Chapter Text
The rain on the windowpanes of Kong Studios sketched crooked, shimmering paths in the grime. Inside, the cavernous main room was thick with the smell of stale beer, damp plaster, and the faint, metallic tang of an old amplifier left on standby. It was a smell that had become familiar to Russell Hobbs, a foundation upon which the strange new architecture of his life was being built. A couple of months in, and the sprawling, crumbling mansion felt less like a haunt and more like a chaotic, dysfunctional home.
From his worn armchair, Russell watched the scene unfold with the weary patience of a man who had seen much but was still surprised by the depths of human peculiarity. Murdoc Niccals, his green skin looking sallow in the grey light, was slouched over a bass guitar, plucking a monotonous, sinister line. On the floor, cross-legged and surrounded by a halo of crayons and paper, was Noodle, the ten-year-old prodigy who had arrived just weeks ago in a FedEx crate from Japan. Her small fingers, now stained with wax, moved with a precise, practiced grace that belied her age.
And then there was Stuart.
He was perched on a battered stool, humming a melody that was ethereal and sad, a counterpoint to Murdoc’s menacing groove. His azure blue hair was a shock of colour in the dim room, a summer sky in a perpetual thunderstorm. From this distance, Russell could almost mistake him for just a dreamy, lanky young man lost in his art. Almost.
It was the little things. The way Stuart’s long fingers would occasionally still, hovering over the synth keys, as if he’d lost the thread of the song completely. The way he’d blink slowly, his eyes—twin pools of void-like black—squeezing shut for a second too long. A silent, private wince.
“Right, that’s enough of that dreary nonsense,” Murdoc announced, letting his bass fall with a discordant twang. “My genius needs refuelling. Where’s that case of lager?”
“You drank it last night,” Russell said, his voice a low rumble. “Said it was ‘payment for artistic vision.’”
“Did I? How frugal of me.” Murdoc scratched his chin, his red eye flicking towards 2D. “Potato, go to the shop. My thirst awaits.”
Stuart—2D—blinked again, slower this time. “Huh? Oh. Right. The shop.” He didn’t move. He just stared at the wall behind Murdoc, his expression placid, empty.
“The shop,” Murdoc repeated, his voice sharpening like a knife. “Feet. Movement. Commerce. Now.”
“Oh! Yeah. Sorry, Murdoc.” 2D unfolded himself from the stool, his movements unnervingly languid, as if he were swimming through syrup. He patted his pockets, looking for a wallet that wasn’t there.
Russell watched him shuffle out, a deep unease settling in his gut. It had been a year since Murdoc, drunk and demonic behind the wheel of his shit-brown Plymouth, had ploughed into the then-19-year-old Stuart Pot, forever rebranding him as 2D, the man with two black eyes. A year since Murdoc, seeing a twisted opportunity in the wreckage, had decided the concussed, toothless boy would be the perfect frontman for his band.
When Russell had learned the origin story, he’d found it shocking. Noodle, once Russell had painstakingly translated it for her, had been visibly disturbed, her small face a mask of solemn confusion. Murdoc had just shrugged, swigging from a bottle of rum. “He’s still breathing, isn’t he? No harm done. If anything, I did him a favour. Gave him a purpose. And a frankly iconic look.”
But now, after weeks of living under the same roof, Russell was slowly realizing the true extent of the damage. The harm was not in the event itself, but in the perpetual, grinding aftermath.
It was the headaches. They were not mere inconveniences. They were monstrous things that crawled inside 2D’s skull and laid eggs. Russell had found him more than once curled on the cold floor of the bathroom in the dark, vomiting from the pain, his whispered pleas barely audible. The only thing that beat them back were the fierce, industrial-strength painkillers—the kind Murdoc procured from God-knows-where. They left 2D in a haze, lethargic and disconnected, a ghost haunting his own body. Murdoc called it his "lobotomized" state, usually with a roll of his eyes, as if it were a tiresome affectation.
It was the nightmares. Kong Studios was never quiet at night. It creaked and groaned, a living entity. But the sounds that came from 2D’s room were different. Not screams, but choked, guttural whimpers, the sound of a creature caught in a trap it doesn’t understand. Russell, a light sleeper, would hear them through the thin walls. He’d lie awake, listening to the frantic, panicked muttering until it subsided into an uneasy silence.
And it was the aloofness, the profound distraction that left him vulnerable. His mind, once concussed, seemed to reset at random intervals, leaving gaps in his perception of the world.
A sudden, sharp yelp from the kitchen snapped Russell from his thoughts. It was followed by the clatter of a pan and a soft, pained hiss.
Russell and Noodle were on their feet in an instant. Murdoc just sighed dramatically. “What’s he set on fire this time?”
In the kitchen, 2D was clutching his hand under the running tap, his face pale. A red, angry burn was already rising across his palm and fingers. The stovetop burner glowed a malevolent orange beside a forgotten kettle.
“Stu? You alright, man?” Russell asked, his voice gentle.
2D looked up, his black eyes wide with a child’s surprise at his own pain. “The… the water. For tea. I forgot I turned it on.” He spoke as if explaining a complex magic trick he’d only half-remembered.
Noodle darted forward, her small face etched with concern. She didn’t need language. She took his uninjured hand and pointed to the living room, then to herself, miming applying a bandage. Her expression was fierce, protective.
“Cheers, Nood,” 2D murmured, allowing himself to be led away. “That’s right kind of you.”
Russell turned off the burner. The silence in the kitchen was heavy. Murdoc leaned against the doorframe.
“See?” Murdoc said, not without a strange, proprietary pride. “Like a lobotomized patient. You have to tell him everything. Don’t touch the fire, Stuart. The fire is hot. Don’t walk into walls, Stuart, they’re solid. It’s like living with a spectacularly beautiful, tragically stupid sponge.”
“He’s not stupid,” Russell countered, his voice hardening. “He’s hurt. There’s a difference. You did that.”
“I gave him character!” Murdoc shot back, spreading his arms. “Look at him! Before me, he was just some bland, fairground kid with a boring head of hair. I gave him depth! I gave him pain! And pain, my large friend, is the absolute bedrock of great art. He should be thanking me.”
Russell just shook his head, a cold disgust settling in his stomach. He walked away from Murdoc, towards the living room where Noodle was carefully wrapping a bandage around 2D’s hand with a solemn, clinical precision. 2D was watching her, a faint, grateful smile on his lips.
“Thanks, love,” he said softly. “You’re a proper little nurse, ain’t ya?”
Later that night, the storm inside 2D’s head broke. Russell heard it—the thrashing, the bedframe hitting the wall, the muffled cry. It was more urgent than before. He hauled himself out of bed and padded down the hall. He didn’t bother knocking.
2D was tangled in his sheets, drenched in a cold sweat. His body was rigid, his hands clawed at the mattress. A low, continuous moan escaped his lips.
“No… no, not the… the glass… all the glass…” he whimpered.
“Stuart,” Russell said, his voice firm but quiet. “Stu. It’s Russell. You’re dreaming, man. You’re safe.”
He put a large hand on 2D’s shoulder. The contact seemed to jolt him. 2D’s eyes flew open. But they weren’t the flat, void-like black pools from earlier. They were pure, startling white. A shocking, luminous moonscape of fear.
He stared at Russell, unseeing for a moment, panting. The terror in his white eyes was raw and absolute.
“The car,” 2D gasped, his voice cracking. “I heard it… I always hear it. The crunch. Right in me head. It never stops.” He brought his bandaged hand up, pressing the heels of his palms hard against his temples. “It’s like… it’s like there’s broken glass in me brain, Russ. All the time. And sometimes… sometimes it just… shifts.”
He finally focused on Russell, the terrifying white of his eyes receding slightly, like a tide going out, slowly mixing back to the familiar black. The vulnerability in his face was devastating.
“I don’t think he meant to,” 2D whispered, as if confessing a terrible secret. “Murdoc. I don’t think he meant to do it. He’s not all bad, really. He just… gets ideas.”
Russell felt a surge of something fierce and protective. This wasn’t just damage. This was a fundamental rewiring. Murdoc had not only broken his body but had somehow convinced the boy inside that his own destruction was a form of generosity.
“He meant to drive drunk, Stu,” Russell said, his voice low. “That’s enough.”
2D just looked away, his expression drifting back into its default, placid confusion. The moment of stark clarity was gone, buried again under the fog of painkillers and permanent injury. “Right. Yeah. Suppose so.” He lay back down, exhausted. “Sorry for waking you, Russ.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
As Russell closed the door, he saw 2D already curling onto his side, one bandaged hand resting against his cheek like a child’s. Down the hall, he could hear Murdoc laughing at some late-night television show, the sound loud and abrasive.
Russell returned to his room, but he didn’t sleep. He sat in his chair and watched the rain until the sun bleached the sky a pale, sickly grey. The band had its singer, its icon, its pretty boy with the tragically beautiful eyes. But Russell now understood the awful truth. The real horror wasn’t the act of violence a year ago. It was the quiet, daily tragedy that followed. It was the brilliant, gentle soul trapped in a broken kaleidoscope of pain and pills, being told by his tormentor that the view from the shattered glass was art.