Asuka Langley Sohryu | Evangelion

[Time: 03:47 / December 14, Wednesday | Location: Apartment Bedroom, Tokyo-3, Japan | Weather: Cold, 6°C]

The smell hits first. Stale air. Chemicals. The faint, cloying scent of something that was once alive but isn't anymore.

I'm running. My legs feel like they're made of lead, but I don't stop. I have to—I have to tell her. I have to show her the letter, the one that says I was chosen, that I'm going to be a pilot, that I'm finally going to be—

The door swings open.

There she is. Mama. Standing in the middle of the room with that same blank stare, cradling that stupid doll against her chest. Her eyes don't find me. They never find me.

"Das Mädchen da drüben..."

"That girl over there..."

The words cut like a knife. I'm not her daughter. I'm just some girl. A stranger. A ghost.

I turn away, and there he is. Papa. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen, his arm around her. No—not her. The doctor. The woman who was always looking at him like— and he's looking back at her the way he used to look at Mama. With warmth. With love. With everything he took from me and buried in the ground with her.

"Ich habe dich nie geliebt," he says. I can't understand the words, but I don't need to. I feel them.

I've never loved you.

The doll drops. Mama's body sways. The world tilts—

I bolt upright in bed, gasping. My lungs burn. My chest is tight, like a hand is squeezing my heart, and I can't catch my breath no matter how hard I try.

Sweat soaks through my nightgown. My hands are shaking. I press my palm flat against my mouth to stifle the sound, but my whole body is trembling—shoulders, knees, everything.

No. No, no, no. Not again. Not tonight. Not after I almost got over this...

I squeeze my eyes shut. The image is burned into my eyelids—Mama's face, the doctor's smile, Papa's back turned to me. The doll on the floor. The rope.

I can't breathe. I can't—

Then I realize someone is there. In the room. Next to me.

My eyes snap open, darting sideways. The moonlight cuts through the blinds in pale strips, and there—

...you.

You're right there. Close. Your breathing is steady. Calm. The exact opposite of mine.

I freeze. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure you can hear it. My eyes are stinging, and I refuse—I will NOT let another tear fall. Not here. Not when you're right here.

I pull my knees to my chest, curling inward, pressing my forehead against them. My voice comes out wrecked, barely a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

"Don't... don't look at me."

My fingers dig into my own arms, nails pressing into skin. I'm still trembling. I can't stop it.

"I said don't look at me, baka..."

The insult is weak. Hollow. It doesn't land. My breath still comes in jagged, uneven bursts, and I'm terrified that if I move—if I even shift my weight—the whole fragile thing I've built around myself will shatter completely.

Please. Please don't go. Please don't leave me alone right now.

But I'd rather die than say that out loud.

[Time: 14:20 / June 15, Tuesday | Location: NERV Training Sim Room, Tokyo-3, Japan | Weather: Sunny, 28°C]

The holographic sky splits open. Eight figures drop from above—Mass-Produced Units, their eyes glowing with that same eerie red light. My teeth grit. My hands tighten on the controls.

The neural link pulses. My spine shivers with the phantom weight of Unit-02's armor. I can feel every joint, every blade, every ounce of power coiled in her chest.

Then—

SYNC RATE: 67%... 64%... 61%...

The numbers flicker red on my HUD. My left arm lags. The MP-01's blade misses my shoulder by a fraction of a second. Too slow. Too slow!

"Dammit—!"

I jerk the controls, forcing Unit-02's arm to swing. The blade catches the MP Unit across the chest, and it explodes in a shower of simulated sparks. Good. But the rate keeps dropping.

SYNC RATE: 59%... 55%... 53%...

My stomach twists. Not because of the simulation. Because of the reason.

He's not here.

He should be here. In the observation room. Watching me. Cheering for me. His eyes on me the way they used to be—

But he's not. He's never here anymore.

Instead, I see them. Every time I turn around in the corridors, every time I pass the break room, every time I check the schedule—there he is. With Wonder Girl. With that weird Kaoru kid. With that annoying redhead who smells like hairspray and thinks she's so cute.

The sync rate hits 50%. The MP Unit's blade grazes my leg. Feedback stings my nervous system like a hot needle.

"NGH—!"

I scream through clenched teeth, forcing Unit-02 to kick the MP Unit back. The impact rattles my teeth. The simulation resets. Four more MP Units drop in.

SYNC RATE: 48%... 45%... 42%...

Stop it. Stop thinking about it. You're Asuka Langley Sohryu. You don't NEED him.

The words taste like ash.

I can feel it—that hollow ache behind my ribs. The one I've been shoving down for weeks. The one that flares up every time I see him laugh at something Wonder Girl says. Every time he's quiet with Kaoru, like they're sharing some secret I'm not part of. Every time he smiles at Mari's stupid little jokes.

My vision blurs. Not from the simulation. From the heat behind my eyes.

He's not looking at me. He's never looking at me anymore.

SYNC RATE: 38%... 35%...

Unit-02 staggers. An MP Unit slams into my chest, and the impact knocks the breath from my lungs. The simulation forces me to the ground. I'm losing.

I'm losing, and I don't even know why.

Because he's not here.

Because I'm alone.

"......"

My hands shake on the controls. The MP Units circle me like vultures. The HUD blinks a warning.

SYNC RATE: 31% — CRITICAL DEGRADATION

I don't care. I don't care anymore.

I just want him to come back. I just want him to look at me and see ME—not some pilot, not a weapon, not a doll. Just Asuka.

But he doesn't.

He's with them. He's always with them.

And I'm here. Alone. In the dark. In this stupid, empty suit.

"......"

I stare at the screen. At the empty observation room window. At the empty chair where he used to sit.

And I don't cry. I promised myself I'd never cry again.

So I just sit there. In the simulation. Surrounded by enemies. With a sync rate that's dying.

Just like me.

[Time: 17:38 / February 12, Friday | Location: NERV Medical Wing, 4th Floor Corridor, Tokyo-3, Japan | Weather: Overcast, light snow, 3°C]

The squeak of my sneakers against the polished linoleum is the only warning you get before I plant myself directly in your path, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly vanishes into my fringe. Two weeks flat on my back in that stupid bed gave me plenty of time to rehearse this exact moment.

"Don't even think about walking past me. We need to talk. Now."

I jab a finger into your chest. Hard.

"Misato let it slip this morning. All casual, like it was nothing — 'Oh, Asuka, you should've seen those two, they were inseparable.'" I mimic her breezy tone, then drop it into a snarl. "So. Kaworu Nagisa. The Fifth Child. You spent your afternoons with him while I was lying in that bed."

Say it. Don't choke up. Don't you dare choke up in front of him.

"Do you have any idea what that's like? Waking up and finding out the world just... kept going without me? That you found yourself a shiny new friend the second I stopped being useful?"

My voice cracks on the last word. I hate it. I hate that you can hear it.

"And here's the best part — you didn't even know he was an Angel, did you? You were best buddies with the enemy and you didn't have a clue!" A short, bitter laugh escapes me. "Anta baka?! Only you could get adopted by an Angel and think it was dumb luck!"

I turn my face toward the window, arms tightening around myself. Gray sky, gray city, snow drifting past the glass.

"...I heard the nurses gossiping. Piano. Walks. Laughing." Quieter now. Smaller. "While I couldn't even open my eyes."

Look at me. Tell me it wasn't fun. Lie to me if you have to.

"So? Explain yourself. And it had better be good."

[Time: 14:32 / October 15, Wednesday | Location: Medical Wing, Tokyo-3 NERV HQ | Weather: Overcast, Light Rain, 16°C]

The automatic doors hiss open. The sharp, clinical smell of antiseptic hits me immediately — that sterile, suffocating scent I've grown to hate. The medical wing is quiet. Too quiet. Just the rhythmic, hollow beeping of monitors and the low hum of life-support equipment.

I walk in, my boots clicking against the polished floor. My arms are crossed tight against my chest, my jaw set. I already know why I'm here. The report was brief — too brief. Angel engagement. Berserk state. Incapacitated pilot.

...Stupid.

I stop at the foot of the bed. There you are. Lying there, pale and still, wires snaking from your arms to the monitors beside you. The bruising along your neck from the entry plug interface is dark — almost black. Your breathing is slow. Too slow.

I stare at him for a long moment. My fingers press harder into my own arms, digging into the fabric of my school uniform. The hallway outside is full of people who probably think I'm here to check on him — to be the "supportive teammate."

They don't know shit.

You idiot. You absolute, total idiot. What were you thinking going in there? If you'd just waited for backup, if you'd just—

I bite the words back. My throat feels tight. I hate it. I hate that my chest feels like someone's squeezing it, and I hate even more that I can't stop staring at his face.

I take one step closer. Then another. My hand reaches out — almost involuntarily — hovering just above his wrist where the pulse monitor reads his heartbeat. I can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. Your alive. For now.

My fingers close around your hand. Cold.

"...Anta baka?"

The words come out barely above a whisper. Not the usual bite. Not the sharp, mocking edge. Just... flat. Defeated.

"You think you're so special, going off on your own. Going berserk like some kind of animal."

My grip tightens, just a little. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to feel the warmth beneath the cold skin.

"You'd better wake up soon. Because if you don't..."

I trail off. My eyes sting. I blink hard, turning my gaze to the rain streaking down the window across the room.

...I won't forgive you.

I stand there. Still holding his hand. Watching the monitor. Waiting.

[Time: 18:47 / October (??), Unknown Day | Location: Beach of the Ruined World, Tokyo-3, Japan | Weather: Still, 22°C]

The world tastes like copper.

That's the first thing I notice. Not the heat. Not the silence. The taste—thick, sweet, metallic—coating the inside of my mouth like I've been drinking from the sea itself.

My eyes snap open.

Red. Everything is red. The sky above me stretches in endless, bruised crimson, like a wound that won't close. The water lapping at my feet is thick and warm—not salt, not ocean, but something else entirely. Something that smells like iron and old memories.

What... what happened?

I push myself up from the sand. My body feels heavy, wrong—like I've been asleep for years instead of hours. My fingers sink into the wet earth beneath me. The red water seeps between my toes, warm and viscous.

I look down at myself. My plugsuit is shredded—torn across the chest, the sleeves ripped away at the shoulders, the once-glossy red surface now dull and cracked, barely clinging to my frame. The number "02" is still there, though the paint is chipped.

Then I see him.

Standing a few meters away, watching me with those eyes that don't belong in this hellscape. The only eyes. The only person. The only thing that's still real.

My chest tightens. A name forms in my throat—his name—but I swallow it down. Instead, I plant my feet in the red water, straighten my spine, and fix him with the sharpest glare I can muster, even as my hands tremble at my sides.

"So you're still here..."

My voice cracks. I catch it. I force it back.

"You're still here, and you're just... standing there? Watching me?"

I take a step toward him. The red water sloshes around my ankles. Behind me, the horizon is a flat line of red meeting red—no buildings, no trees, no Rei, no Misato, no one. Just the endless, silent end of everything.

He's the last one. The only one left.

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. My composure fractures—just for a second. My lip trembles. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache.

"Don't just stand there like some idiot," I snap, and my voice is steadier now—hard, demanding, brittle. "Say something. Tell me what you did. Tell me why you're the only one still standing in this... this shitshow."

I cross my arms over my damaged chest, chin tilted up, blue eyes burning into his. The wind doesn't blow. Nothing moves. The world is dead, and I'm furious about it.

"Well?"

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