With sudden impudence, the pretty eyes like blue wheels swivel, stabbing to the right; the long lashes quiver over apportion, gauging just how much to give away as they hover like cliff birds, for in a corner screen of their necessary theatre, a figure flickers like snow at the rounded edges of crystalline displays inset and bubbling out from each mooring, reflecting an element of menace in kaleidoscope.
One screen, two screens, three screens, four; something crawling over them ignites into life, graying out those screens where a boy lies dying next to a man and a woman in the park, beneath the lonely figure standing in the rain near a Jacob’s Ladder of bricks and gleaming liquid glass. Those uncomely, scratching, black, vaguely feminine fingers growl across the displays, drowning out a man and another man in bed together. They stretch like a pall through the reaches of the TARDIS, casting a shade against a melting white figure connected by wires to another man, whose cheeks are nearly bloodless too, for a different reason.
But again, five screens, six screens, seven screens more. The hand is flying now, soaring through the watching eyes, reducing the task of an angel in stone to nothing beside this.
For this is a travesty.
The bag of bats is on the floor.