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Neon Genesis Eva-Journal

Discussion in 'In-Character Area' started by BlackDenim, May 27, 2020.

  1. BlackDenim

    BlackDenim Newcomer
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    //A space for me to post the goings-on within my mind in relation to Eva Yoker, her thoughts, dreams, remembrances, and past, present, and musings upon her future. Should be considered to be a look within a private journal maintained by the woman herself.//


    A dark blue, faux-leather binder, with a Union Claw symbol, embellished in golden ink, of some type, with a very large amount of papers, in the binding, book-marks, sticky-notes, photographs, papers, bits and bobs, detailing all of Eva's adventures.

    On the front, in golden, stamped letters, reads:

    "Political Conscription Ideological and Compliance Training Center"
    "YOKER, EVA 67953"
    "Personal Notes"


    Hundreds of pages of various assorted written notes, official notes, training notes, various drafts of bills, assignments, stuff the three-ring binder. Sticky-notes jut out of all angles, of it, giving a sense of personal flair, to the object. And within, endless journalings about dreams, re-assignments, and the internal thoughts of the Political-Conscript-Turned-Cashier.
     
  2. BlackDenim

    BlackDenim Newcomer
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    Towards the front of the binder, is a rather official, Xerox'd format, of some sort of transcript of places that Eva has recently been. Lots of undifentifiable codes and abbreviations line the rows, next to some of the entries. In bold, stamped letters, each with their own red ink stamp of approval, in a column to the far-right of each entry, as if it were a set of Visas.

    Occupational Transcript [LATEST TO EARLIEST]
    The Rongxi Assortment - Cashier - City 17 [Kiev]
    Metroplex 08 General Administrative Assembly - Deputy Secretary of Laborforce Administration - Metroplex 08 [Tokyo]
    Lower Administrative Board - Laborforce identification, collection, and intake - Nova Prospekt [N/A]
    Political Conscription Ideological and Compliance Center - Trainee - No Listed Location
     
  3. BlackDenim

    BlackDenim Newcomer
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    Chapter 01: Inauguration Day
    =========================================================================

    A warbling, convoluted droning. The sensation of non-existence, and existence, all at once. An existential paradox, and the feeling of a black void. The sensation of nothing around me. A strange warmth. The unfeeling of my body - stasis-like. In my hands, a thick, official document. 'TRANSITIONAL WARNING.' It reads, in an official title and header, across the top. The Union Claw. A number, I know it's a number, but I cannot read it. Endless numbers. Endless lines of numbers, of cities, of districts, of precincts. I know it's a number, but I can't see the number. It's almost as if it's changing too quickly for me to put my eyes on.

    I look down, at it, I read the name on it. 'NOTICE OF MALCOMPLIANCE AND REMOVAL FROM LABORFORCE.' It says. Then, a last name, a first name, and a number. But again - I can see that they're names an numbers, but I can't read the name and the number. Changing, whirring past me, at an un-ending speed. I look up, and I see the inside of a disheveled apartment. A woman, slumped against the door,with her face, in her hands. The sobbing, and the crying. I feel it, inside of myself. The strenuous feeling that your heart is going to burst out of your chest. A woman, unlike myself. It's almost like I'm there. I try to walk towards her, but I can't. It's as if I'm separate from the room - but I'm there. I watch as she sobs. The same paper, before her. The same one that I'm holding, in my hand - feeling all too real. It feels hot - almost too hot to hold. So I drop it. And suddenly, the woman disappears.

    I look down, to see where I'm standing, and again, I'm holding another paper in my hands. It's almost the same. The city number, the name, the identification number. The same header, again. The numbers and names, are different now. But, I still can't read them. I can't comprehend the number, or name - though I know it's a number. I look up, and this time, I'm standing across the street. A man, in a standard uniform, embracing another man, and I can see his face. The pained expression on it, the same paper, clutched in his fist, held to the other man's back. The same one that I am holding. I'm standing far away, but inside of my mind's eye, I see his face up-close. Quivering. A stream rolling down his cheek. Laborers pass by, all in fast-motion, as they remain still. It's too painful for me to watch, and I don't know why. I can't comprehend what it is. But as I drop the paper, I look at my right hand, as bloodied, disgusting paper-cuts begin to form, a little more, as I drop the paper.

    I drop it, and I try to turn away to run - but my body doesn't move. As I look down, again, to see what's wrong with my legs, I realize that I'm holding another paper. The same form. The same header. I try to clutch it, and destroy it, but my hand won't move. As if my bones are screaming to move, inside of my hand, as I watch bloody fingerprints form, all over the paper, through the back of it. More numbers, more names. I look up, and this time, I'm standing in front of a small group of men and women. On folding chairs, in a circle. I haven't been here before. But there's a man, speaking. Trying to console the people, on folding chairs. Trying to give them support. Some of them are crying. Some of them have their arms crossed. In the abandoned basement, of some old community center - the smell of dusty antiques fills my senses. One of them is holding the same paper that I'm holding. I don't want to hold the paper, but something forces my hands to not tear it, crumple it, destroy the paper. The bloodied papercuts on my hands begin to deepen, lengthen, but I can't feel any pain. The paper soaks the blood, until it's all completely red, and I eventually shake my now-numb hand, until I drop the paper, and thrash, against the strange, black void.

    I thrash, I whip my head around. I turn around, and I'm dizzied - and this time, there is no paper. I stand, unable to see my own body. Unable to look away. At a stage - a great, blue, combine-alloy-trim stage. Before the stage, a pile of blue uniforms. Torn, tattered, some bloodied, some worn from wear. They all have their numbers, affixed, above the breast, and on the back collar - but I can't read the numbers. Past the pile, in front of the stage, is a row of soldiers. All standing in perfect uniformity. Their yellow, pair of eyes, row-by-row. Gun-by-gun. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, without a single wavering wobble, between them. And endless wall of soldiers, standing behind a pile of disused laborforce uniforms. The blue denim of the fabric, so immediately noticeable.

    On a stage, I see something from memory. I see myself. My inauguration of 7th tier priority-labor-loyalty status. Dr. Jonathan Wolfe, clutches my right hand, as I shake his. His other hand, hands over the royal-purple, familiar band. Again, in my mind's eye, I see his face, up-close. As if I see from the viewpoint of me, above the stage, but I am detached, disassociated. The rows of glowing, Japanese text, burn ever-so-brightly, above the curtains. Metroplex-08. As I shake his hand, crimson red, viscous blood, drips from our hands, embraced. The armband, with a golden-threaded, "7," in the middle. I don't know what to feel.

    From my peripherals, a familiar face, approaches me. Han Rongxi, in the attire I see her in every single day. Her beanie. The Asian, familiar face. Something shines, in her right hand. I turn to her, slowly. My mouth agape, unable to speak. She continues to approach me, the angriest look I've ever seen. Every foot-step echoes. She steps further into the light, before me, and raises her right hand. In it, is a magnum revolver. The copper-colored flattened tips, of the .357 cartridges, visible in the rotating chamber. She continues to approach me, until she's an arms-length away, a disgusted look upon her face, staring at me. She opens her mouth to speak.

    "You're responsible for your own actions." She says once, before she cocks the hammer, and I stare down the barrel, as she pulls the trigger, the loudest gunshot I've ever heard in my life, directly in my face, before-



    -A sudden gasp of breath, and I come to, my view dizzied, head spinning, as I lurch forward, in a yellow char, at the top of the landing of the stairs, in the back-hallway, of the Rongxi Assortment. My beanie falls off of my head, and I look down at myself. Jacket, shirt, pants, boots. My half-eaten nutrient bar falls to the floor, as I sputter, cough, choke on my own saliva. I shout a frightened gasp, and clutch myself, eyes widened. As my view settles, and I grab my head, and look around. Down the hallway, Rongxi and Amber, moving a bunch of boxes, of clothing, in and out of the supply closet, across from Rongxi's apartment. Both turn to stare and look at me, as I catch my breath.

    "Yo, you okay over there?" Amber calls out, as Han kind of stares, looking over at me.I take a deep breath, and speak.

    "Ye..Yeah! Yeah. I'm. I'm okay! Just a *fucking* terrible dream. Good god." I say, smiling, breathing deeply, through my nose.

    "Aaaaalrighty, then." Amber says, looking away. Rongxi waves. I wave back. I lean forward, and pick my half-eaten bar off of the floor, dusting the crumbs off of myself. I get to my feet. My break's about over. I wobble myself back, behind the counter, gently turning the radio up again, as I stare out, into the cloudy, smoggy weather, watching as random passers-by, pass the plaza, on their way to wherever they have to be.

    Just a dream.
     
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