At the edge of Sorsgen, where quiet town became bustling city, in the slow morning hours, music filled the air. Merry notes waltzed around the lazy snowflakes that drifted past the windows of Sorsgen High, floating up towards the light blue clouds. Christmassy jingles twirled madly around spirited choirs, enthusiastic carols wrapped snugly around thoughtful instrumentals. Inside, the Snowman Band of Sorsgen high school had a healthy breakfast of band practice.
Barty's fingers flew across the flute, the notes merging together into a continuous melody, flowing freely with the percussion, the strings and the other winds.
A last page was flicked and the last notes played. Each band member smiled contently to themselves, and a few cheered: this was the first time they'd gotten that song just right.
Mr. Osborn waved his half-empty cup of iced coffee, unaware of the drops of grey muck that flew from it.
"Settle down, munchkins!" he said loudly as a few students' applause died down. "Come on kids, I said silence! Okay." He looked around, some students still smiling, "Good job. Great job, actually. You kids catch up pretty fast, I'm proud."
A few more students cheered as Barty sat back. He knew Mr. Osborn was about to make the "season"s announcements: At least a month before a big event like the school dance, Osborn would appoint certain band members certain positions. This would usually mean more work for the student but also more credit and usually better grades (if they did it right), not to mention a kind of nerd-ish pride.
He looked over at Billy Blaze, who was already smiling and straightening up. Billy was almost always chosen as Osborn's assistant. The assistant position was one reserved for only the best students, and being chosen as assistant was cause for much showing off and goading the other band members.
"Well, first of all, practice will officially start next Wednsday from six to eight. Next week we'll choose the uniform for the dance, as well as make an outline of what we'll be playing."
He looked around the students, searching for a face, "You! Jules, you'll be in charge of uniforms. I know you can do it, sugar. Make me proud." He turned to another student, more coffee dripping out of his cup. "Pott, you can help me update the songs. Come on, I'm letting you off easy this year!" He pleaded jokingly as Porter Potts made a face. "Updating" the songs meant going into the dusty archives and rewriting the songs because they were faded and hard to read.
"And my assistant this season would be... hmmm, quite a selection this time. You've all made a lot of progress." he said, looking at each of them dramatically, "But I must choose one young hero to assist me in my quest!"
Barty smiled at Osborn's theatrics, and glanced over at Billy, who was smiling as well, getting ready to rub his superiority all over everyone else's face for the rest of the season. Osborn milked the anticipation even more, though his face was turned towards Billy as he took a breath.
"Bart-O, get up and take a bow!" said Osborn suddenly, and Barty was confused for a split second. He looked at Billy and was surprised to see his dissapointed face. Hadn't he just been chosen again to be assistant?
Then it dawned on him, and he stood up, smiling in surprise. Feeling a pang of guilt, he shrugged and made an oh-well face at Billy, who did his best to smile back, though he scowled as he picked up his bag. The other students were following suit, clearing their space and milling around the exit.
As Barty got through the double doors, Billy bumped hard against his shoulder, walking out in a huff. Barty couldn't help but frown. He was annoyed at Bill's jealousy: Barty didn't ask to be chosen as assistant, and in fact didn't care for the position. His good mood ruined, he walked out, with one last look at Mr. Osborn.

A city of books spread out before Barty. Their neatly pressed spines seemed to chatter incessantly in the language of color, each one a different hue, with different lettering that flashed archaic names and odd titles in the bright fluorescent lights. The carpets were a dull but pleasant green and the tall bookcases were uniformly boring. It all screamed of mass-marketing, and it all unsettled Barty. He'd expected a small and dusty bookshop, with dim lights and wizened clerks. Instead, S&B's Books (the new name for the bookshop, as Salt & Black's hadn't seemed very marketable to it's new owner) was brightly lit, carefully organized and eerily perfect. Books were arranged neatly, employees roamed constantly and there was even a small kid's section. Of course, with it's new look and name, it had also been redirected at Zen-seeking soccer moms and wannabe numerologists, though it still had a rich catalogue of grimoires and spellbooks, tucked away in the back of the store, labeled Miscellaneous.
Barty looked around, checking nametags as he walked around the shop, dodging hippies and faux-seers. None of them read Dommel, and Barty cursed himself for not asking Nanna for his full name. With a sigh, he walked up to one of the more experienced-looking employees and asked if a man named Dommel worked there. He shrugged and shook his head, no. Determined, he walked silently to the Miscellaneous section, which was almost empty except for two or three shady-looking customers and a lone employee. Again, Barty asked, and again he was turned down. As he looked around dissapointedly, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a man staring at him. When he turned his face to look back, the man scurried away, losing himself in the maze of bookcases.
Suspicious, Barty followed, walking at a normal pace to feign disinterest but taking shortcuts to catch up with the man. He swerved around corners and card stands and stepped over fallen books and wandering toddlers, keeping the distance as even as possible.
The cold wind seemed to strike dully against his face, as the sound of cars whooshing by turned from distant hum to a disturbingly close roar. In the harsh yellow-orange light that spilled haphazardly from the tall streetlamps, Barty searched the wet streets of the Sprawl for a certain shadowy figure. Buildings stretched to the sky, dark hulks that hid the stars and the moon, their bodies decorated by random squares of yellowish light. Barty's eyes scanned the darker alleys and wet sidewalks, his eyes straining to see through the darkness.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure, crossing the street and rounding a corner. Barely looking at the street to make sure he wouldn't become roadkill, Barty crossed the street, running into an alley, knowing he'd get to the other side of the building before the man he was assuming to be Dommel. The darkness in the alley clung to him as he emerged on the other side, whipping his head sideways to see the man cross again, from Barty's street to the one next to it. Barty cursed under his breath and quickly changed direction, following the man's fading footsteps. They rounded corners, crossed streets and darted through alleys, Barty watching the buildings shift colors between streets, the stores go from bright, familiar chain-stores to dim asian markets. Suddenly the man stopped in front of a dingy brown shop with strange asian symbols painted in front. Barty's heart fell when he saw the man look at him in confusion as he brought something out of his coat pocket. An asian woman in a dusty nightgown came out of the shop, and the two people hugged as the woman took the newspaper-wrapped object, her wrinkled face all smiles. He'd followed the wrong guy... the man hadn't run fearing he'd been caught, he'd run because he remembered something or other that he had to get for the woman.
His insides hardening, Barty turned around, furious at himself. His mind became a jumble of excuses, plans and curse words. His breathing got heavy, the air in front of him clouding with mist. He felt like breaking something, like screaming at all the buildings that soared so condescendingly over him. What now? In the hurry of catching the man, he hadn't payed any attention at all to which roads he'd crossed or, in fact, which direction he'd been walking. So now he was practically in the middle of nowhere in a big city, at night, in an area where he couldn't even ask for directions. He looked around, his eyes gliding over the trash, the bums and the dark stores, behind whose windows Barty could see vague figures that seemed to be acting out tragedies and comedies, all seeming to time perfectly with each other in the dim brown and orange lights. Eventually his eyes landed on a payphone, it's roof glowing a faint blue that contrasted sharply with all the orange and brown and red. He walked past it, his shoes barely making any noise against the wet pavement that shivered with underground trains that ran underneath, like veins pulsing under cement skin.
He wandered down the streets, deciding he'd wing it and walk until he found people that spoke his own language. Then he'd ask where he was and which train to take to get back to town.
He was wandering down an alley that was, suprisingly, lit brightly with red and yellow christmas lights when he saw it. Farther down, where the lights became a calm, sensible yellow-orange, was a massive spiderweb. Or, rather, a city of connecting spiderwebs. It covered two stories, and seemed more like drapes than actual spiderwebs. He walked between them, looking around for the architect of the marvel and failing to notice how the roar of passing cars turned once again into a distant hum and all noise seemed to become fainter until it was barely a whisper. The web seemed empty, with only two or three mummified moths to show it was actually inhabited. He tried not to disturb it, ducking and getting closer to the wall to dodge the individual sheets. Eventually he reached the end, dissapointed at not seeing the spider and noting with dread the sudden lack of city noise.
A noise at the very end of the alley caught his attention. It was a tinkling laugh, accompanied by the appearance of several dark figures, walking cooly towards Barty. His heart sank and the hairs at the back of his neck prickled.
"Well now, mates, what 'ave we 'ere?" asked the one closest, his voice strangely reedy and with a foreign accent that Barty just couldn't place.
"Couldn't tell, boss, but it looks like a wittle wost baby..." said a second one, taller and wider.
"We should show 'im around, eh?" said a third, who seemed to limp.
The fourth remained silent, and as they came closer, Barty noticed their strange appearance. They were wearing what, at first, looked like standard thug attire: patterned hoodie, too-big pants and brand name baseball caps, but closer inspection revealed that their clothes were dripping wet. Their faces were smooth and gaunt, and seemed wet as well and their skin, which seemed a tad too green, and glittered gold in some places. Barty backed away from them, stopping when he felt the spiderweb brush against him. He shivered when he felt something crawl up his arm.
"Look at 'im, starin' at us like we 'ere ghosts!" said their apparent leader. He thrust his gaunt face toward Barty's and he noticed with dread that his eyes seemed to glow a faint gold color, "Are we, mates?"
"Surely not, boss, else we couldn't do this!" said the tallest one, knocking Barty over. They rounded on him as he looked around, looking for escape. He saw a man on a balcony, who had been staring the whole time. Barty pleaded with his eyes, but the man simply walked into his apartment, and Barty's heart fell to the pit of his stomach.
"Give us your cash, kid," said the leader, holding out his hand. It was a swampy green, with glittering golden cracks at the joints.
"I-I d-d-don--" started Barty, but he was kicked by the silent one as the tall one said "No excuses, give us anything you got!"
When Barty hesitated, they proceeded to kick him around, his cries for help always cut off by a shove or a punt. He quivered, curled into a ball as they kicked, when suddenly it all stopped. He looked up to see the gang running down the alley, holding up their pants. Barty gasped for air as he looked the other way to see a man, holding out his hand to help Barty up. It was the man who had been watching from the balcony. Barty took it and stood up, feeling future bruises and bumps scream at him.
"Th-thanks, mister...?" he said, wiping blood from his lip.
"Call me Dommel," said the man in a deep baritone voice. Barty almost gasped and looked up at the man.
"Er... I'm--"
"His ... son?" Dommel said, his face a mixture of emotions that Barty, still nervous and jumpy, found hard to recognize, "By God, you look just like old Greg."
"Thanks, I guess..." said Barty, his mind reeling, "Actually, I was sort of looking for you... " He hesitated, but was cut off by Dommel.
"I bet you have, you must have all sorts of questions, knowing your dear mother. Come on up, those hooligans will be back any minute..." he said, ushering Barty with a surprisingly gentle-looking hand. "With friends," he added grimly.
"Those uh... thugs. They looked sorta..." started Barty hesitantly as they approached the front door of the towering apartment complex.
"Odd? It figures that you'd be able to see them for what they are... Greg had the Sight at your age. This city, and in fact all of Sorsgen, hold many secrets, which you'd best stay away from. Most aren't very nice." He said with a grin as he opened the shabby door. Inside, the complex was dimly lit by christmas lights hung off the dark green walls lining the long, narrow hallway. Blooming patterns of chipped paint seemed to decorate the walls, like neglect-themed wallpaper. The doors on the right side of the hall were internmittently decorated with cheap plastic wreaths, bright red bows and, in one case, a large light-up cross that parted the darkness dramatically.
Perhaps he was still dazed by the thug's assault and the sudden appearance of the man he'd been searching for so urgently, but as they walked down the corridor he couldn't shake the feeling that something was following him. Paranoid, he turned his head to look behind him and was unnerved to see the chipped paint on the walls shiver, as if it had just settled there like a swarm of ugly butterflies.
He turned to Dommel, who had stopped and was flipping through the keys on his rather large and noisy keyring. The jingling and jangling of the keys reverberated down the long, dusty corridor. Barty was intrigued yet alarmed to notice that the patterns formed by the green, top layer of paint and the white underlayer formed a series of guard dogs in front of Dommel's door. They stared at him with static, sightless eyes in the dim light.
The inside of Dommel's apartment contrasted so sharply with the grimy hallway that Barty had to look back through the door to make sure it was in the same building. Inside, it was all polished, shining wood. Wood paneling on the walls, wood tiling on the floor, wood furniture. And everything that wasn't wood was the same lively brown color.
"Nice pad..." said Barty as he looked around.
"Well, when you're stuck out here with barely anything else to do..."
"What do you mean?" asked Barty, confused. Why would Dommel be stuck there?
"Well, you must understand, Barty, after the war, we all had to hide, even..." he paused, seeing Barty's expression become even more confused. "Well, let me start at the very begginning. Sit down..." he said, sitting down at the kitchen table. The light, coming from right above him, sharpened his features and shadowed his eyes. Barty sat down across from him, intrigued.
"It all really started with your father. You probably don't know this, but your father was fascinated, almost obssesed, with magic and alchemy."
Barty nodded, neglecting to mention that, from reading his father's journals, he knew almost first-hand his father's fascination with magic.
"See, his fascination started with stories of an unimaginable source of power, right here in Sorsgen. Knowing he'd learn more about it through the more obscure academic circles, he delved into the occult, learning more and more about the thing. It had been known by many names, a lot of them unpronouncable with our own tongues. Most simply knew it as the Halfstar. When Greg finally showed up at Salt and Black's, which was, at the time, quite a reputable place, he looked through the grimoires for more information on it, though he found none. He asked around and finally met me. We exchanged knowledge, eventually becoming equals and partners in our search for the Halfstar. Of course, word gets around and the closer we got to finding it, the more danger we were in."
He saw Barty's puzzled look and chuckled, "There are people out there, Barty, who stop at nothing in their quest for power. One of these individuals actually reached us, despite our best efforts. He is known simply as the Puppeteer, and boy, did he show us a nasty time. He waged a one-man war against all of us. Nanna, me and a couple others were the only ones to escape."
"And what happened? To him, I mean."
"Well, Nanna took away his powers. Locked them up in a chest and dunked it into her swamp. He is, for all practicality, banished. And the key to his so-called prison is, frankly, lost."
"So... you're safe, right?"
"Of course not!" he said loudly. Between his unreadable voice and the strange shadows on his face, Barty couldn't tell if Dommel was smirking or frowning, "The longer the key remains lost, the more time for the wrong people, or, God forbid, him to find it. But don't think we haven't been trying to find it... " he stood up, gesturing for Barty to follow. He did, and was led to a study, of sorts. Many strange objects lined the smallish room, but Dommel was pointing to a large map at the back.
Barty walked towards it, and almost instantly recognized it as a map of Sorsgen. From the carefully drawn buildings and skyscrapers of the Sprawl, to the wide spaced town, to the lonely, cold mountains, all divided haphazardly by a thick ribbon of white: the Ice Vein. Barty noticed that the map was dotted lightly with thumbtacks. Some were red, others were yellow. Most of the yellow ones were grouped close together over the Sprawl.
"When the key dissapeared, years ago, Nanna and I did some scouting of places with a significant energy reading," said Dommel in a matter-of-fact voice behind Barty. His eyes scanned the map like searchlights, as if he could find the key just by finding it on the map, "They are marked here, yellow ones have been checked and proven to be inconclusive, while the red ones remain a mystery. You will notice that a few of these," he said, maneuvering to reach around Barty, "Are in places that don't make any sense. That's because they're underground, in the metro lines and some even in sewers." He lifted the map, revealing two other maps, sitting next to each other. One, with it's jumble of lines and arrows, seemed to be a diagram of the Sprawl's sewers, while the other was more obviously the hand-out Sorsgen City Metro Guide. Both had the usual red and yellow thumbtacks, though they were more sparse and more of them were red.
"So... what have you found? Where there's yellow thumbtacks, I mean." asked Barty curiously.
"Mostly just groups of exiled Folk, though sometimes I've found artifacts. I've become a curator, of sorts," he said in an amused tone.
"Artifacts?"
"Objects made by lazy wizards, imbued with magical properties, so they don't have to do any incantations or potions to achieve something. Sometimes they're merely experiments, novelties, if you will. Most aren't very useful to me, but they might be useful in the wrong hands."
Dommel went to one of the tables in the room, picking up what looked like a pair of shoelaces. He grinned the way a boy might grin while showing his friends a particularly green frog, "Instant speed," he said, "Tie this into your shoes and you could outrun the Metro cars!"
He lifted a purple umbrella off the table, from beneath a large swivelling magnifying glass, "You open this and it'll rain for about three blocks around you. I really don't see the use, especially now that it's snowing, but it's quite a feat, either way." He sighed nostalgically, then looked Barty in the eye, "It was always dangerous, though."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, even when it's just a failed experiment, discarded and sometimes even embarrassedly hidden, Folk would flock to it. They're attracted to magic, see."
"Folk?"
"Beings that are... different, from us. Elementals, spirits, fairies, even ghosts. Most are simply exiled here in the city, though some merely lost their way... anyway, they don't really like it when people like me try and take away those magical treasures that reminded them of home. Every so often I'd back off, knowing that the object in question would be safe in their hands."
Barty nodded, trying to keep up. He remembered something Dommel had said. "When you rescued me... you said something about me being able to see them for what they were...?"
"Ah, yes. Well, it takes a bit of practice or just natural talent to see Folk. See, they don't really like to be seen for what they are, and disguise themselves to be perfectly ordinary. Often, when they can't conjure a suitable disguise they merely become invisible... quite a fright to bump into a chimera on the walk home, I must say."
"So... I just have talent?" Barty asked, uncertain. Dommel nodded, and Barty inquired, "So, they were...?"
"Kappas. Mischievous water creatures, they were all banished from the rivers. They seem to be making the best of their banishment, as I hear they've made quite a reputation as a street gang." He chuckled. Again, he sighed wistfully,"It was so satisfying to find wonders like these, the old days of hunting for the key and finding other treasures..."
"Old days?"
"Well, kid, not even the neighbor's fantastic Miso soup could keep age away, at least not for long... and it'd be selfish to use magic for such vanities. Frankly I just can't go on such adventures anymore."
"I see... " said Barty, understanding why Dommel had shown him the map, tried to entice him with magical treasures, "you want my help."
Dommel's face, already grim, turned grimmer. "Nanna gave up long ago, and the other survivors are impossible to find."
"I'll... I'd have to think about it, Mr. Dommel," said Barty thoughtfully, walking out of the study.

The unintelligible murmur of the would-be passengers' idle conversations fused with the high whooshing of the passing trains to form an echoing roar in the underground Metro station. Barty stood in front of the glowing map display, though his eyes seemed to gaze right through it, beyond the grimy tiles of the station's walls and away into infinity. Thoughts rolled like storm clouds in his head, whirling around each other but getting nowhere.
On one hand, he thought, I could not only learn more about my father and have a chance to aid in his murderer's continued punishment, I'd also learn a thing or two about magic. The cloud of thoughts crashed against another cloud:
On the other hand, I'd also be putting myself and possibly the people around me, in danger. Plus I'd be hiding even more from mom and sis. Their momentum perfectly countered, the clouds were headed nowhere in his head. With a sigh of resignation, he decided he had to see for himself how dangerous his scouting missions would be.
His gaze sped back and settled on the map, immediately seeing the difference between it and Dommel's own tack-peppered map. Among the differences, he noticed that some of the trails were either absent or re-routed, meaning Dommel's map had to be out of date. Knowing the city's transportation department's poor performance purely from experience, Barty concluded that the missing tracks were quite probably abandoned and thus quite a lot safer to search than active paths. His eyes searched for the closest one and noticed in particular a blank spot where, in his mind's eye, he could see the curving purple line of Dommel's older map, dotted cheerfully with a red thumbtack right in the middle. This abandoned track was directly adjacent to Barty's current station. He wondered how he'd get there, but decided he'd figure it out on the way as he turned to face the right direction.
He walked casually to the edge, listening carefully over the dull roar of the station's noise for the distinct sound of an oncoming train, and checking his watch to be sure that none were due. He waited until none of the security officers were looking and swiftly dropped down off the platform and onto the littered concrete holding the tracks. His heart pounding in his chest, he apprehensively walked into the gaping darkness, his sneakers crunching on discarded wrappers and cups.
His eyes grew gradually acustomed to the dim light emanating from red bulbs set into the walls, and passed different pools of bright, flickering fluorescent light coming from tubes set above maintenance doors. Gaps of complete darkness were set evenly spaced into the otherwise solid concrete walls, where Barty figured he'd jump into whenever he heard an incoming train. The rest of the tunnel was still immensely dark, a darkness tangible enough that he could feel it on his skin. He fought to keep a clear image of the map in his mind while also listening for trains and ignoring the crawling rats and the wet, crusty smell of mold and must. His nose told him that what he felt, lightly brushing on his skin was not the darkness, but the very filth in the air of the tunnel.
With his heart falling into the pit of his stomach, he heard the distant roar of an approaching train. Though he'd just found the fork leading to his destination, in his panic he forgot which track to take. Cursing, he ran into the left one, jumping into a niche in the wall as, with his heart pounding it's way out of his chest, he heard the train's monstrous rattles and screetches come closer, closer, and suddenly muffled as it went into the tunnel next to his. Relief flooded his insides as he struggled to catch his breath and unstuck himself from the wall, gingerly stepping out of the dark gap. Sheepishly he noticed that the detouring tracks he was on were disconnected from the main tracks.
He was feeling rather impressed with himself as he walked onward, freely jumping over the tracks and kicking stones across the floor. He passed another station, it's seculdedness apparently perfect for a group of squatters, as the platform was piled with matresses, sheets and pillows, branded candles lighting it all and parting the darkness like a gust of wind in the rain. Graffiti adorned the tiles, one reading "For never and ever," in bright orange letters. A blue-haired teenager stared at Barty sleepily as he passed by.
As he continued toward the curve, with the yellow light of the candle-lit platform fading away until it was just a pinprick of light behind him, his eyes raked the darkness for some sort of clue of what he was walking into. The silent darkness revealed nothing to him, and he wondered just how far he still had to go. Surely the tunnel couldn't be that lo--
An unearthly screetch echoed from the far end of the tracks as two bright lights appeared, far away, yet growing as he stood there, paralized. Dark, bloody fears seeped into his mind as he quickly ran for the closest niche in the wall, though he knew he wouldn't reach it in time. His feet felt stuck to the floor, as if the grime had fused with the soles of his shoes. When he was finally able to move his legs, he felt as if he was running through water, his movements too slow for his panicked mind. He tripped on one of the rails and fell sideways into the dirt and grime of the long-abandoned concrete floor, rats and other, nameless things crawling over his arms as panic welled up in him like fire in a furnace and escaping as a soft whimper through his chattering teeth. He scrambled toward the niche, pulling himself up as he flattened to the wall, feeling safe and relieved. He waited...
Once again, nothing happened. He leaned forward to see if the train had simply went onto another track, but the lights were still there. Looking closely, he realized they weren't really bright enough to be train lights. He walked out from the niche, dusting himself off and shaking a shivering rat from his leg.
When he took another step forward, the screetching sound started up again, and Barty felt the panic bubble up in him again. He gulped and continued walking, ignoring the sound. As he got closer to the lights, he began to see a figure, standing still in the pool of light. Barty stopped a few yards away, looking around.
Like water spraying out from a crashing wave stopped in midair, the pale light reached out from two pinpricks. As he got closer, the illusion of distance faded away, as he saw that the two lights grew bigger but not farther from each other. He could discern a triangular shape under the lights.
As he got closer, he realized the triangular shape was one of those plastic orange cones put around construction sites. Behind, he could see chunks of concrete cascading out of a hole in the wall. He was about to come closer when he tripped on the rails. Looking down, he saw that they were mangled and torn, the metal twisted into root-like shapes. The screetching sound continued, and Barty's head was pounding as he tried to get the leg of his pants unstuck from the mangled steel. From this vantage point he could see that the figure was wearing an orange construction worker's vest and, oddly, there was a smoky chain around it's ankle that, when his eye's weren't focused on it, became merely a trail of pale smoke.
Barty stood up, puzzled. He walked forward more briskly now that he knew what was farther down the tunnel. Barty stared at the still figure's face, in strange awe: it was featureless and somewhat smooth, with the texture of paper. At the bottom, where the mouth should have been, was a tear in the paper, crumpled up at the edges. The fantasm was screaming in what could have been anger, or perhaps a cry for help. Barty approached the thing cautiously. It wasn't moving, but he knew that the nails-on-chalkboard screetching was coming from it's mouth and the closer he came to it, the more he could feel it's irregular heartbeat. It was like a screaming wax statue, a split spotlight behind it, casting grim shadows on it's innate figure.
He approached the orange cone, and saw that the two lights came from the wearer's side of a pair of large sunglasses, as if the sunglasses were an open window in the daylight. Intrigued, he leaned down to take them, and noticed that when he touched them, the light became dimmer. Not too bright to take them to his eyes. It's texture was somewhat greasy and dirty, but he was too curious to care.
Barty gasped. Through the somewhat fashionable sunglasses, he could see the tunnel in it's entirety, as if it was lit by clear daylight. He looked around, taking in the sight of the steel beams on the roof, the bricks lining the walls, the roaches swarming on the floor. It all looked strangely clear.
It was a few seconds before he realized that the screetching was gone. He turned, curious, only to stumble back as he came face to face with the creature, it's once-smooth face now crumpled with rage. Without missing a beat, Barty turned and ran, quickly running into one of the maintenance rooms and shutting the door. He turned to see the creature slowly, eerily emerge through the door, it's mouth open in a large, moaning O.
"Shitshitshitshit," mumbled Barty as he ran through the next door, running across the next tunnel and, hearing an approaching train, jumping up onto the nearest platform. It was eerily empty, newspapers left right on the benches. The fantasm followed, on his heels, when suddenly there was a loud twang!
Barty looked around, and saw the creature comically walking in place, like a mime pretending to walk against a gale of wind. He saw that the trail of smoke had been snagged on the passing train. It had solidified into a chain now that it was taut and being pulled at. The creature howled pathetically as it was dragged back, further back. Barty started to feel relieved when clang! the chain broke and the faceless figure stumbled forward.
Barty was preparing to run when he saw the figure's featureless face fade away into the face of a rather homely man. The man looked awed at his new freedom. He waved at Barty, said something inaudible that sort of looked like "Thanks," and promptly dissapeared.
Still panting, Barty slumped onto a bench, twisting around to get to his bag. He opened it with shaky hands, taking off the sunglasses to put them in the bag. He yelped when he felt something tickling at his hand, and brought out a somewhat small spider. It was a bright blue, thin and elegant, unlike the knobbly brown tunnel spiders. It's pale eyes shone blue in the fluorescent light of the platform.
Barty brought it up to his face, remembering the spider that crawled up his arm back at the spiderwebbed alley. "Hey, little one," said Barty, smiling at it, "What's up?"