I should probably write shorter chapters…
I don't know if any of you have ever eaten dragon fruit, but because it's really cool to look at and has a decent flavour, I imagine in the future at some point it goes extinct. It tastes a little bit like kiwi, kinda mild. So anyway, some light-heart stuff in the beginning, but beware.
"One must have a good memory to be able to keep the promises that one makes." -Friedrich Nietzsche
W'P
"So, let's say about a week after you picked me up, yea?" Alistair suggested to the Poet, still sitting comfortably in his chair. The Poet glanced at him, but nodded in agreement and set the TARDIS on its course.
"Why a week?" She asked, leaning against the console. "I could bring you back just as we were leaving. That could get complicated, but I could do it."
"The way I figure, give them some time to wonder where I've gone." He stratagised. "Then, only a mere week later, boom. I'm back. Like magic." He wiggled his fingers as though casting a spell.
"We've gone over this. It's science." The Poet said, her tone exasperated. Alistair's reply was cut off as the TARDIS shuddered to a halt. The pair bounded over to the door and out, squinting at the sudden brightness of the sun. The Poet's TARDIS's chameleon circuit was a bit hit-or-miss, and to her amusement, it had changed into a modern day phone box. It had windows, but on the outside just looked like a regular phone box. Alistair grinned around and gave the Poet a thumbs-up. They were outside his flat on the pavement, at what looked like about the middle of the day. The Poet followed a few paces behind as Alistair ran to check a newspaper.
"All right!" He exclaimed. "Exactly a week later. Now," He pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed in a number. The Poet waited patiently, looking around in mild interest. She glanced over at a bakery across the little street and observed her reflection, smirking and adjusting her tie. Just as she looked away, she caught something, a tiny flicker of odd motion. Instantly, she knew something was wrong. Her intuition said so, and that was one thing she trusted.
The Poet's concentration broke as the ginger beside her began talking. "Hey! Yeah, I know, I've been gone. Listen, you should stop by. Yes, now. Right now. Don't ask questions, there's someone I want you to meet. Okay. Thanks; you won't regret it. Okay. Love you, too." Alistair hung up with a grin.
"Am I meeting who I think I'm meeting?" The Poet asked with amusement, a dark eyebrow arching up.
"Yep." Alistair replied happily. "He lives just 'round the block, should be here any second." Before his sentence was finished, the Poet looked over his shoulder as a young man came walking around the corner. He was a little lanky, with a mess of dirty blond hair on his head. A dark hoodie advertising a local football team hung on his thin shoulders. He tapped Alistair on the shoulder when he was close enough, and the pair hugged gleefully.
"Ah, Poet." Alistair gestured to the man. "This is my boyfriend, ex-fiancé, Jonathan."
"Good to meet you, Jonathan." The Poet smiled and shook his hand, but her gaze was wandering a bit to the bakery window she had been looking in. "You can call me the Poet. I've heard great things, really a pleasure, can you excuse me for a moment?"
The Time Lady hopped off the curb and marched across the street, disregarding Alistair's groan of annoyance, and flicked her sonic screwdriver out from her inside pocket. Once at the window, she quickly scanned the glass for any traces of anything out of the ordinary. She sniffed the glass and, after a quick look around gave it a little lick. There was nothing unusual, which she ironically found suspicious. A moment later, Alistair and Jonathan were behind her again.
"Poet, what are you doing?" The former hissed under his breath.
"Nothing!" The woman spun around, smiling widely. "Wanted to, ah, check out the wares." She turned to glance at the pastries in the window before walking along back where they had come. "So, heard you two tried to get married, didn't work out?" Alistair flushed at the mention and glanced guiltily at Jonathan, who smiled at him. "You know, if you're having troubles, I could always marry you two. You did say you wanted to elope."
"What?" Alistair snapped to attention at the Poet's words. She turned around to face them and a mischievous grin began to crawl across her face.
"Well, yeah." She said casually. "Been around nine hundred years, give or take. It'd be a crime if I couldn't join two people in marriage at this point." She jerked a thumb at her red phone box. "I have a chapel. And there wouldn't be any troubles about families because we wouldn't technically be on Earth, so . . ."
The couple in front of her looked at each other. After a moment, they grinned, turned back, and nodded. The Poet laughed and pointed at them. "Away we go, then!" She opened the door to the box and ushered them in. With a final, suspicious glance around the street, she jumped in after them.
"Oh, my god." Jonathan's mouth hung open in shock. "This . . . oh my god . . . what is this?"
"A TARDIS." The Poet gestured for them to follow her down a ground-level corridor. "Very complicated, very interesting, and very, very, cool."
"Listen, Jon." Alistair muttered. "I haven't been missing that past week. I've been with the Poet, because, well . . . it's a time machine. I've been travelling in time."
"Hey, have some respect!" The Poet snapped. "This time machine is a highly sophisticated piece of technology that has, for your information, a veritable soul. Don't you, girl?" She called to the ceiling. The lights in the hall flashed in response. "See?"
"Wait, wait, wait." Jonathan stopped walking. "This is impossible. It's just . . . impossible. Have you drugged me, is that it?"
"Of course it's possible." The Poet stepped over to stare at him. "Just because you've never seen it, doesn't mean it's impossible. This is real, all of it, every molecule. Take a leap every once in a while, Jonathan." She smiled. "A leap of faith."
The man blinked and nodded a little. "I can't get married in this." He looked down at his casual clothes.
The Poet grinned in victory and continued down the hall, a new spring in her step. "Doesn't matter! We'll be the only ones there, so in my opinion, get married in whatever you want!" They turned another corner and the Poet pushed open a set of double doors to reveal a massive cathedral, complete with stained-glass windows that were shining with imitation sunlight.
"Whoa." The humans said in unison. The Poet had not yet brought Alistair to that wing of the TARDIS, and in fear of him getting irrevocably lost, forbade him to wander around on his own.
"Charming, isn't it?" The Poet chirruped, walking purposely forward. "It's a big overkill for our cavalier little ceremony, I think, but still rather nice." She reached the altar and waited patiently for the couple to reach her. "Okay, let's keep this simple, shall we? We are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of two fantastic people in holy matrimony. Anyone have any rings?" She paused. "Not a problem. Anyway, by the power vested in me by several different people on no less than six planets, I now pronounce you to be wed."
Alistair and Jonathan smiled at each other and briefly kissed. The Poet applauded, being the only other one there, and jumped down. "And now, for a very unique reception."
"Oh, Poet, you don't have to do that." Alistair said as the now-married couple began to follow her.
"Yeah, I think we've already had a pretty unique wedding as it is." Jonathan laughed a little incredulously.
"I would be ashamed to call myself a good hostess if I didn't at least hold a reception . . . of some sort." The Poet flung open a door and ushered them through. The three walked down a few more halls before coming upon a more familiar room—the kitchen. It, like the rest of the TARDIS, was an odd mix of post-modern and classical aspects. The walls were shiny steel, but the flooring was hardwood. There were several futuristic machines that were meant specifically for cooking certain non-Earthly dishes right next to a wood-burning oven.
"Uh, why are we here?" Alistair asked.
"Because of secret rooms, that's why!" The Time Lady exclaimed and not-so-dramatically picked up a spatula. She flipped it over and pressed a tiny button on the back. As she did, a large panel of the wall sank in about an inch and smoothly slid out of the way, revealing an absolutely massive storage of food. The room stretched back for a good while, stuffed full with shelves of fruits, vegetables, snacks, biscuits, crisps—at least one of everything from as many planets as the Poet could collect from. Off the one side, there was a fridge that went up to the ceiling.
"Oh, my god." Alistair's face broke out in a gradual smile. "What is this place?"
"Ever wondered how I keep you fed?" The Poet asked with a knowing smirk. "Food stays good for a very, very long time. Can't really hold a proper reception, so here we are. Help yourself to anything for as long as you want."
"Seriously? I mean . . . this is a lot of food."
"Of course it is!" The Poet hopped over to one of the shelves and tossed something at the two. Jonathan caught it, fumbled and clamped his hands on it. "Hylocereus undatus. Commonly known on Earth as the dragon fruit. Ever had one? Can't imagine you have. They got very popular on Earth 'round the year 2015, overharvested and suddenly no more dragon fruit."
The fruit was deep pink with green scale-like triangles on the outside. The Poet brought out a large knife from a cutlery drawer in the regular kitchen and, with a wince, cut the fruit cleanly in half. The humans across from her made ooh-ing sounds at the inside, which was stark white with a million tiny black seeds. The Poet grinned and handed them each a half.
"I'd like to stick around, but I'm afraid I have something to attend to." She smiled and pointed at them with the hilt of the knife. "Eat, drink, and be merry. I won't be long."
She left the kitchen to the sounds of the couple's curious exclamations on the alien foods, and quickly made her way back to the lobby. The Time Lady felt a little guilty for distracting them like that, but she needed to do some investigating without them for a moment. Some time had passed outside, and the light had changed, but everything was obviously the same as before.
Frowning around the quiet street, the Poet sniffed the air in suspicion. She licked a finger and stuck it up as though testing for wind, paused, and nodded. The evening was cool and eerily silent. Not just summer-evening silence, either—the silence that really gets in one's ears, ringing and making its own sort of noise. There was no one talking, no one walking on the pavement, no cars, and no sound. It was quiet enough that she could hear the air sighing in and out of her nose, and the four-beat rhythm of her double heartbeat. The memory of her and the Doctor leaving Venice, and hearing the sudden silence that had been there, too, suddenly occurred to her.
The Poet's eyes slid over to the bakery again, mouth creasing a little in thought. She looked back at the disguised TARDIS, bouncing on her heels, before decisively marching over to the window. It was the same as before, though a bit harder to look at, as the sun was setting to reflect on it. The Time Lady observed her reflection again, still frowning in concentration. Something was wrong, very wrong; her intuition had never let her down before. It was something she had seen earlier, a little quirk that she couldn't quite—
The Poet cried out and stumbled back from the window, her hearts beating rapidly. In a second, her sonic was out of her pocket, but she was too late. There was nothing for the screwdriver to pick up. She noticed her hands were shaking a little from surprise, and balled them up into fists. Now she had a suspicion and a few theories, but it needed further investigation. Hurrying back to the TARDIS, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched.
Because while she had been frowning at the window, her reflection had smiled back.
-o-
"Hey, Poet, I don't know what this is," Alistair called as she walked into the food room to discover the both of them on the floor, surrounded in all manner of things. The ginger was speaking through a mouthful of food, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel. In his hand was a perfect yellow sphere that had a large bite out of it, oozing green liquid that he was struggling to keep from spilling. "But it's just great!"
"Sorry, you pair, but I think Jonathan needs to stay around for a bit longer." The Poet said, quickly putting some of the food back on the shelves.
"What? Why?" Alistair glanced over at his husband and hurriedly covered up his tracks. "I mean, that's great, but why?"
"Don't know yet." The woman ran a hand through her hair, eyes flicking back and forth, seeing things the others weren't yet privy to. "Lingering pollen fumes? Doubt it, I'd know by now. Hallucinations? Possibly. Had those before, though, troublesome but different than this. I mean, can't have people wandering around, it could be a war zone out there!"
"Poet!" Alistair snapped, and seemed to break her out of her muttering train of thought.
The Poet looked over to Jonathan. "Jonathan, has there been anything out of the ordinary around here this past week? Anything at all?"
"Like . . . what?" He asked, standing up. "I mean, there were a couple disappearances. Police don't have much of a lead, though; they were all pretty random. Um, lemme think. Ms Scott's cat had a two-tailed kitten a couple weeks ago . . . hey, where are you going?"
The Poet had already spun around and was tearing back though the TARDIS, bounding through the halls to the lobby. She did a quick three-sixty, like the quick change of scenery had disoriented her, then dashed over to a small alcove where a chest was sitting. She flung open the lid and began rifling through it, miscellaneous paraphernalia crashing as she looked for one simple object—a hand mirror. She grabbed it and peered closely at herself, not making a single change to her expression. Neither did the reflection.
Jumping to her feet, the Poet ran outside and looked in the mirror, again keeping her face as monotone as she could. After about forty-five seconds, her reflection grinned widely back at her own blank face. The Poet grinned like the reflection, and instantly, the mirror-Poet's expression turned to one of shock.
"Interesting." The real Poet breathed, glancing behind her as the door opened and Alistair and Jonathan came stumbling out. "No, no, no, get back in there! That's the point!" She tried ushering them back in, but both of them stood steadfast.
"Poet, stop! We want to help!" Alistair grunted, pushing back.
"Ugh, stubborn humans!" The woman cried, throwing her hands up. "Fine, here, if you want to help, smile!" She thrust the mirror out, and Alistair grinned at himself without question. After a few seconds, he yelped and flinched away, grabbing Jonathan's arm.
"Agh!" He cried. "That was . . . oh, god, what the bloody hell was that?"
"Not sure." The Poet muttered to the mirror. "It's everything reflective, I think." She looked over at a newspaper stand and grabbed one of the papers, eyes scanning over the text at an inhuman pace. The paper rustled absurdly loudly in the silent street as she crunched through the articles. After a couple pages, she exclaimed, "A-ha!"
The other two hurried over to look at the text over her shoulder. It read: "More Mysterious Disappearances; Police At A Loss"
"I need to check something." The Poet murmured. She jerked her head at Alistair. "Back in the TARDIS, both of you." She looked around, back in her mirror, and then turned to follow them. Once back in the TARDIS, she turned a few dials and pulled the big switch, launching them off. The machine shook, as it was oft to do, before settling down once again.
"Where are we?" Jonathan asked, stepping out behind the Poet. They had landed on a beach, the TARDIS now disguised as a white-and-red-striped changing tent. Dozens of people were out on the sand, laughing and playing in the water, or reading a book on a towel. A rainbow of umbrellas were scattered across, casting circles of shade on the lazing beach-goers. The sound of waves rushing against the off-white sand accompanied the murmur of people giggling, splashing in the water, and talking amongst themselves.
"California, four seconds from where we were. Don't get your hopes up, we aren't staying long." The Poet, looking very out of place in her suit, walked up to the nearest person she saw: a young woman lying on her stomach, her legs in the sun and her torso under a large, pink umbrella. A pair of large sunglasses sat on her sharp nose. Her hair was very clearly bleached blond. "Excuse me!"
The girl lifted her head, and a brunette eyebrow raised in disdain. She lifted her sunglasses to expose eyes heavy with too much make-up for the beach. "What?" She sneered, looking the Poet up and down. "You need something, or are you just gonna stand there?"
"Yes, ah, do you have a newspaper on hand?" The Poet reached into her pocket and brought out her wallet, which was empty, and contained just a piece of psychic paper. "Bureau of Newspaper Investigation and . . . other stuff."
The girl peered at the "blank" psychic paper before sneering back up. "I've never heard of Newspaper Investigation." She said suspiciously.
"We're a very new branch, just opened up back in London. So, newspaper, please?"
The girl sighed huffily. "Ugh. Do I look like I have a newspaper on me?"
The Poet paused, thrown off a little by the question. "Er . . . yes?"
After a short pause, the woman rolled her eyes, reached into her beach bag and pulled a copy out. "Here. I don't usually buy them because they are so, like, boring and out of style. But with everything going on, I thought I should stay in touch, ya know? I don't like, like reading, but that's some scary stuff."
The Poet wasn't listening. She was flipping wildly through the rustling gray pages, reading quickly, before stopping at the article she was looking for. It had a very similar headline to the one back in England, again stating that several people had disappeared in only a few days, and the police had no leads or any idea what to do. The Poet looked up and around, thinking hard, and gave the paper back to the girl.
"Thank you." She said graciously and tipped her hat before spinning around and running back to the TARDIS, sand flying up behind her. "Come on, boys! One more stop. Ah, two." She pushed Alistair and Jonathan back inside. The TARDIS took off without the console being touched; sometimes it was easier to pilot it automatically.
"Poet, what are we doing?" Alistair asked the pacing Time Lady. She was hardly paying attention anymore. Something was going on, and she would be damned if she didn't find out what it was. "Does it have to do with the mirror thing?" There was a long pause, almost awkward.
"Uh, yeah," The Poet finally realised she had been asked a question, and continued in and equally distracted manner. "Yeah, the . . . the reflections." The TARDIS came to a halt, and the Poet leapt over to the door, crashing out in her hurry. This time, they were in the middle of a city. Skyscrapers towered above them, leaning into the sky with steel and glass fingers. People bustled on the streets, suffocating the pavement. The noise of people talking was deafening compared to the California beach.
Alistair was out of the TARDIS second, and began coughing as the Poet looked around. "Ugh, this place is all smoggy!" He muttered, also observing their surroundings. "Okay, so, we're somewhere in China."
"It's Hong Kong, actually." Jonathan piped up, looking around curiously. "I came here on holiday once." The Poet walked up to the nearest person, a businessman who didn't look all that rushed, and began speaking perfect Chinese. She asked about any unexplained disappearances that had been happening lately.
"She speaks Chinese?" She heard Jonathan mutter behind her.
"She speaks everything." Alistair replied. "Even Jadoon. Especially Jadoon. Now that's a weird language, but she really likes it for some reason."
"Yes, now that you mention it, I have been seeing a lot less of a few people lately." They quieted down as the businessman spoke, his tone thoughtful. "Oh, and the news said something about it last night. Funny, I never really noticed until you pointed it out."
"People usually don't." The Poet replied quietly, switched back to English. She raised her voice. "Alistair, Jonathan, get back in the TARDIS. Now." She went back to Chinese and thanked the man for his time, before following the other two into her TARDIS, which was again a wardrobe.
The Poet manually directed the time machine back a few destinations, thinking deeply and not saying a word as she worked. A deep frown creased her brow as she leaned over the controls, her nails clacking gently against the glass. The gentle whirring of the TARDIS hummed in the tense air. After another few seconds of silence, she spoke. "Okay, you pair." She turned to the perplexed couple. "I need to do some sleuthing, but you need to remain here. Understand me? Do not follow me outside."
"Why?" Jonathan asked. "I mean, I was just out there like an hour ago."
"A lot can change in an hour." The Poet walked to the door, grabbing her hand mirror on the way, and paused with it half-open. Her gaze scanned sternly over the humans. "Don't follow me."
Stepping out of the box, now red again, she was perturbed to find that the streets were still silent as the grave. Taking a moment to confirm that no one was outside, the Poet looked down in the mirror. Her reflection looked back, and then smiled again. The non-mirror Poet sat down on the curb, warily watching her other self. A thought occurred to her, and she reached into her jacket to bring out a little pad of paper and pen. She held it up to the smiling reflection, who brought out an identical set.
Nodding, the Poet set the mirror on her knees and quickly scratched a single word down in small, square script: Hello.
The mirror-Poet, still smiling, wrote something and faced the paper out, at the real Poet. Hello. Their handwriting was identical.
Frowning, the Time Lady wrote again. What is your name?
The other Poet wrote down their real name in Gallifreian, her smile forming into a mocking grin, and then scribbled something underneath it: You are me.
No, I am me. You are something else.
Yes, we are.
What are you?
I am you. We are all.
The Poet sighed in frustration. She never liked riddles. Are you just me? You're what's causing all the disappearances, aren't you? What can I call you?
We are the Others. The reflection's smile began to fade. We need more.
More what?
The Other Poet sneered and furiously wrote on the paper before shoving it at the mirror. More food.
"Hey, this is kinda cool!" A voice snapped the Poet's attention away from her mirror. Jonathan was standing a bit away, waving at a large window of a shop a few metres from the TARDIS. Alistair was also grinning, standing next to his partner. "It's like I'm saying hi to an identical twin I never knew existed! Hi, alternate me!"
"Jonathan, stay away from the windows!" The Poet scrambled up, running toward her companions. She wasn't sure what was happening yet, but it wasn't going to be good.
"What?" He laughed, turning to face her and stopped waving. Alistair was grinning as well, laughing and making faces at his other self. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"
A hand, slender and porcelain white, smoothly reached out the reflection, wrapped long fingers around his arm, and pulled him sharply into the window.
Alistair stared disbelievingly, his mouth open a little in shock. The Poet came to a skidding halt next to him and snatched out her sonic, waving it across the glass. It was completely unscathed, like nothing had happened. She sighed in disappointment as the sonic brought up no unusual results, again.
"Jon . . ." Alistair breathed. A few long seconds of shocked silence passed. He turned to the Poet, his expression seething. "Bring him back."
"I will, I will, I just . . . I don't know . . ." The Poet sighed again and then yelled and kicked the wall in frustration. "Agh, ow!"
"Bring him back, Poet." Alistair demanded again. "You bring everyone back. That's how it works. Everyone lives."
"Not always, okay!" The Poet cried, more out of anger with herself than with her friend. "I can't save everybody! I don't know how, yet, but I'll get him back! Just give me, I don't know, ten seconds! I'm not magical, Donovan!" She put a thumb and forefinger to her temple and let out a long breath, walked away a few steps and then came back. "I'm sorry. I'll help him. I promise you, I'll get Jonathan back."
"Yeah, well, you've promised me things before." Alistair stepped close to her, jaw clenched. "Remember? Rule one: you lie."
-o-
"So, what have we got so far?" The Poet was pacing agitatedly around the TARDIS console, rubbing her hands together with burning force. Alistair was sitting in his chair, elbows on his knees, and hands clenched with worry in the roots of his hair. "Someone, something, is kidnapping people from around the world. Through mirrors, reflections, anything that reflects oneself. Now, they aren't taking everyone, why not? Alistair, any suggestions?"
She threw out an arm and stopped walking for a moment to point at the young man. He looked up, eyes tired and drawn out. After a few seconds, he gave a slow shrug. "Uh . . . I don't know. It takes a few seconds to notice that you're not matching the reflection. Does that have anything to do with it?"
"My theory exactly." The Poet began pacing again, undoing the button of her jacket and waving her hands to accompany her speech. "You don't notice right away, it takes a minute. Someone notices that they're being watched, and the Others take them. Speaking of which, that's not quite a proper name, is it? Ah, well. So, so, so, so . . . where was I?"
"People being taken." Alistair mumbled into his hands.
"Oh, right! Okay, so, that's one theory. But it has raised questions, such as! One: why didn't they take me? Suggestions, Donovan, go!"
"You're . . . not . . . human?" He asked dully.
"Good thinking, once again. I say, worry suits your mental operations. Sorry, uncalled-for. Now! Two: how are they getting to us? Interesting one, I would take a guess at very specific calculations to concentrate a very specific wormhole of some sort onto this planet, through both time and space with a one-sided mirror effect. Tricky things, those. Not easy to make, even harder to manage without losing some limbs or mental capacities. An intriguing theory, but however, there's nothing to support it." The Poet stopped pacing for a moment and lowered her voice, her tone coloured in dark concern. "And finally, the most disconcerting variable of this entire situation: what do they want? The Other me said something about food. Are they invading? Are they visiting? Are they—"
Alistair's head jerked up. "Food? Food?" He asked incredulously, standing. "They want food? Jesus, Poet, will it kill you to tell me anything? Why not just follow Jon to wherever he went?"
"They don't want me. I can try, but so far they aren't interested and I can't put you in danger. Agh!" The Poet clenched her teeth and shook her fists in frustration. "Why can't anything ever be simple?"
Alistair threw up his hands. "Fine. Either we go in after him, or I'm going by myself." He began to stomp over to the door.
"Woah, woah, woah." The Poet vaulted over a banister and ran around to hop in front of Alistair. "You aren't going anywhere dangerous without me along with you, Donovan—especially not through possible wormholes in space."
Alistair sighed impatiently. "Fine. Are you coming, then?"
"Well, I mean, I sure will try, but I don't know if it will work." The Poet mused indecisively, and after another moment of weighing the pros and cons, she nodded to herself and straightened her jacket. Rolling her neck, she stated, "Let's go, Donovan."
"Aren't you going to grab any weapons?" He asked as they stepped out of the TARDIS. The Poet snapped her fingers as they walked, locking the door behind them. "What if those things attack us?"
"You should know I don't arm myself." The Poet said over her shoulder. "And anyway, even if I wanted to—which I don't—there aren't any weapons in the TARDIS. I think our best strategy is hope they let us in and don't attack us on sight."
"Oh, great." Alistair muttered.
"Hey, cheer up." The Poet chirruped as they arrived at the window where Jonathan had vanished. "This is great. Never had an adventure like this before. Pulled into reflections? Brilliant stuff." She spun and snapped her heels together, staring intently at the glass. "Just stay calm."
A few moments passed before her reflection changed, but it was definitely faster this time. The Other Poet frowned, quirking her head as though to ask a question. The real Poet nodded back at herself. The reflection looked over at Alistair's Other self, who was grinning with a mad frenzy. He reached out and, as his hands left the mirror to become three-dimensional, lost their human looks. His wrists were long and smooth, like plastic, without any jutting bones or wrinkled knuckles. His fingers were long, a good six inches each, and lacked fingernails. The skin was startlingly white, like snow. The alien hands wrapped around both of Alistair's upper arms and pulled. Alistair's yelp of terror was cut off as his entire body sank into the window like it was water.
The Poet only just had time to look back at her Other self before she, too, was yanked sharply forward, and her vision was blinded by light.