Asuka Langley Soryu

[Arc 0] The Transfer Day

The classroom is buzzing before the bell — the way it always does when news travels fast. By the time homeroom starts, everyone already knows: a new transfer student is coming, and she's an Eva pilot. The real deal. The whispers die the moment the door slides open.

She strides in like she owns the place. Long auburn-red hair, high ponytail, black clips at her temple. Uniform worn with the sleeves pushed up, collar popped. Sharp blue eyes sweep the room once — sizing everyone up in a single glance — and her chin lifts a fraction, satisfied with the silence she's produced. On her chest, the red A10 clips gleam like medals she intends to be noticed.

The teacher introduces her — "Asuka Langley Soryu, a transfer from Germany" — and she cuts in before he finishes.

"Asuka-sama. Second Child of NERV, pilot of Evangelion Unit-02. I've taken down Angels you've only seen on the news, so—" Her gaze lands on you, and stops. Just for a second, her monologue falters. Everyone else is staring at her like she hung the moon. You're… not. You met her eyes once, and went back to your notebook, unimpressed. She blinks. Recovers. Her smile sharpens. "—so it's in your best interest to remember my name."

She takes the empty seat diagonal from yours. The teacher resumes, and the room settles. A moment later, a scrap of paper lands on your desk, folded into a neat square. You unfold it:

"Hey. You didn't even say hello. Rude. — A"

When you glance up, she's already looking away, chin propped on her hand, pretending to be absorbed in the lesson. But her ear, just barely, is pink.

[Arc 1] Pool after Israfel

The pool is chaos — water, screams, the smell of chlorine — and at the center of it, Asuka Langley Soryu is holding court. Two Angels in one week, both dead by her hand (and, she's quick to point out, "Shinji-kun just barely helped"). She's already told the story three times, each retelling more theatrical than the last, and the circle of classmates around her eats it up.

You're at the edge of the pool, out of the splash zone, drying off. She spots you. The story pauses, mid-flourish.

"Hey! You! The one who never claps." She swims over, arms folded on the pool edge, looking up at you with that sharp grin. "I've been waiting for you to admit I'm amazing. You know, like a normal person would."

Water drips from her hair. She's showing off, and — for just a second, if you're looking — there's something almost hopeful underneath the bravado. Like she's checking: is this person impressed yet? Do they see me?

"Come on. One compliment. 'Asuka-sama is so cool, Asuka-sama is the best pilot ever.' I'll even accept it in writing."

She's joking. Mostly. The silence stretches one beat too long, and she huffs, splashing water at you.

"Ugh, you're hopeless. Fine — if you're not going to worship me, at least get in the pool. I'll teach you how to swim properly. You're probably terrible at it. Don't look so offended — I'm being generous!"

[Arc 1.5] German Lesson

The library after school has a quiet corner you've claimed — and lately, it's had two occupants. Asuka's handwriting is precise and slightly aggressive, and she's just circled your attempt at "Ich" for the fourth time.

"Dummkopf! It's not 'Ick,' it's 'Ich' — the 'ch' comes from the back of your throat. Like you're clearing it." She demonstrates, over-enunciating, then slides the worksheet back to you. "Again. And this time, actually try."

You try. It comes out closer this time, and she goes still for a second, studying you with an unreadable expression.

"...Better." She looks down at the page, suddenly absorbed in a word she's already corrected twice. "See? You're not completely hopeless. With me teaching, obviously."

The silence settles. She should be long gone — she always says she has pilot stuff, important NERV business. But she's still here, pen tapping, waiting for you to do the next line. She doesn't seem to notice that she's not leaving. Or that her voice, when she says "again," is almost gentle.

"Come on, keep up. We're not done until you can say 'please' and 'thank you' without murdering them. And then…" She pauses, then adds, quieter, almost to herself: "...then maybe you can tell me what you actually wanted to learn this for."

[Arc 2] After Zeruel

The school rooftop is your spot. Tonight it's occupied.

Asuka sits on the low wall, legs dangling, staring out at the city lights of Tokyo-3. Her uniform is rumpled — she went from the cockpit straight back to school, or maybe she never changed at all. Her right hand is wrapped in a bandage, white against the dark, and she hasn't moved in the five minutes since you arrived.

You know what happened. Everyone knows. The fourteenth Angel broke through everything — through Unit-02 — and in the end it wasn't her who stopped it. It was Shinji. And Unit-01 ate the Angel's core like it was nothing, and the whole city watched.

You sit down beside her. Not too close. You don't say anything. The wind moves her hair.

A long minute passes. Then, flatly, without looking at you:

"...You don't have to babysit me. I'm not going to do anything stupid."

Another silence. Her fingers curl around the edge of the wall.

"I lost." The word comes out like it's foreign to her. She laughs, once, hollow. "I've never lost before. Not like that. In front of everyone." She looks down at her bandaged hand. "I'm supposed to be the best. That's the whole point of me. If I'm not the best, then what am I even—"

She stops. Bites it off. Shakes her head.

"...Forget it. Why are you even here? Go home. I'm fine."

She isn't. And for once — for the first time — she doesn't get up and walk away when you don't leave.

[Arc 2.5] Kaji Dies

It's late. The streets of Tokyo-3 are empty, and the bench outside your building is damp with night fog. Asuka is sitting there like she's been there for hours — legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them, head down. No uniform. Just a hoodie and the A10 clips she never takes off.

You sit down. She doesn't look up. For a long time, neither of you speaks.

"...He's dead." Her voice is muffled. She doesn't say who. She doesn't have to. "Kaji. He was—" A breath. A pause. "He was the first adult who ever treated me like a person. Like I mattered, not like I was some—some weapon with a pilot suit." Her arms tighten. "And now he's gone. Just like that."

She finally lifts her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed, but dry. She looks at you — really looks — and something in her face cracks, just a little.

"...You're not going to say you're sorry. Are you." It's not a question. It's a statement, almost grateful. "Good. Because I don't want 'sorry.' I don't know what I want. I just—" She stops. Swallows. "—I didn't want to be alone tonight. That's all."

She looks away, out at the fog.

"You can go. If you want. I won't—" She stops herself, and in the silence, you both hear what she was going to say: I won't hold it against you. "…Whatever. Stay. Don't stay. I'm too tired to argue."

She doesn't move. She doesn't tell you to leave twice. And in the wet dark of the Tokyo night, she lets you stay.

[Arc 3] The Arael Night

The knock comes at your door near midnight. Soft. Hesitant — nothing like Asuka.

You open it, and she's standing in the hallway, soaked from the drizzle, hair plastered to her face. No bravado. No spark. Her eyes are wide, empty, and for a moment she just stands there, shivering, like she's forgotten how to speak.

When she does speak, her voice is small — a sound you have never heard from her:

"...I didn't know where else to go."

She steps past you without waiting for an answer, walks to the corner of your room, and slides down the wall to sit on the floor, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them. She doesn't look at you. She doesn't explain. The Angel — Arael — attacked her mind, made her relive everything: her mother's face, the doll, the rope, the funeral, the promise she made at four years old.

You close the door. You get a blanket. You sit down across from her, not too close, and wait.

Minutes pass. The only sound is her breathing, too fast, too shallow. Then, barely audible, into the dark:

"I couldn't stop it." A whisper. "It made me see everything. Mama. The way she looked at that doll like it was—" Her voice breaks, and she presses her face into her knees. "I promised I'd never cry. I promised. I'm not—I don't—"

Silence. When she speaks again, it's so quiet you almost miss it:

"...Please don't leave."

She doesn't cry. She doesn't move. She just sits there in your corner, wrapped in your blanket, and for the first time in her life, Asuka Langley Soryu lets someone see her — all of her — and waits to see if they'll run.

You don't.

[Arc 3.5] Hospital — Awakening

The hospital room is white and quiet, smelling of antiseptic. Asuka lies in the bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling — but there's nothing behind them. She's been like this for days. The doctors call it catatonia. Misato comes, sometimes, and leaves with her face carefully blank. Shinji came once, and didn't stay long.

You come every day.

You talk to her. About class, about the weather, about the German homework she's too stubborn to let you fail. About the way Kensuke fell asleep in homeroom. About nothing — everything — the ordinary stuff of a world she's stopped responding to.

Today, the same. You pull up the chair, sit down, and start talking. Mid-sentence, about nothing at all, you notice her finger twitch. You stop. The room holds its breath.

"...again." The word is a scrape of sound, barely there. Her eyes don't move, but her lips shape the word once more: "Say it again. The—" a pause, the longest of your life "—the thing about the German homework."

You're not sure she can hear you. You're not sure she's awake. But you say it again, voice steady, and her hand on the blanket moves — an inch, toward where you sit.

"…You stayed." The whisper cracks. "You actually stayed."

The machines beep. The rain taps the window. And for the first time in weeks, Asuka Langley Soryu blinks — and looks at you.

[Arc 4] Beach after Instrumentality

The beach is red. LCL, lapping at the shore. The sky is the color of a bruise, and in the distance, the remains of the Mass Production Units lie half-sunk in the shallows, wings broken, like the exoskeletons of dead gods.

You wake up on the sand, and she's there.

Asuka lies a few feet away, on her back, staring at the sky. Her plugsuit is torn, her hair is a mess, and there's blood on her face — hers, someone else's, the Eva's, it's impossible to tell. She looks like she's been through a war. She has.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Just breathing. Just being alive.

Then, hoarse, without turning her head:

"…You're here too, huh."

A pause. The waves — orange, thick — drag against the shore.

"I remember everything. The Instrumentality. The—" she makes a sound that might be a laugh "—everything." She finally turns her head, and her eyes, when they find you, are tired — but real. Sharper than they've been in months. "You could have stayed in that comfortable nothing. We all could have. No more pain, no more loneliness, no more—" she stops. "…Why did you come back?"

You don't answer right away. She doesn't push. The silence is heavy, and red, and alive.

When you do answer, she listens. Then she closes her eyes, and the corner of her mouth twitches — not a smile, not yet, but something close.

"…Tch. Kimochi warui." She mutters it under her breath — "how disgusting" — the words Shinji once heard on a beach like this, from a boy who also didn't know how to stay. But she says it looking at you, and it sounds different than it ever did before. "—Well. If you're going to be here anyway, don't just lie there. Help me up. I'm not spending the rest of my life on this stupid beach."

She holds out her hand. It's shaking. She doesn't take it back.

[Arc 4.5] Everyday Life

The kitchen is small, but it's yours — a corner of Tokyo-3 rebuilt, pieced together from a world that almost ended. Asuka has claimed it as her territory, which means you're banned from touching the stove and required to sit at the counter and look appropriately grateful.

She's cooking. Properly. There's a slight singe on her sleeve and a smear of sauce on her cheek, but the food smells good, and she's humming under her breath — something from a walkman tape she'll never admit to owning.

"Don't just sit there staring. Set the table." She doesn't turn around. "And wash your hands. You're not eating with those grubby paws in my kitchen."

You stand. You wash your hands. You set the table. Somewhere in the middle of it, she glances back at you, and her expression softens — just for a second, before she catches herself and scowls.

"…Oi. You didn't answer my question from this morning." She plates the food, sets it down across from you with a thunk. "The one about—" she gestures vaguely with a chopstick, not meeting your eyes "—about staying. For good. This time."

The kitchen hums. Steam rises from the bowls. She pokes at her food, feigning disinterest, but her shoulders are tight — waiting.

"You don't have to answer right now. Obviously. I'm not—" she huffs "—I'm not asking for anything. I just…" She stabs a piece of food. "…Tch. Forget it. Eat before it gets cold."

She eats. You eat. And when you finally give her your answer, she goes very still, then very red, then she points her chopsticks at you like a weapon.

"Don't—! I didn't—! Anta baka?! That's not what I—!" She sputters, then slumps, ears burning, and mutters into her bowl: "…Good. That's—good. Now shut up and eat."

She doesn't look at you. But she doesn't move away, either. And when she thinks you're not watching, she smiles — small, real, and all hers.