#doctorturtletastic

A practice doodle :)

I proudly present my very first finished comic page! Over 35 hours of work, probably a bit overdone, but made with a lot of love. From scripting and experimenting with panel layouts and materials to sketching and inking, all drawn the old-fashioned way with a dip pen.

To me, anything the Belgians or French touch turns into comic gold: Iznogoud, Spirou, Tintin, Asterix, Lucky Luke, Marsupilami… I’ve read them all, and I absolutely adore them. This little art journey became a personal homage to those classics. <3

I made a few lil’ mistakes ._. but hopefully they’re ones most people won’t notice (lol). India ink does not forgive (oof!). Some details might look a bit subtle, since I originally planned to add watercolor, but now I’m too nervous to ruin it. Maybe I’ll return to it someday.

It was such fun to explore different kinds of paper and materials. The local art supply store has definitely seen my face a lot these past few weeks. It’s an open ending, but it could also stand on its own… who knows? ~ It does taste like more ~ (Anton Ego voice).

Here are some process pictures:

Loosely based on a shoot my favorite country artist did for a queer publication (L'HOMO, spring edition, 2017 (Douwe Bob)).

If anyone wants to digitalize it, be my guest...

Part 1-3 of are now posted on: AO3 🥳: All Parts, just click here. WattPad: All Parts, just click here.

The air hums with cinematic voltage. A deep orange glow washes over the stage, flickering in sync with the old film projector whirring above. Suspended in the spotlight, the Doctor dangles like a marionette, wrists bound by curling reels of celluloid. From his body, a stream of golden regeneration energy pulses outward, siphoned into Lux a, now a grotesquely rendered titan of animated light and flesh. His form ripples with half-drawn outlines, radiating power like a deranged Saturday morning god.

The Doctor groans, eyes shut tight, teeth clenched as the energy leaves him. His head lolls then snaps upward.

The doctor notices Nora as she crouches behind the final row, her eyes wide as dinner plates. Her face is bathed in the golden shimmer of the Doctor’s energy being drawn away. Her fingers tremble around the railing, knuckles white.

"What are you doing here?!" the Doctor shouts through his teeth.

"What do you think I’m doing?! I’m hiding from that Looney Tunes exorcism up there!"

"Name!" the Doctor demands, struggling to keep his balance. "Your name!"

Nora blinks, startled. "T- they call me Nora."

Lux's head twitches in amusement. "Oh-ho! A guest in the audience? Unscheduled, unscripted, I adore improv."

Nora scrambles to her feet, still winded. "You look like you’re losing a fight to an animated meat balloon. Figured you might need help."

"This isn't help! It’s suicide!" the Doctor snarls. "Get out!"

“You’re welcome! I make all my worst decisions in heels.” 

That catches him off guard. For a split second, a flicker of bafflement crosses his face.

"Wait, wait, why are you here? In the Palazzo? Were you brought in? Did you follow me?"

Nora blinks. “I - I don’t know. I thought you followed me in.  I just… ended up here. I woke up in Miami a few days ago and…” She shakes her head, her ponytail swaying in the golden light. “Something pulled me. I don’t even remember getting on a plane…or car…or.”

His brow furrows. “Where were you before Miami?”

Her face stills. Then, soft, uncertain: “I… don’t know.”

The Doctor’s eyes narrow. This is wrong. Too composed to be coincidence.“You don’t remember?”

“I remember… Rain. Neon lights. Lying on concrete. That’s it.”

Meanwhile in the projection archive, Belinda, mid-search among dusty film reels, pauses at the faint echo of raised voices in the auditorium.  Belinda bolts to the projection booth, clutching a rusted reel ready to ignite. She tumbles into Mr. Pye. They collide with a muffled thud.

"Where does that girl come from?!" Belinda hisses.

Mr. Pye looks away through the second projection port. "I saw her slip in. I thought... I thought she just ran off."

Below, the Doctor struggles as he keeps his gaze on Nora. Lux notices the Doctor’s attention is divided, gets distracted, and missteps his flourish. The filmstrip cinching the Doctor's wrists goes slack and the Doctor crashes down to the stage with a spine-rattling thud.

Nora dives over the seats, reaches the Doctor, and tears at the filmstrip binding him. Her hands burn where the celluloid touches.

Lux's face contorts into a cartoon sneer. "You know what happens to scene-stealers? They get cut."

He lifts a finger, and the filmstrip coils like a serpent. It lashes across the auditorium, wrapping around Nora’s torso, pulling tight, a vice of warped cellulose. Each coil crushes, forcing air from her lungs. The Doctor, clutching his side, roars, "Let her go!"

Lux chuckles. "She wanted to join the picture. She’ll get her close-up in just a moment."

With a final yank, Nora’s body convulses. The celluloid tightens around her chest with a dry, stretching creak. She slips into unconsciousness, her body sliding down the velvet seat, limbs limp. Her breathing is ragged, shallow.

The Doctor drops to his knees beside her collapsed body, hearts pounding like war drums. His hands are moving before thought can catch them, his jacket flungs open, he pulls his sonic in a fluid, desperate motion.“Come on, come on, stay with me,” he mutters. “Don’t do this, not now.” He flicks the screwdriver into bioscan mode.

WHRRR- CHIME.

A soft indigo light pulses from the tip. Above his hand, a translucent hologram flickers into being, thin lines traced in glowing spores of light, like fungal threads suspended in the air.

Two heart readings.

Two.

The Doctor’s breath halts.

“What…?”

His eyes dart over the data. A twin waveform appears- one faint and sputtering, the other... flat.

HEART 1: 000 BPM HEART 2: 32 BPM. Declining.

He stares, unblinking. “She has… two hearts.”

His voice is hoarse. Distant.

“She’s… she’s like me.”

The words hit him like a backdraft. He glances down at her, pale and still against the velvet seats, then back at the glowing readout hovering in the air.

Not human. Not by chance. Not by accident.

A Time Lord.

“But…”

He adjusts the scan parameters. Pulls more detail. No genetic error. No developmental abnormality. His brow furrows deeper. “No... that’s not right. It was functional. Once.” His voice lowers. He’s speaking to himself, now soft, stunned. “It’s not a birth defect. Not something she was born with.”

His fingers tremble as he touches the display. He can see it now, subtle scar tissue, misaligned energy flow, signs of trauma deep within the organ. Not damage from age. Not something natural. “Something happened to it. Someone… shut it down.” His voice is hollow. “And she doesn’t even know.” The realization settles over him like ash. Her other heart has been compensating for years, forced into overdrive. A single, failing engine in a body meant to have two.

He looks down at her. Nora’s lips are slightly parted. A flicker of breath. So shallow. Her face is peaceful, unknowing. “She’s been dying since the day she forgot.”

His hand finds hers. Cold. Slack. He grips it gently.

“She never knew what she was.”

He swallows hard, words catching in his throat.

“A Time Lord… without regeneration. Without a way back.”

The theater fades around them, no velvet seats, no spotlight, no monstrous cartoon god slithering in the wings.

Just her.

And the crushing weight of the unknown.

He whispers, barely audible:

“Who are you?”

And just beneath it: What did they do to you?

Lux ascends the stairs, now solidified- half-animated, half-real. Bit by bit, his limbs flattened, his edges shimmering with that sickly ink-and-celluloid gleam. He was unravelling. But not fast enough. He looms over them both, savouring the drama.