Author's Notes and Promised Fic:
This fic actually stems from a bit Chris Davies posted to the FFML
about a year ago, which managed to lodge itself firmly in my
subconscious. Its been waiting there, slowly sapping my creative
reserves until it garnered enough juice to spawn. Mr. Davies sent a post
to the FFML to poll how many subscribers would sell their soul for a
chance to fix the problems in their favorite anime's universe. And while
my reply was a bit unorthodox (to put it kindly; the best way to
describe it was just plain wrong) I hope this fic will make up for my
unhelpful response.
There should be no spoilers for the various universes this skims
through, though if there are exceptions they will be noted at the
beginning of the fic. If the story takes place in a mature universe (not
necessarily one that has sex or violence in it) then it is quite
possible that the telling will contain similar themes. Characters from
fan work might be included, along with authors of fan fiction. I will
endeavor to contact the authors in question before hand to seek their
approval. Finally, all analysis and commentary is mine, and very open to
discussion.
Simply, this is the story of the people who take part in the other half
of storytelling, namely the readers, watchers and patrons of anime and
manga. The main character is an outsider, trying to figure out humanity
by the stories they tell, happening to start with anime and manga.
Journeyman, the only reoccurring character in the meandering story, is
a detached observer from some suitably alien culture, experiencing earth
not through a physical visit, but a trip through the stories of the
world. He is distant, fully capable of understanding emotion and logic
but very restrained. He is well traveled through the universe, and very
old. And now he gazes on the remote blue dot known as Earth.
An Overly Melodramatic Opening Production
In Association with Too Big for His Breeches, Ltd.
"A Telling Story"
If one was to look on Earth with material eyes, one could rapidly see
the impact of man. Individually, Earth's keepers were neither the
largest nor the most abundant form of life on the blue ball's surface or
atmosphere. As a group they remained separate and uncooperative, the
single form of life on the planet capable of waging war over obscure
theological debates. Technology, their most recognized trait of
intelligence, was waging a battle to keep their space in a rapidly
shrinking environment.
But if viewed more abstractly, in terms of the ideas held by the beings
that lived their mortal lives in a flash and spent most of that time
arguing over what happened when they died, they were a rich tapestry of
insight and ignorance. Their stories, framed by mortality, ranged from
the most mundane to the wildly epic of subject material. With the advent
of a reliable means of storing data past the deaths of the hosts, they
began to create on a different level than farmers and artisans who would
eventually maintain their societies.
It was a pattern Journeyman had seen many times before. When the
sciences and perception handed entities the unappetizing truth it was up
to art to generate an escape into the stories of others. Who blamed them
when the created stories were more grand and exciting than their own?
In the simmering chaos of the metaphoric plane, Journeyman watched the
chaotic patterns of media and tradition dictate the stories told. Nearly
at random he picked a form of storytelling and immersed himself in the
subject.
He was amazed at the variety of stories present, from those stroking
the basest of urges through sex, violence and technological innovation
to those dealing with the most abstract of mental impulses, nearly every
trait of mankind was addressed in some manner or another.
Nestled among the stories were those glorifying the degradation of
others, of killing for little or no reason, of pacifism and tolerance.
One of the most powerful stories detailed a portion of the life of a
young boy, forced to fight against an alien threat he doesn't
understand. It hung on examinations of some of humanities darker
impulses: to shield oneself from pain even at the expense of others, of
alienation in a socially driven society. The story forced examination of
what it meant to be human, of the consequences of rapidly advancing
technology and the new relationship with Creation this forced.
The story resonated with the participants, melding images and ideas
into a unified whole, pulled from the mind of one who had passed his
breaking point. It was in this Gospel that Journeyman stepped into
first.
He found himself in a vibrant field, built into a hewed out cavern of
rock. After reminding himself this was not normal on this world of
terrestrial primates, Journeyman ventured across the field, amused by
the novelty of this creature's range of perception. He was visible only
if he chose, a ghost in a universe created for the overt purpose of
entertainment.
He knew when and where he was in the context of this story, and
understood the principals which related it to the meatphoric realm he
was perceiving from humanity. An island off the coast of China, the
setting for many of the stories he would see, eleven years after the
single most important event of this universe: Second Impact.
He gazed a girl, not greater than twelve of this planet's revolutions,
pale and otherworldly. Her hair was a light blue color and her eyes
blood red, neither phenotype particularly common in man. She stood for
many things in this story, the least profound of which was the
relationship of the created to the Creator.
Another human was near, much older, and his character was pervaded with
darkness, fear and determination. The eyes of a man proud of his tool
gazed out at the emotionless child, evoking the last vestige of human
emotion available to the battered psyche of Ikari Gendou. Ikari has
recently sent his child away, unable to deal with the symbolic
connection to his departed wife.
The cavern grew distant as the story's focus shifted, centering on a
crying child of eleven years. A travel bag was clutched under his arm as
he wiped the tears of rejection from his face. First his mother, leaving
before his eyes and now his father coldly driving him away. There was no
one he could reach out to, no anchor for him to seek shelter with.
Journeyman willed himself visible, appearing in nondescript manner as
the fabric of the story parted for another bit player's intrusion. His
appearance was not fixed by anything other than his personality, but as
he watched more stories unfold in his career he found himself in the
hermit archetype of each culture he visited. Few questioned his
appearance, which by its very nature seemed to pass notice with no
effort.
And so the young boy was startled when he felt a hand rest on his
shoulders. Too innocent to worry, the young boy gazed up at the figure,
trying to hide his tears. Though young, he understood tears were not
something a man cared to show everyone.
"Don't you have a train to catch?" Journeyman asked him, helping the
young boy to his feet, "Ikari Shinji?"
"How do you know my name?" Shinji asked, tears momentarily abated.
"Just part of the story. Come on now, lets get you on your train.
There's someone waiting for you at the last station."
He directed the boy through the crowd of people, all interested but too
reserved to stare. He didn't interfere in a story all that often, unlike
his brethren the Muses, but he was not above steering a story in a
particular direction. He is mostly real, Journeyman thought as they
neared the platform, an avatar of the author's emotions of need and
cowardice. And helping him would be nearly the same as helping the
author himself.
As they waited for the train, Shinji looked at his companion, intrigued
by the kindness he'd shown. Since his mother had gone�away there had
been few kind words sent his way. Shinji had spent the last several
years trying to stay out of his father's way, incapable of understanding
why his father seemed angry at him.
"Why does my father hate me?" he asked in the manner of all innocents.
"Hate isn't the proper word. I'm sure plenty of people have told you
this, but your father is very busy with very important work. He has no
time to spare for his family," Journeyman told him, gazing ahead in the
story. "He does love you, he simply cannot express his emotions
properly."
The child looked at the gaijin, amazed he hadn't noticed his foreign
features. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Just a journeyman passing through. I went to see your father earlier
and happened to pass by. Here's your train, Ikari-san," he told the
child. It was his time to leave now, like so many others would in the
young child's life. "Take this, Ikari-san, to keep you occupied on your
trip." He handed the boy a small walkman, the letters SDAT proudly
emblazoned on the front.
As the child boarded the train, Journeyman willed himself outside of
the story again, leaving no trace of his existence but a slightly
confused author's notes on a storyboard. The bleak reality of this story
was wearing thin, and he had other media to peruse on his census of this
world. He would not return to this sad man's world, but would take
something with him.
A small bit, but one that would go well with his other souvenirs. He
dove into a novel after placing the tidbit into his pocket.
Thanks for reading!
Jerico Mele
(No infringement on other's intellectual property is intended. To not
distribute for profit, as if that was some sort of possibility)
jmele@brandies.edu
www.brandeis.edu/~jmele