Rather than referring to some psychoanalytical concept or opaque descriptor of the drama to come, Neon Genesis Evangelion’s seventeenth episode is named, quite simply, “Fourth Child.” It is a name that refers to NERV’s conceptually vague yet tonally specific designations for the Eva pilots – Rei is the first child, Asuka the second, and Shinji the third, implying a fourth pilot has finally been secured. Like the use of “angel” as the designation for humanity’s enemies, explicitly referring to the pilots as children carries a certain implication; it frames their battles as something like a meeting of innocents, the curious yet inherently destructive angels reaching out towards the untested, unmolded fruit of humanity. As the previous episode revealed, it is unclear if these angels even mean direct harm to their opponents, or if they simply lack a vector for expressing their intent. If true, they are little different from Shinji himself, who has so much difficulty finding a common language even with his fellow human beings.

Even in Evangelion’s precise allotment of these titles, it demonstrates a more thoughtful, purpose-oriented approach to worldbuilding than so many of its peers. From the moment Shinji was referred to as the “Third Child,” an expectation was raised – an inherent question regarding the nature of the first two children, or whether “Third Child” even designated him as the third pilot in succession at all. Through this, like so many of Evangelion’s subtler tricks, an implication of a world beyond our understanding is evoked without necessarily being realized, a history no less grounding for its lack of ultimate explication. And of course, there’s the personal stinger implied in Shinji’s title; the quiet implication that Gendo relying on his own son was actually his third choice, after all other possibilities had been exhausted.

The episode opens on a spotlight capturing Misato in silhouette, as she is interrogated by the old men of SEELE for refusing to allow an interrogation of Shinji. Having challenged Ritsuko and lost control of her own operation, Misato now seems fully dedicated to protecting her young ward, understanding that right now, Shinji needs a loving guardian far more than he needs a stern commander. The line between professional candor and true family has always been blurred for them – and in fact, it was frequently Misato herself who encouraged Shinji to see her as a mother figure, and her apartment as a genuine home. Even as NERV’s seeming authority and infallibility are dissolving, the lonely souls within this decaying organization cling to each other all the harder, expressing their mutual concern in whatever ways they can.

SEELE clearly has one interest in mind: whether the angel that Shinji “fought” was actually seeking to communicate with him, to potentially understand the human psyche. Even to us in the audience, it is unclear whether Shinji was simply engaging with his own fraying mind or actually speaking to an external actor – but what is true is that, if the consciousness he challenged came from outside himself, it was clearly perfectly capable of understanding his thoughts and emotions. If the angels are truly hoping to understand human nature, then this was not simply an experimental probe – it was proof positive that they already understand our nature, and actually seem to be seeking some kind of greater consciousness, a collective fulfillment of the internal self. Not just to know us, but to improve upon us, ushering us onward to whatever stage of sentience and collective understanding might come next.

To this question, Misato can only respond “I have no answer.” She is not a collaborator in SEELE’s pursuit of greater angel-related knowledge; she knows well that she is a pawn, and that any information she offers would likely be used against her. Her goals have shifted – from pursuing her father’s retreating back, she has come to instead see her role as protecting the young pilots, offering the home and security that they’ve been previously denied, and which was denied to her in turn. Is her playing at house any more than a reprise of her first relationship with Kaji, a way of performing adulthood rather than grappling with her genuine insecurities? Perhaps that doesn’t actually matter; regardless of their fundamental inspiration, our actions affect others in ways beyond our control or intent, and Misato’s actions have clearly had a positive effect on the lives of her subordinates. Kindness always justifies itself, no matter how much of an insincere performance it may feel.

While SEELE are left to mull over future plans, the subsequent juxtaposition of the episode’s title card and Toji’s appearance serve as a clear hint to the viewer, heavily implying that our “Fourth Child” is actually someone we know well. This immediate defusal of the episode’s presumed “grand mystery” feels uniquely appropriate for Evangelion, where Eva battles never feel like something to be celebrated or shared. While another show might draw out the reveal of the fourth pilot in order to establish a greater sense of anticipation or excitement, Eva does the opposite; it reveals the truth to us immediately, and then allows that sense of dramatic irony to hang over the drama that follows, like a guillotine just waiting to fall. In this way, the reveal of the fourth child feels less like the triumphant addition of a new ally, and more like the horror-indebted debut of a new victim: Toji tiptoeing up those darkened stairs, unaware of the killer lurking just beyond the landing.

Nurses converse in hushed tones over what a diligent brother Toji is, how he makes sure to visit his sister twice a week. Their words provide a quiet acknowledgment of these angel attacks’ lingering consequences; though Toji’s sister was harmed all the way back in Evangelion’s first episode, that has in truth been only a brief interval in these characters’ lives, while the injuries, destruction, and deaths incurred by each clash have only stacked up over time, the innocents of Tokyo 3 far less restorable than the embattled Eva units. Even the door of his sister’s hospital room speaks to the increasing ruin of the city; she is marked down as the only patient in a three-bedroom convalescence hall, emphasizing the steady depopulation of this perpetual war zone.

Elsewhere, Gendo and Rei traverse the long escalator walkways of NERV headquarters, with Gendo genuinely engaging Rei on the substance of her life, her experiences at school and elsewhere. Even in this rare moment of tenderness, Gendo is presented as an unreachable monolith – he stands well in front of Rei, never addressing her directly, framed as a looming shadow with unreadable features. He cannot help but distance himself; a personal choice that marvelously reflects the dual nature of how Gendo sees himself versus how Gendo is perceived, as discussed in the previous episode. The Gendo that projects outward, that we and Shinji can recognize, is an implacable, unreachable tyrant, a giant with no sympathy or remorse. The Gendo that exists internally, that is how Gendo perceives and engages with the world, is likely just as frightened as Shinji to reach out his hand.

And then it’s back to Toji, a juxtaposition that will continue throughout the episode, steadily and inexorably drawing our presumptive pilot towards his grim destiny. Each mundane moment feels all the more precious for its temporal positioning, sandwiched between reports of the Eva project’s horrific fallout. A brief snippet of Toji being chosen as the day’s class officer is thus directly following by an understated flash of light as seen from space; a shot that seems almost peaceful, but which implies an act of destruction so significant it is visible even from off the planet. This catastrophe feels distant from our experience – and similarly, Fuyutsuki stating that the “2nd branch has disappeared” feels far away from us, an alleged tragedy with little bearing on our own lead characters. Through this heralding of violence from a great distance, Evangelion continues to build up this episode’s riveting sense of tension, its unstated implication that a horrible tragedy will soon befall our pilots.

The investigation of the 2nd branch’s disappearance leans further into unique horror imagery, embracing what modern audiences might refer to as “analogue horror” in describing the clinical playback, use of static, and flashing warning signs illustrating the sudden destruction of the branch. Whatever happened to that branch, it’s clear that nothing an Evangelion can manage could have stopped it – the destruction came from inside, a likely consequence of whatever experiments NERV’s various appendages were conducting. Through its skillful application of these distinctive, technology-centered horror tools, Evangelion creates an implication of terrible violence and terrible uncertainty without revealing much of anything, again emphasizing one of the show’s greatest strengths: its ability to seize on our natural inclination to fill in absent details, furnishing its implications with the starkest possible personal additions.

In the wake of this disaster, the Americans are transferring the completed Unit 03 to Japan, to which Misato gripes “after having insisted on having the right to build Units 03 and 04 themselves!” Her words offer another of those little splashes of worldbuilding color that have such an outsized dramatic effect, implying an entire realm of backroom dealing and angel-related grandstanding on the world political stage. The more you can imply without fully illustrating, the more the audience will feel invested in completing your sentence – and any good editor will tell you that your work is complete only when there’s nothing left you can remove from the project, while still maintaining its fundamental nature. Evangelion’s lingering footprint is in part a testament to its mastery of leaving audiences asking for more, filling in the blanks themselves, and thereby feeling all the more attached to the narrative.

Misato swiftly offers us another blank to fill in, refusing to explicitly mention Toji as she tells Ritsuko “of all the people, it’s that child?” Once again, her concern is more centered on Shinji’s feelings than the success of the Eva program, as she reflects that “nothing good comes of becoming involved with us and the Evas. Shinji knows that more than anyone. I don’t want him to suffer any more hardships.” Her fears ratchet up the tension all the further, while again emphasizing her genuine concern for Shinji. Perhaps she is indeed too childish to be a proper guardian – or perhaps it is precisely her childish nature, her “refusal to give up her ideals,” as she puts it to Ritsuko, that allows her to connect with these children, to understand and respect the substance of their fears, even if she’s incapable of truly protecting them from all the horrors of the world.

Having just been informed that “nothing good comes of becoming involved with us and the Evas,” we are then immediately confronted with the life that Toji is leaving behind, the potential for happiness that is so narrowly avoiding him. The class representative Hikari informs him he must bring some documents to Rei’s apartment, and is swift to volunteer to accompany him, before Toji instead elects to have Shinji walk with him. Even as the angel attacks continue to level the city, these children cling to the fragments of their adolescence, striving to live freely and with joy in spite of the violence around them.

Through sequences like Shinji and Toji delivering these forms, Fourth Child at times feels like a callback to Evangelion’s early material, to memories like Shinji attempting to make friends at school, or first visiting Ayanami’s apartment. There are sequences that clearly feel intended as validations of how far our characters have come, how much they’ve grown – Shinji and Toji being comfortable friends, Asuka and Shinji communally blushing at the implication they’re a married couple, Shinji confidently walking into the apartment he previously entered with such anxiety. Evangelion hasn’t been a steady psychological descent for these characters; it’s actually offered them many opportunities for growth, and allowed them to foster relationships that are meaningful and rewarding to them. All that validation makes this episode’s tonal counterpoints feel all the crueler, as if our heroes are enjoying a final, carefree meal before their execution.

At least the adults seem to know this is only a lull before the storm, as revealed in the musings of Fuyutsuki and Gendo. “The city, a paradise made by man,” Fuyutsuki marvels, to which Gendo replies “once driven from Paradise, man had no choice but to escape to this earthly existence, side by side with death.” Fuyutsuki’s meditative, optimistic words are immediately reframed by Gendo, as a consolation for a better life that was denied to them. It’s a framing that clearly weighs heavily on his mind, echoing the loss of his wife and the domestic bliss she represented. To Gendo, it seems all the achievements of NERV will only ever be a pale imitation, a method of maintaining closeness with the only person who ever made him happy. Close, but apart; like so many unfortunates in this story, Gendo is separated from his loved ones by invisible lines, by AT fields that cannot be crossed.

Their words are lent weight through the city’s self-evident beauty, the gorgeous achievement of painting and color design that is Tokyo-3. The inherently faded, textured look of cel animation was a profoundly impactful aesthetic tool, one the medium is still struggling to properly replace. For scenes like this, of the city awash in a golden sunset, there is nothing like the irregular brush strokes of painted cels to evoke the proper sensation of fatigue and solace, the sense of a day ending with lingering regrets, yet ending nonetheless. Looking out on this strange artificial city, we by now can feel a similar sense of familiarity, perhaps even responsibility – the same sensation Misato instilled in Shinji all those episodes ago, when she revealed to him the marvel he had saved with his own hands.

The two continue to spar in their framing of Tokyo 3 – is it “a paradise, an armed city made to protect us” or is it as Gendo says, “a city of cowards, fleeing from the outside world, filled with enemies.” Could these just be the ways each of them see their own work, or at least attempt to? We have seen no indication that Gendo likes himself any more than he likes his son – he too flees from confrontation whenever possible, and he too sees his own behavior as primarily an escape from pain. He might not have anything to teach Shinji, but he could surely share their common fear of abandonment, if only he were brave enough. Instead, he sticks to his councils and machines, embracing the mechanical and the solvable over the immaterial and the personal. Fuyutsuki can at least see the appeal; conceding the point, he admits that “cowards do live longer.”

Granted, not everyone is feeling the pressure of the coming storm – or if they are, they at least know that revealing so will only weaken their position. So it goes for the incorrigible Kaji, who we find hitting on Maya before he’s interrupted by Misato. Eva provides an easy visual metaphor for his flexible persona, as he feigns the affectation of a disheveled lady’s man in order to probe Maya for info, then immediately straightens his image in order to placate Misato – a transition articulated both through his posture, and through the pointed transition of him bouncing a soda can off an overflowing bin, then silently returning to stack the cans in neat order. But Misato has larger concerns on her mind, and as soon as Maya exits, she immediately challenges Kaji on the true nature of Adam and the Marduk Institute.

“Asking for help isn’t like you,” he demurs, to which Misato flatly admits “I can’t afford to care right now. I don’t have that luxury.” Misato, whose life is still defined by her father’s violent exit, has always prided herself on her independence. Yet she cannot help still longing for the security of dependence and parental guidance that was stolen from her, or at least some form of mutual trust and accommodation. That is the awkward, somewhat contradictory role Kaji has played in her life – he simultaneously represents her desire to mature into an adult, independent self and also to retreat back to her father’s love, and he can flicker between these roles instantly, or even represent both at once. In their flailing towards mutual reliance, Kaji and Misato reveal how even adults are still often putting on costumes and playing roles, attempting to find identities that fit more snugly than whatever garb they’d previously adopted.

The awkward power dynamics of their relationship are further complicated by Misato’s new source of urgency. She is desperate to protect Shinji even to the point of jeopardizing her position within NERV, which means she’s willing to take wild independent actions, but those actions ultimately lead her to relying on Kaji again. There is a messiness to their relationship that feels achingly real – neither of them can quite overcome the unhealthy instincts that initially propelled their passion, but both of them also truly, deeply care for each other, regardless of whether they’re able to express that love through healthy channels. The two draw close for a moment, but Shinji’s approach separates them; in fact, they’ve become so good at hiding their intimacy that it is simply lost in the shot transition, distance established before we even cut back from Shinji’s entrance. And thus Shinji finds himself in a man-to-man chat with NERV’s lackadaisical contractor.

“I thought you’d be a more serious person, Kaji.” “Once you’re comfortable around someone, you really don’t hold back, do you Shinji?” Thus begins one of Shinji’s vanishingly few productive conversations, conducted with one of those rare individuals who doesn’t actually want anything from him. The easy confidence with which they converse only makes Shinji’s situation seem all the more tragic; though Shinji’s attempts to connect with others generally end in him screaming in agony while piloting the Eva unit, connection doesn’t have to be that difficult. It could be as easy as this lighthearted conversation with Kaji, if only Shinji were afforded a proper community within which to express himself. Even for that light jab above, Kaji swiftly apologizes, working hard to keep things comfortable and non-threatening. So much of what we would define as productive, cordial conversation is here offered to Shinji for practically the first time, and somehow without strings attached.

Sensing the young pilot’s unease, Kaji announces that “I’ll show you something cool,” and drags Shinji off to perhaps the single uncontested square of happiness and good feeling in all of Tokyo-3: his beloved watermelon patch. Something small, something simple, something his – the plain satisfaction of watching plants grow as a result of your efforts, a tiny patch of the world where things make sense, where your striving is obviously appreciated. It might seem like a small, perhaps inconsequential addition to the text, but Kaji and his watermelons have always struck me as the closest thing to a “solution” that Evangelion ever offers. We will not find satisfaction and purpose by setting our sights on “revolutionizing the entirety of human interaction” – we must find it in the little things, in the tasks we’ve chosen for ourselves, and the satisfaction we let ourselves take from them.

 Kaji watering his melons is the closest thing Eva offers to a happy, healthy adult character making productive use of their time; it is the quiet suggestion that has ultimately informed my movement beyond Evangelion’s anxieties perhaps more than any other single concept raised by the show, a gentle and sympathetic instruction to go for a walk, read a book, or otherwise find something that preoccupies and ever-so-slightly fulfills you. For those as burdened by anxiety and self-hatred as Evangelion’s leads, “try watering some plants” might seem like a superficial or ridiculous suggestion – but in the long run, it may well be the only thing that works. “Nurturing something is really great,” Kaji reflects. “You can see and learn so many things from the process. Like what’s enjoyable.” Preposterous as it sounds, he is absolutely right.

Of course, Shinji is far too wrapped up in his anxiety and depression to appreciate the escape Kaji has found, and thus immediately responds “…and like suffering.” To this, Kaji asks an odd question: “do you hate suffering?” He does not try to deny suffering like Asuka would, or even assure Shinji it will abate like Misato might – he instead asks how Shinji feels about suffering, and if he can maybe learn to live with it. We all suffer; existence is, to a greater or lesser extent, an experience defined by suffering. But rather than flee from suffering, as Shinji has with his actual running away, or Gendo has with his mechanical armor, Kaji suggests finding a happier relationship with suffering. Suffering, anxiety, grief – all of these emotions will live within us forever, always coloring our experiences with the outer world. We cannot escape them, so we must learn to live with them – either through no longer seeing them as hated enemies, or through finding our own way to peace like Kaji with his watermelons.

And then Kaji says something important, possibly the most important thing of all: “knowledge of suffering makes you all the more capable of kindness to others.” Perhaps it’s a lie, perhaps it’s just a way of offering consolation to those who live in unhappiness. But whether or not it’s true, it is a hope worth believing in – that we can emerge kinder for having suffered, that we can harness our pain to avoid unleashing pain on the people around us. Suffering does not inherently make you a good person, it is true – but suffering can be put to positive use, can inform our desire to make the world a gentler place, can inspire our passion for showing others the way forward. As an unhappy teen incapable of seeing any meaning in his misery, Kaji’s words gave me hope the first time I watched Evangelion, and they inspire hope in me still. Suffering can harden us, but it can also help us be kind.

After that brief glimmer of hope and understanding, the rest of episode seventeen is a slow, steady march towards the executioner’s block. While Kensuke gripes about his desire to become a pilot, Toji is called to the principal’s office and told of his grim destiny. His thoughts are unspoken, but no less clear; later, we see him later staring at the incinerator, disposing of the burnable garbage as he carries out his class duties. The sequence echoes both his fast and his future; on the one hand, this is ostensibly a continuation of his scholastic normalcy, the standard duties that have defined his life in Tokyo-3. But staring into that fire, he can see the future as well – the cataclysmic violence of the Eva units, something he was all too happy to condemn as terrible and unnecessary, something he himself will soon be instigating. In the flames of the incinerator, Toji can see his old self burning away.

“School is now closing,” an announcer intones, Toji caught in the late-afternoon sunlight as he says goodbye to his civilian life. The tragedy is made all the more acute by the arrival of Hikari, once again attempting to breach the distance between herself and Toji. As always, she begins by lecturing him on his class duties, the only way she can justify opening a conversation to herself – the only route through his AT field, or perhaps outward through her own. But that conversation swiftly turns in a fortuitous direction, allowing her to suggest making lunches for him, a genuine connection between them. The camera frame illustrates the vast expanse dividing them from outside the window, conveying them as distant poles. And then, the connection is made – she makes “too much food” for her sisters, he “can help her out with the leftovers.” The gentlest possible affirmation of a bond, of concern, of closeness, but it is so precious to them. A scene that would serve as a great victory in your usual romance or drama, here lent a solemn formality and ominous import through its context within the episode proper, and the steady trilling of birds marking the day’s end.

Episode seventeen concludes on a scattering of synapses, a few last stabs at normalcy before the horror arrives. Asuka attempts to flirt with Kaji, Hikari hums to herself as she works on the next day’s lunches, Toji sends a final ball through the schoolyard hoop. There are times when there is nothing to say, when no words can account for the pit in your stomach, when no action might lead to a different, better outcome. Among its many characterizations and interrogations of human emotion, Evangelion’s seventeenth episode stands as a harrowing encapsulation of that feeling, of dread personified. As the ball hits the basket, silence reigns. Unit 03 has arrived.

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