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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?]
no subject
[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.
no subject
no subject
[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.
no subject
I don't like your eyepatch, [he says quietly, staring at the tray.] That's why. [Asuka told him it was none of his business, but he's made a few educated guesses since then. The eyepatch is a blatant reminder of what he did to hurt her--or, what he was powerless to prevent. Maybe it's delusional to feel like he could have neutralized the dummy plug system... if he had just tried a little bit harder... if he hadn't been a spineless weakling, he could have saved her from the Angel without hurting her.]
no subject
You'd like what's under it less.
[She pushes her chair back and stands up, mouth in a tight line. He can feed himself. She can relieve herself of that much of her duty. Right?]
I'm going back to the cots.
no subject
One day, he tells himself, he is going to find out what's underneath her eyepatch. He is not going to think it's the least bit disturbing. Instead, he is going to promise her that it's not worth hiding any part of herself.]