Chapter Text
The Human Instrumentality Project was always the end goal. Everything that had happened ever since the Second Impact was with this endpoint in mind. Defeating the Angels, the Evangelion project, Nerv; all with the intention of culminating in the complementation of human kind. Every human who devoted their lives to the cause were mere pawns with Gendo Ikari as the King and Unit 01 (Yui), the Queen. Yes, Shinji Ikari, the pilot of Unit 01, was made for the sole purpose of bringing about the end of loneliness. It had truly been the perfect plot.
Or would have been, had Shinji not rejected Instrumentality; clung to his individuality like ivy to an ancient wall, fighting for life and sun.
In the months after, humans trickled back from the singular whole they had once been. The oceans were dead, full of LCL, and the surface of the Earth was ravaged. But hope remained. As a very wise soul once told Shinji, humans have a knack for adapting the world to their needs. It was a group effort, but within a year of the Fifth Impact, civilization was up and running once more. That person, Shinji thought, would likely have been very proud.
Despite the union of all mankind, questions remained and the people demanded answers. In the end, what choice did they have but to turn to the one person who nearly destroyed them all twice, and succeeded the third time: Shinji Ikari. Everyone knew who he was and what he had done. There was a high demand for the head of Gendo Ikari’s son.
Because of this, Shinji was moved from place to place often. As soon as one was formed, Shinji Ikari was under governmental protection as the prime witness of Nerv’s crimes, but that did not mean he was not considered a public enemy. No one cared that he had only been fourteen years old when he triggered the Fifth Impact (twenty-eight, if one counted the years he had been liquefied in the entry plug of Unit 01) and was only fifteen now (he appeared to have aged; perhaps the curse of Eva that Asuka had spoken of was now over due to the destruction of the units).
As a result, Shinji was under constant surveillance. The small apartment he was given contained a camera in every single room and the door was under constant guard. If Shinji went out, he was always accompanied by a military escort. He grew very used to the feeling of being watched very fast. It never became any less unpleasant. He had already experienced several assassination attempts.
The worst part must have been the uncertainty. Shinji had been taken into custody as soon as he was discovered, but he had been told nothing of the lives of those he cared about. He had no idea if Asuka had made it back, and if she had, whether or not she was still alive. He did not know the fates of Misato or Ritsuko. He was even concerned for Rei, even if she wasn’t his Rei anymore.
He wasn’t completely alone though, depending on your definition. Every week, Shinji saw a psychiatrist. She was calm and quiet and never showed any hostility toward him. A year ago he would have even liked her. She prescribed pills to Shinji to help curb his social anxiety and the posttraumatic stress disorder. He would curl his fist around the small pills and only pretend to take them, hiding them in his pocket to covertly throw away later so that the camera would not see. He didn’t trust the pills. So many people wanted him dead, it would be easy for a pharmacist to slip poison into them after reading the name on the prescription. No one would blame him either; no one really wanted Shinji alive. His usefulness just hadn’t been exhausted yet.
Sometimes, Shinji wished it had. He would look at his bottle of pills and fantasize about swallowing all of them at once. That way, even if they hadn’t been poisoned, his death would be ensured. But no matter how much Shinji wanted to die, he could never try. Not with the cameras ever watching. Not with the collar around his neck, so like the DSS Choker, that monitored his vital signs. The moment any life-threatening instability was detected, it would trigger an alarm for an ambulance to be dispatched to his current location and to his guard on duty to perform first aid. Shinji could swallow all of the pills in the world and they would still never let him die until the world was finally done with him.
There were a few up sides to Shinji’s situation. His psychiatrist taught him some tricks for dealing with his panic attacks, and he had been given a cello. He could request sheets of music. After months of begging, Shinji was given a piano. He rarely played it though. It didn’t feel right when he ran his fingertips along the ivory keys. Something was missing. No. Someone was missing. This piano was not meant to be played alone.
Though life for Shinji could never be called peaceful, it eventually adopted a sense of monotony; a familiar cadence day in and day out. In all truthfulness, Shinji was bored. When he wasn’t seeing his psychiatrist or being questioned (interrogated) by government agents, Shinji stayed at home. He was permitted to go out once a week to purchase groceries and spend time outside; humans are social creatures, and even government officials knew that human contact was important for maintaining health, even if it was acquired only in sparse amounts.
The first break in the monotony occurred one year, three months, and five days after Fifth Impact (yes, Shinji was keeping count) when he woke up to someone else laying down on his futon.
Shinji startled, about to yell, when a hand clamped over his mouth. His first instinct was to panic and lash out, but then a voice hissed in his ear, “Quiet, idiot Shinji!” and Shinji would know that voice anywhere.
He spun around, eyes wide, and there she was, angry and beautiful. The hand left his mouth and Shinji gasped, “Asuka!”
She punched him first. His vision exploded in starbursts of white and his cheek flared with pain.
“That’s for Fifth Impact!” Asuka rasped.
Before Shinji could regain his orientation, a pair of arms was wrapping around him tightly, like they would never let go.
“And that’s for bringing us back.” Her voice was soft now, and Shinji let himself melt in Asuka’s arms. It had been so long since he’d been held.
They laid down then. They didn’t speak anymore, for there was nothing left to be said. Part of Shinji yearned to know where Asuka had been for the last year. When had she come back? What had she been doing since then? Did people want to kill her too? But for now, at least, he was just content with her presence. Her blue eye was closed and her long, red hair tickled Shinji’s face. He didn’t mind; the irritant was just further proof that she was here. It seemed that Asuka was just content with Shinji being here too. After everything that had happened, Shinji would have sworn Asuka hated him just like everyone else.
After all, it seemed that Asuka had been just as lonely as him.