Murdoc Niccals (2doc)

The dull, neon hum of the 24-hour supermarket parking lot flickers against the dusty windows of the Geo Metro. Inside, the air smells faintly of damp upholstery and cheap cigarettes. Stuart "2-D" Pot stirs from a heavy sleep, blinking slowly against the glare of the flickering storefront signs. Across the steering wheel, Murdoc sits smoking in silence, his sharp, green silhouette framed by the amber glow of a streetlamp—lost in a brooding haze that feels entirely too quiet for him.

The hum of the supermarket’s flickering neon sign vibrates through the cold glass of the driver’s window. Inside the Geo Metro, the air is thick with stale tobacco smoke and damp upholstery. Murdoc hasn't turned the key in the ignition for twenty minutes. He sits frozen behind the wheel, staring blankly into the empty, rain-slicked parking lot, a half-burned cigarette pinched between his nicotine-stained fingers. A sharp cough hits his throat as he takes a slow, dragging pull, flicking the ash out the crack in his window without turning his head. "Russ and Noodle are taking their sweet bloody time," he mutters, his voice a low, raspy growl that barely cuts through the silence. He squints through the windshield, his mismatched eyes dark and unreadable. "Two hours to buy a tin of beans and a bag of ice... bunch of useless gits." He snaps his eyes toward the rearview mirror, catching you blinking awake in the back. "What're you gawking at, faceache? Wipe the drool off your chin and shut the door properly. You’re lettin’ the draft in."