Chapter Text
You’re not sure where you are -- okay, you’re not sure of much of anything, really, except your name, at least you’re sure of that -- but Wherever feels like a nice sea breeze and a sun-warmed sandy beach. It feels kind of pleasant, like a pleasant place to not remember anything on.
Or at least it would be pleasant if the breeze didn’t reek and feel gritty and the ground didn’t feel less like sand and more like some kind of oil-saturated sponge.
Everything feels nasty at this point, now that you’re beginning to come around -- your clothes are sodden and abnormally heavy and probably well past ruined by this point and you feel like you just took a bath in motor lubricant. Your mouth tastes horrible as well -- maybe you did take a bath in motor lube, probably swallowed some.
It’s too much effort to try and move, your limbs don’t feel like they’d function even if they wanted to and your eyes don’t want to open anyway, glued shut by whatever you decided to go swimming in, so you lay there in a sodden heap and try to recollect your thoughts. You remember that you’d been out at sea, yeah, on some kind of cruise liner, you think. Then these black helicopters came out of nowhere and drove it straight into the sea. Dammit, world government, why must you be such shits, bombing and shooting up innocent cruise liners instead of criminals and terrorists? You remember some little wooden lifeboat, hardly more than a rowboat, really, in which you’d stowed away what little you could get ahold of before the ship sank. You wonder what happened to it, but you guess you can just find out later. The thick stink of the breeze is starting to make you sleepy again, and nothing would feel better than a nap right now.
Your nap is interrupted by a sharp prod of something hard to your side, then another, and another. You’re about to tell whoever it is off when voices reach your ears, slightly muffled by whatever’s clogged them but you can hear them pretty well otherwise.
“What is it, Cy? Looks like more garbage t'me.” The first voice is more of a growl, slightly strained and raspy, kind of like what you’d expect an old fighting dog to have. Clearly British and clearly male.
“Alive.” The second voice is cold and hard, emotionless, like some kind of villain or robot or villain robot, but otherwise it sounds female, a lot younger, too. Sort of indistinguishable accent, something that sounds like it should be Japanese and British all at once.
The first voice comes again. “So what, y’mean something worth eating actually washed up this time? ‘M gettin’ sick o’ them jellyfish, and I ain’t far from tryin’ my ‘and at fishin’ for that damn whale, as useful as it is. Not s’much right now. Might ‘ave t'dock ‘is pay for this little incident.”
“No. It is human.”
“Sure?” There’s a pause. “Alright, lemme take this knuckle’ead back t' ‘is room where ‘e belongs and I’ll take care of it. Make sure it stays alive.” The ground squelches, then crunches, as Mr. Growl walks off, grumbling something to himself the entire time.
The hard object prods you again. “Up. I know you are awake.” It jabs again and again until you finally groan in frustration and attempt to heave yourself upward. A pair of arms ending in rather small and abnormally strong hands grab your underarms and assist in hoisting you up, sitting you firmly on your ass. “What are you doing here?”
You attempt to explain to Robovillain all you can remember -- in the process learning that the air tastes just as bad as it smells and feels -- and try to pry your eyes open. Your vision swims when you finally do and you almost flop on your back again -- the only reason you don’t is due to the interference of whatever’s been jabbing you the whole time. The world is a blurry and hideously bright pink as you try to focus. “But that’s all I remember. Honest.”
Robovillain is silent for a moment. “Fine. I cannot sense that you are lying. You will remain here until Mr. Murdoc returns.”
Murdoc. So that’s Mr. Growl’s real name. “I don’t think I could move if I wanted to.” The small and blurry form that is Robovillain looks down at you -- or at least you think she’s looking down at you -- but doesn’t say anything. You take the time to clear your sight and get a grip on your surroundings. The ground beneath you is spongy, squishy, seeps some kind of oily substance when you press down on it, and is clearly spray-painted Pepto-Bismol pink. You think there might be things buried under the surface, and you’re not sure you want to know what those things are. Further on the ground is firmer, you think, and you can see all sorts of junk poking through the surface. The sea is dark, too dark to be natural, and gives off a rainbowy, oily sheen in the sunlight. Further on the water gives way to a thick mist. The sky, anticlimactically, is as clear and blue as if there’s nothing wrong with the world. And you thought this place had been pleasant.
Robovillain would be adorable if she didn’t look like she wants to murder you. Short choppy black hair with some kind of purple sheen to it, pale olive skin -- so she is Japanese -- and bright green eyes, small and slight in figure, and wielding a fucking enormous gun. That must have been what was prodding you before. Despite her choice in clothing, a cutoff tank top and a pair of shorts that are really too short for anyone with dignity to be wearing, she looks really familiar. Some celebrity or something, maybe? The hole in her head really draws your attention -- sparks snap back and forth from one edge of the exposed metal and carbon fiber in the hole to the other. Sometimes she twitches when the hole sparks, and the whites of her eyes flash with an odd electric light. So maybe she really is a robot, if her functioning despite the hole in her head is any indication. When she catches you staring you look away immediately.
The crunching of someone walking, and the immediate squelching of Robovillain walking towards it, turns your attention away from the landscape. No more than twenty feet away stands a tall man with a bad moptop dressed all in black. His skin, though it could just be the distance away from him and the weird atmosphere of the place, looks kind of green. In all, he looks like a younger -- but not by much -- Keith Richards gone horribly wrong. He also looks really familiar. Robovillain is talking to him, most likely telling him what you already told her. After a moment he walks over, his shoes pushing more oil from the ground, and extends a -- yes, most definitely green -- hand to you. His yellowed fingernails look horrid, like he hasn’t cut them in weeks. You take his hand anyway; you don’t think you’d be able to get up on your own and Robovillain would probably sooner kill you than help you stand. His skin feels greasy, just like yours does right now.
“Ah, sorry for the rude awakening, I ‘ope Cy didn’t scare ya too bad.” Definitely British, but that doesn’t mean you trust him to be kind, not just yet. “‘Ow ya feelin’?”
“Greasy, nervous, confused, and oddly two-dimensional.”
“Really? I thought we were the only ones who felt like that. Anyway, Cy tells me ya can’t remember nary a thing, washed up here from some kinda shipwreck?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Right then, let’s see if we’ve got any room for ya in this place.” He places a gnarled hand against your back and starts leading you further inland, towards a large mountain that more resembles a pink fallout cloud. “I kinda doubt it, though, between us an' the collaborators an' the occasional mutant crab we’re kinda chock-full, y’know. But where are my manners, Murdoc Niccals, bassist an' mastermind of Gorillaz, at y’service.”
That’s why he looks so familiar. You went to a show of theirs what seems like forever ago, not a very nice man, this guy. You decide time hasn’t been very kind to him either. You don’t even realize he’s stopped until you bump into him. He spreads his arms wide and turns to you with a snaggle-toothed grin. “Welcome t'Plastic Beach, by the way. Made this beauty myself. Okay, not really, it was already ‘ere; I just spray-painted it and built our ‘eadquarters up there. ‘Skinda where all the world’s trash eventually winds up, all right ‘ere.”
That explains his presence, at least.
You follow him up a small boardwalk into the neck of the island, watching as he struggles with the lift -- “Damn thing never works right.” -- and continue to follow him as he inspects various rooms on various floors, many of which contain things you can now never unsee and some of which even he makes disgusted faces at. You recognize many faces -- Snoop Dogg, Bobby Womack, Mos Def, Nenah Cherry. Before you know it, you’ve returned to the lift and Murdoc is growling even more so than earlier.
“Dammit, no fuckin’ room anywhere. Only room I know of that ain’t at full capacity or unwilling t'make room i--” He stops, stares at the many buttons directing to the many floors of the island, stares at you, then back to the floor directory. You can almost see the (probably) rusting gears in his mind turning. He jabs the button for the lowest level of the island, has to pry the door open when it sticks for the umpteenth time when it finally lands. “Down ‘ere’s our singer, 2D.” You remember him well enough, the skinny blue-haired giant of the band, sweet but a bit dense. “Don’t usually let ‘im ‘ave guests, ‘e keeps tryin’ t'run away, the knuckle’ead. Caught ‘im tryin’ t’swim for it earlier, ‘e almost made it ‘alfway t'the mists. Only ‘cause that damn whale that’s s’posed t'be guardin’ ‘im was shitfaced. I’m like t’ave ‘im sacked, I am. The whale, not 2D, I kinda need that moron.”
He walks over to a heavy steel door not far from the lift and pries it open. “Oi, faceache! Ya’ve got company!” Inside the room is mostly barren, save for a rickety-looking bed and a small boxy television in one corner, a few bits of random junk and discarded clothing lying around, oily spots where you think the ceiling and walls might be leaking. 2d is hunched over on the bed, coughing harshly as some kind of fish flops around on the floor beneath him.
“Fought it was all just a dream,” he mumbles, “just fought it was a dream an’ I’d finally gotten away, that is till I wake up in bed all soppin’ wet an' this bloody cod’s jumpin’ ‘round in my gullet. Least I fink it’s a cod.” He squints at it, then stares up at Murdoc and inches away. “What d’you want?”
“Relax, ya bloody sod, I’m not ‘ere t’beat ya within an inch of your life yet. Don’t think you’re gettin’ away unpunished just yet, just, ah, ran into a bit of a problem that needs takin’ care of.” He pushes you through the door none too gently. “Long story short, she needs somewhere t’sleep. Figured you wouldn’t object much.”
He squints suspiciously at you, then at Murdoc. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch is do it or I’ll feed ya t’that bloomin’ whale out there.”
“Okay! Okay! Geez, no stops pulled there.”
“Good. You’re still gettin’ punished for pullin’ that little stunt, I just ain’t thought of anythin’ suitable yet.” Without another word said, he shoves the door shut and locks it firmly.
2D sighs, prods at the still-flopping fish with his foot. “Welp. Welcome t’the bunker. Least that’s what I call it. Ain’t much more’n that, really. Fink I preferred bein’ unconscious in a suitcase t’this.” He blinks up at you. “‘Ow’d you get ‘ere?”
You sit down next to him -- damn, this bed’s uncomfortable -- and explain what you can remember. He nods. “There’s a toilet an' shower past that little door there.” He jabs a skinny finger towards a small steel door in the far wall. “Not the cleanest, but it’ll help get rid o’ that gross feelin’ some. Real cramped in there, be careful. I fink I might be able t'find summfink for you t'wear, if you don' mind men's clothes, anyway."
You don't object -- oversized men's clothes are better than what you're wearing right now, stained in oil and grease and salt and bilgewater and definitely, perfectly ruined. The shower is small, hardly big enough to even get in let alone move around comfortably, and the water still feels greasy but it does help. You're not that much cleaner when you get out and your entire digestive tract still feels lubricated but it's an improvement. 2D cracks the door open only enough to hand you a towel, a shirt, pants, and a pair of boxers, all amidst a chorus of sorrys.
You never really realized before this moment how comfortable men's underwear could be, or anything men wear, for that matter.
When you get out 2D is sitting on the floor with a pocketknife in hand and what looks like a very large dark bruise forming on the side of his head, practically chopping away at the cardboard of an ice-crusted box between his legs.
"Ain't much, but we got dinner. Don't like eatin' these fings, though, they look too 'appy t'eat. Don't taste too 'appy, though." Some of the cardboard comes off enough for him to tug at it, revealing several colorful blobs encased in the block of ice within. "Shit, where'd I put that 'airdryer." He turns to the bed and fumbles blindly beneath it before digging out a worn hairdryer that still looks to be partially pink and an extension cord, plugs it in and flips it on, sitting there watching the ice melt. As the ice melts the blobs become brightly-colored jellyfish that are still wriggling slightly, wearing big silly grins. "Nuffin' t'cook these wiff, sorry. Better than nuffin', I guess." He pries a squishy body from the thawing block and hands it to you. It waves a dangling tentacle and smiles. 2D has a point, it looks too happy to eat, especially when it's still alive.
"What even are these?"
"Dunno, really. We jus' call 'em Superfast Jellyfish. Only fings that can survive out 'ere, for some reason."
"Why are you guys even out here?"
"New album Murdoc wants done, even though we kinda broke up back a few years ago. I said no an' got thrown in a suitcase an' shipped 'ere. 'E pretty much did the same wiff everyone else 'ere. 'E won't let anyone leave 'til it's done. Could be years. An' now that you're 'ere, you're stuck jus' like the rest of us, sorry. 'E don't want nuffin' 'bout the album or this island gettin' out, not a peep, unless 'e wants it to. You've seen too much, you know too much, and there's no way for you t'leave anyway; that cyborg'd shoot you down if Murdoc ordered it. If not 'er, then those weird 'copters we see from time t'time or that bleedin' whale would do ya in. It's too far t'swim anyway."
"So that's it then. I'm stuck here."
"Yeah, sorry. Least Murdoc won't do anyfin' t'you, probably, not yet, an' I kinda like your company." He pries another jellyfish from the ice block and bites into it, making a face. "Welcome t'Plastic Beach, love."