Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2D checked off the medication he had left; it had become a more reliable way to track the days than the sunlight. It wasn’t particularly light in his quarters at the best of times, but since he’d been leaving the curtains permanently closed to not accidentally catch sight of the whale, it might as well have been windowless, save for the sliver of sun and sea that was impossible to obscure.

Just under half a pack of sumatriptan left. 5ml of butorphanol. That should’ve meant about two weeks since Murdoc’s last visit. Except it had definitely been more recent. He was going through them faster than he’d been warned to.

Lining his mouth with enough saliva to swallow the pills dry was getting more difficult. 2D took a sumatriptan from the quickly dwindling pack and held it close to his mouth, then stopped, having what he thought was a genius idea.

Reaching under his bed, he retrieved a sharpie he’d been saving for another purpose and lay the pill on the floor. Breaking it into four pieces both meant it would go down easier and he could stretch out the pain relief in case Murdoc’s resupply was late again. It wouldn’t be the same, the pain would still be there, but it would hopefully be just enough relief to get him through the worst times.

Using the sharpie like it was a miniature hammer to break chocolate, the sharpie came down, exploding the sumatriptan into mostly dust.

“Shit. Shit.”

He ran an index finger along his dry tongue, which had just enough stickiness to gather the powder, then applied it to his gums, carefully picking out any dirt and hair with his other hand. He pulled himself back to the bed, chucking the sharpie back underneath with a sigh.

Russel wouldn’t stand for this.

It was far from the first time 2D had thought that since arriving on the island. It had been one of his very first thoughts upon being unpacked, in fact, and the thought returned frequently like an alarm of admonishment. He wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by it - whether Russel wouldn’t stand for Murdoc’s spiralling, 2D’s failure to stop it, how literally and figuratively low he had sunk, or the fact that they were still doing this at all. A more immediate annoyance or fear usually took over before the thought developed enough for him to find out. Of course, Noodle wouldn’t have taken it either. But Murdoc hadn’t had a choice in not re-recruiting Noodle.

Maybe that was the difference. Russel was alive.

Regardless of specifics, he was right, Russel wouldn’t have stood for this. He would’ve taken Murdoc’s crap for all of 5 seconds until he explained to the cyborg, perfectly calmly, that if protecting Murdoc really was its primary function, allowing Russel to leave would likely be the best way to accomplish that. If 2D was lucky, Russel would remember to bring him along. If he was really lucky, and the plan he’d been cautiously forming actually worked, it wouldn’t have to stay hypothetical.

Just in case he’d jinxed himself, 2D double-checked under his bed and exhaled in relief. Two out of three parts, still there.

Russel's absence wasn't exactly a surprise, but that didn't mean there was a clear explanation. Perhaps Murdoc hadn’t been able to locate Russel, though that seemed unlikely considering 2D had been in a pretty damn remote location too, and Murdoc had found him just fine. Maybe Murdoc simply didn’t want Russel there, which was a little more likely but, from what 2D had observed, Murdoc had plenty of moments where he seemed grateful to have another actual grownup around to talk mixes, marketing, and the many other elements that went into an album that 2D usually found his eyes glazing over at. There was also the real possibility that Murdoc had tried to forcibly enlist Russel’s help, and failed. Murdoc’s standoffishness about Russel, the steadfast refusal to mention him almost at all, was certainly evidence in that department.

It was not as if Murdoc was unfamiliar with taking Russel against his will for the sake of musical endeavours. 2D was fairly drugged up on Russel’s first day and much of the time had been lost to him, particularly the time between attempting to steal a handful of Joni Mitchell vinyl’s as a distraction and waking up outside Kong in the back of Murdoc’s car a few hours later, sporting a mysterious new bruise on the back of his head. But there were certain parts he remembered vividly, most notably the man’s surprisingly casual bemusement at the whole ordeal, accepting the multifaceted roles of first-draft mixer, PR admin and - most capably - drummer, with little more than a shrug, like he expected to be with them a month or so tops.

It was another potential reason Murdoc hadn’t bothered repeating Russel’s initiation this time around. He was always more about originality.

The clunks of chunky keypad buttons on the other side of his door pulled him from his thoughts with a few blinks, and he shuffled round to ready the wary stare he’d defaulted to greeting Murdoc with, at least when he had enough pills, food and entertainment to not be too pleadingly desperate.

The door creaked open, and there stood the slighter figure of the cyborg, waiting as it always did for the door to finish its motion before stepping through. It wasn’t unusual for it to arrive unaccompanied, or it was more frequent at least than Murdoc arriving unaccompanied. Usually a few gestures in directions with its head or its gun was enough to convey what it was there for.

He regarded it with as much resentment as he’d learned he could get away with.

Then, to his horror, it opened it's mouth.

“Wipe that frown off your face, you clod!”

2D yelped and shuffled further away on his bed, cowering before the cyborg with renewed panic.

It never spoke. It was uncannily similar to a human too much of the time, but certain things provided vital reminders of its inauthenticity. Namely, it not speaking.

But it hadn’t sounded like Noodle, nor the Kryten-esque voice he had imagined it would sound like had it could talk. The voice had been Murdoc’s, coming out tinny and dripping with reverb, but with every mouth movement limp synched to uncanny perfection.

“Not bad, eh?” The cyborg sort-of said, “Makes sense when you think about it, she understands the vibrations of music, makes sense for her to understand how talking works too, even if she, you know, doesn’t. Not a live transmission unfortunately, still working on that, so this’ll have to do for now, pre-recorded, basically a walking answering machine.”

It was a lot to process, with only one protest that 2D was able to immediately verbalise.

“Why’d you have to make the mouth move so in sync?”

The cyborg remained still for a beat, though it’s mouth hung slightly open, the sound of the recording’s ambience still faintly audible.

“And I’m guessing you just tried talking to her, despite what I just said.” It mocked, face completely neutral. “That’s why this works so well for both parties, imagining your idiocy is far less aggravating than experiencing it first-hand. Now come on, I’ve been listening to the tracks and I’ve decided your keys come off far too mopey.”

It had been easy enough to not equate it to her so far. They weren’t the same. As long as he held onto that, that cold and unfeeling fact, he could be sure there was still a modicum of sanity within him. Even so, a deep sting of sadness attacked his heart as he watched Noodle’s identical form parrot Murdoc’s words with the sort of realism he and Russel had always dreaded.

He wouldn’t stand for this. Wouldn’t stand for that.

Cursing the hurt, it turned to venom and rose from his heart to his throat.

“You said to do it sad, you twat!” He spat at it, “You wanted it!”

“You can talk! Presuming that is, that you just called me a prick. And before you whine about how I said I wanted it, I know, but it’s too drab. The end of the world should be something to be excited about! Now hop to it, I’m waiting in the studio.”

With that, it’s mouth closed and it gestured at the door in concurrence, seemingly not fussed or even aware of the new ability it just demonstrated.

~

“You’re mental for that.”

Murdoc paused mid-swig to regard 2D’s heated entrance, the cyborg’s signature trudges bringing up the rear. He was splayed out on the partially-rotten leather sofa he’d found before 2D’s arrival, and had tenderly taken to calling it the casting couch.

“Mental for what?” Murdoc asked, “Progress? That was mostly a test, to be frank. I reset your door code and gave her both the new one and the message, wanted to see if she remembered two different sorts of new info. No need to tell me if it worked or not, your unpleasant presence speaks volumes.”

“It’s creepy, Murdoc!”

“See now, that’s always been your problem. Afraid of change, afraid of the future. Never seeing the benefits, even when it’s quite literally staring you in the face.”

With a little ‘hup’ sound, he jumped to his feet and staggered to the keyboard set up in the middle of the room, dangerous looking wires stabbed through various areas of the wall. He patted the stool invitingly.

“Now, be a good…thing, and let’s keep making change happen, alright?”

If 2D didn’t know better, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he did, he might’ve thought Murdoc hadn’t wanted new recordings at all, and had brought 2D up for an entirely different reason. He squinted his eyes shut and attempted to focus on the newly major’d version of the melody, though voices behind him cut through the playing with ease.

“You can do better than that, surely!”

“See, I don’t know if he can.”

“Look, look! He’s trying to think!”

They were trading off. Whether it was through vocal cues or just one very long, very well-timed recording, he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure of was Murdoc was enjoying the new verbal company immensely.

Russel wouldn’t stand for this.

“Like pulling teeth, ain’t it?” Murdoc moaned on one side of him.

“Dunno how you put up with it for so long.” The cyborg responded on the other side.

“Honestly, looking back, if I could’ve not brought him on board but sold half, I’d have taken it gladly, imagine the headaches it’d save.”

“That’s a lie.” 2D muttered.

“Not a chance he’d have made it this far without you, probably would’ve been flattened by some tram in Croydon and kicked it at 26.” Cyborg recounted gleefully.

2D awaited Murdoc’s next barb, but instead there was a harsh rustling as his headphones were forcibly ripped off.

Murdoc loomed over him, one hand on his hip, the other twirling the headphones around a finger.

“Talking to yourself, are we?” He sneered.

“To you.” 2D replied curtly. “You wouldn’t drop me as a swap for being less known. You’d have another me if it meant you sold twice as much.”

Murdoc’s eyes shrunk into a scowl.

“Algae!” The cyborg cried, likely responding to something Murdoc had planned to have said, “What a shout, or an amoeba!”

“You really do think you’re the dogs bollocks, don’t you.” Murdoc growled. His voice was quiet, likely due to the gritted teeth subduing it.

“Hawaii would be cracking,” responded the cyborg, “dump this plank in the middle of the Atlantic with a Volvic and a copy of Nuts, then the peace and paradise that you deserve.”

“You might as well have been telling me it since the start.” 2D told Murdoc with a shrug, “You keep me because I sell. You wouldn’t trade that for nothin’. If you just wanted me to fill out the band, Russ would be here and all. But he ain’t.”

“I can picture it now,” the cyborg continued, watching the two intently with a steely expression that greatly juxtaposed the enthusiasm in Murdoc’s delivery, “‘Murdoc, please come save me! Murdoc, I’m useless without you, just like you said! I got tricked by an anglerfish and it ate my knob, help me Murdoc!’”

“Why isn’t he here, Muds? Scared because you know he’d rip your rotten little head off?”

Murdoc’s brilliant plan had completely fallen apart. Instead, he could only glare at 2D, his chest rising and falling with barely concealed fury. Violence was a last resort when it appeared 2D was getting the upper-hand verbally. Physical beatings implied an admission of a loss for words, the dead giveaway that 2D has gotten under his skin. Violence was sport, the victory lap. Words were the real fight. And currently, the words were failing him.

“Oh!” The cyborg called in delight, “Nailed him! Now chuck the spanner at him!”

2D shifted his gaze to the cyborg, watching its words emerge with eerie synchronicity. He eyed the spanner on the ground where Murdoc had previously been standing. The first thing was likely an empty rum bottle, one of the only other throwable things nearby. Annoyingly, like every other bottle 2D seemed to find, the cork top was nowhere to be seen.

He flicked his head in the cyborg’s direction, “That’s really annoying when you ain’t setting it up.”

Murdoc grumbled, but stopped short of disagreeing. Standing up straight, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s enough, love.” He ordered.

The cyborg’s mouth closed, and the faint room ambience 2D had begun getting used to faded away, leaving the cold creaking of the studio to reassume control.

“You ruined the game,” Murdoc scolded, sounding genuinely a little hurt, “hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“Simple as that, ay? You can just say to leave it and it does?” 2D mused, not bothering to hide the genuine curiosity from his tone.

“Well, sounds a lot more cozy than ‘override function: playback’, wouldn’t you say?”

Murdoc took a few steps away, then stopped and turned back to 2D with renewed suspicion. His mouth wore a minuscule smirk, as if he had just figured out some dastardly ploy 2D was hitching.

“And before you get any ideas,” he warned, pointing at the cyborg, “it’s one way. Only I can leave messages, and only I can cut them off. If you even knew the right words, nothing would happen. Know why? You don’t register to her as a person, you’re nothing to her. When I tell her to stick a gun against your noggin, its no different to telling her to do it to a seagull or a Hotpoint. I’d remember that next time you have any fleeting delusions of grandeur. Capiche?”

2D nodded slowly. There might’ve been some idea there, but Murdoc had beaten him to it, snuffing out its potential before he’d had the chance to piece together anything concrete.

“And for the record, there’s a very good reason I didn’t get Russ here.” Murdoc murmured, before his breath hitched in a slight panic, adding hurriedly, “One that you don’t need to know! Dunno where you got this scheming side from, but it’s a terrible look.”

“I haven’t said nothin.” 2D pointed out with exaggerated innocence.

“She’ll take you back to your cell. Sick of the sight of you.”

“What about the recording?”

“Changed my mind again, don’t question the creative process! If you can’t do it in one take at this point, there’s no hope for you. And what are you still blathering on for, anyway?! Piss off!”

The familiar feeling of the barrel of a gun pressed itself into the back of 2D’s head, and he stood without protest, lead and occasionally shoved until he was reacquainted with his dank and cavernous accommodation.

As the door shut behind him, he sat on the bed and huffed, before checking that the two out of three supplies he’d managed to scavenge were still there.

A few laminated health and safety sheets from various - presumably insolvent - workplaces. The sharpie that had proven to be a terrible hammer, but by some miracle was still usable as a pen.

His original plan could still be pulled off. Just one more part to secure.

~

Undeterred by his first attempt not going according to plan, Murdoc’s pincer movement of dual demeaning continued over the coming days. Attempts at singing or playing featured a well-rehearsed routine of back-and-forth barbs thrown 2D’s way, with the occasional hurled item or slap thrown in for the cyborg’s - and by extension, past Murdoc’s - amusement. Bizarrely, 2D found himself feeling less endangered through this avenue of berating. With the cyborg now a verbal receptacle, the audience gave Murdoc a permission to turn up the theatrics, finding new comedic beats it could set him up for, him and it roaring with laughter upon the punchline’s drop. 2D hated the comfort he found himself finding from it. It was the closest he’d seen to the Murdoc of old since he’d arrived, and he’d needed the echoed self-encouragement of himself in Noodle’s form to achieve it.

And then there’d be the moment, every time, when he’d watch the cyborg speak, accidentally too closely, and the comfort and borderline amusement would be engulfed by anger and fear, far greater than before it started talking in his mocking, gravelly drawl. If Russel only knew what had become of Noodle’s image, he’d turn the island upside down, and the whale would have them all. Russel would know soon enough, if all went to plan.

Some days later, and it was mercifully time for 2D’s allocated walk around the beach where, in Murdoc’s words, he could absorb the natural air, get some bloody pigmentation, and remember what they were doing this all for. The cyborg accompanied close behind, considering his exercise time a little enough risk that it could stare out to the seascape, as he often did similarly.

He hadn’t for a while, though. More recently, his eyes were drawn to the beach itself, kicking about bits of metal and tar and plastic, occasionally slipping on loose detritus only to be hauled to his feet moments after. He appeared idle and moody as he did so, hands buried in pockets and shoulders hunched over even more than normal, a display which was likely for nobody, since the cyborg didn’t care and Murdoc was presumably passed out or buried away in his studio.

It hadn’t seemed like he had recorded any jibes for the cyborg to repeat at him, since they were on the third of three laps around the island and only it's stoney silence had been the company thus far. Evidently, Murdoc’s primary function for it - informing 2D of the day’s itinerary without fear of inane, constant questioning - had become almost as tiresome as doing it in person, with cyborg’s morning report often little more than two or three word barks, or not even speaking at all and instead reverting to its usual flicking gestures via head and gun. It seemed Murdoc had quickly found a more entertaining use for it. Or that had been the intended use since the start.

2D’s slumped shoulders began to become genuine ones as he neared the end of the third lap. He wasn’t sure how often these walks happened, but it felt like less frequently than weekly, but slightly more than monthly. That meant a long time before he could search the beach again. A long time of double-handed ridicule.

He stopped, spotting something on the beach.

It was close to the water, and he casually pivoted to head slightly in its direction, not fighting the fact that the cyborg would notice, hoping instead that it wouldn’t mistake the change in movement for some kind of daring escape.

A plastic bottle. Fanta Z.

And, most crucially of all, with the lid still attached.

It was dangerously close to the water, and 2D found his pace quickening slightly as he sought to retrieve it. A large wave drifted onto the shore and caught it, threatening to take it back into the ocean.

With a slight gasp, he broke into a sprint to to seize it, hearing immediately the sound of hauntingly even-paced running, catching up to him effortlessly.

2D lunged, snatching the Fanta from the sea, and was rewarded by the impact of a gun’s butt thudding against his head, collapsing him like a deck of cards against a light breeze.

While all other thoughts turned to stars, he willed the grip he had onto the bottle and rolled over, the barrel of the cyborg’s gun preventing him from moving further.

He waited a while, breathing heavily with the occasional retch that suggested a potential concussion. Waited for it to talk, for Murdoc to run out, for the whale to realise how close he was to the water and pop up to swallow him, anything.

Finally, he held the bottle up as a white flag.

“It was my favourite drink.” He offered to it weakly.

It was a lie, but not completely devoid of truth, as he did remember enjoying it. He preferred the full sugar variety, but Russel refused to get it much on account of 2D’s tendency to go full days or more of not eating actual meals.

“Back home,” he continued, having no reaction of any sort to build on, “just wanted it as, like, a reminder, y’know? Not a lot reminds me of how it used to be. Before I was here.”

The mocked-up face of Noodle was unmoving. Not a lot of uncorrupted reminders, he amended in his head.

“I’m getting up, ok? Real slow.”

The cyborg’s gun didn’t move, which made getting up a struggle, and it was only when he finally began raising laboriously from the ground that it proved it wasn’t internally blue-screening, raising its gun to stay tracked to his face with every movement.

“I’ll just keep it in my room, to look at, like.” He said upon successfully getting back to his feet, “It’s fine, can’t hurt him with it. See?”

He thwacked it against his own head a couple times as proof, though it’s readied gun showed a degree of suspicion remained.

Knowing it could end one of two extreme ways, he held out the bottle until it was within booping range of the cyborg’s head.

He said sod it in his mind and tapped the empty Fanta bottle against its head.

For a moment, neither of the extreme scenarios happened, as if it was taking a moment to process what had even just happened.

Eventually though, its gun lowered to adopt a casual stance, and 2D exhaled in relief. He tucked it into his pocket and they finished the walk, both content to act like nothing had happened.

~

Three out of three. He sprint walked around the cramped quarters, unsure what to do next. He couldn’t believe it, three out of three. It’d taken months, but he’d gotten it all together.

He knew there was a camera somewhere in his room. The only place he was pretty sure was safe was right by the door.

Leaving the Fanta Z by the door, he retrieved the laminated paper and the sharpie and plopped down on the bed, and stopped, his thoughts suddenly frozen.

When imagining the plan, he hadn’t gotten as far as knowing what to actually write. It’d taken this long to find a bottle with a lid, who knew how long it’d be before another surfaced? He had to make the message count.

An echoed, droning hum of curiosity sounded behind him and, just in case it could read as well as be bribed, he shielded the note from the whale observing through the slight open slit in the closed curtains.

Slowly, like every single word was going through copious rewrites in his head, the message formed.

‘Dear Russ,

I know there’s like a 1 in 7 billion chance you get this, but I gotta try. Murdoc’s lost it for good this time, he’s kidnapped me and we’re on this rubbish island and he’s making me do a new album with him, but I think he’s gonna get me or both of us killed before it ever comes out. He’s got this robot thing here doing guitar, and I don’t know how but he made it look just like Noodle and I just don’t reckon you’d stand for any of it. I get you might not wanna see us ever again but please mate, I need your help. Murdoc said we’re at a place called point nemo, not sure if that’s a real place but you might be able to google it. Please come and save me.

2D.’

He looked at it, giving an uncommitted side-nod of approval.

When the next walk happened, that was when the note would begin its journey.

Whenever that was.

Chapter Text

When it was as dark as it was at Plastic Beach’s deepest level come nightfall, it was hard to tell what was truly asleep and what wasn’t.

The island groaned in pain during particularly stormy nights, and 2D wasn’t entirely convinced the island wasn’t moving, at least a little. Mocking motions swinging him to and fro like a pendulum, adding one more turn to the stomach that had no shortage of reasons to feel uneasy.

Through the many layers of floor and ceiling, a delighted yell caught his attention.

Murdoc’s voice had always been able to carry well, and though the words couldn’t be deciphered, the tone was uproarious, almost hysterically happy.

There was a pause, and if 2D had been one floor further away, or a little closer to sleep, he might have mistaken the pause as a silent one. But the island ceased it’s moaning for long enough that he heard a quiet, less bass heavy version of Murdoc’s voice.

He was talking to it.

Talking to himself.

A sting of spite attacked his heart, and it surprised him. There had been an assumption that Murdoc was feeling as resentful, and needy, and lonely as he was, and it had been an insipid silver lining to his own sufferings while putting the album together. That if Murdoc insisted on putting them through this, there was at least the comfort that there was a them.

Murdoc was delusional, and manic, he tried to remind himself. He was not having a good time. Maybe better than the alternative that had been offered to 2D, but that was a low bar.

Two sets of laughter, one much louder but otherwise identical, rattled down and settled around him.

He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to talk to Murdoc, or to have a Noodle-like answering machine to say his own words back. But he wanted something. He missed something. Anything. Not being alone.

There was a gentle but menacing coo from the whale, and the pain turned to a shiver and he turned in his bed, hoping pretending to sleep would convince it to sod off.

Not totally alone.

~

Gun in hand, the cyborg watched Murdoc only a little more intently than 2D did, as Murdoc attempted to immerse himself in the track, one eye closed and a hand thwacking against the desk.

It was his second listen-through, likely the second of many. Grumblings and sighs usually intensified as the plays piled up, before the feedback was voiced in the form of a foul-mouthed tirade where the genuine critiques had to be spotted like diamonds in the rough.

Murdoc removed his headphones, cleared his throat, and shrugged.

“It’ll do.”

2D blinked. To say such kind of feedback was uncommon was an understatement.

“Does it not need nothing?”

Another shrug. “Should be fine.”

Most of the time, Murdoc’s opinion was that 2D’s output was terrible. Occasionally it was perfect, and more occasionally still, perfect had gone back to being terrible the next morning. But it was never ‘fine’.

2D glanced at the cyborg, almost to see if it shared his surprise at Murdoc’s sudden lack of perfectionism.

Unsurprisingly, it didn’t seem to give a toss.

“Right,” Murdoc sighed, flapping a dismissive hand at 2D without looking, “clear off, that’s more than enough of you for one day.”

He cleared his throat, aware of the boundary he was testing. It was one he’d not dared crossing previously.

“Let me have a listen.”

Murdoc’s head spun to face him, looking thoroughly insulted.

“And what, pray tell, do you think you’re going to be able to hear that I can’t.”

“Dunno.” 2D shrugged, “Maybe you’re not sure, and I could help. Just… good to have someone to bounce off of, innit.”

He hoped the tone came off casual. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that the idea of isolation for even a moment more sent jolts of pain and panic through every fibre of his body. He hoped that if it was obvious, Murdoc was too drunk or occupied to notice. Or he hoped Murdoc had noticed. If it would help.

Murdoc gave a cursory glance towards the cyborg, before standing with a dubious chuckle.

“The floor is yours, Mr. Landau.”

Sitting down and applying the headphones, 2D restarted the track and tried to think of the ways Russel used to critique the demos that himself and Noodle used to bring to him.

He had never met anyone able to give constructive feedback quite as well as Russel could. Direct yet open. Assured yet subjective. They were never quite a compliment sandwich, more compliment toast. Sometimes the condiment would be right but the toast would be underdone. Or it was toasted perfectly but the completely wrong kind of bread. Sometimes it was almost perfect, but he’d forgotten to butter it before adding the syrup.

He realised abruptly that he’d spent the first half of the song thinking entirely about toast, and he willed himself to stop and concentrate.

In his peripheral vision, he became aware that the cyborg had moved around to stand in front of him, watching him intently, wearing an almost suspicious frown. It seemed similarly confused at the concept of 2D's opinion. Perhaps protecting Murdoc meant more than merely preserving his living status. Perhaps his position, his hierarchal status, was also its job to preserve.

Preserve. That was also good on toast.

“Go on then,” Murdoc drawled, and it was only then that 2D realised the track had ended, “enlighten me.”

“Er…” he removed the headphones and picked at them.

What would Russel say?

“First half is alright,” he said as surely as possible, “then it sorta forgets its point halfway through. I’d repeat the thingy a couple more times at the end to make it more definitive, I reckon.”

“Thingy?” Murdoc repeated exasperatedly.

“The what’s it called, you know…” repeated clicks took the place of the word and he looked at Murdoc for clarification.

“No no, take as long as you need. It’s your own time you’re wasting.”

“The refrain!”

Murdoc’s chest rose and a disappointed sigh emerged, “How can you be in the biggest band in the world and know nothing about music?”

“I know how to do it! Just… talking about it is hard.”

“Try listening to you talk about it.”

A hand seized the back of 2D’s shirt and he found himself pulled away from the desk.

“Truly valuable insight as always, 2D, what would any of us do without you.” Murdoc said, shoving him to a safe distance where he couldn’t meddle with the track, “That will be all.”

“No!”

Murdoc tensed, his patience wearing dangerously thin. 2D shrunk a little in response and undermined his own defiance by taking a little step back.

“Can’t we just, like… chat? Don’t have to be about the album.”

Murdoc stepped closer, his shorter height bearing no significance in the physical intimidation he held over 2D. His focus shifted from one black eye to the other, working out the best way into his brain to make the words stick.

“There is nothing… in this entire world… I would enjoy less than that.”

2D swallowed. The cyborg stepped closer, anticipating the upcoming order.

~

The butorphanol was supposed to be helping him sleep. It had been, at first.

Raucous laughter ricocheted through the island.

“Exactly!” Murdoc might’ve said at some point.

2D growled at the ceiling.

Sensing a contest, the whale growled back, loud and shrill, and somehow it made the room even colder.

Squiggles and lines taunted his peripheral vision, teasing the prospect of company.

He tried to blink them away. He couldn’t sleep until he knew they were gone. If he didn’t make them go, sometimes they turned into figures. Murdoc. Dad. Russel. Mum. Noodle.

He blinked.

Noodle.

He blinked again.

Not Noodle.

It was it. It was real and it was in there.

He sat bolt upright and stared at it. He hadn’t heard it come in. Maybe there had been sleep at some point after all.

It never came this late. Murdoc was long passed out at this point, no further instructions for it to follow.

Cyborg didn’t move. It’s rifle was holstered behind its back.

It’s mouth opened and a slurred, half-asleep murmur emerged.

“I’ll give it another whack tomorrow. Not exactly to what he said, obviously, he hasn’t a clue what he’s on about. Just making crap up. Probably really thinks the song’s perfect as is, absolute stooge. Of all the people I have to turn to for this, not Russ, not you, him. How bloody fitting.”

It paused, mouth still agape. It could’ve been another break to allow a retort, except faintly through its mouth, 2D heard half a dozen swigs from a bottle of - presumably - rum, before Murdoc gave a shuddered huff.

“Bet he hates me down there. Giving it all that. He doesn’t get it though, does he? The work that this all takes. What’s needed to even keep him alive, never mind willing to actually work. We get it though. He’s more high maintenance than you! Someone needs to tell him that one of these days.”

2D’s face screwed into a frown. He’d never seen it misunderstand a typical rambling as an order before.

“Don’t think he meant it like that.” He told it.

It’s mouth closed, almost certainly because the message was finished, but the timing was just perfect enough that it felt in response to his point.

Without another instruction, it pivoted and left, and the door creaked closed after it.

He looked down at his hands, only then realising how tightly they were balled into the blanket.

~

“Fuck me, you really are losing it, aren’t ya?”

Murdoc’s response had come without looking, as he continued busying himself with the camera, refusing to admit he still hadn’t quite got the knack of the shutter timer.

Undeterred, 2D attempted to elaborate. “You were saying that I probably hate you, and, and that I was high maintenance, and...” he whacked the side of his head several times, trying to jump-start the memory, “and that I thought the track yesterday was perfect.”

Murdoc paused, his turned back giving little away.

The roof of Point Nemo gave no protection from the elements, and 2D had to adopt a partial squat to stop the wind knocking him too off-balance. The cyborg, not fearing such a fall, remained fully upright as it looked out to the middle distance. Murdoc had instructed it do so for the photoshoot, and in the context of the conversation it appeared like it was attempting not to overhear.

“You might not remember doing it, you seemed pretty sent.” 2D pointed out.

“Got it!” Murdoc called, and spun to face him, “In 30 seconds it'll go off, try to not fall off the roof before then, think you can handle that?”

“What about-“
“Play your last message, girlie.” He commanded as he pressed the shutter button.

Still rigid in its pose, its head was facing out to the ocean as it recounted.

“Rise and shine, faceache, wanna get this track hammered out sharpish so you can head back down there and think over how detrimental your attitude’s been lately.”

2D stared at the back of its head. Yesterday morning’s message, exactly as he remembered.

“But… last night-”

“Not to pull back the curtain too candidly,” Murdoc sighed, “but she doesn’t visit your room unless I order her to. And while we’re talking about inebriation impacting reliability, how many pills you got left, again? Should still be well over half a pack. 5ml’s of but’ and all.”

An awkward silence, as well as 2D scratching nervously at his knuckles, revealed all that Murdoc needed to know. He took a few steps closer.

“Not another word out of you from now on, unless I’ve written it and it rhymes, alright?”

Without a retort, 2D unintentionally obeyed. Murdoc nodded once and turned to the camera.

It snapped.

~

“Another one already?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“You’re getting greedy.”

2D stopped mid-mouthful and looked at how many beans were left in the tin.

A third of a tin. Murdoc might have point.

“It’s only my second can.” 2D just about said, a stray bean spewing out and landing close to Murdoc’s boot.

“Not that!” Murdoc spat back, “Greedy for wanting another walk just two days on from your last.”

“I liked the last one.” 2D mumbled, looking into the can to make deception easier, “Put me in a better mood. You want that, don’t you?”

“This has been you in a better mood, has it.” Murdoc remarked, before crossing his arms, “You’re even thicker than I realise sometimes. You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

2D gulped down his evening rations and thought about looking up at him, then stopped.

His voice wavered as he tried to answer, “Dunno what you mean.”

“Please. You’re shit scared of this room after what you think happened last night. If you ask me, that’s cosmic justice thoroughly at play.”

The relief at his plan not being discovered conflicted with the offence of not being believed.

“It did happen.” 2D whispered, sounding far less sure than earlier that day. Murdoc ran a hand down his face.

“Tell you what.” He offered, “As a gesture of goodwill, I’ll switch up the door code first thing tomorrow morning, and not tell her what it is for a day or two. That way you can be certain any mysterious visits are purely a result of your drug-addled mind.”

“So, what?” 2D asked, refusing to give away the comfort that Murdoc’s compromise had indeed brought him, “You’ll come down and get me just you?”

“Mhmm. The whole bloody point of recording messages onto her, fobbed off just to get enough quiver out of your voice to be able to sing. Don’t say I don’t do anything for ya.”

~

“It’s not your fault, Murdoc.”

2D stirred at the voice. He was lying in the direction of the door, as always, because any other position meant a chance he’d wake up to see a gigantic, monstrous eye targeting him.

As it was, he instead woke to look at it’s barely visible silhouette. Under it’s bangs, it’s eyes lit up in a way that was unnoticeable in daylight, but piercingly alerting in otherwise pitch-black.

“You did everything you could. Wasn’t like it was your idea to play uncle while also managing a couple of lazy hanger-ons. And don’t worry, I am alive, just like you reckon. I was right to trust you. I’ll come back, just you wait and see.”

Murdoc’s voice was quiet. But not his usual quiet. Murdoc’s usual quiet was an unintelligible grumble, words he needed to send into the world but didn’t want to face the repercussions of.

“You just gotta keep going,” Murdoc’s shaky voice sounded, “Not for me. For you. 2D will look back on this and thank you. Russel will understand you were right to not bring him here. And I’ll come back.”

This quiet was a whisper. Tender. Not at the world. Not at anyone but himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” 2D whispered back in a quiver.

“I forgive you.” It said. “I forgive you, Murdoc.”

It’s mouth stayed open to reveal the sound of a bottle being swigged. Then echoing footsteps approaching, growing louder, and 2D found himself recoiling despite it remaining rooted to the spot.

A surprisingly large rustle caused him to jump, and Murdoc’s muffled sigh escaped his mouth.

As if that had been the shutoff cue, the cyborg’s mouth closed, and it once more turned and retreated, only creaks from the island and occasional hums from the whale providing the soundscape.

Was there anything on this island that actually slept, 2D thought.

~

The sunlight did its best to infest his room. Curtains that could only close so far could only do so much.

It had been real, he was so certain. He knew what the dreams felt like.

But Murdoc’s points were too strong. His evidence too infallible. He didn’t seem to believe the Cyborg was capable of deleting messages, but whether it could or not almost didn’t matter. Murdoc didn’t want to believe it. And that was understandable. It wasn’t for 2D to hear. 2D hearing it disrupted Murdoc. Unravelled Murdoc. Hurt Murdoc.

And 2D didn’t want to do any of that.

Not while his life was still in Murdoc’s hands, at least.

He waited and waited. When he gave up waiting for someone to arrive, he waited for footsteps to approach. When he gave up on that, he waited for the sounds of conversing, or shouting, or laughing, or recording. He re-watched The Sore-shag Redemption - at this point purely for the plot, with any sexual gratification from it long exhausted - and waited. But nothing happened.

And nothing continued to happen as the light transformed to shadows in his room.

Gentle croaks and clunks from the island was the sole soundtrack as sun dipped out of sight. No yelling. No laughing.

“Murdoc?” 2D called, vaguely up.

He hadn’t left to kidnap collaborators. 2D knew whenever he had, because he was supplied with enough food and meds to last him until Murdoc’s return. Those could often be days, but they were never much cause for concern, as Murdoc’s dedication to the album usually assured 2D of his swift return.

Going awol without warning, however, was different.

“MURDOC!”

The cry rose up through the island and fell back down, unanswered.

As if the world outside his room was ceasing to exist, the islands reverberations and the whale’s warning cries faded until only an inhuman silence remained.

His stomach began to turn as the potential worst options carouseled around his head. He’d left without telling him. They’d left, together. It had convinced Murdoc, through his own words, that 2D was no longer worth the trouble and they’d left him here to die.

The breathing quickened. A tunnel vision was taking over.

Or Murdoc had finally had the fall, or the choke, or the bottle too many and was lying somewhere, unresponsive.

But it must’ve learned how to save his life. It must be saving his life.

And afterwards, it would save him too, surely.

A relentless, dull pain began to swell behind his left eye and the realisation hit.

It wasn’t panic. A migraine was coming.

Fast.

It was intensifying by the second as he stumbled to the butorphanol, sweaty hand trembling as he unwrapped the plastic.

This could be the last of it, a conscious thought managed to tell him.

A wave of pain that pulsed through the left side of his face to the back of his neck caused an involuntary screech to emerge. He couldn’t care about after. The only thoughts were for now.

Guessing a good point in his bicep, he stabbed and hissed, pushing until there was nothing left.

The tunnel vision began to cloud, the room fading away bar for the last two remaining sumatriptan.

Inside his mouth, his cheeks were beginning to line, threatening to expel what little food and water he had inside. There was one way it could be advantageous, however.

Every second counted, but his body was less than responsive as he pawed at the pack, thumbing the two pills free at the third or fourth attempt.

He took both at once, hands staying over his mouth in a childish attempt to keep down whatever was inside.

The world was fading rapidly, his bed looking like a mile away.

He settled for the floor, resting with discomfort on his left side.

Somebody told him to do that to not risk choking on his own sick. His mum, maybe. Or Russel. Or his dad. Noodle? Murdoc?

Somebody had, in any case. Somebody that wasn’t here now.

~

“2D? Are you there?”

At some point he had disobeyed whatever peer had advised him, by rolling onto his back in his sleep. He could tell because the back of his head was ice cold. There was a familiar sound of keypad buttons being pressed, but no swinging door sound was following.

The ceiling was spinning, and there was faint aroma that implied he might have thrown up while in his unconscious state.

There was a knock at the door. That was odd. People didn’t knock around here. They just came in.

His head was heavy and the migraine, downgraded to one resembling a hangover, held his head firm, meaning the best he could do was turn in the direction of the knock, and the redundantly obvious question that had preceded it.

“I’m worried.” Came the faint voice on the other side, “I don’t like it out here anymore.”

It was a trembling voice of Murdoc, wrought with worry and fear. Reality was returning at a snails pace, and as it set in that he was hearing a voice for the first time in almost 2 days, a vague relief dawned on him

“I don’t feel like myself.” The voice whispered.

Sitting up was out of the question, so 2D attempted to roll.

“Please open the door.”

Now on his front, 2D crawled meekly towards the door. It was too dark to see, so he felt in front of him until hands connected with cold metal.

He pressed his ear to the door, trying to work out if he heard what he thought he heard.

Faint reverb. Though other senses felt hazy similarly.

“Can’t open the door.” 2D coughed, “You gotta let yourself in.”

“I can’t remember the code.”

He willed his hearing to not play tricks with him.

“You changed it this morning, remember. But you can reset it. You can reset it right now.”

He waited for the response. Murdoc wouldn’t need that long to respond. Not even when that drunk, or that sad.

“I can’t remember the code.” The voice repeated, identically.

The haze was clearing, and a cold terror was taking its place.

“Whatever you wanna talk about,” 2D stammered, “We’ll talk about it in the morning, alright? Used up the last of the meds and I ain't thinking too right.”

“What am I, 2D?”

It sounded like him. But it sounded more like it. But it couldn’t be. Not even Murdoc was this elaborate in his maliciousness.

He swallowed, hoping the door was as reinforced as it appeared to be, should the worst happen.

“I don’t know, mate.”

“2D?” Murdoc’s voice pleaded.

“Yeah?”

“…What are you?”

He was nothing. Like a seagull, or a Hotpoint.

Except Murdoc clearly valued him much higher than that. Which would be confusing, to an outside on-looker.

“Just sod off, alright?” He said, an attempt at sounding pissed undercut badly by the fearful crack in his voice.

Another pause.

Evenly paced steps faded away, and 2D let out a breath, turning to sit and lean against the door.

They were both seeming more endangered by the day. The note to Russel couldn’t go out fast enough.

2D thought the note over, knuckles cracking unsurely.

For the first time, he was grateful for the door that confined him. He had never considered its ability to keep something out; not just lock him in.

Murdoc had no such door, he thought with a worried gulp.

With a scramble, he crawled to the bed and retrieved one of the two pieces of paper he’d yet to write on, took the sharpie, and attempted something new.

‘Dear Russ,

I know there’s a 1 in 7 billion chance you get this, but there’s like a 1 in 100 million chance someone that knows you get this, so there’s a chance. I think what happened has messed with Murdoc more than we reckoned. He’s in a proper bad place. And he’s kidnapped me and taken me to the bad place too. Now I’m worried he might be in trouble. You were right about him, you always were. And I think if you were here, he’d realise how right you were too. If you feel like it, this place is Point Nemo. I can’t help him. Or I don’t wanna, not sure which. But please mate, if you get this, he needs your help.

2D.’

Some of the lines might have merged into each other, it was nearly impossible to see it.

He brought the paper close to his eyes, squinting in desperation to make out if it was legible.

If he was indeed trapped, working out how to get the note out there may prove to be an issue. Perhaps he could make a minuscule hole in the wall, poke the bottle through, and it would reach Russel before his room completely filled with water.

Before he could self-workshop a plan any further, however, the eyes dropped from a squint to completely shut, and the laminated paper served a temporary new purpose of a plastic pillow.

Chapter Text

The island was home.

Perhaps it was better that he stopped resisting the fact. He was not unique in his plight, he had to admit that. No part of this floating concoction of synthetic nature existed by choice, never mind chose to be here, stuck together, serving a purpose it had never imagined. Because it couldn’t imagine. Nor could he. It wasn’t his job to imagine. He could listen, and repeat, and create for its creator. A usefulness that eventually, like everything else, would expire. Unless he changed.

The island was alive.

It was as alive as he was. Every creak and groan, he felt like they were his own limbs stretching and contorting. He hurt, and it sounded hurt too.

Pain was halved when shared. He was taught that, before. By somebody.

He relaxed. Didn’t tense against the island, allowed himself to be absorbed. If he was breathing, he couldn’t feel it.

It was a community, a sense of purpose. He could still think. Nobody told him he’d still be allowed to think. And he could see, clearer than he’d been able to in years. Every floor, every room, the sea above and the sky below. It could see him all.

It could think, and see, so clearly. With that, who needed to speak, or sing, or scream.

It was him and he was it.

The surrendered peace was interrupted as his being was seized from an unseen force.

He looked for the source in a panic. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. Fists against his soul, clawing and pulling.

It was life, a human. It was taking him back.

~

2D was virtually mid-air as he awoke and he became reacquainted with his working lungs just in time for the air to leave them, slammed hard as he was into the wall of his cell, legs too unaware to assist in standing. Instead, holding him upright, with a face that could - and very well would - kill, was Murdoc, cyborg observing him emotionlessly behind.

“It’s you.” 2D gasped, the words emerging unnaturally as if he’d already gotten used to the idea of never talking, or seeing him, again.

His vision began to clear, allowing Murdoc’s face to come into focus. He looked angry, though that could’ve been deduced by Murdoc’s choice of wake up. But there was something else there, too, noticeable through his frequent swallows and the beads of sweat that betrayed his forehead.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at, or how you managed it, but you’ve got some bloody nerve.”

The racing heart and pounding head made forming words difficult, “What you mean?” 2D choked out in a whisper.

“Don’t go playing coy now!” Murdoc roared, “There’s nobody here you can trick with it! You know sodding well what you’ve done.”

Any relief at seeing him alive was wearing off quickly, and 2D glanced down to notice Murdoc’s boot planted firmly on the letter to Russel that he’d written the previous night. Murdoc must’ve come down this morning and read it, 2D realised, and felt a degree of anger at his own shame. He gave a small growl of frustration before responding.

“I just wanted to feel like I was talking to someone!” He yelled, “I thought it could actually help you!”

“Call that helping?!”

“And where were you? You said you’d come down yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Murdoc’s eyebrows creased together in confusion and took a cursory glance at the cyborg, the appointment seemingly coming as news to him. He didn’t consider it much further before returning to his anger, gripping 2D’s shirt tighter as if it was helping to ground him.

“What I’m up to is my business alone, which is why I don’t take too kindly to you meddling with it!”

“Fuck are you on about?” 2D demanded. He was beginning to suspect they were talking, arguing, about different things.

Each word was accompanied with an angry shake. “How did you manage to make her record a message for you?”

“Message?”

“Play last recorded message.” Murdoc ordered, looking down and screwing his eyes shut to brace himself.

The cyborg opened its mouth to recount as usual, but this time, 2D heard the tired warbling of his own voice tumble out.

“Murdoc, I need a refill. I reckon it’s the dehydration making the migraines worse, that’s why I’ve run out early. Won’t be able to do nothing until I get them, so I’d be sharpish about it for your sakes, y’know?”

2D blinked at it. He felt strangely offended at the treachery, strange because he’d never considered it on his side to begin with.

He hadn’t said that, he was almost positive. He might’ve mentioned something about not having any pills left, but he didn’t use those words. He didn’t put it in as an order. And he certainly hadn’t asked it to tell Murdoc to order more for him.

“I swear…” Murdoc began, and looked up at 2D, eyes burning with a furious urgency, “…to Satan himself, if I hear you say you don’t remember doing that-“

“I didn’t!” 2D insisted with a cry, and attempted to explain through Murdoc’s increasing growl, “How could I?! She-it couldn’t even get in! You changed the code on the door and didn’t tell it what it was, right?”

His head was temporarily pulled from the wall, only to be slammed hard back into it. The act hadn’t bought Murdoc quite enough time to think of a response, so he huffed a few breaths in and out before responding. Clearly, he didn’t understand it either. But he could only handle so many baffling events at once.

“Well, I must’ve said it in my sleep or something. Or I had one too many and grassed it to her.”

2D snarled at the hypocrisy, “So now you’re happy to admit you’re forgetting shit. When it works in your favour.”

“Watch it.”

“That thing’s getting scary, Muds. Dunno who did it or how, but I think it knows it has a voice. It’s working out how to do more than just repeat stuff.”

“Not stuff!” Murdoc bellowed, accompanied with another slam for emphasis, “Me! My commands! Not yours! How do you do it? Is there anything I create that you won’t eventually get your grubby mitts on and piss about with? Are you that determined to ruin her again, huh? Answer me!”

2D frowned, and his eyes flickered towards the cyborg. It’s face was the typical neutral, but there was something about its stance, gun in hand that hung low and lazy, that gave off a feigning of innocence.

“What you mean ‘again’?” 2D asked slowly.

Murdoc, noticing the flickering eyes, regarded the cyborg with worry before releasing 2D and stepping between his two band members. He straightened up and adjusted his hat until it regained its noble presentation.

“I’ll have to reset the failsafes now,” he grumbled, pointing behind him with his thumb in its direction, “stop any of your yammering accidentally setting her off. This is becoming such a mare because of you.”

His scowl was firm and unmoving, though Murdoc seemed unaware of quite how visible it was that his teeth were clenching and unclenching.

Before 2D could point it out, Murdoc turned sharply on his heel and stormed out, not checking behind him to see if the cyborg was following.

“I do actually need a refill, though!” 2D called after him.

When no response came, 2D attempted to step closer to the still-open door, but a smooth side-step from the cyborg prevented him from getting anywhere near.

“How’d you do that?” He whispered at it, “I din’t say none of that, did I?”

It’s head cocked slightly to the side, nonplussed.

He leaned down, lowering his whisper even further just in case Murdoc was still within earshot. “Were that you at the door, last night? What was it you were saying?”

It’s head straightened suddenly, bright eyes wide. It looked almost conflicted.

2D cleared his throat and prepared his enunciation, wanting to make sure the next sentence was as clear as possible. If Murdoc was right, and 2D was unintentionally interfering with its commands, there was a possibility he could take advantage of that to get the truth.

“Play… second-last recorded message.”

It opened it’s mouth, and 2D bit on his lip to prevent a gasp from escaping.

A sound began, different from the ambience 2D had gotten used to hearing. The creaks of the island were louder. The sounds of the ocean were deeper.

Faint moans caught his attention, and 2D strained to try and decipher any words. He turned an ear to its mouth and moved closer, until his ear was tantalisingly close to its open mouth.

The moans and mumblings continued, with the occasional shuffling and rustling of a moving being. They were too quiet to place, but 2D felt a familiarity for them.

And then, in what felt louder than the island or the whale or Murdoc had ever been, it screamed his own scream at him.

A distant, ominous wail of a scream that crackled and peaked its internal speaker. It sent him reeling back in fear, covering the ear that felt the brunt of the noise.

His scream trailed off quickly, followed by a single, haggard snore.

It closed it’s mouth and watched him, studying the reaction. Questions came and went from 2D’s mind, the fear too great and the redundancy of the questions too apparent for any of them to emerge.

After another mutually voiceless beat, it turned and left after Murdoc, shutting the door fast.

He was left again, for much of the day. This time it came as little surprise. There was a level of understanding for the island that he was building. 2D wasn’t sure if he liked it, or wanted it, but it was happening. He was learning it, and it was learning him. It’d been with the same with the faulty keyboards he’d get handed at the Emporium. Unknown and frightening, discarded by the world, but he’d had a knack for gravitating towards the discarded. Finding what worked, fixing what didn’t, changing what couldn’t be fixed, and realising at the end that it had taken a part of him, and given a part of its own in return. Machines weren’t people, that he still knew. People sometimes didn’t give anything back when they took.

An unfamiliar shadow fell over the curtains, small and flickering, and it drew 2D’s attention like the light of an anglerfish. Silently, he crept to the part of the porthole that the curtains couldn’t banish, putting a hand against the wall for balance. It felt warm, warmer than it ever had before. He peered up.

A rowboat, kicking away from the island. Both of them were on it. It was rowing, and he was sitting, looking forward, away from its perennial stare.

They never rowed out far, only as far as the crate that had dropped. It meant rum, it meant food and, with a relief so overwhelming it brought about an unintentional whimper from him, it meant meds. Possibly not sumatriptan or butorphanol, it was whatever Murdoc was able to secure on the quick and on the free. 2D worried such carelessness could lead to wild instability, anger issues, insomnia, and who knew what else. It was so agonisingly mortal.

The boat rocked, and 2D could discern Murdoc standing, and turning to face the cyborg.

He might have been talking while his back had been turned. Either that, or he was now pointing and shouting at it apropos of nothing.

2D watched for the cyborg’s reaction. He wasn’t permitted many moments that were meant to be between the two of them. At least, he wasn’t until it started disclosing their conversations to him. As a result, he didn’t see Murdoc get angry at it much. Perhaps he’d been naive to assume he never did, that his frustrations began and ended with himself as the target. After all, he was of little difference to anything else on the island.

The cyborg was looking down as Murdoc’s scolding continued, rowing to a destination it was likely programmed to be aware of.

It turned its head away from Murdoc, looking through the water, and though 2D was too far away to say for certain, he was quite sure in the moment that she was looking at him.

The night arrived without further incident. 2D received no further visits, and with his paranoia put to rest, ate his allocated rations in a resentful silence.

Murdoc’s jealousy was a valid moral victory, but it would do him little favours in the long run, he knew. Less time out of his room for recording. More lax on the food and medication supplies. Maybe even a synthetic version of himself. The version Murdoc had always wanted, but didn’t know how to keep.

The squiggles and flicks of figures and light signalled as he settled in to sleep. Reflections from the crack in the curtains, breathing life into their artificial home.

2D turned away, daring to face the porthole and ignore any concoction of support his mind may attempt to conjure. Whatever it could do, he told himself, he wouldn’t trust it.

“I know it’s bad down here, man…”

2D sat up and watched as Russel stood, holding the empty packets of various medication 2D had ingested the previous night.

“…but you can get your ass killed by popping shit without thinking.”

2D huffed with petulance, “I weren’t doing it for that. But would it be that mental of a thought?”

“Probably not.” Russel shrugged, “But we don’t need any more of us going before our time.”

Humans had a tendency to make 2D feel small, and while Russel never did it on purpose, he was better at it than most. 2D pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the bed, keeping his head down as if showing his entire form would give Russel free reign to judge.

“You know he treats that thing like it’s Noodle.” He snitched, “Talks to it like it’s her. Yet still tries to make out like she’s alive. Don’t make any sense.”

“Doesn’t it? I’m alive, and you’re talking to me. You miss me.”

“Course.” 2D mumbled, poking one of his un-chewed fingernails into the bed, “I miss all of it. Miss you. Miss her. Even miss him, as weird as it sounds. Miss how it used to be.”

“It ain’t right, this.” Russel agreed, “But there’s nothing good in just wanting things to go back.”

Pacing around, Russel zeroed in on 2D’s sprawling collection of DVD’s, squatting down to read the titles. He alternated between tutting with disappointment and letting out an amused snort when an x-rated pun was particularly clever.

“I’m not crazy, mate.” 2D snipped, “I know it can’t go back.”

“You’re not the same man you were before.” Russel replied.

It was meant as a concurrence, most likely, but the choice in shifting the responsibility, the agency, to 2D caused his defences to rise.

“We can’t go back because she’s dead, Russ.” He pushed himself to say.

“You sure about that?”

He blinked in surprise, “You not?”

“You don’t know what I think now, do you? And I’d appreciate you not speculating.”

An annoyed grunt was initially the only response. Even imaginary Russel could make him feel like a child.

“Yeah, well, speculating’s all I got. I’m speculating you up right now.”

It got a laugh out of Russel, and while 2D wanted to hold onto the miffed feeling, the comfort of Russel’s laugh brought about a smile of his own.

“Did I use the word wrong?”

“Man, you use words in a way I ain’t ever heard before,” Russel grinned, “But nah, not wrong. Just yours.”

He noticed his heartbeat and heard his own breathing for the first time in days. Talking to a person, and being treated like one, hadn’t happened in a long time.

“We shoulda talked more after it all happened.” 2D said weakly.

“Did you wanna talk?”

2D thought, and the honest answer felt harsh. But was reassured that he was only talking to a partially drugged-up dream version, and not actually Russel.

“No.” He admitted.

“Me neither,” Russel replied just as candidly, “I guess the three of us are just a walking after-school special on what not to do when it comes to processing feelings.”

2D raised an eyebrow, “Even you?”

“Hell yeah even me, goddamn D, I’m just a man like you. When we couldn’t find her, I just wanted to forget about it all. I thought it was all my fault.”

2D felt his chest rising as the unfamiliar feeling of being seen returned, “I thought it was all my fault!”

“And I’ll bet he thinks it’s all his fault upstairs. That’s what’s so funny 'bout all this. You’re scared of what’s bigger than you. He’s scared to feel small.”

“Ain’t that the same thing?”

“Sure sounds like it, doesn't it.”

2D tensed as Russel closed the gap between them, squatting just a few feet in front of him to look him level in the eyes.

“Life ain’t your enemy, D. It’s too busy for that. It’s got a million different things going on in the world.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Seeing the world?”

“I think it’s a little late to be wondering about all that.” Russel chided gently, “Focus on you, on what the best thing to do for you is. We got enough reasons to live in fear. Ones we can’t hope to ever deal with. But some we can.”

A tenseness that 2D had forgotten he had was falling, and his hands were beginning to tremble. He reluctantly looked up to meet Russel’s gaze.

“How do I start?” He whispered.

“Little things,” Russel nodded behind 2D towards the drawn curtains, “Quit shutting life out. You’re playing in to your own fear.”

2D’s legs unfurled and settled towards the floor, and he ignored the part in his head that told him to notice the small splashing noises as his feet connected.

“I don’t…” 2D began to deny, then once more the honest answer emerged before he had time to reason with it, “…I don’t know if I trust anything alive anymore.”

“Do you trust me?”

“You ain’t here.”

“Not what I asked.”

2D nodded in acknowledgment, then swallowed.

“Always.”

“Open the curtains, D.”

He turned cautiously.

It seemed unlikely that two pieces of soaking wet fabric were doing so much to his psyche.

But he meant what he said. He trusted Russel.

He trusted Russel even when the curtains opened, and he noticed a tiny crack in the window where water was leaking through.

He trusted Russel when the tiny crack split and became a geyser, filling the room with black water and bringing his breathing to a premature stop.

And he trusted Russel when he felt the jaws of a whale close around him, and all the natural smells of rot and death engulfed him, and a kind of black he’d never seen before encapsulated his very being.

“Dents, wake up!”

2D needed little further encouragement as he re-entered reality with a cry, and cursed himself for having a degree of gratitude for Murdoc keeping him in bed to wake him up this time around. He attempted to sit up, but Murdoc held onto his shoulders tight, like he’d been shaking him for a while prior to 2D’s waking.

Murdoc’s eyes were cold and distant, but not in the usual dehumanising manner. This was fear.

“You’ve really done it this time.” Murdoc hissed.

“Whuzzat?”

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone. Does it never occur to you that you’re kept at a distance for everyone’s safety?”

The last word of Murdoc’s angry whisper woke 2D up at once.

“What’s happened?”

“You happened! It’s not listening anymore.” He released a hand from 2D to run it through its hair, which 2D only then realised was missing its hat, “It’s like her memory banks are all fucked up.”

Taking advantage of the new freedom of movement, 2D shuffled to prop himself up on his elbows and studied him.

He hadn’t seen Murdoc scared much in the past. Either Murdoc never had been, had hid it well, or 2D had provided some lurid reassurance that Murdoc had an element of control over any situation he was in.

He thought he’d enjoy seeing Murdoc afraid. But it was terrifying.

“What’s it doing?” 2D asked.

“Saying all sorts.” Murdoc explained hurriedly, “It’s like she’s…”

“…What?”

Murdoc swallowed, and his distant eyes focused on 2D, “You’re gonna see for yourself. Come on.”

“Hang on, what?”

Releasing his other hand from 2D’s shoulder, Murdoc took 2D’s hands and hauled him from the bed, like a child wanting a parent to check there weren’t monsters in the wardrobe. “This is all your fault, least you can do is help me fix it.”

The space through the open door looked pitch black, and 2D attempted to hesitate before trembling hands pushed him ahead.

“Where is it now?”

“Not a clue. Sent it on patrol, but I could hear it’s not on it's usual path.”

~

The faint overhead lights served as sparse solitary beacons as 2D trudged down the hall. His breaths were quiet and hidden, as if the act of breathing would give away his location, his status as a living being, to the island.

Such secrecy was unnecessary as every so often, behind him, a loud sniff or a grunt of impatience would sound.

“You need more lights.” 2D finally whispered.

“Funnily enough, I don’t tend to make a habit of wandering round here in the dark.”

It was a reasonable enough retort to not warrant anything further as 2D ascended the inconsistent spiral staircase. In the daytime its spray-painted finish did a lot to hide the mismatched heights and materials of each step. In near total darkness, however, every one was a new challenge, a new sensation, creaking or squelching or buckling forebodingly.

Murdoc sighed, clearly agitated for the slow pace 2D was travelling at, but stopped short at opting to lead.

“What we doing when we find it?” 2D asked as they mercifully reached the top, met with a similarly dank hallway.

“Leave that to me.” Murdoc said dismissively, “Just try and listen for once and it’ll all be hunky dory.”

“Sod off.”

“What’s that?”

Temper flaring, 2D forgot his own fear for long enough to spin around to face Murdoc, who marginally jumped at the sharp motion.

“I’m helping fix it, you said. So tell me what’s going on.”

“Above your pay grade.” Murdoc snarled, “Need I remind you that your curiosity is what caused this to begin with?”

“So blimmin tired of you actin’ so in control.”

Murdoc scoffed. “Well let’s hear your bright idea, then.”

A moment of thinking from 2D resulted in a shrug.

“I ain’t got one.”

“And the world collectively soils itself in shock.”

He flicked his hand forward a few times to indicate 2D should keep moving, but he held firm.

“I never have an idea.” He continued, the words slipping out without waiting for a safer or more appropriate setting, “I wasn’t the one meant to. That was your job.”

Murdoc straightened up and sneered, “Sounds like you got the far easier shake of things.”

“Except you ain’t got a clue either. You never did. You just say what you want and think that’s what being smart is.”

“Well right now you’re the one saying a lot. Too much, in fact.”

He attempted a hard shove to get 2D moving, but to both of their surprise, 2D parried it and returned with a shove of his own. Murdoc stumbled back, attempting to stabilise himself against the wall but tore his hand away with a little yelp, checking the cut that had been left from a plastic shard.

The men looked at each other, both tense and unsure of what to do next after the unfamiliar action.

“I used to think you were smart for knowing what you want.” 2D said, a quiet voice full of resentment. “But you ain’t.”

“Enough…”

“You know who actually knew how to do stuff?” 2D persisted, his voice raising gradually, “Russel. Noodle. Them albums were 90% them. They’re the ones that actually gave you everything, you were just mad that you couldn’t make them believe it was your doing.”

“Be quiet.” Murdoc hissed.

“And what happened? Noodle died. Russ might as well be dead to you. What the fuck made you think we could handle it just us two? Just you?”

Murdoc took a few long strides until his face was inches from 2D’s, but stopped short of physical contact.
“Shut. It.”

2D’s fists clenched, awaiting the first blow. He couldn’t take Murdoc in a physical fight, he’d learned that enough times. But a couple of good shots in would be enough to make him feel better, enough to feel like his point had gotten across.

Fighting, however, didn’t seem to be on Murdoc’s mind at all, as the close proximity now made clear where Murdoc’s eyes were. Wandering. Listening.

“Don’t you hear that?” Murdoc hushed.

Taking a moment to decide whether it was a ploy to let his guard down or not, 2D relented and re-focused his hearing to the general vicinity of the island.

The bangs and clangs of Point Nemo weren’t something he even noticed much anymore, and it was only when being told to focus on it that he noticed quite how loud it all was. It sounded like a constant car crash in slow motion, uneven collisions implying the island could fall apart at any moment.

Through the regular ambience, though, there were quiet bangs of an eerily even pace, gradually increasing in volume.

Footsteps approaching.

It’s gun was slung behind its back. Somehow, that made it appear even more threatening, hands clenching and unfurling like it was truly feeling them, understanding them, for the first time.

It didn’t appear to be malfunctioning. 2D knew what that looked like, as much as Murdoc tried to hide it. He had seen it sustain damage before, be powered down, had seen it overheat and burn out. He had seen it be oddly human in its mannerisms, excitement at the prospect of violence, confusion at a contradictory order, even panic, when Murdoc’s behaviour towards himself was interpreted as self-endangering.

This wasn’t any of that. It was neither a robot nor a human.

“Nothing—left—of the real—nothing—left—of—the plastic—all together—ending—‘till there’s—nothing!”

The words cut in and out harshly, bent and stitched together sentences with the entire compilation of Murdoc’s messages to work with.

2D took a step back, and felt two hands behind him, stopping him from retreating further.

It continued advancing and its eyes came into focus, where 2D noticed it was staring straight through him. Behind him.

“This is your fault!” It cried at him, in a complete enough statement that it only could’ve been a single message, “I’d still be alive if it wasn’t for you—no, I’m not, if I was you would’ve found me! You looked everywhere, didn’t you?—Stop crying, you’re lucky I’m dead.”

2D felt the hands on his back turn to fists, clutching fearfully at his shirt as its walking slowed.

“Could you imagine if I wasn’t?” It continued, “If I was still out there, after what you’d done? If I was you I’d never sleep again—you count your days, mate.”

“Keep her talking!” Murdoc cried, suddenly shoving 2D hard in its direction and turning away, “I need to switch her off at the motherboard!”

2D’s eyes were locked to it, not daring to turn back to him. “What if it hurts me?”

“Should be fine, sticks and stones!” Murdoc called back, his voice already heavily faded from the distance, “Not just me she’s meant to keep alive round here! Back in a tick!”

It’s focused drifted to 2D, and like it was confident its prey had been caught, stopped walking.

“Wipe that frown off your face, you clod!”

Fleeing wasn’t an option. It was faster, and far more capable of killing than he was at staying alive. He backed away until the safety of the light was above him.

“What are you—“ The cyborg asked, and for a moment 2D wished he could’ve been more sure of whether it was same tone as that of last night’s visit. But he wasn’t. It was all drugs and isolation and grief and dreams and it was all fake and it was all happening.

“Just… just calm down, alright?” He attempted, “Whatever’s going on, Murdoc’s gonna sort.”

Still retreating, his hand connected with the wall and he gasped, a sharp stab of pain shooting through the palm.

He looked at his hand. A cut, and for a moment, only a hole.

Blood waited a moment in surprise, before emerging belatedly. Not the same part of the wall Murdoc had cut his own hand on, the walls were just inundated with synthetic hazards.

“What are you—“ it repeated, unsatisfied with his first answer, “What are you— What are you—“

It continued on a loop as 2D looked at his bloodied hand, wondering if that would provide acceptable proof as to what he was. Though what did blood prove any more than oil and metal? Action proved who someone was, what something was, more than what was inside. Action and inaction.

“Murdoc made me.” He told it quietly, silencing its repeated demand, “I’m in his band, you are too. I’m meant to do what he says, like you. But I’m not all that good at it. You’re better. That’s why he likes you. Well that and you look like someone we used to know really well. Murdoc had proper big dreams for her, I think. Maybe the stuff he initially had for me before I didn’t pan out.”

It blinked, the lights in its eyes shutting off and on again as it processed.

“Who made—her?”

2D swallowed, which with his shortened breath came out as a small gulp.

“Nobody. She was finding pieces as she went along and making herself. Couple pieces from me, little bit from Murdoc, and a lot from this really wicked guy who was always making sure the bits were fitting right.”

“Where is—her?”

“She died.” He answered, then amended with a stammer, “Um, deactivated. Few years ago, now.”

“I am alive, just like you reckon.” It recalled, and though its tone was identical to the first time 2D heard it, it’s tilted head and cocked eyebrow made it sound far more questioning, “I’ll come back. I forgive you.”

“Yeah.” 2D whispered, unsure how to best explain it, how to make a long story short to something that only knew its own pieces of the story, “he’s hasn’t taken it great, I don’t think.”

It stood, computing, for a moment, then looked at his hand. They’d seen him bleed plenty, but none before had felt quite like a betrayal of intention like this time.

“Not a chance he’d have made it this far without you.” It said.

It stepped closer, towering over him while he was in his cowering status.

“I’m a—thing!” It spat, Murdoc’s final word coming out as a scream that shrunk 2D even further, “You’re a—thing! You—are nothing! I am—nothing!”

“I know!” 2D cried, “I know. We’re just things. The same thing.”

It regarded him again, but any elusion of curiosity or interest in its body language was absent. Instead, it almost looked offended.

“You can talk!”

A hand shot out and clamped down on 2D’s shoulder, gripping hard enough to immobilise but not quite hard enough to break.

He hissed and struggled, tilting back and forth to move away, but it was superficially strong and kept him still with what looked like no effort.

“You can talk!”

He watched it’s free hand rise, palm out in a grabbing motion and, still holding him still, move slowly towards his mouth. His eyes widened and flicked up to its respective artificial ones. They were focused on his abdomen as the hand looked ready to go entirely down the throat.

“You can talk!”

“Listen-“

“You can-”

The tiniest buzz sounded from within it. A little hum indicating a fan was slowing down.

It had a second of still standing, as if wondering what had just happened, before collapsing like a mannequin on top of him.

2D whimpered in fear and shuffled away from under it, it’s heavy weight incapacitating his foot for several moments.

The lights in its eyes were out as it lay as still as anything he’d seen. Only the faint light overhead provided the evidence that the eyes were still open, the head fallen in such a way that it appeared to still be watching him.

Taking a few more moments to verify it wasn’t getting back up, 2D finally scooted further away and found a safe enough spot on the wall to sit against.

It felt like a long time before Murdoc’s quick steps approached, hopping over 2D’s legs and making straight for the cyborg, crouching down and stroking its hair affectionately. The cut on his hand appeared to have stopped bleeding but was far from tended to, black and red encasing his hand with evidence of it on his trousers and boot.

“It was all just a bit much, wasn’t it.” He cooed. “Poor girl. It’ll be alright though. You can trust me.”

He sighed and stood, stretching his back and shoulders in preparation.

“Right,” Murdoc announced, “You take the legs, I got the arms.” He manoeuvred it partially upright and hooked his arms around its chest, doing a couple practise lifts to check the weight before shooting an annoyed look 2D’s way, “Well get a move on!”

Beyond the point of questioning him anymore, 2D crawled to his feet and took the legs, and with a couple of incomprehensible sounds from Murdoc that were likely some kind of count-off, they lifted, both expressing sounds of efforted surprise at the weight.

“I think it was gonna kill me.” 2D whispered as they began walking.

“Not a chance.” Murdoc dismissed. He was sensibly looking behind him to see where he was going. There was always a good reason to avoid 2D’s gaze.

“But…” Murdoc stopped and looked down at cyborg in his arms, verifying whether it might be capable of going haywire to such an extent. “…just in case…” He shrugged after a contemplative moment, “you know, you’re welcome. For saving you.”

~

“So the vocaliser is installed here.”

Murdoc’s finger circled a vague area around its abdomen, the dim light above the table doing little to aid 2D in discerning where in particular Murdoc was talking about. It seemed wholly un-scientific.

Both of their blood was on it. It looked like they had done something truly abhorrent. An old rag had been found and Murdoc had lazily strapped it around his hand to prevent further blood loss. 2D had considered pointing out the oil and other dirt that clearly caked it, but figured his own method of stopping his own bleeding - pressing his palm flat against his shirt - wasn’t likely to be much more sanitary.

It looked at peace, lying there. Murdoc was confident enough in his shut-off system to not deem tying it down necessary. Consequently, it lay with the fulfilled lifelessness of someone that had died, with a nonchalant, almost smug demeanour that came only with knowing that true death was impossible.

“Right ball-ache to get installed,” Murdoc continued, dragging a sleeve across his nose, “but ingeniously, I made sure it was a lot simpler to remove.”

Murdoc generally chose his words well to avoid vulnerability, but there was something that caught 2D’s attention.

“Did you reckon something like this would happen?” He mumbled, not taking his eyes off it.

There was a brief pause, and 2D assumed Murdoc was turning to him incredulously.

“No, genius, I told you, I was hoping to upgrade it soon anyway.”

He flicked at the gap in his teeth with annoyance. There was a chance he was letting his imagination run a little wild.

A small box was thrusted into his peripheral vision.

“Right, here’s the mark 1. Have a feel of it.”

Taking it hesitantly from Murdoc, 2D let it roll around in his hand. It was about the size of a ring box and deceivingly heavy, botched bits of soldering iron giving it a spiky exterior.

There was no literal speaker to be seen. It was reasonable that, without the box, removing that too was superfluous.

“That’s what you’ll be looking for.”

2D stopped mid-fondle and turned to Murdoc with a surprised blink.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Murdoc replied matter-of-factly, “This is why you were needed. Your spindly girl arms will get through the throat without a hitch.”

“You get it out through the mouth?!”

“You do.” Murdoc corrected, “And, yes. Opening her up risks a complete factory reset, and I’m not spending months teaching her the map of the island again.”

“Why can’t you?” 2D spluttered.

“Christ, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll hold your other hand if you’re that scared.”

“Don’t say I’m scared, when you’re clearly shitting it.”

He punctuated the penultimate word by hurling the voice-box at Murdoc, who swatted at it with irritation before stepping closer to 2D.

“What’ve I got to be scared of, mm?” He asked, tilting his head, “I made her, I installed it, I know her better than anyone. I’m the only one in the bloody world that isn’t scared of her!”

“Then you take it out!”

“I’m not taking her voice again!” Murdoc roared, a loud, echoed bellow that left the room feeling hollow.

Murdoc turned to face it’s prone body, afraid it might’ve understood, or at least heard in some way. He approached the table and looked over it, and gave small sigh that was only for him and it. And her.

“I’m not taking it again.”

2D could feel himself fading as the island called him once more, the rising of passive self-dehumanising to counter Murdoc’s affection for the artificial. The instinct to assume he could do little but await instructions.

Russel wouldn’t stand for that, something told him.

It was the last coherent thought he had before he stepped round the table to be at the Cyborg’s head.

Without a word, he tilted its head back and opened its mouth. There was little to give away its robotic internals up to that point.

Murdoc looked up at him, cleared his throat, and stepped back.

“Watch the teeth,” he advised with a sniff, “Sharper than they look.”

With a tense nod, 2D picked an arm and manoeuvred it inside.

“Sorry about this, old girl.” Murdoc cooed at it.

Almost instantly, 2D realised he hadn’t considered what he might be finding, and had to fight every instinctual muscle not to recoil.

“It’s so open.” He grimaced.

“What were you expecting, a functional windpipe?” Murdoc snipped.

Caught between needing to concentrate to find it quickly and imagining he was doing anything else, he pushed further, catching his hand on a bit of wiring and freezing.

He moved the wire a smidgen, checking the cyborg to see if it caused any sort of offline reaction. When it didn’t, he left the wire be and pressed on, before noticing his arm beginning to be encased with something.

“What is…” 2D kept his head still but his eyes flicked to Murdoc in horror, “…is this blood?”

Murdoc regarded him, stupefied.

“…Oil.”

“Oh.”

He blinked the paranoia away and continued searching. Without the standard internal system one would expect from a human, plus the angle 2D was caught in, perspective on how far to go was beginning to get difficult to decipher.

He noticed its wide eyes in his peripheral vision and jolted in surprise. Proving Murdoc’s warning was a fair one, its teeth snagged on his arm, leaving a cat scratch of a cut but nothing more.

“Too far!” Murdoc barked, “Struth, you’re not birthing a cow.”

“Piss off!”

He blew a bit of hair away from his eyes and tried to concentrate. He was between shoulder and bicep deep at this point, and was finding going backwards to be surprisingly more difficult than forwards.

“You’re doing a cracking job.” Murdoc murmured.

“Cheers.”

“Not you.”

Murdoc’s eyes were locked with it, a pained, apologetic expression embedded onto his face.

He considered whether it would know, in a hazy way, what had happened after, like coming to after surgery. An awareness that something was different, that a part of it had been removed.

He tried not to think about the possibility of it not liking that something had been removed.

On cue, his hand brushed against a small jewellery-box sized apparatus, connected close to the abdomen via what felt like a chunky plastic joint.

“Think I got it.” He said.

“Should be a John Guest fitting there, covering up some solder.” Murdoc instructed, “Should just be able to push the fitting to disconnect it, then rip it off at the solder.”

He’d recited it flatly, almost with disappointment. The guidance had likely been learned with a far more exciting reason in mind.

“I can’t just rip as is?” 2D checked.

“Shards of plastic rattling around where delicate machinery is doesn’t sound like my idea of a sound plan.”

Tiny, intricate hand movements weren’t typically his area of expertise. Instruments had been an exception, with their obvious indicators of where to put his hands and what to do with them, as well as the instant gratification of the emerging sounds. Tying, building, catching, most things that required hand-eye coordination, was left to others. And this time there weren’t even eyes to see.

Pushing the fitting took a few tries, a few slips and a few quiet curses, but eventually, with a simplicity that mocked his effort, the vocaliser slid from the fitting, hanging haphazardly with only the messy solder tethering it.

Murdoc must have seen 2D’s expression change, because like he could see through the cyborg to exactly what was going on, he moved on, “Nice quick pull, now. The old tablecloth trick.”

With a vague nod, 2D gripped the voice-box firm and counted down from three in his head.

“Really though,” Murdoc cut in quickly, “do watch those teeth when you come out. “She’ll have you if you’re not careful.”

2D took a deep breath and restarted the mental countdown. This time, however, he interrupted it himself.

“What could happen it I get it wrong?” He asked Murdoc.

“All sorts of nasty things.” Murdoc answered impatiently, “Could knock something out and shut her down for good, could accidentally trigger the emergency backup power…”

“Backup power?” 2D whispered in a panic, “Like, she could turn back on?”

“Mhmm. You think I’d risk losing her if some tsunami fries all the other electrics here? But that won’t happen in all likelihood. If you get it right first time.”

With a dry swallow, the count started once more.

“Almost done, love.” Murdoc told it gently, then remembered something and looked up, “before you go ahead and—“

The cyborg jolted, likely from the movement but in a way that looked like shock, as 2D’s arm retracted fast. As soon as it was free, he jumped away from it, shaking out his arm in pain and discomfort.

Murdoc stepped towards him, “You got it?”

His hand was trembling as he held it out for Murdoc to inspect. A more refined version of the box Murdoc had shown him earlier, covered in oil and blood.

Murdoc took it from him and inspected it for damage, leaving 2D still staring at his own hand. Blood and oil covered it similarly.

He’d just picked that hand because it was his dominant one. He hadn’t considered it had been the hand that was cut.

“There we go…”

Across the room, Murdoc had pulled it to a sitting position and was now hugging it tenderly.

“All better now. Nothing more to worry about.”

He rolled his hand around, watching the two liquids repel each other, resisting combining. He turned to see Murdoc planting a kiss softly on the top of its head.

“I’m sorry, love.” Murdoc hushed. “I’m sorry.”

~

“Bright and early tomorrow, we get started.” Murdoc declared.

He kept his eyes set on the horizon as he did so. He’d been silently looking out for a while, and if he was looking for something from it, he’d yet to find it.

“Got a lot to catch up on, we’re behind now after all this…” his tone rose as he searched for the most accurate summation. But gave up with a small shrug, “…all this.”

2D nodded, for purely his own benefit while Murdoc was preoccupied with the seascape.

An unexpected relief washed over him, relief that almost turned into gratitude. Working on the album was as close as life on the island got to normal. His thumb picked at the box of propranolol that had been allocated to him, which now sat in his pocket. Preventative, as opposed to reactive. It would do for a while.

“You alright?”

Murdoc smirked and took a little swig from his rum. There was only maybe three mouthfuls left.

“You mean that?”

“Whatcha mean do I mean it?” 2D snipped, “It’s a question.”

Murdoc nodded, and instead of answering, said, “You mean what you say a lot. Even when you haven’t a clue what you’re actually saying.”

Choosing words were difficult, he concurred internally, and thought about the note to Russel downstairs. In person, years of catching up wouldn’t have felt like enough. With a piece of A4 paper, and he had no idea what to say. He’d never been the strongest songwriter.

“There’s loads I don’t know.” 2D agreed, “Nothin wrong with admitting that, sometimes. That you don’t know, y’know.”

Murdoc’s eyes took a break from the view to roll dramatically, “And what possible benefit would that bring me?”

“Less people might think you’re a knob.” 2D started, “And… they’d be more willing to help you. Like, on purpose. Not on purpose, like…what’s it…”

“Voluntarily.”

“Yeah.”

Murdoc took a swig, two mouthfuls left. He opened his mouth to speak, then turned, deciding he’d rather look 2D in the eyes to instil his message.

“The trouble is, D, I don’t listen to you.” He said with what sounded like genuine remorse as if the act was beyond his control, “You’re for the rest of the world to listen to, mate. But not me.”

Another swig. One mouthful.

“I could get someone here that I might actually listen to. But I don’t think he’d tell me what I’d want to hear. I think… I don’t know of course, but I think, he’d tell me this was a terrible idea, that I was looking for the right thing in the wrong place. And he’d ask me to put a stop to it. Which is why he can’t be here. Not because he’ll rip my head off or any daft shite like that. Because I don’t trust myself not to listen. Because this Emperor would rather not know he’s been starkers the whole time. Thank you very much.”

He checked the bottle, then offered it to 2D with a cocked eyebrow. 2D shook his head.

Murdoc shrugged and tossed the bottle back to finish the rum with flair.

“See that?” He said, gesturing at a seagull cruising casually overhead, “Watch this.”

He pulled back the bottle, and hurled it vaguely in the seagull’s direction. It missed by a wide enough margin that the seagull didn’t even need to veer off course.

“Ah well,” he sighed, and turned to his other companion, “You wouldn’t have missed, would you? Not by a long shot.”

The cyborg was unresponsive verbally, but turned stiffly to look at him, spent a beat registering his comment, then returned its guarded stare to the ocean.

It had showed little shock or reaction at it’s voiceless reset, and perhaps that had been for the best. Murdoc’s sorrowful lamenting had come to an abrupt end once it had been reactivated, almost as if he’d had a reset of his own.

The only hint that Murdoc was still a little nervy around it was his lack of dismissal of 2D all day. Not to demean, or talk music, or talk at all. Just to have around.

“Feels like you and me are all that’s left of humanity, sometimes.” Murdoc mumbled, patting around in his pocket until he retrieved a cigarette pack.

2D’s eyes wavered slightly, noticing the bell of familiarity that was ringing. “You said that before.”

“Well I’m sorry some things bear thematic repetition.”

“No, not here.” 2D murmured distantly, “think it was when we got stranded in Lyme Regis.”

“Oh…” a small smile crept across Murdoc as the memory resurfaced, “that’s right.”

“Russ had to come pick us up because you crashed the moped.”

“You crashed that piece of shit, I’ll think you’ll find.” Murdoc said with a growing grin.

“You were driving.”

“And you grabbed the throttle!”

They shared a look, and for a second 2D was sitting on the floor of Murdoc’s stark living room again, plinking out the tunes he’d first thought of in the shop, humming melodies where words hadn’t yet been formed. Murdoc smoking, gazing out the window, making little reaction beyond the occasional, almost imperceptible nod.

He missed those days terribly, and for a brief moment, it looked like Murdoc missed it too.

Then Murdoc looked down at the beach he was standing on, then up at the endless sea, and shook the expression loose.

“You can have that walk tonight,” Murdoc said, the act of lighting the cigarette successfully making the statement seem more aloof, “need you sharp for tomorrow so let the sea have it. Have a shout, have a cry, have a tug, whatever your heart desires. Get whatever message you want out there into the world.”

He hadn’t checked if Murdoc had seen or read the letter he’d written to Russel, other matters had taken priority. If Murdoc had, he didn’t seem threatened or unnerved by it. The concept of a potentially dangerous and ultimately pointless attempt to connect with someone was perhaps an endeavour he understood more than most.

The words, ‘are you sure’ almost escaped 2D’s mouth, but he managed to prevent it, not wanting to tempt Murdoc into changing his mind.

“I’m glad you still think of me as a human.” He said instead.

Murdoc looked at him, eyebrow raised.

“You said it feels like we’re the last of humanity.” 2D clarified.

“Ah.” Murdoc sounded, then chuckled, a quiet and tired chuckle. “You’re far too irritating to be anything other than human.”

The Sharpie was getting faint. That was understandable, it was miraculous it had been able to function for three different sheets of paper. The final letter took half a dozen goes over for it to be legible, but 2D was satisfied as he looked over it. It was messy, only semi-coherent and didn’t have much of a point. It was the most human he’d felt in a long time.

It was the last one he’d be able to send until more undamaged materials washed up ashore. Even then, he didn’t think there was much more to say.

He rolled it up, popped it in the Fanta Z bottle, and tucked it into his jeans just in time for the door to chirp a familiar monotone melody.

It opened, and the cyborg stood, not seeing the necessity in crossing over the threshold to his room.

He stood, patted himself down and nodded at it. It’s head lowered, a single nod as a response.

The walk felt like a longer one than last time. He looked more out to the sea than he had done in recent walks. The most remote location in the world meant not much in the way of landmarks to decide what direction would be best to start the bottle's journey.

He walked close to the sea, closer than normal. Eventually he stopped, deciding that if fate and fortune was handling most of his plan, it wouldn’t mind also looking after the very start of the note’s journey either.

He considered the automaton behind him as he retrieved the bottle, hesitating as he wondered what its reaction would be to chucking a miscellaneous item out to sea.

The plastic bottle was caught against a sudden gust of wind, and his insecure hands provided too little security, as the bottle flew free and rolled across the shore, stopping against the cyborg’s foot.

It looked down, considering the item’s uniqueness amongst the other rubbish that the beach comprised of.

2D swallowed, and took a step towards it.

It ignored his approach and bent down and picked it up, turning it over in its hand several times.

He took another cautious step forward. “Remember that?”

It looked up at him. It almost looked surprised.

A solemn realisation hit him that it might not. A reset was likely exactly what it sounded like, with no reason to hold onto moments of non-urgency. To the cyborg it was just another thing that made up the island.

It spun the bottle so that it was wielding the bottle by the neck, and reached up towards his head.

Lightly, close to playfully, it thwacked the bottle against 2D’s head.

He exhaled and smiled, “Yeah.”

Still holding the bottle out, it’s eyes honed in on the note rolled up inside. Human pragmatics were likely still somewhat of a mystery to it, so it was probably wondering what a piece of paper was doing in it in the first place.

“It’s a note.” 2D heard himself answer, “Just a message to an old friend. Saying y’alright, basically.”

It looked at him quizzically.

If it remembered the bottle, that meant it likely remembered its ability to communicate. From its perspective, Murdoc was the only real human, real anything, on the island. Everything else was a thing he made, 2D included.

But of all of it, only 2D had the ability to communicate.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s head tilted with a naive curiosity. That was fair enough, he reasoned internally. He wasn’t quite sure why he said it either.

After another half-moment to process, the cyborg lowered the bottle to his hand and, after a moment of unsureness, he took it.

“Cheers.”

He turned to the sea, attempting to work out with no possible reference, which direction would be best for reaching Russel.

Settling on a vague left-ish direction, he wheeled back his arm and hurled the bottle with a grunt.

With an underwhelming splish, it landed about 10 metres out to sea. 2D watched it intently for a little while, his gaze only broken when there was a nudge at his side. He turned to see it looking up at him.

“Wanna make sure it’s not just gonna come back.” He explained.

It seemed to understand that, because it turned to the bottle in the water, watching just as closely.

They remained observing for maybe longer than was necessary, but with his poor eyesight and its lack of affirmation as to whether the bottle was coming or going, it was proving difficult to be certain.

Eventually though, both appeared simultaneously satisfied, and resumed the walk without another word or looking back.

‘Dear Russ,

There’s a 1 in 7 billion chance you get this, but it sort of doesn’t matter either way. I hope you’ve been doing alright. I feel like you became part of all this as a distraction from the bad shit, only for a bunch of more bad shit to happen. Not gonna lie, bad shit’s still happening. You’ll probably find out about it all eventually. But in case this gets to you after it’s all come out, I just wanted you to know it was really sick knowing you and being your mate. I dunno for sure but I think you’re doing what Noodle would’ve wanted, getting away from it all and just being alive, I think. And if you get this before you hear about what we’ve been doing and then it all goes public, don’t come. Honest. Save yourself. You’ve had enough weird stuff happen for one life.

2D.

PS. If you’re ever back in Bristol, check out The Moon and Stars like you promised you would, I swear it’s wicked. If the fit redhead’s still behind the bar, just go and ask her for 2D’s regular, she’ll give you a whole glass of ice for free, it’s really sound. See you later.’

It drifted aimlessly, unsure of its own direction.

A message to send, but unaware of its recipient.

It had been asked to do too much. If it knew how to be, it would’ve be worried.

But it didn’t need to be. A kindly whale emerged and brought its journey to a premature end, swallowing it whole like the ocean’s personal caretaker. Maybe this was Russel.

It was the life of the artificial, destined to do the bidding of that of the living, doomed to end by the hands of another living who deemed it's orders dangerous or superfluous.

But it had provided hope. Some kind of reassurance. The ability to link one living thing to another.

And in that sense, it had served it's purpose well.