She had come here expecting to find monsters. She had found a mirror instead. The next morning, Sena Ayanami walked into the Academy’s main hall five minutes before the first bell. Her uniform was immaculate. Her hair was pinned. Her face was a doll’s face—still, perfect, unreadable.
Not similar. Identical. The same storm-gray eyes, closed now. The same high cheekbones, the same small, unsmiling mouth. Wires ran from her temples into the ceiling. A label on the tank read: PROJECT ECHO. UNIT 07.
She had Sena’s face.
“You’re wondering why,” said the voice. A woman stepped out from behind the servers. Headmistress Hoshino, her silver hair immaculate, her smile worse than any threat. “Why we built her. Why we told you nothing. Why we’re so interested in your particular… gifts.”
“The other girls,” Sena said, standing over her. “The ones in the dark tanks. They’re still alive.”
"Don’t trust the basement."
The Academy for Extraordinary Young Women sat on a cliff overlooking the gray sprawl of Tokyo Bay. Its spires were neo-Gothic, its curriculum brutal. Sena had been enrolled at thirteen after a standardized aptitude test revealed her "anomalous tactical cognition"—a fancy way of saying she could dismantle an opponent’s fighting style in three seconds flat.
“You’re earlier than I expected, Miss Ayanami.”
She had come here expecting to find monsters. She had found a mirror instead. The next morning, Sena Ayanami walked into the Academy’s main hall five minutes before the first bell. Her uniform was immaculate. Her hair was pinned. Her face was a doll’s face—still, perfect, unreadable.
Not similar. Identical. The same storm-gray eyes, closed now. The same high cheekbones, the same small, unsmiling mouth. Wires ran from her temples into the ceiling. A label on the tank read: PROJECT ECHO. UNIT 07.
She had Sena’s face.
“You’re wondering why,” said the voice. A woman stepped out from behind the servers. Headmistress Hoshino, her silver hair immaculate, her smile worse than any threat. “Why we built her. Why we told you nothing. Why we’re so interested in your particular… gifts.”
“The other girls,” Sena said, standing over her. “The ones in the dark tanks. They’re still alive.” sena ayanami
"Don’t trust the basement."
The Academy for Extraordinary Young Women sat on a cliff overlooking the gray sprawl of Tokyo Bay. Its spires were neo-Gothic, its curriculum brutal. Sena had been enrolled at thirteen after a standardized aptitude test revealed her "anomalous tactical cognition"—a fancy way of saying she could dismantle an opponent’s fighting style in three seconds flat. She had come here expecting to find monsters
“You’re earlier than I expected, Miss Ayanami.”
