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Celebrity Harvest	By : Moonchild10 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Gorillaz Views: 1420 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Gorillaz. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Celebrity Harvest
- 1
Midnight in the kingdom of glass
I bear witness to the silence that suffocates me
Where’s the place to rest my head
When the bleeding finds closure
There’s a light
At the window
Burning clean into your shallow dream
There a melody
A ghost in the chambers
Breaking free of all that tethers me
Tell me when will I be alive again

“Murdoc! Come in Murdoc!” the silence, the dust, all were stifling, reaching in like a pair of hands to suffocate her and press across her face in a thick, constricting blanket. She could barely see in the darkness before her face, could scarcely define one button from another on the simple walkie talkie she clenched so tightly in her hands. “Murdoc! We have to get out of here!”

But only silence, the silence of these past few days, met her in reply. Her desperation and panic had decreased so much since she had first woken up from her strange, trancelike state. How long it had been, she could not be sure. Time had developed itself into a gentle, incomprehensible curve of minutes, with no factors to distinguish one from the next. Inexplicably, she had not felt hunger, thirst, or any other basic human warning signs, since she had awoken. Only the need for sleep, which was great and frequent, and she obliged willingly, with nothing else to do but call frantically to Murdoc on her walkie talkie, the only connection to life outside of this darkness. It was her anchor to sanity, to order, and she held it with clenched hands.

“Murdoc! It is not safe here! Please…” she released the speak button for a moment, nearly giving up, but then trying again, her voice raising to a shout as the frustration permeated her body as though it were made of sponge. “Murdoc! Can you hear me!?”

The monotony of it all was broken only by inhuman groans, which came from somewhere distant. They came infrequently, pained, filled with such anguish and sorrow that Noodle sometimes had to shield her ears from them. She knew, from brief times of reasoning while not locked into her usual tasks, that she was in Kong; its familiar smells wafted in through cracks, smells of somewhere below the car park, maybe the bunker, dust and soil lending their mark to the dull air.

The more time she spent in this darkness, in the tiny space that could not have been more than five feet long and three feet high, the more her hope fizzled slowly toward nothing, burning, a log on a fire nearly spent and turning to cinders. It was clear to her now that it was a crate, the familiar feeling of the rough wooden planks it was made of met her hands now, solid and sturdy. She was far too lethargic to break them, too lethargic to do anything but try desperately to reach the outside world with her walkie talkie in between her long and frequent periods of sleep that could have lasted minutes, hours, or days. Seconds were indistinguishable from hours. Time was no factor in her sleep. She slept when sleep closed in. It was her master and companion, curling up with her to spend most of her time, keeping her its prisoner and friend all in one breath. There was no difference anymore.

She did not know how much time had passed when finally she heard a sound apart from the creaks of pipes and the moans and her own, self-contained sounds. It was the sound of footsteps, of heels on concrete, and the sound of it restored life to her she sat up, her head bumping the top of the crate and forcing her back down, and called out, not caring that whoever it was could be dangerous, not caring about much of anything anymore. It was a sound of reality, a sound of something away from this existence. The footsteps stopped, changed direction, and drew nearer.

“Noodle?” the voice, nicotine-stained and familiar, reached her and filled her with relief.

“Murdoc!” she called loudly, shifting in the dust. “I’m here! I am in the crate!”

“Sweet Satan,” the bassist hissed. “Hold on… I’ll be back.”

The footsteps faded, and when they returned, they were moving much faster. She felt a thud as something hit the crate, and then a splintering noise filled her ears as the top exploded into a mess of large shards, falling away to reveal Murdoc standing above her, holding a crowbar and looking ominous, Cortez cawing in indignant protest at all the fuss from his shoulder.

“Well, the top didn’ come off as neatly as I’d hoped.” he reached down and grabbed her hand to help her out of the crate. “I thought I might find you down here, poppet.” he brushed dust from her. “How long has it been?”

Noodle shook her head, unable even to make a rough estimate. She saw that they stood in the dank confines of the bunker, the dim lights flickering gloomily above them.

“Well how did you get down here, then?” Murdoc’s mismatched eyes darted uneasily around the cavernous room as he spoke. Noodle shook her head again, and he sighed. “Well, come on then. Let’s get you upstairs.”

It felt glorious to be in her own room, despite the stark, undecorated wall that had only been recently put up to replace the one that had mysteriously fallen, a reminder of the increasingly dire state of Kong. Hair wet from the showers, she slipped out of the filthy striped shirt and black shorts she had been wearing since the day of the El Mañana video shoot. They were caked with dust and dirt and reeked of the smoke from the fire. It felt good to get out of them, like slipping out of an unwanted skin, some version of herself that she would rather forget. And finally, she was fully away from the confusion of the time she had spent at the video shoot and then in the crate. The smell, though, of neglect, as though no one had inhabited the building for years, still permeated the safe haven of her bedroom.

She found Murdoc in the kitchen, fussing around with food on the counter. She took at seat at the table and glanced out the sliding glass doors onto the patio. The world outside was gloomy, and on the horizon, dark, menacing clouds hung still and announced their presence. A storm was coming.

“How long was I in that crate?” Noodle asked Murdoc, the words a whip against the silent air.

Murdoc, his back to her, chopped tomatoes hastily. “Three months…” he turned to her. “I can’t believe you’re still alive…” he shook his head. “Got one of those transmissions ye sent out, a while ago… started looking for ye. I’m not sure if you’ve been in there the whole time since the shoot… but if ye have, it’s three months.” he turned back to the counter. “Do ye want mayonnaise on your sandwich?”

“Yes.” Noodle sat back in her chair, watching the clouds move threateningly across the horizon. Three months. How had she possibly survived, without food or water, for three months? None of it made sense to her, and she couldn’t help but think that something not entirely normal was going on here. It was eerie, sending a chill up the back of her neck, and she stared out the glass doors at those clouds, ominously looming somewhere not too far away.

Murdoc interrupted her thoughts by sliding a plate with a sandwich across the table to her, and then sitting down opposite her, the tips of this long fingers together. “Eat up then, poppet.”

She had not realized that her hunger had returned in full force, and she fell upon the food as delicately as she could, struggling to control the almost animalistic hunger that had worked its way into her belly. She finished the sandwich, got herself a glass of milk and drained it, and then ate some crackers in a whirlwind of hunger before settling down and meeting Murdoc’s considering gaze.

“Where are 2D and Russel?” she asked him. Murdoc blinked.

“Still on vacation… like I thought you were until I got that bloody transmission. Sweet Satan, how were you down there for three months without anything?” Noodle shrugged. She had no answer. She also knew that by ‘on vacation’, Murdoc meant that the band was broken up yet again, probably because of her desire to get away from rock star life and most likely a monumental row between Murdoc and 2D. It was Murdoc’s way of making it sound better than it was, which he did only for her benefit and never for anyone else.

“On vacation? Did you get into a fight with 2D?” she knew that sometimes the severity of Murdoc and 2D’s fights could get very extreme under certain circumstances, often becoming physical, and it had been a fight between the two that had broken the band up the first time.

“Well… yeah, but that’s not the point. It’s that… well… yeah, they’re ‘on vacation’… but Nood… something is happening. Something fucked up.”

“What is it?” Noodle asked. Murdoc shook his head, and then stood up and paced, his cape fanning out behind him.

“The house… Kong… something is happening with it. I can feel… something. It’s not right. It feels even more deranged than usual.”

Noodle had sensed the same thing while in the crate, and found herself nodding. As Murdoc continued to talk, she glanced up over the top of his head out the windows.

The storm was getting closer.
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Celebrity Harvest