She and Them

"Catch the ball, y'stupid shit!"

Thump!

His gritty laugh sliced through the chilly winds of the graveyard, a most unusual location for games and the like, but then again, Murdoc Niccals was a most unusual man. The land was his, and his alone, or so he liked to think when barking about orders to the sub-creatures he shared it with, but it was Russel Hobbs who footed the bill when it came to the fundamentals (rather difficult to record music when the power was cut). Yes, Murdoc's name was on the deed, but it was hardly anything to be jealous about.

The land was cursed, after all.

A desecrated plot of filth none in their right mind would want, but he had assured them all that a private place of their own would do them a bit of good during their recording sessions. It even came with built in security (Russel and the gangling space case had found out the hard way, both wedged into the washroom with not much to do but awkwardly introduce themselves and survive until dawn. A sweet and anxious boy, that Stuart Pot, but Russel had begun to debate if his immaturity was due to his fresh escape from his teen years, or a short circuit from his double car accident. One couldn't be too sure).

They stood in a space that wasn't completely dominated by tombstones and mausoleums, though they still minded their steps about the jagged rocks and patches of clotted dirt. It was Russel who had suggested they take the opportunity to enjoy the semi clear weather and breathe semi fresh air (the landfill that sat behind their building was a bit less fragrant this afternoon) before the safety lock down began. To practice relentlessly would only result in burnout, he swore, and so after a brief argument that ended with Murdoc trading his bass for a beer, Russel returned to the recording studio with a football in his hands. American football, mind you.

Rules were simple enough to explain.

The humor was in the action.

Murdoc had caught on well enough, even provided a decent throw and tackle, but Stuart was a mess of limbs and uncoordination, often, if not constantly tripping over anything in his path. His head seemed to be a decent target. It hardly mattered how long his arms could reach. He simply couldn't catch.

It provided fantastic entertainment, if not a collection of building migraines. Yes, Russel agreed, this is what they needed. To bond and understand each other. To build their strengths and understand their weaknesses.

Reminds me of home.

His eyes gazed over the two fools doing their best to successfully aim a pass, nodding to the voice in his head.

"Yeah...it does."

What about the kid?

Brows lifting, his focus trailed toward the child sitting along a worn and torn tombstone, watching them curiously. Silently.

She studied them as if robotic in nature, processing their every movement, their every sound, their every habit. She neither smiled nor frowned, but simply blinked every so often, eyes lingering on one before jumping to the other. She was an odd child in every sense of the word, uninterested in the toys they had provided her or the cartoons they put on. She would simply nod or analyze, examining from every angle before displaying it somewhere, as if unsure what was expected of her.

Her only interest ever seemed to be in her guitar.

Strumming, plucking, tuning, hammering.

The one object that had come along with a tiny human attached, express shipping to one, Kong Studios.

It had been oh so surreal, but granted they dealt with hell on earth every night, who was he to say?

One would think someone would be missing their child and want them back, even if she had been answering Murdoc's flier.

Murdoc had been quick to dismiss the child all together, ready to phone up the authorities with someone's idea of a sick joke until she lifted her guitar through all the popcorn filling and began to play. The phone had clicked back onto the receiver, and Murdoc weighed his options. They would put up fliers...the reverse of missing milk carton, we found your lost kid kind...until someone claimed her. Until then, they would provide housing as the good Samaritans and explore her musical talents. It was all very clean and noble.

Stuart bought it.

Russel didn't.

People didn't take such fliers seriously, and none seemed to be missing a small Asian child who spoke fluent...Japanese, it seemed...but not a word of English. Or rather, a single word of English.

Noodle.

And with nothing else to identify her by, Stuart began the habit of addressing her as such. It seemed to be the only thing she responded to.

Three grown men with no children of their own saddled with a bizarrely talented child, undocumented and untraceable. It was like a game to Murdoc, a dark game of the underground world where unique and one of a kind tools were traded and dealt, a game right up his alley. It took constant assurance that what they were doing was not wrong, but in fact, an absolute charity to this orphan child with no home and no words to communicate how she felt in this grand unforgiving world. She wasn't going to be tormented or abused. She wasn't a subject of study. She was simply...paying her rent. With music. That they would sell and make real money from. Clean and noble, Russ. Clean and noble.

But there was something...unusual about the child, aside from how she had inducted herself into their lives.

She didn't act like a child.

She didn't play.

She didn't laugh.

She didn't explore the way a child did, viewing the world with eyes of wonder.

She analyzed. She examined. She cataloged.

It just wasn't right.

Where was she from? What had she seen? What had been done?

Murdoc had merely shrugged, admitting most childhoods contained hardships, his included, and said nothing more on the matter. Her story was her own to tell, whenever she got around to learning the language and telling it. As long as she played the music he wrote, she could've played with her toes for all he cared.

Stuart felt differently.

And that in itself was rather unusual, as he often simply agreed with whatever Murdoc dictated, but in the privacy of the kitchen, when the child was in her room and Murdoc was down below, Stuart shared his unsettled feelings about the girl, eerie and uncomfortable. "She looks at me like...like...I dunno. Like she's plannin' t'hurt me." he shivered, peering over his shoulder one evening before dinner.

"Maybe it's your eyes. They throwin' her off." Russel suggested as he chopped the onions for their chicken wraps, and arched a brow when the young man gently touched his cheeks just under the sockets. "Y'...Y'fink I scare her?" he uttered softly, and Russel paused for the moment, scraping the onions off the board into the pan.

"Nah. She looks like a tough kid. Prolly on the defense. I wouldn't know what to think in her situation. Some weird shit. She's prolly just tryin' to make sense of all of it."

"I'd be cryin'."

"Yeah, well...it don't take much." the American chuckled, glancing up curiously when Stuart leaned in a tiny bit closer, looming over him eerily so.

"...Y'don't 'fink dat's weird? Dat she never cries?"

Stuart Pot was many things, but observant hadn't been a thought that came to mind when describing him. That dinner had been one of careful bites and thoughtful chews.

And Russel's conclusion had been the same.

She never cried. She never laughed. It was weird.

But a child was a child, regardless of how un-childlike they had become, and if they were going to work together, be together, live together...they all had to bond.

She needs kids to play with, man.

"None around here." Russel muttered, knowing either truth wasn't going to provide him with any possibilities.

Look at you, playin' big brother. You ain't changed a bit.

His heavy brows knit, not bothering to question the insinuation of the occupant of his mind, but merely assumed nothing personal was intimately personal anymore. Rubbing his massive hand along his head, Russel hooked his palm along his neck, watching the child still observant and still.

"Hey, kid." he called, but his voice went unheard in the entertainment value the other two were providing her.

"Noodle." he tried, and she broke from her spell, round dark eyes peering at him in attention.

He took a few steps toward her, unsure of how to communicate his intentions, and so he squatted a bit, pointing over to the other two, curving the palm of his hand as if holding the ball, "You wanna play?"

She gazed at him stoically just as he assumed she would. Inhaling deeply, he stretched to his full height and clutched her elbow, guiding her back up and off the stone she had been seated on. She allowed him to lead her toward the others, always quick to follow the orders of her elders. Another odd trait.

"I 'fink I need t'sit down a minute." Stuart whimpered, pressing his thumbs along his temples.

"Wull, maybe if you didn't catch the ball with your face, you'd be in better shape. Game's fun, Russ. Makes for good target practice." Murdoc chuckled, spinning the football in his hands as he eyed the child.

Placing a hand on her head, Russel ticked his eyes down at her, "I'mma toss the ball around with her for a minute. Kid's just been sittin' around, bored."

Spinning the ball to Russel, Murdoc shrugged, "Suit yourself. She was fine. Not a peep."

"That's not normal, man. Kids are loud. Usually if they don't wanna play outside, they wanna read, or play video games or somethin'. She don't do any of that."

"S'what I was sayin'..." Stuart muttered under his breath, avoiding eye contact with the bassist as he sat on a nearby gravestone. His palm tucked into his right socket, spying on the child who spied back, unwaveringly so.

She always seemed to have a lackluster look to her eyes, simply taking in all she could to process, but at the moment, she seemed very in tune with him in the here and now. It gave him chills...the kind that crawled down his spine and gathered in his lower back until he could rub them away, and just as he was about to, she took a step forward. It briefly startled him before she took another, and another, and in seconds, she was standing directly in front of him, and he blinked awkwardly at her close proximity.

"Erm...hi."

She made no acknowledgment, but she had caught the attention of the other two, both quiet as her eyes focused on the piano man's, unblinking and eerie.

And just as he was about to lean back, her small hands clapped at his jaw, gripping firmly and locking him in place, a startled victim in her strange and unusual actions. She rocked his head from side to side, his brows pressed in confusion before her elbows snapped left to right, taking his head along with them. The crack was startling and loud enough that even Murdoc jumped, unsure if he had just witnessed a murder on his own property, but 2D's heightened scream assured them all that he was still breathing, at least.

Yanking away from her, the young man clutched at his head and neck, his hyperventilation shaking throughout his body as his teeth chattered, unable to process what she had done, or why. The crack had been unsettling, frightening, and traumatic all at once, sending a shock down his spine into his pelvis and...and…

Brows slowly knitting, Stuart twisted his head from side to side as Russel remained in shock, thoughts frozen in place.

What what wrong with this kid?

Had 2D been right in his unjustified fear of her?

"What the fuck–"

"Kid, what did you do–"

Her arms crossed before her, ignoring the others as she maintained her interest on the youngest of the men, watching as he rotated his head all around and finally stopped, hand resting gently on his neck, "...My migraine's gone."

"That'll happen with a near death experience." Murdoc scoffed, but Stuart shook his head slowly, pressing along where the pain was. Had been. It was gone. And in fact, the whole of his head felt light and airy. Free and limber.

"No, I...I feel great. Like I 'fink at first it was just fuckin' terrifyin' but...right now? I feel good." he huffed, hands curved over his shoulders, elbows tucked against his gut. The girl was still observing him, still quiet, still stoic. "How did y'do that? That was insane. Y'coulda killed me!" he squeaked, but nearly shuffled backwards off of the stone when she reached out once more, hugging protectively at his own neck, "N-No, no! I'm good! See? Good! No pain! Y'did a good job!"

She did not appear amused as her focus narrowed, hand still held out with the expectation of his participation.

His neck stretched for only a moment to prove her good works, but it only gave her an open opportunity to quickly check. Left, right, good, good. Her fingers swiftly grabbed at his earlobes, popping each one a millisecond within each other, and his shoulders jumped, eyes scrunching shut, "Ah –Ugh!"

She released him, finding her work acceptable and complete.

Palms pressed to the sides of his head, Stuart winced, rubbing along his jaw and wrinkled his nose, but couldn't help but admit that he felt a million times better than before. It was a kind of completion he hadn't felt in a long time. The humming bruises of the ball battering were still there, but it was the stuffiness...the fullness...the nonstop pressure he always carted around, day and night….even his sinuses felt open and clear. His singing would probably benefit from all this, he could guarantee it.

Staying exactly where he was (which was the furthest from the child at the moment), Murdoc tilted his neck out, peering out at the crumpled singer.

"Still alive?"

Stuart's back released from its curve as he pinched along his nose, rubbing the end, "Yeah...I 'fink she...fixed me? A little bit, anyways."

His eyes fell on the child gazing back, though she seemed more relaxed and less intent on him now that her work was done.

Silence fell upon the men for a while as the winds picked up a bit, delivering a brisk chill that settled upon them with a bit of self contemplation. They seemed to quietly stare at the child without properly meaning to, thoughts drifting in and out, trying to make sense of the ordeal. The action and adventure had halted with her conduct, and she merely stared along with them until she hung her arms at her sides, watching a lone crow fly overhead.

It circled and circled before landing on the top most cross of a mausoleum, crying out before deeming it safe enough to preen itself. In between the tugging of feathers, the bird stared down at them in judgment, though, most particularly, at her, head jolting from side to side as if determining her purpose in this world.

Friend or foe.

Hunted...or hunter.

She blinked and shifted her gaze to the ball in Russel's hands, finding the action had begun with the ball, and therefore acknowledged its necessity in the resuming of said action. If they weren't going to practice their music (which they often did with their spare time), then something would have to fill the void until they did. The absence of action...and of the men's interactions, provided no stimulus.

Her finger changed that.

Russel glanced curiously at the child poking the ball in his grip, lifting it in question, "...Wanna play?"

Pinching the front of his nose with the material of his shirt, Murdoc huffed into his sleeve, "Yeah, we'll just forget that shit ever happened..."

Russel ignored the sarcasm, spinning the ball in his hands before gifting it to the child, and she studied the item as she did with all things, rubbing her thumb along the raised surface of the leather's skin. She traced the white stitching down the middle and pressed along the black rings surrounding them, pushing the tiny hole where one would inflate. She tested the weight of the object in the palms of her hands, lightly bouncing it before curving her fingers to the unusual, but aerodynamic shape. She spun the ball between her hands as Russel had done, gathering a feel for it before leaning all its weight into her dominant hand.

Her shoulder loosened as her grip increased, tilting her hips accordingly as she had witnessed only a short while prior, and the men watched with interest as she seemed to understand by all intents and purposes, one of the few points of the game.

It flew like a missile, and the sickening whack launched Stuart into a second scream, hands clamped over his mouth as Murdoc's fingers combed into his shaggy mane.

Russel remained speechless. The crow had landed on the dirt a few yards away, leg offering a last neuron twitch before settling in its eternal peace.

Oh, man...

"Sh-Sh-She–"

"Did you see that arm? What a throw!" Murdoc blurted, charging over Stuart's panic attack and clapped a hand on the child's helmet she often wore, giving it an oddly proud shake, "That's a fuckin' weapon, that is!"

The girl adjusted her headgear before glancing up at him, monitoring his reaction as she gathered its difference in comparing to the other two. The tall one, the one with the bright hair –he often carried a look of fear about him, but this fear seemed different than the fear he had carried just a moment ago, or the fear that typically haunted his eyes...and the other...the big one. He was illegible. He carried two kinds of faces, two kinds of personalities, two kinds of souls...but they were both silent and still.

But the eldest, the loudmouth –their leader, he rambled on, carting about a grin that could eat the world and then some, jogging off to where the bird had landed and squatted, pointing out the obvious.

She had claimed her target.

And as Russel watched Murdoc collect himself and the ball a few yards further, his milky eyes settled on the child and her lack of remorse for what she had done. Not a peep.

No kids around...maybe that's for the best.

He said nothing, and Murdoc trotted back, spinning the ball in hand.

"What d'fuck do we have on our hands?"

Her eyes rested on the singer as he rested his chin into his palm, gazing upon her with an uncomfortable sadness and possible concern, not just for himself, but for her own existence. Children who were incapable of understanding right from wrong….good from bad...there wasn't a place for them in this world. Such creatures were locked away or terminated to keep the rest of the sheep at bay. And regardless of her recent actions, he couldn't help but pity the lost soul before him...lost in so many ways.

To be helpful one moment, and callous the next.

Who would be there for her when the world came crashing down?

Who would protect the world when none came to claim her?

"A fantastic guitarist, y'blind idiot. Kid doesn't know her own strength, that's all. S'no worse than...oh...blastin' off a few squirrels with a BB gun. Y'live an' y'learn. Bird's just lucky it happened to land in a cemetery. It all worked out nicely." Murdoc shrugged nonchalantly, handing the ball back to her, "C'mon, kid, toss it my way. I wanna see an instant replay of that."

Brows lifting ever so slightly, Russel tilted his chin, "Uh, Muds, I wouldn't–" but the bassist lifted a dismissive hand as he trotted backward, stopping just about where the mausoleum began, "Fuck off, Russ. Throw it!"

His arms reached out, elbows tucked as he braced himself near the side of the building. Eyes casting down at the ball once more, the child flexed the leather within her grip, understanding its pressure and presence. Its extension of herself. And its purpose in this new experience she had observed him perform over and over within the past hour. Again, she loosened her shoulder, and again, she adjusted her grip. Her eyes focused on the man before her, ready as anything, and her mind replayed every loop she had witnessed, every action he had taken to perform the action without fault.

Crack!

"Oh, fuck!"

The ball bounced up and backward, disappearing between a handful of headstones as his body dropped, one nearly claiming him in his land. Stuart's head lifted from his slouch as Russel took a few curious steps, eyes darting between the fallen body and the smallest of them all, "You...still breathin'?"

"She broke m'fuckin' nose!"

Nah, you did.

"The first time." Russel murmured, making his way over as the bassist sat up, and perhaps, too quickly as his head suddenly dipped as if too heavy to hold. His left hand had capped over the bottom half of his face, but the blood was still there, smattered along his fingers and running down his chin. The swelling had already settled in, forcing his head into a throbbing mess, and using his shoulder to help himself up against the mausoleum, his bloodied hand pointed at the child, a vile scowl ripped from his throat.

"What the fuck, Noodle? That was a dead shot to my face! Y'throw toward the hands! The hands!" he hissed, gathering enough balance to charge toward her, but she was quickly blocked by a pair of thin legs, planted firmly before her.

Stuart's hand floated between himself and her head, and though she could not see his face, she could read the tension gathering in his body as he refused to allow Murdoc access.

"It was a bad idea an' y'instigated her anyways."

"Move before I end you, Pot."

"D's right." Russel grunted, stepping toward the singer's side to peer at the girl as Murdoc pinched the break to slow the gush. Her eyes lifted toward him in her eternal stare before resting back on the hand inches from her face, wide spread and slightly shaking, but so much larger than her own. She looked at her hand for a moment in comparison: tiny and soft, creamy and smooth, finding the length of his fingers abnormally long and bony. The hand of the piano man.

Russel arched a brow as he watched her hand press into Stuart's, her grip latching on to the two middle fingers, and she simply stared at them, sinking into the new experience. The touch had startled and distracted the young man, elbow jolting at the strong clasp she kept on him, but his yank, nor his steps deterred her from releasing. Her iron strong grip was not to be trifled with, least he survive with broken fingers of his own. "O-Oh, uh –"

Her dark eyes rose to his, nearly blank in all the emotions that should have been there, and the fear he often felt...often carried...experienced at the moment...subsided, if only for a second, as he debated the doubts he had in her, finding loneliness a most damning life sentence.

His brows slowly softened, daring his chances as he tilted himself to face her and left Murdoc behind him, bringing a lone thumb across her cheek in quiet thought. She was only a child. Bizarre and potentially dangerous, but a child, nonetheless. Drowning in this dark and dismal world. And for all it was worth, he couldn't find a sense of maliciousness in her actions.

Perhaps it was twisted innocence. Inexperience.

Perhaps she was worth giving a chance.

His chest rose as he sighed, and she maintained her contact, "You didn't mean to do all that...Kill the bird...nail Murdoc," His voice held a certain calmness, a certain analysis toward the child, and Russel found that regardless of their language barrier, she seemed to be listening, "It's like...like y'don't know any better. Like y'learnin' as y'go."

Stuart's long fingers curved along his neck, the others engulfed in her grip, "Y'saw me in pain, an' y'wanted t'fix it, didn't yeh? Y'just...didn't know how t'say it."

"So just fuck me, then!" Murdoc snapped, but Russel shook his head, stretching his own hard toward the child, but much too far for her to contemplate reaching for, "Nah, I think..." he began, lifting the same hand to rub his head in thought, "...I legit think she was just...doin' what she saw you do. D's onto somethin'."

"The fuck he is."

"She's been watchin' you two play for a good minute. What example did you show? Murdoc can throw, 2D can't catch."

The singer's brows flattened, but Russel shrugged, pressing the side of his hand into the flat of the other as he spoke, "Who knows? It just looked to me like she was aimin' for the head because that's all she saw you do."

"I wasn't aimin' for the head."

"Could'a fooled me." the singer scoffed, all three gazing curiously at the child when she spoke for the first time that evening,

"Noodle."

Once more it was quiet between them all, and it lasted all but ten seconds before Murdoc grumbled about ice and the like, trudging his way up the hill of clots and weeds toward the building that crowned the land. Clapping a soft hand to his gut, Russel sighed. The sun would be setting soon, anyway. It was best they get inside for the lock down, and a spot of dinner. Chicken and potatoes sounded good. Such was the typical day at Kong. He began his way after Murdoc, glancing back curiously at the two who hadn't yet moved.

The child still held the singer's fingers at an awkward angle, and he still seemed to be doing his best to figure out the enigma of her being. "Headin' inside." Russel called back, and it woke Stuart from his daze, about to take a step before he paused, undoing her fingers from his own. She watched his actions with fidelity, lightly blinking when he curved his hand along her own, cupping her palm into a softer, and more natural grip, "...Like dis, love."

He tugged her forward ever so gently in his lead, well aware that one step of his were roughly two of her own in length, and rather quickly she fell into a rhythm that matched. Russel had gone ahead, finding himself less worried for the child and more focused on how their future interactions were going to be, especially when lead by example, and for the large man he was, he managed to reach the top of the hill quicker than the two youngest had even begun to ascend.

Stuart released her hand only for a moment to retrieve Russel's ball (rather positive the man would recall having left it outside after the lock down), and reached down to claim the child's hand once more, finding her palm rather cool and clammy.

Opening his grip, the singer inspected the small hand that filled the space, finding her nail beds soiled with actual dirt and debris. His brows pressed in confusion as he looked up and about, eyes skimming for an upturned pile somewhere, but found nothing in his quick search. Gently closing his fingers along hers once more, he tilted his head toward their home, leading the way.

Her small feet crunched alongside his bigger ones, both quiet as they left the emptiness behind them. As he climbed the rocky terrain, he peered over his shoulder to verify the single note he had processed in his search.

The crow was gone.

And as he squeezed her tiny palm and felt the dirt crumble within his grip, he felt a certain calm settle upon his soul.

Perhaps there was hope for her yet.