In a nutshell, 2D's mother's opinion on his career. A few things first:

1. I did as much research on 2D's mother as I could (I don't own Rise of the Ogre... it's too expensive), so I hope this is a correct characterization. If she's actually a heartless witch, or if at any time in some obscure interview 2D said he hated her with a burning passion, tell me so I can remove this. I want to be in the correct universe. XD

2. I don't live in England. If you do, tell me if there's any inaccuracies or over-exaggerations in the characters' mannerisms. Hopefully I might learn something for future projects.

3. I manipulated the timeline a bit to get the story to work and not be hideously repetitive, so it won't be exactly by the book. If it really bothers you, or if I left something out that you think is really important, tell me so I can maybe make some changes.

Anyway, this is my first Gorillaz story, so I hope it's not as bad as I think it is. I don't own the characters or the song lyrics.

Reviews aren't required but they are very much appreciated. Thanks for visiting and please enjoy.

"I need a gun

To keep myself among

The poor people

Are burning in the sun

They ain't got a change, they ain't got a chance

I need a gun

'Cause all I do is dance

All I do is dance..."

Rachel Pot stared dully at her telly screen, watching the tall thin man in the music video dance around strangely, surrounded by children. She didn't like the fact that he was shirtless, and liked even less the fact that he was so thin and pale, but then again, there were a lot of things about that band that she didn't like.

Of course, this particular video was quite old. She hadn't seen that dear boy in quite a while...

The video came to a close and she turned the television off, sitting in the late-night darkness of her living room. She often didn't sleep well, plagued by "what-if" and "why why why," so she came in here, and simply watched endless hours of footage from that awful band, the very thing that ruined so many people's lives. Sometimes she cried. Sometimes she hit things. But mostly she just sat, just sat still and wondered how it had ever come to this, how she had ever lost her son.

It was years ago, a lifetime, but Rachel still remembered the day it all began. It was a normal day and she had been at home, when two men in uniforms came knocking at her door. They looked at her solemnly and spoke a sentence that no mother ever wants to hear:

"Mrs. Pot, your son has been in an accident."

It all became a blur, then. A blur of frantic phone calls and speeding to the hospital and desperate tears and people in white, their grave faces blurring until she couldn't tell one from the other. She couldn't answer their questions, could hardly recall what an insurance policy was, could barely even listen to the explanation of why this had happened to her boy, could only ask, tearfully, over and over, "Where is he? How is he? How is Stuart?"

They told her what exactly was wrong with Stuart, but all of their reports of broken collarbones and possible minor brain damage and major eye complications flew straight over Rachel's head. All she could process was that her boy was hurt, and it made her frantic.

It was many, many long hours of sitting tersely in lumpy green chairs before a nurse walked into the waiting room and gave a tight-lipped smile. "You can see him now."

When Rachel walked warily into the hospital room, at first all seemed well. Albeit bruised and wearing a couple of casts, along with a bandage over his eye (underneath which she just assumed was a particularly bad contusion), Stuart's other eye was open and he looked fine. He seemed a little out of it (probably the morphine), but overall, fine.

The doctor in the room gave her a wary look, asked her to take a deep breath, and took off the bandage.

She shrieked in terror.

His eye. His eye. It was gone, vanished, nothing but a black void. And the other? It was so blank, so lifeless, that she wondered if the steadily beeping heart monitor was lying.

The doctors calmed her. The eye was not gone, but fractured. The blood had turned it black, and while it would never return to its original green, he could probably still see out of it. And then they had her sit down, and told her the news: her boy, her Stuart, was in a coma. His eyes were open, but they doubted her was registering anything that was going on around him, and they hadn't the faintest idea of how long he would be like this.

It was at that point that her husband, two nurses, and the doctor all had to restrain her at once, just to keep her from running off and finding the miserable sod who did this to her child, and return the favor plus a lot more.

News was brought to Rachel, several days later, that the man who did this, a questionable fellow under the name of Murdoc Niccals, was in prison. After being questioned, he admitted to crashing his car through the window of Uncle Norm's Keyboard Emporium and hitting "that tall, scrawny, ugly-faced fellow," as the police relayed his testimony. Rachel couldn't wait to get that man to court, so he could rot in jail for as long as possible.

Stuart still had not woken. She pleaded with his catatonic body, but he only stared at her with his mismatched eyes and didn't react in the slightest.

It was a number of weeks before the court date arrived, and Rachel managed to pry herself and David, her husband, away from her son's side to go to the courthouse. Mr. Niccals was led in, wearing the standard prisoner's jumpsuit, and Rachel immediately decided that she hated him even more, if that was even possible. He was a dark-haired, oily, shifty-eyed man, who didn't look one bit sorry about what had happened. Even worse, he was charismatic. Rachel was sure he would receive prison time, but he just acted sorry and remained composed, and somehow ended up with community service. 30,000 hours worth, maybe, but still bloody community service. Of all things!

But it turned out that it was no ordinary service. Part of his punishment was to take care of Stuart for ten hours a week, probably until he recovered.

She wanted to protest, so badly. She didn't trust this man, and trusted him even less to take care of her child. But she knew they couldn't leave him in the hospital, nor could they keep Stuart at home. There simply wasn't the money, wasn't the room, and really they had no choice.

Mr. Niccals came to the hospital with them, and Rachel followed him as he took Stuart out to his car in a wheelchair, telling him about Stuart's headaches and sensitivity to light, and a thousand and one things that needed to be monitored if her son was going to be able to recover. Not missing the distasteful glare Murdoc shot at her son, she reminded him brusquely that she would be visiting every week, as well as a legal worker, and if there was a single scratch on her boy he would end up in jail. Murdoc just mumbled, "Yes ma'am," his voice dripping with sarcasm.

With that, her son was hoisted into a stranger's car, and after she gave him a quick peck on the forehead, Mr. Niccals started the car and he was gone.

Rachel visited very week, as promised. Mr. Niccals' flat wasn't as clean as she would have desired, and her son still didn't seem anywhere close to recovering, but he was all right, always sitting on the couch, bundled in oversized fleece jackets. Whenever she visited, Murdoc would lead her to her son and then disappear. She didn't know where he headed off to, but she simply enjoyed seeing her son, safe and well.

Eventually, things began to feel normal. Her son was still in a coma in a stranger's home, but finally there was a system, a protocol, a method to the madness. It reassured her. After about a year, Rachel finally began to feel at ease, finally began to feel that her son truly was in good hands.

But then came the day when there was a knock at her door, and there stood two men in uniforms.

Before the officers could even get to "Mrs. Pot," she had fainted dead away.

She woke to the sound of an engine, and found herself lying in the backseat of her car, with David, looking strained, at the wheel.

"What happened?" she ventured, almost not wanting to know.

"You fainted-"

"No! Not me! What's happened to Stuart?"

Not seeming to want to push her, he frowned deeply and simply said, "He was in another accident."

"Not another car crash-"

"Another car crash."

"Murdoc-?"

"Yes."

A sort of fierce rage swept through her, but she managed to contain herself. At least for the moment.

"Is he at the hospital?"

"Yes, love, we're on our way now."

It all felt like some sort of sick, twisted déjà vu—the frantic run through the hospital, the agonizing wait in the lumpy, olive-green chairs, the feelings of confusion and anger and overwhelming worry.

There was a difference this time though—Mr. Niccals. Murdoc. That terrible, awful man came in during the long, long wait, raising one oily eyebrow. She knew what he was asking, and the answer was no.

Rachel put a hand on David's arm before escorting Murdoc outside, and proceeded to give him the earful of a lifetime. He was not to come near her son, not to ever speak to him again, and this time he was going to jail for sure. That was her boy, no matter how long Murdoc had taken care of him, and she was going to make sure he was kept away from this evil man for the rest of his life.

Murdoc left without a word.

It was hours, forever and a day, before she and David were permitted to see Stuart. Rachel walked into the dark hospital room slowly, prepared for the worst.

She saw him then, and he was sitting up, he was alert, he was eating, of all things. She gave a sob of joy, but when he turned to face her, her heart dropped.

Stuart stared at her with two eyes black as night.

But he smiled at her (where were his front teeth?) and whispered, "Mum, Dad," and she was so happy that he was awake, so happy that he recognized them, that all she could do was race over and embrace him tightly, placing regular kisses on his cheeks and forehead. She couldn't bring herself to mention his eyes, couldn't bring herself to mention what had happened, because he was all right now and that was all that mattered.

She went home and slept easily for the first time in months.

It was mid-morning the next day when she walked back into Stuart's room and was struck instantly by how miserable he looked. He only managed to look up at her with his blackened eyes before bursting into noisy tears.

The next hour was spent embracing him tightly, and insisting over and over that he was not ugly, he would have another girlfriend, he was not ugly, she still loved him, he was not ugly.

Her shirtfront was soaked when his tears had finally subsided into irregular breathing interspersed with hiccups. Stuart gave a watery smile and spoke the creaky sentence that ruined his life.

"Mum, I want to stay with Murdoc."

He insisted that Murdoc was a good man, insisted that there wasn't room for him at home anyway, insisted that the doctors said that his flying through Murdoc's windscreen was probably what woke him from his coma in the first place, insisted that he owed Murdoc.

Rachel wanted to grab him, shake him by his skinny little shoulders, and tell him that he didn't owe Murdoc one thing, and anyone who said otherwise was going to get their bloody head knocked off their shoulders. But she could tell just by looking at him that this was what he really wanted, and decided to let him go. He was twenty years old now, after all. He was a man.

But one look into his eyes, even dark as they were, reminded her that he was still just a boy.

After he was finally discharged from the hospital, Stuart simply came and grabbed a few things from home—a keyboard, some clothing, a couple notepads—and with a hug, kiss, and promise to call and visit as often as he could, Stuart was off.

A feeling of unease settled in Rachel's stomach, but she smiled and waved as best she could.

Stuart called every week, as promised. He insisted life with Murdoc was great, that they played music together all the time, and that he had a girlfriend now, a girl named Paula Cracker. Rachel never got to meet her, but she sounded lovely.

Soon, she received the news that Stuart was moving with Murdoc, Paula, and "some drummer Murdoc stole from a record shop" to Essex. When prompted why, she simply received a reply of, "I dunno. Murdoc wants to work on music and stuff, I guess."

He continued to call from Essex, updating her on how they made music, how neat this new house was, how cool this new man named Russell was, how great his relationship was with Paula. Whenever she asked about Murdoc, Stuart would sound nervous, say quickly, "He's great," and move on to another topic.

She still remembered the day when he called her in tears to say he'd broken up with Paula, but she could never get an answer out of him as to why. Getting a bad feeling, she asked, "Did it have something to do with Murdoc?" and it was silent for a couple beats. "...No," Stuart finally mumbled, sniffing. Rachel accepted the response, but she was unconvinced.

For a while, his calls were infrequent and uninformative; he'd call, say he was fine, ask how she was, and hang up as soon as possible. She asked him every time if he wanted to come back home, but he always said, unconvincingly, that he was perfectly fine.

One day, he called her and told her that a little Japanese girl had "arrived in a Fed-Ex crate." Rachel, now truly concerned, asked if he took the proper dosage of painkillers, hoping that was it, instead of the very real possibility that her son was high or even going crazy. Sounding a little irritated, Stuart insisted there really was a little girl, and proceeded to call over someone named "Noodle." Soon, the high-pitched babble of a young girl speaking a foreign language filled Rachel's ears, and she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more concerned that a little girl named Noodle showed up in a Fed-Ex crate. The fact that this Noodle had to be taken care of by a man she'd never met, the keyboard thief who put out both of her son's eyes, and her son, was also quite frightening.

But after the little girl's arrival, her son's calls were different. He started to sound a little happier, a little more alive, and Rachel relaxed. She had a feeling that things were going to go okay from then on, as long as that group in Essex didn't do anything crazy...

It was 1998 when Stuart called her in an over-excited frenzy. She still remembered the terrible sentence he spoke to her:

"Mum! Mum, I'm in a band! A real-life band!"

He said this band was called the "Gorillaz," and that they had already played at quite a few shows and had gained a lot of popularity, so a record label was signing them on. He said the man named Russell was their drummer, Murdoc was their bassist and leader, and Noodle was their guitarist. She finally asked what he did, and with a cheerful laugh, he replied, "Oh, I play keyboard."

"And who sings?"

"Oh yeah! I do that too, Mum."

"... You sing?"

"Sure do!"

Honestly, she didn't believe him at first, and neither did David. Their son, sing? In a famous band, no less? It wasn't possible; he must have been over-exaggerating, as he often did.

However, on her way home from grocery shopping one day, Rachel noticed a large commotion at the local record shop. Curious, she stopped to look.

There was a large poster that everyone had surrounded, and on closer inspection, she saw that it was printed with the words "THE GORILLAZ," and four faces.

One of the faces had two blackened eyes, missing front teeth, and spiky blue hair.

She hurried home to tell David about it, but when she walked through the front door, he was holding that day's post, which included a CD and two tickets to a concert.

Despite their doubts, they took their tickets and were soon standing in a huge outdoor concert hall in London, feeling out of date and out of place. They were surrounded by what must have been thousands of screaming fans, most of them quite a bit younger than the Pots.

Suddenly, there was a hush before four figures walked out onto the stage, and the place exploded. Spotlights shined onto the four, revealing a gigantic dark-skinned man sitting at the drums, a tiny Japanese girl carrying a guitar nearly as big as she was, a dark-haired man carrying a bass, and finally, with a keyboard and microphone, squinting into the harsh light, front and center...

Stuart.

That was Stuart.

Before she could decide between laughing, crying, or screaming, the music stated and soon he opened his mouth and sang.

Rachel couldn't think straight for the next two hours.

Stuart Stuart he's singing I didn't know he could sing and it's beautiful and that's my boy up there he's famous and my God what's he wearing?

By the time the concert was over, she was speechless.

Stuart smiled out at the crowd and smiled, looking more confident than he ever had in his entire life. The look of a true celebrity.

The next few years were a blur.

There was always something going on with the suddenly wildly-popular Gorillaz—a concert, a new album, music videos, interviews and documentaries and news segments, autobiographies and awards, photo shoots and tours and album signing... Her son's calls became few and far between; he was always busy or exhausted because he was busy. Rachel supported her son as much as she could; she went to all the concerts that were within driving distance, was on the set of his music videos.

Of course, it took a bit of time to get used to her son's shiny new name—2-D. Why on Earth was he called 2-D?

"Is it like two-dimensional?"

"No Mum!" Stuart—2-D—sighed. "It's 'cause I've got two dents in my head."

"That's an awful reason to give you such a nice name like that! Why don't you go by Stuart? Murdoc, Russell, and Noodle go by their real names."

"Murdoc says 'Stu-Pot' ain't glitzy enough or somethin'. I dunno."

"Well, you'll always be Stuart to me, love."

"Mum!"

"Sorry, sorry, I know."

Strange name or not, Rachel had never been more proud of her son. He was finally doing what he loved; he had never looked happy in that keyboard shop anyway. But there was just one thing that never stopped worrying her... Every time Stuart found time to visit, he looked paler and thinner than she remembered. He always had at least a couple visible bruises along his arms, and dark circles rimmed his eyes. When asked, he said that he was just fine, and she knew how clumsy he was, and of course he was taking the proper dosage of the pain medication she had been supplying him with his entire life. He looked so sincere that, against her better judgment, Rachel accepted the answer and went on to ask more about what he had been up to.

She didn't get to ever really meet the other band members but for the short moments she maybe saw them when visiting Stuart after a concert. From what Stuart told her, they were all lovely, especially Noodle, the little Fed-Ex girl. Of course, as the years went on, Rachel felt a little concerned for her, especially after watching the "DARE" video. She wasn't sure if she approved of such a young, pretty girl dancing like that, and often approved even less of the videos her son was in.

"I don't like that 'Rock the House' video; it's inappropriate. You should know better, young man!"

"Mum, it was nothing compared to Murdoc-"

"I don't care, you're my son and I'll decide what I like you doing! And what about that other one, 'Dirty Harry'? Ugh, what an awful name! And couldn't they have given you a shirt?"

Stuart insisted that kind of thing sold, and while that was true, Rachel still refused to watch any video that involved pelvic thrusting or only partially clothed people, which from what she could tell, excluded a lot.

After a while, the Gorillaz craze settled down a bit, and all seemed to be going great. Stuart seemed to be living his dream, and he always made sure Rachel and David had enough money to live comfortably. Everything was great. Everyone was happy.

The bliss ended when Stuart called Rachel, sobbing frantically.

"Mum! Mum, N-Noodle, she's dead!"

There had been some horrible incident, involving the sweet little girl being chased by the Japanese government, a floating island, bombs... The whole thing was unclear. Stuart didn't know much himself, and the fact that he couldn't catch his breath or calm down didn't help.

He seemed truly devastated, and Rachel offered to come get him. Of course, she knew she couldn't make a friend's death better, but by God, she would try, or her name wasn't Rachel Elizabeth Pot.

Stuart sniffed and spoke again, the familiar sound of shaky bravery in his voice. "No, Mum... I'll be okay."

But he wasn't. For a long time, his calls were short and left Rachel feeling worried. He wasn't okay, he wasn't happy, and it pained her.

Finally, Stuart called one day. "Mum, I'm coming home."

Apparently the remaining Gorillaz had decided to take a break for a couple years, or until they all found their beat again. Rachel didn't really care; she just wanted Stuart to come home so she could make sure he was okay.

When the knock came at her door, she threw it open and immediately hugged Stuart, who greeted the gesture almost desperately. In fact, when she went to release him, he clung tighter, and they stood there embracing until David walked in. He shook Stuart's hand in a warmer manner than what was typical of him. Stuart smiled at him weakly; he was thinner than ever and his eyes were red.

She told herself it was okay. He was home now, at the very least.

For a while, Stuart stayed at home, working with his father to earn the keep Rachel insisted he didn't need to pay. Rachel made sure he ate and slept and took his painkillers, and he started to look a little healthier.

However, he was still unhappy; she could tell. Sure, he smiled and went places, but something about his gestures seemed hollow, just like they had his entire life up until he joined his band.

She was just about to confront him about it too, but he beat her to it.

He decided he didn't really want to stay here, but he had rented a flat in Beirut and had been offered a modeling job. He thought it'd be better if he was by himself for a while, but he'd call every week. Concerned, but knowing there were definitely worse things he could do for himself, Rachel took him to the airport to send him on his way.

For almost two years, Stuart lived over there in Beirut, but it sounded like he was truly trying to get things to work. He insisted modeling was great (not as fun as singing, but still great), that he was fine, and he sounded earnest enough that Rachel felt better about the whole thing. Independence was probably good for him, and he seemed at least not quite as sad as he had living at home. Of course, she knew he didn't really want to be a model, but at least he was making a living.

Stuart made sure to call her every Thursday, but one week the call never came.

Rachel let it go. Maybe work was busy, maybe he forgot. It wouldn't be the first time.

The next Thursday rolled around, and still he didn't call. Perhaps he had a girl over. She just left a message.

For over a month, Rachel made excuses for his silence, but started to get worried. They hadn't gotten in a fight; he had no reason to ignore her.

Finally she caved, and she and David bought airplane tickets to Beirut.

It was a dirty, busy city, and very large, but they finally located Stuart's flat, which was surrounded by a pile of newspapers. Finding the door unlocked, Rachel opened it and found... no one. The window's glass was cracked and covered with a smudge of dried blood, the whole place smelled like some sort of foreign substance that made her light-headed, and Stuart was nowhere to be found.

She knew it even before the authorities they called confirmed it. Stuart had been kidnapped.

They searched all of Beirut, all of London and Essex, all of the places he could possibly be. But he was nowhere to be found, and finally the police told her that he was probably dead. It often happened to celebrities. Maybe it was a fan that was angry they split up, maybe it was someone who didn't like his music, maybe he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They didn't know.

"We just think it'd be healthier for you to move on, Mrs. Pot."

No. She refused to move on, refused to believe it. Refused to believe it as she watched her husband accept the flowers and sympathy that she rejected. Refused to believe it as David cried. Refused to believe it even as her life went dark and nothing made her happy anymore. It couldn't be true, Stuart couldn't be dead.

Finally she accepted it. Whether he was dead or simply missing, it was unlikely that she would ever see her son again. The days became long and even getting up in the morning was a challenge. No parent wants to outlive their children.

On one of those days spent grieving, she simply sat in her living room with the radio, idly flipping through the stations, when she flipped to one that caught her attention.

"HEEEEELLLLLO! It's been a long time for all of us, hasn't it? Well... I'M BAAAAACK!"

Rachel wrinkled her nose distastefully. How did people like that get on the radio anyway? She was about to turn the station when he spoke again.

"It's me, MURDOC NICCALS! From the world's most famous band... The Gorrrrillaz!"

Murdoc? What was he doing on the radio? The police had tried to find him to interrogate him about Stuart's absence (and he was also wanted for a wide range of crimes in several countries), but no one could locate him. As much as Rachel hated him, she continued listening, just to see if maybe he'd mention something about Stuart.

"And with me today is my best mate... 2-D!"

No. He was messing with them, he was joking, he was under the influence of some strange drug, he had found some other poor boy to hit with his car... She wasn't going to get her hopes up. It wasn't Stuart.

"Uh-um... Hullo...?"

Rachel's breath caught in her throat and she was sure her heart stopped.

There was no mistaking it. That was Stuart. That was her boy.

Her scream of elation sent her husband running in from the other room. She insisted Stuart was alive, and immediately his face fell as he impatiently reminded her that Stuart was dead. All Rachel had to do was hand him the radio, over which the impromptu talk show had continued, for his face to pale and for him to fall beside her on the couch, leaving them both to stare at the radio in shock.

The police investigated it. The confirmed that the individuals on the radio were indeed Murdoc Niccals and Stuart Pot, but they had no idea where to find them. According to what Murdoc said, they were located on a place called Plastic Beach, which was apparently farther away from any civilization than anywhere else in the world. They could only assume that meant they were somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, but they couldn't track the radio waves; it was just too far away. They informed Rachel and David that the most they could do was continue to listen to the radio and try to figure it out from there.

Rachel almost didn't care. All she cared about was that she knew her son was okay now. All she cared about was that she could live again.

She continued to listen to the broadcasts. It turned out that Stuart actually had been kidnapped... by Murdoc. It made her see red; the next time she saw that man, he really was going to get his head knocked off, for refusing to let her son live a normal life. By all that was holy, she despised him! The police assured her that as soon as they found Murdoc he would be sent to jail, but it didn't make her any less angry.

Aside from that, she was also horrified at the way Murdoc and Stuart... interacted with each other. Nearly every broadcast ended in them fighting, and hearing her son's pain over the radio, both physical and emotional, hurt as if she was in his place. They also spoke of terrible things Rachel never knew about their band, things Stuart ever told her, including what really happened to make Paula and Stuart break up. She knew it had something to do with Murdoc!

Then again, it seemed everything did now.

Despite everything Stuart went through, it was better than him being dead, and Rachel simply looked forward to the day she would see him again.

One day, the broadcast was going as usual. Stuart wasn't in this particular interview, as he was "having one of his stupid bloody migraines, sodding faceache." Murdoc, who had been rambling about something as usual, suddenly stopped talking.

"Oh bother..."

There was the sound of a deafening explosion, and the transmission went dead.

Rachel was frantic. What in the world was going on over there? Was Stuart okay?

She tried to convince herself everything was all right; one of these days she'd turn on the radio and Stuart and Murdoc's voices would come on, just as they used to. But months turned into years and there wasn't a single broadcast, a single clue as to what had happened. Nothing to let her know Stuart was okay. Nothing to let her know anything.

For weeks, Rachel cried. Damn it all, she had had him! She knew where he was! She knew he was alive! And now, cruel fate and Murdoc and that band and everything had taken him away again! She had been so close... so close... God damn it, she wanted her boy! She wanted to hold him, and know he was going to be all right... She slapped herself for every time over the years she had had the opportunity to take him home but hadn't, because he was happy. Damn it, he was happy but he wasn't safe! He'd never be safe... never. This feeling of emptiness, of hollow worry... it'd never end. Hell, she didn't even know if Stuart was alive anymore! He could be dead at the bottom of the sodding ocean! And it was all her fault, for not keeping him safe... The bitter tears just wouldn't end.

The worry, the regret, and the hole in her heart all took their toll, every day. She was barely sixty years old but felt ancient; her hair was ghostly white and it seemed every worry and frustration left a new line on her face. Nothing made her happy. She couldn't eat or sleep... Everything hurt. All she could do was replay albums, interviews, and music videos, and look forward to the day she'd go mad enough that they might actually replace the real Stuart. But that wasn't Stuart on the screen, oh no—that was 2-D, that was the famous singer who just didn't know when to quit, who just didn't know what was enough until it was far too late.

Her tears just wouldn't run dry...

She woke in the morning to the sound of 2-D's voice, singing mournfully.

"... My star has left me, to take the bitter pill..."

With a sigh, Rachel reached over and turned the CD player off. This was how most mornings began now.

She got up and left to the loo, where she showered and tried her best to look nice. Things like this didn't really matter to her anymore, but she tried, for David's sake.

Deeming her reflection passable, she wandered to the kitchen, where David sat, looking tired and worn himself, drinking coffee.

"Morning."

She smiled weakly in response before pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down herself. She knew her husband was staring a hole in her head, but she didn't respond.

Finally, it was time for him to go to work. He got up, kissed her, mumbled, "Try to go outside today, okay?" and left. She vaguely heard his engine start before he drove away.

Rachel guzzled her coffee, hoping it might make her feel a little better, before beginning her daily mindless tasks. She read a bit, watched the telly, watered her meager flowers. The gestures were empty, but she didn't care.

It was about noon when she heard the post drop through the front door's slot. It was a large pile today.

She sifted through it. Furniture magazine, 20% off MP3 players, electricity bills, junk, junk, junk.

All of her sifting brought her to the bottom of the pile, where she found a letter. It had no return address, and it was covered in stamps, but it was addressed to her.

Curious and a little wary, Rachel opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. On it was one simple sentence:

"Your son is at 212 Wobble Street, London."

Wobble Street, London...? That wasn't too far from Crawley; an hour or so, give or take. Was this real?

No. No, it wasn't real. It was probably just some cruel prank, or a murderer or rapist trying to lure her in. She wasn't going to be fooled, not again.

But...

Well... she wasn't doing anything. It wasn't that far. If it really was a prank, she'd be home before her husband and he wouldn't know the difference. And if it was a murdered or whatnot... Well, she was going to find out. She knew, no matter how small the probability, that she'd regret it if she didn't go.

She hopped into her car and set off to London.

After about two hours of driving and getting lost in the large city, she reached it. 212 Wobble Street. It wasn't the nicest part of town; everything was squished together, like some sort of ghetto.

Steeling herself, Rachel exited her car, taking special care to hide her purse under her seat. She carefully navigated over the cracks in the pavement, approaching the front door. There was something large sitting on top of the roof, but she hadn't brought her glasses and couldn't really make it out.

At the front door, Rachel braced herself for the disenchantment and knocked twice.

There was some sort of scuffle, a clatter and some bangs. Rachel waited almost impatiently. She just wanted to see the drug-addicted slag that lived here so she could get the bitter disappointment over with and go home.

After about a minute, the door opened.

A tall, whip-thin, pale-skinned man stood there, scratching his scruffy blue-haired head. He blinked his dark eyes sleepily; judging by his bare chest and the threadbare pajama bottoms he was wearing, she had woken him up, even late in the afternoon as it was. He couldn't have been much over thirty years old, but he already looked worn in a way most people didn't until they were nearly dead.

It took a couple seconds, but suddenly, his blackened eyes widened.

"Mu-?"

The word was only one syllable long, and really, if it had been said by anyone else it wouldn't have been different than the millions of other words she had heard in her lifetime. But this word, said by this person, sent a shock through her entire body. After waiting so long, she refused to wait just one syllable more.

She tackled him and hugged him with all her strength, with the intention to never let go ever again.

Her child. Her boy. Her baby.

Stuart.

It was really Stuart.

Every second she had spent waiting, spent worried, spent devastated, was poured out into her embrace, and she yanked him down so she could kiss his cheeks, his forehead, tears beginning to stream down her face all the while. After a second, Stuart was hugging her back, beginning to cry a bit himself, and she deftly wiped away his tears as she had done a thousand times before.

"Stuart..." she whispered. She could have said a thousand different things—"Where have you been?" "Why haven't you called?" "Where's Murdoc so I can give him a smack," but all she could manage, and all she wanted to manage, was just three little words.

"I love you..."

For a long time, they stood there together, embracing. She didn't notice a rumbling on top of the building that sounded like laughter. She didn't notice the squalor the house was in. She didn't notice the other band members, slinking out of cupboards and bedrooms, peering at them curiously. She didn't notice Mr. Murdoc Niccals, standing there with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face, mumbling something about how he was glad he had gotten the right address. All she knew was her Stuart, her love, and a song playing somewhere in the distance.

"Up on Melancholy Hill

There's a plastic tree

Are you here with me?

Just looking out on the day of another dream...

Well you can't get what you want

But you can get me

So let's set out to sea, love

'Cause you are my medicine

When you're close to me

When you're close to me..."