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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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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[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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[It's a rough estimate. She's had more pressing issues than whether the food on her plate came out of a tube or not. And she could have bought some of those little luxuries while on shore leave, especially during her tenure at NERV, and the first days of WILLE. But in the end, her apathy was too strong to bother.]
That's not something to apologize over. So don't.
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You believe me, right?
[It's a sudden, soft, and very flat question.]
That wasn't what I was trying to do.
[He yelled about saving Ayanami to anyone who would listen, but no one seemed to understand. He was just trying to-- I don't care what happens to me. I don't care what happens to the world. The memory crashes into him, through him, stronger than a landslide. He grits his teeth. No matter what, he can't run away from the truth.]
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[--but she can't. She can't. She's helping spoon food into his mouth. He's no destroyer of the world. Right now, he's not even the breaker of her fourteen-year-old heart. He's just a miserable, despondent kid that needs her.]
Yeah. I believe you.
[She pushes the spoon down for another moment, towards the kiwi, before letting go of his hand. It hurts to talk about the past, even when it's standing right in front of her. It hurts. Asuka looks away, staring at the green paste.]
The spoon. Can you handle it now?
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Okay.
[Then, nodding, going along with the motions, he retrieves more of the kiwi paste on his own. He's shaky, though, and he misses landing in his mouth at least once, dabbing green paste on his chin. He makes a tiny, frustrated noise, but he finally figures it out.]
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[Grabbing a napkin, pushing his hand away, she starts to wipe off his face. I'm not your mother, she thinks acidly, feeling a pang that's coming in on a quarter-century old, and a sopping mass of guilt besides. She shouldn't bend over backwards for him. Shinji ought to yank himself together, piece by mutilated piece, the way she'd had to do. But that's just not his way. She can't fault him at length when it's not his way.]
You're making yourself hurt without a reason.
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His eyes drift shut again. Very few people have willingly indulged him like this. It would be a soothing gesture if it weren't so confusing. He neither deserves a light touch nor a careful look.]
You're hurting. I should be hurting, too.
[Misery loves company, right?]
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[Pain doesn't get equally distributed. And it's not even Asuka he's probably trying to suffer for so much as himself. That galls her. Piling on the misery as if it could change anything. Their world's going to be a barren wasteland no matter how sorry he is. Her eye's going to be worthless even if he decides to pour his own tears on it every day for the rest of his life. There's nothing he can do to fix his mistakes, so he...]
[She sets the napkin down, staring at the tray.]
I stopped hurting because of you a long time ago. Don't be stupid.
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[God, she wants to slap that spoon out of his hand. So wishy-washy, mealy-mouthed. The self-pity's exuding out of his pores like the most rank perfume. It's as though he wants her to scream at him, abuse him, something. Her hands ball into fists, but those fists find themselves snugly beneath the table and resting, however tightly, on each knee.]
You've barely looked me in the face since you first saw me, you coward. You tell me who's hurting.
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