A whole song before the novel is even finished. Crazy, I know. This is moreso an OST, rather than one of my "normal" songs, but music is music. I know that Nova Genesis is technically just a book, but I'd still like it to have a theme. I hope you enjoy while I work on other uploads. ♡
Warnings: racism (microaggressive language), religious themes, alcohol use, psychological tension, period-accurate sexism, mentions of death / spirituality, light profanity, not proof-read.
A/N: I've been working on Nova Genesis for a very long time now, and I'm glad to announce that this is the very first chapter of the project! I hope you enjoy it.
☠︎︎ Synopsis & Parts☠︎︎
1966, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝐶𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑜, 𝐸𝑔𝑦𝑝𝑡.
It's late afternoon in Cairo. The air buzzes with heavy heat, the kind that sticks to your skin and cools from the lowering sun.
A woman in her early 20s walks the streets softly, like an elder through their childhood home. The streets are familiar, but they're no longer home for her. Beyond her memories, the place is far from welcoming. She knows truly that she wouldn't even be here if it weren't for work.
The African woman struts the narrow street lined with old British villas and vines, her heels clicking against the ground. Her appearance begs for attention. Her hair, pure white, like snow, is coiled into a 1960s bouffant, sculpted and deliberate — the kind of style that says "bold" with elegance. Priscilla Presley would favor it.
Her bangs are trimmed just right, though asymmetrical, just above her brows.
Her skin glows against the sunset, deep bronze-brown, a shade that draws eyes and whispers. It screams beauty among fire. Her eyes, slanted slightly, feline, carry the look of someone who knows more than she should — eyes that have seen the depths of man.
She wears a nice pair of red heels, though the color is more faded than vibrant. Her legs are mildly restricted by a black pencil skirt; above that, a clean white blouse, well complimented by a loose knitted brown cardigan. Her chest is adorned with random beaded necklaces, giving her a down-to-earth look.
A small white maltese trots beside her, tugging with entitled insistence. Like the dog had somewhere more important to be.
A voice calls out from behind:
“He bite?”
she turns, eyebrow raised. The man standing there is Joseph Sauniere — African-American, mid-twenties, dressed comfortably in a U.S army uniform.
She takes him in visually.
Well trimmed coils and a soft mustache. Light, yet visibly tanned skin. Probably from being out most days. His face, that innocent yet mischievous smirk, like a child who stole a cookie. She knew the type. Too innocent for such a job, but bills were to be paid.
He's got on a fine watch, so fine, that it screams "time waits for this man."
The woman smirks.
“He's got a mouth, don’t he?”
Joseph laughs. the sound is like a whistle, a little surprised. He steps closer, hands tucked in his pockets.
“Didn’t expect a comeback like that.”
“Then you don’t know many women from Cairo.”
“Guess not,” he says, smiling. It's a smile he can't really contain, she notices. So ambitious and full of life, that it refused to leave his mouth.
“He’s not mine. Trust me, I wouldn’t waste good money on a snobby ball of fur. Belongs to one of my clients.”
Joseph looks around. Pale walls, the iron gates, the polished cars. He hums softly.
“Clients, huh? What do you do for work?” he asks. “I sell dreams to the hopeless. Or, more formally, I speak to ghosts.”
“Speak to ghosts?” “that's what they pay for.”
He laughs again — quietly this time. A chuckle to himself. 'What a girl.' He must've thought.
“You remind me of a man I serve with," he said. "He's into all that stuff. Ghosts and the afterlife.”
“is he, now?”
“Somewhat,” Joseph says. “His wife. She's ill. He don't think she gone make it. S'like he wants to hold onto this possibility that he could still be with her when she's gone.”
The moment hangs — strange, thick, heavy. She feels something pull inside her. There's something about the way he talks about his colleague.
"Energy never dies, you know." "Well, ma'am, that don't mean it stick around either."
...
“You talk too much for a soldier.”
“You listen too hard for a stranger.”
The dog barks, as if feeling forgotten. Such a self important flea bag. Dominique turns away. "I'm Joseph. Joseph Sauniere." "I'm Dominique."
🍨
"A lovely name for a lovely lady. French, isn't it?" "Yes, sir." The elderly white man lights a cigar, shuffling in his chair. It's been hours since her encounter with the soldier – the same small white dog hops in the man's lap, as if familiar with him. "My wife enjoys doing business with you. You and designer hand bags do take a lot of my wallet these days."
Dominique smiles curtly, her cat like eyes diving into his own. It sounded sweet on the surface, but she wasn't lost on the strangeness beneath it. Comparing her to one of his wife's luxuries. A pricey commodity, rather than a business woman offering a service. It left a sour taste on her tongue, but she simply nodded.
"I suppose you're ready for your own seance then?" "Well, I didn't pull from my fortune for some chipper small talk."
Dominique purses her lips. "Right," she replies. "Come sit on the floor with me." She takes a spot on his fine, mahogany patterned carpet. The man places his dog on the floor, rising with a bit of a grunt. His back cracks as he gets down on his knees. "Heavens." He mutters.
"Now wot?"
"Hold my hands, Mr. Winston." She reaches out, crossed legged. Reluctantly, he does so. She winced at the feeling of his wedding ring scraping across her finger. "Aren't you missing a few items? A board or some kind of crystal ball?"
"Now, now, Mr. Winston. You are a funny man. If I needed all of these extra utensils, would I really be branding myself as the BEST psychic in Africa? I'd certainly be out of business by now."
"I think that's a pretentious statement itself. If you're so good, I — hm.." the man ponders. "Tell me what I'll eat tomorrow." He demands, as if it were some sort of "gotcha" moment.
"...Mih....Mr. Winston. I can't see into the future, I'm... I talk to ghosts — and look, even if I could, this would be entirely paradoxical. If I tell you what you'll eat tomorrow, you could just eat something else, or even decide to eat it just because I said so. It would have to be something outside of your control." She shakes her head in frustration.
"Are you ready, Mr. Winston." Her tone hardens, like a mother who's told her child one too many times to behave. "I suppose I am." He sighs. Dominique's breathing had become heavier than necessary for someone who hadn't even begun.
"Now, close your eyes. And think of who it is that you want to see."
They both close their eyes. After the passing of a few seconds, the man begins to frown. Naturally, Dominique can't see this, as her eyes are closed, but she feels it. The shift in energy. His energy.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Winston?"
"I...don't see who I'm looking for. I'm trying my best to visualize her but...there's someone else in my imagination. A young black man in a military uniform."
Dominique immediately feels a tingly warmth run through her face. Like static beneath her skin, vibrating through her veins as it heats her face.
"O-oh, dear. I believe our minds aren't aligned yet then," she lied. They were very aligned. She had accidentally passed thoughts of her own. 'Not during business hours' she thought to herself. It wouldn't be the first time she couldn't control her visions, but they rarely happened during a session with clients.
"Let's try this: keep your eyes closed. I'll do the same and yo-... You describe to me who it is we're looking for."
🍨
"Slim, chocolate, beautiful eyes like a...like an angel." Joseph reminisced, sitting at a bar. He received a smack across his back from his partner, who was already a few drinks in.
A southern brunet man with black aviators. He looks young, happy, like he's new to the game. His dark brown hair is freshly combed, all aiming for the back except one sexy little strand stuck to his forehead.
"Don't let that Egyptian Jezebel fool ya. She's just a gypsy in a nice skirt. They'll tell you all the things you wanna hear, and rob you for all your worth; yer wallet and yer dignity." His accent is heavy, but he's got a nice light voice, an upbeat tone underneath every word he speaks.
Joseph smiles curtly at the man. "Miller, you've barely got enough for a glass of milk in your wallet. That dignity is the only thing you can hold onto, and if I were you, I'd keep my mouth shut if I valued it."
The man throws his hand up in a fake surrender. "I catch your drift. But I'm just saying if I, my friend, were you, I wouldn't spend this mission fantasizing about bringing some foreign woman back home to America. She's where she belongs — and I don't think the people in Cairo are keen on leaving such a beautiful place."
Joseph shrugs at his words. "We'd make it work." "Yeah, that's what me and Nancy thought when we had the twins. Now, I'm out here with you while you get hotter than a fox in a hen house, and she's bout six thousand miles back with 'er mom and paw."
"So, you've gotten their permission to marry her then?" "Permission? Hah! They'd blow my head clean off otherwise." He jokes, almost to comfort himself rather than make Joseph laugh. Joseph gives another curt smile, almost aware of the tension. Miller exhales, a breath more serious than anything he's said.
"I... I've had too much to drink."
"Yeah...ready to head back to the hotel?" "Yup..." He hops off the bar, fixing his uniform. "On we go then. Get you a nice shower, and maybe I'll irk you more with my "incessant yearning" over the "Egyptian Jezebel." He teased.
Miller rolled his eyes. "You're a real classic." He leeches onto Joseph as they stumble drunkenly out of the bar.
It's the 90s in Ankh Port, Mississippi. Janisse "Kissie" Love Sauniere is only a toe deep into her forced sobriety, trying to pave a different life for herself after years of addiction and ancestrial detachment.
At twenty-three years old, she's working part-time at a local smoothie shop for extra cash while she navigates her life as an aspiring guitarist, believing the worst of her life was over — but when a confrontation between Kissie and a lingering pain that should have stayed in the past, the reluctant psychic finds herself plagued once more with the visions that haunted her teen years, only amplified by a misanthropic deity with a taste for souls and a hatred for human desire.
Kissie navigates her powers and reconciles with her roots with the help of many spirits she befriends on her path to destroy this deity and his masterful design.
Warnings: themes of addiction, religious trauma, implied racism / microaggressions, mild gore (nothing too graphic, but still worth noting), time accurate dialogue, psychological horror, death, profanity, spiritual possession, occasional use of the n-word (by black people), and general 90s grunge-level angst. more to be added as the story develops.
Hii i'm one of Nova's art moots. I didn't know she had a co writer for Nova Genesis. is this a serious project?
hii !! yeah, it’s a real serious project <3 nova and i have been building nova genesis together for a while now. it’s kinda a mix of cosmic stuff, identity, and tragedy — very feelings-first writing. i mostly help her with structure + writing polish, but she’s the heart behind the world itself.
