Gripping the pistol, I lean against the side of the skip. My nostrils flare when I breath out an contract when I breath out. My eyelid bats one then twice. They are the only moving parts of my body. I stare up into a view of crusty buildings, algae-covered skyscrapers, verdant tentacles thriving on concrete. They breath through their pored bodies, twist without intent and holds me in thrall.

Have you heard of a spell which casts a song so potent that even the most protected lenses can do nothing to repel it? And I was out in the open without shield or a protective helmet. I had lost that earlier and now I was trapped. Some part of my mind questioned how long I had stood there, my hand on the steel handle of the gun, long warmed by body heat, my legs dug into the gravel, my back aching. But my eyes would remain on those rare, spongy green plants which curled up, in and out of glass and walls.