#sonicscrewdramas

So, the Smurfs have basically had northwestern Europe in a chokehold since the 1950s. Then in the 90s, techno and house music blew up in the Netherlands - and of course, the Smurfs had to ride that rave wave 💊⚡️🌈

They released a bunch of CDs where they covered popular dance tracks, actually sung by the original voice actors (no joke). One of the biggest hits? A Smurfed-up version of “No Limit” by 2Unlimited. It stayed at number one for over seven weeks. I still have a copy somewhere. it’s both a musical crime and a cultural treasure. (Here’s a live TV performance if you're curious. It’s... something.)

Anyway, imagine if the same thing happened to Ring-a-Ding. A dance remix, kids everywhere chanting his name, sparkly marketing, the whole package. I’d honestly believe it.

A short translated extract of the lyrics:

"in smurf land, yeah that's correct we discovered house, you didn’t expect? we house ourselves almost to bits with heavy beats and louder hits tiktiktikke here we go again about twelve times a day, my friend the speaker’s about to explode when we all sing in party mode"

Mr. RaD reminded me of this historical event. :')

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.

Music recommendation: “The Time of Angels ” – Doctor Who Series 5 Soundtrack, composed by Murray Gold

The velvet seats swallowed her whole.

Nora pressed herself low behind the middle row of seats, breath shallow, heart hammering against her ribs. From behind the heavy red curtains on the stage came the faint groan of aged floorboards, an echo that seeped through the theatre’s old timbers, reminding her she was not alone.

Then, click. Tap. Tap.

“Stay calm”, she repeated silently.  “Observe before you act.” The sharp rhythm of his shoes echoed through the auditorium, lighter than footsteps ought to be, like fingernails dancing on glass. He moved with the swagger of a showman, head tilted, voice drifting through the air with a melody both charming and grotesque.

“Lights, camera… trespassing,” he sang softly.

Nora dared a glance through the gap between the seat backs. There he was, silhouetted against the half-lit screen, spinning slowly, hands clasped behind his back as if conducting an invisible orchestra. His grin was painted on, but the malice beneath it was all too real.

“Darling girl,” he called, dangerous delight in his tone. “I do admire your theatrical instincts - exit stage right, such flair! But you are aware this isn’t participatory theatre?”

He leapt from the stage with a flourish; his frame landed far too heavily for someone of his size. The carpet barely muted the thud. Nora flinched.

He began weaving through the aisles, each step eerily precise.

“Come now,” he purred. “Don’t be shy. I promise I only bite on special occasions.” Then, almost sotto voce, “And tonight feels… very special.”

Nora clenched her jaw, trying to control her breathing. The back of her hand pressed against her mouth. Her entire body buzzed with fear - cold and alive.

“I take it you’ve heard the stories,” he said, his voice drawing nearer. “The marquee that still flickers. The films that never end. The doors that don’t stay locked. Oh, they always come sniffing, the curious ones. You, though…”

He stopped.

“You’re different.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her spine had locked in place, like the film reels in the booth above. Different how? she wondered, dread and curiosity colliding.

He took another step.

“Were you hoping to be rescued?” he asked. “A dashing projectionist, perhaps? Or one of those clean-cut boys from Singin’ in the Rain?” He snorted. “Wrong genre.”

He stopped beside her row, eyes glittering in the half-light. “Tell me, “He whispered, voice low, “why do you haunt these seats?”

She swallowed, lips parched and trembling. At her feet, a length of filmstrip slithered from beneath the seat in front of her, unspooling like a dark, writhing serpent. Nora’s pulse thundered as reels began to slide and coil around the legs of the chairs, forming a menacing ring at her feet. Panic flared in her chest when the tape rose as though alive, its glossy surface glinting in the projector’s half-light, and she leapt backward with a choked cry, eyes wide at the uncanny sight.

She forced herself to speak. “I-I thought it was the movies pulling me in,” she whispered.

His head tilted sharply. She hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

There was a pause.

She rose slightly, just enough to be seen, hands lifted in something halfway between surrender and honesty. “I… I did heard the stories,” she said. “At the diner. About this place. About people going missing. About lights that never go out. I thought maybe…”

Her voice faltered. “I thought maybe it was something beautiful.”

He stared at her.

“Like in the old musicals,” she continued, quieter now. “When the music swells, and the lights hit you, and suddenly… you’re part of something magic.”

For a moment, just one, his expression cracked. Something in his eyes shifted. They shimmered like glass catching firelight, reflective and ancient. He seemed to see right through her, past the words, past the fear, down into whatever it was that churned beneath her skin.

And then he grinned again. Wider. Hungrier.

“You’re not just curious,” he said. “You’re cursed with curiosity. The most dangerous kind of fool.”

He tapped his temple.

“Like a moth to the flame, darling. But flames burn. Always.”

A sudden mechanical whirr cut through the tension, shrill, precise: the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver.

Mr. Ring-a-Ding snapped his head toward the door, hat tilting askew. For an instant, his painted grin fell away, replaced by something like rage.

Nora seized the moment. She bolted upright and ran, her shoes clattering against the carpet as she weaved between the rows. Behind her, the hiss of shifting reels chased her like whispers, but she managed to turn away just in time, narrowly escaping the threatening film tape that slithered along the floor. With no time to think, no time to breathe, she made a snap decision and threw herself between the last row of seats, heart hammering as she crouched low.