Episode 1 - Between Stone and Sky

Narrator: Hello listener, I’m The Narrator and welcome to Tales Beneath the Surface, a serialised journey into the unknown. Try to get comfortable… good luck with that.

But what is a city? Many have asked, but few truly know. Some would say it’s just the buildings. Those towering edifices clipping the sky, man’s dreams clawing the clouds. Or perhaps it’s the people? All those souls. Unwashed humanity scratching out an existence, mired in the mundane. Beady eyes and messy minds, just… being.

[ uncomfortable shiver ]

I think we have all walked through the city at night and felt a little…off? A little, strange, uneasy? Perhaps it is a pang of fear, a primordial misfiring, the streets can look different in the dark after all, all those ever trudging passengers more… sinister.

I think a city is about what is hidden just beneath the surface, out of sight, waiting to be discovered.

---

Absorbed

Pubs spit out flushed faces: waves of exaggerated smiles and frowns spilling laughter into the cold. Beer jackets fade quickly, no match for London’s sharp November. The kind of night that bites and rattles your bones but I’m wrapped up. Hoodie thick, gloves worn down by living, hands warm from the heat of creation.

Shoreditch cobbles stretch ahead, ankle breakers for the pissheads and party girls stumbling home. Not for me. I cut through the streets dodging the usual stares. They don’t see me, not really—just another hooded figure lost in the dark. Fine by me. I keep moving, my head low. This place is different now: alive and wild. Too many people for my work. I feel the wind cut my face, bitter and biting, nose running, this cold won’t shift. Every step takes me deeper into the maze. I’m not here to mingle. No drinks, no chats. Just me and my tins. I like it this way.

Tins, caps and pens are packed tight in my backpack, clinking like promises waiting to be spilled. There’s always a wall waiting. Something that’s not quite finished. My job’s to fix it, complete the piece, make it say something.

I’m not like those who just cover. No, I respect the work, but I do make it mine. Add, never erase. Make my mark.

Tonight might be different. There’s something like… hunger. Like Hackney has a growling stomach, like the streets want more than just paint. I shake it off, paranoia creeping in from too many sleepless nights and that lapsed prescription I’ll fill tomorrow, yeah, tomorrow… I see it—a stretch of wall under dim light. Half-covered in symbols I don’t recognise. Definitely not someone local, I don’t know the style. Probably for the best. I don’t want to get aggro from some lad for fucking with his piece. It is well abstract though, twisted in ways that shouldn’t make sense but somehow do. Yes, mate! I can work with this. It’s calling to me. I can finish this. I will finish this.

I step closer, my fingers brush the rough brick. I pause for a moment, thinking about what’s to come. There’s a weight about this, yeah, this is the one. Something needs to be released. I shiver then shake it off. Just the cold. Just the night fucking with me. I grab my first tin, the hiss a familiar comfort and start to work.

---

The first connection is simple. My hand glides over the existing lines, adding strokes and shaping forms. Symbols I’ve never seen but somehow know exactly where to place. Paint flows, my wrist moves easily, muscle memory. I’m not just tagging any more; I’m creating fresh narrative, something real.

It’s called “flow state,” at least that’s what some bloke said on a YouTube video I half-watched between the ads for supplements. The guy rambled on about how it’s like jujitsu or some shit. It wrestles with your subconscious until you submit. It’s supposed to be this “in the zone” thing where time bends and reality burns, where every stroke feels like a chat with the universe.

Whatever it is, I’m there now. Outside fades, the alley falls silent, and it’s just me, my tins, and the fates. The chaos evaporates; no, I’m not just tagging—I’m making a deeper connection… right? Man, I’m hungry.

The symbols pull me in deeper with every line. Paint linking like veins, connecting capillaries. My adrenaline spikes, sweat cold on my brow. I’m being watched. No, not watched. Tasted. No, that don’t make sense. Right?

My chest tightens. Breathing feels too slow, too shallow. I shake my head, try to focus, but the wall’s breathing too. The bricks seem closer now. I need to get that prescription filled.

I tell myself it’s nothing, just my head playing tricks. No mask and too much ethylene. My heart floods my ears, drowning out the hiss. My hands shake, the tin slipping for a second. I freeze.

This is fucking stupid. It’s just paint, just a wall. But my gut’s twisting, knotting tight, a belly full of broken glass. Something’s off, Something’s not right but I’m too deep in to stop. Can’t stop now.

I step back, breath misting in the air. The wall shifts—god I’m so tired. The alley’s empty. No one around. Churn, churn, grumble, grumble. My guts know something I don’t.

I’m hungry. Am I hungry? Hard to tell, I ignore the sensation. I’m too far in now. Can’t stop. Focus on my work and look longingly at my creation on the brick as the smiling mouth begins to emerge from the symbols. It fits better than it should, settling into the cracks like it’s always belonged. I can almost taste the paint on my tongue, acrid and metallic.

---

The second link. My hands move faster, almost frantic now, but it feels so right. The markings are merging, making sense, talking to a part of my brain that’s limbic, a warning I’m ignoring. There’s a weight to it, like this piece matters more than anything. Each stroke feels like a secret, a rhythm I didn’t know existed. My heart races, thudding, all drum and no bass.

And the bricks—they’re shifting, moving under my hands, like the wall itself is breathing. Is it? It’s pulse sync with mine. I pause, look around. Nothing. Just cold air and tungsten lights. Focus. Breathe. I’m almost done. I can’t stop now.

My mind buzzes, energy coursing through me, urging me on. I spray my last. I step back, leaning on the wall for support, and look up, admiring my work. My eyes dampen. It’s good. No—it’s perfect.

And then I feel it. My hand… sinking.

---

The wall shifts under me, soft, wet. My fingers sink deeper, but I barely notice, too caught up in the lines, the flow. My focus is locked on the shapes. When I brush something pitted and slick.

I glance down. My hand halfway into the wall. It’s not brick. It feels warm, alive. Panic flickers, but it’s distant, muffled by the strange calm that’s settled over me. I half-heartedly try to pull back, but my arms are heavy, slow. Part of me doesn’t even want to. Between the panic and the strange calm settling in, I’m not sure if I should fight it or just let it happen. It’s almost… blissful.

I feel it tighten, something sharp pressing, and then—snap. My arm breaks. I hear it, feel it, somewhere far off, but the pain’s distant, the sensation blurs, losing shape, becoming unreal. The wall’s biting down, pulling harder, but I just stand there, numb. It’s like the pain’s not mine, just another sound in the city’s voice.

A tremor of fear courses through me and I smell my own piss. The wall is breathing, It needs me for its nourishment. My hand, my arm… being chewed by the brick. But I can’t stop staring.

There’s a soft hum now, vibrating through the air, through me. The symbols… something about those symbols. They were something else. I feel it now, the weight of it, the power in the marks. My marks?

The brick grinds deeper—crunch, bone bending, breaking under pressure. My body splitting apart. Ribs splayed, my steaming offal on display. The wall pulls me, each second stretching into eternity. I can’t scream; the air has thickened, pressing against what’s left of my lungs. A wet slurp echoes as it swallows more of me, the taste of damp earth and old stone wrapping around my senses. There’s a flicker of fear, but that candle is snuffed, smothered by the silence inside. This is my end.

Maybe I could run now? That seems a foolish thought. I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m too focused, too deep in the flow. The paint was never just paint. It’s part of the wall now. I’m part of it now.

I am the third link, the final component to this beautiful working.

My legs buckle, my shins snap, and the brick engulfs me. It’s satisfied, finally sated. The last thing I see, no feel as I slide down its gullet, is the curl of its smile— grinning teeth, sharp and long. My lips tear, my jaw breaks - I smile back.

---

Narrator: Goodness, what an unfortunate end. That poor, poor man. I mean, eaten by a wall! Consumed by the city itself, weaved into its fabric, the world after all, can be a cruel and confusing place can’t it?

But when the world wants something from you, it doesn’t knock, it just barges in. Uninvited, unwelcome, but utterly certain that it belongs. You might struggle, momentarily, to recall the second this interloper crossed the threshold.

Only noticing when your life’s worth has been turned over, ransacked. And what’s lost? Time, clarity, dignity, or something deeper, something shaped like fate? Well then you have to pull your socks up, adjust your posture and just shamble on. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, after all.

---

Icarus

SFX: WHISTLING WIND, FLAPPING FABRIC

Falling Man: Am I flying? No, that’s not it.

SFX: CRASH OF METAL AND BREAKING GLASS

Falling Man: I hit the top of the car on the flat of my back in a desperate attempt to break my fall. At least that’s what I think I was attempting? The roof folds around me in a shattered hug, then a blissful moment of silence, just before the car alarm.

SFX: BLARING CAR ALARM

Falling Man: Red. I’ve landed on a red car. Ha! How about that, I think, as my body works out a whole new definition of winded. I lie there, confused and wheezing, looking up at the tower block above. Eight floors? Or was it nine?

I wonder at the stars for a moment, marvelling at the pinpricks on black. Then the pain hits like a teenage breakup. [ moaning ] I attempt to inhale, only to discover oxygen is not my friend and my body screams at me for putting it through yet another ordeal.

SFX: SHOUTS IN THE DISTANCE

Shouts from above briefly snap me out of my daze; they sound agitated, angry? I hope it’s not their car. Perhaps the nice, shouty people are calling me an ambulance? That would be great.

I start to move my limbs. Legs, yes, just about. Arms—argh! My elbow is fucked. Looks dislocated… or is my forearm broken? It definitely shouldn’t be at that angle.

An errant thought enters my head—Get up, you fuck! And another—Run, run, for fuck’s sake. It just about tracks on the surface of my brain, merging with fifty other sensations in a sea of static.

Fuck, they are coming for you; gotta move, gotta move. I finally managed to suck in a deep breath, and my wits start to return. The shouting from above is getting closer. If they get to me, it’s over, it was all for nothing! I pull myself up as glass hits the ground around me and spit out a tooth. There’s an old woman walking her dog, looking at me, bewildered. How long has she been there?

“Walking steps, a big fall!” I say to her stupidly. Whatever comedy gold I expected to say comes out sounding like a messy anagram.

I start to limp away, fear rising. There’s a reason I jumped off that balcony; I’m fucked if I can remember what it is, but I know I don’t want to be around to find out.

SFX: SCREECH OF TYRES AND CAR BRAKES, CAR HORN

A car brakes suddenly in front of me as I barrel across the road, the horn blasting me into focus.

“Get out of the road you fucking mental case!” the driver shouts from his window. I vomit blood and my dinner on the bonnet of his car—I don’t remember eating salmon?!

“My car! My car, you cunt!” he shouts, understandably upset as he exits his vehicle. Huh, also, red. He lunges for me, gripping me around my collar.

“Sorry,” I say right before I headbutt him in the face.

SFX: CRUNCH OF BONE, WHIMPERING

I hear the crack and feel his nose give. He steps back, looks confused, the blood flows, then hits the ground, grabbing at his face, screaming. Poor bloke.

I slump into the driver’s seat, instinctively try to close the door with my right arm. Argh fuck! Yes, that’s definitely broken. I hit the accelerator just as several dark figures pour out of the tower block.

MUSIC BREAK

The car leaps away from them, blood and sick sliding off the bonnet as I slew round the corner, jumping the lights that have just turned. Red again, Jesus that doesn’t bode well.

SFX: SCREECH OF TYRES AND CAR BRAKES

There’s a screech of brakes and tires before I’m spinning, no, the car’s spinning, and the sound of tearing metal’s all around me as I swing one way then back crushing my broken arm between my torso and the door. FUUCK!!

The pain’s a bright white light piercing through the fog. I can feel it in my teeth bedding down into the gums, wrapping around their roots. Either way, it’s brought me back, I know where I am.

OK, I’m sitting in the middle of a junction, facing the opposite direction from where I turned. It seems as good a direction as any. With a silent prayer that the crash didn’t break anything else, I hit the accelerator again.

SFX: CAR ACCELERATING AWAY

I tear off down the road and catch sight of the figures standing confused looking at the wreckage left by my escape. One of them sees me and points, shouting at the others. Fuck’s sake, can’t catch a break. I need to ditch this shitbox—it’s far too conspicuous, and they’ll be on me again soon enough.

I reckon I’ve got a minute if that to make some distance.

Its actually alright, handles like a fucking dream. I slalom through the traffic, finding gaps wherever they are. Right, take the next right, throw them off, quick before the lights change.

SFX: DOPPLERED CAR HORN

Aaaaaaoppphh damn that was close. Fuck it, hit it, bit more space here to let the engine go. Fucking gun it.

Those guys back there looked ready for murder and going off that pointing prick I’m guessing they’re after me. Fuck, wish I could remember. Still not surprising my memory’s hazy after an 8 storey fall. How the fuck did I survive that one??

Gotta dump these wheels. Can have a think once I’ve hidden.

There, what the fuck is that? Is that a red fucking arrow?! Well, good a sign as any. It’s pointing at something round the back of these shops, there’s a turning just here. Ah, there’s a carwash down the end. Couple of lads, hanging about, sharing a cig.

“Oi, you two”

Lad 1: “The fu…man your face is mashup!”

Lad 2: “Man try to fight a lawnmover?”

Falling Man: “Funny as fuck lads, today’s your lucky day, one time offer - you want this car it’s yours, key’s in the fucking slot, give it a test ride - it’s fucking great”

I leave them behind me and limp towards the car wash, before I’m halfway there I hear the engine roar and the tyres peel off. Nice one lads, should buy me a bit more time.

SFX: SCREECH OF TYRES, ENGINE ROARING

The car wash is busy, a scrum of people all rushing about with pails of soapy water working together to get the paint sparkling. I can see the arrows pointing to something on the other side of it, so I hobble past, nodding at anyone who catches my eye. None of them give me a second glance, thank fuck.

The arrow’s pointing down at a weird looking indoor market, all sorts of curios and word stuff in the double windows. It’s big, stretching out over the entire bottom floor of a low rise set of flats. Good a place as any to try and gather my wits. What’s more, there’s lots of people to get lost in.

MUSIC BREAK

I catch my reflection in a window, I have looked better, that’s for sure, scarlet everywhere. It’s late, and this place is still open, which is odd, what’s stranger is I feel I have been here before. I enter, barging through the double doors past some annoyed late evening shoppers.

The adrenaline running low now starting to feel sluggish and need to get out, let me out, let me out! I push the panic and vomit back down, I am not going out like this.

I know whoever is after me is gunning for my blood. Fuck sake, my mouth won’t stop bleeding but on the upside the arm is doing better than I thought it was, reduced to a dull ache, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad.

I get a lot of strange looks, but I’m moving fast enough and there are enough people here to cover my track. The place is big, too big for what is. Like some kind of weird indoor market full of tatt and cheap looking antiques. How can they pay the rent selling bangles and knock off wooden masks? It’s like Camden market took a shit.

I feel sick again, I have probably done something terrible to my insides from that fall. How did I survive that fucking fall??

That’s when I hear the shouting again and see black hooded figures moving through the crowd.

I rush to an enclosed store ahead of me, to the protests of the owner. More tatt, all incense sticks holders and paper lanterns. I see one of those knock off Japanese swords mounted on the wall at the back behind the till. I storm over and grab it and draw it out an inch, it’s sharp at least, it could do some damage. People outside are starting to shout, some are screaming.

The shopkeeper is shouting at me in Chinese or Japanese, wherever, I shove her to the floor and tell her to shut it. If I am going down, I’m taking some of them with me!

My mouth won’t stop FUCKING bleeding from that broken tooth! I wipe it on the sleeve of my shirt. Red again, fuck of course it’s red, it fucking blood! Wait, there is something there, a message trying to get through, no trying to get… out.

I instinctively draw the sword and look down at the mass of scars that are my wrists.

I cut deep and scarlet start to gush out over the cheap carpet tiles, what the fuck am I doing?

SFX: HEAVY SLOP OF LIQUID

The hooded figures are here now, looking at me, see the blood as it pools at my feet, and I see fear in their eyes.

I feel relief mixed with panic. It’s released from its prison, what have I done?

MUSIC BREAK - OMINOUS ORGANS

Crimson Angel: I remember what I am; this shell is not me.

I am beyond its confines— I am infinite.

I usurp command of the vessel’s flesh and compel its clumsy digits into familiar patterns, each finger following an unseen path, forming symbols, marking reality.

My words sound sour and foreign in its throat, as my beautiful scarlet wave surges across the floor towards the zealots.

It reaches their feet and spikes out with plumes of rosy barbs piercing through their lower halves. There is scarlet pouring out, it is everywhere, mingling with mine, becoming one, giving me vitality. Two shadows slip away and out the door, they do not seem important any more.

I draw my blood back from the floor, shaping it around me. It rises, draping over my shoulders like the wings of a crimson angel. Well, I am the crimson angel, it is only fitting.

There is a sound, a breathy whimpering, breaking my reverie.

She is huddled against the corner, clutching some trinket in her hand and mouthing broken prayers. I reach out and embrace her, hold her up to witness my glory.

As my wings brush her skin they mark her with red, anointing her, bringing her into me. I know not what she feels. This form makes the subtleties of human expression opaque. It looks like awe, awe or terror, either will do.

I throw her aside and draw myself in. She gave of herself freely, ribbons of red spiralling out from every pore. It is a fitting gift.

I stalk through the market then burst through the windows in a shower of scarlet, glittering shards kissing my vessel’s skin, promising a knitwork of scars. There are other vessels here, scurrying away from my resplendence, their lacerated flesh an offering. Fleeing from their god returned. A tug and I draw their gift to my wings. They spread in dripping glory and shower the true believers with baptismal fluid. The sky calls, I have now felt its touch in aeons.

I leap into the air and my new followers offer themselves up, gory pennants raised up behind me. The sky is wondrous, a marvel of pinpricks on black. I can see my city stretch before me, so many to indoctrinate, so many to show the true faith.

I soar higher, readying myself to draw up all the tribute owed and bless yet more of my city.

There is a pull, a tug at the edge of me, what is that, what could hold me down? What there is more? WHAAT IS THIS? WHO DAARES??

SFX: SOUND OF THE ANGEL STRUGGLING THEN GETTING SUCKED INTO A DIFFERENT DIMENSION THEN WHISTLING WIND, FLAPPING FABRIC

Falling Man: Am I flying? No, that’s not it. I’m falling. Fuck. FUCK! Can’t tell where the….

SFX: WET HEAVY CRUNCH

This line fades slowly into the background while footsteps walk up Falling Man: Hunh…red again…red everywhere…ah black now…creeping in…black now creeping in from the edges… (trailing off)

SFX: FOOTSTEPS

Cultist 1: Is he alive, brother?

Cultist 2: It would seem so

**Cultist 1: ** We must collect as much as we can.

**Cultist 2: ** You grab his torso and head, I will get the rest of him.

Cultist 1: It has failed again, this vessel is strong but too unstable

Cultist 2: We start again at the next equinox, call the others.

---

Narrator: Ancient beings of blood and strange cults wandering the streets, whatever next! I’m left wondering - is there a link between these stories, or have they simply arrived together? Perhaps you can discuss amongst yourselves or speak to us directly and share your theories.

Well, listener, there we have it. Our maiden voyage across this unknown ocean. What did you think, no, no, that’s not quite right, what did you feel? Disturbed? Aroused? Intrigued? Well, you know what they say, reality writes itself.