrowed.

"You hold every child that way? Or just the ones that aren't yours?"

Asuka didn't flinch.

Her mouth parted—barely.

"I'm—"

"Save it."

Sakuya brushed past her, the wind catching her hair like an unsheathed blade.

And Asuka stood there, all the strength she had collapsing inward like a dying star.

Chapter 8: Shout! Shout! Let It All Out!

The sun had long since fallen.

Shinji Ikari climbed up the hill beneath a sky dusted with stars—milk-pale and endless. Without the wash of city lights, the constellations looked like they had meaning again.
Like someone had spilled them with purpose.

For the first time in long while, Shinji breathed in and didn't flinch. The breeze was cold, but the path was quiet. Calming.
Maybe, just maybe… things would get better.

Kensuke's house was only a few steps ahead.
He had a fish to clean, some rice to cook, and few quiet hours before anyone wandered back.

He smiled to himself. Something light, and unguarded.

The door opened with its usual click. Shinji stepped inside, already half-murmuring his usual mantra:

"I'm—"
He stopped.
The words caught like splinters on his tongue.

"I'm home."
It didn't feel right. Not this time… Not yet.

Kensuke's house was warm, comfortable and lived-in. But it didn't quite feel like his home. It still felt too much like someone else's.

He set the fishing rod by the door with deliberate care, toeing off his shoes with the quiet precision of a man who'd spent years trying not to disturb the universe.

He turned towards the kitchen, thinking maybe he could boil some tea, then, he stopped––frozen.

An old, familiar dread slithering down his spine before his brain even registered why.

They were here.

Asuka sat at the low table, her posture all wrong—elbows planted, shoulders hunched, like she was bracing for impact.

When she looked up, her single eye held something he hadn't seen since she'd dragged him across the wasteland: exhaustion, plain and unconcealed.

The twins flanked her like sentinels.

His son stood rigid, spine straight, arms at his sides. His face was still, too still—every emotion tucked away with surgical precision. Shinji recognized it immediately. That was his face. His worst habits, staring back at him like a mirror.

Sakuya leaned against the wall, arms crossed, one boot propped behind her like she belonged there.

The air in the room had weight. Thick with unspent accusations.

"...Hey," Shinji managed to say, "I didn't know you guys were—"

"Sit down," Asuka cut in, nodding toward the empty seat across from her. "We need to talk."

He hesitated, then obeyed. Quietly. Like a child in the principal's office.

He pulled the chair out, trying not to make noise, and sat. The twins never stopped watching.

As soon as he settled, Asuka let out a long breath. Her voice came low, resigned.

"Well… we're all here…" She said, "Ask..."

There was a moment of stillness—tension held like a wire between them. Then:

"Why?" Sakuya asked.

Just that. One word, and it carried everything.
Why did you leave us?
Why didn't you say anything?
Why don't you want us?

Asuka closed her eye and exhaled slowly.

She didn't answer right away, fingers twitching once on the table, slowly, before curling into a fist.

"I'm not exactly… normal," She finally said. Her voice was quiet now. Measured, like she was weighing every word before it left her mouth. "I was made…"

She exhaled again, slowly. The kind of breath that sounded like it had been caught in her chest for years.

"Just like—"

"Ayanami?" Shinji asked. His voice came before he could stop it, soft and hesitant. But he looked down the moment her eye found his.

"That old deputy…Fuyutsuki… told me something, bout Ayanami being made. A clone of…" He hesitated. "My mother."

Asuka's mouth curled at the edge—not quite a smile, not quite pain. "Yeah… Something like that."

There was another silence, thick and uncertain, and then–

"So what?" Sakuya's voice cut clean through the air. "You were made in a bottle… that doesn't justify abandoning us."

"I didn't abandon you, I—"

"Then what did you do… mom?" she asked, the words sharp and deliberate, "Lend us away?"

"No, I just…" Asuka's throat tightened. She hesitated, searching for a way to shape the words without shattering herself.

"I didn't think that I…" her voice faltered again. She paused, swallowed hard. "…I didn't think that I could have children."

"You never wanted to?" her son asked quietly, his tone flat but weighted.

"No I just…I was created for sole purpose of piloting…and fighting." She explained, looking down at her hands. Strong hands. Hands that had gripped control sticks more often than they had held anything warm.

"I thought that was all I was… All I was allowed to be... All I was good for…"

She swallowed again, but the next words wouldn't come. Her voice cracked into something small.

"I didn't even know if I was real enough to… to…"

She couldn't say it.

To love.

To be loved?

To be a mother?

And then came the silence again. Thick and Suffocating.

It wrapped around all four of them like a vice, pulling tighter with every breath.

Her son's face stayed blank, but his eyes—so much like Shinji's—sharpened with something between pity and anger.

Sakuya just stared. No smirk now. No satisfaction. Just the weight of truth, pressing on her back.

And Asuka… could feel herself starting to fracture.

"Did you know?" Sakuya asked, turning to Shinji now.

He blinked. "What?"

"About any of this."

Shinji met her eyes, unsure of what he saw in them. He shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't know."

"Would you have done what you did, if you knew?" she asked, no sarcasm. No venom. Just the raw, childlike need to understand.

Shinji again, froze. The question hit harder than it should have—like a shard of glass to the chest. He glanced at Asuka, searching her face for anything—help, an anchor—but found only silence.

His eyes drifted back to the twins.

"I…" he began, but the words snagged in his throat. There was no good answer. No clean one.

"I don't know," he finally said. Soft. Useless.

"That's not an answer." Sakuya shook her head, voice breaking in frustration. "I need to know why. Why you did what you did… I need to know…!"

"I don't know," Shinji repeated, weaker this time, like the air itself was pushing the confession out of him.

Her arms dropped to her sides. She stepped forward, closing the space between them. "You need to tell me…please..!"

Shinji stayed still. Dead silent.

"Dad!"

"I don't know!" Shinji snapped—not in anger, but in something brittle and hollow. His voice cracked, and for a moment he looked like that terrified boy in the plug-suit again. "I'm sorry but I don't know."

Sakuya stepped back, slowly, like she'd just been struck. And there it was—the look. That same look Misato had once given him. That mixture of disappointment and quiet hurt that carved deeper than any shouted accusation.

"I wish I could tell you…" Shinji said, his voice unravelling into something frail. "But I… I don't know. It's all… a blur. Fourteen years…few weeks ago…I woke up…and everything was changed…and I…" He swallowed hard. "…I don't know."

Asuka closed her one good eye, just for a second.

"It doesn't matter," she said, barely above a whisper. "The fact that, you're both here is a miracle in and of itself."

"What, you didn't want us to be here?" Sakuya asked, her voice sharp—cruel and defensive, protective of a wound she barely understood.

"No, Sakuya, I just…" Asuka's voice faltered. She looked tired. "I just…don't know how it happened."

She glanced at them both. I don't want to fight you, her posture almost said.

"Your couldn't act and so he left me to die."

That made both twins stiffen. The room, which had already been quiet, somehow got quieter.

"And then I was infected by an Angel," she added, her fingers brushing the edge of her eyepatch. "I still am... That thing never left. It just… got buried under layers of control."

She exhaled slowly, as if dragging each word from a long-held secret chest. "I didn't know I was pregnant. And even if I did…I wouldn't think anything could survive that…but somehow...somehow you did."

Her eye flicked toward them, and for the first time, it wasn't the soldier or the clone that spoke, but something older and more fragile.

"When I first held you two… and your father was gone… and I came back to a world that had changed, and I had to fight and watch people more people die and…"

The sentence trailed off. Her jaw tightened. Shinji saw the crack forming in her voice, and it hurt. More than any wound.

She was breaking—but refusing to break.

"I just didn't want you to live like that…" Asuka said, "to have to carry all that…hurt…"

"It's all my fault," Shinji said suddenly. "if you want someone to blame, blame me…" He said to the twins, "I shouldn't have acted so recklessly….Back then, I just—I just wanted to save Ayanami. I thought I had to. But if I'd known…"

He hesitated again, "If I'd known, maybe I—"

"You wouldn't have ended the world?" Asuka—the boy, his son—cut in, voice low and bitter. "You would've let Ayanami, the closest thing to your mother, die? You would've chosen us instead? Is that right?"

Shinji opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"You're just trying to save face." His son replied, looking through him with an expression he'd been very familiar with. "This whole time, I've been trying to find my father and now…" He shook his head, "I was better off before I even knew you…"

And there it was, the other look, the one he'd know ever since he was a boy, standing across from Gendo Ikari at the end of a train station.

It was that same cold, bitter stare. Not angry, nor outraged. Just…finished. Disappointment in the shape of a man who was supposed to be better.

And Shinji felt something in his chest twist violently.

"No," he said quietly, "not that."

Anything but…

"Mother is a mess and my father almost ended the world." Sakuya almost wanted to cry, her voice was sharp, deceptively calm, aimed directly at her mother and father. "This whole time, you've just watched us…" Sakuya said, "Sent us off to run errands. Deliver packages. Smile and wave at us... without even lifting a finger to help."

"I tried to—I—"

"Do you have any idea what we went through because of your noble sacrifice?" Sakuya's voice didn't waver. It was ice, honed into something sharp. "Living in this world, without a shield? Without anyone to guide us?"

"I didn't want you to get involved with Eva, I—" Asuka's voice cracked. She hated how small it sounded. How guilty it already felt.

"Yeah, of course." Her brother laughed, but it wasn't humour—it was a jagged, bitter sound that made Asuka's stomach twist. "Because nothing's safer than being raised in a gutter."

"Hey!" Asuka snapped, standing now, her voice cutting louder than she meant it to. "I did my best to protect you, the only way I knew how!"

"Then your best was pathetic," Sakuya said, her tone so calm it was cruel. "No wonder you were drawn to an idiot. It's because you're exactly like him."

"You two are the worst," her brother added, voice flat, final—like a judge passing sentence.

Asuka's face darkened, her chest rising and falling. "You have no right—"

"No right?" Sakuya barked out a short, "You're seriously saying that?"

"You don't know what it's like out there," Asuka shot back, a tremor running through her words. "Fighting Nerv at every waking moment… fighting against Gendo Ikari and his endless army of eva's—"

"Our grandfather," Sakuya interrupted. The word landed like a blade.

"Isn't that amazing," their son added, his voice colder than Sakuya's. "All that hate. All that fighting…" He shook his head, "It turns out you, it's just our family."

Shinji now stood too, hands half-raised as if he could physically hold the moment back.

"Asuka—" he started, soft, pleading.

But she wasn't listening.

"–Watching the world collapse." Asuka continued, "And trying to hold it together with nothing but your goddamn grit!"

Asuka's jaw locked. Her eye burned, but she kept going. "It's do or die out there…People die…I didn't want that for you don't you understand…I wanted—"

"What? For us to grow up being bullied!? Hungry!? Struggling!?" Sakuya shouted, finally losing control. "Bounced around from house to house, couple to couple, scraping through the mud for scraps while our mother sat on her high hill—pretending she didn't know we existed?"

"You're not listening to–"

"You hid! From everyone! From us! And now you want sympathy? Now you want to cry and pretend it was all too hard? You don't get to be the tragic heroine! You were just a coward. A selfish, broken bi—"

Crack.

The slap echoed throughout the room like a gunshot.

Sakuya staggered back, stunned, her hand flying to her cheek.

Silence followed—absolute, breathless silence.

Asuka stood frozen. Her palm still raised. Her breathing shallow.
She hadn't even thought. Hadn't meant to—
But the words had cut to deep.

Sakuya's mouth twisted—not in fear, but something else. Something worse.

"I'm—" Asuka's voice cracked. "I…I didn't—"

She stepped forward, but Sakuya recoiled like she'd been struck a second time.

"Don't touch me," the girl hissed. Her tone was low, but her eyes were wild, ferocious and full of contempt.

"No…" Asuka whispered, reaching out anyway. "Please, I—"

"Stay away from me!" Sakuya shouted, and her brother moved instantly, stepping in front of her like a shield. His gaze met Asuka's, and for the first time, it wasn't neutral.

It was cold. Detached. Final.

And Asuka felt her knees weaken.

"No…" she whispered, breath trembling.

"Stay away," her son said,

Her eye widened, as if the words themselves had struck her.

Behind them, Shinji's face went pale. His fists clenched, trembling, the guilt hollowing him out from the inside.

No one moved.

Then, softly but firmly, their son said: "Come on. We're leaving."

He placed a gentle hand on Sakuya's shoulder, steering her toward the door.

"No. Please," Asuka followed, step for step. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

They didn't look back.

"Please!" she begged, her voice rising, cracking into something raw and unrecognizable. "I didn't mean to—I'm sorry! Just, please, don't–"

But they were already at the door. Already slipping beyond her reach.

She surged after them, panic driving her forward—but Shinji caught her.

His arms wrapped around her from behind, holding her just below the ribs, hands steady against the trembling cage of her body.

"Let me go, you idiot!" Asuka thrashed, twisting against his grip, her voice breaking into something half-feral, half-childish. "Let me go! I have to…I have to—"

She fought him, but Shinji didn't relent. He held her firm, feeling every jagged breath, every sharp tremor, every claw at his arms.

"Please!" she screamed, desperation tearing out of her throat. "Please don't let them–"

But outside, the twins were already walking down the hill.

"Don't let them leave me!"

Asuka could see their silhouettes framed against the starlit sky—her children, her miracle, retreating further and further with every step.

Her vision blurred.

She watched them fade, smaller and smaller, until the path swallowed them whole.

"No…" she cried, falling. Her strength crumpled. Her knees buckled.

And finally—she broke.

The tears came hot and silent, sliding down her face in shaky, uneven trails. Her hands clenched at Shinji's arms like they were the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

Her voice cracked into a sob she couldn't suppress. "…I can't do this again. I can't lose them again…"

Shinji said nothing. He just held her tighter, his own chest hollow with guilt.

Because in that moment, he understood.
She wasn't crying because she'd been rejected.

She was crying because somewhere, deep down, she believed she deserved it.

---

The walk back was long, cold and bitter.
No words passed between them. No sarcastic jabs. No quiet laughter. Just the crunch of their boots on the dirt path and the endless sprawl of stars overhead—silent witnesses to a heavy night.

There was no Kensuke walking alongside them with an easy grin. No comforting smell of stew or the faint hums of a record player to soften the edges waiting ahead. Only the orphanage loomed, a tall, dark shape against the horizon.

And there, leaning against the entrance with his hands stuffed in his pockets, was one Ryoji Kaji Jr.

"You're late," he called out as they neared, straightening with a mock salute. "Way beyond late, actually. I was just about to lock up—"

But before he could finish, Sakuya brushed past him, her shoulder deliberately clipping his.

"Hey!" Kaji turned, brow raised, watching her disappear inside without a word.

"What's her problem?" he asked, shifting his gaze to her brother.

The boy—Asuka—just stared back at him, face unreadable but simmering with a quiet fury.

"Okay…" Kaji said slowly, hands half-raised. "I see you both had a lovely day."

"That's not funny, man," Asuka(s) muttered flatly.

Kaji tilted his head, trying for levity but seeing no give in.

"Sorry. Couldn't help it. But hey…" He offered the faintest of smirks, even if it didn't land. "Didn't I tell you? One of you was bound to cry before the day was over. Should've listened."

"Shinji Ikari and Asuka Langley Shikinami," the boy said flatly.

Kaji blinked. "…Excuse me?"

"Our parents," Asuka(s) clarified, like he was reading off a death sentence. "Shinji Ikari and Asuka Langley Shikinami."

There was a long pause. Kaji just stared, his expression flickering between confusion, disbelief, and a quiet horror reserved for bad jokes that turn out to be true.

"...Fuck," he whispered.

"You don't know the half of it," Asuka replied,

"Fuck…" Kaji repeated, slower this time, more pity than shock. "That's… wow…. Yeah. That's… a lot."

"Imagine how I'm feeling," Asuka muttered.

Kaji scrubbed a hand over his face. "If anyone finds out…" he began, then trailed off. "You're screwed…"

"I know…"

"No, you're like properly screwed," Kaji clarified, glancing over his shoulder like the walls had ears. "You do realize some people lost everything because of your father right? If they catch wind of this—"

"You won't go yapping, will you?"

"Not a chance. But…" Kaji replied, but he lowered his voice still, "Someone could be listening in. You never know. Place like this? Secrets don't stay buried forever."

"Yeah, I know…" Asuka just sighed, long and tired. "Better than anyone."

Asuka walked past him into the dark, leaving Kaji alone with the kind of silence you couldn't joke your way out of. All he could do was stand and exhale slowly, shoulders slumping as he muttered to no one in particular:

"...Fuck."

---

Shinji had laid Asuka down on her bed, carefully, almost reverently, wrapping her in that familiar green blanket.

She'd cried herself empty. Screamed until her throat broke. Thrashed at him with words and fists until there was nothing left in her.

Now she just lay there, small and hollowed out.

He had never seen her like this. Not even in the aftermath of battle.

She looked like the child she had been frozen as—eternally fourteen. A curse wearing human skin.

Is this what waits for me? Shinji wondered, staring at her fragile frame. She had said as much…

Would he, too, be cursed? To watch his own children, and possibly grant children grow older, angrier… until they looked at him the way he now looks at his own father? What must he do to stop that? Could he even stop it?

The questions burned at the back of his mind, but there were no answers.

He turned to leave, to give her space, to drown his own guilt elsewhere.

But then––her fingers brushed his wrist. Light as a ghost, but insistent.

"Asuka?" he said, softly.

Her grip tightened just enough to keep him there. She didn't open her eye, but she whispered—hoarse, almost inaudible:

"You selfish brat…"

He braced himself for the usual venom, another hurl of insults, but when her one red eye fluttered open—and the faint flicker of the angelic blue beneath the patch trembled, there was no hatred behind it.

Just raw, hollow pain.

"Can't you see what you've done…" she murmured, her voice breaking in places. Her grip was weak now…so weak.

"Fix this…"

"I can't," he replied quietly, calmly. Because there was no point in lying.

"Fix this…" she repeated, softer this time, like a plea unravelling into the dark. The tears wouldn't come—they'd all been spent—but her voice still cracked like something was splintering inside her. "Please… fix this…"

"I can't…" he said again, his own voice trembling now.

Her eye shifted to meet his, tired, sharp but dimmed. "Then don't leave me alone…" Her lips quivered faintly. "Can't you see what's going on here? Do I need to say it?"

Shinji didn't answer. He couldn't.

Instead, he sat beside her on the bed. He didn't lie down with her—but he stayed close enough. Close enough for her hand, fragile and still warm, to cling to his.

"Why…" she whispered, barely audible. "Why did you tell them?"

"I didn't," Shinji replied gently.

Her fingers twitched against his hand, as if she wanted to pull away but didn't have the strength. "Then who…? Why?" The words bled out of her in fragments, like she was still holding herself together by threads.

"I don't know," he replied.

It sounded pitiful even to him—empty and useless. But it was all he had.

She let out a soft, broken breath. Not quite a sob. Not quite anything. Just the sound of someone at the edge of themselves.

"I can't… do this again," she whispered, voice trembling. "I can't lose them again…not again…"

"You won't." Shinji whispered, steady but gentle, "I promise you.."

Her eye flickered open just enough to search for something she didn't believe existed. Certainty? Salvation? Something beyond the endless loop of loss.

But all she saw was his face, Tired, guilty, and scared.

Her lip trembled, and for a fleeting second, it looked like she might call him a liar. Might spit back the promise like it was poison.

Instead… she just exhaled, a slow, hollow sound. Her fingers went slack but didn't let go completely.

"...You better keep this promise..." A murmur, barely there. "Or... I'll..."

The threat died unfinished. Her eyelid fluttered shut. And Shinji—

Shinji sat there, frozen, the weight of her words anchoring him in place.

Chapter 9: Kaguya Ōtsutsuki

Notes:

That not having a plan for this fanfic really came back to bite me in the ass. I'm stuck lol…ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

Am I trying to dodge responsibility?

Maybe…

Am I lazy?

Yeah kinda...

Am I going to finish this story?

…

…

It wasn't often that you'd hear birds in a dead world.

And yet Sakuya heard them all the same. Faint and brittle, like on an early Sunday morning.

That or the sky itself had forgotten it was supposed to be empty.

She rolled out of bed with the energy and enthusiasm of angry sloth, every movement a protest. Her feet dragging across the floor—surrender-marching—toward the mirror, where her reflection would no doubt want to slap her as well.

The early morning light caught her features, softening the angles—and all she could see staring back at her now was her mother. The same blue eyes, and the same red-gold flicker in her hair.

It made her jaw tighten.

"A clone," she spat, under her breath. The word felt ugly in her mouth. She almost raised her hand to shatter the mirror, to break the reflection before it could look back at her with the same tired judgment.

But the door swung open.

One Ryoji Kaji Jr. leaned on the frame like he owned it—hair tousled, shirt untucked, that infuriating half-smile making him look effortlessly put together even when he clearly wasn't.

"Superintendent called," he said. "Someone wants to see you."

Sakuya didn't even turn fully toward him. "A 'good morning' wouldn't have killed you."

Kaji raised an eyebrow. "…I doubt it would've helped."

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "What? Is it for another adoption?"

"Nope," he replied, "Something else."

She narrowed her eyes. "Like…?"

"They didn't tell me," he said with a shrug. "They just said to fetch you."

Her mouth twisted. "Of course they did…"

"You coming, or do I tell them princess Sakuya needs another five minutes to prepare?"

The hairbrush flew at his head like a missile. Kaji sidestepped it with the grace of a man who'd spent a lifetime dodging her wrath—and worse.

"Get. Out." She said, with voice as cold as ice.

Kaji obeyed, but not without a wink—the kind that promised trouble later.

The door clicked shut, sealing Sakuya in her temporary fortress of solitude.

She glared back at her reflection, muttered something unflattering, then snatched a jacket off a nearby chair.

"I'll be down…" She paused. "Eventually."

---

The hall was quiet as she walked it. Empty in that early morning kind of vibe, footsteps echoing in the emptiness as she made her way towards the door.

Outside the morning light was colder…sharper.

And waiting for her was her brother.

He stood perfectly still, like he'd been there for a long time. His face unreadable.

And the moment she saw him, she understood.

Stopped.

Froze, and turned, her instincts screaming before her brain caught up––retreating back into the shadows of the hall.

"No, wait," Shinji's voice cut through the silence.

But she didn't stop, Her hand was already on the doorframe, ready to push past and leave him standing there like he had them fourteen years ago.

"Please!" Shinji's voice cracked—not loud, not commanding, but desperate in that quiet way that made you feel it more.

She froze again.

But she didn't turn.

The space between them stretching like a no-man's land.

"What do you want?" Asuka(s) asked, his tone flat—neutral only because anything sharper would've been too much.

There was a long pause. A breath. A tremor of hesitation in his shadow.

"I just want to talk," he said, finally.

"We talked plenty yesterday." His son replied, without even looking at him.

"I know, but that–" Shinji's breath caught in his throat. He exhaled, shoulders sagging. "That didn't go the way it should've—"

"How was it supposed to go?" His son asked,

"I don't know," Shinji admitted, quietly.

And then, the dagger:
"You never know anything, do you?"

The words hung in the air like smoke.

But before he could speak again, Sakuya turned around, her movements precise, deliberate—like she'd been waiting to deliver some sort of final blow.

Her gaze met his, and for a moment it wasn't his daughter looking at him. It was every person who'd ever been disappointed in Shinji Ikari, condensed into one body wearing Asuka's face.

"There's nothing you could say," she said, voice smooth and low, "That could ever change what happened."

"I know." Shinji's reply was soft. Almost weightless. "I know…"

"Then what?" Sakuya asked, tilting her head slightly, like she was studying a failed experiment.

"I just…" he hesitated. The silence stretched again, thin as glass, threatening to shatter with the wrong word. "Since you're done with us and all…" He swallowed, his voice dipping into something almost—desperate? No, cautious. Careful. "…it would just be a shame if… the leaves you give to Asuka…ran out."

Her eyes narrowed,

"Just tell me… where you get them."

It wasn't a request. Not really. It was an exhausted plea dressed as a favour.

"The old lady," his son finally replied, voice flat. "The one from the fish market, you know her."

Shinji blinked, trying to piece it together. "But I don't… I don't know what to say," he admitted. The words felt pathetic even leaving his mouth. "If you could… maybe… show me?"

Another beat of silence. Asuka(s) tilted his head, giving him a look that was half pity, half contempt.

"So let me get this straight," Sakuya said, "You want us to walk all the way into town with you, like some toddler, and coach you on what to say? Instead of, I don't know, just telling you right now?"

"Yes…" Shinji said, awkwardly, voice catching like a bad radio signal.

Sakuya stared at him for a long, unblinking second. Then she sighed through her nose, sharp and derisive.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that," she said, already pivoting on her heel.

"Wait, please…"

But his son was already turning too, his face a perfect, deliberate mask.

"What'll it take?" Shinji asked, voice cracking despite himself.

That made them pause, just slightly. Sakuya tilted her head, glancing back over her shoulder.

"What'll it take?" she echoed softly, almost mockingly.

"Yeah…" Shinji said, bracing for whatever cruel truth she'd throw at him next.

"Fourteen years," Sakuya replied, her tone sharp but eerily calm. "Give me those fourteen years back, and maybe I'll consider coming."

Shinji's shoulders sagged. "…I can't," he admitted.

"Well then…we're done." She turned as if it were final, the last nail driven into the coffin.

"I can't give you those fourteen years back," Shinji said, louder this time. His voice cracked but didn't break. "But I can promise the next."

"What?" his son asked, suspicious, almost scoffing.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Shinji said, stepping forward, his words heavy but deliberate. "I'm not even asking if I can be your father. I've already failed at that, I know…"

They watched him, wary.

"I'm asking you guys to come with me…" He continued, " Not because I'm your father. I don't even know if that version of myself could exist…" He paused, the weight of the thought dragging through him, "But because I'm Shinji Ikari. The boy you met on that hill…The boy you both saw to give a chance despite the whole world hating him…The boy who just wanted to do something right."

The twins exchanged a look. One of those silent, wordless exchanges only siblings could have—a flicker of doubt in Sakuya's eyes, a shadow of reluctant curiosity in her brother's.

"Please…" Shinji said, softer now. Almost a whisper. "Sakuya… Asuka…"

When their gaze shifted back to Shinji, his face wasn't pleading anymore nor was it self-pitying. It was somewhat determined. Regret written into every line, but also something else—resolve, brittle but real.

Sakuya exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Fine," she said at last.

Her brother blinked. "Wait… you're serious?"

"Yes." Her voice was flat, unreadable.

Shinji straightened, the faintest flicker of hope crossing his face.

"Let's walk with him and show him where we get the old lady's plants and soaps," Sakuya said almost casually, flippantly. "The same place we've always gotten them. Ever since they started sending us out to work."

She didn't wait for a response. She just turned on her heel and walked back inside. Her brother lingered, casting Shinji a sharp glare, before following after her.

Inside, he caught her by the arm, and turned her around. "What are you doing?"

Sakuya raised an eyebrow. "What do you think I'm doing?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know that's why I'm asking you!"

"Well, to answer your question…" She tilted her head, voice syrupy with false sweetness. "We're gonna spend some time with our father. Don't you want to do that?"

"No." His reply came fast, cold, and flat. "Quite frankly, I never want to see either of them again."

Sakuya feigned shock, her hand brushing her chest in mock offense. "How could you say that?"

"You were so pissed you couldn't talk yesterday," her brother shot back. "And in case you forgot—Mommy dearest slapped the shit out of you."

For a split second, her mask cracked. Her fingers twitched like they wanted to hit him for saying it out loud, but she kept her composure with effort. A slow breath. A tiny smile stitched back onto her face like nothing had happened.

"It's a new day," she said lightly, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her shirt. "I hold no grudges."

"Funny," he muttered, "I thought they were your forte."

She felt the urge to flip him off rising like a reflex, but she swallowed it down, keeping her smirk intact.

"I'm gonna go change and help papa dearest," she said, voice lilting, deliberately taunting. "You can come, or not. I don't care."

"Good. 'Cause I'm not going." His voice was final.

"Great. 'Cause I won't have to babysit you," she shot back, breezing past him toward her room.

Sakuya changed and returned, fresh from a quick shower. Her hair was still damp, strands clinging to her neck, and in her hand was a small cloth bag, the size of a satchel. She slung it over her shoulder with an almost theatrical casualness.

"Let's go," she said. "We're gonna do it the old-fashioned way."

Shinji hesitated, glancing toward the doorway.

"What about your brother?" he asked, hopeful.

Sakuya followed his gaze. Asuka(s) was still there, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, the perfect image of quiet defiance.

"Not coming," she said flatly.

Shinji turned fully to his son. "Why?" he asked, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

The boy didn't even blink. "Because I don't want to," he replied, no edge and no anger. Just… finality.

Shinji opened his mouth but stopped, unsure what else to say.

Sakuya let out a slow, sharp exhale through her nose and turned toward the path.

"Don't bother," she muttered. "You won't convince him of anything."

Shinji lingered, but Sakuya was already moving. He caught up with her, still glancing back at the figure in the doorway. His son hadn't moved, hadn't flinched. Just watched them leave with that same unreadable, finished look.

As they made their way up the path, Shinji asked, "Why wouldn't he come?"

His daughter shrugged, a small, sharp motion. "Because he's stubborn," she replied. "Stuck in his own head, to a fault… remind you of anyone else you know?"

Shinji's shoulders sagged with the weight of the answer. "…I see."

She slowed just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye, her voice suddenly cool and cutting. "Why are you doing this… really?"

"I told you already," Shinji said quietly. "I just wanna—"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Sakuya interrupted, sharp as glass. "Do you just feel bad about last night?"

"Well—"

"Of course you do. It'd be weird if you didn't." She didn't even let him get the sentence out. "But you didn't hit me, she did. And she had that angry look on her face while she did it." The word––she––dropped like a stone between them.

"It's just—"

"How dare she say I don't have the right," Sakuya continued, her voice rising, quick and brittle. "I wish I could hit her back…but that would be wrong, wouldn't it?" She clicked her tongue, scorn curling her lips. "Whatever, I don't care anyway."

"Sakuya, it's—"

"I mean seriously, and then she tried to act like the victim." Sakuya's rant was relentless, like a dam breaking. "Making that pitiful face and crying, she didn't even apologize."

"She wanted to but—"

"It's annoying," Sakuya spat, cutting him off again. "All these years just watching us, and then when we finally confront her about it, she, she—"

"Sakuya!"

Shinji's voice cut through hers, firmer than he meant it to be. She stopped mid-step and turned toward him, annoyed, eyes narrowing. "What!?"

"It's okay to be mad," Shinji said, quieter now but steady. "At us…At me. I deserve it."

"Of course you do," Sakuya shot back without hesitation. "Don't think I'm pitying you. I hate you right now."

Shinji winced. "…That hurts." His voice was soft, but he didn't look away. "But I'll take it…I do deserve it. Asuka, on the other hand… she's different. She's not like you or me."

"Of course you'd say that," Sakuya said, rolling her eyes, "You've probably endured her abuse. Maybe you've come to like it. Like some Stockholm victim."

Shinji almost sighed, the breath hitching in his throat. There was no good way to untangle that knot of anger and bitterness his daughter was displaying.

"Think whatever you want of me," Shinji said, still quiet, his voice almost too soft for the bitterness in hers. "But Asuka's only ever tried her best… the only way she knows how."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Mommy dearest is a robot—"

"Clone," he corrected gently.

"—mass-produced. She must've had it so hard, huh? And so did the blue-haired girl, I guess. Is that what I'm supposed to say? I am supposed to feel sad…" Sakuya paused, her mouth curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Does that make the blue-haired girl my grandmother? Am I a robot too?"

"Clone," Shinji repeated, still soft. "And… I don't know what to say when it comes to Rei."

"It still doesn't justify her actions," Sakuya shot back. Her voice was sharpening now, "You ever think maybe we could've been safe under Wille's watch? Raised in an enclosure? Watched and protected?"

"Or studied and tested," Shinji pointed out, the edge of an old fear creeping into his tone. It was a fine point—practical, grounded—but it didn't stop his daughter.

"So what? At least it would've been safe—contained." Sakuya's voice cracked, just a fraction. "She's not the only one who's seen people die, you know."

There it was. A hint of something darker, something she'd seen that she wouldn't speak aloud.

"She could've visited us," Sakuya pressed on, angrier now, as if her words could fill the years they'd lost. "At least we'd know who our mother is. And—"

"They would've hated you because of me," Shinji interrupted quietly.

Sakuya froze mid-step.

"They would've seen you as the spawn of the boy who ended the world," he said, voice breaking but steady. "And you'd have carried my sins before you even knew my name."

Sakuya's mouth opened slightly, then shut. Her eyes flickered—confusion, defiance, maybe even a spark of doubt.

"Do you really think that would've been better?" Shinji asked, finally looking her straight in the eye.

Sakuya didn't answer immediately. Her eyes flicked away, unreadable.

"Compared to fighting our way out of the gutter…" she muttered at last, the words bitter but thin, lacking the weight of true conviction. "Maybe…"

She clicked her tongue softly, more at herself than at him, then glanced at the horizon. The sun had fully risen, spilling its pale gold over the road ahead.

"…We should get moving," she said, brushing past the moment.

They kept walking in silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot filling the space between their words.

Shinji wanted to say something, anything to bridge the gap, but every word felt like it would only make things worse.

So he let the silence stretch.

It felt like the only thing they had in common.

---

The idiot Shinji had left early this morning, and Asuka spent the hours in her usual routine—sweeping the porch, then sinking back into her handheld console like it was the only thing keeping her sane.

Now she sat slouched in the SUV's passenger seat, the console plugged into the car's charging socket. The engine had been started briefly just to give it some juice. She watched the battery bar creep up like it had better places to be.

Kensuke had given her explicit instructions before heading out.

"Keep an eye on the SUV," he'd said, fastening his boots. "Misato's kid is coming to do some work on it."

"Without you?" she'd asked, arching a brow.

"Yeah," Kensuke replied. "I say 'fix' but it's really just maintenance. Oil change, check the water and coolant levels. Nothing fancy."

"So why can't you do it?"

"Because I don't have the stuff with me," Kensuke said simply, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He opened the door but paused halfway, giving her a look. "And don't scare him too much."

Asuka had scoffed, eyes glued to her screen. "Whatever. Like I care."

But now, sitting there, the faint hum of the console filling the silence, she caught herself glancing toward the dirt path leading up to Kensuke's house.

Any moment now, Misato's "unknowing" child would show up. And for reasons she couldn't quite explain, she felt… restless.

The hours would go on once more, until, from the path came voices—muffled at first, then clearer with each step.

Asuka sat up slightly in the SUV, her console screen dimming. She recognized one of them instantly—him. Her own son.

The murmur of conversation carried up the hill before they even appeared.

"Can't believe you tricked me into this," her son was saying, voice flat with irritation. "Man, I really didn't want to come here."

"Why?" That was unmistakably Ryoji Kaji Jr., tone annoyingly chipper, deliberately stoking the fire.

Her son gave him a look that could cut steel. "What are you, stupid?"

"Maybe," Kaji said, completely unfazed. "But then again, I'm not the one who doesn't know how to check a car's oil. Or change a tire. Or literally anything useful."

"When was the last time anyone even needed a car in this world?" Asuka(s) shot back.

"When shit hits the fan and you need to run," Kaji replied, "You'll wish you knew how to drive."

They crested the hill finally, two silhouettes side by side—Kaji with A lazy half-smirk, and her son looking every bit like someone who'd rather be anywhere else.

Asuka felt an odd weight in her chest, equal parts relief and dread. She stepped out of the SUV and stood by it, arms crossed, jacket draped loosely over her plug-suit. The faint breeze tugged at her hair as she watched them approach.

Kaji was the first to speak, because of course he was.

"Miss Shikinami," He greeted with warmth, "How are you?"

Her face didn't shift. She kept the mask on—stone-cold, impassive, the same way she'd learned to survive.

"Fine," she replied flatly.

And then she looked at her son.

The boy met her gaze without flinching, his face a perfect mirror of her own—a stoic mask, with a faint tightness around the mouth, betraying everything they refused to say.

For a second, it felt like staring into glass. A reflection that wasn't a reflection.

Neither of them blinked.

The silence between them stretched, heavy enough to crush something small and fragile.

"So, uhhh… I'll just, uh, grab the tools," Kaji said, awkwardly easing himself past the suffocating tension.

"Right behind you," the boy muttered, already turning to follow.

But Asuka's hand shot out, firm on his shoulder, stopping him cold.

Another silence.

He twitched forward on instinct, muscle memory perhaps. But no dice. Her fingers had become iron restraints––strong.

Too strong.

"Let me go," he said without looking at her.

"Your sister…" Asuka's voice was low, measured. "Where is she?"

The boy didn't answer right away. His silence stretched long enough to make it obvious.

"I don't know," He finally said.

It was a lie. She could feel it in the small twitch of his posture. But she had no proof. No leverage. Just that gnawing instinct she'd always trusted.

Her fingers tightened, just slightly.

"You're gonna let go?" he asked, tone flat. "Or are you gonna hit me too?"

And then came a longer silence… the kind that stretched thin, pulling at the edges of her resolve.

Her grip finally faltered, fingers unclenching without her meaning to. Just enough for him to slip free.

He didn't look back. Didn't roll his eyes or throw one last cutting remark. He simply stepped past her with that same blank, practiced calm that hurt far more than shouting ever could.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, the words slipping out before she could stop them. She wasn't even sure why—sorry for what? For yesterday? For fourteen years? For all of it?

But her son didn't respond. Didn't even slow down.

She watched his back as he followed Kaji toward the SUV, their voices drifting faintly, mundane talk about wrenches and oil and all the things that didn't matter to her. Things that filled a silence she could no longer breach.

For a split second, she saw the boy he used to be—small and fragile. Tiny enough to fit in her arms, crying into her plug-suit. And now… he was someone else entirely. Someone she was struggling to reach.

She exhaled, long and slow, like she was trying to drain all the heartache out with a single breath.

But it stayed. Strong and heavy.

---

The path narrowed as they left the main road, swallowed by overgrown hedges and knee-high grass.

Sakuya didn't bother to explain where they were going—she just moved on ahead, stepping with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times.

Shinji trailed behind, trying to keep up, his eyes flicking to the small cloth satchel she carried.

They stopped in a clearing marked by a crooked wooden post, half-buried in moss.

"Here," Sakuya said, crouching down. She brushed aside a tangle of weeds, revealing long, waxy leaves glistening faintly even in the shade.

Shinji knelt beside her awkwardly. "They smell… clean," he murmured, rubbing one between his fingers.

"Don't mash them." She reprimanded, "Bruised leaves won't lather right." He pulled back fast, but the scent lingered—citrus and earth.

"Sorry." The word came out small.

Sakuya exhaled through her nose. "They're good for skin. Lather well in boiling water." Her hands moved quick, snapping stems at just the right angle. "The old lady boils them with fat and ash, makes bars for the orphanage."

"Can I—?" he asked, getting ready to pick

"Just be careful." She replied.

His hands hovered over the plants, too stiff. He tugged at a stem; it bent instead of snapping clean. Sakuya's eyes cut sideways at him.

"You're slow," she said, already twisting twine around her first bundle. The leaves lay perfectly aligned, ribs stripped bare.

"Sorry," he said again, in that voice that made her jaw tighten.

"Stop saying sorry. Just—" She groaned, grabbing another handful. "Watch! Strip the rib first or they'll rot." Her thumbnail split one stem with a clean snick. "Neat bundles dry faster. Always neat."

He tried to mimic her, fingers fumbling the knot. She didn't sigh this time. That was progress, maybe.

They moved from patch to patch, filling the satchel with bundles of fragrant leaves. Shinji noticed other small things that his daughter picked up—twigs of dried rosemary-like herbs, a few thin stalks of something pale and brittle.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"Soap filler," she replied shortly. "Makes it last longer."

Shinji nodded, but didn't press further. The silence that followed was only broken by the rustle of leaves.

When the satchel was finally heavy, Sakuya stood, brushing dirt from her hands. "That's enough for a trade. She'll give us three bars for this, maybe four if she's in a good mood."

Shinji looked at the bundles, neat and tight in the bag. "You've been doing this for a long time, huh?"

"Obviously." Sakuya said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. "Another errand for mommy… and now she sent you here to make sure I do it." She emphasized do it like it was something sour in her mouth.

"Asuka didn't send me to do anything," Shinji replied quietly.

"Sure," Sakuya shot back, "You just woke up this morning and decided you wanted to make me attend to my duties."

"I wanted to spend time with both of you," Shinji said quietly. "To talk… to air things out."

"You don't listen very well, do you?" Sakuya asked, without even looking at him.

"We're spinning in circles," Shinji murmured.

"Oh, you figured it out," she replied, her murmur even lower—softer, but sharper somehow.

"Sakuya, I'm trying my best here."

"Your best isn't enough!" she snapped, finally turning to him, eyes flashing like her mother's. "It's never gonna be enough. And it will never make up for what happened." She paused, letting the weight of her words hang between them. "All of it. For fourteen years."

She sighed then, shaking her head as if even saying it was exhausting.

"What did you expect?" she asked, voice edged with disbelief. "A little father-daughter time and poof—everything's magically fixed? No!" She turned away. "Now come on. The old lady doesn't like to be kept waiting."

But Shinji didn't move.

"I lied," he said suddenly, his voice almost trembling.

Sakuya stopped in her tracks. "…What?"

"Last night. When you asked me…" Shinji swallowed, the words thick and heavy. "I lied."

Sakuya stared at him, brow furrowed.

"It may have been fourteen years for you," he said slowly, "But for me, it's been a few days. Just last week I wasn't even sure what was going to happen. When I…" He hesitated. "When I did what I did with Asuka—"

"And you still caused Near Third Impact?" Sakuya's asked, anger bubbling up, raw and hot. "You destroyed—"

"I didn't know," Shinji interrupted. His voice cracked with something that wasn't quite desperation but wasn't far from it. "I didn't think that would happen—"

"Well, it did, Dad," she cut him off, her words like stones. "It happened, and that started a whole chain of events leading to the ruination of everything—"

"Nothing I say or do will ever unmake it," Shinji said, louder now, but still soft compared to her. "Sakuya… stay mad. Stay mad at me. Stay mad at the world if you want. But please…" he stepped closer, his voice lowering, breaking just a little. "…forgive Asuka."

Sakuya blinked, almost taken aback. Then her eyes narrowed, almost appalled.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked, her voice trembling—not with fear, but with something closer to disgust. "You think you're being what? Loving? Self-sacrificing? For who? for what? No one asked you to be a martyr. Do you want us to clap for you? Or pity you?" She stepped closer now, her anger sharp and cold. "Do you think you love her that much—that you'd look past her mistakes, her errors?"

"I don't know," Shinji repeated, his reply small and quiet, like a confession. "I just… I just want things to go back. To the way they were. Before you knew."

"Well, they can't," Sakuya said flatly. "Because we do know."

And then she turned, walking away again.

"Sakuya…" Shinji called after her. "Sakuya wait…"

But she didn't slow.

"You want me to forgive Mom? Fine," she said finally, still walking. "Make her apologize."

"She was trying to—" Shinji started, but Sakuya cut him off.

"No. For everything," she clarified. She stopped then, just long enough to glance back over her shoulder. "She has to say she was wrong. About it all. Then maybe…I'll consider forgiving her."

Shinji stared at her back. "…Everything?"

"Everything," she repeated. And then she walked on.

"Let's do it now," Shinji said, quickening his pace to follow her.

"After we get the soaps," Sakuya replied without turning, her voice clipped but steady.

Shinji hesitated, watching her back as she walked ahead. After the soaps. It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even a truce. But it was something. A place to start.

"Alright," he said quietly, more to himself than her. "After the soaps."

And though she didn't look back, her pace slowed—just a fraction, just enough to let him catch up.

---

The hood of Kensuke's Red SUV was propped open, and the smell of oil lay faint in the air. Kaji Jr. leaned over the engine bay, sleeves rolled up, hands smudged in black. Beside him, her son held a rag and watched, unimpressed, like this was beneath him.

From the garage door, one Asuka Langley Shikinami stood, arms crossed over her plug-suit and jacket. Her single eye fixed on the two of . Assessing. Maybe even silently judging.

Kaji tilted his head slightly toward the boy, whispering just loud enough for him to hear.
"Uh… why is she looking at us like that?"

"How should I know?" the boy muttered, dabbing at a grease stain on the bumper.

"It's… unsettling," Kaji said, feigning a shiver. "Feels like she's planning something."

"She's just watching, " The boy replied flatly, "Being surveillant." He almost wanted to roll his eyes at that.

They went back to tightening something under the hood. Asuka stepped into the garage slowly, plug-suit soles pattering against the cement.

"…Didn't you already finish?" she asked, voice sharp but quiet.

"We changed the oil. Checked the water, and coolant too," Kaji answered carefully, straightening up. "Now we're just… you know, tinkering."

"With what?" She asked, her tone flat but edged.

Kaji shrugged, lifting both hands slightly like he was innocent. "Nothing that's gonna affect the car. Promise."

"Uh-huh," she said slowly, one brow rising. "Well, finish up…Kenken relies on that car to help people."

"As we know," Kaji replied, throwing a faint smirk, but it didn't really land.

"So don't mess it up."

Across the hood, her son made a face. Not subtle. The kind of expression that said What the actual hell are you talking about? in a universal teenage dialect. He didn't even bother to hide it.

"Why do you call him Kenken?" he asked finally, voice clipped.

"Why do I call him Kenken?" she echoed.

"Yeah," he pressed, leaning just slightly on the word. "Why."

"Because I think it's cute," she said plainly, no hesitation, no shame. "Plus, back when—" She glanced toward Kaji Jr, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in her eye before she cut herself off and rerouted. "I used to know a pet penguin named Penpen."

"So you gave him a pet name," her son said slowly, each word coated in disbelief. "Based off a penguin?"

"Yes." She didn't even blink. Her face wore that practiced, unconcerned neutrality— one that said what's your problem?

"You two must be pretty comfortable then," Kaji Jr cut in, filling the awkward air with forced levity. "You've lived with him for quite some time, after all."

"Yeah. She did," the boy replied before she could, his tone sharper than he probably intended. Then, softer, almost to himself but still audible if you were listening hard enough: "Cozying up to Kenken while our father was gone…"

It was muttered low, like a blade slipped between the ribs, quietly. Enough that you'd only feel it after the fact. But Asuka caught it.

"Excuse me?" Her voice tightened, sharp but not raised.

"What?" her son asked back, gaze steady, pretending innocence with just enough defiance to make it sting.

Kaji wiped his hands on a rag, glancing between the two of them, like someone who'd just accidentally walked into a war zone.

"You said something." Asuka accused, voice calm.

"Did I." The boy shrugged, not even bothering to look at her.

She stared at him for a long beat, her expression unreadable. Kaji shifted awkwardly in the background, sensing the static in the air but wisely saying nothing.

Finally, she let out a breath—short, sharp, dismissive. "Never mind."

"Right," The boy said, still not looking at her.

"Yeah, we're done," Kaji added quickly, his voice stripped of the usual playfulness. He stood, wiping his hands on the rag a little too fast. "You can tell Mr. Aida we did what he asked."

And just like that, the energy shifted—whatever fragile ease had been there evaporated into something heavier.

Kaji glanced between mother and son, reading the room like someone realizing the air was poisoned. "I'll, uh… pack up the tools."

But really, he just couldn't wait to get out of there.

Kaji crouched by the tools, pretending to fuss with the wrench just so he didn't have to feel the weight of the silence pressing down between them.

"Asuka—" she started, her tone soft but uncertain, reaching for a bridge she wasn't sure existed anymore.

But the boy didn't even let her finish.

"Don't," he replied, voice flat as cracked pavement. "Whatever you're about to say—I don't want to hear it."

The words hit her like a slow-moving blade. She tried not to flinch, but something in her expression faltered.

And then it came—a faint breeze carrying with it the sharp, clean smell of citrus. Familiar. Too familiar.

She turned her head slightly, instinctively.

From down the road, two shapes moved closer. One smaller, steady and sure. The other—hesitant.

Shinji, and beside him their daughter, Sakuya.

Kaji followed her gaze, catching sight of them too. His stomach dropped.

"Oh… no," he muttered under his breath.

Chapter 10: Sunglasses At Night (Jean Jacket Mix)

Well, this was certainly awkward.

The one and only Ryoji Kaji Junior. found himself standing in the middle of what could only be described as the senior's position.

"Round two," the boy—Asuka's son—muttered under his breath. His tone carried a flat resignation, like he'd already seen the train wreck before it happened.

Shinji Ikari had appeared. Long-lost father with his twin sister in tow. A ghost from fourteen years ago dragging his baggage straight into the sunlight.

Here they all were. All four of them—five, if you counted Kaji Jr., who was now actively, very casually, sneaking backward, one tiny step at a time toward the nearest possible exit.

Shinji looked straight at Asuka. The weight of everything hanging in his voice

"We need to talk,"

And the silence that followed felt like a noose tightening.

Asuka's eye twitched. Just slightly, enough for her daughter to notice.

"What about?" she asked,

Shinji cleared his throat, leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice like somehow that would make this safer. "She uhm…she wants you to apologize."

Asuka's brow furrowed, "Apologize?" she whispered, her voice too light, too careful.

"Yes," Shinji whispered back, carefully, like he was defusing a bomb.

"For?"

"Everything." He whispered back, "For fourteen years of it."

Asuka looked at Sakuya again. There was no grin, but an angry sort of stare, as if she was expecting something. Whatever it was, it wasn't supposed to be an apology. Asuka thought she knew that much.

"I didn't mean—" Her gaze snapped to Kaji, currently performing the world's worst invisible man routine by the door.

"You can go to the other end of the house…"

Kaji didn't need telling twice. He vanished.

Asuka turned her gaze fully to her daughter. "…I'm sorry."

"For?" Sakuya asked, sharper this time, like she was daring her to go further.

Asuka's jaw tensed. "For… hitting you," she said, each syllable feeling dragged from somewhere deep and reluctant. She took a single step forward.

Sakuya instinctively stepped back, like prey feeling the slow approach of a predator.

"And?" she pressed, chin lifting just slightly.

Asuka's fingers flexed at her sides. She wasn't used to this—the interrogation, her own daughter staring her down like damaged goods.

"I…" Asuka began, the words snagging in her throat. "I went too far….I shouldn't have—" Her gaze flicked to Shinji. A silent plea.

He caught it, nodded, and stepped into the breach.

"She's sorry…" He said, voice softer now. "Don't you see that she––"

"That's not what we came here for…" Sakuya replied, like she already knew the script and wanted to see if her mother could actually say it.

The silence returned, stretching thin, taut as wire. Their son watched with his arms folded, leaning against Kensuke's car, that familiar mix of bitter amusement and quiet resentment on his face.

Shinji leaned in just enough for his voice to barely carry. "This is the only way we can fix this…" His eyes were pleading—desperate even.

Asuka drew in a sharp breath through her nose, her shoulders rising with the weight of everything she didn't want to say. She exhaled slowly, shaking her head ever so slightly, like she was already rejecting the premise.

But still, she tried.

"I…" she started, the word fragile, brittle.

Come on, you can say it, Shinji urged silently, nodding like some awkward cheerleader on the side-lines of a very doomed game.

She opened her mouth again… but the fight in her eye flared back to life. "I had no choice."

Shinji's heart sank. No…

And Sakuya? She almost laughed—cold, and bitter. "Here we go again," she murmured. Their son smirked faintly, a crooked little thing that dripped with contempt. "Typical."

Shinji stepped in, fast, voice trembling with the need to keep this from boiling over. "Asuka, that's not what—"

But Sakuya cut him off, her words the edge of a blade. "You could've just picked us. It's not that difficult."

"I did choose you!" Asuka fired back, her voice raw, cracking. "Your safety, don't you understand? What life would you have lived as a—"

Sakuya's breath hitched; she couldn't even let her finish. "You have no idea what we went through!"

Asuka met that defiance with the same burning stubbornness. "It's better than!—"

"Stop!" Shinji's voice finally cracked, sharp as a gunshot, as he stepped between them. "Just stop!"

Mother and daughter froze, glaring past him, eyes locked in a mirror of anger and frustration.

"We're not gonna get anywhere like this," he said, softer now, but the ache in his voice was unmistakable.

"Just say you're wrong." The boy's voice slid in from the side—cool, detached, but heavy with a quiet demand. He looked straight at his mother, unblinking. "It's not that hard."

Asuka faltered. Her gaze flicked to Shinji—just for a fraction of a second. A silent plea, a wordless help me.

But before he could even draw breath, Sakuya turned her glare on him—the kind of glare that wasn't loud, but said everything. Don't you dare pick her side… Why bring me here if you were just going to cover for her?

He froze under it. Felt it, sharp and cold, cutting him down before he could even speak.

And then he made the mistake of looking at Asuka.

She was glaring too—hers was different, but no less sharp. A plea tangled with defiance. If you leave me hanging now, I'll never forgive you.

Shinji opened his mouth… and closed it again.

He looked at his son, who was standing there with the expression of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

He took a deep breath.

He didn't try to fix it with the "right" words. There were no right words. He just spoke his truth.

"I don't know how to fix this," Shinji admitted.

"I'm sorry?" Sakuya blinked, her voice flat but still edged.

"What?" Asuka asked, almost offended, like she couldn't believe he would say that in front of them.

"I don't know. How. to fix, this." he repeated, slower this time. "I don't even know what I'm doing. I don't know how to make any of this better… I don't even know if I can."

The twins exchanged a glance—one skeptical, the other unreadable.

"I barely know how to be here," Shinji went on, shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do…"

Asuka opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could speak.

"But I don't want to fight anymore," Shinji said quickly. "I don't want any of you to fight. It's… terrifying."

Sakuya folded her arms tighter. Her brother turned his head away, staring at the ground like it might offer a way out of this conversation. Asuka blinked once, almost imperceptibly—her only tell.

"I'm scared, okay…" His voice lowered, raw, almost trembling. "I'm scared that this is it… That this is how we're going to stay… angry, spiteful strangers. Hating each other until the end—which isn't far off for me….Or Asuka."

No one spoke. The silence felt like it was made of glass—fragile, sharp, one wrong move and it would shatter.

"I don't want to lose anyone," He finally said, the words bursting out louder than he meant. "No one. Not you, or you, nor you. Not Misato. Not Rei. No one."

He turned to his daughter, meeting her guarded stare. "Sakuya… you don't have to forgive your mother. Maybe you never will. I get it—you're angry. You have every right to be. But she tried her best, goddammit. She was just a kid. We were just kids."

I still am.

Sakuya opened her mouth, but Shinji's tone—gentle, pleading—closed it for her before she could answer.

"I know that's on us," he went on, quieter now. "We did that. And it's not your burden to bear. I'm sorry." He swallowed, voice catching. "I could apologize a million times and it still wouldn't fix it. You'll always have that anger. And you should…But please—don't hate us so much that you shut your heart out completely. Don't let it all end like this. We can start over… just a little…Please."

Even Asuka blinked at that—an almost startled reaction, like she wasn't expecting him to say it.

And from the SUV, their son stepped forward slowly, arms loose at his sides, eyes flicking between his mother, his sister, and his father.

"My father…" he shook his head, muttering, mostly to himself, "Y'know, you really are pathetic."

Shinji flinched slightly.

"But…" the boy's eyes flicked up, sharp but softer than before, "At least you're honest about it…"

Sakuya glanced at him, surprised.

"I'm not saying I forgive you," the boy went on, his voice still edged, "Or her, Not even close… But…" he shrugged once, like it cost him something, " I don't want to fight neither…"

There was a flicker of hope now—small and fragile—but it was there. In Shinji's eyes.

"So you agree with me?" He asked, and his son shrugged once again.

"Start over…" Sakuya muttered, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Asuka, the son, replied "Start over…"

"She still didn't say she was wrong."

"Sakuya…" Shinji tried gently.

"No, Dad." She didn't look at him this time. Her eyes were locked on her mother, sharp and unrelenting. "She has to say it."

And just like that, the air shifted.

All of them, each turned to face Asuka.

She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there - a statue in the wreckage of her family.

One a desperate man, the other a furious son. And lastly one daughter who burned with anger so bright it could be seen from a thousand lightyears away.

With a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs, Asuka stepped forward.

"What are you doing?" Sakuya's voice was a tripwire.

Her brother tensed - muscle memory ready to intervene - until Shinji's hand settled on his shoulder.

"Wait." He said

Asuka didn't answer. She just closed the last bit of space between them, her movements slow, almost clumsy, like someone who hadn't done this in years—maybe ever.

And then she wrapped her arms around her daughter.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't soft. It was hesitant, stiff at first… but undeniably a hug.

Sakuya froze. Every muscle locked in place, confused, unsure if this was a trap or a joke. But then she felt it—her mother trembling, just slightly.

"I..." Asuka's voice cracked like thin ice. "...I'm sorry. I'm so... sorry."

Sakuya's breath caught.

"For hitting you. For leaving. For..." A wet inhale. "...for not being what you needed."

Asuka pressed her face to her daughter's shoulder, the faintest laugh—wet, bitter, breaking—slipping out. "You smell nice," she whispered, almost like she couldn't help it. "Like that stupid citrus soap. "

It was absurd. Out of place. Painful.

Sakuya's eyes stung, but she didn't hug back. Not yet.

Asuka held tighter, her words tumbling now, raw and quiet. "I didn't think…that I'd ever… get this…To hold you. I thought I'd lose you before I even tried. I was… too scared."

Her daughter stayed still, but the silence wasn't hard anymore. It was heavy.

Behind them, Shinji stood with that same helpless, fragile hope in his eyes. Their son looked away, pretending not to feel it, but his jaw clenched tight.

When Asuka finally pulled back, her hands lingered on Sakuya's shoulders. "I love you…" she said, quieter now. "More than you'll ever know."

Sakuya blinked. Once. Slowly.

And the air hung there—awkward, heavy, and bittersweet. A half-step toward healing, but still jagged at the edges.

Shinji exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the whole time. Their son shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering something about needing air.

And Sakuya…

Sakuya was conflicted.

---

The Wunder hummed like a restless beast—metal groaning under the strain of orbit, engines pulsing with that low, ceaseless thrum.

Just a few more days until they reached Village-03. Then, finally, she could read her brother's letters again.

How is Toji doing? she wondered. I hope he's okay. His kid should be what, one? Two by now?

The ship was quiet in that way only a military vessel could be when no one wanted to talk.

Sakura Suzuhara sat alone in her cabin. Her uniform jacket hung limply over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled up, her lap occupied by a half-finished report that seemed to glare at her with silent judgment.

She wasn't writing. She couldn't.

Because she could still feel him—the weight of his choice, the boy she failed to stop. Shinji Ikari. The one she'd shouted at, begged not to pilot the Eva. The one she'd left to walk straight back into hell because she just couldn't make him stay.

And he did pilot it. He went through with it.

"That asshole!" she blurted out, louder than she meant to.

The door hissed open. Midori Kitakami leaned lazily against the frame.

"What's up with you?" she asked, eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you're still thinking about Ikari?"

Sakura stiffened, realizing how pathetic she must've looked—sitting here stewing in her own thoughts, yelling at ghosts.

Midori stepped in, closing the door behind her with a soft hiss. "Oh, you are? Wow. You've got a thing for genocidal maniacs huh?"

"It's not like that," Sakura snapped, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.

Midori raised an eyebrow, "Sure. It's not like that. You just like to what? torture yourself at the thought of the boy who ended the whole world."

"It's not about him," Sakura replied, louder now. "It's about what he did. He piloted an Eva again, even after everything I said! I begged him!"

Midori let the words hang, then walked over and perched herself on the edge of the desk, glancing at the half-finished report. "You really think there was anything you could've said, that might've stopped him?"

"Maybe…" She replied, "I don't know."

"Liar."

That word hit harder than it should've. Sakura sighed, rubbing at her temples. "It's not—" she stopped, then tried again. "It's not like you think."

"Oh? Then explain it to me. Because all I see is you acting like it's your personal mission to save the kid who ended the world." She replied, "I'm starting to question whether or not you've gone insane."

Sakura hesitated.

"…He's not what people say," She replied, quietly. "He's not this… villain. He's just a boy. A boy who made mistakes he didn't understand. A boy who keeps being forced into things no one should have to be forced into."

Midori snorted softly. "Yeah, well, tell that to the billions who died."

"I know." Sakura's voice cracked, sharper than she intended. "I know what he did. My family suffered too, okay…" Her hands tightened in her lap. "But when I saw him, I–" She paused, a defeated sigh leaving her.

"He wasn't some monster who hurt us. His decision led to the whole chain of events but he, Shinji Ikari himself, was just… pathetic…sad…scared even. More like a stray dog than anything… And I…" she trailed off.

"…And you what?" Midori asked curious,

"I guess I maybe wanted to protect him," Sakura admitted, softer now. "Even if I hated him for what he did. Even if I knew he might do it again. I thought maybe…maybe if someone just stayed by his side, he wouldn't…wouldn't…" she couldn't say it

"…And yet… he still did." Midori replied, and Sakura flinched.

"Yeah…I guess so..."

"So what now?"

Sakura looked down at her hands. They were trembling just slightly. "Now I feel like I failed everyone. My brother. This ship. And even…even him."

Midori leaned back, arms crossing. "You know what I think."

"What?" Sakura asked

"You care too much." Midori answered, "And It's gonna eat you alive."

"I don't care about him like that." Sakura's denial came too quickly, too forcefully.

Midori smirked faintly. But in truth she was almost disgusted, "I Didn't say you did. But you do care. And that's enough for it to hurt."

Sakura didn't answer. She couldn't.

"You're not gonna save him, you know." Midori stood, brushing off her pants. "You can't save people who don't want to be saved."

"…Maybe," Sakura whispered.

And when the door closed behind Midori, Sakura sat alone with the hum of the Wunder again.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

Shinji Ikari.

She hated that name. Hated what it meant. The deaths. The suffering. The empty spaces where lives used to be.

But what she hated, more than anything, was that when she looked at him… once again—she didn't see a devil.

Did Toji's stories get to me? She wondered, Maybe…

All she could see was a boy so lost in his own sorrow it was suffocating. A boy who should've been her enemy, but instead made her feel this… unbearable ache.

If someone like him could still be human, what does that make us? She wondered, Those who stood by and did nothing until it was too late?

It was something that sat too close to her heart. Pity? Resentment?

A quiet yearning to undo it all for him, even though she knew it was impossible.

And now he was out there again, making choices that would end the world—or maybe save it.

She didn't know which terrified her more.

---

The awkwardness lingered like smoke after a fire.

The one and only Ryoji Kaji Jr. had been standing by the farthest edge of the yard, trying to look casual, but really just wanting to not be here anymore. Now he understood why Kensuke had conveniently "Needed to help someone in the field."

Yeah. Smart move, Mr. Aida. Real smart.

Kaji's eyes darted to the family. Shinji stood there like a man wrung out and hung to dry, his shoulders sagging but his face oddly calm. Asuka was stiff, caught between the I did what you wanted hug she'd given and the don't expect me to do it again defiance that still lingered in her body language.

And Sakuya was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, her expression a tangle of emotions she wasn't even trying to hide.

She'd gotten the apology. Sort of. She'd gotten the hug. Kind of. But she still looked unsatisfied, her mouth tight, her gaze distant. She didn't look angry anymore. Just… confused.

Like she wanted to forgive, but she didn't know if she could.

The boy—Asuka—stood a little apart from them all, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his face unreadable. Maybe he was waiting for the next blow to land. Maybe he just didn't care. It was hard to tell.

Kaji exhaled slowly through his nose.

This is beyond me.

He gave them one last glance, and then, began to walk down the hill.

He'd report to Kensuke later—Yeah, you were right not to come. It was a battlefield without weapons.

Behind him, the family stayed locked in their uneasy silence.

And that was where he'd left them: a little closer than before, maybe, but still teetering on the edge of something unresolved.

---

"So…" Shinji exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can we just take one step? Just one…"

No one responded.

"Let's have dinner together. " He continued, "All of us. Just one meal. No yelling. No running away. Just...dinner."

They all stared at him.

"No," Sakuya said flatly.

Her twin brother didn't even bother to look up from the ground. "Yeah, no."

Shinji's face fell, just a little, but he forced the faintest, most pitiful smile. "…Right. Of course."

Asuka glanced at him then—just briefly. A flicker of something soft in her eye, almost guilty.

"…Maybe," she said quietly.

It wasn't a promise. Not even close. But for Shinji, it was enough.

Notes:

You don't have to take the last part seriously. (ಠ‿↼) or you can? idk actually.

Chapter 11: Don't Let Me Be Misunderstoood

Notes:

Real sorry I deleted it on FF.net, I just couldn’t live with that stain in my reviews. It would’ve caused a lot of problems. It’s already got me doubting myself, fucking with my mind.

This one chapter is a little short, but I'm just letting y’know I haven’t abandoned it, actually I’m almost done with it.

“Before you go, just tell me…” Asuka began, voice calm. Too calm. “How did you find out?”

Sakuya didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.

“I looked in the mirror.”

A neat, perfect little answer.

Bullshit, Asuka thought instantly, Someone told you. Someone put that thought in your mind.. But she didn’t say it out loud. She just stared at her daughter, hard, searching for a crack. A flicker of guilt, a stutter in the gaze, but she found nothing.

And Sakuya… just stared back. Unmoved. Unreachable. Fourteen years old and already better at this game than she was.

“Well… either way,” Shinji’s voice slipped into the silence, soft and unsure, “I just hope we get to see you again. Maybe on the next order…”

“Yeah.” Their son spoke without looking up. A faint shrug buried somewhere in his tone, a little ghost of indifference. “The next order.”

Sakuya didn’t say anything. She adjusted the strap on her cloth satchel and then turned. She started walking.

Her brother followed a step behind, hands jammed into his pockets, shoulders hunched like he was already somewhere else. His eyes stayed glued to the ground, to the path ahead, to anything but them.

Neither of them looked back.

Shinji and Asuka stood there and watched them go. Watched the space stretch wider with every step, as they fade into the horizon.

“…Well,” Shinji murmured after a while, rubbing the back of his neck, “that could’ve gone worse.”

Asuka exhaled something that wasn’t quite a laugh. Too dry. Too tired. “I think that’s the best way it could’ve gone.”

She didn’t tell him that Sakuya’s eyes—her eyes—were still staring through her, even now. She didn’t tell him that she felt like there wouldn’t be a next order.

She didn’t tell him that it still felt like she was losing them, all over again.

They just stood there, two adults stuck in children’s bodies, left with nothing to hold onto but the echo of footsteps fading away.

“What now?” Shinji asked.

“Now we wait…” Asuka’s replied,  “To fight.”

“Fight?” He asked,

“NERV.” She answered flatly, “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Shinji didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to reply.

Asuka almost scoffed—almost. She was too tired to make it sharp.

“Figures…” She murmured, her voice slipping into something quieter, “Gendo Ikari is the enemy. And when Commander Katsuragi arrives with the AAA Wunder, we go… We fight.”

Shinji blinked at her, lost, the same way he always had been. Still trying to fit the jagged pieces of all this together.

“What about Sakuya and… Asuka?” He asked, “What about them?”

“They can stay here.” Her reply came too quickly, “Where they’ll be safe.”

Shinji frowned, staring at the dirt between his shoes like it might give him an answer. “We haven’t fixed things with them.”

“We’ve done all we can.” Asuka’s voice thinned. Then she paused—just long enough for something almost human to creep into it. “You’ve done all you can… That’s enough now.”

“Asuka––”

“No.” She cut him off, sharp, and brittle. “No more… We’re done. I’ve almost lost them twice, don’t make it three times.”

“Asuka–”

“We’re done.” She didn’t even look at him. “Forget about it.”

Asuka turned and walked, plug-suit soles clicking softly on the wooden floor. No glance back. No hesitation. There was nothing more to say.

Shinji, however, remained standing, rooted in position like some useless weed. He didn 't feel like giving up just yet, even though he knew he didn't have the right words to change anything.

Not yet…

---

The medbay smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm dust. It was quiet, except for the low hum of an old generator and the wunder itself.

Sakura sat behind a desk, sorting gauze and half-expired pills, when the door creaked open.

Midori slipped in first, a tired look in her eyes. Hideki Tama followed, holding onto his forearm as if something there had given up.

“What’s up?” Sakura asked, tilting her head just slightly. There was a gentle smile on her face—the kind that was more habit than feeling.

“I think I hurt myself real bad,” Hideki muttered. He tried to be casual, but his voice was tight. “Is Dr. Akagi here?”

“Nope. Just me.” Sakura replied, setting the gauze aside. Her smile didn’t falter, but her tone was a quiet apology. “The other nurses are off.”

Hideki sighed, resigned. Midori leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching the exchange like someone who’d seen this scene play out a hundred times before.

“Come on,” Sakura said, patting the edge of the med-bay cot. “Take a seat on my table.”

“Whatever you say Dr. Suzuhara.” Hideki quipped as he eased himself unto the cot with a wince.

“That would be Toji,” she said, rolling up her sleeves, “Nurse Suzuhara will do for you.”

Hideki huffed a faint laugh and extended his arm. A raw burn marked his forearm, red with subtle blisters.

“Faulty wiring in the engine bay,” He muttered. “Power surge when I tried to patch the circuit. Guess the Wunder doesn’t like being poked anymore.”

Sakura examined the burn, her fingers careful and light. “It’s superficial,” she murmured, more to herself than him. She reached for the burn gel. “You’re lucky, Another second of contact and you’d have been dealing with nerve damage.”

Hideki shrugged “Better than damage from Nerv.”

“Funny.” Sakura replied with a fake laugh.

 “Luck and duct tape is all that’s holding this whole operation together.” Midori rolled her eyes. At who no one could say.

“Don’t talk like that.” Sakura’s voice was sharper than she intended. “We have hope thanks to WILLE.”

Midori scoffed

Meanwhile, Sakura pressed cooling gel gently over Hideki’s burn. He sucked in a breath through his teeth.

Midori tilted her head, “Sensitive, much are we?”

“Shut up,” Hideki muttered through clenched teeth. “Shit hurts.”

“It could’ve been worse,” Sakura said softly, more as reassurance than fact.

“That bad, huh?” he asked, eyes flicking to her hands.

“You’ll live.” Sakura replied, wrapping gauze with practiced efficiency. Her fingers were steady—almost mechanical—but then they stilled for just a fraction of a second. “Try not to strain it. And stay out of the live circuits for a while.”

“Sure,” he said, in that tone engineers use when they’re already planning to do the exact opposite.

Sakura shook her head at him, resigned. Then she turned to Midori, eyebrow arched. “What did you even come in here for?”

Midori didn’t miss a beat. “Came to tell you that the object of your affection is currently in Village‑03.”

Sakura blinked, “…Ikari?”

“Who else?” Midori’s mouth curled into something that was neither quite a smile nor a smirk. “Guess you’ll finally get to take care of your boyfriend after all, assuming Shikinami doesn’t kill him first.”

Hideki looked between them with a confused stare, his brows knitting together. Then his gaze settled on Sakura. “…You have a thing for Shinji Ikari? Thé Shinji Ikari?”

“It’s not like that,” Sakura said quickly, too quickly. “He’s a kid, for Christ’s sake.”

“And he ended the world,” Hideki added flatly. “Did you forget that part?”

Sakura sighed, long and slow, the kind of sigh that’s more a confession than an answer. “…No. I didn’t forget.”

“Then what is it?” Hideki asked, genuinely confused. “Pity? Guilt? Some kind of doctors saviour complex?”

Midori snorted. “She doesn’t even know what it is.” She hopped up to sit on one the other beds in the bay, legs swinging idly. “Honestly, it’s pathetic. He destroys the world, and she wants to fix him.”

“I’m not trying to fix anyone, it’s just–” Sakura paused, nails faintly biting into her palms. “…You wouldn’t understand.”

“Maybe her,” Hideki said, jerking his chin toward Midori. “But what about me?”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Try me.” He cut her off clean, voice sharper than it had any right to be.

Sakura exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. “…Fine.”

She looked between them, choosing her words carefully. “We never explained anything to him.”

Hideki frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We didn’t tell him anything,” Sakura reaffirmed, “He was extracted, pulled out, isolated, antagonized, imprisoned, and not informed about anything.”

Midori and Hideki went quiet. Not the quiet of reflection or remorse—something colder. Something almost… vile. Like they’d heard this all before and chosen not to care.

“If only he’d just stayed,” Sakura continued, voice softer, almost pleading now. “If he stayed, I could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” Hideki cut in, incredulous. “Genuinely, what could you have done? Saved him from the price he had to pay?”

“I could have briefed him,” Sakura retorted, sharper than before. “Given him something. Or someone to rely on. Some kind of hope.”

“You’re not hearing me,” Hideki said, leaning forward slightly. “He’s paying for the sins of himself and his father. He doesn’t deserve to know anything.”

“He should’ve just shut up and done as he was told.” Midori added, tone clipped, and cold, “Should even be grateful they let him live.”

“Come on!” Sakura’s voice rose, almost a shout, “I know you don’t really believe that.”

“She’s right,” Hideki cut in. “In his position, he has no right to demand answers. Not after everything that came after what he did.”

“Guys, he’s a kid.” Sakura emphasized the word like it might make a difference.

“So were we when the world ended,” Hideki shot back without hesitation.

“I think you’re the one not listening to me,” Sakura said, more firmly now. “If someone had just stayed by his side, I mean really stayed, then maybe…” She faltered, eyes flicking away. “I don’t know. Maybe he would’ve been different.”

“Well he isn’t,” Midori said flatly. “So he has to pay.”

“Really? You’re that hellbent on making Shinji Ikari pay?” Sakura asked,

“Why are you so hellbent on trying to carry him?” Midori shot back, quick and cutting. “He’s not your load to bear.”

“He kind of is,” Sakura retorted, sharper than she meant to be. “I was assigned to take care of him. He was my responsibility.”

Midori tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Responsibility? Or obsession?”

“You’ve really got it bad, huh?” Hideki added, his tone caught somewhere between confusion and faint judgment—like he was trying to decide if he should pity her or be disgusted.

“I told you, it’s not like that,” Sakura snapped, the words tumbling out fast, defensive. She drew in a slow breath, but her voice softened only slightly. “…He was my responsibility. And I just wish…” She faltered, eyes dropping to her hands. “…I just wish I could get a second chance at that meeting.”

Hideki stood, testing the stiffness in his freshly wrapped arm. “Well… you might get your wish when we arrive at the village,” he said, tone gentler this time. Not sympathetic, but not cruel either.

Midori hopped off the cot with a sigh, stretching her arms behind her head. “Just don’t lose your head when you see him again. Or worse… your heart.”

“It’s not like that—” Sakura began, but Midori cut her off with a flick of her hand.

“Whatever. We still need you functional, Nurse Suzuhara.”

Sakura gave her a slightly frustrated stare, then exhaled the tension in a soft sigh. “…Thanks for the concern.”

“Hey,” Midori said, and for a split second her tone softened, just enough to let something real slip through. “I don’t want to see you crash and burn over some broken kid. Okay?”

“It would be entertaining, though,” Hideki added with a low chuckle.

“Shut up,” Midori muttered, shooting him a glare. There wasn’t much venom in it, more habit than heat.

“Sorry,” Hideki said, though the faint smile on his face suggested he wasn’t.

Midori stepped toward the door. “Look, we’ll be in the mess if you wanna talk. Just…” She paused, her hand steady on the doorframe, glancing back over her shoulder. “…Just don’t sit here brooding too long... Otherwise you might turn into Ikari yourself.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Sakura replied, her voice flat, unreadable.

Hideki raised his good arm in a half-salute. “Try not to adopt any more lost causes while we’re gone.”

And then they left, the door hissing shut behind them.

For a moment, Sakura just sat there in the empty med-bay, staring at her hands. She wasn’t sure what she felt. Responsibility? Guilt? Some stubborn thread of compassion? It all tangled together until it felt like something too sharp to ignore.

She leaned back and exhaled, shaking her head.

“Damn it, Ikari…” she murmured under her breath.

---

A day or two had passed, and Shinji did as Asuka said he should.

He stayed away from the kids.

No awkward attempts to approach. No forcing himself into their space. He, instead, busied himself helping Kensuke—mending small fences, clearing brush, fixing what needed fixing. Simple, honest work.

He’d even met Ryoji Kaji Jr. properly this time. Not just a passing glimpse, but a real introduction. The boy had a presence like his father—calm and thoughtful, someone who looked at you without judgment. Shinji didn’t know what to say to him, but Kaji Jr. made it easy.

He shook his hand without hesitation, without any of the weight or judgment. Just a calm, steady look.

The Kaji look. Shinji thought.

Later, in Kensuke’s car on the way back to the village, Shinji finally asked the questions that had been quietly burning in the back of his mind.

Kensuke glanced at him briefly before focusing back on the road. “He knows nothing about his parents,” he said. “That was Ms. Misato’s wish. She doesn’t feel she can be much of a mother. So she decided to stay away, protecting him from afar as the head of Wille.”

 “What happened to Mr. Kaji?”

“He died.” Kensuke’s reply was simple, but heavy. “Someone had to sacrifice themselves to stop Third Impact. Kaji decided he’d be the one. And Misato let him.”

A quiet beat stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the engine.

“She regrets that you ended up carrying all the baggage,” Kensuke continued, his tone softer now. “She thinks it should’ve been her. I think that’s why she doesn’t want you anywhere near an Eva anymore. You weren’t the only one hurting Shinji. Misato was in her own kind of pain too.”

Shinji didn’t respond. He just stared out the window as the car rolled past remnants of the old world.

When they arrived back in the village, Shinji stepped out and walked on ahead, no destination in mind.

He just let his feet take him where they wanted. Eventually he found himself by the rice fields.

The water ponds caught the light of the setting sun, glowing faintly gold. Shinji crouched at the edge, staring at the horizon as the sky shifted into evening hues.

A faint breeze brushed past his face, carrying the scent of wet earth and fresh grass.

It hit him then—a memory, faint but vivid. Kaji’s voice, gentle and almost amused.

That’s the smell of Earth.

Shinji closed his eyes, inhaling.

“…The smell of Earth,” he murmured, quietly, almost reverently.

It smelled exactly as he remembered—damp soil warmed by the sun, the sweet decay of old leaves, the faint mineral tang of the waterlogged air. Something ancient and alive. A scent that made you feel small but tethered.

Warm and grounding. Almost comforting.

Strange, he thought, as he breathed in again. I’ve started losing my sense of taste, but not smell. Why is that?
He didn’t know. But this moment was something he could hold onto.

He stayed crouched by the rice fields a little while longer, letting the evening wash over him. A breeze stirred the water. Farther off, just beyond the ridgelines and trellised hills, he knew the red wastes began—where the world was covered LCL. Where the Earth hadn’t healed.

But here, it almost had.

He watched the light ripple across the paddies. The sun was falling slowly behind the mountains, gilding the edges of clouds in soft fire.

For a fleeting moment, Shinji Ikari felt calm.

And then, he heard them…

Voices.

Notes:

Be real with me guys, is my English jank? It is my second tongue but like, I was pretty confident in it, until recently, am I just lying to myself?

Chapter 12: Changing Seasons-Reload-

The afternoon sun had all but drowned the world in its orange hue, lighting every rooftop, rice stalk, and distant hilltop in the amber of a fading dream.

It was cold, but not bitter. Windy, but not sharp.

And then Shinji began to feel a strange kind of warmth. Suspended, like time itself had gone still.

A heat haze of LCL, waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

The voices had come from behind a nearby granary, Shinji followed the sounds until he saw two boys in the distance.

One his son, Asuka, pressed against a dented corrugated wall, shoulders tight, jaw locked. He wasn’t crumbling. Not even close. But the tension in his stance was unmistakable.

The other a taller, older figure. Broad-shouldered and built like he’d grown up fighting his way out of too many shortages.

Shinji recognized him instantly—the boy from the quad.
The one who’d spat at his feet.
The one who’d said, My little brother died because of you.

He had his son cornered, and he could already hear the accusations flying.

“Been spending a lot of time with Ikari,” the boy said, his voice soaked in disdain. “Why is that?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Asuka shot back,

“Just think it’s funny, is all. You hanging out with a murderer…”

“Yeah, well…” Asuka began, “It really is none of your business.”

The tall boy didn’t like that very much.

He shoved Asuka, hard. A loud metallic thud ringing out as his back struck the wall.

“You should be angry,” the boy growled. “Angrier than me, even. We lost everything because of him, and yet still––”

“I am angry” Asuka replied, voice low. “More than you could ever know.”

“Then why?” the boy snapped, stepping closer. “Why bother with him? You like making your life harder? We’ve all seen the two with him, you and your sister. You were at the old lady’s place a couple days ago too.”

“You guys need to get a life,” Asuka muttered, eyes narrowing.

“This ain’t a joke,” The tall boy barked, “Nobody’s gonna cut you slack anymore––”

“I don’t care,” Asuka interrupted,

The boy blinked. “What?”

“I said I don’t care,” Asuka repeated—louder this time, like he meant it.
Even if he didn’t. Even if he’d have to make himself believe it.

“Say what you want. Think what you want… Shinji Ikari isn’t the villain here. He’s not to blame.”

“Not to blame?” the tall boy scoffed, incredulous. “Take a look around.”

“I already have,” Asuka said, voice cool. “And I still won’t blame him. You don’t know him. You couldn’t know him. And you’re not the one, who has to live with him…”

A pause. And then colder:

“I am.”

And that’s when Shinji stepped in, entering the fray.

“Leave him alone,” he said, voice calm but clear.

The boy did indeed let go of his son, but he also turned slowly, to face him, “Or what?”

Shinji paused, honest.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I need you to leave him alone.”

The boy scoffed.

“No,” he said, stepping forward now. “I don’t have to do anything you tell me to.”

Shinji stood his ground.

“How do you sleep at night?” the boy continued, moving closer with each word, heat rising in his voice. “Knowing all of this is your fault?”

Asuka shifted, instinctive and ready. But Shinji raised a hand to stop him.

He looked the boy dead in the eye as he advanced.

“I don’t,” Shinji answered, “I don’t think I can even sleep anymore. I mostly lie awake, thinking about it all.”

The boy faltered for a breath. His fists clenched tighter.

“Serves you right, I guess,” he muttered. “But it’s still not enough…You need to pay.”

“I am,” Shinji replied.

No defensiveness. No theatrics. Just pure honesty.

“I pay for it every single day,” he continued, voice steady but worn. “Every time I wake up, and wish I didn’t. Every time I look at kids like you, and think about what kind of world you had to grow up in...what you had to grow up without.”

“Because of you.” The boy interrupted, stepping ever closer.

“Every time I walk through this place,” Shinji continued, “Remembering what it used to be, seeing what’s left.”

He met the boy’s gaze fully now—no flinching, no retreat. Just the quiet weight of a man who'd stopped running from what he was.

“Every time someone looks at me…the way you’re looking at me…right now.”

A pause.

The tall boy scoffed.

And Shinji let it settle.

“I am paying for it,” he said again, softer. “So if you need someone to blame, if you want someone to punish, fine. Do what you have to do. Hit me, or yell at me, I can take it.”

He turned slightly, motioning toward Asuka—his son, tense and silent, fists balled at his sides.

“But leave him out of this,” Shinji said. “He’s innocent. Just like you. I want to see more conflict because of me…”

“Tch.” The boy clicked his tongue—then grabbed Shinji by the collar, yanking him forward in one rough motion.

Asuka lurched forward instinctively.

But Shinji’s hand shot out, firm.

Stay. He was saying, and Asuka obeyed.

The boy leaned in, breath hot with contempt.

Just like that day.
The same reckless fury.
The same helpless angle of Shinji’s neck tilted up toward someone who wanted a villain.

“You think saying all that makes it better?” The boy snapped. “You think it makes me feel sorry for you?”

“No,” Shinji said, wincing as he shifted under the boy’s grip. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what?” the boy demanded, fist raised like the question.

He met the boy’s eyes, steady—resigned.

“I just want you to know…that I’m sorry, and that I understand, I’d hate me too. I do. But I’m done running. So if this is what you need to do…then go ahead.”

The boy blinked, thrown for a second by the calm, the clarity.
he muttered something over his breath, stumbling over some words like Shinji had offended him. His fist came down hard.

And Shinji braced for it.

His son meanwhile had lunged forward, and before the fist could land, the tall boy froze.

His fist suspended mid-air as if he’d struck some invisible wall.

Something in him hesitated, a crack in all that fury.

Shinji didn’t flinch. He just continued looking at him.

And the angry, tall boy looked back.

Something twisted inside, something brittle. Not just anger and hate, but disappointment and grief.
Something mournful as well, buried beneath all that rage, like he'd just remembered someone he used to believe in.

By the time Shinji registered it, his son had already shoved the boy off—shoulder to chest—forcing space between them.

Asuka’s stance was low, his fists were curled tight.

“Stay the fuck away from him,” he growled.

His voice didn’t waver.

The boy staggered back a step, breath caught between words.

“I couldn’t hit him,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“What?” Asuka blinked, caught off guard.

“I wanted to.” The boy’s voice cracked,  “I did…I wanted to make him hurt… But I couldn’t do it.”

His fists loosened, arms dropping to his sides as if the anger had drained out and left something hollow in its place.

“What are you talking about?” Asuka asked, frowning. “Have you gone mad?”

The boy didn’t answer right away. He looked between the two of them, then fixed his gaze on Shinji.
“What is he to you?” he asked

“Family,” Shinji replied, without hesitation. “Close family.”

“Blood, huh…” the boy muttered,

“Just leave us alone,” Asuka said, stepping forward,

The boy took a step back—not in fear, but in something colder. Caution. Calculation.
“Fine,” he said. “Everyone’s already seen you hanging around with that murderer. And when they find out you’re related…”

“I don’t care,” Asuka said. “Just go…”

The boy stared a second longer, jaw tight.

And then he turned, walking off into the distance. leaving only the sound of his retreating steps echoing faintly in the stillness.

The wind shifted, and a strange sort of calm settled between father and son.

Shinji looked at him—really looked—for a moment longer than he should have, trying to read something on his face. Some clue. Some reason.

“What?” his son asked, almost annoyed.

“Nothing,” Shinji replied, gently. “It’s just… he was giving you quite a bit of trouble, and—”

“I hope you don’t expect a thank you,” Asuka cut in, voice flat. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” Shinji said. “I don’t…” He let out a breath, words fragile but sincere.
“I’m just glad you’re okay. You probably would’ve handled it fine on your own, but... I don’t know. I’m just glad I was here y’know. Glad that I got to try, and––”

“Help?” Asuka said, “Please you made it worse.”

Shinji flinched slightly, and his son groaned.
“Whatever man just... thanks,” he added, begrudgingly.

A pause followed. Quiet. Heavy, but not uncomfortable, just unspoken.

“What were you doing all the way out here, anyway?” Shinji asked after a moment. “Do you have duties on this side of the village too?”

“That really is none of your business,” the boy muttered.

“Okay,” Shinji said, raising his hands lightly in surrender.
“But still... I mean, you were all the way out here, and…”

“And what?” his son asked

“I just wanna know…” Shinji trailed off, his voice almost innocent.

“I was following you,” Asuka admitted, the words dragged out like a confession scraped from his throat.
“I wanted to make sure you were safe. That nothing bad happened to you... like Mom does.”

“I don’t understand,” Shinji said, brows knitting together.

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed?” his son asked, squinting at him.
Shinji stared back, blank as a slate.

“Oh wow,” the boy muttered. “You really are an idiot.”

Shinji opened his mouth to object, but then shut it again. He couldn’t argue. He was confused.

“In any case,” the boy continued with a sigh, “looks like I’m the one who ended up in trouble. Sakuya’s probably gonna bear the brunt of it as well… dammit!” He turned and started walking briskly.

“I’ve got to hurry back.”

“Wait?” Shinji called after him, “What do you mean?”

“Once that big dumbass tells everyone we’re related—which to be honest, he’ll probably have done once we get there—then we’re screwed,” Asuka muttered. “I can’t let Sakuya bear the brunt of it alone.”

He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“It’s gonna be hell. The whispering, the watching. We won’t even be able to sleep.”

“Then come stay with us,” Shinji said suddenly.

“What?” His son stopped mid-step, frowning.

“Come stay with us,” Shinji repeated, a little more firmly. “Kensuke’s got plenty of space. You wouldn’t be bothering anyone, and––”

“No,” his son snapped. “Are you insane? We’re still mad at you.”

Shinji flinched but didn’t back down. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I can’t just let you stay at the orphanage and go through more crap because of me. So… please.”

“Allow?” Asuka scoffed. “Since when do I need your permission?”

“You don’t,” Shinji said, holding his ground. “But you could go back, struggle, and blame me for it—”

“So, the usual, ” his son muttered.

Shinji let it pass. “Or you could let me help you. Just this once….Please.”

“You mean relying on the kindness of Mr. Aida?” Asuka cut in, arms crossed.

“A friend,” Shinji corrected, “My friend. Your friend, someone who’s actually always been there.”

“Unlike some people we know.” He replied

Shinji again let it pass.

And his son fell silent. He didn’t scoff or roll his eyes. He just stood there, thinking.

Come on, Shinji thought, trying not to show it.

Asuka let out a sharp, theatrical sigh.

“Fine…” the boy muttered at last. “But you’re the one who’s explaining it to Sakuya.”

“I will,” Shinji said.

“And convincing her too.”

“I will,” he repeated, firmer this time.

“Alright.” His son turned, already walking. “Let’s go. You’re helping us pack.

---

It was just past 8 p.m., and night-time had settled over the village.

Kensuke’s stood opposite one Asuka Langley Shikinami, mid conversation.

“The Wunder will be here by tomorrow,” Kensuke said, adjusting his glasses. “The Return route’s already been set.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter alongside a thin USB stick, handing them over to Asuka.

“These are the records for the village, the ones Ms. Misato asked for.” He continued, “There are photos of the family members of the WILLE crew. And Toji also wrote something. A letter for Sakura. He asked that you give it to her kindly.”

Asuka took both items without hesitation, her eyes scanning the letter for a moment before slipping it into jacket.

She looked up, softening for a fraction of a second. “Got it,” she said, her voice calm. Almost warm.

Before Kensuke could respond, the sound of squeaking wheels, alongside the rustle of plastic bags echoed from outside. A pair of familiar silhouettes emerged, shadows cast long and uncertain against the light of the entrance.

“Villagers?” Kensuke said, “At this hour?”

He narrowed his eyes, just slightly. Asuka, meanwhile, raised her brows in what could only be described as stunned irritation.

Out of the shadows and into the garage light stepped one Shinji Ikari, flanked by their son, and trailing just behind, their daughter. They were burdened with luggage stacked in their arms, balanced awkwardly on shoulders and heads.

Plastic bags, a wheeled case, and even a battered box sealed with electrical tape.

Asuka blinked once, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We’re home,” Shinji said, adding a nervous little chuckle like it might soften the blow.

Kensuke broke the silence with a dry grin. “The Ikaris, Well…I’ve always wanted to run a bed and breakfast.”

Asuka stood sharply, her chair scraping the floor. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s going on,” Sakuya said coolly, stepping forward, “Is that our life turned into a living hell thanks to him.”

“Let’s just say the orphanage isn’t exactly a nurturing environment right now.” Shinji said,

Then Sakuya’s gaze zeroed in on her mother—or rather, what she was wearing, or lack thereof.

“Why are you in your underwear?” She asked “With nothing but a jacket on?” Her eyes then slid to Kensuke.

“Oh for fu—”

“Anyway,” Shinji said, loudly, cutting her off before the profanity landed. “I was hoping they could stay here for a while.”

He turned to Kensuke now, sheepish but steady.

Kensuke nodded with the same easy calm he always carried. “Of course. Mi casa es su casa. Got two spare rooms practically begging for tenants.”

Asuka stared at all three of them, deadpan.

Sakuya brushed past her, not even sparing a look. “Put some clothes on,” she muttered, venom light but precise.

Her son didn’t say a word, just followed her sister, bags in hand, gaze fixed straight ahead.

Then Shinji passed by her last, offering a small, hopeful smile. He leaned in, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

“This is good,” he whispered. “We can fix things with them.”

Asuka didn’t reply. She didn’t even blink.

Her silence was a canyon—wide, ancient, and full of ghosts.

---

Shinji decided to do one of the very few things he was good at—one even fewer that didn’t involve running away:

Cooking

It was a quiet sort of penance. Oil sizzling in the pan, the soft, rhythmic violence of vegetables being chopped up. He’d always found a strange comfort in it.

And then his daughter appeared

She stood by the counter with the supreme irritation of someone fourteen and mortally inconvenienced by existence. Arms crossed. Lip curled. Aura screaming I didn’t ask to be here.

“She’s been holed up in her room playing videogames on that stupid handheld console for about an hour,” Sakuya muttered. She didn’t even try to hide her judgment.

Shinji turned and blinked at her, blank-faced. “Yeah. That’s what she usually does.”

“She’s not even wearing anything.”

Shinji simply kept chopping.
“Be glad she’s wearing anything at all.”

There was a pause. A long one.
Sakuya’s face twitched, a war between disgust, genuine concern, and the kind of panic reserved for discovering that your parents might be divorced.

“What?”

“I’m joking,” Shinji said quickly.
He wasn’t.

Sakuya took a step back, unsure if she was standing next to a man or a malfunctioning appliance.

Shinji sighed.
“You know that me and Asuka, aren’t not exactly…human.”

“I know. You’re like robots or clones or whatever,” she said, a little too casually,

“No…” He replied, “Well, yes on the clone thing, but that’s Asuka not me, and besides that…” He set the knife down and leaned on the counter, the air around him thick with fried oil and unspoken trauma. “Piloting an Eva changes you in more ways than I thought. In more ways then I’m beginning to realize.”

Shinji turned to look at his daughter, “The way she is now, I think she’s less than human.” he said slowly, “But somehow more…I think…” He paused, the thought creeping up on him like a realization.
“I think the same thing’s happening to me.”

He then picked up the knife again, and went back to chopping.

Sakuya’s expression tightened—the kind of disappointment usually reserved for group projects and absentee fathers.
“What are you even talking about?” Sakuya asked, “You’re saying she’s not covering up because she’s what? subhuman?”

“No,” Shinji replied, “but not being Lilin—”

“What’s a Lilin?” Sakuya cut in, sharp.

“She’s not normal anymore,” Shinji said, simplify the thought. “And so some of her behaviours might be… irregular. And soon…soon I think the same thing might happen to me.”

Sakuya blinked.
“You’re saying you’re gonna start walking around while wearing nothing but your underwear and a bomber jacket?”

Shinji gave her a stare that said I fought angels and this is the conversation we’re having right now? Underwear and jackets
A stare that practically screamed, Really, man?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sakuya said. “You’re the one spouting gibberish.”

“Y’know you’ve got a lot to say about Asuka and her self-isolating,” Shinji began, “But where’s your brother?”

“He’s helping Aida out with his car.” She didn’t even blink as she answered. “Guess he’d rather spend time with him… and I understand why. I mean…” Her eyes scanned him up and down, slow, deliberate, and then drifted away with a sigh.

“Ouch,” Shinji replied,

“You always bring me here to disappoint me,” Sakuya said flatly. “You didn’t even get mom to apologize.”

“She did,” Shinji replied, a little too quickly.

“Not really.” Her rebuttal was just as fast, instant and precise. “And now I’m just stuck here without my friends or my bed, watching you cook.”

“The way they were looking at you when we left,” Shinji said, keeping his voice level low, “Makes me think they weren’t your friends at all.” He paused and glanced over. “You could help me, you know.”

“Well that’s because of you.” Sakuya again retorted, “And you don’t know what they would have done or how they would have reacted,”

“I know it wouldn’t have been nice,” Shinji said quietly. “That’s why we had to get you out of there.”

Sakuya didn’t bite, didn’t even acknowledge it. She just rolled her shoulders and moved on. “Cooking’s not really my thing.”

“I could teach you,” Shinji offered. The words hung there for a moment, absurd in their earnestness—like offering piano lessons in the middle of a collapsed Nerv HQ building.

Meanwhile Sakuya stared at him like he’d just suggested a father–daughter tap-dance routine.
“…Why?”

“Because…” Shinji hesitated, searching for the right words, “It’s something I can actually do right. Something I can pass on…my––”

“Legacy,” Sakuya cut in, a little too sharp. “That it?”

“Yeah…” Shinji agreed,

“Funny,” His daughter said, a ghost of a smirk tugging at her mouth, “I thought your legacy was ending the world.”

“Really?” Shinji countered, deadpan.

“I’m sorry, but it’s true.” She lifted her hands in mock surrender.

Shinji’s shoulders sank, his posture collapsing into something almost childlike. The silence that followed was long enough to feel personal.

Sakuya looked away first, and then suddenly found herself fascinated by the stove.

“…What would we even make?”

“Whatever’s here,” Shinji said, a little more hopeful now. “Village cooking. Simple and honest.”

She let a short laugh slip through her nose—more like an exhale with attitude—and rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” Shinji asked, excited.

“Yes.” His daughter replied, “ but if it tastes like crap it’s your fault.”

“Deal,” He said.

And now Shinji stood over the stove, ladling miso into a pot already crowded with potatoes, radish, and what passed for tofu these days. Sakuya was on knife duty, reluctantly dicing the green onions, each slice landing with a small, accusing thunk.

“Thinner,” Shinji said, glancing over. “They’ll cook faster that way.”

“You’re bossy,” she muttered, but adjusted her grip anyways. The blade wobbled in her hands—too much force, not enough rhythm.

“Like this,” he said, moving behind her for just a second, guiding her wrist. She stiffened instantly.

“Don’t hover.”

“Sorry.” He stepped back, hands up like he’d been caught stealing.

The pot simmered, filling the kitchen with a slow, earthy warmth. From the hallway, a shadow leaned against the wall—Thé Asuka Langley Shikinami.

Bare-legged, jacket zipped, and watching with something akin to curiosity and mild discomfort.

She didn’t say anything, nor did she make herself known. Just shifted in the hallway, and then disappeared.

Sakuya tipped the chopped onions into the pot. “This all we’ve got?”

“Yeah unfortunately,” Shinji replied, “It’s a shame Kensuke doesn’t have more.”

Asuka returned only a mere two minutes later, leaning on the doorframe this time, eyes flicking between father and daughter like she was keeping score.

“Now stir gently,” Shinji told Sakuya. “You don’t want to break the potatoes.”

“Do you talk like this to everyone you cook with?” she asked.

“Actually I’ve never cooked with anyone before.”

“Really?” Sakuya raised a brow. “Not even…” She tilted her head toward a very obvious Asuka.

They both pretended not to see her—for her sake, or theirs, they couldn’t say.

“No,” Shinji said. “Especially not with her.”

“Why not?” Sakuya asked.

And Shinji leaned in, whispering something to his daughter that made her stifle a laugh, just barely.

“What did he say?” Asuka straightened, stepping into full view now, suspicion sharp in her tone.

Shinji just shrugged, turning back to the pots with a wooden spoon in hand.

“What did he say?” Asuka pressed, looking to her daughter.

“Get some proper clothes on,” Sakuya replied, “And maybe I’ll tell you.”

Asuka scoffed, but there was the faintest curl at the corner of her mouth.

“Fine,” she muttered, vanishing back down the hall.

She’s probably just gonna swap into different underwear and call it a day, Sakuya thought, smirking to herself.

Kensuke stepped in, trailed by Asuka, son of Shinji and Shikinami.

“What smells so good?” Kensuke asked.

“Just rice and miso soup,” Shinji answered, “along with a few vegetables.”

Shinji’s son glanced at his sister by the pots. “Please tell me she didn’t cook.”

“I cooked,” Shinji replied, “but she helped me.”

“How much help did she give you?” his son asked, “She didn’t touch the food right, cause she’s got some serious bad luck with these things.”

“Hey!” Sakuya shouted,

“It’s true,” her brother said flatly.

“It’ll be fine, trust me,” Shinji said. “I already had a taste.”

Though in truth, he was lying—he couldn’t taste a thing.

“We’re basically done,” Shinji went on, as if nothing were amiss. “You can grab a seat at the table. Wait there while we dish up.”

And then Asuka reappeared—dressed in what looked suspiciously like Shinji’s attire.

“Wow,” Kensuke said, squinting. “Is that… my school uniform? Where’d you dig that old thing up?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Asuka replied, brushing past the question as she closed in on her daughter. “Now tell me what he said.”

Sakuya tilted her head. “What are you wearing now? Trying to match with Shinji?”

“You almost look like twins,” her brother added, then frowned, realizing what he’d just said.

Asuka resisted the urge to tell her own son to shut up, and still continued with her daughter.
“Answer me?”

“He said you can’t cook,” Sakuya replied, and Asuka took that as an insult to scales that warranty war.

Staring daggers, missiles, no, full-on nuclear payloads at Shinji. He looked like he wanted to hide behind the rice pot.

But…

“That isn’t what I said,” Shinji finally said, “I said you cooked for me––for us, once. Back then…in Misato’s apartment…it was good…it was…nice.”

She paused and reflected.

Shinji’s words had sent her back in time. Back to the ghost of Misato’s old apartment.

To the smell of miso and grilled fish, to the sounds of her clattering around like she owned the place, and to Misato’s half-teasing, half-genuine remarks as she cooked for the three of them.
Mostly for him—though Misato had been included in the count.

“You made something similar that night,” Shinji continued. “And I don’t think I ever told you… how much I liked it. I should’ve.” His gaze drifted, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “It was nice. It felt like home. Like maybe we could’ve been… a family.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything.
Just stared. Long enough for the silence to feel awkward.

Sakuya glanced at her brother with an expression that screamed, Are they having a moment?
Her brother just shrugged, wearing the weary look of someone who’d seen this kind of awkward emotional brinkmanship one too many times.

“Well…” Kensuke ventured, clearing his throat, “At least you two are finally talking…normally I mean.”

“We are, huh?” Asuka said, exhaling as if the thought alone was exhausting. She turned back to Sakuya, neatly ignoring Shinji’s nostalgia bait.

“You still never told me how you found out,” she pressed.

Sakuya rolled her eyes. She loves pulling at healing scabs, she thought.

“You still haven’t really apologized,” Sakuya shot back, sweet as cyanide.

Asuka exhaled through her nose—a sigh that was half dismissal, half admission—and let it slide. Without another word, she turned and headed for the table.

Sakuya stuck her tongue out at her retreating back, pulling a few exaggerated faces along the way.
No one acknowledged it. Not Kensuke, not Shinji and not even her brother—though he caught it in the corner of his eye and hid the faintest smirk.

By the time they all sat down, the table was a quiet, steam-filled battlefield: bowls of rice, miso soup, grilled fish that still glistened faintly in the low light. Kensuke poured the tea. The clatter of chopsticks was the only thing keeping the air from becoming too still.

“It’s edible,” Sakuya admitted reluctantly after her first bite.
Her brother nodded in agreement. “Yeah…Weird.”

“Your sister can cook.” Shinji said with a smile. A pretence, it tasted like cardboard to him, but again, he hid it well. To all except Asuka that is, who rolled her eyes at him. After all, once again, she could barely taste it either.

Kensuke chuckled. “Guess you’ll be doing it more often, then.”

“No way,” Sakuya shot back, almost offended. “I’m not some housewife. That’s my father’s job.”

A short, sharp snicker slipped out of Asuka before she caught herself and clamped a hand over her nose.

“Wow. Okay.” Kensuke blinked, genuinely concerned.

“I’ll take it,” Shinji said, setting his chopsticks down with mock solemnity. “It means you hate me a little bit less.”

“A little,” Sakuya murmured, holding her fingers close together to show exactly how much.

“And you?” Shinji asked his son. “Do you agree with your sister?”

“Give or take,” the boy replied, swallowing a mouthful of rice. “It’s better than nothing, right? But if you really wanna make it up to me, we can go fishing again tomorrow. Watch my back, I’ll watch yours.”

“Won’t that scare the fish?” Shinji asked.

“If some angry peers of mine jump us, yeah,” his son said matter-of-factly. “Otherwise with just the two of us…I don’t see how it could go wrong.”

“You’d be surprised,” Asuka murmured into her tea.

“You got a deal,” Shinji said, a rare brightness flickering in his tone. “In fact, we can all go fishing.”

“Sure,” Sakuya said, shrugging. “I owe the old lady a few fish. Might even score some more herbs from her.”

The three of them shared a small, strange smile—fragile as wet paper, but real. Meanwhile Kensuke and Asuka stayed quiet.

“What’s up with you two?” the boy asked.

Kensuke cleared his throat. “Well…”

“You won’t be able to go fishing with him tomorrow,” their mother cut in.

“Why not?” Sakuya asked, already tensing, eyes narrowing at the heavy looks traded between Kensuke and Asuka.

She knew this dance. “What are you hiding this time?”

“The Wunder arrives tomorrow,” Asuka said flatly. “Which means—”

“You’re leaving us again?” Sakuya interrupted. Not surprised—just tired. Bone-deep tired. “Go.” She pointed her chopsticks at her father. “But he stays.”

All eyes turned to Shinji. He looked at his son, then his daughter—those eyes heavy with expectation, almost pleading. Choose us. Not them.

“I didn’t know…” Shinji began, his voice quiet but steady. “But still… I have to settle things with my father. I have to settle things myself.”

“Why!?” Sakuya’s voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through.

“Because everyone keeps saying it’s my fault—because I was too weak, or because I didn’t act.” Shinji met her gaze. “I want to act now. I…I will go… with Asuka tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to,” Kensuke said.

“You heard him,” his son muttered, more resigned than angry.

“But I do.” Shinji’s tone hardened. “No one else can stop Gendo Ikari… it’s like you said, Kensuke—there are some things only a son can do for a father. And right now, I think my father needs help the most.”

“He needs to be stopped,” Asuka cut in, flat as a gunshot. “And you might be right. You might be the only one who can do it.”

“Suicide,” Sakuya said, her voice cracking. “I can’t believe this.”

“Sakuya—” Shinji tried, but—

“No! You’re leaving us again!” she shouted, standing so fast her chair scraped back. “You’re choosing to go out there and die—”

“I’m choosing to try,” Shinji cut in. Neither sharp, nor defensive. “And maybe that means dying, yeah…But I can’t keep running away from him.”

Sakuya’s jaw clenched. Her eyes shone, she was holding them back. “You could just stay…Just this once… For us.”

“That’s exactly why I have to go,” Shinji said, “If I don’t stop him now, there won’t be an ‘us’ to come back to.”

“That’s bullshit,” Sakuya snapped, but there was something fragile under the anger. “You’re just looking for another excuse to run off, and be a hero...you don’t have to go…”

“You’re right,” Asuka said, stepping in like she’d been waiting for her cue. “But I was gonna drag him anyway.”

“What?” Sakuya blinked, caught between disbelief and rage.

“He doesn’t have a choice,” Asuka continued flatly. “I’d have knocked him out and taken him. So no matter what you say or do… we’re going.”

Sakuya shook her head, looking suddenly smaller. “I just…” Her eyes flicked to her brother. “Say something.”

He only shrugged, a little helpless, a little tired. “They’ve already made up their minds.”

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, leaving the kitchen without looking back, vanishing into the hallway.

“Guess we’re back to hating you again,” their son said, standing up as well, voice laced with something between sarcasm and resignation. He disappeared in the opposite direction, gone to god knows where.

“Well…” Kensuke exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “That went… exactly how I expected it to.”

Chapter 13: Pastime Paradise

“Just stay away from me,” Sakuya said.

It was early, too early. The sky was bruised––purple, a pale blue and orange, as the sun began its slow rise above the horizon.

“Please…” Shinji whispered,

“No.” She spat into the sink. It wasn’t aimed at him, but it might as well have been.

“I’m tired of these little heart-to-hearts,” she said, rinsing her mouth. “They always end the same. You talk us into giving you a chance, and then you ruin it… Every. Single. Time.” She let out a heavy sigh “I’m done.”

“I understand,” Shinji said.

No, I don’t think you do, Sakuya wanted to say, but she kept it to herself.

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything anymore.” This time, it almost sounded like he meant it.

“But before I go…” He hesitated. “I just want us to try one last thing. Together.”

“What?” Sakuya asked, turning from the sink — and that’s when she saw them: three fishing rods, clutched awkwardly in his hands.

“Really?” she said.

“Yes.” Her brother’s voice came from just behind their father, stepping out from the corner. “One last one.”

“Before I go,” Shinji added.

And then Sakuya let out a heavy sigh.

“Is that a no?” Shinji asked, looking at her with a cautious kind of hope.

“It’s a yes,” his son answered for her. “I don’t think she’s got the energy to say no to you anymore.”

“He’d just keep trying,” Sakuya said. She looked at her father then, her expression somewhere between disappointment and something warmer—Shinji couldn’t quite define it. “Or worse… you’d look sad. And that’s not a face I want to remember when you leave.”

Her eyes drifted past him, through the doorway, where her mother still lay asleep.

“Did you ask her?”

“I tried, but…” Shinji’s voice softened. “She’s asleep.”

“Wake her up then.”

“The thing is… it’s kinda hard for us to sleep,” Shinji said. “Or well, at least for me to. I’ve been struggling lately and—”

“Yeah, yeah, because you’re not human or something,” Sakuya cut in.

“I’d assume she’s been struggling too.” Shinji said, recalling the memory, the words she spoke echoing through his mind as she shoved the protein bar down his throat, “If she’s finally getting some rest, then I’d like to leave her be,” he paused, “When we go to fight… she won’t get much sleep at all.”

I doubt she’s been getting much sleep at all these past 14 years. Shinji thought let her have this one.

“So we just leave her?” his son asked.

“You’ll get to say goodbye when we come back,” Shinji told him. “For now… let her rest.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Sakuya waved him off. “Just let me get dressed.”

They turned to leave, gathering their things. In the half-shadow of the room, one blue eye followed them—awake the whole time.

---

Outside, the dark of early morning was dissolving, the edges of the tree-leaves illuminated by slow strokes of sunlight. A shrewd chill worked its way up Shinji’s spine, and he shivered, not just from the cold but something else.

An unease he couldn’t name rising in his chest, a suspicion.

“What’s wrong?” his son asked. The sun inched higher, gold brushing the tips of the grass. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold.”

“I am,” Shinji admitted. “But… there’s something else. I’m getting a bad feeling.”

“Bad feeling?” his son asked. “Feeling like you won’t catch anything?”

“No, just…” Shinji shook his head. “I don’t know. Something feels off today.”

“Your farewell gift to your kids is a fishing trip,” Sakuya said. “Something we already do almost every other day. Of course something feels off….you’re probably just feeling guilty.”

“Maybe,” Shinji murmured, though something deeper was stirring, heavy and unsettled.

His son noticed first, just before they turned to head down the familiar slope toward the river.

“The river’s this way.” He pointed, but Shinji’s feet carried him toward the shadow of a broken train tunnel.

“We’re not going that way,” he replied,

“Then where?” Sakuya asked.

“A place that matters to me,” Shinji said. “One I’m tied to… and one I need to let go of.”

“That old NERV place?” his son asked.

“Yeah,” Shinji replied. “That old NERV place.”

---

The ruins of the Second Branch Tower stood exactly as he left them—white and broken, with their jagged edges etched against the sky.

Ahead, the water gleamed a cold, perfect blue, as if nothing had ever touched it.

Below, penguins squawked from a rocky outcrop before sliding into the sea. Shinji found himself smiling at them.

“What’s with the grin?” his daughter asked him.

“Back when Asuka and I were living in Misato’s apartment,” Shinji began, “she had a pet penguin. He kind of looked like those ones.” He nodded toward the birds as they cut through the water in tight formation.

“Did this penguin’s name happen to be Pen-Pen?” Sakuya asked, to her displeasure.

“Yeah…” Shinji replied, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Mommy dearest told me,” she replied, walking ahead.

“Pen-Pen, huh?” Asuka Jr. said. “Is that why she calls Mr. Aida ‘Ken-Ken’?”

Shinji paused, then shook his head with a faint, almost embarrassed smile. “Huh… I never really thought about it, but… yeah, I guess so.”

“Does that make him a pet?” his son asked, and Shinji nearly laughed.

“No,” he replied. “It makes him a friend.”

He walked on ahead, right until they got to the edge.

“Alright,” he said, forcing warmth into his voice. “Let’s set up.”

And set up they did.

Along that same broken concrete edge where he’d once sat idle for days, waiting for death.

Now, rods were propped, lines slicing clean arcs into the water.

Sakuya sat cross-legged, flicking her reel with short, impatient tugs. Her brother stood beside their father, both of them watching the bobbers drift.

“Would’ve been faster if we just speared them,” Asuka Jr. said. “Never got the point of doing it this way.”

“Me neither,” Shinji admitted. “But it relaxes me. I guess I have Kensuke to thank for that, he’s the one that suggested I do this in the first place.”

“Where would we be without Mr. Aida huh?” His son said, and Shinji couldn’t help but agreed.

“Yeah actually.” He replied, “he’s helped out a lot.”

“Still rubs me the wrong way thought,” Sakuya muttered. Then, without looking up, she asked,

“Hey…do you still love, Asuka?”

Shinji froze mid-reel. “What?”

“You know. Like, do you like her still.” She kept her eyes on the water, voice casual in a way that wasn’t casual at all. “I mean you liked her enough to put babies in her, so…”

“I don’t know it’s… complicated,” Shinji said, eyes following a lazy ripple in the water.

"Complicated how?" Sakuya asked. "Do you love her or not?"

"Love is a... heavy... word," Shinji said.

"No,no, you don't get to chicken out of this one," his son said. "We need to know if you two are divorced or not."

"We were never even married," Shinji said, but his son had decided to ignore him.

"I always imagined my parents were married," Asuka Jr. simply said.

"So..." Sakuya spoke up. "Answer the question."

Shinji groaned.

"I don't know if it's love or... something else," he replied.

"Something like what?"

"I don't know..." Shinji repeated with a mild shrug. "It's been fourteen years... people... change." He exhaled, the breath long and heavy. "If I still have feelings for Asuka, then... they're certainly not the same as before."

“Bullshit,” Sakuya shot back. “ You’re the one who kept saying the difference between then and now for you were a couple of hours, tops. So you loved her like…literally three days ago. Right up until they yanked you from out of space…and now you wanna tell me you don’t? ”

“I never said that.” Shinji cut in, but his son interrupted.

“Sounds like a cop-out,” Asuka Jr. added.

“Yeah, maybe it is,” Shinji replied. “But since I came back, a lot’s been thrown at me. My feelings might not have changed the moment I woke up… but these last few days?” He shook his head. “I don’t know anymore.”

“So you’ve moved on,” Sakuya said, pure doubt in her tone. “Yeah, right…”

“Maybe I haven’t,” Shinji admitted. “But what about Asuka? Fourteen years watching over you two alone, whilst fighting Nerv this whole time? I doubt she still feels the same anymore.”

“If that were true she wouldn’t keep making such a fuss over you.” Sakuya murmured.

“So you think she’s moved on?” his son asked. “Because clearly, you have…”

The sarcasm in his voice was thick enough to cut.

“I don’t know,” Shinji replied honestly, “I really don’t.”

The second answer lingered in the air, heavier than the first. Only the sound of the waves and the distant calls of penguins filled the space between them now.

Until Sakuya sighed—another heavy sigh.

"I'm gonna sound like a broken record..." she whispered, then turned to face her father fully.

"What do you actually know?" The question came sharp, her blue eyes igniting with something searching, something dangerous.

“I know that I don’t want to lose you,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation. “I don’t want what I have with my father to be what I have with you…No matter what happens, I just…I just want more moments like this. Doing something normal. With you. Like fishing. I don’t want to lose any of that. And deep down I know…”

He hesitated, for just a breath. Asuka’s face flickered in his mind, the one that could look so cold and yet somehow still feel like home.

“I know that Asuka… doesn’t want to lose you either.”

Sakuya’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you leaving again?”

Shinji turned to her, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation— the kind of look that wordlessly said, Really?

“Yeah, yeah… save the world and all that,” Sakuya said before he could answer, rolling her eyes and fixing her gaze back on the ocean.

A sweet silence crept up on them again, softer this time, but no less heavy. Broken again, only by the ocean and the penguins below.

“For what it’s worth, Dad,” his son said, “I think you made her happy. Even if she’d never say it out loud.”

“You tried your best,” Sakuya added quietly. “You always do…”

“But it’s never enough,” Shinji replied, his voice low and raw. “…Never enough.”

“You think it ever will be?” his son asked.
The question lingering in the air, stretching the silence between them.

Shinji didn’t answer right away. The truth was, he didn’t know—how could he? And now he was walking straight toward the shadow of his father, toward the impossible weight of defeating Gendo Ikari.

“I hope so,” he said at last, the words carrying both resolve and uncertainty. “I can only hope.”

Then suddenly a sharp tug snapped through the line.

Sakuya’s rod bowed hard, nearly yanking her forward.

“Whoa—!” she gasped, stumbling back as the reel whined furiously.

“Don’t just sit there!” Asuka Jr. barked. “Pull it in before it drags you under!”

Sakuya sprang to her feet, bracing her boots against the rock. Her brother, already laughing, caught her by the back of her jacket like she might actually get reeled into the sea.

“Just hang on, sis!”

“I am!” she shouted, cheeks flushed with both effort and embarrassment. “It’s just, this thing feels so strong…”

Shinji stepped in beside her, hands wrapping around the rod to help steady it. The two of them wobbled awkwardly together while Asuka Jr. kept tossing in unhelpful instructions.

“Come on… come on…” Sakuya muttered through clenched teeth, reeling and yanking with rhythm.

And finally, the water broke.
Something dark and limp bobbed into view—

A glove.
Latex. Glossy. Fingers limp and swaying with the current.

“A… rubber glove?” Sakuya asked, lifting it toward the light.

“Not rubber,” Shinji said slowly, a prickle running through him. The texture, the faint ridges—he recognized it. “It’s from a plug-suit.”

They all stared at it for a beat.

“What would that be doing way out here?” Asuka Jr. finally asked.

“Well…”

And then came a sound.
Soft and Measured.

Footsteps crunching on gravel from somewhere behind them.

They all turned.
A girl stood at the top of the slope, framed against the trees and morning sky.

Tall, still, and familiar in a way that hollowed Shinji’s chest.

“Ayanami?” He said.

“Yes,” she replied with a small nod.

Sakuya tilted her head. “So… is she, like… my grandma?”

Shinji blinked at her, caught between bafflement and a laugh. “Yeah I guesss…”

He shrugged, though the gesture was more a placeholder than an answer. It did nothing to reassure Sakuya or her brother.

This Rei isn’t even the real Rei, he thought. If there even is such a thing for clones. She’s not the one I knew.

Then another thought crept in, unwelcome. If there’s another Rei… does that mean there’s another Asuka somewhere too?

The mental image hit him like cold water. Dealing with one Asuka had been hard enough. Two would be a nightmare.

Meanwhile Rei’s gaze moved from him to the twins, her expression softening in a way that still felt somewhat alien.

“I see…” she said quietly. “So these are your children.”

“Yeah,” Shinji replied simply. “They are.”

“And you’re my grandmother…” Sakuya ventured, the word catching in her throat.

“Grand…mother?” Rei repeated. The faint crease in her brow almost betrayed emotion, but then her face slipped back into its usual, unreadable neutrality.

“Well… yeah, ’cause you’re like… a clone of his mom, right?” Sakuya asked, her voice laced with a hopeful kind of uncertainty.

Rei said nothing, just kept staring in a way that only Rei Ayanami could.

“Right?” Sakuya repeated, leaning in as if that might somehow coax an answer out of her.

But all she got was more silence, and then she turned to her father. “Is she gonna keep doing this forever, or…?”

“It’s just the way she is,” Shinji said with a small shrug.

Her brother stepped forward and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Grand…ma…” He hesitated, too. It felt weird calling someone who looked smaller and younger then him grandma.

Rei regarded his hand for a beat before accepting it. A small smile tugged at her lips, and—shockingly—a faint chuckle escaped. “I suppose… I kind of am.”

“Yeahhh…” Sakuya said, awkwardly dragging out the word. “You are…”

“But also, I am not,” Rei continued. “The material I’m comprised of may separate any relation I have to Ikari.”

“May?” Asuka Jr. asked.

“I do not know for certain,” Rei replied. “Genetically, I am close to his mother, but my composition differs from the average Lilin. It is… difficult to define. Perhaps I am your… grand-aunt.”

The twins exchanged a baffled look, while Shinji decided it was safer to not even try and understand this one. It sounded like the kind of thing that could give a person a headache.

“Good morning.” He simply said to her.

“Good morning.” Rei-Q repeated, greeting each other properly this time.

And In her hands, Shinji noticed something familiar.

“Why are you here so early?” Asuka Jr. asked, brow furrowed. “Grand… ma… no.” The last word stumbled out awkwardly.

Rei smiled faintly, the attempt at humour had meaning to her.

“I wanted to see Shinji.”

She extended her hands, offering him the S-DAT player.

Shinji accepted it gently, fingers brushing hers. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she replied, her voice steady but soft.

“Oh, About that name you asked me about…” Shinji began, thumb brushing the side of the S-DAT. “No matter how I think about it, you’re still Ayanami to me. I can’t think of any other name.”

“Thank you for at least thinking about it,” Rei said. “I’m happy with Ayanami, just the same.”

The quiet stretched between them, and that strange, almost imperceptible chill he’d felt earlier crept back in.

“Ayanami?” He asked carefully.

“I can’t survive in this place,” she said plainly, her voice carrying no fear. “But I like it all the same.”

“What do you mean?” Sakuya asked, exchanging a look with her brother, both clearly unsettled. But Rei didn’t turn to them.

“Now that I know what it is to ‘like’… I’m happy.”

A faint, rhythmic beeping broke through the still air. Rei stepped back, and Shinji’s attention snapped to the plug-suit clinging to her frame.

Its black surface began to shift to white, colour draining upward as a red light pulsed higher.

“Rei? What’s wrong?” Shinji asked, his voice carrying a crack of urgency.

“I wanted to harvest the rice,” she said, almost dreamily, as if speaking from somewhere far away.

Shinji took a step toward her. “Ayanami—”

“I wanted to be with the boy I liked… forever.” She said quietly, her plug-suit now glowing pure white—the same bright white as the Rei he once knew.

Rei looked to each of them in turn. Shinji first, then the twins, her gaze calm and strangely warm.

“I’m happy I met you,” she said softly. “I’m happy I met all of you.”

Shinji’s eyes widened, caught in the moment, and then—

“Goodbye…”

A sudden, silent burst.

Where she’d been standing, her plug-suit collapsed to the ground, her body dissolving into a pool of glowing LCL. Shinji lunged forward to catch her, but there was nothing left. Only a faint cross of light flickered briefly where she had stood.

The ocean swallowed the silence again.

The twins stood frozen, their eyes wide and unblinking.

Shinji stared down at the empty plug-suit, his grip tightening as tears welled and spilled over.

The S-DAT player slipped unnoticed from his hand, forgotten.

And the twins just stood there, unsure of what to do next.

---

The AAA Wunder had arrived, and the village tarmac was alive with motion—crates hoisted down by cranes, forklifts weaving between stacks of supplies, soldiers shouting instructions over the steady thrum of engines.

The air buzzed with the hum of a full-scale military operation.

Kensuke stood far apart from the crowd, camera in hand, capturing everything.
“The Wunder’s just as big as ever,” he murmured, craning his neck to take in the massive hull hanging against the sky.

He lowered the lens to sweep across the busy deck crews. “The people who want to leave are disembarking,” he narrated quietly, zooming in on the crew of Wunder.

“The final battle’s near.”

Panning the camera, he caught Asuka in frame. She noticed immediately and frowned.
“Hey—stop filming me,” she snapped, raising her forearm to block her face.

“Sorry,” Kensuke said with a sheepish chuckle. “But today, I want a record of everything.”

Asuka let out a sharp breath, half exasperation, half surrender. Pulling up the hood of her bomber jacket, she muttered, “Fine then… do as you please.”

A dog barked somewhere off to the side, and Kensuke instinctively panned his camera toward the sound, until he spotted Shinji. He was standing still at the edge of the clearing, posture straight, eyes steady. In his hand, the S-DAT player.

Kensuke lowered the camera, the record light going dark. He glanced toward Asuka, who had just turned from overseeing the loading crew.

“Where are the kids?” she asked.

“At Kensuke’s,” Shinji replied. “They’ll be safe there.”

Kensuke stepped forward a little, his voice softer now. “You can stay behind, you know. No one would blame you.”

“Thank you, Kensuke,” Shinji said, a small nod of gratitude in his tone. “Please…give my thanks to Tōji and the others.” His fingers curled tighter around the S-DAT player.

He looked to Asuka.

“Asuka… I..will go with you.”

She studied him for a moment, long enough for the silence to weigh heavy between them. Finally, she gave the faintest shrug.

“I see… well, these are the rules so–”

Without hesitation, she raised a mechanical taser, aimed, and fired.

---

Sakura was in the medbay inventorying supplies when the door slid open. One Misato Katsuragi stepped inside, flanked by two unfamiliar figures:

A sharp-eyed, red-haired girl who’s frustration radiated like heatwaves, and a brown-haired boy whose slouched posture carried something heavier than fatigue.

Twins Sakura wondered, straightening instantly.

“Commander Katsuragi.” She snapped to a soldier’s stance.

“At ease,” Misato said, voice calm. “Shinji Ikari has been returned aboard.”

Sakura froze mid-breath. “…Shinji… is back.”

“Yes,” Misato confirmed, watching her carefully. “Now If you don’t want to be assigned to him anymore—”

“No.” The word came out faster than Sakura intended, but she didn’t take it back.
Her jaw tightened. “I still want to do it. I will take responsibility of BM-03’s monitoring and restrainment.”

Misato nodded, eyes steady.

“BM-0 what?” Sakuya’s voice cut through the moment, curiosity and challenge both flickering in her gaze as she looked up at one Sakura Suzuhara. “Who are you?”

Sakura ignored the question, and so did Misato.

“These two managed to sneak aboard,” Misato continued, voice low but firm. “I don’t know how, but they were hiding in a dangerous spot. Some of the crew tried to kick them out, but they kept coming back... More than once.”

“Impressive,” Sakura murmured, to Misato’s disapproval. But she said nothing.

“I need you to watch over them,” Misato continued, “As carefully as you would watch over Shinji Ikari.”

Sakura’s professional mask slipped just for a moment, “May I ask why?”

Misato gave a curt nod. “Safe to say they won’t stay in the village. They’re not going to stop trying to get on this ship.”

“So you want to make them crew?” Sakura asked.

“No. They’re too young,” Misato answered bluntly. “They barely understand the dangers of what we’re riding into, or what’s really at stake. But they won’t give up…”

She wouldn’t say the reason out loud, but she knew.

“You got that right,” Sakuya said, voice loud enough to break the silence. But Misato’s cold stare quickly silenced her.

“They’re a danger to themselves and the crew,” Misato added, “I’d hate to add more to your burdens Sakura but please, watch over them.”

Sakura nodded without hesitation. “I will.”

“Thanks,” Misato said. “Just make sure to test them as well, they might have radiation poisoning or something.”

“What?” Asuka Jr. blinked, surprised.

“Ritsuko seems to think so,” Misato added with a serious face, though there was a teasing edge beneath it.

“Okay,” Sakura replied, her tone steady but her eyes flicking to the two teens beside her.

“When you’re done, you can go retrieve Shinji and relieve Shikinami. He’s in the theatre(operation room)” Misato said, then turned and left, leaving Sakura alone with the two strange adolescents.

Sakura took a breath, forcing calm. “Okay. Let’s get you guys checked up.”

“I don’t have radiation poisoning,” Asuka Jr. said quickly. “Just take us to see Shinji Ikari.”

“You know Shinji…” Sakura started.

“Yes, he’s…” Sakuya began, but then her brother cut her off with a sharp look, urging her to stop.

“We just need to see him,” Sakuya said instead, swallowing hard. “You see, the last time we saw him, Asuka Shikinami tased him and he looked like he was in pain, so we want to––”

“Want to what?” Sakura interrupted softly, searching her eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sakuya replied quickly, shutting down the thought. “Just take us to see him.”

“You’ll see him when I’m done with you,” Sakura said firmly. “Come on, follow me to the scanner.”

She turned, but before she could take more than a step, the twins bolted.

“Wait!” Sakura shouted, heart pounding as they practically exploded through the door.

Without hesitation, she gave chase, weaving through corridors and corners, breath quickening as they darted ahead.

“Stop!” she shouted, but they didn’t stop, if anything they ran faster.

Until finally they burst into the OR room.

The noise hit her like a slap—an angry, fierce voice cutting through the sterile air.

The fiery teen girl was yelling at Major Langley Shikinami, while her brother struggled to hold her back.

“How the hell did you get on this ship?” Asuka snapped, her voice sharp and brittle.

Sakura’s chest tightened. This was going to be far more complicated than she’d imagined.

“What’s going on here, Suzuhara?” Asuka demanded, stepping forward.

Before Sakura could answer, Sakuya’s voice rang out, sharp and fierce:
“Don’t you dare ignore me!”

“I’m not ignoring you!” Asuka snapped back, fire flaring in her eyes.

“How dare you do that to him!” Sakuya’s words came fast, raw with pain. “How would you feel if I electrocuted you after watching your own mother die?”

“What!?” Asuka’s face twisted in shock.

“We lost our grandmother!” Sakuya’s voice cracked, fierce and trembling all at once.

Asuka wanted to be offended, but confusion clouded her features. “What!?”

“Ayanami is dead,” her son said quietly, voice heavy. “Or so I think… she’s gone. We saw her explode.”

“Of course,” Asuka said flatly, “She can’t survive outside Nerv. It was bound to happen.”

“You knew?” Sakuya asked, hurt flashing through her words.

“He never asked,” Asuka replied, the edge in her voice sharp as a knife.

Sakuya’s eyes widened, mouth opening as if to speak again—then, suddenly, Shinji stirred.

Sakura walked over to him, ignoring the family feud. Soon she stood right next to a waking Shinji.

His eyes fluttered open, landing on her face first, slow recognition blooming.

“Sa—kura… Suzu…hara?” he murmured, voice thick with disorientation.

And there he was, right beneath her.

Fragile and vulnerable, the weight of everything hanging heavy in the air.

For a heartbeat, Sakura’s resolve wavered, guilt and anger crashing in like a tidal wave. She saw the boy she’d been assigned to: broken, lost, and still painfully human.

And then, beyond him, she saw the man behind the choices. The man equally shattered, and yet equally responsible.

Before she could stop herself, her hand shot out.

A sharp, stinging slap cracked through the sterile room.

The sound echoed, sharp and raw.

Impossible to ignore.

Sakuya’s eyes widened in horror. Shinji’s son clenched his fists, tense.

Sakura’s voice broke, trembling but fierce.
“I told you not to pilot an EVA, but you ran away and did just that! You jerk! You absolute jerk! You’re such a jerk, Mister Ikari!”

And then she crumpled, tears spilling as she sobbed into his chest.

Shinji could only think to touch his neck, half-wondering if they’d put a DSS choker there yet.

His daughter watched, wide-eyed and genuinely shocked.
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” she muttered.

Asuka shot her daughter a disapproving glare.

The door slid open again, and in stepped Mari Illustrious Makinami, bright-eyed and smirking, with Commander Katsuragi trailing behind her, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh god,” Misato whispered.

Notes:

last segment is a bit half-baked, maybe open to change

Chapter 14: Bridge Over Troubled Water

Notes:

Thanks to @EvaShinobiKaiserKnight for helping me out on this one, I was stuck for a while.

“Mmmm… how cute.” Mari cooed, squeezing the twins into her arms.
Sakuya squirmed, uncomfortable, while Asuka Jr. froze—conflicted, cheeks red at the way her bosom brushed too close.

Their mother, meanwhile, was somewhere else entirely.

The Wunder had been in the air for hours, flying them all towards their assured death.

“Where’s my dad?” Sakuya asked, turning toward her mother.

Asuka didn’t even look up, her eyes stayed locked on the console, thumbs hammering away at buttons in a relentless rhythm.

“Hello? Can you hear me!” Sakuya shouted, wriggling harder against Mari’s iron grip. “You’re, like, crazy strong.” she gasped, half-frightened, half-awed. Mari only smiled, tightening her embrace.

“They’re probably holding him in a cell like ours.” Asuka replied flatly. “Probably bigger, maybe gave him more room…always consoling him”

“Bombs are not a consolation princess,” Mari chimed in.

“Bombs!?” The twins echoed, voices snapping in unison, concern spiking.

“There are bombs attached his cell?” Asuka Jr. stammered, panic flaring in his voice.

“Yeup.” Mari mused, her tone sweet, almost sing-song, though the words themselves landed heavy. “And this one too. All it would take is one press and then booom! Death true.”

“I need to get out of here.” Sakuya said, still struggling to break free.

“It’s no use,” Asuka muttered, her tone flat, “Where would you even go?”

“To… my… dad!” Sakuya screamed, finally wrenching herself free from Mari’s iron grip. And the four-eyed crony only grinned, as if delighted by the challenge.

“I’m just gonna catch you again,” she said.

And then Sakuya moved instinctively, sliding behind—or rather, right next to—her mother for protection.

Asuka Jr. froze, stunned into silence, unable to process whether to move or just stay put.

Asuka finally cast a sharp glance at her daughter, the expression saying, I know what you’re gonna say and the answer is––

“No.”

“Take me to him,” Sakuya quickly interjected.

“No,” Asuka repeated, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ll take you to him,” Mari said, chiming in again—but Asuka’s gaze cut across her like ice, forcing Mari to hesitate, backing off slightly while still holding Asuka Jr. in her arms.

“Okay, I won’t,” Mari conceded, a faint shrug masking her retreat.

Asuka Jr. was bright red now, cheeks burning. “…Please… let me go,” he whispered, voice almost lost in the tension.

“If you won’t take me to him, I’ll go myself,” Sakuya said, squaring her shoulders as she faced her mother.

Asuka’s gaze dropped back to the console. Her thumbs kept at it, plastic clicks snapping like punctuation.

“Go.”

Sakuya froze. “…I will.”

“Okay.” Asuka said, tone flat and empty.

Confusion rippled across Sakuya’s face. She glanced at Mari, desperate for a read.

Mari only shrugged, lips quirking with a careless little smile as she squeezed Asuka Jr. further.

“Please let my brother go,” Sakuya said finally, and Mari sighed through her nose, then loosened her grip.

Asuka Jr. stumbled free, blinking as Mari released him with an almost theatrical gentleness. “Fine,” she pouted, as if she were giving up a favourite toy. “Spoilsport.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words refused to come.

And then, with all the righteous fire she could muster, she turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.

“Wait up.” Her brother said, following her.

Asuka didn’t even bother to look up. “Don’t take too long.”

“I will!” Sakuya barked, stomping down the steel bridge.

Mari leaned lazily against a stack of books, watching her go. “You do know she can’t actually open that door without the proper clearance, right?”

Asuka almost smirked, thumbs still dancing on her handheld. “Obviously. She’ll be back in three… two… one—”

A click, a beep, and the hiss of pneumatics cut her off. The heavy door at the far end of the bridge slid open.

Only then did Asuka lower her console, blinking at the impossible sight of Sakuya framed in the threshold, smiling like she’d just conquered Rome. She even had the audacity to wave goodbye.

“…What!?”

Asuka Jr. recovered just enough of his composure to look smug again.

And then the door sealed shut.

Asuka turned to Mari. “How did she open the door?”

Mari shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Either she swiped my access card, or she’s really good at understanding the esoteric nonsense of the AAA Wunder.”

Asuka exhaled the kind of sigh that could sink ships.  You gave it to her she thought, but didn’t bother saying it.

“Great. Now we have to go fetch them.” She pushed herself up, all weary resignation.

“Adventure time,” Mari chimed, already striding toward the exit.

But before Asuka could follow, she scanned the room for her access card and froze.
It wasn’t on any of the books, or the bunk, or the little shelf where she’d dropped it earlier. The exact spot where Sakuya had been standing a moment ago.

“…She took mine too,” Asuka muttered.

---

The twins strutted down the corridor like they owned it—victorious little thieves armed with two shiny cards and not a single plan.

“So…” Asuka Jr. began “What now?”

“We find where they’re keeping Dad,” His sister declared

“And then what?” He asked,

“We… free him,” Sakuya answered, voice catching halfway through the word.

“And where exactly is he?” Her brother asked, “And even if we do free him, where would we go?”

Sakuya paused and her brother stopped too. Both of them stood still in the corridor, the hum of the Wunder’s engines filling the silence.

“I mean, we’re in the sky, kilometres above…everything. And neither of us has the faintest clue how this ship even works or where we’re going.”

“Okay then,” Sakuya said, a scowl forming. “…What do you suggest we do then, genius?”

“We figure out what’s actually going on.” He replied, “Find that Colonel Katsuragi and y’know…Ask her to explain the situation.”

Sakuya scoffed. “We’re kids. She’ll just send us right back into that cramped cell.”

“Maybe.” Asuka Jr. tilted his head. “Or maybe she’ll feel sorry for us and put us in Dad’s cell instead.”

Sakuya’s eyes narrowed. “You think she will.”

“If we complain about it enough.” Asuka Jr. replied, “she might feel sorry for us.”

“The pity-eyes trick?” she asked

“The pity-eyes trick,” her brother confirmed, nodding solemnly, like they were agreeing to a sacred ritual.  “We were going to get lost anyway.”

“No, we weren’t” Sakuya replied, still stubborn. “I know where we’re going.”

Her brother pointed down the corridor to the massive red bulkhead at the far end. Bold stencilled letters screamed back at them:

ENGINE CORE
DO NOT ENTER
ENGINEERING CREW ONLY

“…Right,” Asuka Jr. muttered. “Straight to death.”

Sakuya squinted, realizing. “…Yeah. Probably would’ve burned to a crisp in there.”

The twins turned another corner, trying their best to navigate the labyrinthine-yet-strangely-sterile halls of the AAA Wunder.

They looked confident, but it was the sort of confidence that belonged to people who were truly lost.

And then a camera moved, lens whirring faintly as it followed them.

Someone was watching.

---

In her quarters, Misato leaned back with a sigh. Ritsuko stood just behind her, arms folded.

“You have the worst hobbies, you know,” Ritsuko said flatly.

“Why do I feel like I should be the one telling you that,” Misato murmured, eyes still on the monitor.

Ritsuko didn’t blink. “You could’ve just sent someone to take them back to Shikinami and Mari’s cell, y’know…but here you are. Watching them wander around like lab mice.”

“They remind me of Shinji and Asuka…” Misato said quietly. “…Back then.”

“I don’t need to tell you why, do I?” Ritsuko asked.

“No,” Misato answered, “No you don’t.”

She spun her chair lightly and stood up.

On the monitor, the twins disappeared around another blind corner. Misato headed for the door.

“They’re looking for me.”

“Deciding to make it easier for them?” Ritsuko asked,

“No.” Misato replied, “I’m going to Shinji’s cell.”

Ritsuko arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

Misato paused at the door. “I have a feeling they’ll find me there.”

The door hissed open, and she stepped into the corridor.

Meanwhile, Ritsuko studied her screen, the scanner flashing with faint irregularities. Indicators of activity pulsing from deep within the ship’s core.

---

Another door hissed open, and the twins nearly stumbled out into open air.
“Seriously, what even is the point of that door?” Sakuya snapped.

“Idk, but we’re getting nowhere,” her brother muttered, “Let’s just cut our losses and go back.”

“No way.” His sister’s eyes narrowed. “We go back now and she wins.”

“Who, mo—”

“Yes,” Sakuya cut in before he could finish. “We can’t let her win. Besides, she’s probably looking for us right now, and she knows the ship. That puts us at a disadvantage.”

Asuka Jr. gave her a flat look, one eyebrow raised. The expression screamed really? “I hate to give her points, but maybe she was right. We gotta turn back, we’re lo—”

He stopped.

It was quick—just a flicker at the edge of his vision. A shape slipping down one of the side corridors.

Sakuya noticed the shift in his face instantly. “What?”

 “Did you see that?”

“…What?” Sakuya again asked,

 “It looked like… a woman.”

The corridor ahead was empty, sterile and silent, but the air carried something colder now.

Sakuya stepped forward, turning the corner where her brother swore he’d seen the figure.

They found nothing. Just another stretch of light and metal.
“There’s nothing here,” she muttered.

But then—again—he caught it. The flicker of a silhouette, a woman’s form slipping out of sight as it turned another corner.
“Hold on,” he said, already moving.

“Where are you going?” Sakuya demanded, hurrying after him.

The ship seemed to tilt around them as they walked, the corridors stretching longer, the angles sharper, as though they were sliding deeper into some hidden vein of the Wunder. The apparition always just ahead—never still, never waiting.

They followed it through one turn, then another, until at last they reached a sliding door, sealed tight.

Sakuya pressed her hand against the panel. The door hissed open.

On the other side, Sakura Suzuhara stood mid-sentence, speaking with a pink-haired girl the twins didn’t recognize.

Midori scowled from her cot, while Sakura shot up from her chair, eyes wide.
“How did you get out of your cell?”

“Wrong door,” Sakuya replied, already sliding it shut with a flick of the panel.

“Hey!” Sakura barked, striding into the corridor, irritation spilling over.

Midori only waved at her, “Don’t take too long.”

“Come back here,” Sakura snapped at the twins, who were already drifting deeper into the Wunder.

She trailed after them until the corridor split into three passages.

Asuka Jr. turned first, squinting at Sakura.
“You’re the lady that slapped our…” He slowed, picking his words with deliberate weight. “…You slapped Shinji.”

“And then cried on him.” Sakuya added.

“That doesn’t matter. You need to get back to your cell now, or else I’ll be forced to take action.” Sakura said, voice trying for authority but wobbling somewhere between command and unease.

Sakuya gave her a long, unimpressed look.
“Gun-ho, huh? Really gonna taze a pair of kids?”

“If I have to,” Sakura said flatly, though the taser stayed holstered.

“Just tell us where Shinji is…” Sakuya went on, ignoring the threat entirely. “You are responsible for him, aren’t you?”

“Yeah you’re like…his nurse right?” Asuka Jr. asked.

“That’s not information I need to disclose to you,” Sakura shot back. “Return to your cells immediately, or I will make you.” She repeated

“Why did you slap Shinji?” Jr. asked suddenly.

“And then cry on him,” Sakuya, again, added.

Sakura’s expression shifted. She was serious now, and without a word, she tugged the taser free and held it up.

“Whoa, calm down lady,” Jr. said, raising his hands up. “We just wanted to ask, jeez!”

“Return to your cells,” She said flatly. “Final warning.”

“Shinji Ikari is our father,” Sakuya said suddenly, cutting through the air. It staggered Sakura for a moment.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s our father,” Sakuya repeated, quieter but steadier. “That’s why we want to see him.”

“No, what… I don’t—” Sakura’s arm dipped, taser still in hand but no longer steady. “You two…” Her voice dropped, muttering under her breath.

“How?”

“Will you take us to him if we tell you?” Sakuya asked. Sakura’s grip on the taser tightened, knuckles paling.

“Or you can take us to Misato,” Asuka Jr. said, “Colonel Katsuragi, I mean.”

Sakura exhaled, a weary, almost exasperated breath. Her shoulders sank ever so slightly. The taser remained, but the edge in her stance dulled—just a fraction.

“You’re lying,” she said, forcing the words out. “Shinji Ikari has no known record of—”

“Look at us,” Sakuya interrupted, “I mean really look at us. What do you see?”

Sakura studied them for a long moment, brows knitting as if inspecting some impossible puzzle. All she could see were a pair of twins, mirroring each other, defiant and fragile at once.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

“Really?” Asuka Jr. said, incredulous, l aning forward now “Not even a single thing?”

“No,” Sakura said firmly. But her gaze lingered longer than she intended, as if searching for something she didn’t want to admit was there.

“Our mother is Asuka Langley Shikinami,” Sakuya said simply, as if that explained everything.

“Temporary Special Senior Major Langley Shikinami as you put it,” Asuka Jr. added, with a faint, wry smile tugging at his mouth. “She’s not exactly… normal. I’m sure you at least know that.”

Sakura blinked, her lips parting. “…But’s that…No.”

“Yes,” Sakuya simply replied,

“I don’t believe you,” Sakura whispered, her hand steadying again, thumb brushing the taser’s trigger.

“You don’t have to,” Sakuya replied, quiet but firm. “You just have to take us to him.”

“Or to Colonel Katsuragi,” Asuka Jr. added,

Sakura stood there, suspended. Her hand hovered near the holster, fingers tense on the grip—but her resolve was wavering ever so slightly.

Alone In his cell, Shinji sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, still as a stone.
Neither sad nor angry. Just… thinking. Contemplating.

Remembering Kaworu—his words and his smile—drifting back to a memory only a few weeks old.

I’ve been busy, he thought. So much has happened in so little time.

“Shinji… you need to find a place that you can call your own,” Kaworu had once told him. Shinji swore he could almost see him there, seated beside him, voice calm as ever.

“The ties that bind will show you the way.”

His chest tightened. There had been such certainty in Kaworu’s tone, such quiet assurance. A light in the dark he hadn’t known he was searching for.
That pale gentle smile of his. That gaze that seemed to see through everything.

“We’ll meet again.”

“You’re right, Kaworu,” Shinji whispered into the air, a fragile smile trembling at the corners of his mouth.
“We will meet again…someday…”

The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Shinji flinched, pulled back to the present.

And there he saw her, someone he hadn’t expected.

Misato Katsuragi. Or rather, Colonel Katsuragi. A ghost wearing the shape of her old self.

“Shinji,” she said, slipping her glasses off, her voice firm yet softened at the edges.

Shinji blinked, caught between relief, disbelief, and the familiar pull of old exasperation. All of it welled up at once, tangled and raw.

“…It’s been a while.”

A pause ensued; Shinji could only look at her as she placed her eyes down dejectedly. And yet, somehow sternly, with some hidden resolve.
He swallowed and began first.

“I met with Kaji,” he said, his voice almost hesitant. “He was… really nice. And kind. He reminded me of his father. And… you.”

“That’s good to hear,” Misato replied, though her words carried a hesitation of their own—careful, weighted, not entirely sure what she was allowed to feel.

She entered the room and sat down beside him on the bed. Side by side now, close enough that the silence between them felt heavier than the bombs surrounding them.

Shinji didn’t know what to say. His mouth stayed shut, his gaze low. And so it was Misato who broke the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, the words dragging out of her like lead. “For everything I’ve put you through this past week.”

“It’s okay,” Shinji answered quickly, almost reflexively. “You were only doing what you had to—”

“No.” She cut him off, shaking her head faintly. “I encouraged you that day. My words… spurred you on. And then you… you took all the blame.” Her voice caught, softer now. “I’m sorry, Shinji…for not explaining anything. For putting you in an impossible situation. My own regret, buried under a sense of duty…I…”

“It’s okay,” Shinji said again, this time reaching out and resting a hand gently on her shoulder.

For a moment, her mask slipped. She turned to look at him, startled by the quiet kindness in his eyes.

He was still Shinji—the same boy she had once taken in and sheltered, hoping for a bond, a connection she couldn’t admit she needed. Her surrogate child. Sweet, fragile, and broken… and yet here he was, smiling at her, gentle as ever.

She had expected blame. Anger. Distance. But not this. Not forgiveness. Tiny tears welled at the corners of her eyes, and she turned her face away before they could fall.

“You didn’t have time,” Shinji murmured. “And nothing you would’ve said would’ve stopped me from going. After all… I wanted to save…Ayanami.”

“No,” Misato said, her voice breaking into the word. “It should have been…it shouldn’t be, a burden you have to carry alone. N3I may have been a necessary consequence…if you didn’t pilot the eva and fight the angel on that day…we would already have been exterminated.”

Shinji remained quiet.

“At least this way, we get to choose how we go out.” She continued, “I truly am grateful to you…Shinji.” She looked at him now and he froze, hand still resting on her shoulder, uncertain whether to let go or hold on.

“I’m sorry.” she said again, softer now. “I truly am.”

The words lingered in the air. An awkward silence pressed down between them until Shinji finally spoke.

“To be honest… I couldn’t really hear you that well in the Eva,” he admitted. “I just… did what I wanted to.”

A faint smile crept onto his face.

Misato let out a small, involuntary huff—half a laugh, half a sigh of relief. Her own smile followed, weary but real, breaking through the cracks of everything unspoken.

For a brief moment, the weight lifted. Just the two of them again—commander and pilot, guardian and child—side by side, holding on to what little remained.

---

“They could be anywhere,” Mari sang, her voice lilting as she strolled down the Wunder’s corridors alongside Asuka. “Why not just skip the game and head straight to puppy-boy’s cell?”

“Because I know they got lost,” Asuka replied, “They’re my kids, after all.”

She pulled open a hatch and there was nothing but storage. Her brow furrowed. “Not here.”

“If they really were lost, one of the crew would’ve scooped them up and filed a report,” Mari said, hands clasped loosely behind her head.

“So what are you trying to say?” Asuka asked

“they’re holed with someone,” Mari answered, “Someone who either doesn’t know our protocol or doesn’t care. Can you guess who that is?”

Asuka sighed, walking down the hall at a quicker pace.

Mari’s smile lingered, but her eyes narrowed, reading the tension in every step. “You’re worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Mari hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Just stomping through the ship, opening every door like a mad-woman. That’s totally not worry.”

Asuka stopped at another door, paused just long enough to glare over her shoulder. “Shut it, Four-Eyes.”

Mari raised her hands in mock surrender, “Touchy, touchy.”

The door hissed open. Another empty compartment.

Asuka exhaled through her nose, sharp and quick, before turning on her heel again. “…They’re hiding. That’s all.”

Mari’s voice softened, just a shade beneath her usual sing-song. “Or maybe they’re with their dad.”

Asuka groaned, rolling her eyes as she strode ahead.

Door after door, they found nothing.

One hatch opened to reveal a pair of crew members in a compromising position.

“Vis-à-vis,” Mari quipped, grinning. “Love.”

Asuka physically slid the door shut and kept moving.

They opened nearly every room along the corridor until they reached the medbay. There, at last, they found Sakura—running tests on the twins.

“It seems I was wrong,” Mari murmured.

“It’s true,” Sakura said, glancing up from her console. “The DNA matches. You really are Shinji and Shikinami’s children.”

“He has spawn,” Midori grimaced from the far side of the room. She almost spat the words—then froze as the twins noticed their mother.

Asuka Jr. immediately ducked behind Sakura, his  hands clutching at the fabric of the doctor’s coat. Sakuya stayed seated, disappointment written all over her face.

“God damn it,” Sakuya muttered under her breath.

Asuka didn’t even waste time. Her eyes narrowed, her voice cold and clipped. “We’re going back.”

“Not until I find out where my father is,” Sakuya replied, defiance sharp in her tone.

“Do yourself a favour and listen to your mother,” Midori said flatly. “You’re lucky to even be alive.”

“Excuse me?” Sakuya snapped, her eyes narrowing.

Midori scoffed, “I mean it’s kind of funny when you think about it. Shinji Ikari, of all people, with a family… after he destroyed everyone else’s.”

“Hey…” Sakura muttered, a warning edge in her voice.

But Midori pressed on, “It’s true. What right does he have? You, of all people, should understand…your father’s gone because of him.”

Sakura faltered, lips parting but no words coming. Because in a way, Midori wasn’t wrong. And that truth stung more than she wanted to admit.

Sakuya’s fists clenched, nails biting into her palms. “You don’t know anything about him,” she hissed, stepping forward. “You you’re the only one who’s suffered.”

“No.” Midori replied, “but I do know who the root of the problem is, Whole cities, lives destroyed, all because of––”

“Maybe you should stop blaming one man for everything and start asking why the adults in charge let it happen.” Sakuya said, not backing down. “He’s my father. Not your punching bag.”

Midori opened her mouth, ready with another barb but––

“That’s enough!” Asuka’s voice cracked through the corridor like a whip. Both girls froze.

“We’re leaving.” She snapped to her daughter. Then, to Sakura: “Get those things out of them. That’s an order.”

Sakuya scoffed, ignoring her mother, eyes fixed on the nurse instead. “Just tell me where he is,” she pleaded, voice breaking on the last word.

And Sakura hesitated.

“Now,” Asuka barked.

The silence afterward was brittle. Mari felt a chill trace her spine—something flickered at the corner of her eye as well. She turned her head, her practiced grin faltered, eyes narrowing.

“…What was that?” she muttered under her breath.

By the time Sakura was finished, the mood had shifted. They were all ready to move—

Until the intercom crackled to life.

“Suzuhara. This is Colonel Katsuragi.” The voice was calm, commanding. “Send the prisoners you have in custody to Shinji Ikari’s cell.”

“…How did she know?” Midori whispered, looking at Sakura. Who wondered just the same.

“That’s an order,” the intercom repeated—and cut out.

Sakuya turned to her mother with a triumphant little smile, the kind a child wore when they thought they’d finally caught the adult in a lie.

Asuka’s glare shut it down instantly.

Behind them, Jr. was still pressed into Sakura’s side, silent as a shadow. And Mari… Mari had crept closer, her posture low.

“Keep her away from me,” Jr whispered to Sakura, eyes flicking nervously at Mari.

Mari crouched down, tilting her glasses just so, grin sliding back into place.
“Oh, relax” she teased, “I only bite when I’m bored.”

Jr. squeaked and hid further behind Sakura.

Asuka rolled her eyes, already turning toward the corridor. “Enough. We’re moving.”

Mari straightened, lips quirking into a sing-song murmur as she fell into step behind them:
“A trip to Dad’s jail cell… how sweet.”

And with that, the group disappeared down the passageway—toward Shinji Ikari’s cell.

“What a rude girl,” Midori muttered once the door slid shut.

“You were insulting her father right to her face, what did you expect?” Sakura asked, dropping into her seat. “For her to just sit there and take it?”

“Given what her father’s responsible for… maybe,” Midori shot back.

“You don’t really believe that.” Sakura said, letting out a long sigh, rubbing at her temples. “God, I am the worst caretaker.”

“You’re not,” Midori said, “The Ikari clan just happen to be the worst patients.”

---

Misato was already outside the cell when Asuka arrived with her children, and Mari trailing behind. She glanced up, posture unreadable behind the tint of her glasses. Almost looked like she’d been waiting.

“I can’t believe he was actually this close,” Sakuya muttered, scanning the spacious area.
“Must’ve missed a turn,” her brother added, half-bitter, half-astonished.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Asuka asked, her eyes flicking to Misato, still struggling to read her expression behind the glasses.

“Nothing,” Misato said simply. “Shinji just wanted to see you.”

“He wanted to see me?” Asuka questioned, skeptical.

“Yes.” Misato said, “you and the kids, he wanted to be with you guys.”

Misato pressed a button and the door slid open.

Sakuya didn’t even hesitate. She ran forward, arms wide, and wrapped herself around her father. Shinji nearly toppled from the edge of the bed, surprised but steadying himself.

“Hey…” he said softly, voice catching for a moment.

His son followed shortly after, stepping in with a tentative smile. He settled carefully beside Shinji, small hands brushing against his father’s.

“What is this?” Asuka asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Family time, princess,” Mari said, giving her a gentle push into the cell.

“What are you doing—let me go, you—”

The door slid closed behind her.

Asuka swore she caught a faint smile on Misato’s face before she turned and walked away.

“Let’s go,” Misato said, her voice soft but firm.

Mari’s grin returned, lighter this time. “Yeah… time to let them be.”

Inside, the cell was still, holding only the four of them together.

Asuka turned to her family—her idiot of a husband who could never stay out of trouble, her stubborn daughter, and her even more stubborn son.

They all smiled back at her, small, genuine smiles that broke through the armour she’d worn for so long.

She let out a soft sigh, the crack in her mask widening just enough to let a laugh escape.

“You’re all stupid,” she said, it felt like the truest thing she could say.

The cell was quiet, in an odd kind of way.

“We’re your idiots,” Shinji said, voice soft.

“Maybe you,” Sakuya chimed in, “but not me.”

“Come on, Mom, you’re sharing the bottom bunk with Dad,” her son said, and Asuka shook her head, smiling despite herself.

They settled into the small space together, close and unguarded.

they were home.

Chapter 15: Bonus

Notes:

Popped into my mind, couldn't let it go, but it's just a bonus

Asuka curled up beside him, rubbing her head against his neck like a cat. Shinji couldn’t help but giggle.

“That’s kind of ticklish,” he whispered.

“Shut up,” Asuka murmured back. “You’ll wake them up.”

Her hands tightened around him, and his left arm pulled her closer.

“Don’t think this means I forgive you,” she whispered.

“…Are you sniffing me?”

Asuka groaned, burying her face deeper against his shoulder.

“Don’t make it weird.”

He laughed softly, almost under his breath. “Okay, okay.”

Her grip around him didn’t loosen.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“For?”

“What do you mean what for?” she sighed. “To fight, thé fight…against your father.” Her voice was low, careful, like she was trying not to hurt him by saying it out loud.

He couldn’t see her eyes in the dark, but he could feel them on him.

“Honestly… I don’t know,” Shinji admitted. “I just know I have to.”

“Dumbass,” she muttered, leaning in until their lips were only a breath apart.

Above them, Sakuya and her brother shifted in their sleep, the bunk groaning quietly.

“Don’t worry,” Asuka whispered. “I’ll beat him for you.”

She leaned in to peck his cheek—just a quick thing—but Shinji turned at the same time. Their mouths bumped in the dark, clumsy and unexpected.

Both froze, then pulled back, suddenly fascinated by anything else. The bombproof walls, the ceiling, and the stale air.

Anywhere but each other.

“Please don’t do anything stupid while we’re here,” Sakuya whispered down from the top bunk. “I wouldn’t want another siblin—”

Asuka shot a sharp kick upward, making the bunk above rattle. Her son and daughter’s muffled snickering broke out immediately.

“Damn brats,” she hissed, the dark hiding the warmth rushing to her cheeks.

Shinji let out a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath, and Asuka elbowed him in the ribs for it.

He didn’t even protest, just let his arm fall back around her, pulling her close again.

The cell settled into silence, save for the occasional creak of the bunk above and the hum of the reinforced walls.

It wasn’t oppressive or heavy. Just still.

Asuka tucked her head against his shoulder, rubbing her nose against his neck in a half-conscious motion.

“Don’t read into it,” she murmured with a yawn.

Shinji didn’t even reply, just smiled where she couldn’t see.

The kids above whispered something between themselves, then finally stilled, their breathing smoothing out into sleep.

And in the quiet, Asuka’s grip didn’t loosen. Shinji felt her breathing slow against him, steady and unguarded. He let his eyes close, too, the tension in his chest softening as the darkness swallowed them whole.