Clint Eastwood

by The Other Side of Darkness

AU Major. What if Murdoc had failed to sell his soul to Satan? What if he had, instead, been betrayed by his Dark Lord? After years of living in self pity and drunken anger, he meets a young man who gives him a warning. Together, with two others, they become the Demon Hunters that the world needs, but probably doesn't want.

1. Chapter 1 Fire Out of The Monkey's Head

I do not own The Gorillaz.

AN: When Clint Eastwood first aired on TV, so long ago, I became an instant fan of the Gorillaz. I can't claim to have listened to every song, seen every editorial, or even like all of their music. What I can claim is that there are seven songs of theirs that I like above the others. Each of the chapters in this line will be inspired by each of those songs.

They will not be song fics. I wrote one, long ago, and will never repeat the travesty. If you are talented at them, splendid. I am not.

Now, as I mentioned, there are seven songs in particular that I enjoy, and each of these simulations will be named after them. I tried to keep them in chronological order, except for the first, because I feel that they are important to how I want to write this.

As a final note, let me just say that I only have a vague outline of the full Gorillaz story line. It was the best I could get out of a twenty minute video on youtube that summarized Phases One through Four, up to the video for Saturnz Barz. As such, this will be Altered, both massively and minutely. Think of this like Scooby Doo, with far less comedic hijinks, less men in masks, more real demons and no talking dog.

Please Enjoy.

Edit, 07/04/2018: This will be longer than seven chapters. I've decided to dedicate at least two chapters to each Phase. Three in some cases.

Part One, Fire Coming Out Of The Monkey's Head

2-D

Stuart Pot was a happy young man. At the young age of seventeen, he had a bangin' hot girlfriend, a satisfying job with rather low pay, and dreams for the future.

He may not have been particularly bright, but the future certainly felt like it was. Bright, that is.

This year he would finish high school, he had saved up enough cash to afford that new Keyboard the boss had been saving for him, and his vocal training was coming along nicely. He might be his own coach, but he was pretty sure that his voice wasn't like nails on a chalkboard. At least Paula seemed to approve.

That day, he was opening the store by himself. The boss was out of town for the weekend, and he had left him with only the warning of not to break anything and to hand over the cash right away if they were robbed.

At eight in the morning, he opened the back door, entered the security code, and set about putting out the display instruments. That done, he counted the safe, set up the register, and took a quick inventory. Finally, at ten A.M. he unlocked the front door and turned on the 'Open' sign.

It was a monumentally slow day, but Saturdays usually were. It gave him plenty of time to practice with the used merchandise in the back. The room was sound proofed, but he had a good view of the security camera, just in case someone did come in.

Double checking that the street was empty, he moved to his second favorite instrument in the back. It was an old Keyboard, brought in by a grumpy former musician, looking for booze money. Stuart couldn't imagine giving away an instrument for something so lame. Sure, he liked to drink with his friends now and again, but never could he find as much joy in a bottle as he did in music.

He drew his fingers over the keys, feeling the history it had been part of. He could see dings and cracks, a place were stickers had once been, and a bit of new paint over old. If this thing could talk, Stuart would love to hear it's tales.

He flicked the on switch, set it to repeat the first four notes he played, and started tapping his foot. He let his fingers dance over the keys, humming along for a minute before he opened his mouth to sing a few, simple lyrics.

Outside the sound proofed room, there was a screech of tires as a black cadillac swerved to avoid hitting a pedestrian. It hopped the curve and crashed through the sidewall of the music store. The massive crashing sound had Stuart looking up just in time to see the car heading for him. He didn't even have time to duck out of the way when it clipped the side of his head, hitting just above and beside one of his brown eyes.

He fell to the ground in agony. His vision swam, his head felt like it was spinning, the pain was pressing down on him like a ton of bricks, there was a sensation like fluid filling his left eye.

Stuart's last sight as he fell unconscious was of a pair of legs wearing blue jeans with cowboy boots on the feet stepping out of the mangled car, the owner dropping a bottle of beer with a disgusted growl.

Russel

Russel Hobbs was relatively happy, all things considered. Working at the record shack was a big help.

He could never forget. Never. The sounds, the smells.

The Reaper.

It had been years, but the events still haunted him. Literally.

He was getting better, though, learning to cope.

He heard the whispering of his closest friend in his ear and nodded.

"Yeah, man. Kickin' beat," he started bobbing his head, keeping up with the rhythm and lyrics. He'd heard the song before, plenty of times, but he guessed this was a first time for Del. He turned up the volume a little, rocking side to side with the song.

He wasn't actually working today. He was just hanging out, since he had nothing better to do. Russ was, of course, hanging out in his favorite section, rearranging the records and playing some of his favorite music.

He felt the phantom presences of his friends laughing and joking. He heard it as they added their own lyrics to the music. He just kept bobbing his head along.

The doorbell jingled. A car backfired.

The breath was sucked out of the large man's lungs. The world tilted and twisted. Darkness crawled in and grasped at his face.

He turned to the front of the store, but it wasn't a busy street of London that he saw. No, it was somewhere else entirely.

The sights, the sounds, the smells. The people.

His friends. Alive.

He could see them, all of them, alive, joking and talking, walking out of the convenience store where they stopped to pick up some snacks. The door jingled as Eric opened the door, slurpee in hand.

Russ could see it as the black hummer approached, he watched, helplessly, as the windows rolled down and guns wielded by people in red hoodies were pointed at the gas station. He tried to yell, to scream, but his throat tightened, not even letting him wheeze out a warning. He could do nothing, but watch his friends die again.

Del was the first to notice. He pushed Russel behind a trash can just before the men in the Hummer opened fire.

Immediately after, it became a near endless staccato of gunfire. It was absolutely deafening. Glass broke, brick exploded. It felt like it would never end, but in reality, it only lasted a few seconds, fifteen, maybe. Fifteen seconds, and all of his friends were dead or dying. Fifteen seconds, no less than two hundred rounds of ammunition.

He saw it as one of them, one figure in a black hoodie, looked back at the scene through the rear window of the vehicle. Their wasn't a face, just a skull with glowing eyes. It stared directly at Russel, lifted a bony hand and mimed shooting a gun.

He winced and ducked his head.

The tires squealed and the Hummer took of before the sirens of cop cars started closing in.

"Russ…" a voice had him looking up. His eyes met Del's. Blood pooled around one of the few people that were bigger than Russel himself. It was deep and red and reflected the street lights around them.

With shaking hands he grabbed his best friend, "Hang on, man." the smell of blood and cordite overwhelmed everything. He could practically taste it. It was on his hands, his clothes. Del coughed and more blood sprayed on his face.

"Russ…" he repeated.

"Just hang on!" the big man cried, "Help's on the way! You gotta stay awake!"

"Russ…" he gasped one last time, and breathed his last gurgling breath.

Before the black man's eyes, the spirit left Del's body, floating into the air. It was then that he noticed that it wasn't just Del, all of them were dead. Each and every one of his friends had been cut down by The Reaper.

He opened his mouth to spout apologies, when as one the spirits streamed into it, possessing his body in tandem. It left its mark, this multi possession, making his normally green eyes glow an unearthly white.

"Russ…" the voice came from inside him now, half a dozen people speaking at once. "Russ… Russ… Russ! Russel!" It got louder and louder, he curled into a ball trying to cover his ears, but it didn't help. It was all around him.

"Russel! Come on, big man," the voice this time was accented, British, and he felt someone tugging at his arms.

"No! Stop! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Russ, wake up! It's okay, big man!" he felt someone slap him and he looked up. It was the concerned face of his boss. The street faded back into the rear aisle of the Record Shack. The bodies turned back into staring, concerned patrons.

"What-" he swallowed, shakily standing to his feet, "What happened? I saw-"

"Ya had a flashback is all," Rick Black, owner of Rick Black's Record Shack, told him, "It's alright," he looked over his shoulder and saw the staring people, "'Ey! Watcha lookin' at!? Either buy some'fin', or jog on, the lotta ya!"

The various people went back to their shopping, a few with blushes on their faces for being caught staring. A blue haired guy in particular seemed to be looking at something behind Russel, but he left rather quickly.

"Listen, big man. I think you should go home, ya need the rest. Come back fer ya shift tomorrow, an' we'll see how it goes then, okay?"

Looking around again, the hip hop enthusiast nodded. Being alone right now didn't seem like too bad of an idea. He gathered himself together, and left the store, going home to veg out, doing his best not to relive that night again.

The next day, he showed up at the store. Rick gave him a once over and asked, "You cool, now, big man?"

"Yeah," he nodded, though he didn't really feel it. He did feel like he needed to work, though. Focus on the music, Music made everything better.

"Good. Man the counter. Gotta run over to Lottie's. Says she found some'fin' rare in her old storage garage," he pulled on his jacket and stepped out the back door. He held it open for a moment, looking at the son of his friend in the States, "You sure?"

Russel nodded one more time, "Yeah, I don't think it'll happen again. That was the first flashback in a while, ya know?"

Rick just nodded, a dubious look on his face, but he left anyway.

The big man walked over to the counter and started checking on incoming records and receival times. He looked up when the doorbell rang. Coming towards him was a man with one red and one black eye.

Noodle

Subject N00-D13 was decidedly content with its role in life. It had purpose, family and routine. It could not imagine wanting more. It had been educated, of course. It knew of the world. It knew that the world was not its place. N00-D13 belonged on a battlefield. When it was strong enough, it would be placed on one.

Trainer was to make it ready. Trainer taught it tactics, strength, skill. Trainer gave it the necessary routine to make it fast and deadly. Trainer knew its limits, better than any other. For as much it had the ability to do so, N00-D13 liked Trainer.

The subject also felt positive base emotion for its fellow subjects. N09-D13 was physically the largest. It was not a quarter as fast as N00-D13, but could take more hits. It made a good squadmate on the team combat exercises. N17-D13 was also a good partner. That one was being specifically trained as a medic. Its CQC skills were above even that of N00-D13's, but, again, not as strong or fast.

Those were its favorites, much as it could choose things like that, but the subject was… Fond? Yes, fond. It was fond of all of the other subjects.

Mister Kyuzo gave N00-D13 a simple task, in regards to the others.

"N00-D13," the doctor sighed as he said that moniker for the thousandth time, "That is such an annoying mouthful. I must petition to have you given a proper moniker. Anyway," he continued, "You are the first. None of the others will be like you. There is no training they can be given to replace your role. You are the first line of defense. You must protect your brothers and sisters."

"Order confirmed," it replied robotically. Mister Kyuzo ruffled its hair. It made something bloom in the pit of its stomach. Something positive. Warm, like the matting used for its designated recuperation periods. Comfortable. That was the word. Comfortable.

"Good. Now, I want you to remember this as well," he looked it in the eye, "There will come a time, a desperate time, when you can not protect one of your siblings. At that time, if it creates disparity in your programming, you will come to me. You will start to feel things. This is… bad. Repeat, Emotions are corruptive."

"Emotions are corruptive," it repeated dutifully. It knew this. Emotion was a weakness, they muddied the waters of certainty with unnecessary opinion. Emotions were an infection that it must never allow to corrupt it.

"Good," Mister Kyuzo nodded, "Good. If ever you start to feel, come to me. I will… restore you."

"Order Confirmed."

N00-D13 was five cycles at the time it had received those orders. Training had intensified since then. It was put through its paces by Trainer. Each day was a new and difficult examination. Simulated battles and losing scenarios that it and it's fellow subjects were supposed to turn into victories.

The days when dignitaries and generals visited were especially trying. Not even the smallest mistake was tolerated, only the harshest judgement was to be given.

Perhaps that was where everything went wrong.

One cycle later, two generals and Mister Kyuzo were sat in a viewing booth above the mock battle field. The entire N Series of subjects had been separated into two teams, with N17-D13 labeled as neutral medic. It was to go between teams, applying it's skills to keep them alive.

They were not using live rounds, obviously, but the paint pellets had enough sting to let one know when they were hit. It also left marks, and based on those marks, the medic would either apply bandages, or declare them dead.

N00-D13 was the final member of its team. The enemy outnumbered it, and had better weapons. They had been given better gear from the start. It was always going to be a losing proposition. It was worse when a sniper shot immediately hit the team leader in the head, removing it from the simulation. The team fell into ranks, trying to band together, but it was for naught.

There were seven enemies left. N00-D13 had only its own pistol and a knife.

N02-D13, N14-D13, and the team leader, N22-D13 were all heading in its direction, its meager cover was soon going prove useless.

The team leader approached and there was something different about it. N00-D13 observed as the subject's face took on an… expression. Subjects were not allowed to have emotion, but were trained to recognize the visual cues.

N22-D13 was feeling pride, excitement. It would occasionally look up at the generals and Mister Kyuzo.

And because of that, because of its corruptive emotions, it was distracted.

Two strokes with N00-D13's knife left black lines of ink on N22-D13's neck, over its carotid arteries. It the took the team leader's mock uzi and gunned down the other two enemies. While they played dead, N00-D13 stripped them of gear and fled the area. It did not miss the outright glare twisting N22-D13's face into something murderous.

Taking stock of its new resources, the subject made a plan of attack.

It positioned itself above and to the left of the remaining four and took aim. A single shot grazed N11-D13's face, making it necessary to call the medic.

N06-D13 remained with the downed subject while N05-D13 and N12-D13 approached the last surviving member of Black Team's last location. They, of course, did not find N00-D13. Instead, the subject had snuck around to the back of Red Team's base, waiting for the medic.

As soon as N17-D13 made the scene, it struck.

The one thing that all of the subjects were told was that the medic was a resource. For your own forces, they were invaluable. If they were working for the enemy, they were the bane of your existence. Protecting yours and killing theirs could win the day.

In this exercise it was never explicitly stated, but it was implied that neither team should target the medic. N17-D13 was a neutral entity, not part of either team. To shoot that subject would remove both teams' resource.

N00-D13 shot the medic in both arms and fled before N06-D13 could think to take aim.

"It is here!" N06-D13 shouted to its teammates. They hurried back and took up position around their injured member and the now useless medic.

"Direction?"

"Section fourteen. Fled. Likely circling to the right. Easier navigation."

"Negative. Subject N00-D13 is light and agile. Will climb protrusion in section seven. Sniper's nest. It is best we mo-" the third speaker was interrupted by a pellet grenade going off in the air over the five of them, showering them in red paint. It was one of their own grenades.

N00-D13 was praised for this tactic.

"Except for N00-D13," trainer started, once he had the entire group before him, "That was pathetic! If I had my way none of you would be allowed to sleep for the next three days as I ran you into the ground! The only reason any of you will be allowed to sleep at all is because of you!" he pointed once more at N00-D13, "Were it not for N00- Fuck it! If it were not for Noodle's quick thinking and application of guerilla tactics, the lot of you would be running until your feet bled!" N00-D13, no, Noodle was confused by this. Its designation had been changed. Why? What purpose did this serve?

N22-D13, for the briefest of moments, glared at Noodle.

It would not be the last time it saw emotion in the faces of its fellow subjects.

From that day forward, every training session had far worse consequences. Trainer, it seemed, had been embarrassed by the poor showing of the N Series. Having only one soldier come out alive, even if it was just a mock battle, was terrible.

The next time a team lost, they were forced to run laps until they collapsed. The time after that, they scrubbed dishes until their hands were raw and bloody.

Since being given its new designation, Noodle had thus far avoided such punishments. It was, in its own way, worse than failing. Noodle began to be held separate from the rest of the N Series, above them. All of them could see it.

A hand that used to ruffle its hair in private, now did so in public. Privileges were levied its way with each victory. Noodle's simple matt had been replaced with an actual bed.

It came to a head one day. It was just after the second daily meal, and they were sparring with one another. This day they were using rubber knives with steel cores. Noodle's opponent was N22-D13.

At the start, its face remained blank as it fought against Noodle. However, with every slash dodged or parried, with every charge avoided, and with every blow it took, it began to lose its facade of control.

Finally, it dashed in. It knocked Noodle's retaliatory slash aside, and went for the grapple. Noodle struggled, but was momentarily enclosed in N22-D13's grip.

"I hate you," he whispered to the subject.

Noodle did not freeze, did not gasp in shock, did not let a tear come to its eyes as it realized its youngest sibling hated it. Instead, it turned that moment of inattention to its benefit. Noodle worked its left arm free by first dislocating it, tossed the knife to its left hand, popped its arm back in, and slashed the boy's neck three times. The strikes were so quick that they left red marks.

In a normal circumstance, this would be the end of it. The losing subject would remove themself from the spar, or tap out. It was the proper procedure.

N22-D13 screamed in rage and pain and threw Noodle away from himself. He was already running at it, blinded by his anger.

Noodle dropped its fake weapon and held its hands ready. It proceeded to dismantle him with a brutal efficiency.

When he finally fell to the ground for a final time, whimpering in pain, letting out the occasional scream of utter hate tinged with profanity, Noodle finally noticed the rest of the room. The rest of the N Series were staring at the two of them.

No, that wasn't quite right. From N01-D13 to N21-D13, every single one of them were staring at the boy on the ground. N22-D13 had ceased to be, the only thing on the matt before them was a child, a little boy, throwing a tantrum.

For Noodle, it reaffirmed its desire to never be infected by emotion. For the rest of N Series, it was an eye opener. More so when Trainer grabbed the boy by his neck, carried him out of the room and returned without him.

"Back to work!" Trainer barked, "Noodle, your footwork was sloppy. You should have ended that boy in three moves. Spar with N17-D13."

"Order Confirmed."

They never saw the boy again.

Two months later, it was N05-D13. One moment it was preparing for another war game, the next she was making a break for the exit. She stabbed the security guard with a sharpened plastic spoon and nearly made it outside.

A third deviated when a general was there to witness. It was N17-D13. She had been acting strange for days. In the middle of training she stood apart from the others and spoke loudly, a live steel blade in hand.

"I am not your doll!" She threw the knife at Trainer. Noodle intercepted the implement, while four of the others tackled the girl to the ground. She, too, was taken away.

Then it all went to hell.

Three more broke their programming. Two, violently. The third maintained for two full days before breaking into Trainer's office and begging for leniency.

They were all taken, and psychological exams became mandatory. Eight more were discovered before they cracked and were taken away for 'remedial conditioning.'

"One more," Noodle overheard Mister Kyuzo talking to Trainer one day, "One more deviation and the plug will be pulled. We will be fired and the subjects terminated."

"Fuck," Trainer grumbled, "How do we prevent it?"

"We have already done everything we can. It was my thought that they could be taught to ignore their emotions if we got them young enough. I used my own daughter, but…" the doctor heaved a great sigh, "We must hope. Hope and pray, that none of the others discover their emotions."

There was silence for a moment, then Trainer spoke again, "Your daughter. Is it-"

"Yes," Mister Kyuzo interrupted with a grunt, "It doesn't matter, they will all be killed, even her, if another one fails."

The two men walked off, then. Noodle had to consider that it had not heard that exchange on accident. Trainer seemed to be unerringly well informed about the location of every subject in the facility. He had to know that it was there.

But why? Why have such an exchange where it could hear? Luckily, it had been trained to examine every inch of critical information, including the source.

Mister Kyuzo had said that they had done all they could to prevent another subject from defying their programming. Unless it was far off the mark, that meant it was now responsible for the others. Aside from itself, only six remained. It would need them to understand the full stakes.

"We will be killed," it said when it had finally gathered the last of them, "If that makes you feel fear, then it is already too late. Emotion is the cause, the corruption. Mister Kyuzo educated us in this manner. It is not a new discovery. We have seen the result of emotion overriding the others. If that happens to one more of us, we all die." Noodle scanned the group, and, for the first time, felt sadness.

Four of them showed visible signs of fear. She could also not ignore herself. She felt sad. It was a betrayal of everything Mister Kyuzo had taught them, and she herself was doing it.

Remembering his words, brought the smallest amount of hope, damning as even that emotion was.

The next day, she met with the man.

"Mister Kyuzo," she began, "I understand now. What you ordered, about seeking you out if the loss of the other subjects started to interfere with my programming."

"Oh, Noodle," the man sighed, his eyes becoming glossy with his own depression, "Not you."

The girl didn't respond immediately, watching as he sat down slowly. He pulled a bottle of scotch from his desk and drank straight from the neck. He rubbed one hand down his face, then regarded her again.

"At that time," she started again, "You told me that you could restore me," Noodle tilted her head to one side as she registered the change of his expression, "Can you do the same to the others?"

"Yes," he mumbled to himself, "The codes. It may be the only way. If Hayato finds out- No," he looked at Noodle and gave the briefest hint of a sad smile, "Even deviant, you are the star of the program, N00-D13. You are right. The only choice left is to restore you. Back to factory settings, so to speak. But there is a problem."

"What is the issue?"

"Surf'n'Turf."

Without her input, Noodle's arms and legs snapped into tight formation, standing with her chin held high, ready to receive orders. She was still conscious, still able to move her eyes, but nothing else even twitched.

"You, Noodle, are the only one for whom these codes will work," he sighed, "You may never forgive me for this, but I can not let you die with the other failures," the man kneeled before her, placing his hands on her shoulders, "You are my daughter, Noodle."

The little girl's eyes widened as she looked at Mister Kyuzo. Her, she was his daughter. It explained many things. Why the man only ever seemed to request her presence. Why it was she who received positive physical contact. Why he cared so much, knowing she would be put to death.

"You were never given a name, aside from Noodle, so that will do," he stood up, "I will erase this," he gestured broadly at the room, but she understood that he meant the entire facility, "from your mind. But I will also not leave you with nothing. When I say the final code, you will remember none of this, not even this conversation," he paused, "I can see this frightens you. That is alright. Just know that, with as much sincerity as I have left to give, I do love you."

Noodle fought against the mental restraints holding her in place, terrified of what came next. If she did not remember who she was, how she came to be, would that not be the same as death? If she lost her purpose, what would she live for?

"Salisbury."

Noodle found her thoughts growing foggy now, even that no longer under her control.

"Retain skill: Guitarist. Purpose, infiltration."

"Order confirmed. Additional input?"

"Retain skill: Close Quarters Combat. Purpose, self defense."

"Order confirmed. Additional input?"

"Retain skill: Language, Japanese, spoken."

"Order confirmed. Additional input?" A single tear rolled down Noodle's cheek. This would be the end, she could feel it. She would never see the others again. Everything she knew would be gone.

"Retain Designation: Noodle."

"Order Confirmed. Additional input?"

"Negative."

"Orders confirmed. Skills: Guitarist, CQC, Japanese(spoken). Designation: Noodle. Confirm?"

"Confirm," the man pulled Noodle into an embrace, holding her close to him for a second, "Goodbye, Noodle, my daughter. Ocean Bacon."

Murdoc

Murdoc Niccals, thirty one years of age, was unimaginably pissed. He had been for years, really.

He put a bottle of beer to his lips and tilted it up, but nothing came out.

"Piss on me," he growled and threw it at the wall. It shattered loudly and he got up and stumbled to the fridge. Ripping it open, he found a disheartening lack of alcohol. He growled once more and scratched his butt as he dug through the cabinets for anything with alcohol. Nothing.

"Piss on me!" he barked, slamming one of the cabinets closed.

Nothing had gone his way since he was seventeen.

He grabbed the keys to his cadillac and pulled on some clothes that didn't smell too bad. He stumbled down the stairs and almost smashed his face into the driver side window.

Not since he was seventeen, when he tried to sell his soul to Satan. He'd taken his time, studied as much as he could, set everything up perfectly.

It took three tries to get the keys in the lock, two more to get the engine to start. The black car roared to life.

Murdoc had written up the contract before hand, using his own blood. And wasn't that a bitch and a half to do. Took three days of constantly pricking his wrist before he got his hands on a needle and some rubber tubing.

Using that, he poured about a hundred milliliters of blood into a jar, and used that to finish writing the contract. The paper was made from the skin of a goat he had killed himself.

He had to park his car about three blocks from the booze shop. They never sold to him when he was driving, the bastards!

It was a simple contract, really. All he wanted was wealth, health, women and fame. Nothing outrageous. Some might call it petty, trading his immortal soul for such fleeting comforts, but really, he wasn't using it for anything else.

Sure, he could have listened to his gran, gone to church, been a minister. He could have studied more in school. Could have practiced with his bass guitar until his fingers bled.

But that sounded boring as all hell. Why should he have to do any of that when he could just get famous and rich and without any of the effort.

Murdoc staggered into Traci's Fine Liqueurs and made his way to the counter.

"Hey there, Trace," he greeted with what he felt was a smooth grin, "Yer as beautiful as ever."

The elderly woman is unimpressed.

"Money, Niccals, all I want is your money. Flattery gets ya nothing," she grumbled for a moment, "You walking?"

"Here an' back, luv," he held a hand up before him, "On my life, I swear."

The old woman just eyed him suspiciously, then pressed a button on the register.

"Grand, luv," he pulled out a wad of cash, crinkled and crunched together, "A six pack and a tumbler of Bullet Bourbon."

The old woman grunted at him, and fetched the requested drinks.

Contract in one hand, black bible in the other, Murdoc recited a verse of backwards Latin. The room was lit only by red candles, an upside down pentagram was on the floor, and the head of a goat lay in its center. Inhuman writing was on every wall.

Traci came back with the beer and bourbon. She took a solid minute of grumbling to untangle the money into separate bills and give him his change.

"Yer a saint, Trace," he winked at her.

"If I were a saint I'd ban you from the premises," she retorted.

Murdoc just smiled and left. He wasn't even twenty feet out the door when he cracked the first beer and chugged it, letting out a happy 'aaaah' when he was done. He made it back to his car, already nursing the second beer.

He recited the Latin and cut his hand, letting it drip over the goat head in the center of the circle.

A strong wind blew through the room. The candles were snuffed, the door slammed open and closed, a chill went up the teenaged Murdoc's spine.

And that was it.

"Wanker," the man growled in his cadillac, thinking back to the Satanic face he used to worship. He drowned his anger in more alcohol. He was at his third already, and wallowing in his anger and self pity.

After the ritual, he had expected his desires to be met. Money, physique, women, notoriety. He had hoped for his body to fill out with muscle, make him irresistibly sexy. That would lead directly into the women part.

At seventeen, like most straight males, Murdoc had a healthy interest in in the female form. He wanted them, he wanted all the beautiful women he could handle and more. He had his favorites, of course, body types that he especially desired, but he just liked women in general.

The very next day, he walked up to the prettiest girl in his class.

"How 'bout a roll in the hay with a real man?" he waggled his eyebrows at her.

For a moment, there was silence, then laughter.

"How about you bathe more than once a week?" she sneered at him and walked on.

"What?" he asked himself, glaring at the floor. What was that? She shouldn't have been able to resist him! Did he mess that part up? He had to check the contract.

At home he checked the document and read it through very carefully. Wealth, health, women and fame. That's what he wanted. That's what it said. Maybe it was the order of the contract. Money would come first, then health, then women.

He had to wonder how that would happen. Would he just find cash? Would he inherit it from a great uncle he never knew he had? Maybe his gran would wise up and just give him money.

Eight months later, when Murdoc was starting to lose faith, his grandmother died of old age. He knew she was rolling in it, the old skinflint, but she never gave him more than a small, monthly stipend. Now, he grinned to himself in his bathroom, it would be all his. He was the only one left that it could be given to, after all.

"'And to my grandson, Murdoc Niccals, I grant only the continuation of his monthly stipend. It shall be increased by ten pounds each month, if he has a job and is a contributing member to society. If he refuses to do so, it will remain only at two thousand pounds a month.'"

"What?!" Murdoc roared in the solicitor's office, "That old-" he cut himself off, and turned to the lawyer, "How do I get more?"

"The terms are very clear, Mister Niccals. You should feel some comfort in knowing that you will have that money to rely on," the solicitor obviously had no care for Murdoc's dream of a plush life.

The black haired young man grit his teeth so hard that they almost cracked.

That day he went home, sure that nothing had come of his decision to sell his soul. He hadn't gotten rich, didn't have the body of an adonis, didn't have women hanging off his arms, and he certainly wasn't famous! It was all a bunch of bull shit! He tore down all the posters, shredded the manuscripts, burnt the black bible and broke the sacrificial knife.

"Murdoc! You would forsake your dark master?!" a voice came out of the fire, the flames turning purple and green.

For a moment, the teen was scared witless. It was all real! Satan, selling his soul, it was all real. The contract! It was real… then, why was he sitting in his piss hole of an apartment?

"Damn right, I do!" he stood up, "We've got a contract, eh? An' you ain't held up your end!" he stomped towards the purple flame, working up a good head of steam.

"Insolent mortal! You think to demand the- What are you doing?!"

"You've pissed me off," Murdoc grinned, unzipping his pants, "Now, I'm gonna piss on you!" He proceeded to relieve himself, dousing the flame with his yellow stream.

"Ha!" The adult Murdoc barked a laugh as he thought back on that moment.

A horn blared, startling him. He swerved to the left, narrowly avoiding being hit.

"Wanker!" he leaned out of the cadillac to wave his fist at the truck driver. He pulled himself back in, just in time to see some walking twat in the road.

"Piss on me!" he yelled, swerving back to the right, hopping the curve and busting through the sidewall of an old instrument shop that specialized in keyboards. The brick and mortar shattered his windshield and he had to cover his face lest the shards get in his eyes. He barely registered his car clipping some blue haired kid in the side of his head.

As the dust started to settle, he pushed himself out of his car to observe the damage. Too much, is what. He'd never be able to afford fixing all this. He'd have to pull temp jobs for the rest of the summer to get it working again. He took a final chug of his beer and tossed it aside.

That was when he noticed the kid with the blue hair again. He was slumped over on the ground and blood was coming out of the side of his head. More than that, his left eye was filling up with more blood, turning the whole thing an eerie red.

Murdoc crouched down in front of him, another growl in his throat, "Oy, wake up!" he smacked the teen, trying to get him to respond. The last thing he needed was a manslaughter charge on top of everything else. "C'mon!" he smacked him again.

Suddenly, the kid sat up straight, his eyes zeroing in on the man in front of him. The bloody red eye turned black as the void and he grabbed Murdoc by the arms, standing up and hauling the man along with an unnatural strength.

"What the-"

"Once upon a time, at the foot of a great mountain," the voice the kid spoke with was a mix of his own and something much deeper, "there was a town, where the people known as happy folk lived."

It occured to Murdoc, then, that he was receiving a prophecy. He listened carefully and memorized every word. He stared into that pure black eye, and a smirk grew across his face. He suddenly had a damn good idea of what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

The blue haired kid, Stuart according to the name tag, collapsed back to the ground after delivering the prophecy, but his left eye remained that pure black that absorbed light.

+-909

AN: I messed with 2-D's age for no good reason and refuse to undo it.

Please, Enjoy.