For the last time, if you recognise it, it's not mine.
2312. May 14th. Alistair.
He was drawn, like so many others, by the electricity of the beat. It was all consuming, and the power behind it was unlike that he'd ever seen. There had been many attempts to overthrow Globalsoft, and the regime of the Killer Queen, but this, he felt, was it. He leant against one of the pillars to the gates of Wembley Stadium, watching. He had to hand it to him; this kid, or Galileo Figaro, as he'd told him his name was, was magical. There was an aura about him, something that drew people to him.
'We are the champions of the world!'
The music, real music, finished in an explosion of noise, unlike any created by Globalsoft. A blonde danced towards Galileo and the girl, ww. clearly delighted by the reinvention of live music. He vaguely recognised her as the one whose boyfriend had been killed, in the capture of the Heartbreak Hotel. He would have liked to have been able to talk to the Bohemians, to ask if they knew anything of Roxanne. Her file had never been amended since his initial discovery of it, and in almost seven years, there had been no news of her. But, as always, circumstances had stood in his way. He'd told Killer Queen he'd lost the Dreamer and his Bad Arsed Babe, and he'd had his mind blown. One mistake in almost three years of loyal service to Killer Queen herself, and almost two decades of service to Globalsoft and security itself, and that had been it.
A hushed silence fell over the stadium, and he realised everyone was staring at him, no doubt wondering what he was doing there. Deciding there was nothing left for him to lose, he approached the central group; the Dreamer, his Bad Arsed Babe, the Blonde, and two others. One, he vaguely recognised as a Hippy Librarian he'd been forced to torture for information a decade previously, the other, he believed had been the Bohemian ringleader.
He smiled nervously at them, 'Congratulations, Mr Figaro. This is some achievem-' He was cut off abruptly as the blonde, Miss Loaf, he now recalled, slapped him hard across the face.
'Yeh bastard!'
The loathing in her voice was tangible, the ringleader forced her back and she dissolved into tears on his shoulder. Her cries of 'I hate you' could be heard through muffled sobs. Almost abruptly as it had started, her shoulders ceased shaking, and the sobs subsided, and she spun round to face him again.
'Why'd yeh do i'? We did nothin' t'yeh.' It had been years since he'd heard an accent such as hers, one from the Southern Scottish Precinct, and it took him by surprise.
He looked from her to the other members of the group and back again. He shrugged, 'Killer Queen decides what happens, Killer Queen gives the orders, I pass them on. On a technicality, I didn't do anything. I'm a high-class messenger, nothing more.'
'Yeh did nothin' t' stop 'er. An' yeh coulda done!'
'I couldn't!' he snapped forcefully.
She couldn't accept that, and slapped him again. He was prepared for it this time, and caught her wrist, 'Ge' off o' me!' she yelled, wrenching her wrist from his grasp. But that had been enough; through the grime, dirt, makeup and tearstains, he'd seen her eyes. Her face had changed with the years of wear and through the hardships of life, and the photo had been outdated, but the eyes hadn't changed.
'Roxanne,' he said softly, relieved. The word caught her off guard, and her sudden reaction of recognition was all the proof he needed. 'You're the spit of your mother.'
She looked puzzled, 'What do you mean?'
'I knew your mother. She made me promise to look out for you,' he smiled wryly, 'And what a mess I made of that. Missing for nearly seven years. She'd be proud of you.' He felt inside his breast pocket and produced the locket, taking her hand, he dropped it into it and closed her hand around it. 'She asked me to give you this.'
He smiled at each of them in turn, Galileo last of all, 'All the best, kids. I won't trouble you any more.' He turned away, his debt to Leila repaid. He'd see her again, soon, and he'd be able to tell her of the Bohemian that had been made of her daughter, of the dance she'd led him, and of what she'd achieved. The irony of the initials Leila had given her hadn't been lost on him; she'd always had Bohemian tendencies, after all.
'Hey!' the Scottish voice stopped him, and he turned to find her running after him, 'Ah'm not done arguin' with yeh yet. So, will... will yeh stay?'
