rain
It rains.
From the backseat, Ritsuko reviews the recent alterations of her manuscript, a short paper she authored late last year on sequence homologies developed in cases of artificial evolution. She adjusts her glasses, passing noncommittal glances between the last two pages and processing little. Suggestions on graph placement, criticisms on the strength of certain tertiary claims near the paper's conclusion, a few contradictory notes from two of the three referees. Tedious, though manageable.
Water hits hard against the windows, distorting the outside view through thick veils of heavy rainfall. Her driver approaches the station with steady caution, and Ritsuko, impatient, checks her watch on the underside of her wrist. An hour until the interviews, and she still has not reviewed the half dozen profiles sent to her last week.
She leans back against the seat and inspects her cuticles, the wrinkle in her skirt, taps the plastic armrest to her right. Ritsuko wants a cigarette, a solid three hours of uninterrupted editing, and—perhaps the least feasible—an early night home.
"Here is fine."
Her driver throws an uncertain glance over his shoulder, but pulls in, careful to avoid pedestrians. She tucks away her glasses and slides the manuscript into her bag.
Inside, the crowd folds into the turnstiles and fans out on the opposite side, tributaries of people rushing toward their prospective terminals. She stands beneath the extended eaves, rain splashing her ankles from the surrounding puddles, and rummages her bag, still distracted by the potential cigarette in her near future.
She stops.
Pushing aside her manuscript, she digs around the loose items in her bag: an empty carton of cigarettes, a spritz bottle of face mist, old receipts, her phone. No wallet, which means—
Ritsuko turns, but her driver is long gone. She feels, if not panicked, then at the very least frustrated, and determined to manifest her train pass with sheer force of will. Leveraging the wall as support and balancing the bag on her knee, she sorts through her belongings once more, her wrist turned to watch the time.
“Excuse me.”
The voice is quiet, girlish, and Ritsuko does not respond at first.
“Excuse me—” The woman repeats louder, and Ritsuko realizes the voice means her “—I thought—Or, well, I noticed—” The woman shifts her weight, choosing her words. Her hair is cut short, a handsome look that flatters her face, and she’s dressed well, in cropped trousers and carrying a navy blazer, the long sleeves of her shirt rolled past her elbows.
The woman exhales, then smiles and extends her hand, revealing a train pass. “I am sorry for bothering you, but you had seemed like you lost yours.”
“Oh.” Ritsuko hesitates, eyeing it then her, and reneges. “I can’t pay you back. I—” But Ritsuko sighs, relief flooding her body. “Thank you. This is very kind.” She looks at the card again. “I wish I could pay you back, but I left my wallet somewhere.”
“If we see each other again, you can return it.” She adjusts her bag’s strap and gives one last smile, bright and sincere. “Have a good rest of your day.”
Curiously, Ritsuko watches her walk away, an unconscious smile tugging the corner of her mouth.
(When she sees that woman again, Ritsuko learns her name is Ibuki Maya, a twenty-three year old recent graduate, whose research sits at the intersection of computational biology, cloud informatics, and reconstructions of basic geometric figures, with a peripheral interest in non-Euclidean geometries. Ritsuko decides before the interview that she will be more than qualified, having been the only candidate to locate an easter egg error in the programming exam.
Adjusting her glasses, Ritsuko watches her, but Maya’s eyes only meet Ritsuko’s briefly before moving her gaze to the Deputy Commander and others.
Ritsuko looks over her curriculum vitae, the results of her exam, the impressions from the preliminary interviews. Ibuki Maya: polite, fastidious, charming.
“So, Maya,” begins a panelist from another branch. “Tell us about your interest in Nerv.”
Maya straightens her back, as if prepared. “Actually, when I was younger I had wanted to work with Gehirn,” she explains. “Then I did my Master’s thesis on Akagi Naoko’s…”
But Ritsuko is not listening. Maya had already gotten the job.)