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She was a little pond, you remember. Small but happy. Quaint and satisfied with all the colorful koi fish that would swim around, mouths bobbing all silly-like. Every giggle lets out bubbles that ripple into the water.
But then she stands in front of you and she is a terrifying wave, a tsunami that engulfs you with the deep blue that is her pure rage. Her face does not flush red, instead it is covered in blues and blacks and violets, highlights of white; pale, ghostly white. Bruises and scars, no doubt. They cover her face like a mask, eyes wide and terrifying with anger.
When you see her, actually stare at her taller-than-normal, older-than-expected, ocean-blue-bruised face, you can only remember the face you lost. The sweet smile and the tiniest thing you wanted to love. You lost the glue that held your band-- no, your family, together.
You were trying your best to be good for her.
“How could you?” She says. Her voice is wavering, like it were on the brink of tears, or maybe a few sparks away from a fire. Perhaps it is both. She is always both. (Like she is a tsunami and a pond, at the same time.) “Am I really that replaceable?”
(Her voice is deeper. Older. A little rough, from age, and from smoke. It's like your voice. You wonder if she’s taken up on smoking. You hope she hasn't.
Hypocritical as it is, it isn't good for her.)
You wish you could answer, but she had given you a punch to the face, maybe breaking your too-many-times-broken nose. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is a bitter laugh at yourself. You deserved it. You forgot how strong she was.
(Her shin kicks, at ten years old, were annoying as hell, brutal to no end. Even with her tiny feet, they hurt too. She left bruises on your legs when you said something bad to ‘D, or Russ was feeling particularly annoyed and gave her that little side smirk that meant “sic em.”)
Maybe that laugh wasn't the best thing to let out of your uncontrollable mouth. Because then that gun that shot your daughter was now pointed at you. You can't get your arse off the ground with her gun pointing straight at you.
She shrieks at you, “Answer me.” And her voice is shrill and you can barely handle it. It makes your head buzz and your vision spin. It takes you a second to put the words together in an actual coherent sentence, and even then, you stutter.
“Hah- hush, love. I can- I can’t focus on nothin’ with you screaming your head off.”
Her eyes burn into yours, but she lets up, lowering her gun by only a small degree. You groan and slowly push back a little, so you could sit up. Stare at her. The sun is behind her, you notice. The sky turns a muddy shade of grey-orange, it only seems to intensify her anger. It settles fast, places all the attention on her.
(Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder where Stuart and Russel are. If they’re watching.)
“My- my, my head is ringing.” You mumble, closing your eyes, staring down at the sand. It’s maybe to buy time, maybe to calm her. You can’t really tell what you’re doing anymore. After a moment, you can hear her huff loudly, trying to catch your attention. She wants her answer.
No. No, she’s not replaceable. Never. There’s a giant nearby, and the only friend you’ve got hates you now. For once, your mouth decides to listen to your head. “No,” you say, “No, no. Not at all, love. I just.. I-”
“You what?” Her voice is hard, her arm is straightened out again, gun pointed at you. “Needed a guitarist to make you money again? Make you relevant again?” She scoffed. “Do you know where I have been?”
“I’m sorry.”
The words fall out of your mouth, your eyes never meeting hers. But you hear her drop the gun with a soft thud to the ground. The anger is still there. It’s electric, it’s in the air. You’re sure you let off your own electricity half the time. Her hold falters. Like she believed what came out of your mouth. It’s true, but who would ever believe Murdoc Niccals? The man with an excuse for everything? A constantly drunk lowlife who screwed up on raising her.
(Though there are some days where you ask yourself, who really raised her? Was it the two better ones in her life? Or herself? It could never be you. You never showed any care for her until now.)
Noodle growls. “No! No- you can’t-- you can’t just say that! You don’t just get to apologize!” Her accent grows thicker, voice grows higher as she speaks. At least that’s one thing that’s the same about her. Your heart soars.
But you know eyes that are as empty as yours, and hers are just the same. You find the strength within you to stand, pushing yourself up, a little hunched over, and she tries to punch you again, but you manage to move, hold her close to you like you’ve been wanting to for years.
(The other Noodle, with the face and height of her at fifteen, is not the same. There is no softness to the other Noodle. Real, live, breathing Noodle has this softness to her arms and her skin and her hair and she cries. She cries, you notice, it’s wonderful. It’s full of emotion and full of everything you wish you could’ve given the other Noodle.
The other Noodle, you’d stare at. She had a voice. Too automated, the pieces of her were taken from DARE, chopped up to allow her to make the words. They didn’t have any emotion to them, and her face was always blank. Her body was just pieces of metal with an outer layer of artificial skin. She was a doll. A literal doll, nothing on her chest, or in between her legs. Cyborg Noodle was only temporary, you remember telling yourself.
Then you became attached. After four years of being missing, the real Noodle was slipping from your mind. You’d constantly think about what she was doing, how old she was. What she could have been. What you all could have been.
So you turned to Cyborg Noodle, who followed every order uttered out of your mouth. Even ridiculous ones, like asking her to stay in the room with you, prevent the nightmares. Of course, she couldn’t do that. But she could just sit beside your bed. There were days you wished you had given her knowledge on the Japanese language. So she could say something, at least, curse in her native tongue, say anything at all. But no, she only knew English. On those days, you wondered what Noodle’s accent would sound like if she were still with Gorillaz. If she’d take after Russel and take on an American accent, or an English one, maybe like 2D’s.
Once, her joints locked up from getting wet, and she made a jolt. You panicked, cried a little as you tried to fix her. You couldn’t lose her anymore.)
The two of you fall to your knees, with Noodle weeping as silently as she could into your chest. The shaking of her shoulders gave it all away though. But you continue to hold her, rock her, hush her gently.
She calms soon enough.
The tsunami is now a pond. Without as much colorful, happy, playful koi. Maybe there’s only a few left. But they’re still there. They’ve survived. Marred and torn and have seen enough, but they’ve survived.
“Time to go home.” You whisper into her ear. She nods, and the way she looks beneath you reminds you of her, only eleven and still learning English. But she knew, knows the word home well. Home is her family. Her family is Gorillaz.
Gorillaz is home.