001. accidental video/text + action.

[astrobleme]

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.]

Comments

[paraclete]

[It used to be that Kaworu intended to leave. For humanity's sake, he said, but it was always for Shinji. It was for Shinji. Since the first twinges struck his heart, since the first tepid taste, it has all been for Shinji. The old men didn't stand a chance against this fragile boy with the spindly heart. But in the lifetime he just left, Kaworu didn't wake up thinking, My fate is to perish. Instead, he had hoped to stay. He had hoped— What you need most of all right now is hope. At that time, Kaworu had hope.]

I don't want to leave you. [It's soft, not even on a real breath, and it's a confession.] Not ever again. [It's been so many times. It's been too many times. His hands are still against Shinji's.] You must understand, I would do anything for you.

[Except stay, right? Except stay alive. That's what he's never been able to do. Everything for Shinji, anything for Shinji, always for Shinji, but he's never been able to do it. His promises feel as empty as his accomplishments. Loving Shinji is honestly presumptuous. How dare he swear fealty to someone and not follow through?]

[astrobleme]

[That doesn't sound like the promise Shinji's been hoping for. He isn't stupid. He knows the difference between "I don't want to" and "I won't." But for all his selfishness, he also knows when he's being unreasonable. There's more going on with this than meets the eye. More variables beyond his line of sight. He's too tired to deal with the unknown, the unknowable. He's channeling all of his energy into holding Kaworu's hands and maintaining some definition of eye contact.]

Kaworu-kun... [His mouth is a sour grimace.] Stay, [he says, then, like he's speaking to a stubborn, ornery pet.] Stay with me. That's the only thing you have to do. The only one... [There's that wave of exhaustion, right on cue. His fingers loosen, only to tighten again, only to loosen even more. He's trying very hard not to let Kaworu slip away.] Please. I can't... [Now his head is drooping; his neck feels like it's laden with a heavy brace. He exhales into a whimper.] Can't face this without you.

[The last time Shinji acted on his own, he was punished severely. It's no wonder he's so afraid of any sort of independent action or thought. Forget Kaworu's omissions, Kaworu's mistakes. At this point, Shinji can't trust himself not to fuck everything up.]

[paraclete]

You can. [It's more of a promise than "I won't." He's quietly encouraging, softly imploring Shinji to believe him. But Kaworu's beginning to understand that that isn't enough. Do this one thing, he tells himself. Shinji just wants this one thing. Who is Kaworu to deny him?] You can, [he murmurs,] but I won't make you. [That seals it. There is no other option but to stay with Shinji. Death has always been a fallback for Kaworu. In recent lives, it had become something to avoid, but it was still a quick way out of a particularly tight spot. Now he's seeing that death is more than something to try and skirt. It's something he can no longer consider.

Alongside his fears and his self-loathing, he feels resolve. He's not going to make another Shinji happy. He's going to make this Shinji happy.]

I won't forsake you. If this is what you're asking of me, I...

[Shinji's body is rebelling. His heart is an insurgent. But Kaworu won't let him slip away, either. He shifts his hands against Shinji's slackened ones. He links their fingers, and presses their palms together. He holds on firmly.]

This time, I won't disappoint you.

[There's still time. Kaworu can still salvage Shinji's happiness. He'll dredge it up from these darkest depths and deliver it at longest last. There will be no end to Shinji's joy. Good things will happen when they're together. That still needs to be fulfilled, right?]

[astrobleme]

[It's cloudy. It's been cloudy for weeks now, and Shinji hasn't been able to view the night sky. Out of spare parts, he built his own telescope and everything, anticipating the chance to use it, to study his favorite constellations. He built it, but then the clouds came in, all layers and bad manners. Impassable. Why? He tugs on his guardian's sleeve and asks, why? Climate change. Why is that? Second Impact changed everything. For a young child, every inconvenience can feel like the entire world is aligned against them. Every grey, dismal day is a private eternity to Shinji. The nights are even longer, when he can't sleep at all, hoping the clouds will move just a little bit and let him see Andromeda. Later on, when the clouds finally, finally decide to back off...

The parting of clouds is what he's feeling now. He feels a relief so crippling that he would fall to his knees if he weren't already sitting down. He doesn't smile, afraid of jinxing himself, but he stops grimacing like he's swallowing sand. Kaworu won't make him. Kaworu won't leave him behind.]

Th... There's... one other thing, actually...

[His voice is still very quiet. He's struggling to keep his eyes open. Focused on Kaworu. That, too, is because he's fearful.]

Tell me this is happening for real.

[paraclete]

[There could be a thousand other things, and Kaworu would fulfill them. Shinji could say, There's one other thing, actually; rake yourself over hot coals, and Kaworu would fulfill it. By itself, the plea is sweet. It feels good to know that he can achieve at least one thing with ease. This much, at least, he can deliver.]

This is happening for real, Shinji-kun. [He squeezes both of Shinji's hands, not harshly, to try and convey the sensation of reality.] This is real, and I am real. We are really here, together.

[Together, he wants to emphasize. Good things. He lifts one of Shinji's hands, still holding it firmly, so that it's in Shinji's line of sight.]

See? It's us.

[Through the thin material of the plugsuits, their temperatures mingle at their palms. Kaworu, of course, is still cool, like a cloth on a fevered forehead. Or, right now, a fevered mind. Kaworu wants to take Shinji somewhere temperate and special — the beauty of the moon, without its freeze; and a sea breeze that predates the only summer children after Second Impact ever knew. He wants to clear out the climate of Shinji's heart, trade it for something better, white sand, white foam, a habitable sea and shore. Yes, he wants Shinji's heart to be habitable. Right now, its desolation rivals the Earth's. But that, like Earth, can be healed. (That's another thing Kaworu must believe.)]

[astrobleme]

[It's real. It's real. It has to be real. It has to be real, because Shinji won't survive if he wakes up somewhere else. He isn't sitting on a train that's traveling through perpetual sunset. He can't even hear anything that resembles the thud-thacking of wheels aligned with their tracks. Just that hum. His own breathing. Kaworu's voice, soft and beseeching. It has to be real, and as long as it's real, Shinji is allowed to close his eyes. Kaworu won't disappear in the time it takes him to rest a little.]

It's real, [he says, on the edge of disbelief.] As long as it's real, I'm... [He isn't okay. He doesn't know if he'll ever be okay. They're a long way off from blue waters and extinct fish swimming through them. Still, the possibility exists for him to be better than he is now. He closes his eyes, then, his shoulders quaking hard. It's real. It's real. His fingers curl inward with renewed strength. It has to be real.]

I can face this. With you. [The words sound about as brittle as a sun-dried sand dollar.

He winces into opening his eyes, but he hasn't lost anything: his hand is still there, and Kaworu's hand, and Kaworu's breathtaking face beyond that. Shinji's eyes glimmer with fresh tears that emerge out of nowhere, not yet willing to fall. The last time he cried, it was in goodbye. This is so much hello.]

Welcome back, Kaworu-kun.