Wrote this in an attempt to cure me of my writer's block for chapter 3 of Working the Machine, my other Gorillaz story. So far, hasn't worked. In this story there are no Black Cloud Pirates, no mentions of hell, and no whispers of a young woman in a white mask. No smut, no pairings, just pain and a broken Murdoc.

Gorillaz does not belong to me.

Crash.

"Bloody 'ell!"

The contents of the glass bottle expanded across the floor, bourbon spreading everywhere. The man that was holding it a mere couple seconds ago actually considered drinking it from the floor. It was his last bottle. Despite the fragments of glass he could see, he knew that the amber liquid would ease his suffering more than anything. Running a gnarled hand through his greasy black bob, he staggered away from the scene in an attempt to resist, not caring where he went. Not like it mattered anyway, every room is equally as painful. Every room except one.

Once again, the man finds himself in front of her door, wishing he had the will power to walk away, just as he had walked away from the broken bottle of bourbon. But he is drawn to the room, for inside it he feels like he could sense her presence and hear her voice if he tried hard enough… and he tried all the time. He had come to accept that he was just as loony as his mother. But if losing his mind allowed him to be near her again, then so be it.

The years of constant boozing have completely shot his motor skills, yet he still reached out to straighten the board tacked to the door that declared the room's ownership. The action took him several minutes to get it just right, and if she were there she probably would have laughed. But there was nothing funny about the scene right now.

The once flabby bassist had lost almost half his weight in the past few years, his skin hanging off him, bones poking out from everywhere. Had he been paying attention, he might of thought he even rivaled his old singer in terms of skinny-ness. But no, he had passed that point a long time ago. His green skin was covered in purple and yellow welts from the many falls and accidents obtained in his drunken stupor. Currently, he nursed a black eye, a fractured rib, and a broken finger from some spill he couldn't remember. He was in a sad, sad state.

Too naïve in the complexities of English to do it herself, he had written her name on this board and stuck it to her door so that everyone would know who lived here. She had drawn a flower beside it, her favourite at the time: a daisy. Aside from his memories, this was the only thing left in Kong that proved she actually existed. That she wasn't just a figment of his imagination. He traced each petal with a knobby finger; it was a ritual that he did every time before he entered.

Opening the door, he was lambasted by the seemingly gale-force winds that came from the gaping hole in her wall. The cold breeze was slightly sobering, but not enough to make him leave. Dressed only in tattered jeans that hung low around his hip bones and his well-worn Cubans, a sane man would have left, but again, Murdoc was not sane.

As always, he stared at the dark brown stain that corrupted her wooden floors. No one had bothered to clean it up. The other two were nauseated by the sight of it, but for the bassist it served as a reminder that he could not do everything. Again, as always, the sight of it brought back memories of the day he found her there.

El Manana.

He had tried unsuccessfully to get rid of Jimmy the Creep numerous times before. But a plan so crazy it might work gnawed at the back of his mind and he decided to discuss it with her, and her alone.

"I will do it. I trust you, Murdoc-sama." A sweet smile.

Her trust. He didn't deserve it.

Of course, the whole world knew how great that went. She did manage to parachute out, and Jimmy was killed by the bomb the helicopters dropped on the crashed skyland. But there was one major flaw, a huge mistake. They were the wrong helicopters.

Someone in their film crew must have leaked something, anything, just enough for the real enemy to hear about it and set their own plan into action. The crew's helicopters were taken out, and the enemy replaced them without anyone knowing, as unbelievable as that was. By chance or not, they kept to the perfectly synchronized choreography, and when Noodle had parachuted, they scooped her up right afterwards, causing confusion and chaos as to her whereabouts.

Murdoc, who was supposed to know all about this plan, was confused as well, and after a few weeks when she didn't turn up on her own, he grew incredibly concerned. He had taken up the habit of prowling the hallways of Kong late at night, when he felt a breeze from under her door. Incredibly strange, considering her room had no windows. The sight that greeted him would probably continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. A petit form lay bloodied and mummified in the middle of the room. The source of the great, dirty stain.

Shocked, he stood frozen for what seemed like hours, his eyes raking over the form in an attempt to find something that proved it wasn't her. He grimaced at boot prints on the stomach area, tears in the fabric on the knees, and a small hole in the chest which seemed to be causing all the blood. And then he saw it: a tangled mess of violet poking out from the top. Dropping to his knees, the man screamed. He screeched, and shrieked, and spluttered unintelligible words. Unsurprisingly, he had woken up the other two who came running at the sound of his anguished cries. They found the satanist there, huddled up against the doorframe, seemingly broken beyond all repair. As they came closer, they felt the breeze from the newly gaping hole in the wall (which had somehow gone unheard) and they saw what had set him off.

"W-w-wot the fok??"

"Aww shit man, shit…"

All three watched the body, aghast. They watched it in the hopes that she would throw off the sheets she was wrapped in and yell "just kidding!" and they would all laugh and everything would be fine. Russel was the first to recover, walking over to the blood-soaked mummy and kneeling beside it. The other two made sounds of protest, but he silenced them with a look.

"I know, okay? I know. But we have to check, man. We just have to."

Gingerly, he unwrapped the figure, blood drenching his hands, and mumbling "stiff" or "cold" every so often. Coming to the last layer, Russel unwrapped the body first. The drummer and the bassist took in the state her body was in, the singer having succumbed to heart-wrenching sobs long ago. She was clothed, thankfully, but just barely. She was a fighter, not only because of what the government had made her into, but by personality. She fought for what she believed in, and she fought for those who could not fight for themselves.

And she had fought. Satan knows she had fought. The blisters, the torn skin on her knuckles, the broken fingers from too many punches were all proof of her resistance. She had dished out hell, but she took it too. Her tiny body was covered in bruises, welts, burns, scrapes and gashes alike. The hole in her chest.

Unwrapping her head, the band saw that the enemy had not touched her face at all except for a black eye and a fat lip. The blood that had bubbled up from her punctured lung had wetted her lips, tingeing them an appealing red. A small trickle of blood oozed out of her mouth, prettily. Had Murdoc been a more honest man, he would have been able to admit to himself that he found the image of her bloodied, half-naked form quite arousing in the full moon's light. The pool of blood shone around her, giving her a grotesque halo, and with a whimper, he realized the implications of such a large pool of blood.

She had been alive, alive in their own home for hours. Hours that they could have saved her, resuscitated her, held her hand and assured her that it would be all right. But instead she was unable to breathe, afraid, restrained to a cold floor, and a colder reality. How long had she laid there bleeding? Did she know she was home, in her room? Did she try to call out to them, only to be met with silence?

Cursing the public, cursing himself, that night he had ran through Kong in a fit of rage, tearing down every camera in the entire place. There was only one group who would really want his guitarist dead; the Japanese Government. They had been aware of her presence since the release of Demon Days. Gorillaz had exploded in Japan with that CD, thanks largely to the adorable guitarist. No doubt they had watched her toil in her room and studied her habits, waiting for the right time to strike. And he was vain enough to give them the opportunity. It had to be them, there were no others.

She had been buried the next week. Murdoc couldn't remember the ceremony, and he didn't think the other two could either. Over the next few months, exchanges between the three men had died out. They felt no need to speak to each other, and why would they? There would be no more albums after this, there could not be. None of them wanted to continue without Noodle, it went unspoken but it was fully known.

Despite what he might have said, it was she who was the heart of Kong. She was the cohesive glue that kept the band together. With her death, the band died as well. 2D returned to live with his parents and Russel went back to New York. Murdoc, who had no where else to go, stayed in Kong and was constantly reminded of her absence.

Murdoc awoke from his reverie and ambled towards the large hole in the wall and stared out at her small burial plot. Perhaps out of respect for their former slayer, the zombies did not dare to converge upon the area, nor did they attempt to convert her. But would that be a wholly bad thing? He pictured a lovely, green-skinned Noodle that ambled charmingly towards him, and when she reached him, she would give him a kiss of living-death and he would join her ranks. He would not be able to harm a zombie Noodle. It was impossible.

Unsure of exactly what he was doing, the bassist climbed onto the uneven ledge that was her wall. As he did so, bits of it crumbled away, and if he were to fall he would surely die. He held onto the ceiling for support, his frame so light that he felt like even a slightly stronger breeze would tip him off his balance. He stood there, breathing, just breathing. Eventually he let go of the ceiling, and spread his arms out in front of him.

Take me. Just take me. Take me with you.

At the same time more of the wall gave out, sending his right boot shooting out in front of him, and a gust of wind came and knocked him off balance. With a thrill of fear and excitement, he realized he was falling. He was going to die! His stomach shot up into his chest, there was a harsh impact, and then, nothing.

In the rays of early morning light, he awoke still in her room with a fierce headache. His hangover was kicking in, and judging by the pounding coming from the back of his head, there was a large bump forming there.

So. He hadn't died. Life wasn't that easy, he supposed.

Standing up, his whole body ached. Stretching out a little, he turned to leave the room before slipping on a bit of pipe that had come dislodged from the wall during his would-be death. He flew backwards comically, arms and legs flailing instinctively to catch his balance. His brand new lump clashed against a dull edge of wall, but a wall nonetheless. Slumping down against the wall, he lay there broken, before the rage set in.

Grabbing the pipe and jumping to his feet, he lashed out at everything: the wall, the floor, even the air. He stopped when one particularly vengeful swing knocked him off his balance and sent him crashing to the floor. As the pipe clattered to an end, he realized he had broken one of the floorboards with his ass. Tentatively picking himself up, he turned around to survey the damage to the floor, and to test out his rump. Instead of getting angrier, he felt suddenly meek. What the hell was he doing? He was dirtying Noodle's memory by being a jackass in her old room. It was then that something white underneath the floorboard caught his eye.

Shoving aside the cracked panels, he removed the dusty shoebox from the darkness and saw that it had been marked with "For Gorillaz". His breath caught in his throat when he realized it was Noodle's tidy scrawl, his rage completely forgotten. Nervously, he removed the lid and stared at the contents inside. At the very top, there were three letters, one each addressed to the surviving members. With a trembling hand, he picked up his own letter and fumbled it open:

My Dearest Murdoc-sama;

Please do not blame yourself. I knew. I knew since I returned from Japan what my fate would be, and that day you so just so conveniently gave me a way for it to take place without harming the rest of my beloved band. I was so afraid for you three. I knew what they could do to you, and so I was a coward. I took the easy way out.

I leaked the plans for the video to the Japanese Government.

I do no know what lies beyond this life, but rest assured that I am not afraid. Whatever state you might find my body in (if you find it at all) I want you to know that I welcomed everything.

Do not feel guilty; I did not die on your behalf. It is I who is guilty. I am afraid that I became too close to you, and that you opened up too much to me, only to have it taken from you. The last thing I want is for you to close yourself up again.

I was selfish. I loved being around you and the others. The love I felt radiating from you three was insatiable. Not only the love for music, but love for me. I had never felt it like that before. So I'm afraid that I returned when I should have left and never come back. Please forgive me.

Love forever, Noodle

PS. Please go to the doctor, I fear you have a liver condition. Green is not a healthy skin colour.

She knew. Of course she knew, she knew everything. In his current condition, he could not take her sincere words to heart. He was too wounded, too raw. But maybe in time, he could learn to forgive himself for things that were beyond his control. Brushing away the tears that he thought he could no longer cry, he looked through the rest of the box's contents. Letters to 2D and Russel, the journal she kept when she went to discover herself in Japan, a small photo album of the band, and an extremely thick and heavy binder. He pulled that out, and propped it on his lap while he sat down and leaned against the wall.

The binder was grey, and unmarked. Beyond the cover, Murdoc realized the neat letters were not postscript, they were hand-written. Once again, he recognized the writing as Noodle's. Astonished, he flipped through the book, and past the various intricate and detailed technical drawings, he saw that every single page was hand-written.

Sweet Satan. What the hell was this book?

Turning back to the very first page he read the title. Do-It-Yourself Cybernetics.

Reading on, he saw that not only was the manual in English, but it was in layman's terms. The sketches often used Shawn as an example. Taking the book with him, he shuffled towards the paper door partition. Shawn had long since been removed, along with all of her other stuff in Kong, and put on the skyland. However, all the equipment she used to create and sustain him, was still there and functioning. He put the book down on one of the machines, and something fell out and rolled into his boot. Picking it up, he saw that it was a small vial containing a good chunk of purple follicle-embedded hair.

The gears turned as rapidly as they could in his malnutritioned, concussion-laden brain. Why would she do this? The box was marked to the band, so she must have wanted them to read it's contents, AND make use of them. The letters. The journal. The album. The manual.

He thought about her letter to him. She knew they loved music as much as they loved her. She knew the band revolved around her, and without her they would stop. This was her silent permission to keep the band going, to keep the music alive. By any means necessary, apparently. He would take up her offer and make a cyborg of the girl he saw as a daughter. As soon as his replica was finished, he would begin a new album, and the other two would come back.

Picking up the binder and the small vial, he went back to where his letter lay. In the gentle, mid-morning sunlight he saw he had missed something inside the envelope. Opening the small squared paper, he saw that it was several music sheets with lyrics written underneath. She had labeled the song "To Binge". Automatically, the notes on the paper played in his head, and he marveled at the simple, gentle warbling of her electric guitar coupled with the charming lyrics. With a start, he recalled her last words to him as she departed on the skyland:

"I love you so much these days." An intense hug, and their first kiss: on the tip of his crooked nose.

Drawing up his breath, he fiercely projected his love for her as well. He would not stand idly by as the people she loved and the music they made together went to the shitter. With determination he had not felt in years, he stomped out of the room with purpose.

It was time to get his band back together.

Please inform me of any errors you might find. Thanks for reading.