So, here I am, making my first serious fanfiction! Gorillaz to be exact. This little beauty is the brainchild of summer loneliness, but it shall continue! Much love to those who follow it!

2-D: Ey, Muds! She's finally postin' dat story 'bout us!

Murdoc: Really, that dodgy piece o' crap? I thought I deleted it…Mmmm…

Disclaimer: I don't own Gorillaz, though I do claim photojournalist Miss Susan Harrison and her naïve mind. Nor do I own Stuart '2-D' Pot-Tusspot or Murdoc Alphonce Faust Niccals. They just do the commentary from over my shoulder.

AN: The timeline is a bit dodgy. Here are the specific Phases of each Gorillaz Member: Noodle-2, Murdoc-1, Russel-1, 2D-midway between 2 and 3. All albums but The Fall have been released. The Gorillaz still reside in Kong Studio, with Plastic Beach as their secondary Studio. I probably won't mention Cyborg, as she isn't really one of my favorite topics. OCs are welcome and will be put into consideration if you are willing to PM me some details. International musicians are nothing without their crazed fans!

Without further ado, may I present Gorillaz: Styrofoam and Zombies!

{KONG}….{KONG}

Kong Studio was a giant in repose, larger than life atop its cemetery hill, awaiting its own destruction at Time's hand. The gates barred entrance although a road-worn blue Volvo stood just outside, nervous and impatient: a butterfly at the lip of a robin's nest. Young photojournalist Susan Harrison sat at the wheel, tinted green and beaded with cold sweat, hunched and weary, her brown hair stringy and limp in her tired eyes as she pressed her brow to the cool faux-leather of the horn. Evidence of her regurgitated breakfast pooled on the thin line of her lower lip. She wasn't ready for this.

Her usually pristine appearance was soiled in light of her newest assignment. The cap-sleeved white shirt, wrinkled. Her calf-length black skirt, hitched to her knees and damp with the perspiration that fell to her lap. Even her stockings were askew, buckled about her ankles from nerve-induced twitching. She's long since abandoned her stylish heels, which lay in the passenger seat with the fast food napkins she'd run over her tongue after ralphing three blocks away. This wasn't her cup of coffee. She interviewed business executives, CEO's, entrepreneurs, and the like. Not musicians. Certainly not these musicians; not the Gorillaz. Business needed a lift, though, and that certainly wasn't going to be a product of Susan lifting her skirt. Miss Harrison was not that kind of woman. She'd taken this assignment unknowing, a babe to the beat that the Gorillaz laid on the radio. She'd never heard a sodding song of theirs in her life. It'd seemed easy at the time: interview a half-conscious group of druggies and binge drinkers for a few weeks, snap a couple dozen pictures, get some autographs to make it count, and be on her way. Then she listened to the new album. It was only out of curiosity. But, as the tired old saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. Now the Gorillaz were going to kill Susan Harrison.

Susan raised her head, her gaze lagging behind until she found herself tracing the four letters on the busted-up gates with russet brown eyes. She'd read up on their background: Murdoc's criminal record, 2-D's medical reports, Noodle's Fed-Ex forms, Russel's school files. They were nowhere near the type Susan usually mingled with. And she'd be spending a week or two here! Panic struck her chest again, her lithe fingers scrambling for the button on her door, barely waiting for the window to hum its way down before hanging her head out, dry heaves wracking her supple frame. Pathetic, really, the way she trembled and shook. At least she wouldn't have to endure the humiliation of soiling their already questionable looking driveway with her stomach contents, seeing as nothing came up. Sweet exhaustion overtook her, numbing the pain and panic until she could care less. Her hand found the window control on its own, the hum seeming thunderous to her ears as the glass rose. Susan had a job to do. Fumbling in a thoughtless haze, numb and without emotion, she slipped her black heels over stockings she'd begun to straighten. Her top and skirt received the same treatment, long-fingered hands running over them until the creases disappeared, plain yet neat nails picking away the occasional crumb or clasp. No time for mistakes. If she was going to suffer, she may as well impress while enduring it all. Thin strands of sable hair were tucked behind her ears, though a small lock of it all remained in her view, at the very edge of her right eye. Her 'feeler' as those at the workspace often called it. When typing her latest article, she could often be found chewing at it, a habit borne in childhood after being weaned of her pacifier. A tremulous shudder passed over her, and with a metallic grinding, pop, and squeal, the gates of Kong Studio opened.

Undefended, the cursed shelter seemed on the offence. Its presence was even more shocking now that the driveway up to it was available. The tombstones beyond made traversing the path all the more formidable, and it remained a nerve-wracking play of gas and break before the hill was reached. From there, a simple yet steep curving stretch of asphalt greeted the Volvo's wheels, leading round the hill, up to the dilapidated carpark. Not wanting to seem obtrusive, Susan parked beside the ill-used basketball hoop just outside the carpark entrance and immediately noticed the wreckage inside via a lifted door. Scrap metal, bumpers and fenders cluttered the doorway, a haphazard path forged in the midst of it like a river in a canyon. It must have served as their usual entryway, but beyond what daylight touched, Susan could see no other light source that would have aided them. Neither was it guarded. It really was hardly surprising, as only a fool (or a fan) would attempt to pass Kong Gates.

Susan stepped out of her car on wary feet, nimbly avoiding several deflated basketballs, one of which still held a threatening switchblade knife in its rubbery hide. A frightening image of Murdoc Niccals came to mind, armed and easily angered, as per usual. Prompted by her own imagination, Susan was sure to leave the car door unlocked. Better safe than sorry.

"Yo," a voice rumbled, not far. It was gentle, genuinely inquisitive, in stark contrast to Susan's surroundings. She turned quickly, agile even if frightened; fingers knitted together in a single mass and held before her chest, as if she were pleading like a small child. However, when she caught sight of the speaker, she was relieved to see Russel Hobbs, allegedly the gentleman of the Gorillaz. He studied her with blank eyes, remaining planted at the edge of the building a distance away. From the looks of the faded white tee and baggy housepants, he'd either woken not too long ago or just didn't plan on going anywhere today. Susan had the vague impression it was both. It was only just after ten in the morning. This was the crack of dawn for most big-shot musicians, and apparently the Gorillaz were no exception.

"You the lady from the magazine, ri'? Susan?"

Still finding her voice, Susan nodded firmly. A few hesitant steps away from her car led her onto yellowing grass just off the asphalt and into a handshake with her newfound host. An encouraging smile lit his face, the kind a doting uncle would give his shy niece. "I'm Russ. Noodle said it'd be best for me to meet you first, 'fore Muds gets up." Susan forced the politest smile she could, highly intimidated and at a loss as she was unable to look directly into his eerie eyes yet he was so large it was impossible to look past him. The situation remained unresolved though, because it was only a second later that he turned his back on her and led her to the official front entrance, rarely used by the Gorillaz themselves. Susan edged around rain-gorged cigarette butts and the occasional shard of broken beer bottle, but otherwise, there was little to indicate they'd even step foot on the concrete porch. The beige double doors lacked the stains and anger-induced dents Susan expected, though once she entered the ground floor lobby, they could be found them on every other door in sight. The front desk was littered with assorted bottles and cans, ash and more cigarette butts. A small stack of spiral bound notebooks sat foremost on the raised bar, surrounded by countless black and blue Bic pens.

Russel saw her taking inventory of the lobby as he called the lift and smirked. "That's all D's stuff… and some of Muds. They collaborate a lot." Susan nodded vaguely, reluctant to tear her gaze away from the mound of information. Maybe she'd just worked herself into a fit. Sure, it wouldn't be the first time a journalist fell for the tough guy front so many bands put up, like they were dangerous and fierce, something that couldn't be tamed into sitting down for a civil event like an interview. If everything was as innocent as those notebooks, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

"Usually 2-D and Noodle set up chores for us to do, but with everything going on…" Russel shrugged, an apology on his face. "We haven't been the most coordinated, y'know?" Susan shrugged back, more of an 'oh, well' than anything. The flickering neon sign over the lift caught her eye.

It's Coming Up

Then, just below it, unlit…

It's There

Appreciating the joke, Susan chuckled into her hand as the lighting changed, both signs now bright. Russel cracked a smile. "You like that, huh? Noodle gets a kick out of it." She didn't have a chance to reply before the lift opened and Russel waved her inside. The small space was just enough for the two of them, though it seemed impossible at first glance considering Russel's bullish form. He stood to one side, reaching out with skilled hands to press the worn button to the third floor. Susan couldn't help but notice the amber-like stain of alcohol (beer, most likely) on the control panel, and another thought of a riled Murdoc came to mind. Was it really all in her head? "It won't be long," Russel commented, though what he was referring to, Susan wasn't sure. She stood in silence as the lift rose, a short ride to the third floor that opened to an unusual sight.

The lift was located in the third floor lobby, which had been converted into a sort of living/rec room. As expected, it was cluttered with stained secondhand furniture and litter common to those who rarely get visitors. A large flat screen sat upon a wide entertainment center, which housed systems like an Atari and Nintendo 64 behind glass doors smudged with fingerprints but surprisingly unbroken. A questionable pile of clothes remained draped haphazardly over the longer side of the L-couch, bringing to mind the possibilities of the band's late night adventures. But this wasn't the unusual sight aforementioned.

Among the clutter and confusion, someone had been attempting to clean. That someone happened to walk by the lift at the exact moment it opened, arms laden with crushed cans, fast food wrappers, and long-necked bottles half filled with lukewarm beer. 2-D paused mid-step, leg still raised high. Susan was unsure if she should avert her eyes and allow 2-D proper respect by not staring. Like Russel, he appeared to have just woken less than an hour ago, but he remained less prepared for her presence. The erratic spikes of his cobalt hair usually stood numbered from five to eight at most; however, they multiplied tenfold first thing in the morning, giving him a child-like quality. The dark circles ringing his fathomless eyes was not as prominent as Susan had seen on the various album covers she'd looked over in the mall, showing that he must have had some kind of sleep. Unlike Russel, though, 2-D's sleepwear consisted of a pair of faded grey housepants and threadbare army regulation socks, leaving his thin chest exposed for all to see. This would have been considered normal for any man, but upon first meeting 2-D, Susan felt intrusive.

"D, what're you doin' up so early?" Russel inquired, an arm coming to rest against the door of the lift to keep it from closing. Recovering from his initial shock, the young pianist put his foot to the ground, wide eyes daunting in close proximity. Susan noted with humor the slight whistle in his voice as he spoke. "Been cleaning," he stated, looking down at the litter in his arms as if to make sure it truly was what he was doing. After a slow moment, he glanced back up at his drummer. "I wan'ed to clean 'fore the newspaper lady got 'ere." Russel sighed, lowering his head a touch as 2-D blinked rapidly, now taking notice of Susan. "Who's the bird?" he inquired, oblivious.

"This is Susan Harrison, D."

The perplexed youth bounced on his heels, mulling it over before tucking enough cans beneath his chin to free his right hand and reaching out in what was meant to be a welcoming handshake. The fact that his longest finger came centimeters short of Susan's face made it a bit unnerving. None the less, Susan took it and put on her 'proper' smile in light of her embarrassment. Russel, seeing that 2-D was missing the big picture, continued. "She's from the paper."

2-D's hand stopped short, just as he had when the lift had opened. Everything he held fell to the floor. In a flash, he left Susan's grip and darted down the hall with the small hurried steps of a child with its pants round its ankles, wailing in humiliation as he went. Most of it was a jumbled mess of swears and curses; only the last cry of "I'm not even dressed, Russ!" was intelligible. A distant door slammed and echoed in their newfound silence. "I'm sorry, Miss Harrison," Russel followed her out of the lift, cringing as she made the effort to step around the mess. "I checked on him before I came down to meet you. He was dead to the world at the time."

"No, Russel, it's not a problem. If I'm going to be staying here, I'm going to have to conform to the daily routine of the Gorillaz, aren't I?" Russel snorted, a soft chuckle rising from his large chest as the lift doors closed. "Daily routine? Naw, we just do what we do when we feel like it." He reached across the back of the L-couch to remove the clothing, offering her a seat. Susan took it gratefully, trying to take up as little space as possible while Russel scooped up 2-D's abandoned mess in a huge hand. "Stuart seems pleasant enough. To be honest, I was rather nervous about coming here." Stopping by the rubbish bin, Russel's brow creased and then relaxed as he let out a much louder laugh. "You mean D? Yeah, that's him: all six foot two of him. He's pleasant enough when he wants to be. The whole tough front is an act to look more like Murdoc. He kinda idolizes him, ya know?" He returned with a large garbage bag, sweeping the low coffee table clear with a stroke of his arm. "Don't let him hear you call him Stuart, though. He's 2-D now, sometimes Stu-Pot, but never Stuart."

Biting her lip, Susan suddenly grasped the gravity of some of her choices. These people didn't want the professional photojournalist Miss Susan Harrison. So far, that's only led to fright and embarrassment. She could only hope that the rest of the day would work out more in her favor. "Susan? Are you okay?" Russel paused in the middle of deducing which cigarette packs were abandoned and which were empty, peering at their guest with those eerie eyes. Thankfully, Susan was able to look into them to give her brief smile, if only for a second. "Just a bit out of place is all," she replied, hands on her knees as she spoke. Russel nodded slowly, though he didn't quite understand. Maybe it was a woman thing.

"Just wait you meet Noodle. I have a feeling you'll be good friends." He gave a reassuring nod before wandering down the hall in search of a broom, leaving Susan to her thoughts. Whether or not this was right, they'd both soon find out.

{KONG….{KONG}

So, how'd it go? Good enough to continue?

2-D: I fought it was pre'y good. Wu'd yew fink, Mu'doc?

Murdoc: …Pretty good, I suppose…Mggmmm…I'm not in it yet, so whud yew expect?

Comments and reviews are appreciated! Much Love!