A/N: With this chapter, this story has become the longest I have ever written, at around 11,500 words. Also, this chapter will likely be a little strange- I had to edit it and repost it several times.

Disclaimer: I do not own the title, the story, the characters, etc. Anything that you recognize is likely not mine. Those who recognize the "Matrix: Revolutions" reference are pretty much amazing.

Chapter Four: La Vie Bohème

This was it.

If he took one more step, it would be the farthest away from his module he had ever been.

Galileo paused. Took a deep breath.

He took a step. That wasn't so bad. He took another. And another. And he was no longer afraid.

"Where're we goin'?" Scaramouche had asked.

Meat had laughed, and then she had said, "We're goin' down, hen!"

She hadn't been lying. They had reached an old tube station, and had taken the stairs down into another world. It was suddenly cold. He began shivering as the two 'Bohemians' continued in their relatively skimpy clothing, seemingly unscathed. It surprised him that Scaramouche, who had been freezing at 30 degrees, was unaffected by the abrupt change in temperature.

He rubbed his hands up and down his arms as they continued. The walls were covered with flimsy, colored material that looked as if it had been ripped, torn, bent, and repaired many times over. There were words on them, like "Green Day" and "Weird Al Yankovic Straight Outta Lynwood Tour" and "The Matrix: Reloaded". Oh, right, it was 'paper'. He had seen something like that in a cyber-museum.

You light up a mean blaze... With posters... and screenplays!

As more words flooded into his brain, he shook his head. One of the Bohemians, Meat, had been behind the rest of them, probably to make sure they wouldn't get lost, or sneak off, or something like that. She looked at him strangely as he tried to clear his mind. She seemed a bit too cautious. Paranoid, even. But what was even more interesting was how she reacted to him in particular. It was as if she had been expecting more out of him, as if he were somehow inferior in her eyes.

The other one, the man in the skirt, was less interesting to analyze. He seemed plagued by hero worship. As if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Galileo wondered why. What could he be that was so important? He was just a kid.

They had been walking for what seemed like hours, through a snakelike path, with broken lights- electric ones, not fluorescent.

The long and winding road...

A figure appeared in the darkness. Then another, and another, until there were at least a dozen silhouettes, wandering about without purpose. And then, there was light. Light that filled an entire room, as train tracks- real train tracks, not the holographic, purposeless ones near the cyber-stations- appeared toward the quartet's sides. A sign reading "Tottenham Court Road" overarched the underground room as the silhouettes became people, dressed as the Bohemians leading him, in both tight-fitting and baggy clothing, with hairstyles that rivaled Scaramouche's. The sign overhead had been painted over crudely, with some unintelligible words and the phrase "Heartbreak Hotel." Everyone stopped as the four walked into the light.

Meat had accused them of being there before, Galileo remembered.

"Welcome," the man said, "to the Heartbreak Hotel!"

One of the people stepped forward, a man, with a jacket much like Galileo's and a dark marking on his face. "'Oo are these two, Brit?" He sighed, as if 'Brit' brought in people all the time.

"I think I've found him," 'Brit' explained, gesturing toward Galileo. "The one we've been waiting for."

The other man narrowed his eyes. "The Dreamer," he said skeptically. Once again, he sighed. "Just because 'e 'as a leather jacket does not make him the wild one! 'E looks like another clone from the zone, if you ask me."

Brit appeared disgruntled, but then his face lit up. "If he's a zone clone, then why does he call himself Galileo Figaro?"

"Galileo?" The man bit his lip. "Then 'e must 'ave seen the texts; he's a spy!"

Meat rolled her eyes. "Which is wha' ah said!"

"Kill him," he ordered.

A half-dozen people started toward Galileo, all brandishing bits of pipe and metal. He tensed up, pushing Scaramouche behind him.

And then Brit obscured his vision. "Anyone who wants to kill the dude has to come past me!"

The group stopped, groaning and muttering things beneath their breaths.

"He hasn't seen the texts," Brit explained. "How could he? We guard them with our lives!"

"'E says 'e dreams the words," Meat offered.

"He calls the chick Scaramouche."

Scaramouche stepped out from behind him. "Wha' is this 'chick' business?" She called out. "Do I have feathers? Do I lay eggs?"

"Heeey!" The man who had been speaking said, walking closer to the girl. "Ch- Lady. We believe there was a time that when a cool dude wished to refer to 'is red 'ot momma, 'e would use the term 'chick'," he explained, punctuating his statements with his hands. "It's a mark of respect. Second only to 'bitch'."

Scaramouche raised an eyebrow. "Somehow I think you got tha' wrong…"

"Yeh? Well, we're gettin' off the point, alright? The point is this dude, 'e's a spy!"

Galileo stepped forward. "Hey, l-look! I don't know what you're talking about, alright? I didn't ask to be brought here! I-I don't know who you people are, or anything about your stupid 'texts'!"

The same Bohemians made more advances against him.

Once again, Brit stood against them. He appeared to be a force to be reckoned with, because once again, the others stood down. "He just knows the stuff!"

Well, Galileo figured he had to redeem himself somehow. "W-what are these texts, anyway?"

"Fragments," the other man said. If Brit was the powerhouse of the group, this man was easily the ringleader. "Nothing more. Stuff that we, and other bohemians across the Global Shopping Precinct, have found."

"We have scraps of stuff," another bohemian, a girl in tight pants, interjected. "Magazines—"

"Wha's tha'? Mah-gah-zeens?" Scaramouche inquired.

"Yeh, they're…" the man paused, searching for the words, "kinda like websites. But they're made of paper! You can touch them! And pah-sters!" he said giddily. "Which were weird, static commercials, stuck to walls!"

So that's what those things were, Galileo thought. Pah-sters. He'd have to remember that.

"We take our names from these clues from the age of rock," the man explained.

"I'm Aretha," the girl who had previously spoken said.

"Name's Sir Paul McCartney. They… they call me Big Macca," the man said, sort-of embarrassed.

"Ah'm Meat," Meat said. "Meat Loaf."

Another woman raised her hand. "I'm Madonna!"

"They call me… The Artist Formerly Known as Prince, currently known as the Artist Formerly Known as Prince!" A short man in a golden top exclaimed.

"I'm Cliff Richard," a different woman called, waving flirtatiously at the Artist Formerly Known as Prince.

A woman, clad in dark, skintight clothing, offered her name forward, a sad look on her face. "Charlotte Friggin' Church." She took a step backward and retreated to a corner.

Why was she so sad?

"They call me Bob," Another Bohemian said, stepping forward. "Bob the Poet, Bob the Rebel, Bob the Prophet. I… am Bob the Builder!"

Galileo laughed. "So-So who are you?" He asked 'Brit'.

"Me?" He laughed, a large, energetic sound. "I'm the biggest, baddest, meanest, nastiest, ugliest, most raging, rapping, rock'n'roll, sick, punk, heavy metal psycho bastard that ever got get-down funky! They call me - Britney Spears." The other Bohemians cheered.

"A-and what is this place," Galileo inquired further, "this 'Heartbreak Hotel'? What is that supposed to say?" He gestured toward the sign.

There was a silence that fell over the place.

"Get the man a chair," Big Macca called out. A group of people brought in an empty plastic tub, and set it down behind Galileo. "'Ave a seat. The Heartbreak is a rebel base. The last free thinking place on Planet Mall!"

"Where'd you ge' all this great stuff?" Scaramouche asked Meat. "You look fantastic!"

"We find i'!" Meat responded. "We're scavengers! Fancy a makeover?" A bunch of the other girls cheered. "You're a Bohemian now!"

"Well…" Scaramouche contemplated.

"'Ow 'bout some tigh' jeans?"

She shook her head. "I hate my bum."

"A shor' skir'?" Meat suggested.

"Hate my legs."

"Crop top?"

"Hate my stomach. And my hips. I quite like my arms—"

"Well—"

"But no' the hands."

Meat pondered this a moment, then got an idea. "Then yeh need something tha' accentuates yer elbows!"

"Girls!" Big Macca called out. "Please! I am talking to the Man, 'ere!"

"Makes a big difference from talkin' out yer bum, eh?" Meat retorted. The female Bohemians all laughed. "Go on, hen, ah've go' loads o' stuff back there, jes' 'ave a laugh."

"Seems it's you lot tha's having the laugh!" Scaramouche commented before disappearing into the other room.

"As I was saying," Macca said, "this place is a rebel base, but, it is also a shrine. A shrine to what we believe in! And a place to remember the long dead king."

"W-what king?" Galileo asked.

"Little is known about him, 'cept that 'is name was 'Pelvis'. A poor boy from nowhere, 'oo sang like an angel, and danced like the devil. A teenage truck driver 'oo broke free to become a mighty rebel— a rebel that spawned a thousand rebels!"

The Artist Formerly Known as Prince popped over Galileo's shoulder, startling him to where he almost fell off his seat. "But 'e was too wild! Too free! An' when 'e wiggled 'is 'ips," he explained, demonstrating, "'e made the kids feel good about themselves!" The other bohemians whooped and hollered. "So, they took 'im, and they cut off 'is 'air!" the man mimed cutting off Galileo's hair.

Galileo pushed the odd man away, mussed up his hair again, then asked, "Who's 'they'?"

"Predecessors of the GaGa collective," Bob the Builder explained, shooing away the shorter man. "They shaved off his tall, greasy, standup quiff, like he was a convict."

The Artist Formerly Known as Prince rolled his eyes. "An' they put 'im in the army."

"The King was forced to make foolish movies, and sing songs about hula-hoops to gangs of grinning children. He was ashamed," Aretha said.

"It broke his spirit," Cliff Richard commented. "He took refuge in drugs, pills."

"An' cheeseburgers," The Artist Formerly Known as Prince interjected.

"The King died young," Charlotte Friggin' Church whispered from her corner.

Aretha ran to comfort the girl, who was clearly grieving for something. I'll have to ask about it later, Galileo thought.

"And many princes and rebels died thereafter. Their songs have been lost, but their names live on. We remember those 'oo died young. Buddy Holly," Big Macca called out.

"Jimi Hendrix," another Bohemian called.

"Kurt Cobain," Madonna continued.

And a litany began, of dozens of names. Names that had meaning, truth. Names that weren't empty like Gordon, or Sally. Names with life. Janis Joplin. Tupac Shakur. Angel. Aaliyah. These were names. Compared to these, the names of his dreams were as shallow as those of the GaGas.

With a tear in her eye, Meat stepped forward. "Freddie…" She half-whispered. A silence fell over the Heartbreak as she began to sing.

The sound filled the room. Galileo felt his heart wrench, and tears filling his vision, as well. Even a capella, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It was somehow whole, as if any music he had ever heard were empty- even the songs in his head. Even the ones he sang himself.

"Crying for nothing… Crying for no one…" Meat somehow managed to sing out even stronger than the rest of the song, even with the tears now freely falling. "No one… but you…"

By the time she had finished, there wasn't a dry eye in the Heartbreak. A muffled sob came from the corner where Charlotte and Aretha still were.

Big Macca groaned, wiping a tear from his eye. "Let's not get all heady about it, eh? 'S not what the Rock Gods would'a wanted."

"How do you know?" Galileo asked.

"Instinct."

Scaramouche poked her head out from the door in the back. "All righ', don' laugh…" She stepped out, dressed in a stunning display of non-fashion. Blacks and reds, fitted clothing that covered the legs and arms.

For a moment, he just stared at her. She looked so beautiful… How could she ever think they'd laugh at her? His heart skipped a beat and words escaped him, for once, as opinions flew in from all angles.

"Hey!"

"Check out the babe!"

Whistles and catcalls filled the awkward silence.

"Shut up!" Scaramouche called out.

"Yeh look 'Fergalicious'!"

"Naw, I don't."

"To'ally 'Rock 'n' Roll'!" Meat called out.

Finally, he got the courage to tell her, "They're right, Scaramouche! You do look totally 'rock 'n' roll'!" He giggled.

She blushed, walking further toward him.

"…What is 'rock 'n' roll'?" He turned and asked the crowd.

A collective groan filled his ears, and then it turned into more whoops.

"What is Rock 'n' Roll? What is Rock 'n' Roll?" Big Macca said, incredulously.

"Gazza, baby," Brit said, putting his hand on Galileo's shoulder, "Rock 'n' Roll is anything you want it to be!"

"It's sex," Cliff Richard said.

"It's style," The Artist Formerly Known as Prince said, indicating his attire.

"It's rebellion!" Bob the Builder called out.

Big Macca cut in, "It's freedom."

"W-well, yes. But… what actually is it?" Galileo inquired.

He took a deep breath. "…We don't know."

Mutters and groans filled the silence as the Bohemians dispersed once more through the Heartbreak.

He continued, "All we know is that there came a day when rock'n'roll— died. But, we have always believed that in time, there will arise a man 'oo carries the past within him."

"Someone who could remember," Aretha declared.

Big Macca grabbed Galileo's arm and pulled him aside. "Somewhere on Planet Mall there are instruments, there must be! And if Britney is right, you are the man who can find them, and rock and roll will be reborn!"

"B-but," Galileo protested, "I don't even know what they look like!"

"I do," Brit called out from the room in the back. Cheering met him as he emerged, carrying a strange object made of what appeared to be a wooden box, a pole, and some wire. "Been working on this for months. Can't play it, though. Fortunately, Lulu can." Brit patted a dark-haired man on the back as the man, 'Lulu', stepped forward and plucked a few notes. "Sweet, sweet noise! You see, Galileo, that phrase up there?"

Galileo's eyes returned to the painted words above the Heartbreak Hotel sign. Scaramouche followed his gaze.

"It says, 'When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world shall know peace.' What passes for music these days is only created for power and money—"

"Tha's righ'!" Meat called out.

"—which is why it has no soul. But when rock'n'roll started, do you know why they did it?"

"W-w-why?" Galileo asked nervously.

"They did it for their babies, of course!" Brit exclaimed, giving Meat a squeeze. "They did it for a crazy little thing called love."

"Anything else you need to know, you ask," Big Macca said. "Brit, show the man to a room."

Brit beckoned the two newcomers to follow him, and for the first time, Galileo stepped behind the exterior of the Heartbreak.

Behind the door lie an antechamber of sorts, where giant shopping carts held a wide assortment of objects, some with clothing, some with wood and rock, others with plastic jugs, and many more. He saw Scaramouche's old dress crumpled in a trash bin in the corner. There were makeshift doors leading to the sides and one straight ahead. They took the one to the right, and came upon a hallway, bordered on both sides by dozens of rooms separated by what appeared to be bed sheets. Some 'doors' were open, showing the true life of the Bohemians- a life without amenities. Without technology, without possessions. The rooms were on the train tracks, with boards covering them to form a floor. There were blankets on the floor, the occasional room with padding underneath them. Few had pillows.

But what shocked him most of all was that there were children. Not children like him and Scaramouche, but real children. There were a few that couldn't be more than two or three years old.

Scaramouche turned to Brit. "Were they—"

"Born here? Some of them. Others were taken from orphanages," he explained. "They shouldn't have to become GaGas. No one deserves that."

They walked in silence for a while. Or, at least, they were silent.

Whispers all around, children wondering about the newcomers, about the ones who were different, even from them. Adults questioning their friends, bringing their children inside. There were the occasional awkward silences, but it was apparent that the Bohemians were chatty.

"Did you see him walking by?"

"Why would Britney Spears bring more… old ones?"

"Look at what he's wearing!"

Finally, they reached closer to the end of the row. There were at least ten more rooms, open, without anything inside. Galileo peered down the aisle and saw a cave-in at one end.

He turned toward the other man. "What happened there?"

"It's for protection," Brit explained. "From the others. There used to be half-a-dozen large bases scattered across the GSP. Now, there is the Heartbreak, and several smaller ones. If one fell, and there was simply an unblocked tunnel, all would fall. There are entrances. If you know where to look." He nodded toward a pair of rooms. "These two are empty. They'll be yours, as long as you need one. If you need anything, sheets, tables, just pick it up. What's ours is everyone's."

"Thanks," Galileo said.

Brit nodded and walked back. "Whenever you guys are ready to come back…"

Galileo turned to look at Scaramouche to find her already gone, the sheet pulled shut in her room. He sighed, and walked into his.

The room was small, but then, he didn't really need the room so much. He had a feeling they wouldn't be there that long, anyway. He had never seen this place in his dreams; so it couldn't be someplace they took permanent residence in.

He sat and leaned against the wall. So much had happened, in such a short time. It felt good to relax, even if only for a short while.

"Can I come in?" He heard from outside. It was Scaramouche.

"Uh, um... Yeah. Yeah, sure," he said awkwardly.

She opened the curtain a little and slipped in. "I's way too quie' in there," she said, pointing her thumb at the room next door. "You mind?" She sat down next to him.

They sat in awkward silence. Well, he thought. Make conversation, already!

"Um. Y-you really do look nice, you know," Galileo remarked.

"No, I don'," she muttered.

"Uh, oh. Okay, then…" He trailed off.

Boy, he'd only tried to pay her a compliment.

"So, you're 'the Dreamer' now, Gazza," Scaramouche commented.

"I-I guess so. It-it's kind of cool, y'know. Knowing I really do have a purpose."

"Righ'. The 'special destiny'."

"S-so, you believe it now?"

"I s'pose so." The quiet returned. He started to tap on the wooden floor. "Well, now tha' you've go' your future all sor'ed ou', wha' happens to me?"

"W-what do you mean?"

"I'd be pre'ty much useless. Wha' do I know 'bout saving 'rock 'n' roll', anyway?"

"W-well, you have to come with me, Scaramouche!" He said, taken aback. "I wouldn't leave you behind! Who cares if you don't know? W-well, maybe you can—"

"Face it, Gazza, I migh' as well stay here."

"Y-you don't mean that, do you? I-I've never had anyone stay with me this long! I mean, d-do you remember what I said a bit ago? 'I'm not goin' anywhere without Scaramouche'!"

"So?"

"W-well, do you know what's changed since then?"

"Wha'?"

"Nothing."

Scaramouche looked at him and almost smiled.

There was suddenly a large explosion. Galileo jolted up.

"We've got to go," he said.

"Wha' are you talking abou'?"

"Go. Go!"