~ I don't own Dominion. ~
Songbird.
Chapter One.
She awoke to the buzz of a radio, quiet and incoherent. Her head throbbed steadily, rested upon an itchy woven sack. Although she couldn't see them, she couldn't recognise her surroundings; they felt foreign in comparison to the bunker she had been holed up in.
Her thoughts were lost in a hazy fog, but silhouettes danced in front of her eyes; ones with wings and swords. Comfort enveloped her unnerved mind, relaxing her tensing body, and prompting her to reserve her energy. Amid the fog in her head, she could see a grainy memory; she could hear car brakes screeching to a halt, ambulance and police sirens roaring—she could feel the horrible emotion of loss.
A familiar face popped up, one she remembered as Melissa Jones. Her skin was paler than death, eyes blacker than coal and teeth sharper than those of a shark. Melissa was screaming a foreign language at the authorities, leaping over their vehicles as if playing leapfrog. She remembered that evening in New Orleans, it was the first night of the Extermination War; when angels had descended from the skies and possessed those with weak hearts.
Melissa had been an artist, living beneath her in a flat full of paints and canvases. She had been a lucky woman with a bright personality; it had all been wiped away, though.
As for the owner of these memories, she didn't remember much about herself; she suffered from amnesia. It had been that way since the beginning of this war, she liked to believe it was the last good thing God offered to her; a clean slate.
[ ]
Brightness shone into the dark space, blinding the amnesiac momentarily. She flinched upon feeling the vehicle—in the light, it was obvious she had been contained in the bed of a military-like truck—dip, anxiety beginning to gnaw away at her relaxation; she hated the fear that clawed at her settled mind.
She estimated one person—male, larger and older than herself—approaching her. His breathing was steady, but an unhealthy wheeze could be heard if one listened close enough, and he whispered soothing words; as if he were talking to an easily startled rabbit.
"C'mon, up and at 'em." He murmured, tugging her from the uncomfortable metal bed. She was pulled from the truck, confused and anxious, which helped the elderly man guide her towards a small group of men; they seemed to be her escorts to...whoever, wherever or whatever. "Keep a close eye on her, lads."
The men gave a chorus of responses and she kept quiet. She cooperated with her captors, not that she was pleased with the rough treatment given by them, and found herself being guided down a gloomy corridor. A pair of hands remained on her wrists, prompting her to walk at a quicker pace; she would rather not be pushed for dragging her feet, thanks.
Focusing her eyes in front of her, she found herself worrying over the horrifically tight space of the corridor. She took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders and tried to understand these foreign feelings. She lived within a bunker in a once foreign wasteland, hidden deep underground and protected by the layers above, and she had never once felt claustrophobic; she had stuck to the bunker specifically because she hadn't.
So, there was absolutely no explanation for the sudden burst of it. She wanted to sum it up to the unfamiliar surroundings and strangers, but she couldn't make herself believe that; she had jumped camps in the beginning of the war, getting ahead of the angels by never sitting in one place for too long, and she had never experienced such a powerful feeling.
"So, what's your name?" The elderly man asked, voice low with a Southern drawl. "I like to know my future prisoners."
"I don't know." She replied softly, sparing him a glance; he seemed sceptical of the response. She elaborated, "I'm an amnesiac."
"Oh, right." He didn't seem too convinced, just like every other person to learn of her disorder. She could understand their viewpoints, as an amnesiac in the apocalypse was considered suspicious; she had learnt to ignore it, though.
[ ]
The buzz of a vintage projector was loud within the quiet room, quietened only by chuckles and the rush of liquid in a bottle. They had been standing in the background for a good ten minutes, waiting for the man to pay them some attention; she doubted that would happen without some prompting.
"Give me a minute, Gus." He told the elderly man, shooing him away for the umpteenth time.
Gus took a deep breath and returned to the group, apologising once again. "He's a social butterfly usually, trust me." He murmured to the amnesiac, shaking his head. "Honestly, you'd think we'd be grateful for these moments of antisocial behaviour."
"I can still hear you, Gus." The antisocial butterfly muttered, taking another swig from his bottle. "If you're so eager, untie the girl and bring her over."
Gus seemed unsure about the suggestion, looking between the pair with wary eyes. Clearing his throat, Gus took her wrists and untied them, just like the butterfly had asked; she felt horrible for putting the old man in such a situation. However, she still descended the carpeted steps and rubbed at her sore wrists; it would be better to get things sorted out quickly, or she could find herself in an ugly fight.
Hopping over the back of the sofa, she landed a seat or two over from the leather clad man, unsure of her situation. He seemed like quite a casual guy, slouched and ignoring her for a minute or two, and she felt strangely comforted with one leg pulled up to her chest and her eyes gazing lazily at the silent film.
It...held a nostalgic feeling about it.
The man turned his head to look at her, "Drink?" He asked.
"Ew, no!" She hissed without hesitation, cheeks burning bright red as the man started laughing. He stretched an arm over the back of the sofa, grinning impishly as he took a swig from his bottle.
"That...was the cutest refusal I've received for a drink." He commented and she tensed her shoulders, glaring. "How about a glass of water, then?"
She was slightly slower to respond, her mind buzzing with childish and abrupt insults. She muttered, "You're gonna drug it."
The man looked offended—genuinely offended—by the accusation. "Drugging people isn't my style, love." He replied, agitated. "Giving people chances, getting to know them and their motives; that's more up my street."
He returned his attention to the film, tapping his fingers upon the back of the sofa. She remained quiet for a minute or two, dark eyes looking to the film; she had never been one for silent films, but it was somehow...fitting to this. It gave her time to observe without distracting her with loud explosions, it gave her time to rethink her stubbornness.
Due to her tactic to remain underground, she had developed an antisocial behaviour; nobody bothered her, so she didn't bother anyone. Parts of her past personality remained, but it was enveloped by void—impossible to reach, impossible to find. Despite the praise many would give her, they would never understand the difficulty of it all; she would never wish it upon anyone, not even an angel.
She huffed furiously, scooting to the very end of the sofa and pulling a square cushion to her chest, burying her face into her arched legs. Tears burned the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall; she gnawed on her bottom lip to quieten herself.
As the projector continued to buzz, silence fell over them for a long period of time. Ten minutes turned to twenty minutes, twenty minutes turned to thirty minutes...
She didn't talk until the very credits of the film, but even then it was a simple and quiet question: "Can I still have a glass of water?"
Unsure if he had heard her, she peeked up from her cocoon, glancing towards the other end of the sofa; he wasn't there. Instead, he stood over by a counter with an almost relaxed stance; he was pouring her a glass of water, whistling low and quiet.
"Um..." She called softly, catching his attention for a moment. "Could you...prove it? Like, prove you didn't poison it?"
He nodded with a shrug, not seeming bothered by the distrust now. Once he had filled the glass, he took a sip from it and waited a couple of seconds, eventually looking to her with curious eyes; she nodded slowly. He returned to the sofa with the glass in his hand, "Don't spill it on my couch, love."
"What? Did you pay good money for it?" She muttered sarcastically, taking the glass from him.
He replied, "I traded most of my record collection for it." She cracked a half smile.
"You got ripped off, mate." Taking small sips from the glass, she was relieved to feel the cold liquid spill down her throat; it had been months since she had felt refreshed from drinking something. "The cushions are great, though."
He huffed, "Really? I've awoken with neck cramps from sleeping on these things."
"Women are adapted to cramps, they know all the right ways to sleep with 'em." She teased, "You should stick to beds, you'll survive longer."
"Are you..." The man scooted forward, lips curving into a toothy smile. He held his hand out, "I'm Julian."
She was still for a second, unsure of her answer; it would be unfortunate to ruin the moment, but her name continued to remain a mystery to her. However, she still took his hand in her own and shrugged, "Vivian."
"Well, Vivian..." Julian stopped her from questioning the choice, which she was both irritated and pleased by. "Welcome to New Delphi."
A/N: Ah, finally! I have completed this first chapter, take that! I shall not be defeated!
Due to the many Julian x Raguel thoughts bustling around in my head, I decided that I wanted to write a side story to Jailbird, which is based within season two (and three, if they decide to carry the show on).
Songbird will explore the intimate relationship between these two and it takes place way back in the early years of the Extermination War. That means no freakin' canon drama, plus almost free will to discover Julian as a character; I'm excited for it.
As this is slightly different to my comfort zone, I do ask that readers are patient! I never really write couples, thus I don't know the difference between several things. However, I have my own portrait of their relationship in my mind and I plan to stick with it.
This chapter is slightly shorter than I plan to make the others, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!
Ah! Also, due to the storyline I have planned for this story, Raguel will be referred to as Vivian in this story. Just felt the need to clarify that.
Reviews are appreciated, but don't feel pressured.