Hi everyone. This is a multi-part story that I've been working on for quite a while; I decided to whet all your tastes by publishing a preview; the prologue and the first part. I've spent quite a while planning the details of this story, and I'm excited to see where this is going. I don't plan on publishing the rest until I've finished (and I WILL finish) so keep this page bookmarked or follow the story to see what happens next.
The other reason I'm publishing is because I'm looking for betas. I don't know very many people in the Angel fandom - or what's remaining - so I thought I'd try and reach out here to see if anyone's interested in giving me feedback and wants to read the next part. My email address is hidingincanada at gmail dot com, if anyone's interested.
This takes place after the After The Fall comic run. The fic does require that you have finished watching AtS, but it doesn't require comic knowledge, since I explain everything that happens in the first chapter. You won't be lost, I promise.
PARIS, FRANCE
It was a dream she had had many times before.
The elements were the same, every time – the handsome man who stood triumphantly in a field strewn with rotting corpses, the glowing blue thing who smiled as it drove a spear through the man's chest, and the angry wail that started in the distance and grew louder and closer, the blue warrior dancing and leaping in celebration of the destruction of a deadly foe, and Sophie would wake up with a stinging pain in her temples, her bedroom dark and still and silent.
These are the constants:
Sophie turns to her side and looks at her alarm clock, the red numbers telling her it is exactly 5 AM. She reaches across the sleeping figure of her husband and turns the alarm off, realizing that setting it for six was hopeless optimism. Quietly, she slips out of bed, and tip-toes across the room so as to not wake Guillaume. She pulls on her fuzzy blue bathrobe, walks down the hall (past Jean-Michel's bedroom) and enters the kitchen, where she makes the first coffee of the day.
She holds herself perfectly still, moving only to bring the mug to her lips, while she wills away the dull throbbing pain in her head. Details from the dream flash across her mind – the drops of blood rolling off the vampire's leather jacket or the long, blue hair of the warrior whipping through the air – and Sophie shudders, like someone has doused her with ice water. She shakes her head firmly, as if banishing the vestiges of the dream, and purposively stands up,. She opens the front door, finding today's copy of Le Monde on the doorstep. She pours herself another cup of coffee as she skims the headlines, reading an item on the latest embarrassing thing done by the Italian prime minister. The quiet is gradually broken as Paris awakens with Sophie; the dreamlike night giving way to the active, present morning. She hears the sound of the morning commuters, and sees the pinks and oranges of the sunrise peeking through the east-facing window. Guillaume enters the kitchen, eyes heavy with sleep, and pours the last of the coffee into his mug. He murmurs a greeting into Sophie's ear, places a friendly hand on her waist, and kisses her cheek. Sophie makes breakfast for herself and her husband. Half an hour later, she rouses a cranky Jean-Michel, and an hour after that, she drops off her son at school and continues to work, all thoughts devoted to the day ahead.
Today, it's different.
Sophie parks her car in her spot, checking her hair and make-up with a handheld mirror, and runs through the mental list of tasks she needs to complete before the first meeting of the day. She gets out of her car, a tasteful silver Miatta, and greets Christine, her receptionist, who has arrived at the same time she has. She hears her response but when she looks at Christine she can only see her mutilated corpse, the receptionist's body suspended by a rope attached to nothing; her feet swaying back and forth in a breeze which isn't there. She stares at the corpse's discolored face, the mouth frozen in an ghoulish silent scream, the eyes bulging out of their sockets. Then Sophie hears Christine asking her if she feels all right, and her receptionist is her receptionist again, pink and warm and very much alive. Sophie blinks once or twice and feels the nausea rock her stomach. Her mouth floods with saliva. Yes, yes, she responds, placing a steadying hand on Christine's shoulder. She smiles weakly, her eyes on the ground, unwilling to look directly at the girl. Just an upset stomach, she says. Better cancel the ten o'clock.
All day, Sophie is flooded with horrific images. The twisted and charred remains of her employees stare back at her when she gives out the day's assignments, and when she goes to the washroom, blood pours out of the faucets in place of water. She thinks she sees the man from her dream sitting in the coffee shop where she eats her lunch every day, but when she looks again, the seat is empty.
She goes to bed early that evening, leaving the task of helping Jean-Michel with his math homework to Guillaume. The dream comes again as it always does, but it has changed – it has become more vivid. She can clearly see warrior now, and can tell that it is a she, a tall, beautiful woman clad in reptilian green-gray armor, her blue hair dancing in the wind. Her foe isn't simply a man, he's a vampire - a powerful specimen, with a cruel smile. Sophie senses the warrior's determination, the purpose in her stance, and this time feels her savage pleasure as the enemy dissolves in a cloud of dust. She hears the wail as a terrible sort of music now, with clashing chords and pounding arrhythmic drumbeats, which grows louder and more frantic as the warrior dances in her happy triumph.
Sophie wakes in the middle of the night with a jerk, the t-shirt she wears to bed drenched in her sweat and clinging to her body. Guillaume shifts and yawns in his sleep.
War is coming, she thinks.