[ There's an objection as he grabs her wrist and starts to drag her and she yanks her arm back - but she still follows, refusing to let the sudden second-thoughts stop her from following through. He doesn't have a right to judge her, she thinks, but just as surely, he doesn't have a right to know anything about her. She's scowling under her veils, trying to think of what she's going to say. She hunkers down in between a pair of crates, arms folded across her chest.
Defensive. ]
I was a pilot. For an organization.
[ The name isn't important, but it still creeps into her mind, flickering across her surface thoughts, mingled with the image of a cockpit and a massive red war-machine. NERV. Unit-02. ]
We were supposed to defend the world from monsters. Angels. But apparently we should've been worried about people, because they're the ones who decided to try and kill us. All of us.
[ The memories are more fragmented. Bits and pieces. A darkened cockpit. Fear. Fear and self-loathing and then a surge of confidence and violence, brutal and quick and full of action and adrenaline and the knowledge of victory. ]
They brought an army. What do you expect me to do? Let them wipe me out? It was them or it was me - and I chose me.
[ And mingled with the words are flickering images from a cockpit. Attack craft swatted out of the sky. Missiles and bullets and explosions - and strange, white war machines that match her own. But it's all jumbled and messy, clouded by time and adrenaline. ]
If that makes me a monster or a murderer, fine. But don't - you don't get to sit there and tell me I'm horrible because I wanted to live!
[ She keeps her voice low, but every word carries weight and anger and resentment and a creeping fear of being judged and found wanting. ]
no subject
[ There's an objection as he grabs her wrist and starts to drag her and she yanks her arm back - but she still follows, refusing to let the sudden second-thoughts stop her from following through. He doesn't have a right to judge her, she thinks, but just as surely, he doesn't have a right to know anything about her. She's scowling under her veils, trying to think of what she's going to say. She hunkers down in between a pair of crates, arms folded across her chest.
Defensive. ]
I was a pilot. For an organization.
[ The name isn't important, but it still creeps into her mind, flickering across her surface thoughts, mingled with the image of a cockpit and a massive red war-machine. NERV. Unit-02. ]
We were supposed to defend the world from monsters. Angels. But apparently we should've been worried about people, because they're the ones who decided to try and kill us. All of us.
[ The memories are more fragmented. Bits and pieces. A darkened cockpit. Fear. Fear and self-loathing and then a surge of confidence and violence, brutal and quick and full of action and adrenaline and the knowledge of victory. ]
They brought an army. What do you expect me to do? Let them wipe me out? It was them or it was me - and I chose me.
[ And mingled with the words are flickering images from a cockpit. Attack craft swatted out of the sky. Missiles and bullets and explosions - and strange, white war machines that match her own. But it's all jumbled and messy, clouded by time and adrenaline. ]
If that makes me a monster or a murderer, fine. But don't - you don't get to sit there and tell me I'm horrible because I wanted to live!
[ She keeps her voice low, but every word carries weight and anger and resentment and a creeping fear of being judged and found wanting. ]