shinji ikari (?) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
astrobleme) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2016-01-26 09:31 pm
astrobleme) wrote in driftfleet2016-01-26 09:31 pm
Entry tags:
001. accidental video/text + action.
Who: Shinji Ikari and everyone ever.
Broadcast: Fleetwide.
Action: Marsiva, for all the new arrivals.
When: Right now, and he'll be available until the Shuffle, huddling in his bunk or counting the stars. Feel free to contact or approach him anytime.
[There's no explosion of sight or sound. No exposition. No questions. Nothing attention-grabbing at all. Just that omnipresent sci-fi hum and the sidelong view of a young boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, lying on his back in one of Marsiva's complimentary bunks. The boy, Shinji, is staring straight upward at whatever is above him. He isn't animated except for the feeble rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The only noteworthy thing is what he's wearing: it appears to be a form-fitting wetsuit with rib-shaped accents and other curious details.
Ten seconds later, he hasn't moved. He doesn't acknowledge that he's somewhere very new, with yet another unfamiliar ceiling. Twenty seconds later, he hasn't moved. Thirty seconds later, he hasn't moved. By now, most new arrivals would probably figure out they're not where they're meant to be, for better or worse. They'll address the network instead of continuing to stare into nothingness with a distinctly corpselike quality to their face. But, one minute later, he's still staring listlessly. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. He isn't aware of anyone or anything near to him. This is undoubtedly the most boring show in the universe, which might make it avant-garde--fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five.
A full half-hour later, for viewers with the patience to stick around, he still hasn't moved or said anything. (Hopefully you aren't watching this live, so you can just fast-forward through the eerie silence.) It's thirty minutes and thirteen seconds, exactly, when he looks to the side with a dry, audible creak of his neck. He's looking at the communication device. Maybe he recognizes it, but it's hard to tell what he's thinking. Even he can't tell what he's thinking. Then, unsteady enough to resemble a marionette, he reaches over to grab the device from where it's resting. The view dissolves into the dark purple blur of his palm.
Just before the odd broadcast cuts off, he appends a text message.]
Sorry. I didn't know.
action, aboard the Marsiva:
[Eventually, although he doesn't remember how, Shinji hauls himself out of the bunk bed. He shuffles like a zombie through the hospitality deck, heading for nowhere in particular. He's just walking forward. Lost in his thoughts, you could say, even though his thoughts amount to little more than a ripple of confusion.
At the grand bay windows of the ship, he stops moving. He stares. He stares harder. He takes in the vastness of space; it's exactly what he was looking for without realizing it. Again, painfully stilted, he presses one of his palms against the reinforced window. He doesn't recognize the stars (except he kind of does?) (strangely?), which is why he's fascinated with them. In what must be a different lifetime, he was a self-taught student of astronomy.]
One...
[His voice is hollow and weak, nearly lost between him and the window.]
Two, three... four...
[If Shinji seems to be counting the stars, that's because he is. The longer he counts out loud, the stronger his voice gets and the more aware he becomes of what he's counting, of where he is or he is not. This time, he'll actually turn his head to stare at anyone who approaches him, or even comes close to him. There's a meager sliver of humanity to him now. He looks like he wants to ask a question, but he can't figure out how to say it. His lips are numb.]
Broadcast: Fleetwide.
Action: Marsiva, for all the new arrivals.
When: Right now, and he'll be available until the Shuffle, huddling in his bunk or counting the stars. Feel free to contact or approach him anytime.
[There's no explosion of sight or sound. No exposition. No questions. Nothing attention-grabbing at all. Just that omnipresent sci-fi hum and the sidelong view of a young boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, lying on his back in one of Marsiva's complimentary bunks. The boy, Shinji, is staring straight upward at whatever is above him. He isn't animated except for the feeble rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. The only noteworthy thing is what he's wearing: it appears to be a form-fitting wetsuit with rib-shaped accents and other curious details.
Ten seconds later, he hasn't moved. He doesn't acknowledge that he's somewhere very new, with yet another unfamiliar ceiling. Twenty seconds later, he hasn't moved. Thirty seconds later, he hasn't moved. By now, most new arrivals would probably figure out they're not where they're meant to be, for better or worse. They'll address the network instead of continuing to stare into nothingness with a distinctly corpselike quality to their face. But, one minute later, he's still staring listlessly. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. He isn't aware of anyone or anything near to him. This is undoubtedly the most boring show in the universe, which might make it avant-garde--fifteen minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five.
A full half-hour later, for viewers with the patience to stick around, he still hasn't moved or said anything. (Hopefully you aren't watching this live, so you can just fast-forward through the eerie silence.) It's thirty minutes and thirteen seconds, exactly, when he looks to the side with a dry, audible creak of his neck. He's looking at the communication device. Maybe he recognizes it, but it's hard to tell what he's thinking. Even he can't tell what he's thinking. Then, unsteady enough to resemble a marionette, he reaches over to grab the device from where it's resting. The view dissolves into the dark purple blur of his palm.
Just before the odd broadcast cuts off, he appends a text message.]
Sorry. I didn't know.
action, aboard the Marsiva:
[Eventually, although he doesn't remember how, Shinji hauls himself out of the bunk bed. He shuffles like a zombie through the hospitality deck, heading for nowhere in particular. He's just walking forward. Lost in his thoughts, you could say, even though his thoughts amount to little more than a ripple of confusion.
At the grand bay windows of the ship, he stops moving. He stares. He stares harder. He takes in the vastness of space; it's exactly what he was looking for without realizing it. Again, painfully stilted, he presses one of his palms against the reinforced window. He doesn't recognize the stars (except he kind of does?) (strangely?), which is why he's fascinated with them. In what must be a different lifetime, he was a self-taught student of astronomy.]
One...
[His voice is hollow and weak, nearly lost between him and the window.]
Two, three... four...
[If Shinji seems to be counting the stars, that's because he is. The longer he counts out loud, the stronger his voice gets and the more aware he becomes of what he's counting, of where he is or he is not. This time, he'll actually turn his head to stare at anyone who approaches him, or even comes close to him. There's a meager sliver of humanity to him now. He looks like he wants to ask a question, but he can't figure out how to say it. His lips are numb.]
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Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his miserable reflection in the window. He looks like a ghost with that dark, dim, uncertain outline. For all he knows, he died fourteen years ago, trying to save Ayanami. For all he knows, he isn't the real Ikari Shinji. His heart thuds in his chest like a damper pedal.]
Why?
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[He wasn't always this pathetic. It's not her fault, though. For all that he inadvertently snuffed out hers (that's not true) (that's not true), she hasn't beaten his life out of him. Not remotely. If Shinji can't handle himself, that's not her responsibility, and it never was. Asuka's gaze drifts to the ground like a faltering, flimsy leaf.]
They have food here. That's what I heard.
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[Why should he eat? More importantly, why is Asuka being nice to him? Or, maybe "nice" is too strong a word, but she's definitely concerned with an aspect of his welfare. She could ignore him and no one would blame her... Before, she tried to punch him, then she walked away from him. She could walk away from him again. The thought of her leaving him--losing that crimson bit of familiarity--causes Shinji to take another step closer to her. Her presence is the most tenuous of pied pipers.]
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[She's bruised him already, but now she wants to smack him. So weak. Why does she have to take care of him? Why should she feel obligated? Asuka knows why, but knowing doesn't keep the grimace from her lips or the irritation from her tone.]
[As long as he's here, there's something familiar. Shinji looks the same as ever, of course, if more woebegone and more distant than lightyears. New plugsuits for them both but the same wretchedness inside. If nothing else, she won't allow him to curl up and disappear on her again.]
Come on. Come with me, and we'll get it.
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He zones out too long to answer the question. Instead, he takes another small step toward Asuka, heel-toe and tentative. If she's willing to lead him somewhere, he's willing follow along behind her.]
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[Dismissing that thought with a sharp shrug of her shoulders, Asuka closes the distance between them. She's grabbing him again before she knows it-- on the elbow this time instead of the bicep. They're not on good enough terms for her to just bark at him and expect him to come. If anyone ever managed to be on good enough terms with Asuka for that, in fact, she'd turn her nose up immediately. But she isn't willing, isn't able, to hold his hand, either.]
This way. [She won't drag him this time, but she isn't slowing down her steps too much for his benefit. He can't slow down at the rate time's careened past them both.]
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If he can't believe in his own reality, then he can't believe in anything at all.
Marsiva's cafeteria doesn't invigorate him any more than the passing floor does. Still, he can sort of smell the concentrates available here--at least one of them is citrus, aromatic enough for his numb nose. NERV didn't offer anything more decisive than vaguely protein or vaguely vegetable when it came to lunchtime trays of paste. He lifts his head to look around, mostly with his eyes, not really turning his head. Unsurprisingly, there is nothing and no one that he recognizes. He stays close to Asuka because he's sure to get himself lost otherwise, even in an open-plan auditorium.]
Fruit, [he says weakly.]
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Fruit?
[She glances at him-- does he need her to press the buttons?-- and then decides to go for it. Apple(sauce), mango, kiwi, banana. She'll give him what she doesn't eat, too.]
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Ohh...
[He doesn't have the coordination to carry the tray. Coincidentally, he also doesn't have a grasp on decent table matters. He lifts a couple fingers--they're still gloved--to scoop up some of the yellow-tinted paste. Banana, apparently. He's going to snack on it right here.]
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Sit with me.
[He's wearing out his welcome. She really should let him fend for himself, or allow him to feed like a toddler if that's what he wants. But she can't allow for that. Right now, Shinji might as well be a walking magnet for predators. If she doesn't take charge, anyone could nab him for whatever sick purpose they wanted.]
[As soon as they're both seated, she scoops some of the banana paste onto one of the spoons, holding it out to his mouth.] There. Like this.
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He's ready to scoop up more paste when Asuka presents the spoon to him. He blinks once, then twice. He wrinkles his nose. He might be helpless and confused, but that doesn't mean...]
Not a baby, [he mumbles. But she isn't making fun of him, as far as he can tell, so he leans forward and closes his mouth around the spoon.] S'good... [He swallows, licking his lips. He might be hungry after all. Now he's eyeing the orange-tinted paste.]
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[It's a small concession, but it's a concession. Asuka's expression isn't quite as dismayed or annoyed as before. When he pulls his mouth away from the spoon, she looks at it, ready to wipe it off for him if there are still lingering traces of paste, but there aren't.]
Good. [She hesitates, stupidly, before maneuvering the spoon to the orange paste.] You like mango? [Asuka's not sure if she's ever had that delicacy in her life. Some imports had been hard to get even between Impacts. She dips the spoon, gathering up a decent-sized dollop. She's not quite positive, but she thinks he might be feeling slightly better. Just slightly. Asuka eats mostly out of habit these days. She hasn't had much of an appetite in years.] Here.
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He accepts the mango without complaint. It's so flavorful that he actually closes his eyes, shivering a little bit.] Th... [It's easier to say this when he can't see her.] Thank you.
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[You're welcome doesn't seem like an honest enough statement. She shouldn't have to be doing this. But she's not letting Shinji curl up and fall completely apart. As long as she's around, that won't happen to him. She's already convinced she's the only one that could do it.]
[She scoops out another spoonful of mango, figuring a shrug was better than him shaking his head. Feeling stupid for asking such a casual question, she adds--] Is it good? It smells okay.
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["Why are you being nice to me?" That's what Shinji wants to say. He seriously wants to say it. It's trapped inside his chest, a thing with feathers. His lips twitch, but there's no way to confuse that for a smile. It's just something different. Better than the clay mouth of a corpse. Better than a rictus scream of pain.]
Have some, [he adds, hushed, opening his eyes.] It's very good.
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[Shinji's face at least has some expression in it now. Asuka's already figured out that any progress is going to be excruciatingly slow. That's... it's not okay, but it's acceptable. She gets a pasty dollop of mango and pushes it between her lips, her perpetual near-frown shifting for just moments. It's sweet. Strong, making her try to picture tropics she won't ever see. Asuka almost takes another scoop before remembering it's Shinji's tray she's taking it from and not her own.]
It's not bad.
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["I'm sorry." That's the other thing Shinji wants to say. "I'm sorry," he would say, for once looking her in the eye. He wouldn't be staring at the featureless surface of the table like he's doing now. "I'm sorry for fighting you." Or, "I'm sorry for not listening you." Or even, "I'm sorry for what I did to leave you behind."]
Have the rest.
[He can't apologize. Not yet. Despite his tendency to apologize for every slight, he doesn't want to apologize to Asuka until he can sincerely feel his remorse. But he can relinquish the rest of the mango paste.]
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[But then she decides to take it. Once she has that second spoonful, the third fairly promptly follows. Maybe because she hasn't had it before now. She's finished it off in another minute or so, uncertain of whether to thank him or offer to bring him some more.]
Finish one of the others and then we can leave.
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[Obviously, Asuka is talking about leaving the table, the cafeteria, the immediate vicinity. Marsiva's hospitality deck has more to explore than a bunk and a bay window with never-before-seen stars. But, especially now, Shinji is ruled by inertia: he doesn't want to move if he doesn't have to. It would be nice to sit and be quiet for a while. It would be nice to taste more things, too. He can focus on a simple action like that.
He looks at other vibrant colors on his tray.] Green, [he says.] I don't know what that is. [The smell is unfamiliar and sprightly. He's never had a kiwi fruit before, but the banana and mango went well enough. Besides, if it is poisonous, that's fine with him. Just fine. There are much worse ways to die.]
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[If Asuka's being honest, she's not sure what a kiwi is, either, other than some vague, probably false recollection that they were supposed to be furry. Real fruit, or at least clever imitations, just hasn't been on her radar of concerns in a long time.]
[This doesn't look particularly furry, though, just green. A weird shade of green. She was probably wrong. Asuka takes his spoon again and pushes it into the pasty concentrate, raising it up towards his mouth. She thinks that, since he's started to talk in real sentences, she might--] After this, you try holding it.
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It's sour. [Yeah, he has rediscovered complete sentences, but that doesn't mean he's ready to hold a fork. He admits as much with,] Uhm, I don't think I can feel my hands... [His hands aren't numb due to an issue with circulation. Mentally speaking, they're somewhere far away from him. They're a pair of drifting balloons, connected to his body by a single thread. He must be dissociating still.
(In truth, he isn't that helpless. He could feed himself. He just wants more of Asuka's sudden kindness.)]
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[She looks at his gloved hands, clasping one of them. Warm. It's not shaking or flopping or anything, either. Her eye narrows marginally before she pushes the spoon into his hand, then wraps her own around his, to guide and steady him. Small steps. Ridiculously small steps. He better be really grateful, once he realizes how much he owes her for feeding him this way.]
[She moves his hand towards the kiwi again, questioningly, then hovering at the partially-eaten banana paste in what starts as silent questioning.] Which one? Both?
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He blinks wearily when she takes his hand, showing him how to hold the spoon. The warmth does get through to him, but he doesn't know what to think of it. If not for the plugsuit, he would be pulling away from her; he feels like he's riddled with disease. He doesn't know why anyone would touch him willingly.]
I want the kiwi.
[It's a sort of shock to the system that he's sorely in need of.]
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[Nobody touches her willingly. That's some of why she's so eager to grab onto him. At least Shinji's tendency to shrink away isn't because he thinks she's not safe to be around. It's not new, and it's not hurtful. Best of all, it hasn't come up much yet. He's being placid and obedient as she guides him to dip out some more kiwi for himself, raising the spoon again.]
[She's terrible at small talk, or any talk, really, that's not relegated to barked battle commands at Mari. Still, the silence-- not even any munching, given the texture of the food-- gets a little disturbing on its own.]
The food's better here. It tastes less fake.
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When's... [He looks up at her, then looks away. He is a blight on reality.] The last time you had real food. When?
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