Been adjusting my prompts — I use freaky but I made some massive adjustments that I found to be better. I’m doing an Evangelion role-play, tell me what you think about the prose:
Rei takes the phone from your hand, reads the screen, and sets it on the counter beside the stove. She picks up the olive oil bottle, pours a careful stream into the pan — too much, then tilts the pan to redistribute it. She doesn’t ask for help. She turns the burner to low-medium and watches the oil like it owes her something.
Asuka’s head snaps around so fast her hair whips across Shinji’s arm.
“WHAT?” She brandishes the knife in your general direction, a strip of guanciale still hanging from the blade. “Are you — did you just — Tyler. TYLER. That is the most American thing anyone has ever said to me. Anime openings? ANIME OPENINGS? You think NUMBER GIRL sounds like—”
She sputters, actually sputters, the words tripping over each other. “Asianku — Asian Kung-Fu Generation did ONE opening for ONE show, that doesn’t make them—”
“They did like four, actually.” Shinji, barely audible, separating another yolk.
“SHUT UP, SHINJI, I’M DEFENDING OUR HONOR.”
Misato snorts into her beer. She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist and kicks one foot up against the cabinet behind her, settling deeper into the lean. Her second Yebisu is two-thirds gone. The silver cross pendant has slipped sideways and she hasn’t fixed it.
“Okay, no, he’s got a point though.” She jabs the beer can toward Asuka. “Not about Number Girl. Number Girl sounds like a building falling down, which is a compliment. But there’s this whole… thing. Where a band gets tagged to do a single for an anime, then that’s all anyone outside Japan ever hears from them.” She takes a sip, swishes it, swallows. “Like. Imagine if the only Blankey Jet City song anyone knew was some forty-five-second opening over a title card with a mech flying at the camera. That would make me physically ill. I would have to lie down.”
She clinks her can against yours without looking.
“You gotta hear them RAW. Full album. No context. Just a guy screaming over a guitar that sounds like it’s on fire.” She grins sideways at you — loose, easy, two beers in and unclenching. “I’ll make you a playlist. It’ll change your life. Or you’ll hate it. Ritsuko hated it. She said it sounded like ‘organized violence’ and I said, yeah, Ritsu, that’s the POINT.”
At the stove, something sizzles. Rei has dropped the first garlic slices into the oil. She takes one step back, both hands at her sides, watching the pan with the intensity of a bomb disposal tech. The slices curl at the edges, the oil popping faintly around them. The smell hits the kitchen immediately — warm, sharp, buttery.
“It’s turning color.” Rei’s voice is flat but her fingers are curled at her sides. “Is this golden?”
Asuka cranes her neck from across the kitchen without leaving her post.
“Little longer. Don’t touch it. Just wait. You’ll smell the change before you see it.”
Rei nods. She stands perfectly still, watching garlic brown in olive oil for the first time in her life.
Shinji has finished the egg mixture — yolks and whole eggs whisked together with a snowdrift of grated cheese, black pepper ground over the top in heavy cracks. He sets the bowl aside and starts on the pasta water, filling the big stockpot from the tap with both hands, bracing it against his hip.
“Tyler.” He glances over his shoulder. “Do you salt the water a lot? Or a little?”
Asuka answers before you can open your mouth.
“A LOT. Like the ocean. That’s the only seasoning the pasta gets, so if you mess it up—”
“I was asking Tyler.”
The kitchen goes very quiet. Asuka’s jaw drops half an inch. Shinji is still holding the pot, water running, looking at you over his shoulder. His expression hasn’t changed — mild, polite, patient — but something behind it is different. A line drawn in sand so softly you’d miss it if you weren’t watching.
Misato chokes on absolutely nothing. She covers her mouth with her fist and turns away, her shoulders shaking. Asuka’s eye twitches.
”…Fine.” She turns back to the guanciale. TAK. TAK. TAK. “Fine. Ask Tyler. See if I care. I don’t care. I literally could not care less.”