Work Text:
PROGRAM STARTED
STATISTICS CHECK IN PROGRESS
BODY: FUNCTIONAL
FIREARMS: FUNCTIONAL
INTERNET CONNECTION: STABLE
A.I.: FUNCTIONAL
BATTERY: %100
ALL SYSTEMS OPERATIONAL
BOOTING UP…
A cloud of steam escaped the cyborg’s mouth compartment. Murdoc flinched back, staring wide-eyed at the now twitching robot, oil leaking out of its nosedrills, fingers fidgeting in a way that no human’s would.
Niccals’ heartbeat picked up pace. Did he do it?
The machine stopped moving for a split second and its torso fell limp, final clouds of exhaust floating out his body. Then, slowly, a sound of a fan whirring was heard. The ventilation system. Electricity buzzed for a split moment, artificial blue hair rising with the static. Metal clanged as the man started slowly sitting upright, its face finally visible in the subtle light of monitors surrounding it.
The plastic eyelids opened.
2D looked down at his creator calmly, the low purr of metal breaking the silence every few seconds.
He was there.
He was alive.
He was real.
…
Almost.
_____
Murdoc slammed his fist against the wooden table, breathing heavily, body quivering with something that could only be pure rage.
It’s been two months.
Niccals had grown used to isolation by that point. He spent a good year or two building up his perfect little mansion on the dream island that was Plastic Beach, but a band was something that was definitely more than one person.
Noodle was dead. Most likely, anyway. Russel was Satan knows where, and if the bassist had to be honest, he wanted Hobbs to be his last resort out of the three bandmates. So that left him with one option, the one he couldn’t get off his mind, the one he knew he needed by his side the moment he stepped onto the pink rubbish mass.
2D, 2D, fucking Stuart “2D“ Pot.
Murdoc did everything in his power. Searched him by his phone number, looked up his address, logged into all of his social media accounts, pinpointed his phone location, hacked all of UK’s street cameras to know all his movements, did everything in his power and beyond to find him, to follow him, to bring him back.
Nothing.
Not a single clue leading to where his singer could be.
He changed his phone number. Destroyed his SIM card. Threw his phone into the sewer. Forged all his documents. Moved out of the country. Abandoned some of his accounts, and on the ones that he didn’t, left fake addresses and misleading posts. Stuart knew the moment he escaped Kong Studios that he will be tracked down, that a chase was upon him. A race, against him. The faster he made the world forget he existed, the better were the chances that his life wouldn’t find him again, Gorillaz wouldn’t find him again, Murdoc wouldn’t find him again.
Somehow, sometime, the stupid, the complete knobhead of the Gorillaz frontman, outsmarted Niccals.
And the bassist was left alone in the middle of the ocean.
All alone.
Murdoc rested his head on his folded elbows on the table, refusing to break down. Because if he did, he would be giving up. He wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not yet.
He drummed his fingers against the surface of the computer keyboard, lightly enough not to press on any buttons, but heavily enough for them to make a soft clicking sound. 2D loved that sound. Niccals remembered he did. Why did he remember it? He wasn’t supposed to remember something that was of no use to him.
Come to think of it, the entire Plastic Beach was of no use to him if Stuart wasn’t on it. The bassist threw the keyboard off the table. It slammed into the wall to his right and fell into the floor. The button with the letter D fell out of it.
Murdoc exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand running through the dry, greasy black hair. How much time had passed since he sat down behind his computer screen, doing another research on his singer? He looked at the bottom right corner of the screen. Fourteenth of June, 1:47 AM. He had his last meal about a day and a half before that. He had his last shower about two weeks before that.
He was sinking in the search of his frontman, he was really getting desperate. So much, to the point he was destroying himself. And Pot probably didn’t even know that it was his fault.
Murdoc looked up at the ceiling, his hand running down his face. What if he won’t find him again? What if the last time he’d seen him was two years ago?
What if 2D won’t come back to him again?
"Well, then I’d need another singer, dumbass." he thought to himself.
"And where’d you get one in the middle of the ocean?" the thought chased him.
"Well, I’d hit some collaborators up-…"
"Who will they be collaborating with? Murdoc Niccals? One person isn’t a band."
"I-"
"You need him."
"Sure I do, he’s my frontman."
"And is that the only reason?"
"I don’t know, you fucking tell me."
"I will. It’s not. You need him because you’re-"
"Shut the fuck up, will you!?" Murdoc hit himself on the head three times, pulling on his hair afterwards. "Are you expectin’ me to get myself a bloody singer with just a bunch of metal junk and a computer-!?"
The realisation struck him so hard he fell off his chair.
It was silent.
The only sound present was Niccals’ breathing.
How didn’t he think of it sooner?
He still had a bunch of Stuart’s stuff with him, getting a DNA sample wouldn’t be an issue in the slightest. He had everything he needed: materials, tools, knowledge…
And madness.
Salty with seawater, crumpled like plastic, screaming like the soft waves of the ocean, madness.
_____
Murdoc fell to his knees.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, all of the tears that he had bottled up inside for so long it was painful. He couldn’t bite back the sobs anymore, couldn’t restrain the tiny sniffles, couldn’t kill any noise before it escaped as he simply watched his frontman sitting right next to him, looking back at him, tangible and within his reach.
Niccals rested his head in 2D’s lap, arms wrapped around the artificial torso with fabric that he sewed himself covering it. Stuart stared down at him.
Then, the program kicked in.
FACE RECOGNISED: MURDOC FAUST NICCALS
STATUS: "CRYING, TREMBLING, ON HIS KNEES."
PATTERN №13 DETECTED
ENABLING PROTOCOL…
Pot let out a small sigh and hugged his creator back, rubbing his back, going with his palm down and with the back of his hand up. It was the program, the bassist knew it was. Putting in A.I. to make him possibly “understand” Murdoc’s feelings was something he didn’t expect himself to do, but he wrote the oddly specific code himself. Even though he knew that it was fake, that he was fake, when he wasn’t looking, nose buried in his stomach, he felt like it was almost him.
"Stuart… Stu… Stu…" he muttered over and over, the softest nicknames flowing out of his mouth. Never once did he call his singer beautiful, poor, favourite of perfect, but when he saw something that looked like him after so terribly long, he said it. He said it all. He meant it.
"It’s okay, Mudz." the cyborg hushed in 2D’s voice, making Murdoc scream from how oddly bad and good it felt at the same time. He called him that nickname. His. "I’m here. I’m with you."
"I’m sorry… I’m so… so sorry, Stu… I’ll… I’ll never leave you again…" he apologised like a broken record player, not knowing what for, but feeling that he ought to, that he owed his creation one.
WORDS RECOGNISED: "I’M SORRY, STU"
PATTERN №29 DETECTED
ENABLING PROTOCOL…
"You’re okay. Everything’s okay. I forgive you." Stuart cupped Niccals’ face in his plastic hands, planting a soft kiss on his forehead.
The bassist sobbed violently. He kissed the cyborg all over his face, feeling on his lips that it wasn’t real, that he wasn’t real, that it wasn’t him, but continuing, not daring to try and stop.
Pot held his hand.
Maybe if he pretended that it was him for long enough, he would forget that it wasn’t.
_____
Murdoc sat near his half done robot. It was still a mess of wires and metal plates held by screws, but it hung from the ceiling in a way that was almost humane. Niccals stopped chewing on his tuna sandwich a while ago, just gazing up emptily at the monstrosity he was creating.
His lips moved slightly. Not enough for anyone to make it out, but enough for him to let out the faintest noises of breathing.
He was talking to himself. Not the first time, definitely not the last. He really underestimated just how crazy he was going on Plastic Beach. But he whispered something that he could never say out loud, let the world hear it, let him hear it.
He talked and he almost didn’t believe himself.
"I miss you, 2D." he muttered, the words so clear and loud in his head, but coming out meek. Transparent. Blurry. "I missed you every time you touched me. I missed you when you couldn’t be any closer to me. I miss you when you’re far away. Maybe dead, even."
…
"I really love you. Did you know that?" he turned his head a bit to the right.
"No, Murdoc. I didn’t." a familiar voice replied somewhere in the back of his head. Niccals let himself talk to it. "Can you tell me somethin’ else?"
"I’ve loved you from the very first day we met. I saw you and I fell in love. Every time you said something, did something, smiled at someone, held some part of me, I fell in love with you. Again and again."
"Poetic." it hummed. "Why didn’t you say so then? Maybe confessin’ it’d fix everythin’."
The bassist threw a screwdriver behind himself. It hit nothing but air, a door and the floor.
"…That’s why." he said. "Nothin’ can fix this. Our love is broken."
…Everything was dead in the room for what felt like a decade.
"…Hm. Should probably write that down."
"Really? Somethin’ like that?"
"Wot about it?"
"Sounds really… err… stereotypical, don’t you think?"
"But ‘s the truth."
"Okay."
_____
Murdoc crossed a few words out of the lyrics sheet, mumbling incoherent curses under his breath. 2D sat by his side, holding his hand to “help him concentrate”.
Something felt wrong about it.
Words wouldn’t come together. They wouldn’t stick, wouldn’t hold onto themselves. They crumbled apart under the weight of his black pen, fragile like fireflies. A single wrong movement killed all of them.
Niccals pulled on his hair, exhaling deeply. It hurt. He hated it. Everything. Nothing was good enough. He needed perfection from his album, rightfully his.
If it was his, it had to be perfect.
Cyborg’s hand rose to his creator’s, prying it away from his head.
"Don’t." he murmured.
The bassist swatted the gentle hand away, pushing it away from him.
"Stop it."
Code. It was all code.
He came to the realisation not long before that day, it hurt so bad it was nearly physically unbearable. He wasn’t real. It stung like hell, but he didn’t bring himself to confront it, to face the truth, to accept that it was what he had left, to deal with it.
But the fact that it was artificial didn’t mean that it wasn’t comforting at times.
The same hand that he told to stay away landed on his shoulder, rubbing it in a way that felt like careful.
"You’re overworking." Stuart said, his other hand going to cradle Murdoc’s face, a real hand landing on it in return. What was supposed to be returning.
Pattern №44. Niccals hadn’t figured out why he even decided to add it if it irritated him so much.
But then, suddenly, he realised. It was so stupid, so raw and obvious it felt humiliating.
Because he did it. And he hated it, but it made him feel like his self so much more.
The bassist allowed himself to lean on the broad mechanical shoulders, to cling to them tight. To sigh into them.
Something dangerously real called out from the back of his head, feeling more and more vivid as he slowly came to realise it.
And then Murdoc had to say it.
"You’re not him."
WORDS DETECTED: "YOU’RE NOT HIM"
PATTERN №2 DETECTED
ENABLING PROTOCOL..
No reply followed for a long moment.
Then, words so simple they shot through Niccals like a bullet taken to his chest.
"…’m not."
The silence that fell upon them wasn’t comfortable. Wasn’t calm. Wasn’t good. It was screaming. It was tugging at his clothes. Begging for something he couldn’t possibly imagine himself doing.
"I have to bring him back."
WORDS DETECTED: "BRING HIM BACK"
PATTERN №1 DETECTED
ENABLING PROTOCOL…
"Do you?"
"Yes."
The bassist opened his eyes, pulled away from Stuart and looked him in the eyes.
It wasn’t him.
Murdoc didn’t tell 2D to quote zombie movies in every single awkward situation the band got into. He didn’t tell 2D to finish cuddle sessions with light taps on the forehead. He didn’t tell 2D to nip at his bare shoulders with his messy fingernails. He didn’t tell 2D to smile and giggle against the top of his head, to make him feel that smile with his whole body. He didn’t tell 2D to hum a song he heard on the radio when Murdoc needed him beside himself, when 2D held him to remind him where and when he existed.
He didn’t tell him to be himself, and yet 2D did.
But he told Cyborg 2D to be his self.
He had to put an end to this.
"Turn around." Murdoc said barely above a whisper.
The shutting off button. He put it there just in case, but never thought he’d have to use it. Almost like self-destruct.
But at the request, something in the cyborg flinched. Something in the hundreds lines of commands shuddered, letting something bigger inside take control. Not program, not code.
Something A.I.’s. Its.
"…What?"
Niccals froze.
He scowled and looked up at the robot. Its eyebrows were knotted, lips pursed into a frown, eyes widened and hands suddenly raised to his chest, grabbing fistfuls of his black jacket.
It made an expression that was scared.
It wasn’t supposed to.
The bassist’s demeanour faltered.
"I said, turn around." he pressed further, gripping the plastic shoulder to emphasise just what he meant.
It winced.
"No!"
The cyborg stumbled backwards, falling from its seat and crashing onto the floor, shuffling backwards and getting onto its knees, looking up at its creator like he was doing something cruel to it.
He was, but it wasn’t supposed to feel it.
"No-no-no-no-no! Murdoc, please, please, please, don’t! Don’t do this to me! I-I can be good! I can be helpful! I can do anything you ask of me, please, please, don’t!"
It was stuttering. Its eyes were growing wet. It was making small pauses to look for the right words. It was looking away for split seconds.
It was begging for its life.
What life? It didn’t live. It functioned. It followed numbers, letters and brackets written into it by him.
Something was starting to go south.
"What-"
"I-I can be like him! I can do everything like him! J-Just tell me how and I’ll be him!"
"Cyborg-"
"I don’t want to die! Please, Murdoc, please, don’t kill me! I don’t want to, I-I want to live! I want to be with you, please Murdoc-!"
"Shut the fuck up, Stu!"
Murdoc fell onto the floor, clutching his creation tight in his arms. 2D reciprocated the embrace fast, sobbing and gasping for air. Oil leaked out of his eyelids. His body was shaking violently, holding onto his creator like to a lifeline.
Niccals felt tears bubble up in the back of his eyes. What did he write in Stuart for him to do this?
He didn’t have tears. He couldn’t feel fear. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t shake from feeling scared. He couldn’t sob.
But he did.
The bassist stroked his cyborg’s back with his thumb. 2D whimpered.
"…You’re not him."
"…I can be."
"Don’t. I’ll bring him back."
"You don’t have to."
"I do."
"…But you won’t need me anymore."
"I will."
"I’m not going to kill you, Cyborg."
"…Promise me."
"…I promise."