Archive of Our Own

Murdoc was in the driver’s seat. As it always should’ve been.

Few people knew the difference between a battle and a war like him. He was happy to lose battles, receive a berating, a beating, a stint in the slammer. It was all short-term in the grand scheme of things, and there was always a bigger picture at play. He would hear Russel wax poetic about how taking things one day at a time was the only sane way to live, which was undoubtedly an admirable cause. But he seemed to neglect the fact that being short-sighted to such a degree led to a wishy-washy, directionless stumbling through life, and Murdoc was never about that. He had things to do.  And if he needed to show a little arse in the name of achieving his goals, it was a necessary sacrifice.

The goal of…

He tapped at the steering wheel, 2D’s babbling in the backseat long faded into white noise.

The goal wasn’t to be needed. He’d known he was needed since the start, and recent events had only confirmed what had been superfluous to confirm. Nobody had said it, of course, but he didn’t need them to. 2D was pitifully insisting he’d been happy the whole time, not struggling at all. Noodle had been adorably trying to downplay how relieved she was that he was back. And Russel had been saying… not much of anything, in fact. Not that that was unusual, the man could internalise until the cows came home. If living in denial was more comfortable, more power to them. As long as they could still pick up an instrument, stay switched on, and remain focused on their goals, Murdoc didn’t need to hear out loud that he was right all along.

The goal of…

He took the next left toward the south terminals. Noodle had just said something, followed by a long pause before 2D’s response. Likely pointing out the blindingly obvious about something-or-other that he’d yet to consider.

Those two had been unusually snippy with each other, he’d noticed, and they’d have to patch it up quick for the band’s sake. This collaboration was a lucrative one, the biggest since IE9. Best of all, they hadn’t even needed to do much thus far, just sign off on some stylish cartoons. Murdoc had been featured in them which, he had to admit, pumped vindicated blood to all the right places, considering they’d been made while - as far as the world knew - he was never leaving prison. That must’ve been a stick in the collective craws. With the bank they were collecting from this deal, they could take their time with the next album, not jump straight into green-lighting moody synth demos.

For some reason, Murdoc amended in his head that they hadn’t been bad. Desperately in need of his influence, certainly. But succinct. Soulful. Whatever goal 2D had been trying to achieve, he seemed content just to have achieved it. Even if he’d pissed Noodle off royally in the process. And Russel…

He hadn’t received much of an opinion from Russel at all.

Gradually, the babbling frequency tuned into words.

“Three shirts, three pants, trousers, phone charger, phone…“

Murdoc shook his thoughts loose, “Hang on, why three?”

“Lighters, fags, Vo5…”

2D had either ignored Murdoc’s question by choice, or was too focused on his recalling to notice.

Murdoc took advantage of the red light and turned in the driver’s seat to look at him.

“Dents.”

2D’s eyes had been screwed shut, proving it was probably the latter reason. They popped open, surprised at the interruption, “Huh?”

“Why only three shirts and pants?” Murdoc repeated.

2D frowned, unsure if it was a trick question, “Cuz we got the interview day, sightseeing day in Tokyo, and visiting the temples.”

“Right, and you’ll be starkers for the other 4 days, will you?”

The realisation crept onto 2D’s face, which quickly turned sheepish. “Oh.”

“Green.” Russel’s info came quietly from the passenger seat.

“Yeah?” Murdoc asked.

“The light.” Russel clarified, and Murdoc turned, noticed it too, and resumed driving.

“Guess I was only thinking about the important days,” 2D muttered, not seeing the opportunity to move the conversation along if he had wanted.

Murdoc focused on Noodle in his rear view mirror and nodded in an attempt to get her attention. If he’d been focusing more on the road, he might’ve missed it when she briefly looked up from her phone in acknowledgement.

“Surprised you didn’t check that.” He told her.

Not looking away from her phone, she spoke in a high-pitched, croaky cockney accent, “‘Oi, stop treatin’ me like a numpty, I know how to pack a bag alright?’”

2D turned to her and pulled a face, offended at either the impression or at the callout, or both.

“Sounds nothin’ like me,” he grumbled, choosing the former to voice his chagrin with.

Murdoc murmured his displeasure. He’d explained enough times that 2D’s pertinent tendencies were not to be humoured. Even if he was being irritating enough to warrant being brought down a peg or two, his forgetfulness when it came to important details hampered all of them in the long run.

“And you?” Murdoc asked, turning to Russel.

“Grown man makes his own mistakes.” He responded distantly.

It was becoming more and more of a mystery to Murdoc how they managed to last seven entire months without him.

“Struth, you lot,” he sighed, and raised his voice in an attempt to regain 2D’s attention, “Tell me you got your passport at least.”

“Uh…”

Murdoc’s eyes widened. The question had been a sarcastic one. As the car pulled into Terminal 5 of Heathrow, there wasn’t time to go back and retrieve it.

A slight movement caught his attention in the mirror, and he exhaled in relief as he saw saw Noodle nodding slowly.

He swung into a drop-off space, and left the car running as he undid his seatbelt to address them.

“Now don’t cock this up.” He instructed, and pointed a finger at both backseat passengers respectively, “No thick tangents about crumpets, and no smart alec remarks about the horrors of consumerism, alright? You’re there to be good little soldiers, and then we might be able to scrounge enough to keep this gravy train rolling.”

“Why’m I even going?” 2D whined, “I ain’t gonna understand a word.”

“Because by some satanic miracle, the world somehow isn’t sick of 2D in 2018.”

“How many times,” Noodle sighed, locking and putting away her phone, “I’ll be translating for you.”

“It’s a reason to get away from it all for a bit, D. Enjoy it.” Russel said, a quiet monotone that suggested the idea of enjoying things was a far-flung memory to him.

Murdoc checked his watch. “You got just enough time to get yourself in Saltrock and pick up some shirts before you go. For Christ’s sake, it’s like representing this band means nothing to you.”

“Like it means so much to you.” 2D’s arms folded and his tilted head scowled at Murdoc, “And who died and gave you the right to be bossing us round again?”

“Who died?” Murdoc asked with a little laugh, “Besides your id?”

“My what? My head?”

“Don’t be a dick,” Noodle scolded, “you know he won’t know what that is.”

“What what is?”

“Car waiting behind us.” Russel noted in the wing mirror.

“Dumb yourself down for him all you want,” Murdoc snipped, “but you’re off your nut if you expect me to do the same.”

“Might be dumb but he makes a point, I’m also not enjoying you slipping back into barking orders.”

“Don’t call me-“

“Car.”

“Well tell me, how many shirts does he have, again?”

“And that’s my fault?”

“Stop talkin’ like I’m not here!”

“Enough!” Russel snapped, silencing the three, “Goddamn. You don’t have long if you’re gonna hit the store before your flight. Just go, try and enjoy yourselves, and let’s free up this goddamn space.”

The trio exchanged terse looks.

“Wanker.” Noodle mumbled, unbuckling and exiting the car, 2D fumbling slightly in his attempt to dislodge his seatbelt and leave as quickly.

“Wonderful.” Murdoc sneered, watching them open the boot and retrieve their suitcases, “Love you too, send a postcard, try the veal, et cetera.”

Russel had an innate ability to defuse or end a tense conversation with a single comment. Murdoc had a degree of envy for it, though not enough to trade it for any quality he already had. Sometimes what he heard Russel say didn’t even sound particularly different to what he had said himself. Perhaps it was in the intent. Or an assumption accumulated through experience that Murdoc ending an argument meant he considered himself the victor.

The boot came down with a slam, before his vocalist and guitarist hurried into the airport, Noodle pointing out where baggage drop-off was as they wandered out of eyeshot. Murdoc shook his head.

“Never thought I’d miss the days when their chattering and giggling was all I could hear when I shut my eyes.”

He’d said it like it was to himself. It had been, in a way. But Russel’s silence raised his irritation further and he spun to face his drummer in the passenger seat.

“And what the bloody hell’s with you? You touching cloth or something?”

“Go to hell,” Russel said, with a shake of the head that looked almost painful to do. Murdoc threw his hands up, astounded at the low batting average even for him. He decided pivoting the topic to work might inspire something more than curt, bitter remarks.

“How long till the Mills interview?”

“Hour ten.” Russel said without looking up.

“Happy days. Enough time for a slash and a pasty.”

~

“Scotty, being back couldn’t feel better.”

The earlier argument successfully swept under his mind’s rug, Murdoc certainly looked like he meant what he said. He stretched back on his allocated seat, feet strewn onto the desk, dangerously close to wires and switches that would probably be bad if accidentally flipped.

“It’s like slipping into an old pair of… well, slippers. You can’t beat it, y’know? That familiar air, that familiar smell, smells like…” He smelled theatrically at the air, emphasising his point, “…desperation.”

Scott leaned forward, nodding deeply at the answer. Murdoc’s attitude and demeanour didn’t seem to be surprising him in the slightest.

“Must’ve been quite the shock,” he said, “seeing the band you put together move on so quickly without you. Successfully, you might argue.”

“You might,” Murdoc shrugged, both literally and metaphorically at the barely backhanded snark, “but I’m not the argumentative type. Honestly, between you and me, I assumed they were going to cock it up even more than they already did. But behold, none of them are dead, and more importantly the Gorillaz name isn’t dead either. Wounded, perhaps. But nothing I can’t fix.”

Murdoc enjoyed studying the faces of those that interviewed him. It had become a game of one-upmanship with his past self, seeing just how uncomfortable or irritated they could get. Many vowed to never interview him again, and while that was a victory in a certain sense, it was particularly fun to revisit those he’d spoken to years prior, fresh life experiences leading to fresh material.

Scott had interviewed him almost 15 years earlier, when he was still new in his position, and his deer-in-headlights expression for most of the interview had left Murdoc practically giddy. Time and his own experiences, ascending through the ranks to be the station’s senior interviewer, seemed to have relaxed him, which was good. The same squeamish sod would have been depressingly underwhelming. Scott turned his attention away from Murdoc.

“And Russel, how are you feeling regarding Murdoc’s return? Do you not feel this regressing of personnel contradicts the urge to evolve with the times that’s so often been at the forefront of your music and your image?”

Murdoc used the break to indulge in some private irritation, drumming his fingers against his knee. Interviewers were far more fun when they were mostly reactive, didn’t come in with their own agenda in mind.

Russel cleared his throat, and leaned towards the microphone.

“The people ain’t what matters,” he said quietly. “One person can’t hold all the responsibility. I learned that this year.”

“Really?” Scott pressed, his curiosity piqued, “In what way did you learn that?”

Russel looked down, any sort of answer looking far from natural.

“Uh…”

Murdoc could only grind his teeth for so long at the dead air, and jumped in, “You can’t get much out of Russ when he’s in one of his contemplative moods. Yes, it might make him a little drab at parties but the creative spark that emerges as a result, man alive. Best direct the questions my way, I’d say.”

Seemingly a little disappointed to have to drop the topic, Scott relented and pivoted back to Murdoc.

“Then allow me to narrow the topic down. Murdoc, are you the same person you were when you formed this band two decades ago? Have you changed in the same manner the world has?”

A casual stretch showed that Murdoc didn’t find the question disarming in the slightest. He rested his hands behind his head and swayed idly in his chair.

“Change, shmange. I mean ok, yes, we’re evolving each and every day. There ain’t a single nanosecond in this world that’s identical to one that came before. So to me, asking if I’ve changed is like asking if the sun’ll go down or if Curry's could benefit from an Air Wick or two. Redundant, obvious, and a little too shamelessly blatant on where you’re trying to lead me.”

He finished the answer with a sting in his tone, letting Scott know he wasn’t afraid to call out any traps that were being laid for him. Scott nodded with a small smile, seemingly caught out.

“You certainly pride yourself on being controversial.”

“Call it whatever you fancy,” Murdoc replied, “but for the record I don’t care for the word ‘controversial’. It’s a cowards way of saying, oh this one’s a twat, but for now he’s valuable.”

“Apologies to anyone offended by the language.”

“Oh yeah, soz granny.” He leaned into close to the mic, grinning out a whisper, “Snatch me some of that holy water on your next church visit will ya, I’m running low on KY.”

Scott rested his elbows on the desk, studying Murdoc closely. “I might contend with that point, actually.”

“You got me, water’s a woeful lubricant.”

Scott shook his head, “Not that. You being valuable.”

Murdoc’s grin dented a little.

“What’s that?”

“Well, in the nineties and noughties, controversy sold,” Scott explained, “The mainstream press was desperate to sell the idea that the world was happy and prosperous, and it seemed like only the young could see that that was all pretty packaging for insecurity and prejudice, and that things in reality were, all in all, pretty dire. So they drew to artists like yourself who seemed unafraid to say what they were thinking, what they weren’t allowed to say, and the more crass and rude you were as you did so, the better. But it’s 2018, and that doesn’t sell anymore.”

Murdoc had withdrawn his feet from the table, sitting upright towards the microphone. His grin had become a steely grimace, and he eyed Scott with the concerned anger of a cornered animal.

“You let me worry about what sells in this band.” He warned menacingly.

Unphased by the threat, Scott continued, “And that chip on the shoulder surely must dull with enough time passed. Is Murdoc Niccals still annoyed at today's popstars, the way he was 20 years ago? Is he still annoyed at record labels? If not, what even remains of your role?” Murdoc opened his mouth to respond, but Scott pressed on, his point not yet complete, “Half of the band is off selling watches right now, correct? Are you afraid of the hypocrisy of the band's message, or are you perhaps afraid that fans today don't even realise or care that the hypocrisy is taking place? Then again, perhaps that message was hypocritical from the start.”

“You’re contradicting yourself, sonny.” Murdoc sneered through gritted teeth, “Am I controversial, or am I a sellout?”

“I would argue that your brand of controversy is exactly what today’s generation is trying to fight against. We all know how terrible things are now, social media shows us that whether we want it to or not. It’s no longer a secret. We’re tired of bad behaviour, we’re sick being offensive for the sake of it. Those figures - many of whom have already fallen into obscurity - get looked at with a degree of secondhand embarrassment. And the youth aren’t looking for the truth in their entertainment anymore, they’re looking for hope. They’ve returned to wanting the optimistically aspirational nature of family unity and acts of kindness. Spitting bile about the state of things while necking rum at 10am doesn’t speak to them in quite the same way.”

“Pah!” Murdoc almost retched at the notion, “Does Murdoc Niccals strike you as the sort to start chumming it with Graham Norton and spending every other weekend at Great Ormonds?”

Scott offered a hand out, open to enlightenment. “You tell me. But your answer might be the same as mine, which is exactly what I’m worried about.”

Murdoc started a growl into the microphone, then caught himself. It felt like he was falling into traps he wouldn’t normally have neared. Surely he hadn’t been away long enough to get rusty. He cracked his neck, attempting to reset his brain.

He glanced at the red light above them indicating they were on air. It was a glow that Murdoc used to bask in.

The world hadn’t changed that much, he estimated, and he hadn’t either. So why did it feel so damn different?

Trying to remind himself of who exactly he was, he cracked his knuckles in quick preparation, the cracked neck having not achieved the desired release.

“Intriguing analysis, Scott, but there’s one thing you’re way off on. I didn’t act how I acted to sell. I didn’t create a persona. I didn’t need to be kidnapped, or brainwashed or brain-dead in order to make this all happen. I built this with every blistered finger, and that’s what people really bought into. My band bought into it, you smug skinny jean sycophants bought into it, and the consuming public bought into it. Not relevant today? You saw my campaign, right? Hell, you likely reported on it, forgive me for not recalling you specifically among the mountains of coverage a few mugshots caused. Don’t know about you, but to me that sounds like a bloke that’s very much still relevant.”

“I hope so,” Scott replied gravely, “because candidly I’ve been a big fan of yours since the off. But if you’re right, and this is the real you and the real you isn’t going anywhere, I’d be extremely worried for the future. Not this band’s future. Yours.”

Murdoc’s knee was bobbing emphatically, and he was moments from being ready to bring both of their careers to an end with a tirade of verbal poison that no radio station would dare clear at any time of day or night.

Before it could emerge, however, Russel’s voice sounded from his left.

“We’re here to make music.” He whispered simply, “Everything else is secondary. A lotta things have changed. But never that.”

Scott nodded, and smoothly turned their mics off as he began thanking them for joining him, plugging some inane game for later in the show where someone could win a trip to Great Yarmouth.

Incensed to not even have the second-to-last word, Murdoc tore his headphones off and stormed from the studio.

~

“What an absolute trainwreck.” Murdoc spat, taking the scenic route back to the car by pacing in random little circles and detours in the car park, “Suppose they just let anyone present the radio these days. John Peel’s turning in his grave.”

He noticed Russel in his peripheral vision, trudging as the crow flies to the passenger seat of the car.

“Bet you loved that,” Murdoc hollered at him bitterly. “Get to sit and ruminate, then jump in at the eleventh hour with some cool, wise vagueism to satiate everyone. What an easier world it would be if we were all like you, mate.”

“I ain’t trying to do nothing but get home.” Russel returned as he lowered himself into the car.

In the rear view mirror, Russel noticed Murdoc spin round to regard the building, then storm back in, exiting seconds later with the drawstring bag of complimentary merchandise that had been curtly declined as they exited.

“…I will, actually!” Murdoc cried to nobody in particular, “Why should we get nothing out of it? You’ll be getting a very lovely picture tweeted your way detailing exactly what I’m going to do with this-“

Russel’s eyes widened as Murdoc headed in the direction of the boot, ready to dump the bag in in a haste.

He leapt from the car, aiming to intercept.

“Muds, wait-“

“Calm your tits, I’m not actually gonna shag it. Probably a fidget spinner in here that’ll keep the twerp entertained for weeks. Rest of this will be-“

He shot a hand around Russel’s form and popped the boot open, then paused.

Russel sighed, and turned to join in looking at the boot.

“Oh those absolute pillocks.” Murdoc said, running a hand down his face, “they’ve only gone and left one of their cases.”

“It ain’t theirs.” Russel said quietly.

Murdoc turned to Russel with a frown. Eyes narrowed is confusion, before expanding in realisation.

“Oh. Oh, alright.”

Russel reached out, took the merch bag from Murdoc, and tossed it in the boot alongside the suitcase, closing the boot as if he could bear to look at it no longer.

Not offering another word, he stepped past Murdoc back towards the passenger seat.

“Where you off to, then?” Murdoc asked, feet still rooted in place.

Russel stopped hand on the door handle, the answer not seeming to come naturally.

“Is that any of your business?” He asked eventually.

“Enough that you didn’t want me taking a gander.” Murdoc pointed out.

Russel puffed out some air in lieu of an actual retort and opened the door, dropping into the passenger seat without a word. Murdoc pulled a face at an imaginary audience in the middle distance, and stepped quickly to the driver’s side, stepping after him.

The moment had apparently given Russel enough time to compose himself, because no sooner had Murdoc closed the driver’s side door said, “I just need a break for a while. Work on me a little. Come back to new recordings with a fresh state of mind.” He eyed Murdoc with a challenging eyebrow. “That alright.”

Murdoc put on a smirk that did maybe too good a job of hiding how he really felt.

“No need to get defensive,” he stewed, “Well, Russ, I gotta tell you. From living in a house of straw for a month, to Millsy essentially carving my own gravestone before my very eyes, and now this? At this point I’d trust Brutus and Cassius to provide a more hospitable welcome.”

More aggressively than was needed, he turned the key in the ignition, and the car shuddered into life, retreating quickly from the radio station.

~

“…I mean imagine what a crap story the prodigal son returning would be if the family turned round and were like actually Peter, or whoever it was, we’re all pretty naffed you’ve come back, put us in a right old mood, no no don’t leave though, whatever you do.”

He wasn’t needing a response from Russel anymore, he was past that. He was perfectly content to be barking at the road, speed-limit huggers trying and failing to slow him down as he veered around the M25.

“Here, the future stands before us, brighter than it’s ever been, and what are people concerned about?” He adopted a mocking, high pitched screech before continuing, “Oi Murdoc, don’t act like things are how they were before, Murdoc, don’t act like you aren’t worried ‘bout the world changing, you caused so many problems while you were gone, Murdoc!” With a couple of throat clears, he returned to his usual tambour. “Being the problem without even being there. Work that one out.”

“I can’t.”

The quiet agreement surprised Murdoc, and it brought it his aggravated ramblings to a stop. Next to him, he heard Russel sigh.

“Even now, looking back on it all, I can’t see why it got so bad. It shouldn’t have, you were gone. But things were strained. Real bad. Maybe the closest we ever came to breaking up for real.”

Murdoc scoffed in disbelief, but faltered when Russel didn’t push back.

“What, even closer than-“

“Yeah.”

“Alright, but surely not closer than-“

“Even then.”

“Christ.”

Murdoc’s perspective on the band’s output during his absence had been limited, in more ways than one. With the band refusing communication with him, much of his window into their activities took the form of radio and web interviews they conducted. As he’d predicted, an aimless ego had swelled within 2D, throwing around weight he simply didn’t have in the direction of just about anyone in his way, even if they were there to help. Noodle had a skilful way of making her irritation appear playful to the press, but anyone who knew her could tell there was real anger, and confusion, under her jibes. Russel’s public appearances had been minimal, a little more even than normal. But he’d always maintained that under 2D’s meek juvenility was a good man, and Murdoc assumed Russel was allowing 2D the time to figure that out.

He briefly considered whether he’d have gone to such trouble to hijack their efforts had he known things were fraying just fine on their own.

“Didn’t seem that bad,” Murdoc mumbled. “From what I could make of it. Par for the course, really.”

“Exactly.”

Russel turned away from the window, looking straight up through the ceiling. If he wasn’t holding his breath, his breathing was short enough to appear like he was.

“I wanted to think things would get easier without you. How could it not.”

Murdoc’s nose wrinkled in annoyance, unseen by Russel as he continued.

“You heard what D turned into. The boy became something he ain’t to try and prove he’s good enough. Became something real ugly.”

Murdoc tutted with exaggerated empathy, a forked tongue buried in his cheek. “If only someone had spent the last 20 years warning you that his ego was that of a dog in a butcher’s if left unchecked.”

“It threw everything Noodle thought she knew about us up in the air.” Russel added, like he hadn’t even heard Murdoc’s retort. “Who knows if she’ll see any of us the same way.”

Murdoc shot a glance Russel’s way, huffing sharply through his nose. For a man who mostly only cared about sport for the attire, Russel sure did enjoy a post-match analysis.

“Those kids were at the breaking point. Arguing all the time, isolating themselves.”

“Sounds like the typical family home life if you ask me.” Murdoc sighed, doing what he could to bring it to an end quickly. “And what exactly did you do that’s got you so glum.”

“I didn’t do shit.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Murdoc exclaimed with a laugh, “Not sure if they changed the rules while I was away, but last I heard adults can deal with their own problems.”

“It was all happening before my eyes. And I was blind. Seeing the writing on the wall but refusing to read. So goddamn determined to believe things were better, I wasn’t seeing it was getting worse every day.”

“Russel, you’re ruminating again,” Murdoc explained dully. “You’d be the first to tell someone that was for the birds, so give it a rest. You don’t need to fly every time you flap.”

There seemed to be no getting through to Russel as he screwed his eyes shut, facing away from Murdoc to the window.

“Me of all people,” he whispered, teeth gritted, “I should know how important it is to be there for the people you care about when they need you. But I wasn’t. I let them down.”

Murdoc spent a dangerous amount of time looking at him, as Russel’s gaze drifted to the window, a little more relaxed but no less unhappy for having shared.

The words took an uncharacteristically long time to form in Murdoc’s mouth. People weren’t traditionally open with him emotionally. He could think up a solution to problems without a hitch, his talent for avoiding the consequences of his actions occasionally working in his bandmates favour. But the slower, metaphysical problems, where he felt like little more than a fly on the wall? Those were the ones harder to understand. Those were the ones that, if it was up to him, would never exist to begin with.

The words came to him as his attention returned to the road.

“I gotta say, mate… I think you’re talking absolute bollocks.”

It wasn’t until the words began emerging that he realised how angry he was. Without something to throw or a drink to down, he put his foot down, the speedometer jolting up in surprise.

“I’m the one that should be having a problem with what’s occurred this year. I’m the one that spent 7 months sleeping with one eye open while being the laughing stock of the music industry. If anyone has the right to get moody, it’s me! But no, I’m the only one trying to get back to business. You know, if nothing else, that’s the real reason this band needs me. I could lose both arms and legs in a skydiving orgy gone tragically wrong and I’d still be needed round here.”

He felt a brushing of arm against arm and tried in vain to shove it away, keeping angry eyes on the road.

“Don’t you start getting cozy, that might calm down the kids but it ain’t working on me. I knew exactly what this is about, think I was born daft? You lot spent years assuming I was the big easy source of every problem, and now you’re all shocked to discover that you aren’t quite as perfect as your blissful ignorance had you believe.” The pressure of Russel’s arm against his own was building, and after another failed shove, Murdoc shuffled to sit away from it. “Now the media’s straight back to scapegoating me and make no mistake, I’ll take all that with a smile. Money in my pocket at the end of the day. But then turning around and asking how I’m gonna change? Me?! You seen the state of my band? Russ, get the hell off my-“

He snapped his head to Russel and his snarl was immediately caught in his throat.

Russel was looking at the palms of his hands, eyes and mind distant in a way that suggested he hadn’t registered a word of Murdoc’s rant. His breathing was shallow and uncomfortable, either on the verge of a panic attack, or had begun one already. None of which was nearly as concerning to Murdoc as Russel himself, whose entire body was pulsing slightly, each beat magnifying his form. Individually, the change was imperceptible, but coming as they were, two or three a second, what was happening was clear.

He was growing.

He was already about a quarter bigger than his normal size.

Murdoc’s own breathing began to shorten. He’d only known of two confirmed times Russel had been mythically enlarged, though suspected there may have been more, just with no witnesses or casualties to deem it worthy of documenting on Russel’s part. What was true was that he’d never seen the process happen, never quite gathered the clues to assess when and why it happened. Russel seemed unsure of it similarly. But it was never good.

“Shit.”

“Muds…” Russel choked, his own warping vocal chords making speaking to be a horrific endeavour. He turned to Murdoc, head grazing against the ceiling of the car.

“…yeah?” Murdoc breathed.

“…I’m-CAR!”

Murdoc snapped his focus back to the road.

A standstill traffic-jam that he was heading into, head-first at 90mph.

There was seconds to spare before impact. Not enough time to brake. Enough time to notice the exit to some B road, leading to a village he’d never heard.

With a roar of frustration, Murdoc swerved across three lanes in a second, tyres screaming as they soared into the country lane.

A smattering of cows grazed peacefully in the field. A couple of them were sitting down, a telltale sign of rain coming soon.

Sure enough, a few drops began to fall, quickly changing into a downpour, right as the car smashed through the gate, sending most of the cows veering off in a panic. It bounced across the terrain a couple of times, before the passenger tyre gave up and exploded, partially impaling the guitar into the quickly softening ground.

Murdoc leapt from the car to the other side, where Russel had opened the passenger door but was struggling to get any further, the car’s airbag perhaps saving him from injury but exacerbating the issue of being trapped.

Taking an arm, Murdoc pulled ungracefully.

“Come on mate, help me out a little.”

Russel’s groan of pain turned into a bellow as he popped from the car, sending Murdoc hard into the loamy grass.

He checked his jeans and jacket, both of which were now covered in mud. Snarling, he punched the ground a few times in retaliation before looking up.

Russel was stumbling to the middle of the field. He was looking to be about 15 feet tall, and still growing.

It took a short sprint from Murdoc to catch up to Russel’s stumbling steps. Each step seemed to buckle in surprise at the unusual weight, causing occasional staggers and half-falls. Murdoc had always wondered what Russel looked like drunk past the point of control, and he supposed this was probably the closest he’d get.

He cupped his hands and yelled to get through both the rain and Russel’s distracted, expanding mind, “Right, what happens now?!”

Russel half-turned, breathing heavily. He stepped away from Murdoc to maintain something resembling a safer distance. “Nothing good.”

“I gathered that,” Murdoc shouted, running to catch back up, “You black out at some point?!”

“I don’t know.” Russel growled, sounding frighteningly short-tempered.

“You don’t know!?” Murdoc howled in shock, “How can you not know?”

Russel was still trying to create distance, Murdoc adamantly following close behind. Heavy footprints from Russel were creating enormous mud slides, Murdoc struggling to maintain balance as he sprint-marched to match pace.

“They ain’t consistent!” Russel cried in frustration, as much as with himself as with Murdoc, “I’ve been in a different place in my life with every one!”

“Well what puts a stop to it?! Do you need a sodding foot rub, look at some kitten pictures to calm you down?!”

Russel halted, and spun round so fast that Murdoc had to plant his feet deep in the mud to brace the sudden gust of wind.

“I need you to can it, is what I need!” Russel thundered, and like his voice was dictating nature itself, a flash of lighting surrounded his imposing figure.

Murdoc glared, infuriated by the cheek, “Yeah?! Well tough luck pal, cuz if you look just over there, that’s my ride you just knackered, and if you think some elephantine episode’s gonna let you off the hook, you’re even thicker than Dents!”

The sky’s thunder rumbled in the distance, rolling over the field where the two stared each other down.

“I ain’t asking, Murdoc.” Russel warned, taking a single step back, “Get out of here. You are the last guy that can help right now. Of all the people for this to happen with, god, why you?”

“Why me, have you gone spare?! You should be fucking thankful it is me!”

For the first time, Russel didn’t step away, instead stepping closer to Murdoc, any resolve to avoid hurting him appearing to wear thin.

“What did you say?”

“If you went supersized with one of them other two you’d run yourself off into the sea or the woods or some shite, scared that your fat thumb might accidentally smush a loved one! You couldn’t give a rats arse if you do it with me, and to be quite frank, I’d rather be flattened by my oversized oaf of a drummer a million times over than be caught begging for my life-“

“That’s because you’re an asshole!”

“And a whole host of other nasty things that the rest of the world is afraid to admit they are! But you know what I’ll never be? Anyone else’s fucking victim, so come on-“

He tore off his jacket and threw it into the mud, before brandishing his fists at Russel, teeth bared.

“You’ve been nutting me off all day and I’ve just about had it, so let’s have it out right now, come on!” He picked up a handful of mud and hurled it towards Russel’s chest, “COME ON!”

Russel stared, dumbfounded, at the figure a fifth of his size that was challenging him to a fight.

To Murdoc’s surprise, Russel neither ran away nor killed him instantly, the two most likely outcomes he envisioned.

Instead, Russel started laughing.

“You look so goddamn stupid right now, man.”

After a moment to process, Murdoc put his fists away, folding his arms with a huff.

“You’re one to talk,” he scoffed quietly, “with a head that’d cast a shadow over half of Swansea right now.”

Russel’s chuckle continued, and with a effortful grunt, sat and lay down, allowing the rain to coat his entirety.

Murdoc stepped round, a feat which took long enough to allow Russel some moments of silence, until the two were looking at each other.

“All right?”

“No.”

Murdoc nodded once, accepting that the curt answer was a deserved one, “But we’re past the apex?”

“You’re asking a lotta questions.” Russel sighed.

“I hear that’s what helping mostly consists of.”

Russel didn’t respond, which Murdoc was fine with. Helping was as much about platitudes as it was making someone’s life easier, anyway. Not that he was poor at it by nature, if he’d cared enough to be that sort of person, he’d have been the most helpful, selfless bastard on the planet. It was just another way to control someone, and a strong way at that. But it was slightly too disingenuous of a way to be Murdoc’s preferred method.

He noticed Russel’s eyes narrowing and widening as he stared up at the clouded sky, and peered up in kind.

Through a gap in the clouds, a plane flew overhead, trying its luck despite the turbulent conditions.

“They might be on that plane.” Russel murmured, though even his murmur sent a light tremble through the ground beneath him, “God, I hope they’re not on that plane.”

“What, the other two?” Murdoc pulled a face at the plane, and freed a folded hand to shield his face from some of the rain. “Why’s that then? Oh Christ, don’t tell me this also makes you a bloody prophet or something, and you’ve foreseen Zeus himself striking the plane down.”

Russel sighed, and got to his feet, wiping lumps of dismantled field from his arms.

“I hope they’re not on it because they’ll be able to see me.” He explained.

Murdoc raised an eyebrow. “And what’s so criminal about that?”

Without an answer, Russel continued looking up at the plane, stuck with nothing but dumb hope that his vulnerability was being contained within the muddy field. From ground level, the hundreds of miles an hour travelling looked as slow as a crawl, the effort and energy looking quietly meaningless from so far away.

Then the plane ducked back behind the clouds, and Russel exhaled in relief, as if he’d been waiting for it to turn around and look straight at him.

“Take me up there.”

Russel looked down. “Huh?”

“Pick me up.” Murdoc clarified.

One of Russel’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to feel like a bloody Borrower when I talk to you!”

Russel appeared hesitant, extending his hand out to Murdoc but stopping to check something.

“I could hurt you, on accident.”

“Stop treating me like a sodding baby and pick me up!”

Russel’s lips tightened in frustration, but agreed non-verbally, leaning down and taking hold of Murdoc’s midsection before bringing him up to Russel’s eye-level. His hands had reached the size where they started at Murdoc’s chest and ended at his knees, meaning the lower half of Murdoc’s legs were free to dangle limply as he met Russel’s stare, arms crossed as he studied the larger man.

A little across the field, one brave cow flicked it’s head away, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“That’s why you were legging it.” Murdoc concluded quietly, “That’s why you’ve looked on the verge of shitting yourself all day. You could feel this was coming on and you didn’t want anyone to see it.”

“I didn’t know.” Russel insisted, with enough hurt emphasis to imply it that wasn’t quite the truth, “I was just… preparing. For in case. I figure, some time away from it all, just me and the cosmos, things should get cleared up and I’m back without anyone knowing anything went down.”

Internally, Murdoc supposed it didn’t seem like the worst idea. He’d learned that some low-points could be turned into strengths, and others couldn’t. The ones that couldn’t weren’t worth sharing, more for disguising away with various vices. Russel was, a little snobbishly in Murdoc’s opinion, too good for any of those vices, so it made sense that the next best thing was to take yourself and your problems far away, where it can’t be judged, or used against you. He could even go as far as to imagine that some separate time away would do them all good, once the final contractual obligations were complete.

“For what it’s worth,” Murdoc started, inspecting the mud gathered in his nails as a way to avoid eye contact, “I don’t think it's worth getting in a tizzy about them. Give it a bit, they’ll spend some afternoon flicking through a book of funny rude road names, and Bob’s your uncle, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“I get that.” Russel husked, with enough uncertainty in his tone to suggest he maybe didn’t think it’d be quite so simple. “Guess it’s me I’m more worried about.”

“You’re panicking about you, is what you’re doing.”

Russel grimaced, Murdoc’s penchant for blunt analysis hitting like shovels.

“Let me ask you something, Muds. How often in life have you felt powerless?”

Murdoc shrugged the prompt off, “Make the right kind of enemies and you’ll always have some kind of power.”

“I’m serious.”

His snarky reply used up, Murdoc stammered a little in hesitation before folding his arms.

“Often enough. What’s your point?”

“It’s that feeling when you haven’t the faintest idea on what to do, when the world’s moving so fast and it feels like there ain’t nothing you can do but watch. I, uh… ain’t good at it. D thrives in it. Noodle can think and act her way out of it. You can fake it. But I…”

He let his head fall, mentally exhausted.

Murdoc considered Russel’s assessment. He had to admit, despite the external pessimism that often prevailed, he too had a core faith in their currently absent bandmates to make it through murky waters in one piece. Noodle was the sort to climb a maze and hop the bushes to escape, whereas 2D would clamber through hedges and leave with half a million thorns stuck in him, but either way, they’d make it out. Russel seemed to believe he was most likely to get stuck in the maze, by playing by the rules and losing.

There were plenty of things about Russel that Murdoc respected. His technical ability with music, coupled with the pragmatic experience of having lived enough to infuse his music with true heart, put him, in Murdoc’s estimation, at the very top of the band ranking when it came to raw talent. It was a silent admission of course; he’d never admit out loud to considering himself a runner-up. But there were other responsibilities, other roles, that Russel had taken on quietly without asking, and perhaps without even realising. From administrative to relations, Russel had been there to make sure the right i’s were dotted, the books were balanced accordingly and the talk was the right level of sweet.

“You’ve never struck me as the power-craving type,” Murdoc half-chuckled.

“Watch it.” Russel snipped, though there was just enough levity in his tone to disclose that he knew Murdoc’s jibe was just that, “I ain’t you.”

“If the world had it its way, I wouldn’t be me either.”

“I could give a damn about power.” Russel continued, “But all this time I thought I was having an open mind.”

Murdoc was surprised to find himself softening. Russel had been accused of thinking too much, trying too hard, by a lot of people over the years. He knew how to handle a lot. What he knew less of was how to handle having not much at all.

“But it turned out it was really just an empty one.” Murdoc said quietly.

“And what good is an open mind if your eyes are closed?”

The roles Russel was assigning for himself were not the ones Murdoc had meticulously laid out twenty years prior. He hadn't sought Russel out for his zen mindset or pseudo-parental capabilities. He sought him out because he was the best kept secret of a beat-freak he'd ever heard of. Emphasis, somehow, on both beat and freak.

“So you need to feel useful again, is that it? Turns out me being your pain in the arse gave you a lot more than you realised?”

“I don’t know, but it kinda feels like that!” Russel cried, clearly surprised and a little ashamed of his own answer. “What do you want me to say? You think I’m proud of it? You wanna go back to back to feeling important, right? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to remember what your infuriating morals are and quit enabling your own spiral!”

Russel faltered a little, stunned and offended.

“You think I’m enabling-“

“I know you are! You got away with it last couple times, pal, you had a coma and a missing guitarist to kill the time with. Not now! Not when we need you. When I need you, otherwise this whole rebuild falls apart at the slightest breeze.”

Russel shook his head, unconvinced. “And what if it happens again, huh?” He could throw out a rhetorical or philosophical question with the best of them, but this most certainly wasn’t that. “Tell me that. It’ll be worse with you, you can’t help yourself, what if that part of me just ain’t there anymore? There I was like a moron, swearing the pot wouldn’t boil so long as I was watching it, then what did I do when it all bubbled over? Not a damn thing.”

Murdoc’s jaw clenched and unclenched in preparation. He didn’t know if his planned way to get through to Russel would work. But it was the only way that felt natural.

“Well here’s something to chew over, big boy. You are a moron.”

Russel’s enormous eyes focused like lasers onto Murdoc, who began yanking at his digits as he counted off his points.

“You can’t practise what you preach to save your life, you insist Ike Turner is just misunderstood, and on more than one occasion you’ve been convinced an inanimate object was trying to kill you. Your stability’s been nothing more than a sandcastle to anyone paying attention, that in't the reason you’re needed.”

Russel murmured a growl, but couldn’t find the words to disagree in time, before Murdoc continued.

“You know who else is stupid? Noodle. She went and- do not give me that look,” he scolded, spotting further incredulity forming on Russel’s face, “she was the one so surprised when Dents ended up being a complete diva. And don’t try and tell me you thought her trip to Patagonia wasn’t the daftest fucking thing you’d ever seen. Skipping into the lair of what was, for all she knew, the most powerful drug kingpin on the planet? Swear to Satan, that girl’s convinced she can swim through lava.”

A brief pout of annoyance from Russel was betrayed by an earthy sigh, a sigh that gave away that, while he might’ve considered it more complicated than that, in essence he felt the same.

Murdoc cleared his throat to indicate he wasn’t done, and his voice dropped low, almost secretive.

“And I assumed you would all fall apart without me.” He admitted quietly. “But you didn’t. So, y’know. Even I have my off days.”

Russel’s big eyes felt unintentionally judgemental as they bore into Murdoc. The moment of being seen, truly seen, burned like a vampire in the sunlight, but he held the eye contact, summoning his bravado back. He had a point to wrap up.

“We are all fucking idiots.” He told Russel firmly, “Deal with it. You are not too good to not get on with things. Nor are you too shite to belong.”

Russel bowed his head, followed by a slow lift, which Murdoc eventually interpreted as a nod. A nod that likely would’ve been imperceptible had Russel been his traditional size.

“And just as a PS”, Murdoc added, folding his arms, “I’m not looking after the kids on my todd. At least one, probably two of us would be dead within the week.”

A dry smile crept across Russel’s mouth, and his shoulders began to lower.

Now they really might be past the apex, Murdoc thought, and permitted himself to let out a breath.

But was surprised to find it didn’t come out easily, Russel’s grip putting a premature stop to it.

“Watch it, you’re squeezing.”

Russel was still looking down, eyes closed in focus. His hand pressed hard into Murdoc ribs, and the realisation hit Murdoc with dread that the tough love might have not been the correct approach.

“Hobbs,” Murdoc reiterated, starting to struggle, “I said relax the hands.”

He tried fruitlessly to push against them, to allow himself breathing space, as Russel’s head snapped up in confusion.

“I ain’t squeezing.” He said, half-questioningly.

“Well it’s hurting more,” Murdoc gasped, “and I don’t think I was due a growth spurt.”

Russel’s huge eyebrows creased, before he looked down again, eyes open this time.

Murdoc looked down. He was nearly 20 feet above ground level, enough for a broken leg if he landed wrong. But that might be his best bet if Russel wasn’t snapping out of it.

He heard Russel exhale sharply. Almost a quiet laugh.

“I’m shrinking.” Russel marvelled.

Murdoc blinked. “Woah, alright.”

Suddenly aware that he was holding Murdoc, but beginning to lose his balance once more, Russel swayed as he looked for a clean spot on the ground.

“I need to, just-“

He clumsily dropped his arm and Murdoc tumbled roughly from his hand, sitting back up immediately to watch Russel, whose focus was directly on the palms of his hands.

Murdoc’s stare was so sharp it looked like the rain was getting bigger, not Russel getting smaller. He wasn’t sure how long it was, but it didn’t feel like long before Russel was only a foot or so taller than Murdoc.

“Keep going, smart-arse.” Murdoc commented.

At a safe enough height to not cause accidental damage, Russel approached Murdoc. Reaching out a hand to help him up, he paused to inspect his own hand once more, before their eyes met with dumbfounded relief and joy.

Russel coughed out a couple of nervous chuckles. “It ain’t usually that fast.”

Murdoc tilted his head impishly, and took the hand. “I have that effect with blokes.”

~

“Ah, finally!” Murdoc cheered, phone plastered to his ear, “Right, we need a ride to West London, sharpish.”

The remaining cows had emerged from wherever they’d managed to hide, free to both stand and wander with the rain beginning to subside. A couple sniffed curiously at the damaged car, which Russel gently shooed away before popping the boot open.

He gathered the large and small bags from the boot. With no spare tyre, the car would have to be retrieved another day. Or not. It wasn’t the first time an argument between the band had resulted in the totalling of a car.

He started towards Murdoc, who had ended up almost on the narrow road outside in order to achieve usable signal.

“…In a field.” Murdoc continued, and briefly listened to the other end before rolling his eyes, “…well if I knew which field, sweetheart, I would’ve said, not stringing out this conversation to try and pull. Not after the grand facial reveal of the last one.”

An amused sigh tumbled from Russel as Murdoc shot out an open hand in negotiation.

“No no wait wait wait, let’s all just, let’s all just simmer down, alright? Think I remember passing Chorley not long before we turned off…”

Russel arrived beside him as Murdoc awaited the news.

“…oh look at that, meant to be.” He purred into the phone, turning a fraction to wink at Russel, “Bet you feel silly for the attitude now, eh?”

Russel cringed as Murdoc’s face fell, no doubt hearing a tirade on the other end. He stepped up, taking the phone from Murdoc in the hope of some sort of damage control.

“Miss, just so you have a fair view of things, our car just lost control and smashed through some gates. We’re stranded out here. Sending someone to help us out would go a long way to tipping our luck back to normal.”

It was Murdoc’s turn to wait expectantly, folding his arms while Russel nodded down the line.

“Uh-huh… I get you…. great… you first.”

He pulled the phone away, face contorted into an offended frown.

“She tell you to go to hell and all?” Murdoc checked.

“Then hung up,” Russel grunted, astounded.

Murdoc smirked, taking the phone back and popping it away, “Nice one.”

“Man, she was rude.”

“Thumbs out then,” Murdoc sighed, taking the radio station’s merch bag from Russel, “we’re getting back the old-fashioned way.”

They looked up and down the road. Admittedly, they had been mostly otherwise occupied since they arrived in the field, but Murdoc couldn’t recall hearing or seeing another car trundle through.

He glanced at Russel, and his pulled expression of skepticism implied he was thinking similarly.

Eventually, probably because it’d hurt the pair’s old legs less than standing, they began to walk in the direction they had driven from.

“I would’ve cared, by the way.”

“Y’what?”

“About crushing you. That’s what I was trying to avoid. But you had to be a stubborn-ass and chase after me.”

Murdoc hummed in faint amusement. He likely was long past the point of needing to explain himself. Which meant he must’ve simply wanted to.

“You know the last time I saw you that mega? We had a little moment, and don’t try and deny it, where we both thought that it was the last time any of us were ever gonna see each other. I turned my back for, shine a light, 20 seconds tops to make sure the sub hadn’t been wrecked, when I turned back you were gone. 100 feet of you, poof! Still don’t know how you managed it.”

Russel frowned. The memory was likely warped and foggy to him, but there were certain facts and events that’d never leave the minds of anyone that’d been on the beach.

“We thought we’d lost D,” Russel told him, firmly but not admonishingly, “and sister was about to get herself killed going on some acrimonious rampage.”

“Keep the explanations to yourself, Hobbs.” Murdoc said, waving him away. “They aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. My thought process merely was, if he were insisting on galavanting off to find his marbles again, this time at least, he’d have to do it with me watching.”

Russel gave up trying to wheel the suitcase along the pothole-infested road and hauled it under his arm instead. “Well, you did good.”

“I’d say so, considering it was off the cuff. The initial plan was to just let you wreak havoc in the field until you tuckered yourself out.”

“Look at that,” Russel grinned, “you being concerned about the wellbeing of civilians.”

Murdoc blew a dismissive raspberry. “What I care about is you not ending up in the news.”

“Again.”

“Again.”

Russel was making little glances at his arms and legs. Likely making sure everything had reset accordingly, Murdoc thought. He wasn’t sure if there were moments of seismic aftershock when Russel grew, a hangover of sensitivity that could lead to more titanous episodes. There was an internal shrug at the realisation he’d simply have to stick with Russel until they were both sure it was fine. Not like he had much else on that week.

“We look like serial killers.”

Russel could’ve been referring to their muddied, dishevelled appearance, and in that sense Murdoc could do little more than grumble in agreement.

“Serial killers that are done for the day, at least.”

“Think it’s the big-ass suitcase.” Russel mused.

“Well I’ll make sure to tell them it’s yours.”

Russel was silent. Back in his own head, perhaps. But by the way Murdoc observed him as they walked, it was not an introspection of fear or anguish. More like returning to your house after a great flood, and being pleasantly surprised to find a lot less damage than initially assumed.

Russel was thinking about something. Something that was making him smile privately.

Murdoc rolled his shoulders, testing out the one that had landed hard from when he had been dropped. It hurt a little. He’d had worse. Had worse from Russel. The occasional berating or beating that served to jog Russel’s memory, as much as Murdoc’s, of Russel’s lines and limits. For better or worse, thanked or resented, Murdoc had spent what felt like half his life reminding his band who they were, what they were capable of, and how they belonged. Giving them something to fight for, or someone to fight against - that part had always existed. It was a reassuring thought.

Maybe tuning that part up, and other parts down, was a change he could live with. So long as it was on his terms.

It wasn't a goal, and belonging wasn't quite the same as being needed. But if the world considered him old news in every other way, well, at least he had that.

“Still wanna know where I was headed?” Russel asked, startling Murdoc out of his own introspection.

“Uh, didn’t seem like something you were keen to disclose.”

“Little village in Wales. Full of book stores. Nothing else around for miles. Perfect place to get away from the rest of the world.”

Murdoc’s head creaked to and fro, mulling the mental image over.

“Good pubs too. Real ones, where the doors ain’t higher than 5 feet.”

Murdoc was nodding now, not noticing that Russel’s head was angled to quietly watch him.

“My kinda joint?” Murdoc asked, casually enough to hopefully not sound too needy. To Russel or himself.

Russel thought for a moment, then shrugged with a soft smile.

“Honestly? I wouldn’t have thought so. But maybe I’m just thinking of the old you.”