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A beach of plastic, it wasn’t exactly the soft sands of Jamaica from 9 years ago but Murdoc had learned to make do with what he had. The island had been bloody expensive anyways, and that was before he had painted the whole thing pink, purely for the aesthetic but it would’ve been an ugly lump without it so it had felt necessary at the time. Most money he spent now was on the black market crates of food and booze that he had delivered so he could at least survive, and kill his liver in the process. It wasn’t much but he didn’t need a lot, he’d gotten through his childhood eating nothing but air, crappy school dinners and maybe the occasional fast food meal if he scrounged enough from odd jobs and his father (not that Sebastian knew about that). The alcohol, however, was plentiful, even when he chugged it like water; the first thing he’d do when the crates were cracked open was snatch a bottle of rum or two and that would basically be his breakfast, pouring it down his throat before his nerves could even register the burn. This meal replacement left him drunk a majority of the time, absolutely, well and truly wankered, that’s when his assistant came through for him.
He’d created Cyborg for the band, that was all really. Noodle wanted time away so he’d helped her, even if his methods weren’t perfect, and it wasn’t like he could continue without a guitarist. Plastic Beach wasn’t an ideal home but the music that coursed through his blood on this island was palpable, he couldn’t waste the potential when it could be their next big hit. Murdoc could play guitar himself but his skills couldn’t match Noodle’s, and despite his denial that he needed anyone else, he reasoned that it was for the sake of the album. Gorillaz was like a mechanism, as much as he loathed the analogy, and it needed certain parts so it could all tick, otherwise it’d be collecting dust like it had while he was in prison. Murdoc got to work putting the whole thing back together as best he could. Noodle just so happened to be the first part that came to mind.
El Manana wasn’t something he looked back on fondly, it was a brilliant video but the churning sensation that built up in his gut every time the incident wormed its way into his head could only be drowned out with his trusty rum. Once it was all over, Murdoc had approached the crash site with the task of checking that Jimmy Manson was as dead as a doornail (a very burnt one). He had intended to leave after that confirmation, but something compelled him to keep looking around, unsure of what he was even searching for. The smell of smouldering windmill burned in his nose and rubble crunched beneath his heels as he explored the wreckage, the air still hot from the fire that had once roared in its place. Noodle shouldn’t be here, that was the plan after all, but Murdoc still held his breath as he heaved chunks of brick away from various piles. His senses were strangely keen, picking up on details he never thought he’d notice, almost as if they were detached from his brain and sentient. As ridiculous as it all felt, he kept up with this chore, the anticipation of another discovery keeping him on high alert.
A slip in his grip caused a stray rock to fall directly on his foot, and Murdoc pulled back to grab at it, his yelling and cursing echoing through the canyon. The throbbing pain brought his senses back to him, and he looked about himself, as though he’d been in a daze the whole time. What the hell was he doing? She wasn’t here, she never would be, she was probably off on a boat of some kind going to who knows where, he had no reason to be searching. With his foot still stinging, he began to hobble away from the crash site, turning his back on the incident despite the screaming in his head begging him not to, to make sure. Murdoc slowly made his way back to his car, his step becoming more steady as he went, and soon enough, Stylo came into view. He’d gotten the confirmation he needed, Jimmy Manson was dead, and now he could rake in all the cash from Demon Days without that burden hanging over him.
Fumbling for his keys, Murdoc looked up as the wind whistled in his ears and sent something flying right into his face. It knocked him backwards and he landed on the ground with an ungraceful thud, struggling against whatever he was tangled up with. He thrashed about as it encased him, like it was holding him in its grasp and didn’t want to let go, and for a brief moment, Murdoc couldn’t breathe. The fading sun shone through what must’ve been fabric, the heat unbearable, and then he realised, it was a parachute. He went limp and the fabric did too, releasing him from its grip. Murdoc pushed it away from his face, taking in a deep gulp of air until his lungs burned, before coughing so harshly it felt like his throat was being torn out. It didn’t take long for him to spit something out into the palm of his hand, and he wrinkled his nose at the sight of a few chunks of dark singed hair, no doubt from the parachute. There’d only been one at the scene, the one he’d given to Noodle, and at a closer inspection, the hair was unmistakably hers.
Murdoc felt his stomach drop as he imagined Noodle on the floating island, how close she had come to death as it fell down to earth… she’d managed to escape right? Noodle was a smart kid, she wouldn’t get herself killed, especially not under his watch. The reasoning didn’t stop him from crawling onto all fours before he vomited onto the dirt, still clutching the hair in his hand as he retched his stomach clean of whatever crap fast food he’d eaten for lunch. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he couldn’t tell if it was from spewing his guts out or something emotional, he didn't know which was worse. When he was finally done heaving, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and grimaced at what the puddle of sick meant. He was going soft and Murdoc didn’t do soft, he’d locked out any and all emotional capacity at age nine, and now it was brute forcing its way through the door completely unannounced. Frowning, he shakily rose to his feet, pointedly ignoring the lurch in his stomach to prove that he wouldn’t be that easily broken, though the attempt was flimsy at best.
He scrabbled for his car keys once more, glancing up every so often to make sure nothing else would take this as a chance to give him an emotional bollocking, before unlocking his beloved Stylo. It was only once he was safe inside the car, with the door closed behind him, that he realised the hair was still clenched in his fist, his grip on it iron clad. Realistically, he should chuck it out the window and get the hell out of dodge, forget that any of this ever happened and lavish in the luxury of money, drugs, booze and sex. Murdoc turned his key and the engine roared to life, purring deliciously as it always did; he rolled the window down, sticking his hand out so he could dispose of a past he was better off forgetting, but his fingers wouldn’t unfurl. It was like he’d glued his knuckles to the palm of his hand, the hold concerningly strong, except it was because he wasn’t putting any effort into unsticking them. It was only a few strands of hair, practically meaningless in the grand scheme of things, yet he couldn’t seem to let go, what a twat.
Murdoc scowled and yanked his hand back into the car, holding his fist close to his chest. Frustration ebbed its way into his bones, he'd never cared so much in the past so why did he care now? Well, maybe it wasn’t that he cared, perhaps the innate need to hold onto this piece of Noodle was for good reason. He could always pop it on ebay for a few quid, there’d be some sad sod out there who's aching for something like that in his collection of Gorillaz memorabilia. Sure it was creepy but Murdoc was nothing if not a man of opportunity, especially if that opportunity was making more money. His bag was sitting on the passenger seat where he’d dumped it earlier, and he knew he had a notebook in there for writing songs on the road. Inspiration always seemed to strike in the most odd places so it was somewhat useful to keep pen and paper with him to jot down anything that came to mind. He tugged it out of the bag and opened up the cover, slotting the hair into place on top of a bunch of crazed scribbles from some drug trip he’d been on, then shut it tight to keep it safe. It was out of sight, out of mind now and he shoved the book back into his bag before buckling himself in (the last thing he needed was to get arrested… again).
That heaviness in his stomach was still there but Murdoc couldn't bring himself to address it lest the pain of losing her reared its ugly head. His next immediate location would definitely be the pub so he could replace the feelings bomb that had been dropped on him with the void of an alcoholic stupor. Maybe then he'd forget for a little while.
Murdoc had promptly forgotten about the hair after that, shoving it to the back of his mind with drink, drugs and easy money he’d gotten from selling faulty weaponry to any dullard that crossed his path. Then he’d burned down Kong for the insurance, pretending to not care even though it was like a dagger to his heart when he struck the match that set his old home ablaze. The birthplace of genius and brilliant music, every collaborative effort that made up its lifeblood, rendered to simmering ash by sunrise. A risky move considering his past but for once in his life he was grateful for the poncey duo of Albarn and Hewlett for giving him an alibi, as long as no one questioned why on earth he would attend their opera of all things. With no home to return to, he skirted around for a while on the down low, doing his best to avoid those Black Cloud bastards that were chasing him about; that was when he found Plastic beach, and everything fell into place from there. A new paint job, a new headquarters and painful isolation, the album began to brew from an ache that not even alcohol could numb, and each night Murdoc was forced to reflect on what had got him here in the first place: prison, copious amounts of money, dud weapons, bloody pirates, El Manana-
El Manana...
The first time he unlocked that cage in his brain had been a particularly rough night, a night he hardly remembered aside from one fleeting moment. Murdoc had looked out at the world beyond the luxury of headquarters, and a glint of red met his eye from across the sea before disappearing into the dark. The chill that ran down his spine was potent, and it was then that he remembered the hair inside the notebook, in that moment it seemed to click. Murdoc was an inventive man, and he still had a buttload of cash left, it wouldn’t be too out of left field to just build a cyborg version of his guitarist, in fact it was rather bloody brilliant. Noodle had been trained to be a soldier after all, she’d exterminated hordes of zombies at Old Kong, so this robot could be something of a bodyguard. It would be at his beck and call, fighting off those pirate wankers and playing guitar for the album. Murdoc knew his genius couldn’t be beat so he got to work immediately, sourcing the materials he required from many a shady black market dealer. When Cyborg Noodle finally rose, Murdoc had blinked back tears at the sight, it was like she was there with him.
He’d been limited in what he could do so she didn’t have a voice box or anything, but he supposed that just made her more intimidating, stalking silently around the island with a rifle in hand. It felt wrong though, the imitation never fully managing to suffice. He couldn’t engage her in any meaningful conversation, like he used to with Noodle, and her eyes were vacant, holding no warmth in them whatsoever. It was probably for the best though, Murdoc didn’t know what he would do if he caught even a glimpse of something in those eyes. He delegated tasks to her when she wasn’t on patrol, almost like she was a servant and that felt somewhat wrong too, but when he was hammered most of the time, it was necessary. She’d clean up, cook food and fetch him his rum without a word of complaint, it was bliss. Most importantly though, she could play just as well as Noodle could, and another piece of the puzzle slid into place.
Dents was easy to find and even easier to smuggle onto the island, the blue-haired sod was apparently doped to the gills in Lebanon or whatever. He arrived on the beaches in a suitcase and Murdoc watched as Cyborg dragged him down to his room, satisfied knowing that the key pieces of the band were all in one place. He couldn’t really give a toss about Russ’s whereabouts, the drum machine wasn’t all that difficult to figure out and he’d nail it in no time, there was no need for a drummer. Vocals, guitar and bass, that was all he needed. Finally Operation Stink Fish (don’t ask, it’s a working title) could begin.
Waiting for Faceache to fully co-operate meant that things were going slow, way slower than Murdoc wanted. They had the skeletons of songs prepared, but 2D was being prissy, complaining about the living arrangements and Murdoc’s very existence. No amount of threats, arguing or bargaining was getting through to the little shit, and there realistically wasn’t much he could do about that other than continue to wait. It’s not like he could kill him, that would just be a waste of a good voice and a pretty face. Stewing about in a drunken haze grew tiresome quick, especially when the buzz of creation was thrumming under his green skin, so Murdoc found a new way to pass time, Point Nemo FM.
He considered it a creative side project, a message to the eager fans who were no doubt waiting for news on the upcoming album, and a way to let out the energy that was building up within him. Radio was a piece of piss anyways, you natter on about any random bullshit, play a song then rinse and repeat, but Murdoc’s show was going to be so much more than that, this was Gorillaz after all. He’d ranted about his plans between gulps of rum to Cyborg, his ramblings bordering on manic, and she’d listened without really listening, never letting on if the words truly sunk in or not. Once his bottle was empty, he’d barked an order at her to get him more, and she did, obedient as ever. There was a sour taste in his mouth, he chalked it up to the rum.
It didn’t take long for him to set everything up, and as haphazard as it all was it would do. He fiddled with the various buttons and dials, taking sips of booze as he went and soon enough, with a bit of fine tuning, he was on air, or at least he believed he was. From there it was easy, he just had to talk, and talk he did, too far gone to really make much sense. Now he had to play a song, so he did, taken from a list he’d scribbled into his notebook alongside various jumbled lyrics and phrases. “Where’s North from here?” He had no clue when or why he wrote that and it wasn’t a lyric but it could work.
He’d talk again, play another song, talk again, play another song, name drop Stink Fish, play another song, casually reveal his bisexuality and play another sodding song. It wasn’t as grand as he initially planned but alcohol and excitement coursed through his veins, the adrenaline pouring out his mouth in a somehow legible garble. It was like creating a new language.
As Sea Within A Sea played, Murdoc turned to Cyborg, who was standing close by with a rifle in hand, just in case. It felt like sinking underwater, and he watched the robot through ripples that danced across the room, his breathing shallow. Her eyes were miles away from his, trained on the sky beyond the window in preparation for airplanes that probably wouldn’t come tonight, if they ever would come. He knew he was forgetting something, and the sight of Cyborg Noodle, along with the mention of her real counterpart during his Demon Days rant earlier, was prodding at his brain matter, attempting to incite some form of recognition from him. It wasn’t uncommon for things to slip his mind, especially in this state; he would forget to clean, shower, sleep and even eat sometimes, which is why Cyborg was so useful outside of playing guitar, he’d probably forget his own birthday soon enough-
Realisation hit like a brick to the face. Murdoc tore his eyes away from Cyborg to the small calendar he had by his desk, and while the date today wasn’t anything special, the date that had passed was what brought back that familiar lurch in his gut. It had been a few months already, and the day had slipped through his grasp, leaving him none the wiser. Knowing him, he was probably passed out that day, he really couldn’t remember anything and would probably forget all of this by next morning. The song was coming to an end and Murdoc knew he’d have to keep going, the fans were waiting after all, but his voice caught in his throat anyways and he swallowed down the rather painful lump that had formed. It took him a moment to finally croak out something, his mouth moving faster than his brain.
“Okay, uh, I'd like to, uh, to send out some, uh, very late Birthday wishes to a special little girl,” he started, “A special girl who turned 19 last Halloween. Our very own Noodle.”
The name rolled off his tongue like sludge, leaving an uncomfortable residue behind, different to the way he’d spoken about her earlier. He couldn’t believe it had been so long since she… no, he shouldn’t think about that, he had no idea if she was dead or not. Considering it had been years though, she may as well be, Murdoc couldn’t think about that.
“Ahh Noodle, I do hope she's okay. I-I-I-I haven't seen her since the, uh, El Manana video,” he stammered, his voice wavering, “Oh, what a cock out that was. 50 grand of floating island crashing and burning. Noodle's on there. She, she was meant to parachute off. I-I think she did, but, well, you never know…”
The memory of a ragged parachute, smelling like ash, flashed in his mind. His mouth went dry, he took a sip to wet it again.
“The thing was- the thing was, shot down by these copters that tailed us down to the shoot. Same guys I'm running from now, yeah. The black clouds! So-” he cut himself off with a cough.
“Y'know, maybe Noodle's no more…” Murdoc continued, “I managed to, uh, scrap up some bits and pieces and, uh, kinda put something new together. But, awwah, it's not the same really…”
It would never be the same.
“Still! Great video! Happy birthday Noodle wherever you are... Aww…”
The next song he had lined up (“You Only Live Twice”, how succinct) began to play and Murdoc let out a shaky breath. Celebrating birthdays as a band was never really a thing, he’d never been one to celebrate his own, but Noodle had been the exception. It was never much, at most she’d get a few presents, a nicer dinner than usual and a song (at 2D’s insistence), but the girl’s smile toned down any grumblings Murdoc had about it all being pointless. He’d even bought her a jetpack one year when they were in Japan, much to Russ’s dismay, and they’d watched as Noodle zipped through the air, her giggles echoing between the lit-up skyscrapers surrounding their hotel. They hadn’t been able to celebrate for a while, and it was all Murdoc’s fault, and it slipped his mind completely, buried beneath years of paranoia and living on the run. Murdoc glanced out the window and something red shone back, closer and closer and closer every time he walked down this path, his throat tightened.
As much as he wanted to curl up into a ball and drain another bottle, he had a radio show to finish, and he couldn’t let his fans down. It was only two songs, he could keep up the charisma for a bit longer until it was over and then he could drown out whatever sorrows were disturbing him, so he did. Murdoc was able to get through the rest of the show without falling into the pit of despair he was barely clawing his way out of, he was even able to find the demo disc of the album, aptly named Plastic Beach, and teased the hell out of the audience before finally signing off.
“So, if I haven't drowned in rum, plastic and urethane, meet me here, and feast your ears on the musical world exclusive. New Gorillaz! I might even tell you who's on the track. And, I will be playing, of course, "Stink Fish", at- at a later day,” he slurred, “And remember boys and girls, SATAN LOVES YOU!!”
He yelled as the final song faded in, holding the screech until his voice was hoarse and he knew no one could hear him. It left him and Cyborg truly alone, and the usual hollowness began to settle once more, joined by stomach-flipping nausea. She was still there, by the door, ready for a fight that may never come, with eyes staring intently over the expansive ocean. Murdoc wondered if she’d seen it too, that sickening crimson glitter floating over the freezing water, maybe then it wouldn’t just be in his head.
“H-Hey Noodle, love,” he croaked.
Cyborg’s gaze lingered over the world for a few beats before turning to him, her eyes still devoid of emotion. Nothing was said, she couldn’t speak at all, did that make things easier or harder?
“Come- uh come over here,” Murdoc sluggishly gestured for her to join him by his desk.
Obedient as ever, she slung her weapon over her shoulder and marched over to him, awaiting her next order. Murdoc was much taller than Cyborg but from his position in the chair, she towered over him and she looked down upon him with as much patience an emotionless robot could impossibly muster.
“I-I-I didn’t mean t’… t’miss yer’ birthday, sprog,” he breathed, “will admit m-my mind was else… where at th’ time.”
The words were slurred and thick, sticking to the roof of his mouth, but the robot seemed unbothered by this. She’d witnessed his misfortune for so long now, this likely wasn’t very surprising.
“But we can- we can celebrate ‘nyways, can’t we?” Murdoc asked, “not toooo late for it.”
Murdoc went to take a drink of rum but found that his bottle was empty. He looked almost incredulous as to how he’d run out already, but his thoughts were interrupted when Cyborg snatched the bottle from his hand and turned away, presumably to replace it with another like she always did. That didn’t stop his stomach from aching something awful as she walked away.
“W-Wait, wait wait!”
Murdoc tried to get up but his frantic attempt to chase after Noodle was thwarted when he stumbled over his own wobbly legs, only just managing to catch himself before his face hit the floor. He heaved himself onto his knees, trying to catch his breath, and when he could finally bear to look up, Noodle was watching him intensely, the empty bottle hanging by her side. He shuffled on his knees, inching closer to the robot until he was kneeling before her.
“Don’... Don’ go,” he wheezed, “y’ can’t go, n-never lett’n you out m’ sight again.”
His hands trailed up to clutch tightly onto the hem of her shirt, the fabric tensing in his fingers. Tears welled up in his eyes, and as he looked up at her, his vision swam. Murdoc was once again underwater, drowning in nothing, but this time it looked like Cyborg was about to push him deeper, and maybe she should. She would if he ordered her to, something to consider.
“Rememb’r the island?” Murdoc asked, “Na- Not this one, th’ other one, y’know Feel Good Inc?”
He hummed the iconic bassline as though that would bring forth any recognition for her, she still looked at him as plainly as before.
“Fell fr’m the sky, it did,” he continued, “y’ were on it, hidin’ fr’m those pirates, ‘nd it fell.”
El Manana must’ve been a premonition, he thought. The fall of something massive and grand, it must’ve meant so much more than he realised. It was a key of some kind, though he was trapped in a room of locks.
“So much fire… l-l-like hell on earth,” he managed to choke out, “y’ made it out, right l-love?”
Murdoc hiccuped, his stomach pulsed from the pain of it. Cyborg was wordless, unmoving.
“O’... ‘Course y’did,” he mumbled, “yer’ a smart cookie, you wouldn’ d-die on me… would ya?”
The tears were flowing free now, Murdoc couldn’t stop them as much as he wanted to and he looked away, mortified by his inability to hold back such sorrow. Instead he stared at the ground he knelt upon, though it wriggled beneath his knees as his eyes continued to sink.
“I-If only y’... stayed,” Murdoc sobbed, “w-why’d you have t’ go?”
If Noodle hadn’t wanted to leave the band in the first place, they wouldn’t be here. They’d probably still be in Kong, creating a new album that had nothing to do with god damn plastic, perhaps in another universe they were. Maybe that Murdoc would be happy, that prick better be.
“This is… all my…” he started, stopping when the words got too bitter to pass.
He lifted his head to meet Cyborg’s eyes and was taken aback when he spotted something within them… discomfort. The robot looked uncomfortable, like she wanted to push him away yet the lack of a command to do so was holding her back. He’d seen those eyes before, and the sight brought back crashing waves of memories from so long ago, when the little tyke was still unfamiliar with english and would giggle at his impressions of David Bowie and Richie Sambora, when she was old enough to argue back and did so with a fire that reminded him of his own teenage years. Murdoc didn’t think he could cry any harder than he already was, but his own body surprised him yet again as he shook with full body sobs, burying his face into Cyborg’s t-shirt as he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. He couldn’t string a proper sentence together, too caught up in his misery to function, instead he just repeated between tears, over and over:
“‘M sorry…”
It was breathy, barely even legible, but for the first time ever, he’d uttered those words and somewhat meant it.