---
(child 003, aged III, memory)
---

The soft sound of waking. The color of crows. The low, low crooning of morning. Nagisa remembers the way it would creep under the door. Spread through his room like water. Seeping and swarming. Flickering and flitting into corners. Up his walls. (And he admired it. Fascinated and fatigued. Rubbing at his eyes with the back of his small, small hands. Lips quirked without understanding why.)

He remembers the sound of the radio. The crackle of voices. The slow intonations in a language he once understood. Now fails to understand. Words lost beneath a haze of half-thoughts. Half-dreams. The imprint of his childhood room blurred and distorted.

(This was in the country, that he knows. He remembers pulling himself from the warm cocoon of sheets and blankets. He remembers sometimes, when the door was open, watching her walk in. Fresh bread. Baked that morning down the road. France. And he remembers, sometimes, the taste of it. That scent. Mingling with the distant ocean.)

And, on this particular morning, he remembers staying in bed. He remembers her voice. His mother's voice. Floating in from down the hall. (He can no longer remember her face. But, he has her words. He has them. He has them. He--And it is better than nothing at all.) Syllables tripping off her tongue. Syllables he used to know.

"He's not feeling well today--" (He remembers. He remembers the way his stomach twisted. How his limbs seemed too heavy to lift. Too numb. How his breathing faltered. Weary and thin.) "No, he'll be fine to come out and play tomorrow." (He cannot remember the lie--He does not remember the day he emerged again. But he can recall the over-heated nature of his skin. How each small movement caused the sheets to rustle. Dry and loud against the morning din.)

"I promise."

(And he can remember the flickering smile. The mutual meeting of eyes. When she closed the door. Paused before his room, all too white and too bright -- His sight, maladjusted to the wake of sunlight, streaming in behind her shoulder. Her hair--)

"She's coming tomorrow."

(--And he can remember the reach of his fingers. The hesitance. How each trembled. How they looked so pale, so translucent, like--)

Glass. A glass of water gently coaxed into his hands. What may have been minutes or hours later. The stretch of shadows in his room flowing and ebbing as if on their own command.

(He does not remember. Perhaps lucidity had erased it. But, he can remember the scent of her skin. The way he leaned his head against her chest. His body propped up. The soft, slow thump of her heart in his ear. The red of her dress. Of his sheets. Of this room. He can remember curling against her warmth, and the gentle way her arm had settled around him. Her free hand inspecting the crook of his elbow. Swollen slightly. And even in the dim light, under his foggy sight, he could see it. He could--)

And he remembers the words. Spilling from his lips. Like the water that slid down his chin. Along the hot curve of his throat. (Or was it sweat? He couldn't remember. He could not remember. But, his mother--She did it for him. Wiped it away. Her fingertips calloused. Unbearably warm.)

"Don't be scared." And it was his voice. Feathery and marked. It was his voice. Rising like the oncoming dark. "I'll be all right." (And he could feel it. Thrumming through him. Pressed against his body. Into his flesh and veins and blood. He could feel it. Something sharp and bittersweet. Underneath his tiny palms.)

Fear.

(And he could almost taste it as she pressed an absent kiss against his hair. As she held him nearer. Felt the tepid night air curl in through the open window. Soundless. Almost--)

Fear.

And her words. Heavy. And if he strains his memory enough--Curves his fingers into the groove of that silence. Gathers and ties together the threads of misplaced recollection. He almost remembers the tone she took. The words she breathed. Quiet. And quieter, then.

"I'm not." A lie. A lie. And it was all it took. "I'm not." And quieter, still. "Kaworu." (And his name. Repeated. A back-beat. An echo. And he can remember his mother's soft inquiries. Rousing him. Mumbles of: "Stay awake. Just a little while longer." Mumbles of: "You've always been an odd one." And her hand on his face. Fingertips following the bridge of his nose. Ticklish. "We're all strung together. Do you remember? Will you? Even when she takes you from me?")

Even when--

(And it may have been lucidity. Perhaps it had erased it. The next whisper. The color of the water in his mother's hand.)

--She'll be here tomorrow.

(And the taste of copper. Too weary to look up.)

Silence.

---

12.

He couldn't make sense of it.

(Thirty seconds, and an eye blink. The quiet of the corridors and the tug of a wrist. The de-pressurization of air locks and the short, quiet breaths. The pause and--)

"You are far too concerned about me, Ay--"

(--the proceeding silence.)

Morning was bleeding into afternoon. And he pressed his shoulders to the wall. Breathed in sharply. Breathed out quietly. (There was nothing else to do, beyond wait. Curl his fingers. Uncurl.) And for a long moment, he eyed the shadows receding on the far walls. Willowy and grayed.

Grayed. (And he recalled Nagisa's skin. For an instant. Like ash in the looming darkness. His conversation. Simple. How he had looked so certain and assured from the doorway. Watching him find his way home after the storm and--)

('You will follow him, then.')

He recalled the unforgiving bite of the metal chair. The thick silence. The gray static of thought. Of dust in the low lights. He recalled the uncomfortable shift of attention. The tangible ripple of thought. (The bass rumble of voices he had always known. Had come to know. Weighing his honesty. The Third is friendly. I-I've tried to--)

('Lull him. Make him believe you aim to be his friend.')

And he shook his head. It didn't make it. It couldn't make sense. (In the quiet of the hall. Long after the thick thud of the air locks -- She dislikes me.) And he narrowed his eyes briefly. Pressed his palm against his forehead. And pressed himself for answers. For questions. (First. The First. Her pale, pale fingers wrapped around Nagisa's wrist. She doesn't like me. The quiet moment. A skipped note. And the bleeding light of morning into afternoon marking them gold.)

Why is it? Why are they--?

(He remembered their conversation. He remembered this hall. He knows the tile. How Nagisa had mentioned so quietly that the blood never really came up. How the whole facility reeked of it. And--)

He didn't grab her. She grabbed him. She reached out for him. He--

(--The Second. And his quiet breathing seemed amplified in this empty hall. Too white. Too narrow. Too--)

He passed here with him. He had paused before the infirmary. The soft stringing of words for a moment snapping, receding.

(--And he lifted his hand to rub at his eyes.)

('Exploit his interest. Learn what you can.')

He had been so kind. He has been so kind. Polite interest. He recalled the soft quirk of his lips. His patience with his questions. (The way his fingers moved. Over the strings of the violin. How simple. How effortless. How--)

('One for your side may rid of any lingering suspicion.')

And he recalled the way he entered his room that night. His eyes dark and filled with a murky, disillusioned joy. A small spark of recognition. (His face open and expression closed . How blunt. How rude--)

And he knew it then. It was simple. It made sense. (He’ll help me reach my goal. He’ll help me, and he will not even know it. He’ll-- And his body moved on its own accord. Any easy distance. Cleared. His fingers on the handle of the door--)

And the tiny corridor, in this massive facility, erupted in sound.

(And the amid the chaos, he saw Major Katsuragi head quickly down the bisecting hall. Give him one, searching glance. --ALL HANDS! LEVEL ONE BATTLESTATIONS!-- Saw her look past him. The screech of harsh sirens. Her figure disappearing and Nagisa’s hand, suddenly, upon the curve of his shoulder--Too close. His mouth by his ear. Go.)

And Ayanami, already ahead of him, walking purposefully toward the cages. A peculiarity in her posture. And Nagisa not answering why it was not him, who was summoned to go.

He turned to give him a look. To say anything.

And was greeted by empty air. Empty space.

(And the dull, solid hiss of airlocks.)

---

13.

It is muted in the locker rooms.

No speech. No words. Just the whisper of thin fabric that hangs between them. That separates Ayanami from himself. (And out of the corner of his eye, he sees her slim silhouette. The excess material of the plugsuit suddenly tightening against her body with the touch of a button. The right wrist. And in a moment, he mimics this. In a moment, he pulls his gaze away from her. Touches his cheek with his gloved fingertips. Wonders briefly over the familiarity of this all.)

And it is a small, subdued sound. The slow intake of breath. His fingers settling on the bench beneath him. (Neural clips. An odd weight. Snug against his head.) And it is a dull sound, the muffled trilling of alarms.

And it is a gentle start. Crisp words. Cool and calm. Ayanami’s voice. Devoid of--(Her fingers are peeking around the curtain. And there is the sudden compulsion to feel their fragility. To feel what it was like to have them firmly wrapped around his wrist. Like Nagisa. Like--)

Pink fingertips. Skin as white as marble. Whiter. (In the clinical lighting, she is evanescent. She is--)

“You may stay back. I will take the initial shots. Do not worry yourself with needless experimentation.”

And for a moment, her words are lost on him. Lost between the distance. The inches or miles between them. And he is not sure who reaches first. Bridges the distance. A fraction of skin contact. Shinji’s outstretched hand, curling around the curtain in response. The merest flicker of warmth. The side of her hand brushing the side of his.

(--a ghost.)

And he wishes to protest. He wishes to see her face. To prove his worth. (Delay suspicion. And a heavy anxiety settles deep in the pit of his stomach. Lurches there with a sick, sick need for something he cannot place. Cannot--)

Does she know? Does she know she and I are the--?

And there are words. Rising. Under the dusty light. A question posing itself abruptly as Ayanami moves to stand. Turns her back. Lets her hand release the material, slow.

“About Nagisa-kun, he said--”

And he can see the pause. Hear the drip of the showerheads. The echo of her soft, soft breath:

“--No.” And Shinji stills. Watches her back. The shadow of her form, from behind the curtain. Barely moving. Stock still. And his he feels anxious. Nauseous.

And before she takes a step away again, toward the cages, he barely catches her next three words. Like the low notes on the viola. The uncertain drag of bow on strings. “He is … Tolerable.”

(And as he lets her go, the response that comes to mind is frightening. Is soft. Is in--‘He is.’ Agreement.)

---

14.

Silence.

Then the low crackle of the communicators. The harsh snap of trees. (And it felt almost too familiar. Outside himself. Watching instead of leading. Breathing in. Slow and quick. Feeling far too confined. Confined. Confined.)

They were only half-told the position. The nature. (And Shinji had wracked his brain for a name. Plucked and pulled apart elder memories. The stern face of Dr. Akagi just before sortie, flickering on the monitor.)

-We want to see what you’re able to do.-

(He remembers his slow nod. The dull roar of LCL in the shell of his ears. Thick and heavy on the tip of his tongue. He remembers the odd lurch his stomach gave as they were set for launch. The actual sensation, the quick snap up, rushing for higher ground. He remembers his first, half-step off the platform and the faint awareness of the lack of a cord.)

Then, this silence. This slow, cautious march toward the target. (They knew it was not too far. They knew there was no sufficient data which could assist them. They knew nothing of the nature. Of--)

And when he pulled himself from his absorption, the repetitive shifting of weight and whitewhite sound of whispering. The dull brown snapping. And wavering trees -- He could see it. (And he could feel it. The stagnated air. The faint, gray hum of its body, in synch with his own breathing -- coiling endlessly, and he thought of an ouroboros. (Over and over and over. And he barely heard the order to pause. Barely heard the order to cease their advancing. And he stood back. One step, two -- Behind Ayanami. Watching her slowly heft the rifle. Sinking back into a half-stance.)

A breath.

And a sudden click in. (And he had tensed at the sound. Had raised his rifle higher. Had almost pulled the trigger.) And was almost relieved to hear the firm voice of Major Katsuragi, brow furrowed in thought.

-Hold position and observe.-

A half-beat, and he glanced to Unit 00. Watched it sink back further. Raise the rifle, quick and--He felt it, the sudden sharpness of familiarity. A name seeping into the corners of his consciousness. This was--

He may have mumbled it. He cannot remember, now. But, on his lips was the name: Armisael.

And almost like he had summoned her, herself -- She coiled. Unfurled. A clean, clean line. (The humming ceased. And there was silence. There was no more movement, and he held his breath--)

Armisael pushed forward, and frozen he hung back as Ayanami fired first. As he noted she was failing. As she kept on pushing forward, barely slowed, after every solid hit. (And in the background, he could hear the whisper of Ayanami, even through the sound of blood thrumming in his ears--Anxiety rising higher and higher as he noted it was going straight for her. Going straight for--)

And it was quick. Without thought. A reflexive shove. Almost too much. Unit 00 stumbling for a half-step, when Armisael doubled back. Reared, snake-like. Swayed. (And he could feel her hesitation. Seething. And--His finger squeezed the trigger. The kick of the rifle startling him from the pause. The wait. The--

(It was a though he had seen this before. The adrenaline slowing the time. His voice clogged and thick: "I need something else! Something else! Something else!" Response. Barely heard. The change in air pressure. She was-- -I'm sending out the dual saw! Run to point C-833!-)

She was quick, but he was quicker. And he can barely recall willing Unit 02 to jump. His foot slamming down on her body when she shoved forward, writhing testily--(Jerking back. Subconscious. A smooth succession of flips. Biting down on his tongue. Tasting blood. And--) Landing hard on his feet. Fingers digging into the uneven turf. A safer distance. Gathering seconds. Hearing the crackle of caught breath through the communicators. Three seconds. Four seconds--And the click of machinery. Groping blindly. (And his fingers grasped the handle of the dual saw as it appeared beside him. Roared to life in his hands. The vibrations shaking up his arms. Chest heaving. And the agitated coil of Armisael's body lashing forward, once more.)

"I can't lose this one. I can't lose this one. I can't--"

He lifted the saw. Knee-jerk reactions. Braced himself. (And almost too late, as she impacted. As she thrashed, wild, inches from the head case. His arms straining to push her up and away. Trying to turn the saw. The jagged edge. Teeth into her body. His brow furrowed. Jaw set. And heels digging into the earth. Knees locked. And--)

-GET OUT OF THERE!-

(A distraction. His eyes cut to the right. Unit 00--She's trying to make contact with the--? Second thoughts. And over the blaring of gun fire, he saw the other branch. Penetrating through Unit 00's casing. His voice raw and panted. His arms giving out. And: "Ayanami--!")

There. And it was an opening. A miscalculation. His fingers slackening around the handle. For a moment. A millisecond. A--

He couldn't feel it. At first. Didn't note it. (Ayanami. He could see Unit 00's hands fly up. Grip the offending branch. Tug. Strain. He could see the curve of its back. The short, sharp scream through the communicator. The way she resigned. After a moment. After--) And then--Veins, seeping into the Dual Saw. And it was too late. It was far too late.

Impulse told him run. And he did not. Impulse told him flee. And he did not. Impulse told him to drop the weapon. He did.

(And it was a clumsy motion. It was his first step toward Ayanami. It was Major Katsuragi's voice crackling, sharp in his ears: -YOU IDIOT, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE- -)

And it was the roar of the Dual Saw. Inches from the head case. A swaying appendage. Penetrating type--And he tried to move around it. Tried to get to her. Tried to--I have to try. I have--And it was the stirring of the trees around them. The strong gust of wind--And he should have seen it. And it was only by will he counter-balanced himself. Fell back, instead of forward as Armisael swung. Silent, and without warning. Severed Unit 02's leg just below the knee. Saw thick with gore. The cracking of pines and the dull, echoing impact. And his scream. His own scream. The back-beat of a curse. (Not his own. Not his--) A quick, white jolt of pain and pain and pain. (-LOWER THE...-) Back arching and teeth gritted. And when his vision cleared-- He pushed himself up. Eyes skyward. Waited for the inevitable. The glow of a naked branch, no weapons, no--And it quickly penetrated.

Through armor. Through body. Into his veins. Into his blood.

(For the span of a second, the force of foreign emotion stole what little air he held in his lungs.)

---

15.

He does not remember much of what had followed.

(Stillness. His vision blurring. He could feel her coiling into his veins. Into his blood. He could feel Ayanami. The waking of something painful. Sharp. Bright. He could remember his stomach churning. Uncomfortable. The intense constriction of his heart. His lungs. So deep and so damning he could not pull air in. Could not see past himself. Past the encompassing growth. Unit 00.)

He does not remember much of what had followed, but he remembered the numbness in his leg. The sensation of a phantom limb. The sudden quiet of the entry plug. The soft stirring of LCL.

(He could feel a wetness on his cheeks. He could feel it pooling. Gathering. He could feel it sliding along his throat. Down. He could feel the tug. His hands trembling on the controls.)

Is this my heart?

It was not his voice. It was not his voice. (He shut his eyes tight against the silence. Felt it creeping in, regardless. Felt the fingers of it twisting within him. Into the marrow. Scraping it's nails. Gathering the honeycombed tissue. Past bone, past flesh. Tangling with sinew and the threads of capillary veins--)

Is this--?

His stomach churned. Nagisa. (He could barely see the fight. Barely see the form the Armisael had taken. Was it himself? Ayanami? He could feel it twisting toward him, for a moment. Swaying back and forth between himself and Nagisa. The curves of a familiar body. He felt it rest it's hand against the headcase. Felt--or was it heard?--Nagisa's voice coming in. Past the blackening visuals and--)

(-REI WHAT ARE YOU--?!)

And what he does remember is Armisael being draw back to her. Back to Unit 00. What he does remember is the deafening pause. The way Nagisa (Unit 01) and himself had not moved. Comprehending what was occurring. Comprehending--

And what he does remember is the blast that followed. The sudden release of emotion. The sharp spike of something like need sinking through him. Into him. Around him. As the visuals blackened entirely. Until, after a long time, Unit 01 came to stand beside him. Came to crouch before him. Lay a hand on the severed leg of Unit 02 (and he could feel it, and he writhed. Winced). And murmured, through the static of the communicators:

"After you."

---

16.

It is a silence that hangs between them, thick and uneasy. Like the slow draw on a violin. The drip of water from the shower heads, and Nagisa's faltering footsteps. Face devoid of emotion.

Shinji had not budged from the bench. Had not seen the point in it. Had merely watched his shadowy reflection on the tile floor. Curled his fingers. Uncurled them. The plug suit sticking uncomfortably to the crook of his arms. To the back of his legs. Neck. (And he barely registered Nagisa pausing beside him. Like an afterthought. Barely registered his voice. Barely registered it is his name he was speaking. Mind too full. As though he were cupping his hands to speak through water. To --) And it is only when he leans forward, the scent of his skin and the heat of the shower trickling in, does he shake his head. Does he shift. Even in the slightest. Does he hinge on the sentence:

"You have nothing to be upset about," And Nagisa's words are almost detached. His voice carrying no sorrow. No remorse. No--(And he feels irritation, slowly spreading along his spine. Like fingers. Like the remnants of the Arismael's infection. A rash he cannot counteract. Cannot dig his nails into. Scratch.) "She was a fool, to sacrifice herself like--"

And now, he barely registers the fact he is on his feet. That his hand is balled in the front of Nagisa's shirt. Pulling at the material. Straining. The skin of his knuckles whitewhitewhite. (And he barely registers the startled expression on Nagisa's face. Barely registers that Nagisa's pale hands are half-poised in front of him. Ready to push him back.) And there is no logical explanation for it. Anger like static pulling through him. Unable to determine the source. Something disgusting and sharp and sticky curling behind the cage of his ribs. Struggling to change the beat of his heart. Contamination. He had been contaminated. The First--The First--

And his words are not his own. His words are his own. His voice straining and cracking. Crackling. Body trembling. Fingers shaking from exertion. And Nagisa's eyes. Still wide and trained upon him. Shadows sharp and heart beat wild. And he could feel it. Beneath the back of his hand. Nagisa's voice gone. Utterly, utterly--

"--Say it! Say it again! She ought to have hated you--She ought to have--" (Too much sound. His own heart too loud. His breath too short. Nagisa's breathing like the uncertain notes of song. Faint and--He didn't know when he had pressed, shoved him, hard against the lockers. His skin a wild contrast to the garish green of the metal. The lights flickering and humming out warnings and--) He could not remember--(His mother. He thought of his mother. He thought of her hand. The way Ayanami had paused for that one, singular instant. Touched his wrist. And--) Quieter. His fingers slackening. The faint anxiety in Nagisa's eyes fading into concern. Into something softer. Into--"She did it because--She..."

And he could hear Nagisa's shaky inhale. His lulled exhale. The soft movements of his body. An intermission. And he saw the way he lowered his eyelashes. Matted. The way he felt weak when he moved his lips, for a moment, soundless before speaking (As even and calm as ever before. Murmured. Over the sound of dripping water onto the tile. From Nagisa's hair. The color of gunmetal. Stuck in whorls against his cheeks. His forehead. Clinging near the corners of his eyes and--)

"It was the opposite."

A statement. A pause. A half-beat. (And Shinji felt light-headed. Taking an awkward step back. His fingers still lingering against the warm fabric of Nagisa's shirt. Red. Like his palm. The angry indentations of his own nails into his skin.)

And Shinji couldn't answer. Could answer. (The difference in height, noted. The proximity. The way he caught himself staring. Openly. His breath still panted. Echoing back.) But, Nagisa's hand had lifted. His warm fingers coming to rest lightly against the back of his wrist. The same gesture Ayanami had left him with. Different, somehow, and yet--

It was automatic. And it was quick. And he jerked back. The sensation of his fingers still burning along the flesh of his wrist. The sharp spike of pain when his back hit the lockers on the other side. Six feet away. (He had backed up too quickly. His eyes wide and his chest heaving. Erratic. Somethingfeltwrong. And his mind scrambled for logic. Scrambled for answers. Too many thoughts. Too little thoughts. Nagisa. His name forming on Nagisa's lips. "Shinji-kun?...Shinji-kun?...Shinji!" Before--)

He wished he would go. He wished he were not so helpful. He wished--But, he was beside him, after a moment of pause. (Everything too fast. Still too loud.) Crouching next to him. Hand raking through his hair. Eyes darting off to the left. (And he knew then--He knew--)

And he tried to pull back. (Nowheretogonowhereto--) He tried to push him away, but the sensation was back. His hand on his shoulder. Pain. (Letmegoletmegoletme--) Energy gone. Sapped. (And he struggled, despite Nagisa's steady persistence. The lulling hum of wordless nonsense. The tiles cool against his palms. Struggled, despite his warmth. Being pulled against his chest. Breathing fast and shallow. Feeling Nagisa inhale against his back. Exhale by his ear. A tangle of arms and legs. Somehow worked out. Somehow--)

Gasped out. He could hear himself gasping out:

"W-what are you--?"

(He could feel his head lolling forward. Nagisa's voice like the ebbing of the ocean. Low and rhythmic. Low and--)

"Breathe, Shinji-kun."

(A command. Continued. Soft and over the rapid succession of inhales. Exhales. The sensation of Nagisa's heat intrusive and--He could feel his hair against his neck. The vibration of his words. "Hold your breath. Ten seconds. Breathe like me." His thoughts jumbled. A mosaic. A --Ishouldhaveknown. Whydidn'tI--? And still going: "You're hyperventilating. Focus on my breath. Focus on my breathing--" And he could feel the locker room closing in. Bottling up. Shadows swaying at the corners of his vision. Threatening to spill inwards. Threatening--)

His mother had never done this. His mother had never done this--And the method was odd. (And he could feel his chest. Rising slowly against him. His hands seeking purchase. Nagisa's arms hooked around him. Too much sensation. And his fingers finding his knees. His breathing slowing, slowing--) But, his body timed it. Synchronized it. (And he could hear Nagisa's words. Impossibly punctuated. Next to his ear. A mantra. Inhale. A skipped beat. Exhale.)

And he could feel Nagisa's arms. He could see their merged shadow. And he could feel his grip. Tightening around him. Pulling him closer. (His sight spotting. When his hand. His palm. Rested against his stomach. When he squirmed faintly in his mock embrace. Everything quieting. Nagisa's mantra pausing. Stopping.)

And he could hear the drip of the shower heads. The softness of Nagisa's breath against his neck. In the shell of his ear. The long, relieved sigh.

"Are you--"

And--

He could feel his quiet. The heat of his body. The press of his hair against his cheek as he went to curl his fingers beneath his chin. Check if he was--

"--all right?"

--the shadows spilled inward.

(And there was nothing more, than silence.)

---

A/N: Sorry for the obscenely long delay. Life ate me. But, hey. It's up. [: