Chapter 3: Angel Attack
It must be said, NERV's efficiency was chillingly high.
Less than twenty-four hours after Shinji made that humiliating surrender call, Fujiwara-sensei and the proprietress of Uzakiya were released "unharmed," like precisely controlled marionettes.
When Fujiwara-sensei returned home, he was unshaven with sunken eyes—the mere two days of confinement seemed to have drained most of his vitality.
The look he gave Shinji was indescribably complex—there was the daze of surviving a disaster, lingering anger at being unjustly implicated, and, more than anything, a deep-seated wariness toward an immense, unknown power.
He asked nothing, merely sitting silently in the living room for a long time before speaking to Shinji, who was quietly packing his last few belongings, in a dry, weary voice: "Your remaining things... will be sent by a delivery company."
He paused, then added, "They'll know the address."
Shinji only nodded, his movements never faltering.
His worn-out travel bag already held everything he deemed worth taking: a few clothes, textbooks, a Walkman, the phone hidden in the bottom compartment, and some toiletries.
As for the "remaining things" Fujiwara mentioned—the rusty secondhand bicycle, the bedding used for years, and other insignificant odds and ends—he didn't care at all.
They belonged to this cold "home," not to him, Shinji Ikari.
Whether they were mailed, or even discarded, meant nothing to him.
There were no apologies, no thanks, not even a proper farewell between them.
That fragile, spider-silk-like connection had been completely severed under NERV's thunderous "warning."
Fujiwara-sensei might have held some resentment, but he understood all too well that behind this silent boy stood an entity he could never hope to oppose.
Keeping his distance was the only safe way to survive.
Over at Uzakiya, however, after the proprietress returned—perhaps out of gratitude for surviving the ordeal, or maybe a businessperson's twinge of conscience—she had her daughter Aoi bring Shinji his wages for the week's work: a thin stack of bills, just over five thousand yen.
"Shinji-kun, Mom asked me to give this to you... Thank you..."
Aoi stood at the Fujiwara's doorstep, her voice timid, her eyes still holding traces of the previous day's fear, but also a hint of genuine gratitude.
She pressed the envelope containing the money into Shinji's hand.
Shinji took the envelope, his fingertips brushing against the texture of the bills, yet his expression remained utterly blank.
He didn't even say "thank you," merely giving a cold, perfunctory nod.
It wasn't that he lacked gratitude—he understood better than anyone that in this world shrouded by NERV's shadow, being associated with him was a danger in itself.
Boss Uzakiya's experience was a living example.
The colder and more distant he acted, the more it might protect them.
This meager payment felt more like a silent severance.
Without another glance at Aoi, he turned, hoisted his travel bag, and walked out the Fujiwara's door.
Outside, the sunlight was glaring. He didn't look back, heading straight for the station.
...
The Shinkansen sped along the tracks, bound for Tokyo-3.
Outside the window, the scenery of the Japanese archipelago sped by, transitioning from the familiar landscapes of Kansai to the more desolate, post-war reconstruction-marked central regions.
The train car was sparsely populated, the atmosphere chilly.
Shinji sat by the window, his travel bag at his feet.
He held the train ticket in his hand, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against the cold NERV emblem printed on it.
Watching the shifting scenery outside, the corners of his lips twisted into an extremely bitter, almost self-mocking curve.
"Hah..."
He let out a silent scoff, speaking to himself in his mind, "At least this time... I didn't have to pay for the ticket myself."
Was this the only "mercy" from that cold-hearted father? Or was it merely a necessary expense to ensure the "tool" arrived at the designated location on time?
He shook his head, dismissing such pointless thoughts. Resistance had already failed, and the price had been paid.
He had set off several days earlier than in the "original storyline."
In the memories of the "dream," that cowardly boy had hesitated and delayed for a few days after receiving the letter before starting his journey.
But he, after experiencing brutal suppression, had almost immediately been "arranged" to set off.
Would this change in timing bring about a deviation in fate?
Yet fate seemed to have its stubborn inertia.
Just as the train was about to reach the outskirts of Tokyo-3, a piercing alarm abruptly tore through the stifling air inside the car! This was followed by the tense, urgent voice of a crew member over the train's intercom:
"Emergency announcement! Emergency announcement! Due to an emergency situation ahead, this train will make an emergency stop at Hakone Station! All passengers, please remain calm, take your personal belongings, and quickly disembark under the guidance of staff. Proceed to the designated shelters! I repeat, all passengers, please disembark and evacuate immediately!"
The car instantly erupted into chaos! Panicked passengers scrambled to their feet, frantically grabbing their luggage and crowding toward the exits. Cries, questions, and curses mingled together.
Shinji's heart sank heavily.
Hakone! Still over ten kilometers away from Tokyo-3!
He was swept along by the frantic crowd and pushed off the train.
The platform was already in disarray. The shrill air raid sirens wailed mournfully over the city, like a herald of death.
Shelter signs seemed utterly futile amidst the chaos. People ran and shoved like headless flies.
Shinji was caught in the surging tide of people, jostled and pushed out of the station.
Standing on the now much emptier streets, he lifted his head and looked in the direction of the alarm's source.
Was he shocked?
Yes, he was.
Even though he knew it would happen, standing here in person, feeling the faint tremors under his feet, hearing the heart-wrenching sirens, and witnessing the genuine, unadulterated fear on people's faces—the impact was far beyond anything he had experienced watching the "anime" through a screen.
But after the shock?
What followed was more of a near-numb sense of "as expected."
A feeling of "what's meant to come will come," a sense of inevitability.
He didn't even scream in terror or run wildly like those around him. He just stood there, travel bag still in hand, like a detached observer stripped of his soul, coldly watching the disaster play titled "Angel Attack" unfold in real life.
"Just lying flat... whatever happens, happens," the phrase flashed through his mind.