Dear FFMLers
Here is my first Evangelion fanfiction. This piece
has been in the works for a long time--in fact, I've been
working on it since last spring after my friend, Jitou,
posted this idea to the FFML. ^_^; (For some strange
reason, I've been flooded with a deluge of creativity and
inspiration lately. This is the second fic I've cranked
out and posted to the list this month. ^_^)
Anyway, this story takes place after the last
episodes of the anime and completely ignores (at least
ninety-eight percent of the time) the movie, "End of
Evangelion."
As always, C & C would be welcomed and appreciated.
Thank you and I hope you enjoy this story of mine.
B.S.N.
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THE WASTE LAND by B.S.N.
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Original Concept by Jitou
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DISCLAIMER: All the characters of "Neon-Genesis Evangelion"
are the property of Mr. Hideki Anno, Gainax, A.D. Vision and
all other associated parties. This fanfiction does not
intend to reap profit or benefit of any kind; it was created
for entertainment purposes only.
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TEXT CONVENTIONS:
_ _ denotes emphasis
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Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives me no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
From T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land."
CHAPTER I: The Pilgrim's Progress
There was a heavy sheen of perspiration on his brow.
Ikari Shinji raised a grimy hand to his forehead and
impatiently wiped away the trickles of sweat that coursed
down his small face. The boy sighed and looked up into the
brass-colored expanse of sky. It was an early summer
morning, but the freshness of the dawn had faded long ago.
The heat was oppressive--almost intolerable--and though the
wind blew in fitful gusts, it brought no relief. Shinji,
however, could not rest. The white road that wound before
him was long; he had yet miles to go before he could sleep.
The boy ran his fingers through the dark, damp strands of
hair that clung to his brow before he bowed his head and
continued onward.
He trudged up the hill, his lean, brown hands
looped through the straps of his pack. He soon reached the
summit of the peak and stood there for a few moments to
still his ragged breath. He glanced up once again into the
sky, but his eyes could not bear the white-hot glare of the
sun. Instead, his gaze rested upon the distant horizon
which scintillated and quivered in the waves of heat that
rose from the ground. He absently rubbed the back of his
sticky hand against the seat of his shorts as he surveyed
the land that sloped gently downwards below him.
"I'm almost there," the boy murmured. "Just a few
more days, a few more towns. . ." With renewed
determination and hope, Shinji began to walk down the hill.
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It was nearly dusk when he arrived at the small
hamlet. Long ago, it had been a large, flourishing
metropolis; today, the city was forlorn and desolate. As
the boy walked among the ruins, he recalled the towering
edifices, the tree-lined avenues, the bustling traffic and
the throngs of people that had once characterized the
municipality. Now the only monuments of its former grandeur
were the few, fragile, blackened shells of buildings, the
great, twisted steel light-posts and the occasional,
infrequent stretches of pavement. Here and there among the
rubble, Shinji saw the remains of a billboard, a faded
street sign, a broken piece of furniture or a splintered
door. Yet the boy did not slacken his pace or pause to
examine these objects more closely; such sights were common
enough. Instead, he briskly made his way along the empty
and deserted streets, his gait purposeful and determined.
He mounted a shallow flight of stairs--the only remnants of
the city library--and examined the wasteland that stretched
before him. When he sighted a cluster of dilapidated
buildings, he hurriedly clambered down and made his way
towards them.
"Hello?" Shinji called out. His voice rang out and
reverberated against the blank walls. He stepped through
the door and cried out again, "Hello? Is anyone here?"
He waited for a few moments as if to give the
person time to respond but no one answered him. Although
Shinji heard no reply, he ventured further into the
building and continued to call out in hopes that some voice
would greet him. But as he wandered through the quiet,
empty rooms, his hope began to falter and Shinji once again
felt the familiar dull ache in his heart--the heavy
composite of sorrow, regret and hopelessness that always
arose when no human call answered his own.
"I guess there's nobody here," Shinji murmured.
"After all, it's only been a year after the apocalypse,
maybe no one has come home yet." He paused at a window and
looked out. "But then, do they have a home to come to?
There's nothing here--just ruins." He absently traced his
finger along the edge of the windowsill. "I wonder if home
is like this too," he mused. "I wonder if anyone is--"
A noise interrupted his lonely soliloquy. He spun
around and peered into the gloom. "Hello?" he cried out,
his heart thumping wildly with fear and expectation. He
saw nothing, but he could still hear it--the faint and
indistinct sound of rapid footsteps as it hurried away from
him. Shinji threw down his pack and ran in the direction
of the footfalls.
"Wait!" he called out, "Stop!" As Shinji raced into
the room, he discerned a dim shadow in the obscurity. The
phantom paused but commenced its run when it perceived Shinji.
It swiftly turned into an adjoining hallway and disappeared
into the darkness.
"Stop! Please! I'm not here to harm you!" Shinji
pleaded as he sped after the specter. But the phantom
ignored his entreaties and continued to run. Shinji, however,
was undaunted and continued to his pursuit. On and on they
ran through the cavernous rooms and narrow corridors of the
empty building. Though his limbs ached and his breath burned
painfully within his chest, Shinji ran, spurred onwards by
his great hope. He could see nothing in those dim, unlit
rooms yet the fleet footfalls of the runner before him guided
him through the darkness.
I've got to stop him! I've got to talk to him! Shinji
thought as he followed the apparition. No matter what it
takes, I must speak to him, face to face. I must!
But as Shinji closed in, he felt himself faltering.
His strength was taxed--it had nearly reached its limit--and
the vast rooms and maze-like hallways seemed to have no end.
Yet his eagerness was still great and, using the last reserves
of his strength, the boy reached out--one last, desperate
grasp--in an attempt to arrest the fleeing shade.
Almost there, Shinji thought, as his fingers strained
closer to the shadowy figure. I've almost got him! I've
nearly got--
And that was his last conscious thought before
darkness engulfed him.
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A roach skittered past his nose. Shinji stared at it
in morbid fascination, his eyes transfixed to the wandering
insect. In the one, thin shaft of light that penetrated the
gloom, he could see the delicate, waving feelers, the slender
serrated legs and the curious hard casing of its body. In the
many hours that Shinji had lain prostrate upon the dusty floor,
the roach was the only object that he could distinguish in the
deep obscurity of his prison. The insect soon scuttled out
of sight and Shinji was left alone once more.
"Another unfamiliar ceiling," Shinji murmured as he
looked into the murky, unfathomable shadows above him. A wry
smile came to his lips at this nonsensical thought; it was a
silly, senseless statement--an old phrase he had often said
long ago--but he used it nonetheless. The smile soon faded,
however, and his young features assumed its wonted sad and
weary aspect.
Shinji sighed. "I've been here for hours." He
opened his eyes and stared again into the darkness above him.
Though he knew not where or how he was imprisoned or who had
placed him therein, Shinji felt oddly calm. He was past all
emotion now. Confidence and expectation had been
extinguished; fear and curiosity had vanished. Now, he was
simply resigned. He knew his fate, understood its
inevitability. There was no escape. "I wonder," he said
softly, "when--and how--this will end. . ."
"Come, boy." Shinji felt himself being roughly
raised. He looked up but could see nothing. He could only
feel the hot breath and heavy hand of the guard. The warder
quickly cut through the ropes around his ankles. Shinji fell
to the floor. He essayed to rise again, but his legs were
stiff and numb from the long hours of inactivity and he
collapsed to the floor again.
"Too weak to stand, eh?" The guard took hold of
Shinji's shirt and hoisted him aloft. "Come. It is time,"
he said. And Shinji was borne out of his dark prison into
the formless blackness beyond.
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"Here," the warder commanded as he pushed Shinji into
a room. "Master Yukishiro will see you."
Shinji stumbled to his knees. He turned to look at
the jailer. "Master--"
"So, you're the boy who was roving about the city
this morning, eh?" a voice inquired. Shinji turned to the
right, startled. "You're rather young to be wandering alone
in this place, child," Yukishiro said mildly. "You may rise,
if you wish."
Shinji said nothing and directed his eyes to the
floor. Yukishiro shrugged and seated himself opposite the
boy. In the harsh glare of a naked light bulb, the man
could see every line, ridge and hollow of the boy's face.
The round, tanned countenance was beginning to become square
around the chin and his frame was lean and sinewy. Clad in
the white shirt and khaki shorts of a schoolboy, he appeared
to be fifteen or sixteen. But though his cheeks were still
softly rounded and smooth and his brow yet unlined, his face
was haggard and drawn. The lines about his mouth were austere
and grim and there was a strange dullness in his eyes. But
in those eyes there was a dark, mournful expression--they
were eyes that had seen too much and suffered too greatly.
It was an impossibly old look for such a child. Yet there
was something in his face that drew one to him--but it was
not pity.
"What is your name, child?" Yukishiro asked finally.
"Ikari Shinji," he replied.
"So, Shinji-kun, where have you come from?"
"Neo-Tokyo, sir."
"Hmm, that is rather far-off, ne, Shinji-kun?
Have you come to visit some family in these parts?"
Shinji shook his head.
Yukishiro frowned in puzzlement. "What, no
family here?"
"No, sir. I-I have no family." There was a
slight catch in his voice and an odd gleam in his
eyes as he said this. Yukishiro noted it, but the keen
glint in his eyes and his tone of voice was unchanged.
"Surely you must have an aunt or an uncle
hereabouts."
"None, sir."
The quizzical look on Yukishiro's features
deepened. "Then what brings you here?"
"I have a message for you, sir."
"A message?" Yukishiro's brow arched in surprise.
"From whom?"
"No one in particular, sir. Just from myself,"
he answered simply. The cold, taciturn boy was gone;
there was a curious eagerness in his eyes and a peculiar
thrill in his voice now. Yukishiro, however, failed to
perceive this and continued to stare past the boy.
"A message. . ." Yukishiro murmured as he rubbed
his chin thoughtful. He rose and paced about the room.
"So, the reports are true. . .and I had through they
were all tales. . . It was well that the guards placed
you where they did. . ."
"Sir. . ." Shinji began.
Yukishiro glanced up. "Shinji-kun, whatever
message you may have for me, I do not wish to hear it.
Say nothing about it. It is better for the both of
us."
"But sir--"
In one swift movement, Yukishiro crossed the room.
With a trembling hand, Yukishiro seized Shinji's collar
and glared at him. "Look here, boy," he said sharply,
"I don't care to listen to your message. If you wish to
leave unharmed, say nothing more."
"Sir, I can't leave until--" Shinji started.
A sharp crack resounded in the dark room.
"Shinji-kun, this is your last warning," Yukishiro
said. "I don't want to hear it. Say nor more or you
will regret it later."
Shinji looked away, his eyes downcast. There was
a pained expression on his features, but the blow did not
cause it. "Then there is nothing more to say."
"Good. I will--"
"But. . .I can still see it in you," Shinji
murmured. "The wall within your heart. The barrier that
divides you from other men. . ."
Yukishiro grabbed the boy's arm, his eyes wide with
alarm. "What did you say?" Yukishiro asked, his voice high
and strained. "What did you just say? Speak, boy!"
"My father's work has failed here," Shinji said
quietly. "There is nothing more I can do."
"What are you talking about?" Yukishiro shook him
fiercely. "What are you saying?"
"There is nothing to say," Shinji responded.
"Answer me, boy! What are you saying?" Yukishiro
demanded. He desperately clutched the collar of Shinji's
shirt in his fist. The man's eyes glittered with a
feverish fire.
Shinji's eyes were flat and the lines of his
mouth were taut. It was the face of an executioner or a
saint--cold, dispassionate, severe, resolute. "No."
Suddenly, an overwhelming fury possessed Yukishiro.
A wild shriek burst from his lips. "You!!! You!!!
You--"
And darkness claimed Shinji again.
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AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was an extremely difficult piece
for me. But then, Jitou told me that it would be
difficult. ^_^; Truth to tell, I'm still a little
unsure about this chapter, so C & C will be welcomed
and appreciated.
Again, the concept was originally conceived by
Jitou (a.k.a. Demon Sword) but written by yours truly.
Jitou came up with the idea after reviewing the last
two episodes of that series. He pitched the idea to
the FFML and I was the crazy person who took him up
on it. ^_^; I've deviated from his idea a bit
because I felt that it did not fit the "Evangelion"
continuity. (If you're reading this, Jitou, gomen! ^_^;)
This story takes place after the initiation of
the Human Complement project (i.e. the last two episodes,
numbers 25 and 26). It will attempt to deal with many
of the unanswered questions that this series left behind
(though I still think many of them are unanswerable--but
I'm still game to try. ^_^)
Two of the descriptions here were influenced by
Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead" and Robert Frost's poem,
"The Road Not Taken." (I had to give them credit. . .)