Hello, Whovians! I've never written a Doctor Who fic before, and I can guarantee you that I can do no justice to the brilliancy of David Tennant's portrayal, but I'm definitely going to try. If I do it horror, please don't leave flames. I burn quite easily.
Disclaimer[s]: There will be a bit of OOCness in the later chapters and I don't own Doctor Who.
"Time… time… just four letters but a… mass intrication of meaning and question… following it back… time… never enough… unless I don't need it…."
The brunette threw the wood of the door to that of the walls in his studio, scrambling in and forcing it shut with just as much animosity. His trembling hands threw the bar and lodged it in place, desperate prayers slipping his lips as he began stumbling over his own feet in the sheer vivacity of his own panic.
"Demons, be gone!" he tried to sound threatening, but a crack in his voice had him resembling a mere infant left alone to sob in the cold of the bus seat.
Failing to swallow past the knot in his throat, he neared his shelves and began madly grabbing at every object that topped them, tossing behind him what wasn't his desired choice. Palettes shattered against the floor and sent the white porcelain flying; brushes took course through the air and drove themselves into unfinished works, tearing the material and ruining the art in its process; bowls of paint sailed over, drips of color raining down hard over the disaster on its flight until the white glass attached itself into the seams of the floor.
"No… no, no… no! No! Where is it?!" despite the fear that tipped it, his voice had a deep bass approach to it, brimming with a coarse Italian accent.
A powerful surge to the door from the outside passed a strangled cry past the still-building knot at the base of his trachea, darting his watering eyes faster than the flashing lightning outside the windows around him.
"I'm not the man you seek!" his shaking tone was more of a prayer now, cabinet doors basically being torn from their hinges in the terror.
Every concealed item was thrown to the floor without care, most everything breaking or tearing upon discardation. As the clutter grew, the hysteria did as well, finally reaching its climax when the locked door to the workshop was thrown to the floor.
"Da Vinci must be assimilated," a dark tone rang from the shadows in a monotone ranging directly from the shadows swiftly descending upon the brunette.
Not even the strangled sob the artist found deep in his throat could stop the relieved laughter that beat it out as a large wooden frame was pulled from the back of the last closet and held high above in triumph like the newborn heir to the throne.
"You shall not win this, beast!" he declared, desperately tossing the frame to the darkness.
A deadly hiss pierced his ears and he crumbled, clutching them tight with his back to the wall and glass piercing his pale flesh. The pain and flooding scarlet was last on his mind though, hazel eyes wide in a state of horror as the shadows were drowned into the rectangle, taking on a more solid shape as it desperately tried to escape its new prison. That was nothing more than a failed attempt though, defeat sounding louder than the mind-numbing thunder that left the artist's ears ringing.
When all was still, none remained but a young woman with fair hair and a hard scowl, glaring holes to whoever dare meet her gaze.
"Assimilate…" she seemed to seethe, over and over to the point it became the last thing on Leonardo da Vinci's unconscious mind.
I don't know what he looked like, so forgive me on the botched descriptions. How's this for a prologue? Interested?
-F.J. III
