A strange shadow is gripping the edge of the wall behind her, standing to the side as though geckoes suddenly married groundhogs, waiting for the inevitable post-winter contest out of antiquity. It crawls along her body-tube, the flexible pipe full of white liquid her kind seem to need to survive.
“Laneet,” he ventures as he closes his eyes, feeling his lips peel like the papery bark of a strange dark tree he saw once, in a painting from one of the TARDIS storerooms. “There’s someone behind you.”
She does not turn, and then, a strange buzzing sound.