"
Strange overtones
In the music you are playing
We're not alone
It is strong and you are tough
But a heart is not enough
"
The eerie silence that hung in the air was interrupted by a brick falling from crumbled mortar. It echoed through thick clouds of dust obscuring the light of dawn. It bounced off the bodies strewn across the upturned road, stuck through shattered windows, perched precariously from half-collapsed walls. Cement and dirt left a muddle of white and brown mist on their skin.
There was no blood spilt, merely it sat around cuts and missing limbs as if stuck in limbo between releasing and dripping. Eyes, those still intact, glassy. Those not intact - oozing slowly. Sunken holes in faces, legs, arms revealed bruises with no green, purple or brown.
A scene of life on pause.
Metal and plaster betray the illusion, the country houses still falling into each other, entangled in power lines. A spark occasionally jumps where they sit in a puddle of water or motor oil.
The body of a woman twitches. She is lying slanted between two pieces of bitumen separated by a dramatic crack, like tectonic plates. Her red hair fans from a loose braid, paling her skin.
Around her, the bodies are dressed in identical form-fitting armour, their weapons matching the grey-blue colouring. On her hip, a great sword is attached to a utility belt hosting several daggers. A crossbow is mounted on her arm, outstretched towards a chunk of road above the ground. Other warriors are adorned with firearms, ammunition, varying sword types, shields, bows and arrows. She is the only one that twitches.
A loud whooping sound as she breathes in with all her might. Her green eyes are open wide, panicked and watering. She clutches at her throat as she hyperventilates, coughing and spluttering, her body spasming. She claws at the ground, her legs, her torso, an ungodly creaking emitting from her as she froths at the mouth. She rolls to her side to spit out mucus caught in her throat, then presses her forehead into the bitumen to relieve pressure from the rest of her body.
The seizure overcomes her, and her eyes eventually close. She slumps, unconscious, her body still shuddering.
The feint sound of wings flapping announces the arrival of a man out-of-place in the scene. He wears a beige trench-coat over a suit. Crouching down next to the woman, he reaches two fingers towards her head.
On impact, they disappear, the same fluttering sound the only indication they existed.
The woman opens her eyes lazily, several sensations saturating her awareness and overwhelming her. White, beige, cream, pearl walls; blue, piercing, fluorescent lighting. They burn holes in her vision.
Her breathing quickens, her chest simply rising and falling causes panic. As her eyes adjust to the brightness, she begins to take in the forms of objects around her. And in her – a tube protrudes from her face, forcing in oxygen.
She tries to sit up, to take the mask off her face, but she is restrained. She sees the straps on her wrists and chest. She can suddenly feel the leather cutting into her skin. She tries to speak, to scream, but can only manage a gurgle.
There is a thumping in her chest, creeping into her ears.
In a final attempt to sit up and free herself, she falls back into sleep. Her breathing eventually slows.
Late afternoon sun warms her bed frame. She feels it on her arm before she feels anything else.
When she opens her eyes, her vision is clear. There is nothing on her face, nor are there lights directly above her.
She sighs, and then freezes. Yes – she is breathing. For a moment, she must remember the once automatic response. She lifts her heavy chest with one breathe, allowing its weight to push out the rest. Her heart beating causes it to shudder as it exits. Her heart beating…
She moves her head slightly to consider where the sun has settled on her arm. It's warm, she thinks. Warmth.
She notices IV drips standing by her, with tubes leading into her body and arms.
She swallows. It catches, making her eyes water and lurching her body forward. The drips squeak as they drag on the linoleum. She coughs and clutches her chest in pain.
"What the fuck…" She croaks out in a whisper, licking her cracked lips. Her throat immediately hurts after speaking.
"You're awake." The monotone statement is issued from the deep voice of a trench-coated man standing by the window.
She turns to look at him, still holding her chest. She forces another breath in and holds it. She tries to let it out slowly but is caught in another cough.
This one proves more violent than the last, turning into a fit. Her eyes sting, and she can taste… She can taste!
She can taste blood.
She is gasping as the coughing subsides. The room begins to tilt and soften, her head lolling back. She feels a strong grip on her arm and acknowledges a plastic cup that is now in front of her.
She takes it with her free hand. It's cold, she thinks.
"You should drink this," trench-coat man says. "Or you will fall unconscious again."
She sips it, and sputters, but keeps sipping. The cool water soothes her raw throat, and she begins to feel grounded. Relief washes over her as she downs another cup, clearing her throat with no issue.
She sighs, content.
"Welcome back, Dawn." The man speaks with detachment.
"Dawn?"
"Yes. That is your name."
She frowns. "Right…"
"Do not be alarmed. Amnesia is to be expected after the trauma your body has gone through."
"Trauma…"
"Yes. Trauma from the battle you fought several months ago."
Battle… Months… Dawn begins to piece together the concepts. "Yes… I was… I was dead."
The man nods. "Yes. You were dead."
"How…"
"We do not know. There seems to have been fourteen of you that were… for lack of a better word, 'resurrected'. With no obvious correlation between you all."
"'We'…? Who are you?" Anxiety begins to simmer, and an emotion that she cannot put her finger on sharpens her awareness.
"My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord."