A Score, for the End of the World (Ode to Joy)
At the age of thirty-two, Ikari Shinji knew he was dying.
(The walls began to morph. Bend inward, then outward. Another unfamiliar ceiling loomed. Pale-white-blue. And mutely, he wondered, if this was what Rei had felt like. He wondered if he had scattered parts. Different bodies.)
His illness had struck, and it was violent. He was fine the day before. He was perfectly (dis)functioning. He was (pretending to be) perfectly fine. (He had been making toast in his dingy kitchen. He was very fortunate at any stretch. The world had shifted. The axis was skewed. And in the streets, there was endless mess. No cars. No animals, except the last singing sparrows. All scruffy feathers and--It had been years since the Third Impact. It had came, and it had went, and countless died of radiation and wars and mysterious sickness. Their skin turned pale, their eyes gone blind, and their bodies slowly rotting away from the inside.)
They had found him wandering. His mind static. (Somewhere in the old district. Tokyo-3. Murmuring names that were long since wiped away. NERV never existed, said what little government they possessed, though everyone knew that it did. Everyone knew that Shinji was part of it. That, at the age of fourteen-fifteen, he had piloted. That Asuka had been comatose, Rei unseen. And his father--His father?)
He didn't know how he had gotten there, but he had stood where Central Dogma should have been. (Hundreds and hundreds of feet beneath a dead city. Hundreds and hundreds of memories away from him.) He stood there, and for nothing in the world, had moved. (And he didn't know why. He didn't know. It had been nearly twenty years. It had been too long to feel anything more than fathomless regret. He hadn't done this for Rei. He hadn't done this for Asuka. For Misato. For his civilian friends. For anyone in NERV or--) He hadn't moved until they made him.
(Cautionary doctors. He was weak and white like the snow in children's fairytales. He had seen it once in his youth. And only once.) He hadn't moved until the cicadas murmured consent in his head. Until, quietly, he heard something humming "Ode to Joy," and his mind had fallen stagnant.
And in his stupor, now, he didn't seem to mind it.
(His limbs were heavy and the last breath he had pulled in was thick in his lungs. It felt like he was in a boat on the ocean, though he had never experienced it. It felt like rain, or the last time he could remember it. It felt like sea foam at his ankles, before the waters became polluted, black and inky--Sludge. He remembered, they were blue, once. And that it was beautiful. It felt like--)
His voice.
(And for a moment, his eyes focused on a familiar face. The buzzing of the alarm by his hospital bed muted by the faint glow of fingers that pressed against his.)
"...Ka--"
(The nurses were coming in, but the figure was quiet. Still. They passed through him. Around him. And he could feel himself smiling as he felt their fingers tighten. As he felt the heat of their words in his ear.)
"It has been a long time, Shinji Ikari."
(Silvery hair and pale, pale skin. And the same, strange eyes.)
And suddenly, Shinji felt young again.
(Because, from that moment, the hospital melted away. From that moment, he accepted the hand in his. And from that moment--)
A familiar voice was humming "Ode to Joy" against the crook of his neck.
And at his naked ankles, he could feel the sand and the blue-green of the water and the familiar grit.
(And his own voice, boyish and fading: "It has.")
A Score, for the End of the World (Ode to Joy)
At the age of thirty-two, Ikari Shinji knew he was dying.
(The walls began to morph. Bend inward, then outward. Another unfamiliar ceiling loomed. Pale-white-blue. And mutely, he wondered, if this was what Rei had felt like. He wondered if he had scattered parts. Different bodies.)
His illness had struck, and it was violent. He was fine the day before. He was perfectly (dis)functioning. He was (pretending to be) perfectly fine. (He had been making toast in his dingy kitchen. He was very fortunate at any stretch. The world had shifted. The axis was skewed. And in the streets, there was endless mess. No cars. No animals, except the last singing sparrows. All scruffy feathers and--It had been years since the Third Impact. It had came, and it had went, and countless died of radiation and wars and mysterious sickness. Their skin turned pale, their eyes gone blind, and their bodies slowly rotting away from the inside.)
They had found him wandering. His mind static. (Somewhere in the old district. Tokyo-3. Murmuring names that were long since wiped away. NERV never existed, said what little government they possessed, though everyone knew that it did. Everyone knew that Shinji was part of it. That, at the age of fourteen-fifteen, he had piloted. That Asuka had been comatose, Rei unseen. And his father--His father?)
He didn't know how he had gotten there, but he had stood where Central Dogma should have been. (Hundreds and hundreds of feet beneath a dead city. Hundreds and hundreds of memories away from him.) He stood there, and for nothing in the world, had moved. (And he didn't know why. He didn't know. It had been nearly twenty years. It had been too long to feel anything more than fathomless regret. He hadn't done this for Rei. He hadn't done this for Asuka. For Misato. For his civilian friends. For anyone in NERV or--) He hadn't moved until they made him.
(Cautionary doctors. He was weak and white like the snow in children's fairytales. He had seen it once in his youth. And only once.) He hadn't moved until the cicadas murmured consent in his head. Until, quietly, he heard something humming "Ode to Joy," and his mind had fallen stagnant.
And in his stupor, now, he didn't seem to mind it.
(His limbs were heavy and the last breath he had pulled in was thick in his lungs. It felt like he was in a boat on the ocean, though he had never experienced it. It felt like rain, or the last time he could remember it. It felt like sea foam at his ankles, before the waters became polluted, black and inky--Sludge. He remembered, they were blue, once. And that it was beautiful. It felt like--)
His voice.
(And for a moment, his eyes focused on a familiar face. The buzzing of the alarm by his hospital bed muted by the faint glow of fingers that pressed against his.)
"...Ka--"
(The nurses were coming in, but the figure was quiet. Still. They passed through him. Around him. And he could feel himself smiling as he felt their fingers tighten. As he felt the heat of their words in his ear.)
"It has been a long time, Shinji Ikari."
(Silvery hair and pale, pale skin. And the same, strange eyes.)
And suddenly, Shinji felt young again.
(Because, from that moment, the hospital melted away. From that moment, he accepted the hand in his. And from that moment--)
A familiar voice was humming "Ode to Joy" against the crook of his neck.
And at his naked ankles, he could feel the sand and the blue-green of the water and the familiar grit.
(And his own voice, boyish and fading: "It has.")
