xp_logs | Domino, in Africa

Back in the Sudan, Domino hears a song on the street.

Back in Nyala. And it's still as lovely as ever. Most charming little corner of the Sudan there is, Domino thought tiredly, hefting her duffel a little higher on her shoulder. She'd hitched a ride at the border with a group of aid workers bringing back supplies from Chad. They'd stopped in one of the camps just outside the city, of course, and she'd had to walk the rest of the way in.

It hadn't been a pleasant stroll. She was desperately tired and hadn't gotten nearly the sleep she should have while she'd been in N'Djamena and relatively 'safe'. Being back here, seeing just how little removing forty people from this mess to the questionable safety of another refugee camp had done... twenty-three, Domino reminded herself dully. You didn't get forty out. And she couldn't even say she'd buried the seventeen who'd been killed in the airstrike. Getting the survivors out of there had been more important than... gathering pieces. A laugh that was entirely without humor slipped out, and a young man walking by, fiddling with a battery-powered radio, gave her a suspicious look as he walked on.

Young? He was probably a year or two older than she was. A month or two ago, she would have made an obscene gesture at his retreating back, possibly adding in a couple of pointed insults in Arabic. At the moment, though, she didn't see the point of doing it, let alone doing it and potentially starting a fight. For a city of four hundred thousand people, Nyala had a feel that she didn't like. An almost-hush that broke into violence, when it broke, or so she'd noticed her first several days here. It didn't encourage one to make much in the way of noise, either figuratively or literally.

Several steps ahead, the man gave a triumphant grunt as static came from the speakers of his radio, followed by faint music. Sounded like local stuff, Domino thought, listening idly. Apparently Guy With Radio was going in the same direction she was, heading for the civic square. She kept pace with him, thinking with a flicker of weary amusement that she missed her damned iPod. Of course, by the time I get back to Tunis, the boys will probably have swiped it out of my room and souped it up. That tended to happen to any technology you left lying around in their immediate vicinity.

The song ended, and Domino couldn't quite make out the commentary in Arabic that followed. A woman's voice, sounding intrigued about something in a way that didn't sound put-upon. Domino picked up the pace on instinct, just in case this was some sort of breaking news she needed to know. But even as she did, the DJ went silent and another song started.

Definitely not local - it was in English, first of all, and there wasn't the ethnic flavor of the previous song, either. Domino slowed down a little, listening with a little frown. This was...

...when bleeding is feeling and feeling ain't real
Will I see you when I open my eyes?

The female singer's voice was low and strong and... natural, in an odd sort of way. No vocal frills. Domino tilted her head, the frown deepening. I should know who this is. She had a good memory for voices, or was supposed to have, at least...

When breathing's a burden we all have to bear
And trust is one thing we're taught never to share
Somehow you just seem to shine
When loving means breaking and saying goodbye...

Domino took a deep, somewhat shaky breath. Okay, so, quite the lyrics. The shift in the music from an almost conversational style to something more forceful caught her by surprise, and she caught her breath almost involuntarily again.

The very nice song could just... stop hitting home quite so accurately. Anytime now. Even as she thought that, it moved into what she guessed was the chorus.

You're a question to the universe, a wonder to the world
And somehow, when I'm with you, I never get burned...

Hah. Bloody hah. But she couldn't help envying what seemed to be behind the lyrics, a depth of feeling that the soaring voice communicated almost effortlessly. And she ought to know this voice, damn it. In the higher registers, it was more familiar, too. Familiar, but different, too. Older-sounding?

Caught in a trap of what we're taught to believe
When night overcomes day, life's so hard to perceive
And the clock keeps on ticking through night-shattered skies
Where the stars are all broken, and so are all the ties
But the one thing remaining is you
When I'm broken and bleeding, you pull me right through...

Her eyes stung suddenly, her vision blurring, and Domino wiped at them in aggravation. Okay, she knew she needed sleep when some anonymous song crackling over a piece-of-shit radio was making her teary-eyed. But... damn it. The lyrics and that damned naggingly familiar voice, and... I miss him so much, damn it.

She was sitting down on the curb before she quite knew what she was doing, her duffel bag sliding down her shoulder to the ground. Domino took another deep, shaky breath, resting her head on her folded arms and not trying quite so hard to hold back the tears this time. She was just tired. Just tired.

As Guy With Radio moved away, the song got more distant, but still audible.

And somehow, when I'm with you there's nothing I'd rather do
Than be right there
To escape my own life and all my fear
And I can't feel
Am I really real?

Domino sniffled, closing her eyes. It struck her finally, as the song trailed off, just who the singer was. Older-sounding indeed. I suppose the kind word would be 'mature'. But it was a definite stylistic switch, too, and if the chorus hadn't modulated upwards like that the similarities between this song and those CDs she'd lost in the old St. Petersburg safehouse would probably never have hit her.

It was far too amusing, really, in the sick black sort of way, that she found herself envying Plastic-Butt.