"Watch the ball! Watch the ball! Keep your eyes on the ball!"
The gambler's pupils flitted back and forth, left to right, right to left, watching the trickster employ his sleight of hand. The man was all smiles and stares. He hardly ever watched his own hands move as he moved the three cups, from left, right, to center. Not that the gambler had time to focus on the trickster's bald head, the flickering of the flame by dying dawn, or the cold wind that sent a shiver up his spine.
Out of all people, the gambler worries most about the littlest things in life, knowing the bane of his own irresponsibility. They don't play games. They bet their livelihood on these traps. They play the game not to beat it, but to beat others, and keep beating them until they lose.
The trickster stopped to move up his woolen sleeves, to somehow prove he wasn't playing the player like a bard would play a lute. The gambler didn't ask. The proof was another distraction, to distract from all the cheating. Because the ball was resting safely at the bottom of his pocket.
"Tell me then," the trickster spoke. A gold tooth gleamed in the dark, yellow and black. "Where is the ball? If you get it right, you'll double your money. Get it wrong, and you'll get double nothing."
"And what if I get triple nothing? That ball better be under there."
The trickster smiled. "Come on," he said. "Would I lie to you?"
A five/fingered claw dug itself into the fabric of his tunic, the nails pressing deeply into the flesh of his shoulder. The gambler froze, watching a monstrous face rise from behind the trickster, a face of ultimate beauty and love, but when it looked at him, the claw's grip tightened, the trickster groaned in agony, and the face transformed into horror.
"A harpy!" the gambler cried out. "A harpy!"
The trickster's eyes turned completely milky white. His face turned deathly pale, like all the color was drained from his body, until he was nothing but transparent skin and blue veins. Then his features froze into place, the edges hardened, and a sheen of chalk covered his skin. The effects spread to his tunic, as the trickster's entire body turned to stone.
The gambler ran, but not before clearing the table of his winnings.
Clara followed the screams.
Statues of children appeared in the square. Wailing mothers rocked back and forth in the arms of their stricken husbands, as others evacuated the square as soon as a shadow of a wing appeared overhead. Clara could see it in the distance. The Angel's silhouette, struggling to lift a grown man several feet into the air as it clapped its powerful wings. They didn't just take energy. They took people. Why?
Why do animals take prey? But animals don't toy with their prey. At least most don't.
"Why children?" Clara asked out loud.
Michelangelo mournfully examined the statues. Some of the children seemed to have turned in mid-step, running away from the Angel with a foot hanging in the air. "Don't let them fall!" he told the parents of the victims. "They break so easily…"
"We'll find a way to bring them back," she said. "The Doctor always does."
At some point she forgets when the truth ended and the lies started, but there was nothing else she could do.
"Where is the Doctor?" Michelangelo said. "Shouldn't he be here? Shouldn't he help?"
"He is helping. In his own way. Trust me, I know him."
He probably had a lot on his mind at the moment, though. Clara knew the real question wasn't whether he should help them, but whether they should help him. If her suspicions were correct, the Doctor was finding himself into trouble. Again.
"Where's the Angel going? Can you see?"
"The south side of the city. It's heading towards the river."
"Anything special down there? Anything worth mentioning?"
"Just the water. Nothing else I can think of. I rarely leave my studio, I'm too busy with work."
"Think Michelangelo! There's gotta be something. Water. Waters means life. Water brings life. Maybe they're using the water. Maybe they're generating power with water. Does that sound plausible to you? Come on, inspire me Michelangelo!"
"Angels don't care for water. Stones sink," Michelangelo said. "No, these are creatures of hell. They have corrupted my powers, stolen the divine from me. They mock my work, laugh at me. They are tormentors and thieves, who eat children and harvest men!"
"What would the Doctor do?" Clara told herself. The Doctor would know by now. He'd see the right words. The right clues had to be staring them in the face by now.
The TARDIS saw the Doctor. She always sees the Doctor.
He came in like a breeze, blowing open the TARDIS doors invisible to the naked eye. The cloister bells started ringing the moment the doors swung shut again.
Dials seemed to turn on their own. Levers were pressed down and buttons were pressed one only moments after the other. The Doctor worked fast in this form, and yet he tried everything in his power to change back from it.
With a loud 'bang' like the sound of the blast doors of a nuclear fallout shelter coming down, the TARDIS went into lockdown, triggering red emergency lights which submerged the control room in imminent gloom.
The screen atop the TARDIS console started whirring with static, buzzing and crackling, until a live feed of that very same console turned up.
"Clara!" a voice came from the speakers and a figure emerged on the screen dressed in dark blue. His jacket was lined with crimson red. "Clara, are you there?"
The Doctor's face filled up the screen as if he was trying to cram it through, unsuccessfully.
"Either you're unusually quiet or I'm talking to myself, either way, I suggest you steer clear…"
He waved his hands about as he dashed from one part of the console to the other, flipping switches which simultaneously flipped in the real world by some invisible hand. Then the Doctor stopped, reaching the final switch. He looked down in trepidation.
"…because I'm about to do something very very dangerous."
He flipped the switch. A light, like lightning, surged through the core of the TARDIS console and struck the Doctor where he stood. White light engulfed the room, and then faded until it took on the shape of a man. It was as if the light itself had wrapped itself around him. The Doctor screamed.
"Why here? Why me?" Michelangelo said. "There must be hundreds of sculptors all over Rome, all over the world even! Why was I blessed with this curse?"
"Hold on," Clara said and her thoughts froze. "Why'd you say 'they'?
"What do you mean?"
"You said 'they'. They laughed at you. Why'd you say 'they'? Like, in plural? You said 'they', as in multiple Angels, while I thankfully only know of the one. You even spoke as if you knew or met them before. Why'd you say 'they'?"
"I don't know… I just…"
Suddenly he cried out in pain and held his abdomen. His hands contorted into twisted things, as if the bones themselves were rearranging themselves underneath his skin. Then his face distorted the same way and fangs pressed against the flesh of his upper lip. His jaw dislodged and grew larger, like a snake's. His pupils grew larger until his eyes were only black. From his back sprouted wings, and through his makeshift shoes tore nails like those of a lion.
"Okay, that's new," Clara said, her level of fright rising by the second. "Michelangelo's an Angel."
Then she snapped out of her fright for a second to ponder that. "I probably should have seen that coming."