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Dark, Dark Streets

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In a certain city in England, the buildings climbed into the misty gray heights. The rain fell often, but its morose drizzle hardly served to wash away the grime and crime that filled this place. Brightly-covered graffiti was scrawled on the walls of alleys, on boarded-up storefronts, even on the sides of gutted cars bereft of their wheels. These hieroglyphics of the vagrant youth ran headlong into artistic designs on the dirty brickwork; everything from cryptic doodles to brilliant street art shared their space with obscenities and mysterious messages. Did this defacing of a doorway mean that a gang had taken up residence? Did it mean that someone lay dead within? Did it actually mean anything at all?

This was of distant concern to the 24-year-old Japanese woman walking down the sidewalk. She seemed to be concerned only with the careful carrying of her guitar case, and with whatever she found intensely fascinating with every seam and crack in the sidewalk.

Such pedestrian intrigue was barely an inkling of all going on in Noodle's head. She was counting off the rhythm in her steps, putting notes to every noise she heard, trying to make it all into a song. Such a song might help bring new success to Gorillaz. It probably wouldn't, and she was very honest with herself in admitting that the days of one-bandmate albums was over. They would have to all pull together, and that was not going to be easy. She had to find some day to deal with their resident Satanist, bully, and self-destructive wackaloon, a trifecta of nastiness which all crossed paths in their bassist and bandleader: Murdoc Niccals.

Stu "2-D" Pot and the truly gigantic presence in rock and roll known as Russel were alright, but unless their recording company superiors miraculously chose to stop wearing their own asses as hats, no amount of Noodle's newfound skill for bollocking and negotiation was going to work. Although, there had been some progress when she tried her hand at BDSM - Murdoc was so genuinely frightened of her use of a whip that he had agreed to leave the god damned seat down when he was done with the bathroom. That was something which had once been thought unachievable by God and mankind: making Murdoc Niccals show consideration where he had not gotten a wild hair up his ass to do so of his own volition.

That left their honorary bandmate-cum-Christmas tree ornament, Cyborg. Noodle had shown her the mercy of leaving her head and, thus, her vital computing systems intact. She had mostly intended to make her suffer through the agony of such an arrogant bitch depending on the kindness of her despised template. Yes, Noodle took care of Cyborg, and not Murdoc, because he would inevitably try to stick his dick in her mouth, and get it bitten off. Murdoc was enough of a headache, sans the idea of him going absolutely and irreversibly crackers in the absence of his eternally within-armsreach companion.

However, with her secret-but not secret expertise in cybernetics, Noodle had managed to find out why Cyborg had tried to kill Murdoc. Yes, as a matter of fact, the wanker had gotten a few very bad wires to cross, crossed. His miswiring of Cyborg's artificial neurons had caused her mind to degenerate, until she identified everything as an enemy to Murdoc, and thus, a target. When she recognized that Murdoc's lifestyle was destroying him, she was all too happy to pencil him as his own worst enemy, and thus, get ready to fill him with lead. Cyborg had been roughly one-hundred pounds of pure sin, and Noodle was, quite frankly, proud of how the nutbar had done. Even with how she attempted to kill Murdoc.

Especially with how she tried to kill Murdoc, perhaps?

That was debatable.

And wouldn't you know it? Right when Noodle was in the middle of a good contemplation binge, a trio of hooligans showed up with their intentions evident. As soon as one opened his mouth, he became the primary target. With a lunge, Noodle planted her knee square in his groin, and proceeded to deliver a knifehand with her non-guitar case-carrying arm to both his jugular and eyes. He was just a twitching mess on the ground in under a minute.

Noodle pointed at him. "Uzai, uzai," she muttered. "Here's a tip: don't reveal yourself unless you know the odds, because it would take ten of you bakame to even approach a fair fight." Suddenly, she braced her hand on the broad end of her guitar case, and spun around to thrust the narrower end into the approximate location of another hooligan's left kidney. It gave a good, satisfying crunch as his hip was knocked, and he dropped like so many bricks. He would probably be pissing blood for a while; as if the shits that Noodle gave weren't negligible.

She pointed to the fat hooligan with a fauxhawk. "You. Buta. Run off. I don't have time to make an example of you, too." As she turned to walk off, he was already running, screaming for dear life, tripping all over his damn baggy jeans.

Oh, the trials a young woman in England had to go through just to get a proper cup of green tea.