It was the damned music that wouldn't stop.

Gravit-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay…

It was a truly ironic that 2-D, who had sung those words just to keep himself breathing once, was surrounded in the single substance that did not support the petty aims of petty , to be specific he was surrounded by wall, but that wall was only so thick, and following immediately after that dark interior, there was only ocean.

He was stranded in all that ocean- for miles and miles and maybe even light-years from a human standpoint. It was Point Nemo, after all. The farthest location from any land contact that could've ever been dreamt of. Yup, it was very dark living in an underwater room.

2-D, whom has much time to spend speculating how he'd managed to retain even that much gravity in a room that was surrounded by water from the outside (not to mention the whale, oh don't think about the whale, don't think about the…)

There were no mirrors in his room – a luxury Murdoc rejected outright without a word, but one of the few missing luxuries that didn't bother 2-D so much. He felt usually he was a rather simple man –but that was before he got on stage, of course- and even more so now that he didn't have anyone to even stand up straight for, not to mention shave or arrange for. Nobody came around those parts, not even a scuba crew, fancy tourists, poor tourists, a wry sailboat caught in a dreadful, chemical storm. He was certain that the remains of ship wrecks touched face with the Plastic Beach, but they never carried survivors with them.

At the best of times, his only companies were Murdoc, his little Cyborg, and his bloody whale. This was enough to depress anyone. And 2-D was still rather chaffed about the gassing, and the kidnapping, not to mention the whale. Oh, the bloody whale.

2-D was the front man, singer, and pianist of the world-renowned digital group known as 'the Gorillaz'. They were a phenomenon unleashed onto the grateful world by the very dreadful accident that was his meeting with Murdoc Niccals- demonic bass player, alcoholic, and Satanist who would one day amount to the upspurer of that band. He was all hard rock, there, Murdoc was, but at the time 2-D was little more than an awkward but pretty blue-haired boy who had at that time gone by the name Stuart Pot, working at his Uncle's record store at the wrong place and the wrong time. It was then Murdoc had come screeching in- literally – and smashed into his world – also literally.

He had lost one of his eyes at that time. It was dented permanently into his head, leaving only a great black hole in its vacancy, and the incident also robbed 2-D of his consciousness for a good time until Murdoc saw it fit to shove him into another automotive accident, in which the second time his right eye had also been plugged into his bright little head. This left him to be known as none other than '2-D' more or less named so due to the two dents, smack-dab in his face. It was a remarkable, if painful, begging. This may or may not have been the final string that had led to the dependency he had developed to his pain meds, but it was one accident upon many, and the more dependent Murdoc became on wreaking havoc, the more dependent 2-D became on trying to put a stopper on it, which only brought the poor dented man more pain, which only wrought more pills, which only bought out Murdoc to cause more trouble. Vicious but unstoppable cycle, really.

The band was little trouble to bring up with Murdoc's questionable but powerful resources. Russell Hobbs, and acclaimed percussionist, was swiftly kidnapped and brought to Kong Studios – which was their place of solace and upbringing at the time. After a brief but deeply-cutting squabble with Paula Cracker, who had been both the guitarist and 2-D's girlfriend at the time, they were without a guitarist, but it did not hold the group down long. With a simple notice for a top-class guitarist sent out by the group, it was only a matter of time before Noodle would arrive to them.

And Noodle should've been an entire story on her own, but her's tangled with their's in the messiest and best of ways early on in her complicated life. She arrived, shipped to them with heavy amnesia but outstanding guitar skills, a ten-year-old girl straight out of a Fed-Ex box. The little girl only knew a single spot of English, the word Noodle, for which became her namesake. She couldn't identify herself in any other way for the longest time, speaking only in strings of Japanese and exclamations of music.

After their career took off, her intellect and spirit bloomed in accordance with their travels world-wide and otherwise. Before the group's eyes she grew, became more talented, beautiful, and spirited, a girl impossible to describe and impossible to ignore, by even Murdoc's standards. The boys did have a run for their money raising the girl, of course, but it was well worth the effort, in any way they could think of.

It was during Demon Days, the album which 2-D's feelings had grown the most morphed in, that she had died.

Finally letting out his shudder, feeling an enormous whale's eye pinned to him through the wall of his confinement place, 2-D dragged himself to his bare feet and crossed his shabby room's floor.

If he'd pulled out a single strand of his unkempt blue hair for every little thing he had to be depressed for, he'd been bald long ago and would be left pinching at his skull for more.

He was underwater, where he was very fearful he was going to run out of gravity, air, or worse yet, zombie films, at any given second.

He was being forced by an awfully stubborn Satanist to record an album completely against his will, at a location hundreds of miles away from any other land mass in the world.

He was being watched by the most ungodly animal imaginable at all times, paralyzed by his phobia and rarely able to leave his own room out of the fear of the sodding thing.

He hadn't heard from Russell, his only remaining live friend, in years.

And then…

Noodle was gone.

Noodle was dead.

There was nothing he could do for her.

But think about her.

Even though she was dead.

And there was nothing he could do for her.

And then there was the Cyborg. Who most certainly was not Noodle.

But at times…

He suddenly had a headache.

Popping several pills in his mouth and swallowing them completely dry, the long-limbed vocalist slipped into the lift, eerily followed by the sound of his own voice even as the metallic doors cut off the view of his room. The tight space rocked slightly as it raised itself, but 2-D hardly felt it through the banging imaginary fists on his brain, hurting all the way into his teeth.

"Gravit-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay…" He murmured, relieving his sore jaw, even if only temporarily.

"I wonder sometimes, 2-D-san; does heaven obey Gra-vi-ty?" An accented voice chided, suddenly, and he knew immediately where it has come from. He glanced down immediately to his side, right below his shoulder, where he had expected Noodle to be.

The lift jolted to an unprecedented stop, swinging gently a final time as 2-D hopped out, scrambling out past one of the many monitors Murdoc had picketed around the place. If he was even remotely lucky, at times he'd be able to make it to the beach, if that revolting pink mess could even be referred to as a beach, and sit it out. Sit out all his thoughts and just look over the ocean, which he knew at the very least, was real, even if it hosted all manners of whales.

Plastic Beach was the land of Rubbish he'd been exiled to. After Noodle's death, the group had split up. It was needless to say she was their happiness, peace, and joy, their utter center, and although each reaming man had tried their best to mask their grief and shattered resolve, in the end they left Kong, one by one.

It was years later, however, that 2-D, unable to recover from the depression and get up off his ass to amount to anything further, was gassed and shipped to Plastic Beach, in circumstances quite similar to how Noodle had arrived to them those countless years ago. Murdoc, never one to pass up any opportunity in the slightest to make money, had demanded only more from what little of the band he could conjure, and held 2-D against his will in the Studio, forcing him to perform.

This change of events, no matter how productive, did little to sway 2-D's desolate mood. This was likely further fueled by the fact that shortly after he had left the group, Murdoc had apparently taken it upon himself to 'build' a Noodle replica. Using DNA he scrapped from the scene of her death, he somehow fused it into metal and circuitry to create her robotic clone, dubbed Cyborg, as not to raise confusion. This sat ill-eased with 2-D, who loved Noodle certainly as a brother, and ached for her in a way he could not explain, but who was helpless to stand up to Murdoc's awful whims in any way.

So there the poor man was, a shade of his former self, stuck adrift on the Plastic Beach, with his own right company the guilt in his stomach and the pills in his throat.

As he exited the shabby entrance room, his body immediately sighed at the tasteless air around the fortress. Normal beaches, he'd learned once when he was young, smelled slightly of salt and sometimes of cigarettes depending on how close you got to the bums, but mostly salt. This place smelled like nothing, which was more pleasant than the beach reek, but not even half as comforting.

The poor man was about ready to break down at that point, about ready to throw himself into the sea to get to anywhere from sodding point Nemo. If that plan didn't succeed, he'd cling to a walrus or the like for the rest of his life. He doubted that a walrus wouldn't be much better company than what was here.

And he really was about to plunge into the salt water, despite the fact he wasn't sure if he could swim or not, sure Murdoc would drag his sorry skinny arse back inside if he hesitated even in the slightest. It didn't seem right, but nothing really did at that point, and doing nothing was the last of things that would change his sorry life. He'd realized that long ago, but didn't have the means of escaping.

Well, that's what he told himself.

It was at that second, though, putting his hands together, and staring blankly into the navy waters below, that out of the corner of one of his very dark eyes, he made out a huge brown patch in the sea. Like no seaweed patch he'd ever seen before.

Before his very eyes, a very enormous Russell Hobbs emerged from the ocean's depths, sea water skiing down his body like snow fleeting from the sky. His ghastly white eyes immediately turned to the vocalist who suddenly found himself shaking acutely, and raised a thick eyebrow. He was about the size of the entire Plastic Beach. 2-D, who was used to being the tallest presence in the band, was a thousand times outdone.

"'D?" He murmured, raising a huge lip.

It was then the pills kicked in, and to their desired effect, fogged the brain, and swung 2-D straight off his feet. And as he fell his eyes shut, and he was no longer conscious.