screenstalker

I can't run, I can't hide. What the hell else can I do?

You could try shooting it.

I'm the worse shot in the world! And that thing's not gonna stand still and let me line up a shot, now is it?

Then you've got to make it stand still.

Charmagne danced sideways, trying to give herself room to think. The lumbering giant in the black bandages came after her, its every footfall shaking the ground. Flakes of mortar fell from the ceiling - Charmange suddenly wondered what would happen if it brought the roof down on top of them. You'll die. Obviously.

The screen-stalker was still watching, still smiling. Still enjoying her peril. In fact, he'd sat down on the ground, stretched his long legs out within the confines of the protective circle, and had produced another tub of popcorn from somewhere. He caught her eye and grinned.

There was no time to respond. With a howl of rage, the creature made another run at her, its huge claw-like hands spread wide to catch her. She stumbled out of the way, her feet sliding on the loose sand. One hand came so close to grabbing her that she felt the wind of it passing. She tried to break into a run before she'd got her balance back, and succeeded in spilling herself to the ground. Through some instinct she didn't know she had, she managed to roll away from the next attack. The huge beast was right over her. She squeezed her eyes shut and fired at the gun at it.

From the roar of pain, she guessed at least one shot found its mark. She didn't wait around to make sure, instead scrambling to her feet and sprinting back across the room. She ended up in front of the raised dais. Her lungs felt like they were on fire; her entire body was trembling. She cursed every cigarette she'd ever smoked, ever pizza she'd ever eaten, every night she'd spent in front of the television instead of at the gym.

The creature was staggering, fluid pouring from two holes in its chest. No, not fluid - sand. Grey sand flecked with silver, like powdered granite. It carpeted the floor with a noise like whispering water, but seemed to hinder the giant creature none at all. It stopped to sniff the air, located her again, then started into that lumbering run. Charmagne knew by that point it would take the mummy seven strides to cross the room, gaining speed with each second, then two more to skid to a halt. She backed up until she was right up against the dais, the rough sandstone cool against her back. This time, she did not dodge out of the way until the very last second.

The giant swiped at her, missed by inches, then couldn't stop itself in time to avoid ploughing into the pile of sarcophagi atop the dais. It lost its balance and fell, its huge arms outstretched but too slow to check its fall. It crashed into the sarcophagi with so much force the ground shook and huge chunks of stone were dislodged from the ceiling and walls. Charmagne was knocked off her feet by the tremor and went sprawling.

She recovered faster than the mummy, who had to struggle to free itself from the pile of rubble. Part of the wall that had been knocked down when the creature burst out had further collapsed, pinning it to the ground. Its tree-trunk legs kicked at the air in slow-motion, like a swimmer in treacle.

Charmagne rolled to her feet, the gun still gripped in her hand. There was no way to get a clear shot at the mummy's head from where she stood, but if she climbed up the tiers to a vantage point it would give the creature time to escape. So instead she ran forward till she reached the kicking legs and fired three shots into the backs of both knees.

The creature howled in pain. Shiny grey sand poured out from the destroyed kneecaps.

She retreated to a safe distance and watched the giant try to right itself. With its legs no longer able to support its weight, it could do nothing more than push up into a sitting position. As she watched its effort, Charmagne felt a wave of pity for the creature - closely followed by one of anger towards the man who'd made sport out of this whole event.

The screen-stalker was still sat with his popcorn balanced on his leg. As she approached he looked up at her and raised an eyebrow.

'It's not dead yet,' he noted. 'You'd better kill it outright, or it'll just keep coming after you.'

Charmagne tossed the gun down just inside the protective circle. 'Balls to this game. Do it yourself.' Then she turned and strode away from him.

'Well now, that's an interesting tactic. Are you sure you want to be unarmed right now?'

She ignored him and kept walking. She also ignored the giant mummy, which had rolled onto its stomach and was dragging itself along the ground with its huge arms. It couldn't move nearly as fast as it had done before, but it would still be a close thing whether she could reach the exit at the top of the tiered steps before it caught her, even if she ran.

She didn't run. Keeping her pace fast but steady, she mounted the first step.

If asked, she wouldn't have been able to explain exactly why she did it. All she knew was she had no wish to be used as entertainment, and the screen-stalker had no right to "test" her like that. If he wanted to play games, fine - this was just a change of rules. Now he was the one who had to prove himself. Either he could sit there and watch as the crawling, dragging, crippled mummy caught and killed her, or he could do something to help her.

My God, you're willing to die for your principles? I didn't know you had any principles.

'Shut up,' she told the sensible voice in her head.

She concentrated on pulling her way up the stone steps, which were each about four foot high. Her arms were already aching and she still hadn't regained her breath, but she kept climbing with grim determination, and she didn't look behind her. Even when the dragging sound got real close and she heard the harsh, furious breathing of the injured monster.

Well, I hope your pride will be some consolation to you when you're being masticated by undead teeth.

'Shut up,' she said again through clenched teeth. 'It's not pride, it's wanting to prove a point. I still can't believe he's as bad as Selena makes out.'

Why not? After what he's putting you through, you still think he's a good person?

'As a matter of fact - '

Arguing with the voice in her head had distracted her from the fact that the mummy behind her was already dragging its way up the steps. Charmagne was less than ten feet away from the doorway at the top when a huge meaty hand slapped down inches from her foot. The blackened nails protruding from the fingers chipped the stone.

Charmagne abandoned her pride and vaulted up onto the next step. Her squeak of terror was mercifully drowned out by a thunderous gunshot.

The screen-stalker stood over the giant, one booted foot planted between its shoulder blades. The back of the mummy's head was now a smoking crater.

He looked up and met her eyes, then made a face. 'Fine. You win.'

i'd just like to apologise for the break in posting. Nano was in fact completed - final word count was 50,704 by end of november, which was a nice convenient total. Chapters will now continue to be posted, up to chapter 40, which is the end. If anyone's still reading this (or has ever been reading this, lols), please comment and let me know if you like it! Or if you don't like it. Or if you just wanna say hi. Hell, i'd be happy just to get spammed. :)

'How did you get in here?'

'The same way as before - through the TV.'

'No.' The screen-stalker got to his feet. He tried to hide his unsteadiness. 'I locked you out. That means you don't get back in unless I let you.'

'I found another way.'

'There isn't any other way.'

'Then how come I'm here?'

He stared at her, brow creased in thought. 'Someone else let you in,' he said at last. 'That's the only possibility. Someone - wait. Wait, I know who it was.'

Charmagne pulled herself up to her full height and prepared her response. He wasn't going to be pleased, not at all - he might even throw her out again just on general principle… or worse, because God knows what the man was capable of -

'It was 8-Ball, wasn't it?' the screen-stalker accused. 'It has to be him. He told me there was something about you, something different. He wouldn't tell me what, of course, but I knew he was disappointed in me for getting rid of you. I should've known he'd try and bring you back.'

Fine, if that was what he wanted to believe. And he certainly seemed less angry about that possibility than he would be if he knew the truth. 'It doesn't matter,' Charmagne told him. 'What matters is I came back because I need to talk to you.'

'That's strange, I thought we were done talking.'

'Not by a long shot. First off, I want an explanation for your behaviour. Why did you throw me out?'

'You know why. Because you're a liability and you got someone killed.'

Guilt squirmed in her stomach. She forced it down. 'Y'know, I've been thinking about that. If you remember, there were two people. By the time we got there, one was dead and the other had had her tongue ripped out. And yeah, I should've taken down that monster when I had the chance, but if I hadn't been there, would you really have been able to save that woman? You were pinned down, there was nothing - '

'That's enough.' He tried to silence her with his quiet voice.

It failed. 'You couldn't have saved her anyway! I didn't screw the situation up - it was already screwed up. If you really want to blame someone I suggest you start closer to home.'

He stared at her. She could see his jaw clench and unclench; could practically feel the waves of hostility radiating outwards.

'My point still stands,' he said at last. 'You're a liability.'

'That's just an excuse so you don't have to face the consequences of your own actions. You just blame everything on me - hell, it’s the new girl's fault, let's all blame her so we don't have to worry about petty things like guilt or responsibility.' She glared at him. 'That's it, isn't it? You can't accept that you got two people killed, so you're shifting all the blame onto me.'

He didn't answer her, but the flicker in his eyes told her she was right.

'You had no right to throw me out like that,' Charmagne went on. 'I know I handled the situation badly and I feel guilty as hell about it, but the last thing I needed was the extra burden of your guilt as well.'

The screen-stalker sighed then. 'Regardless of all that, it's still too dangerous for you to stay in here. Too dangerous for you and too dangerous for others. You can't handle yourself yet.'

'Really? Because it seems to me that if I hadn't shown up when I did just now, you'd be mummy-chow.'

His eyes flicked to the pile of sand and fabric that up until recently had been a mobile, hostile enemy. 'I had it in hand.'

'Oh, sure you did. Listen, I can handle myself just fine and you know it. You're just not willing to give me the chance.'

Her voice had been steadily rising in volume for some time, until it echoed back and forth across the huge room. When she paused for breath, the echoes were drowned out by a sudden new noise - an ominous rumbling, somewhere deep within the ground.

The screen-stalker looked at her. 'Well, I guess you're gonna get the chance to prove that.'

The rumbling grew louder till it reached a pitch. It was joined by the sharp grinding noise of stone on stone. Charmagne whirled round but couldn't identify where it was coming from. The screen-stalker must've been more informed than her, because he suddenly turned and faced the sarcophagi on the high dais.

With a noise like the earth being ripped open, the wall behind the dais burst outwards. Huge chunks of sandstone crashed to the floor - Charmagne narrowly avoided being crushed by one. She had only just recovered when the ground shook for a new reason.

Something huge stepped out of the darkness behind the wall. It was twice the height of a human and as thick around the chest as an oak tree. Its massive body was wrapped in pitch-soaked bandages, which had fallen away in places to reveal equally blackened flesh. It stepped over the rubble and the remaining sarcophagi as if they were only toys.

'What the hell is that?' Charmagne demanded.

The screen-stalker didn't seem to hear her. He took two steps back, his attention fixed on the huge creature. Then he paused and gave Charmagne a speculative look.

'I tell you what,' he said. 'He's all yours.'

He took a leather pouch from his pocket, undid the ties, then upended it. A thin line of purplish red powder flowed out. He turned a full circle and the powder settled down on the floor to form a side ring about him. As the ends met, the circle began to glow in the dim light.

Before Charmagne could ask what the hell he was doing, the vast creature jumped down onto the floor. The floor shuddered with the impact. She retreated fast to the far side of the amphitheatre.

The creature swung its huge head back and forth. Trails of black mucus drooled from the gaping slit of its mouth. It sniffed the air, then took two floor-shaking steps towards the screen-stalker, who seemed entirely unconcerned. Charmagne wanted to scream at him but had no idea what good it would do.

A low grumbling growl emanated from the creature's throat as it ducked its head towards the man. Again it sniffed the air. Despite the fact that the thing's face was only a few feet from his own, the screen-stalker stood quite calm, his arms folded across his chest.

The growl became one of disappointment, and the creature turned away from the screen-stalker. It cast its huge head about and this time caught Charmagne's scent.

'It's up to you now,' the screen-stalker called from inside his protective circle. 'You'll have to kill it.'

'What? You bastard! How am I supposed to kill it?'

'You said you could handle yourself.'

'Myself, yes. Giant psycho-mummies? No.'

The creature came lumbering towards her. She squealed and darted out of its way. It might've been big but at least it wasn't particularly fast - it was a moment before it realised its prey wasn't in front of it anymore, at which point it swung around to sniff the air again.

The screen-stalker relented and took out the spare gun from its holster. 'Alright, here.' He tossed it out of the circle to land in the sand a few feet from Charmagne. 'But you might wanna be quick about it, else you're the one who'll be mummy-chow.'

Charmagne snatched up the gun and for one dreamy moment considered shooting the screen-stalker right in his big fat smug face. But then the huge mummy threw back its head and howled like a wounded animal. Again she had to dodge out of the way as it made a charge at her.

Already she was out of breath, her chest heaving and her hands shaking. The creature turned faster this time, having to search for only a moment before locating her again. It was learning her tactics. There was no way she could outrun it, even if there was anywhere to run to - by the time she'd got halfway up the huge tiered steps it would be on her - and it seemed impossible that she could kill the creature, not with her hands shaking like that.

It occurred to her that she was very likely going to die. And what made it worse was the fact that the screen-stalker was watching like it was all just entertainment to him.

The screen-stalker was gone by the time she reached the corridor. It wasn't hard to locate him, however. All she had to do was follow the howls of pain.

As she ran down the corridor, she realised that the watery image in Selena's room had been misleading. The walls weren't smooth and white, but made of crumbling pale yellow stone. The floor was coated with sand and small pebbles, and the air smelled dry and cool, like the inside of -

- yeah, like the inside of a tomb.

She half expected what she would find before she even reached the throne room.

The corridor terminated in a huge stone archway inscribed with coiled lettering that might've been Sanskrit. Beyond that the floor dropped away in a series of tiered steps to a flat open area the size of a basketball court. The ceiling was high and mostly hidden in the shadows cast by the guttering sconces on the walls. At the far end on a raised dais were a number of sarcophagi, several of which had been smashed open. Other details about the room were lost on Charmagne, because her attention immediately went to the fight in the middle of the amphitheatre.

There were a number of figures involved, one in a black leather coat. The other three were taller, probably over seven foot each, and wrapped in yellowing bandages. Apart from their abnormal height, they looked laughable - slender, tottering creatures that might have shambled straight out of Abbott and Costello.

However, they did seem to be gaining the upper hand in the fight.

The screen-stalker danced and twisted, narrowly avoiding swipes from clawed hands. He held a long-bladed knife in each hand and was slicing at the bodies as they came for him. But the mummies seem uncaring of injuries that would have killed a normal human. One blade ripped upwards through a torso, sending out a shower of bandage fragments and yellow sand, but the creature just crowded in on him and tried to pull his head of with its bare hands. He only just slipped out of its grasp.

If he'd been fighting only one assailant, he probably would've been able to finish the fight quickly and cleanly. But every time he shoved or sliced one mummy, the other two would lunge in on a fresh attack. He had his hands full just holding them back.

Charmagne started down the tiers. The steps were so large she had to jump down from one to the next. She was only halfway down when the screen-stalker finally dispatched his first attacker.

He managed to knock the mummy onto its back. Before it could recover and before its companions could grab for him again, he leapt onto the prone body, slid both blades around the neck and yanked upwards, decapitating the creature. Its head went bouncing across the sandy floor.

Whirling, the screen-stalker brought one blade down on the head of a mummy who was attempting to grab him from behind. The knife caught it a glancing blow to the side of the face, ripping a long tear through the bandages. Sand poured out. The mummy staggered as if disorientated, and the screen-stalker took advantage of the momentary lapse, whipping the other blade out to slice off the top two inches of its skull. For a second the mummy remained upright, then toppled stiffly to the ground. It burst on impact, as if only its unnatural lifeforce had been holding its withered body together.

In the time that kill took, the last remaining creature managed to slip through his defenses and grab him around the throat. The screen-stalker twisted and stabbed it in the chest, but the mummy didn't so much as flinch. When he tried to pull the knife free for another strike, he found it hung up in the ribcage.

With a howl of anger, the mummy lifted him up by his neck. He choked, his feet kicking at thin air. The remaining knife was clenched tight in his hand as he stabbed upwards into one of the arms holding him. The mummy howled again. Grimly, the screen-stalker sawed at the limb, releasing a flood of sand and bandage fragments to cascade over the ground. With a final, savage twist, he severed the arm.

But neither hand released its hold. The mummy continued to hold him aloft with its right arm, while the severed left gripped the screen-stalker's collar and hung on like grim death.

As she scurried down the last few tiers to the sandy floor of the amphitheatre, Charmagne saw the screen-stalker start to sag and go limp, his body flopping like a rag doll as the mummy shook him. The knife fell from his hand.

Without pausing to think, Charmagne ran forward and snatched up the knife from the floor. The mummy either didn't see her or was too consumed by his murderous task to pay any attention. She darted behind him and jumped onto his back. It noticed her then. Its hand released the screen-stalker and let him crumple to the floor, then reached back to snatch at her hair. She shoved her face into the back of its neck where it couldn't reach her. Her nose filled with the musty, semi-rotted smell of the bandages.

Before the mummy could find a way to dislodge her, she rammed the long-bladed knife into the side of its neck with such force that the tip burst out from the other side. Then she took a firm grip on the handle and let herself drop.

The blade tore through the creature's spine. Its head flopped forward, held on by just a flap of leathery skin. The mummy tried to turn to face her, but after half a step its limbs locked up and it tipped over like a felled tree.

Charmagne had landed on her butt in the dust. As the last mummy toppled, she scrambled to her feet and spun round, making sure there were no other lurking in the shadows. The amphitheatre was deserted, save for the three mummies already returning to dust, and the screen-stalker. Who, she suddenly realised, was not moving.

In a panic she ran over, just in time to see him push himself up on his elbows. He looked around groggily, his eyes unfocused as he took in the three dead mummies with him on the floor. Then he glanced up at Charmagne and looked even more surprised.

'Charmagne.' He frowned.

'Hello.'

'What the hell are you doing here?'

His voice was harsh, and only partly because of the damage the mummy had done to his throat. It reminded Charmagne why she'd come there; why she needed to speak with him, and she got angry at herself for forgetting.

She tossed the knife at his feet. 'Helping you, apparently. Don't ask me why.'

This time she hardly stumbled. Her vision swam but didn't fade out and back like it had done all the other times. Maybe I'm finally getting used to this, Charmagne thought.

The room was larger than the screen-stalker's, and infinitely more welcoming. The walls were painted a strange, hazy blue, so much like a summer sky that she had to blink twice to convince herself she wasn't looking out through a window. The floor underfoot had the texture of green wood. Candelabra stood in all four corners, each holding five cream-coloured candles. There was no furniture, save for the television she'd just stepped out of. The large screen was mounted in a tasteful, art deco surround.

Charmagne was just enough of a slob that she could appreciate good taste.

'What do you think?' Selena asked. She was biting her lip as if genuinely concerned with the girl's opinion.

'It's nice. Do you live here all the time?'

'I... reside here. I've only just come back.' She sighed. 'I've been so long away, the place fell into disrepair. You should've seen it before - it was a lot nicer than this. This is just what I've been able to do in the time I've had since I got back.'

Charmagne turned, taking in the whole room. The candlelight danced across the sky-blue walls, making them seem to move as if stirred by distant breaths of air. 'Where did you go?' she asked. 'I mean, if it's not a personal question. I was told you got sent away - '

'Banished. Or exiled, if you prefer that term. It amounts to the same thing. I was sent to the empty lands, to the dead space between channels, where there's no light or sound or sense of time, and from where no exits open.'

Charmagne had to look away as the woman's strong voice cracked. Selena took a deep breath and let it out slow before continuing.

'It was my own fault. I can accept that now, although it took me a long time. Something you have to understand about living in here - it's not as simple as himself makes it out to be. It's not him-the-good-guy against a entire world full of baddies. A lot of the creatures in here are practically human in their intelligence and compassion. And yes, some of them want more than their allotted amount. It's only natural, if you see the way some of them live. Wait.'

As if she'd just thought of something, she crossed the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, and touched her hand to a spot on the wall. With a barely audible hum, a section of the wall folded in on itself like a paper shutter. Behind it was a pool of water, somehow hanging perpendicular to the floor. It rippled as the screen drew back.

'What's that?' Charmagne asked.

'It's a viewing mirror. Do you like it? It took me a lot of influence to have it installed. Look.'

She passed a hand over the surface of the impossibly suspended pool. It rippled as if stirred by deep currents, then abruptly its silvery surface became transparent. Charmagne found herself looking out over a vast desert beneath a red and violent sky. The view was distorted by the water.

'There's a group of dwellers called the Children of the Waste live out here,' Selena said, her voice soft. 'Some of the nicest and most peaceful you could ever hope to meet. Technically, they don’t exist, just as nothing in this world technically exists. We live and die at human whim. They watch our lives for entertainment, and at the end of the day they turn off their televisions and forget all that they've seen. Why shouldn't they? It's not like we're real or anything.'

The view changed, became an image of a small boy wrapped up in a ragged and dirt-coloured robe, the hood pulled up against a sandstorm. He led a sullen two-headed cow across the desert.

'Their lives will never amount to anything, never mean anything. They're trapped in the infinite loop of this world, doomed to play out the same few days of their lives over and over again for the entertainment of the uncaring.'

It would've taken someone a lot harder of heart than Charmagne not to have been moved by the images.

'In my naivety, I thought I could help.' Selena sighed with feeling. 'I thought maybe they deserved more than they had. So I broke the rules. I called in a lot of favours, and I used up a lot of my influence, and I opened a gateway for the Children of the Waste. I let them out into the real world.'

She passed her hand over the water again and the image wavered and changed. The new picture was distant and faint, distorted with static as if being received from a signal broadcast far, far away. It seemed to be of a small village in the middle of a rainforest.

'You'll have to forgive the picture quality - the mirror gateway isn't great at displaying images from the Outside. Anyway, this was the place I took the dwellers to. It's so far from human habitation that it would never have been discovered. Its occupants would never have encountered a human being in their entire lives. But apparently that didn't matter. Rules had been broken; they had to be put right.'

The image flickered again. This time it showed the same village, from the same angle. The only difference was that now the wooden buildings had been reduced to smoldering ruins.

'They had two weeks of peace before it was discovered what I'd done.' Her voice wavered again. 'Then he came, and he forced them all to come back, and the ones who tried to resist or to run, he killed. Then he burned the village so there'd be no trace of our world left in yours.'

'And that's why you were banished.'

'That's right.'

Charmagne nodded, her thoughts conflicted. Could the screen-stalker really have done that? She realised she didn't know him well enough to judge. And that troubled her. Because she'd thought she'd known him. She'd been willing to trust him; to put her life in her hands. Could he really be the heartless monster Selena made him out to be?

'I need to talk to him,' she said.

Selena gave her a distressed look. 'Why?'

'I want to hear it from him as well. I'm not doubting you or anything, but - '

'But you still think he's your friend.' Selena managed a tremulous smile. 'I can understand that. Hell, I wouldn't take my word for anything either. After everything he's put me through, I'm not exactly unbiased. Hold on, I'll find him for you.'

She passed her hand over the water. It rippled and went blank for several long seconds, then came up with an image of a long white corridor, stretching off into the distance. A figure in a long black coat was striding away down it.

'There he is,' Selena sighed. 'A man on a mission.'

She made a strange plucking gesture over the water, and a section of it seemed to peel away, like the top layer of an onion. She was left holding a thin, translucent slice of the watery picture. Turning, she dragged the water slice through the air towards the door. Two steps forward and it touched the wooden surface, immediately adhering itself flat. The rippling picture was now on the door itself.

Selena took a step back. 'There,' she said. 'You can go talk to him to your heart's content. Take your time, make up your mind. You know where I am, if you do want to come back.'

There was a hint of dejection in her voice, which made Charmagne hesitation. But she knew she had to speak to the screen-stalker. Maybe she just didn't want to believe he was that sort of person. If so, it was going to hurt even worse to find out the truth. She had to know anyway.

'Thanks,' she said, then opened the door.

Charmagne blinked. 'Do what?'

'I have to go back in a minute - I can't stay out here long, that's part of the deal. But if you want, when I go, I can hold the door open for you. You'd be able to get back Inside.'

'No.'

'Is that no, you don't want to come back in, or no, because you're waiting on our mutual friend having a change of heart and admitting he was wrong?' Her look turned serious. 'Because if it's the latter, I'm telling you now there's no chance. He doesn't forgive, he doesn’t forget, he will never ever admit to being wrong, and he does not change. He'll never change.' A note of bitterness crept into her voice. 'Believe me, I know.'

Charmagne thought of the way the screen-stalker had reacted, the way he'd thrown her out. She'd thought he was a pretty good person, someone she could trust, but what exactly had she been basing that on? She was a notoriously bad judge of character. Maybe she'd been wrong about him... she remembered the dark anger in his eyes, and shuddered.

Of course, everyone had ulterior motives...

'Why are you so keen for me to come back?' she asked. 'Didn't you warn me earlier to get out as quickly as possible and go back to my nice safe little life?'

'No offense, but that was before I saw what your life was like.' Selena cast a look around the shabby and neglected front room. Charmagne was suddenly very aware of the threadbare furniture; the pile of bottles, takeaway cartons and spilled ashtrays next to the sofa; and the general lack of personal touches throughout the room. It was a space she inhabited, but she'd never really thought of it as home.

'Alright,' Charmagne conceded. 'It's not that awesome. But seriously, why do you want me to come back? I find it difficult to believe it'd be out of the goodness of your heart.'

'Your cynicism saddens me. At least, it would if it wasn't so justified.' Selena sighed. 'The truth is I feel sorry for you. I've seen him do this so many times - befriend a mortal, bring them into our world, then ditch them just as fast. You weren't the first and I doubt you'll be the last. He used to be human, did you know that? But he's lost so many of his human traits now. He tries to regain them by living through others - people like you. Then invariably he gets angry and frustrated at the very things that make them human - their weakness, their compassion, their sensitivity - and abandons them.'

'That sounds like fairly human behaviour to me.'

'God, you are a cynical one, aren't you? Look, I think you should come back because I feel sorry for you and I wish I could've helped out more of the people he's used and abused over the years. If that's too nebulous and unbelievable reason, then I also want you to do something in return.'

'Like what?'

'A favour. I haven't decided what yet, but I like to be in credit for my favours. That way I've always got someone I can call on if I get into trouble.'

'I'm not sure I like the idea of owing you something non-specific.'

'Alright, then I'll give you an out - when the time comes, if you don’t want to do it, you can just refuse.' She shrugged. 'I doubt it'll ever happen anyway, so it's not that big a deal for me.'

'Then why do you want - ?'

'Charmagne.' Selena looked at her seriously. 'Not everyone can survive in our world. A lot of people crumble into insanity within the first hour. You've got something special, and that intrigues me. I think it'd be useful to have you as a friend. Failing that, it'd be almost as useful to be owed something by you.'

Charmagne bit her lip. 'What makes you think I even want to go back? Maybe I'm happy here.'

'Maybe so. Maybe I've misread the situation entirely.' She got up from her seat and went swishing across the room towards the television. Charmagne noticed only then that the screen displayed a picture of a strange room, its walls painted the colour of the sky and glowing with reflected candlelight.

'Where's that?' she asked, interested despite herself.

'That's my room. My own personal space. Everyone with a certain amount of power on the Inside can create one. It's like a hub. You get a doorway, which allows you access to any other point on the Inside, and if you're really lucky you get a televisual gateway as well, which lets you go out into the real world for limited times.'

'So if I came with you into your room, I could go from there to anywhere else in the TV world?'

'Pretty much. There're a few exceptions - like rooms belonging to other people. Those are invite-only places.'

Without waiting for a reply, Selena bent at the waist and pressed her slender fingers to the screen. There was a crackle of static and the gateway opened. She turned and gave Charmagne an enigmatic smile, then stepped into the television.

Charmagne watched her step down daintily into her room. A fleeting wish for such grace and confidence crossed her mind. She shook the thought away.

The woman turned, one hand placed on her hip. She smiled and waited and said nothing.

Without so much as a backwards glance at her home, Charmagne pressed her hand against the screen.

Back through the television into the tiny room. The screen-stalker slammed shut the door then opened it again. Where before there'd been a midnight black corridor there was now his familiar dim room. He strode in without waiting for Charmagne. All she could do was hurry after him.

'I'm sorry,' she insisted again. 'I just froze up. I - '

He whirled on her, and for the first time she saw genuine anger in his face, dark and scary as hell. But his voice remained controlled. 'Get out of here.'

'W-What?'

'Get out.' He turned on the television and immediately tuned it to her front room. 'Leave your gun and get the hell out.'

Charmagne just stared at him. 'I said I was sorry, it wasn't my fault - '

'This isn't a discussion. This is you leaving, right now.' He caught her shoulder and all but ripped the holster off her.

'Hey!'

With one hand gripping her shoulder hard enough to hurt, the screen-stalker spun her round and all but threw her at the television. Charmagne threw up her hands in futile protection.

As she impacted with the screen a jolt of electricity lit up her veins, then she was falling. She landed in a sprawled and shaking heap on the carpet of her front room.

Behind her, the screen-stalker stepped up close to the screen. 'Stay away from me,' he warned. 'You no longer have clearance.'

He drove his booted heel against the inside of the screen. The picture crackled and went black.

Her body stinging with carpet burns and that numbing electrical shot, Charmagne dragged herself to her knees. The world tasted fuzzy and unpleasant. Slowly she raised her head to look at the television, which now flickered with silent static. She lurched forward and stabbed at the controls.

It cycled through the channels. Chatshows, sports, rolling news, life, death, film at eleven.

She went through them all three times but couldn't catch so much as a glimpse of the dimly lit room with the photocopied pictures on the walls. Finally she sat back on her heels, defeated. In anger she slapped the screen, but all that did was hurt the palm of her hand.

He'd locked her out. Goddammit, it hadn't even been her fault.

* * *

The note she'd left was gone from the fridge door, and had been replaced by a new one in Bert's scrawled handwriting.

"Char - Call me when you get back. Or better still, next time call me BEFORE you go because it's only polite. Angela's pissed at you. I'M pissed at you too. Sorry, but I'm worried you're gonna get fired if you don't come in soon - or at least CALL."

The word "call" was underlined twice.

"Speak to you soon. PS. Your crummy beer made me sick. PPS. Wherever you've gone, you better bring me a present."

Charmagne sighed. According to the clock on the cooker, it was half past four in the morning - although which morning, she had no idea. Calling Bert would have to wait till a more sociable hour. Before that, she needed a shower and a drink and a lot of sleep.

The first two were easy to come by. Sleep however seemed cruelly determined to elude her. No matter how much she tossed and turned and tied her blankets into knots, she couldn't relax. Over and over she saw the creature's head disintegrate into fragments, spraying its contents across the room and across her. And she saw the woman's tongue being ripped out like a withered and diseased root. She saw the woman slump, get dragged away, and she saw her own hand lifting the gun, only this time she didn't hesitate but instead pulled the trigger to explode the creature's head like rotten fruit, coating the room with a fresh layer of black interior matter.

Over time, the cycle of thoughts became of cycle of dreams and continued to play in a continuous loop. Charmagne awoke many hours later with a splitting pain in her head and no sense of having rested at all.

She'd left the television switched on overnight, tuned to a dead channel, on the very remote chance that the screen-stalker would have a change of heart. After all, she could understand why he was upset, but it wasn't like it'd been all her fault. Okay so she'd reacted badly to her first firing of a gun and her subsequent hesitation had cost that woman her life, but all things considered -

Oh, who was she kidding? She was lucky the screen-stalker hadn't done worse than kick her out.

More in hope than expectation, she went into the front room.

Someone was waiting for her there.

It wasn't the screen-stalker.

'I was wondering when you'd finally show your face,' Selena said.

After everything that'd happened recently, Charmagne should've been getting used to surprises. This was just too surprising, however. She stood and stared at the woman in the red dress who currently lounged on her sofa.

'Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in,' the woman smiled. 'I knocked, but no one answered.'

'How - what - ?'

'Our last meeting wasn't very friendly. I felt bad about that. I felt like I should make up for it somehow.'

'But, how - ?'

Selena gave her a patient smile. 'I came in through the TV, which you so kindly left on for me. It's difficult, I'll admit, and there're a whole bunch of rules and restrictions which seem purpose made to inhibit my fun.' She held up one perfectly manicured hand. It shimmered with an unnatural glow in the faint daylight filtering in past the curtains. 'The hardest part, of course, is distracting himself. Otherwise he'd come bursting out after me quicker than a wink.'

Charmagne finally recovered her tongue. 'Get out of my house!'

'Just give me a minute to talk. A minute's all I have, anyway - one of those pesky restrictions I mentioned. I take it you and our mutual friend had a falling out.' She looked sympathetic. 'He's not the easiest person to deal with, is he? Very temperamental. And has that nasty tendency to blame everyone else for his own mistakes. Is that what happened? More or less?'

'None of your business.'

'Listen.' Selena sat forward then, and dropped the girlish act. 'I don't know what he's told you about me, although I can probably guess. And we did get off to a bad start, you and me. All I can say is, whatever he's said, it's not all true. He doesn't like telling the whole story because it shows up his own flaws and the mistakes he's made.'

Despite the hours of sleep she'd just had, Charmagne still felt exhausted and totally unable to cope with all this. 'Alright,' she sighed. 'You've got your own side of the story to tell. That doesn't surprise me. But to be honest, I've had it up to here with everything to do with your world, and if you don't mind, I'd just as soon you left and never came back. Sorry.'

'You're really that sick of our world? Already?'

'Afraid so.'

'Well now, that's a shame.' The mischievous light returned to her eyes. 'Because I was just going to ask if you wanted to come back with me.'

Stepping through the door, she was momentarily disorientated. It was like walking into a midnight black sack. As far as she could tell, there were no walls, no floor, no ceiling, just infinite black.

The screen-stalker paused for just a second to produce his torch from inside his jacket, then started running again. The torch beams bobbed and jumped, illuminating patches of blank, non-specific corridor. Charmagne was hard pushed to keep up with his long stride.

They ran past a dark doorway but he didn't even slow down. He seemed certain of where he was going, plunging into the darkness with no heed for what might've been lying in wait. Behind him, Charmagne started to lose ground and put on an extra burst of speed, terrified of being left behind in that impossibly dark place.

They passed another door, and another. Then, with no warning the screen-stalker screeched to a halt in front of another doorway no different from the last. He shone the torch inside.

Puffing and panting, Charmagne staggered up to the door. Inside was a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It was almost as dark as the corridor, save for one thing - from behind a heavy curtain there emanated a dull glow. The screen-stalker stepped into the room and ripped aside the curtain to reveal a television set. On its screen was an empty room in someone's house. In the real world.

He swore viciously. 'They've got out.'

'What do we do? Do we go after them?'

The screen-stalker popped the clip from his gun and replaced it with another he took from his pocket. She caught a glimpse of silver as he loaded it. Then he tossed a clip to her as well. 'The silver might be enough to kill them,' he told her. 'Outside, they'll be weaker, more corporeal. Keep that knife handy as well.'

He moved towards the television, then hesitated, his hand halfway to the screen. Abruptly he jabbed at the volume control at the side.

As the volume rose, both of them heard a woman's screams coming from inside the television.

'Oh, fuck.' The screen-stalker grabbed Charmagne's arm and physically dragged her through the screen.

She stumbled coming out, as always. With one steadying hand placed against the wall, she blinked until her vision cleared. The screen-stalker was already away, charging from the room with his leather coat flying out behind him. Charmagne sucked in a lungful of air and took off after him.

The screams were coming from the second floor. She took the stairs two at a time; reached the landing a moment behind the screen-stalker. He whirled towards a bedroom and kicked out against the closed door. It burst open like a gunshot, showering splinters. The screams increased in volume.

Through the door and into the bedroom. Into what used to be a bedroom. It was now a slaughterhouse.

Black shapes filled the room. In the sunlight filtering in through the windows, they looked more like people and less like shapeless shadows, but only just. Their smooth masks were the colour of old bone. Three of them crouched on the floor, their backs hunched like savaging animals. Between them lay something red and wet. Charmagne took one look and prayed it had never been human.

Several more Silents had hold of a young woman. Her eyes were huge with shock and she was screaming as fast as she could draw breath. Each shriek made the creatures flinch, but they didn't release her. In the instant that Charmagne ran up to the doorway, she saw one figure reach up and push its stunted arm into the woman's mouth. The woman screamed once more, a choked, garbled scream that died in her throat. The Silent pulled back its hand, clutching the withered and black remains of her tongue.

The screen-stalker lifted his gun and shot the three feeding creatures through the head. The masks collapsed in on themselves as they fell. He spun towards the others.

One of the Silents broke away from the girl and flew at him. He fired but the shot skimmed over its head. The creature smashed into him like a wave of darkness and threw him backwards.

Another creature darted towards Charmagne. She had only an instant to realise it was the same Silent that'd attacked her before, the one she'd unmasked. Then instinct made her whip her gun upwards and fire.

The bullet took the Silent in the face, just above the depression of its left eye. The face shattered and burst outwards. Charmagne didn't close her eyes in time and saw the flash image of black stringy material erupting from the ruptured skull. A chunk of it hit her in the face. She cried out, staggering backwards.

Behind her, the screen-stalker was entangled in darkness. The Silent wrapped its limbs around him, shreds of darkness reaching out of their own accord to snag his wrists and ankles. He tried to shove it away but his hands sunk into it as if it were little more than mist. Losing his balance, he fell back against the wall and almost toppled down the stairs. The silver chain was still wrapped around his fist - he struck out with it and succeeded in landing a solid punch.

One Silent still held the woman, whose struggles were becoming weaker as her consciousness faded. The creature dragged her across the room with inhuman strength, towards a door at the back. Charmagne saw it happening but was too busy convulsively wiping at her face to do anything else.

The screen-stalker lost his grip on his gun. It went bouncing away down the stairs. Black tendrils ensnared his wrist; he fended them off and snatched a knife from his belt. The darkness against his chest was like a solid weight crushing him. He drove the knife upwards into the creature's chest.

The silver blade met no resistance at first. As sliced upwards as if through gossamer. Then the blackness congealed and became solid and he had to force the knife up the last few inches. The Silent let out a whistling howl and tried to pull away from him. With his chained hand still holding it in place, the screen-stalker grimly twisted the blade. A gush of freezing cold fluid spilled over his hand and the creature collapsed in on itself. He kicked himself loose of its clinging remains.

He looked up; took in the scene in the other room. 'Charmagne!'

She'd cleared her vision and had brought the gun up to level at the creature dragging the woman. But then she'd frozen, her finger locked around the trigger. She kept seeing that head bursting open to shower her with innards. It paralysed her for a vital second.

In that second, the Silent pulled the woman out through the second door and slammed it shut.

'No!' The screen-stalker charged past, knocking her to one side. He leapt over the fallen bodies of the Silents and their victim, and straight-armed the door open. It swung shut behind him as he disappeared into the other room.

For a moment, all Charmagne could hear was the rasp of her own panicked breathing and the residual ringing in her ears.

Then there was a gunshot from the other room. Closely followed by a second.

She let out a small, hiccuppy sob. The overwhelming stench of the ripped open body in the room suddenly caught in her throat and she had to turn away fast before she threw up. There was another smell underlying it, thick like ozone - the sort that you tasted rather than smelled. Charmagne realised it was coming from the black innards splattered on her face and arm.

The second door banged open and the screen-stalker strode out with a face like thunder. Charmagne caught a glimpse of a bathroom behind him, painted red and black.

'I'm sorry,' she blurted as he shoved past.

He didn't answer.

Something snagged at her arm. She spun around and the tendrils dissolved like mist, releasing their hold. Shadows fluttered in the corner of her vision; she spun round again and they danced away. Something caught at her sleeve, and when she whirled towards it, it tore a chunk out of her sweater before relinquishing its hold.

The room was suddenly filled with darting shadows. They streaked across her vision with silent malevolence, grabbing for her arms and legs whenever her back was turned. Their touch was freezing cold and numbed her skin as they brushed past like ghosts. Charmagne let out a whimpering gasp. They were all around her - she couldn't even see the door she'd come in through anymore -

Two gunshots erupted in the silence, deafeningly loud. Instinct overtook Charmagne and she dived for the ground, her arms up over her head. The echoes roared and rebounded throughout the room. When she dared raise her head, she saw that all the shadowy creatures had fled into the dark corners.

No, wait - not all of them. The one that'd been communicating with the screen-stalker, the one that'd laughed, was hovering at the far end of the room, its mask little more than a blur of white in the darkness. It must've been a lot braver than the others, because already it looked like it was considering coming back at them.

Charmagne picked herself up off the dusty floor. Without looking at her, the screen-stalker slipped a knife from his belt and passed it back to her. She didn't know why the curved blade would be better than her gun, but she didn't question it. The knife felt warm and strangely light in her hand.

The screen-stalker lowered his gun and switched it to his left hand. Then he beckoned to the hovering figure at the far end of the room.

Hesitantly, still moving with that smooth, unnatural glide, the creature came towards him. It kept its head low as if preparing at any moment to beat a hasty retreat. The screen-stalker made a couple of sharp, angry gestures and got only a headshake in answer. He raised the gun towards the ceiling warningly, and the creature cringed away. With obvious reluctance, it gestured out an answer with its stubby hands.

'Crap,' the screen-stalker said out loud, making the creature flinch away.

'What?' Charmagne whispered.

He didn't answer. Around them, their voices had riled up the other shadows again. Dark shapes flittered about the edges of their vision. Charmagne found herself turning in shuffling little circles as she tried to look everywhere at once. Her heart was beating faster and faster and she felt like she was going to hyperventilate. Her breathing was loud and harsh in the silence.

One of the creatures took advantage of her panic. It darted across the floor, all four of its limb-like appendages propelling it forward while not seeming to move at all. The first warning she got of the attack was when the creature popped up right in front of her with stunted hands clawing for her face.

She screamed and struck out at it with the knife. It was a panicked, imprecise strike, but more by luck than judgment it found its target. The tip of the blade caught the side of the creature's mask and ripped it from its face. The mask clattered to the ground, suddenly heavy and corporeal.

Charmagne took one look at the face beneath the mask and screamed again.

It was a face only in the most general of ways. The skin was completely smooth and unblemished, pulled tight across whatever bone or cartilage was beneath it. There were no eyes, just a number of indentations, as if someone had dug their thumbs into the wet clay of the face. The mouth was an irregular hole full of curved teeth.

The creature sucked in air through the distorted mouth and let it out as a thin shriek, made all the more terrible by its near-silence. Charmagne felt his sanity stretched and threatened to break. She let out a wail and slashed at the creature with her knife. It encountered only insubstantial air as the dark shape slid out of the way.

Behind her, the screen-stalker had caught hold of the lead creature. There was a silver chain wrapped around his hand and him somehow grabbed onto a fistful of the dark clothing. The creature writhed and thrashed but couldn't break loose.

He gestured as best he could with his left hand, hampered by the gun, but the creature was too distraught to pay attention. The darkness of its body twisted, morphing into impossible shapes, but the screen-stalker held it firm. Other creatures swooped down and tried to snatch at his hair and clothes. Finally he lost his temper and fired three more shots into the high ceiling.

A chorus of whistling shrieks rose from the creatures as they fled back into the corners. The lead one twisted so violently that it managed to tear itself loose, at the expense of leaving a chunk of blackness clutched in the screen-stalker's hand. He shook it off as it evaporated into mist.

At the back of the room a doorway was flung open and as one the dark shadows streamed towards it. It was like someone had turned on a vacuum just outside the room. In a matter of moments they were all sucked out and vanished. Charmagne and the screen-stalker were left alone in the now lighter and somehow less silent room.

Slowly, Charmagne unwound from her crouch on the floor. 'What the hell was that about?' she demanded, her voice shrill and near hysterical. 'Because I did not like that at all.'

'They were waiting to get out.' The screen-stalker crossed the echoing room to stand in front of the television set. It flickered with silent static. 'They reckoned they had permission. That someone was going to let them out.'

'Let them out?'

'Into the real world. Technically, the monsters could leave this place, if they were invited by an Outsider, but none of them have tried that route for a long, long time.' He stared at the screen as if all the answers were contained in the static. 'It doesn't make sense.'

'How do you know what they were planning?'

'They told me, just now.'

Charmagne shivered. 'Those things weirded me out.'

'If it's any consolation, you did the same to them.' He frowned. 'I just don't get how she managed to convince them she was gonna let them out.'

'Beg pardon?'

'Selena. That's what the Silent told me anyway - Selena was gonna let them out into the real world. But there's no physical way she could do that, and the Silents know it. They'd never fall for a lie.' The troubled frown deepened. 'I don't like this. Something's not right.'

In Charmagne's opinion, nothing was right about the situation. She bent to pick up the mask that the creature had dropped, but as her fingers touched it, it crumbled into ash.

Beyond the door the Silents had fled through, all but inaudible, came a distant whistling laugh. It was cut off abruptly, as if a door had closed.

'Shit!' The screen-stalker took off at a run towards the far door. Charmagne could do nothing but follow.

The screen-stalker was in a foul temper by the time they got back to his room. 'As if my life wasn't complicated enough already,' he muttered.

Charmagne, on the other hand, was preoccupied with what the 8-Ball had said. She wondered if she should've said longer and heard what he had to say, but then she remembered the frustrating way he had of handing out information, and decided that if she'd stayed any longer she would've punched him.

Once the door was shut, the screen-stalker went straight to the printer and picked up the few sheets that'd printed out in his absence. 'Goddammit... alright, what else do I have to do?' He sorted through the sheets, his frowned deepening. 'Crap, crap, rubbish, unnecessary... shit, can these people really not sort out their own problems?'

Abruptly, he lost his temper and flung the sheets against the wall, sending them fluttering in all directions.

'Why me?' he demanded. 'Why, ultimately, me?'

Charmagne wondered if it'd be safe to answer that, and decided it probably wouldn't.

The screen-stalker pushed his hair back from his face and, with determination, pulled his composure back down. 'Y'know,' he said, 'I'm beginning to think you should maybe go home. The outside world might suck, but at least it sucks in a good way.'

It took Charmagne a moment to realise he was talking to her rather than just ranting at thin air. 'What? No way. I've only just got here.'

'That's why you should leave now, before it becomes impossible. I should never have brought you here - it was incredibly stupid of me.'

'What do you mean "impossible"? How does it become impossible to leave?'

'Because - ' He frowned again, searching for the right words. 'Listen, it's - '

'Let me guess - it's another difficult thing to explain? You should think about getting a new excuse.'

'Alright, fine. It's not that difficult, I'm just not great at explanations. See, there are rules in place to keep the monsters from getting out. But if you stay here long enough, the rules affect you too. They keep you trapped. I can go outside for brief moments at a time, but I can never stay.'

Realisation dawned on her. 'Wait - you're from the Outside as well, aren't you?'

'I never said - '

'You are! The way you talk about it - you came here from Outside, didn't you?'

'Is there anything I could bribe you with to drop this topic of conversation right now?'

'No way.'

The screen-stalker sighed in a long-suffering way that was already becoming familiar to Charmagne. 'Alright, yes. I was born in the Outside. A long time ago. I had the chance to make a new life in here and I went for it.'

'What sort of chance?'

'The sort I'm willing to talk about to random girls who I've only known for two days.'

'Tch, touchy.'

'Yes, now you mention it. Anyway, I got sick of not controlling my own destiny out in the real world. Life's so pointless out there.'

'Would you believe I know what you mean?'

'Everyone finds life pointless, don't try and empathise with me.'

The printer on the table stuttered into life, making Charmagne jump again. With an irritable scowl, the screen-stalker turned away and picked up the print out.

'Aw, crap.' The scowl turned into a grimace. 'Did I say something stupid like, "hey, at least things can't get any worse".' He glanced at his wrist as if checking his watch - except he wasn't wearing a watch. 'I'm gonna have to deal with this now or I'll never get round to it.'

'Oh goody, more work for us?'

He gave her a look. 'More work for me. Weren't we just discussing how you should go home?'

'No, a discussion involves two people. What you were doing was making a suggestion, which I'm intending to ignore. If you disagree that violently, you can try throwing me out.'

The screen-stalker gave her another look, one which suggested he was mentally weighing up how difficult it would actually be to physically throw here anywhere. It must've seemed like too much effort, because he shrugged. 'Alright, you win. Just stick behind me, do as I do, and if something goes wrong, run like buggery. Okay?'

'Sounds like a plan. Not necessarily a good plan...'

He ignored her and went back to the door, sliding the print-out into the wooden frame there. Charmagne stood on her tiptoes to look over his shoulder. The picture showed a blurry silhouette crouched in a dark corner. Maybe it was because of the poor quality of the picture, but the figure seemed to have no face.

'Let's go,' the screen-stalker said, pushing open the door.

* * *

It was another poorly lit, non-specific room. There was a haziness to the air that prevented adequate assessment of the space, as if the corners of the room were out of focus.

Bits of the darkness were gliding around.

Charmagne stood just beyond the doorway, a frown on her face as she tried to figure out what she was seeing. The whole scene was like an optical illusion... or a piece of film caked in grime and played at the wrong speed. At some points the gliding shadows looked like figures, hunched over and moving on all fours with impossible grace; at others they were amorphous shapes floating over the ground with little heed to the effects of gravity.

Whatever they were and whatever they were doing, they were doing it in complete silence. There wasn't a single sound in the entire room, save for the quiet breathing of the two humans.

As her eyes adjusted better, Charmagne noticed a glowing object at the far side of the room. It was difficult to be sure, but the rectangular shape suggested it was a television set.

The screen-stalker took a silent step forward, then pressed his hands together as if praying. He rubbed them together, producing a barely audible sound.

The effect it had on the gliding shapes was immediate. All of them stopped and rotated in the air. Pale blurs became visible where faces might reasonably be expected to be.

A few of the shapes drifted closer. Most of them, however, stayed back, as if wary of the new arrivals.

The screen-stalker touched his fingers to his forehead. It looked like a salute.

One of the shapes broke away from the others and glided up close. Charmagne caught her breath. The shape was indeed that of a figure - a solid figure at that - wrapped up in shapeless black clothing that failed to give any hint of the body beneath. The head was hooded, the face covered by a blank white mask. Completely blank - devoid of eye- or mouth-holes and lacking any markings or decorations. It was oval in shape and curved outwards a little, but apart from that it was utterly smooth and somehow very inhuman.

Two arm-like appendages snaked out from somewhere within the clothing. They were similarly clad in black, and terminated in shapeless stumps like a closed fist. The creature touched the knuckles of one hand to the top of its mask, returning the salute.

Behind it, the other shapes resumed their restless gliding about the hazy room.

The screen-stalker inclined his head politely, then gestured with his left hand. The strange creature made an answering gesture.

Charmagne looked between man and creature with incomprehension. 'What are you - ?'

She didn't get any further because the screen-stalker shot out a hand and slapped it over her mouth. Even so, her words were like electricity in the room. The creature darted backwards as if stung, and the rest of the shapes fled into the shadows.

The screen-stalker gave her a quick, irritated look and touched a finger to his lips.

You could've told me that before we got in here, she thought in annoyance, but she kept the thought to herself.

The creature was hovering a dozen feet away, looking like it was torn between curiosity and fleeing like its companions. The screen-stalker moved his hands again in strange gestures - at a guess, he was placating the creature.

It seemed to work. The dark shape glided a little closer. Charmagne saw that it did have feet - or at least, foot-like appendages - but seemed to skip the actual process of using them. When it moved, it looked like it had just finished walking or was just about to start walking, but try as she might, Charmagne never actually saw the feet move.

The creature responded with a few quick, sullen gestures of its own. The screen-stalker gestured as if asking a question; the creature answered evasively. He asked again, more forcefully this time, and in response he got a laugh.

It was a faint, whispering laugh, like twigs brushing together in a slight breeze. The sound carried on the silent air and made the hairs on the back of Charmagne's neck stand on end.

The whispering laugh roused the other creatures, and they started flitting back and forth in agitation.

Then, before Charmagne could do anything more than glance at the screen-stalker and frame a worried question in her mind, the dark shapes swept towards them.