We open on a young woman thrashing in bed. She’s young (but an adult—mid-twenties at the latest), blonde and fair. Pretty, but sweat-soaked and talking to herself. She’s babbling, not words we understand, but we recognize some: be like you and prophecy and no, not him. She rolls and shifts, shaking the bed, until someone grasps her by the shoulder and she sits up with a start.
There’s another woman crouching next to the bed, her face wide with concern. She’s a few years older, darker—dark hair, tanned (olive?) skin, an expression that defaults to stern but right now looks scared. She starts brushing the other woman’s hair out of her face, and the other woman bats her away. “I’m fine,” she insists. “It was just a dream, and I’m fine.”
"It didn’t sound like just a dream," the dark-haired woman replies, and the first woman rolls her eyes. Careful hands touch her forehead, her cheeks, her neck. "I can stay home. I don’t have to—"
Another eye-roll. “I’ll be fine.”
"I’ll be fine." Gabrielle shoves her partner—a woman with a modern name, Eva or Zoe or Lena—toward the bedroom door. "Go to work."
"I’ll check in on you later," Eva threatens.
"I know," Gabrielle says, and she kisses her wife goodbye.
Omg I would watch this so hard.