2-D nodded along to his keyboard-dominated techno CD, headphones securely clamped over his ears, as not to disturb Murdoc with 'that technology-dependent strawberry bubblegum shite'. The vocalist idly jotted down some notes in the music-lined paper, about nothing in particular. He tapped the end of his pencil to his lower lip, once, thinking. Sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth, he leaned forward to write something new- when the power promptly went out.
The music continued, as batteries powered it, but the lights were completely gone. 2-D whimpered slightly, tapping the eraser rhythmically, idly, against the paper. He tried tapping the pencil to his lower lip again, to see if it somehow acted as a lightswitch – but to no avail. "Lovely," the keyboardist murmured to himself, hitting 'stop' on his CD player. He set the headphones aside, stood up, and groped his way along the wall on the hallway. The only lights were those coming from the exit signs plastered near every escape route and the dim gray-blue from the rainy outside world.
He frowned, gently making his way toward the café - or at least where he thought the café was. Everything looked so different without any lights on. One hand was kept on a wall just in case.
2-D was about to round the corner into what he was pretty sure was the café, when a harsh flashlight beam flared directly into his face. "Fucking….!" He recoiled, shielding his eyes with a hand – the hand that wasn't plastered to the wall. Dazed eyes peered out under the hand-shielded, to see who was recklessly brandishing the flashlight.
"Oop, sorry Dee," an American voice murmured deeply.
"Oi, Russel," 2-D said, blinking a few times. He brought the hand down from his eyes, staring blankly away from the flashlight until his eyes were able to focus again, "Wot's going on?"
"Power outrage, apparently," Russel's voice responded. 2-D blinked twice, having regained control of his sight over the incessant multicolored dots that had flooded his vision when the flashlight attacked. He shifted his gaze to where the drummer's voice was coming from inside the café. There were a few candles lit, and in the dim light 2-D could see a larger number of unlit candles, as well as matchbooks and a few Zippos. Otherwise, the café looked fairly as it always did- except in the dark.
The vocalist lifted his eyebrows, impressed with Russel's preparation. "You knew there was going t'be a power outage or somefink, Russ?" he asked, entering the threshold to the café, finally taking his hand off the wall, placing it on the counter edge. He shifted his vacant gaze to the American, who had by then returned to lighting the candles.
"Uh-huh, well," he said, pausing to mutter as one of the matches went out before he got a chance to press it to a candle wick, "Noodle told me that it was raining and when it rains like that – hand me a lighter, would ya'? – it usually thunders an' shit. And – thanks- when there's thunder, there's usually lighting, and lightning usually means power outages."
2-D nodded slowly, eyebrows still raised, "I never fought you as a worrier, Russ."
"Somebody has to do it, ya' dig?"
The singer nodded again, producing his zippo from his pocket. He struck it to life, and went along helping the drummer light candles ,"How long d'you fink it'll be out for?" He asked, after a few moments.
"Depends, really. They all down at the power plant – or whatever the hell you Brits call it- are really the ones you should be asking. If it doesn't come back on in a few minutes, we'll go down to the next building down the road and see if their lights are off too. If they are, we can either sit here and wait, or," Russel said, lighting the last of the candles, "we could go down to the power plant and complain until they put the damn lights back on."
2-D watched the drummer in awe, in the candlelight, "How do you know so much about this kind of stuff, Russ?"
The other shrugged faintly, closing the Zippo with a small 'clink' sound.
"Oh wait, it's cos of the…. What do you call it, Great Blackouts, or somefink, in New York?" he nodded wisely.
The American chuckled mildly, "That was only once, 2-D. In seventy-seven. I was like, three."
"Ohhh," 2-D said, slowly. He paused for a few seconds, placing his lighter back in his pocket, "Then you must have a very good memory of somefink, right?"
"Dee, now I'm getting one of your headaches," Russel said, grinning faintly in the dim light.
"Sorry," the keyboardist responded, leaning his back against the counter edge. Vacant eyes flicked behind him quickly; he had to make sure he didn't accidently catch his hair on fire by means of the nearby candles. Murdoc had lit the blue locks on numerous occasions, sometimes going as far as to meld them together in hastily done dreadlocks.
"Where's Noodle, by the way?"
"She should be around here someplace," Russel replied, bending over slightly to peer under the table. 2-D followed suit, ducking to look under the table as well. Sure enough, the Japanese guitarist was seated on the floor, legs in front of her, a mini tv clutched in her hands. The soft blue glow of the hand-held television illuminated her face slightly. She turned to smile broadly at the singer and drummer in turn.
"Ohayo, 2-D-aniki, Russel-Sama."
"Er," 2-D blinked under the table at Russel, "Wot's she doin'..?"
"Looking to see if they're reporting anything about the blackouts on the news, prob'ly," Russel said, beaming., "Is that what y'er doin', Noodle?"
"Pockettu Monstaa!" the girl exclaimed, showing the drummer the electric mouse-themed cartoon program on her mini tv set.
"Oh," Russel said, deflating. 2-D stifled a giggle, apparently Noodle didn't take after her surrogate brother in all respects.
"Okay," Russel said to the Japanese guitar player, "Do you understand, Noodle-chan?"
She nodded slowly, "Go get Murdoc-san," she said slowly. Her nodding increased, "Murdoc-san! Winnebago," she pointed to the carpark.
Russel nodded at the girl, glancing sidelong to the blue-haired singer. 2-D shifted his vacant gaze to meet the drummer's stark white eyes, arching a thick eyebrow slightly. The only one out of the three who would be able to successfully drag Murdoc out of the Winnebago was the guitarist; 2-D had been avoiding Murdoc ever since earlier in the morning when he'd been smashed across the face and Russel got frustrated to easily with the bassist. Noodle seemed like the prime choice for the job, since Murdoc couldn't bring himself to physically harm her and Noodle wasn't very easily put off by Murdoc's obstinacy. She didn't understand what he was saying anyway.
The American placed a commando-style helmet on top of his head, giving Noodle the go-ahead. She jogged merrily through the carpark to the Winnebago, happy to help her adoptive brothers out. 2-D placed a helmet of his cerulean-haired head, except –
"2-D, why are you wearing a salad bowl?" Russel quirked a brow at the keyboardist.
"I should ask th' same about you," 2-D replied, eyes darting back and forth between the drummer and the departing guitarist.
"Well, no you shouldn't, because this," Russel quipped pointing to his helmet, "is not….a salad bowl."
2-D blinked once, "You mean," he said slowly, "I've been putting my salad in a helmet for six months and no one told me?"
The drummer tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile, "We all thought it was funny," he said mildly, focusing his attention to Noodle, who was banging loudly on the door to the Winnie.
Curled up in a half-moon on top of his bed, the Satanist stared with unfocused eyes at the defaced arm in front of him. It was dark in the Winnebago – Darker than usual anyway. He had opted to keep all the lights off and merely sit in the dark alone with his thoughts, his anguish and his knife.
Clashing eyes had eventually come accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the shape of his left arm displayed before him, sleeve rolled up to mid-bicep. Already scarred and mangled, he inside of his forearm had a few new incisions –so new in fact , that they were still leaking red. He frowned dazedly, forcing his eyes to focus for a moment on his handiwork. It only worked for a second though –they soon snapped back into ambiguity, as staying attentive for too long was far too fatiguing for the agonized bassist as the moment.
As if he was simply observing someone else from the outside, the Niccals slowly brought the opened pocketknife –clenched in his right hand- to the inside of his left forearm, tapping an unmarked area of his skin with the flat edge of the knife for a few moments. "Th-this is it," he said hoarsely, "because what? Because I'm too much of a f-fucking pussy to end it all?" The bassist paused to swallow thickly, suddenly aware of how much his hand was shaking and how difficult it was to see. He paused, waiting to see if the other end of his internal conversation would pipe up. It did not.
"That's it then," he murmured to himself, "that's the answer? Jesus fucking Christ…" Mismatched eyes shut, and he tried to concentrate on the individual throbs of each slash, unable to pick out how many there were by using his unsteady gaze. He opened his left eye slightly, just enough to watch himself- from the outside- flip the blade so the sharp edge was pressed against the skin. He braced himself weakly, pressing the instrument harder onto his flesh-
"Murdoc-saaaaan!" a girl's voice sounded from somewhere far away.
Murdoc blinked his open eyes twice, jerking the knife away – and as a result, snagging it on the skin. "Shit," he murmured, both eyes opening to observe the slowly thickening crimson line across previously unmarred flesh.
"Murdoc-san!" the voice continued, accompanied now by a dull, faraway thudding sound.
The Niccals absently wondered if the thudding was in time to his own pulse – to the throbs he felt along his arm were melding together with the faraway thudding, turning into some dreamlike dub beat.
"Murdoc-san, Murdoc-san!"
"Fuck," the bassist half growled, jolting from the outside and returning to himself. In doing such, he was suddenly aware of the searing pain on the inside of his left arm. With a sharp intake of air, he sluggishly shifted into a sitting position, right hand clamping over the freshest wounds. He directed his gaze toward where the thudding sound was coming from – the door, he realized, "God fuck it," he mumbled.
"Murdoc-saaaan, door open!" a young voice called.
"Bloody Christ," Murdoc muttered to himself. He called out to the guitarist at the door, "What is it, sweetheart?"
The response was muffled, but that really made no difference, as it was all in Japanese. "Bollocks," the Satanist growled, rolling the sleeve back down to his wrist. He flinched as the cloth rubbed up against the wounds on his arm, but he reminded himself that as soon as he shooed the girl away he'd be back at peace with his emotional crutch.
He stood and stiffly made his way to the door, feeling his arm scream in agony with every movement the sleeve took against the cuts. He flung the door open with his right hand, putting on a careful scowl. "Wot do you want, Noodle?" He paused, realizing that he sounded very tired. "I'm kind of in the middle of something, if you catch my drift…?"
But the girl only jabbered something he couldn't understand and grabbed onto his right hand, yanking him down the steps of the Winnebago and across the carpark. Bewildered, and still to dazed to struggle, he obediently followed Noodle over to two awaiting band members. Murdoc blinked, also realizing in addition to sounding tired, he felt exhausted. "Russel, wot's this all about? And Stu-Pot – why do you have a salad bowl on your head?"
The American somberly removed the offending bowl from the zombie-fiend's head, frowning slightly. "Murdoc, we havin' some kind of electrical failure over here, the lights an' shit ain't workin' – although it probably don't affect you, as the Winnebago don't run on Studio power-"
"I had the lights off," the bassist interrupted simply.
"Uh," Russel and the singer exchanged glances, but the latter broke away to poke at Noodle mildly, who whispered something in hushed Japanese. The drummer looked back to the Satanist, "Anyway," he said, blank eye narrowing faintly, "I'm gonna go down to the distributor an' check it out. 2-D's gonna stay here in case it comes back, and Noodle-"
"Noodle go Russel-sama!" the girl chirped, bouncing alongside the dazed vocalist.
"Noodle-chan scared kurai,"she stage-whispered to the singer. 2-D gave a slight shrug to the American, eyebrows knit.
"Okay hun," Russel smiled tiredly at the guitarist, before turning his ghostly gaze back at Murdoc, who simply watched all this go on around him. He wasn't really paying much attention anyway, and was anxious for whatever 'planning' the group was doing to be over, so he could return to the confines of his caravan.
"So Muds, do you wanna come with Noodle and myself, or stay here with Dee?"
"I'd like to go back inside my Winnie, if that's alright with you, O Great Planer of outings," Murdoc growled.
Drummer and singer exchanged glances again, "Umm," Russel said slowly, gaze flicking back to Murdoc, who stared impatiently, "I'd rather you stayed in the Studios, in case we try calling and Dee is unconscious or something, you know?"
Murdoc gave a ragged sigh, glancing back toward his Winnebago. His arm was beginning to grow numb from the pain. He glanced skeptically at the American quipping, "Is Stu-Pot ever conscious when you need him to be?" The further his point, he growled at the vocalist, being too far away to smack him – and possibly even lacking the energy to do so. He sighed again, this time defeated air, "Yeah sure, I'll bloody well stay inside the Studios, alright?"
Russel nodded, "Alright, C'mon Noodle," he called to the girl, holding out his hand. She exclaimed something in Japanese and gave the bassist and the singer hugs before latching onto the drummer's oversized hand. The two made their way over to one of many cars in the park and strapped themselves in. "Don't do anything too fatal to him while we're one, Muds," Russel half-joked, starting the engine.
"Fook off, Russ," Murdoc snarled, waving somewhat good-naturedly with his right hand. His left arm was still throbbing horribly, and he wished for time to speed up so he could run back to his Winnebago and inspect the damage, as well as finish what he started. Drummer and guitarist sped off, the latter whooping excitedly in rapid-fire Japanese.
The Niccals waited for a few moments, until they were out of sight. "Well," he said, turning back toward the Winnebago, "have fun, Stu-Pot."
2-D's voice called after the bassist with a slightly astonished tone, "B-but you tol' Russ 'at you'd-"
"Ye'h, well I lied. You should know that by now, dullard – I lie." He continued toward the Winnie, scowling at the utter absurdity of the fact that it was so far away.
"Murdoc, come on –" 2-D suddenly was behind Murdoc –had he been so out of it that he didn't even hear the vocalist approach? – grabbing onto his arm with an outstretched hand. It was enough that the singer had actually had the never to touch the bassist – but he had also wrapped his talented fingers around the left arm, the wounded arm.
Murdoc's flesh crawled; his muscles ached; his nerves screamed; his brain detonated. He wanted to break down and cry out against the utter agony that he was experiencing –no sleeve-induced irritation could even be anywhere close to the kind of pin he was feeling. He wanted to run back inside his Winnebago and slice and slice and slice, so that the pain 2-D had unwittingly afflicted would be so very small in comparison. But more than anything, he wanted to take that knife and gouge out the vocalists fingernails. So he did the next best thing.
"You absolute cunt," Murdoc hissed, punching 2-D hard with his right hand. The singer stumbled backwards, clutching at where Murdoc had hit him – pale hands clasped over his nose, dazed eyes going wide and crossing lightly.
"Wh-wh-What?!"
Murdoc lapped the vocalist roughly across the face, afterwards shoving him to the ground of the carpark. He clenched his fists – both fists, staring down at the singer in a blind rage. As he clenched his left hand, he was vaguely aware of how the action caused the throbbing to increase as the muscles tensed, forcing more blood to run through the slashes and cuts. He was also absently aware that some blood running down his arm to collect at his hands, mixing with the singers at his knuckles.
"So you want to play, 2-D? You want to pull me back?" he advanced upon the singer, who was seemingly frozen with fear. "You want to psychoanalyses me behind me back and make like I don't notice? You want to be concerned with my problems? You want to act concerned about my problems?" Murdoc absently noticed that his voice was rising in pitch. "You want to berate me for not being perfect, you want to destroy me for having a flaw?" He kicked the singer harshly in the ribs, feeling justified when his victim cried out and attempted to back away, still on the ground of the carpark. "You want to pull me back, don't you? You want to pull me back, and away from everything – away from everything, away from her?" The bassist slowly came to realize that he wasn't even talking to 2-D anymore. He quickly switched back so that the singer wouldn't catch on as well.
"I say, fuck you, Stu-Pot," Murdoc snarled, kicking the other again with a steel-toed boot. While the singer recoiled in pain, the Satanist fell upon him, pinning him to the ground with his right arm. He used the left to pummel the vocalist in the face, feeling satisfied at every whimper, every blood spurt – he was spilling blood other than his own and it felt fulfilling. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't even concerned with 2-D fighting back. After a few well-pained pushes, Murdoc rolled off the singer and stood, dull aware of the slowly encompassing pain shooting up and down his left arm.
He stood for a few moments, clashing eyes narrowing at the beaten singer. "Fuck you," he repeated his voice considerably lowered. The other merely stated up with blank eyes, blood smeared across his face. His nose was leaking claret, but he didn't even bother to cover it with a hand. He merely half-sat on the ground, staring at the bassist with that near-shattered expression. "F-f-f, Fuck you," Murdoc said again, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. Without waiting for a response, he turned and stalked the remaining meter or so to his Winnebago and slammed the door behind him.
Moving over to the back room, he half-sat, half-fell on the bed, mismatched eyes staring at the blood-soaked knuckles of his left hand. I wonder, he thought idly, as he began to roll up the sleeve, how much of this blood is mine and how much of it is Stu-Pots….