(A/N) “Stateside” or “the States” refers to all of the current US and Canada merged into one; individual states are referred to as regions. This makes sense, I promise! Moxy Fruvous is a Canadian band. They’re wonderful. As to why Gazz and Scara set up shop in Liberty’s? No idea, no justification, except that I would rather like to live in Liberty’s. I know this isn’t a particularly creative start-out, and I’m fairly sure that there are a lot of people who have covered parts of this premise, but I just had to write my own. So I’m not stealing anybody’s ideas, I promise.

“I gather that they used to call it Liberty’s,” said Commander Khashoggi to the young man beside him.

He was a neat, compact man, his feathery, shoulder-length hair dyed green. He blinked, and looked at the huge building in front of them with its half timbers over white stucco and large front windows. “My goodness. Why?”

The Commander appeared slightly nettled. “I have no idea.”

The younger man laughed. “OK. I suppose we’d better go crash this party, eh?”

Khashoggi pulled the dark wooded doors open and displayed the sparkle and laughter that characterized the Dreamer’s parties. “After you.”

They found their host in the central atrium, drinking something brightly coloured and arguing with his barman. Khashoggi cleared his throat. Pop gestured. Galileo turned around with more force than necessary and jogged his drink, sending it out in a splash of violent purple over his shirt and the visitor’s. He was a tall young man with a self-deprecating face and dark hair that needed cutting, who, at times, carried an air of awkward self-consciuosness. “Wow, I’m sorry!” he fumbled on the bar for napkins and held them out to the other man, who took them and wiped ineffectually at the purple splatters on his shirt.

“It’s all right,” the newcomer said, with a half-shrug. “Really.” He put the napkin down and held out one hand. “Galileo Figaro, I presume?”

“Um, yes.” Galileo put the remains of his drink down and licked purple drops off his hand before shaking the other man’s quickly. “Sorry, should I know you?”

“This is Moxy Fruvous,” said the Commander. “He’s just arrived from Stateside; I asked him to join us.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Galileo, wiping purple off his other hand. “And now that you mention it, what are you on about anyway?”

“Security, Gazz,” said a new voice. A short, dark-haired young woman leaned around the lanky Dreamer to offer her hand to the Commander and the newcomer. “For the concert. You know, the one we’re doing tomorrow night.” She gave Fruvous a small, quick smile. “Unless it’s got four beats and the remotest possibility of a vocal line, he’s kind of a dead loss. I’m Scaramouche, and I guess you’re that bloke this one keeps going on about. Where did you say you were from?”

“Stateside,” said Moxy Fruvous. “Ontario region. Yes, I’m here about security. I’ll need briefing for the situation here. Um,” he pushed green hair back from his face with quick fingers and glanced at the impassive Commander. “Did you want to do this now?”

Khashoggi looked around. “We’ve got half of the band; that should do it.” Khashoggi escorted them into one of the smaller second-floor rooms, watching the crowds. He was still and quiet even for him, but he carried a subdued tension with him. He shut the door behind him and remained standing in front of it, scrutinizing the other three.

“Right,” said Galileo, snagging a chair with his ankle and dropping into it. “What’s this about security?”

Scara hitched herself onto the table. “Gazz, pay attention. You’re the Dreamer. You destroyed the Planet Mall network. Don’t you think people are going to be a little annoyed?”

“What people?”

“You know. The, uh - ” She looked at Khashoggi and his new security officer, “I dunno, Yes-Things. And some of the Gaga kids. All the important people. That lot, yeah?” Khashoggi nodded.

Moxy linked his fingers together and then looked up at the Dreamer and his Bad-Arse Babe. “You’re exactly right, Scaramouche,” he said quietly. Under the brighter lights in this room, he looked very tired. “You destroyed the network – what? – almost a year ago, I think. We’ve all had a hell of a time with reconstruction.” He looked around the room. “You people have done a great job. And the Aussies. Us, not so much. Anyway. Most of the High-Ups left here when KQ did. There’s some people like me and Andrei who switched and are working out kinks in the new order, but there’s definitely a bunch of Yes-Things and High-Ups out there. A lot of them escaped to Stateside Brazil region, I think.” He shrugged. “That’s what I hear, anyway. And there are some in the more conservative regions south of us. Indiana, Texas, Kansas. There’s so much space it’s hard to tell. But there are people out there who hold, um, a serious grudge against you two and your friends.”

Scara swallowed. Lovely, she thought. Just what I want to hear the day before our second huge concert. Someone’s trying to kill us. “So why exactly are you here?”

Again that glance over at Khashoggi, as though asking what he could say and what was still top-secret. “When did you do your last concert?”

“Couple of months after Wembley. Why?” Galileo nibbled his bottom lip.

“Nobody knew what the hell was going on then,” said Fruvous, carefully. “We think the Yes-Things and High-ups thought KQ might still be alive as a fugitive in the network at that point and were trying to regroup or something.”

“Impossible,” said Khashoggi from his place by the door. “I’ve been monitoring the software since last year and if there was even the slightest possibility she was still there, I’d know.”

“Excellent,” said Fruvous.

So that’s why he’s been so bloody determined to reboot the network, thought Scara.

“We think they’ve given up on finding her,” Fruvous continued. “And they’ve had time to get reorganized and plan. Your first concert was,” he paused, looking down for a moment, and the feathery shadows of his hair made him look very young. “Amazing. I don’t think you know how many people saw it on the casts. We loved it. Anyway. It was insanely popular; the leftovers probably know they haven’t got a chance in hell of taking over again, and we’re still bringing them in.” Scara saw Khashoggi move slightly, and again reorganized her concept of what exactly he spent his time at work doing. “But there are enough out there to, uh, make trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” said Galileo abruptly.

Fruvous and Khashoggi exchanged glances. “We are not precisely certain,” said the Commander.

“But we thought we should warn you,” said the other man. “We’ll be around. Us and some other people you’ll meet tomorrow.”

Galileo bit his lip and looked over at Scara. Her response said clearly, don’t even think about it. She slid off the table and said awkwardly, “Thanks. Feel free to go to the party and stuff. Can you give us a minute, right?”

Moxy Fruvous produced a rather infectious smile. “Certainly. You have a good night; we’ll see you officially tomorrow, eh?”

Khashoggi opened the door and the two policemen went out. The door clicked sweetly into place and Galileo jumped up. “You’re not doing the concert.”

“Excuse me?” Scaramouche turned to face him, hands on her hips. “Don’t even think about it, Gazz. You can’t make me, and that’s all I have to say about it.”

“But - ” He bit his lip again. “Something might happen to you.” He reached forward for her shoulders and she dodged, glaring.

“Something might happen to you.”

“I don’t want – I can’t – Dammit, Scara, I care about you.” He caught her shoulders and pulled. “You. You, you, you. I didn’t realize getting hurt was in the question, and, I mean,” he dropped his chin forward to rest on her head, hands tight around her shoulders. “Oh, sod it. I can’t talk. I don’t want you in danger.”

“Know something, Gazza?” Scaramouche said, slightly muffled against his chest. “You can’t do anything about that.” She pulled away. “We’re a team, yeah. We’re a fucking band. We’re all in danger – you, me, Meat, Big Macca, everybody. And we need each other.”

“But - ”

“Bullshit,” she said, breaking out his grasp entirely. “I don’t play, you don’t play, nobody plays. End of story.”

“Well then, maybe nobody plays,” he said, hotly. “No, don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t be stupid?”

“I do my own keyboard. Me and Big Macca can cover bass and melody fine, and we’ll be all right.”

“Because you’re big, strong men? God!” Scara yelled, face flushed angry pink. She banged both fists against the wall and received a satisfying thud in response. “And Meat and I will cower in the background like helpless little girls? I swear to God, Gazz,” she said, spinning on him. Her voice began low and chilly, and rose to a shriek, “if you go all chauvinistic like this, I will fucking murder you. Don’t you dare try and block me out because you think you know better! You don’t; you don’t know anything except how to make people feel good, which is pretty damn useless in the real world. We’re playing tomorrow. All of us.”

Galileo looked appalled. “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“I don’t need god-bloody-damned keeping safe!” Scaramouche howled. “I need to be treated like a real, intelligent person instead of a Gaga-brained cow of a groupie.” Abruptly she gave what sounded like a sob, and turned and ran out of the door.

Galileo stared at the open door in complete wonderment for a few seconds, then dived forward, leaning out of the doorway. “I can’t do anything right, can I?” he yelled down the corridor. There was no response. “Well, what do you want me to do?” he called after her. Again, no response. He buried his hands in his hair. “Now what I am supposed to do?” he demanded the empty hall.

Scara pushed her way through the crowd to the bar. On the first floor, those who hadn’t heard the shouting avoided her anyway. Watching people slink out of her way, she wondered if this was how Khashoggi felt all the time. It didn’t improve her mood. She planted both hands on the plastic bar table and scowled at Pop. “Got anything 200 proof?”

The bartender looked at her and whistled softly. “ ‘Fraid not, scary witch-lady.”

A human throat shouldn’t have been capable of that sort of growl. “Pop, do you want to be castrated in front of a large group of people, because right now, I’d be more than happy…”

The man spun around to the bottles and then placed a glass of rum in front of her. She glared, then lifted it and knocked it back. The glass thunked down. “More.”

Pop refilled it, and a new hand landed on the girl’s shoulder, knocking her forward. “Shame on you, Pop,” said Big Macca’s mellow voice. “Shame, shame, shame. She’s got you pussy-whipped too?”

“And proud of it,” said the bartender morosely.

Macca picked up the glass and drank it, with a wink at the girl. Then he coughed. “Aw, fuck me!” The smoke from his joint wafted around the bar and Scara, murder in her eyes, stood up, walked around Big Macca, and plucked it out of his fingers. She dropped it on the ground and crushed it.

“I’d rather not,” she said. “We have a concert tomorrow. What the hell are you thinking, smoking that shit?”

“It’s not until night-time,” complained Big Macca.

“We need you for set-up and testing and rehearsal tomorrow morning. You are not going to smoke anything, shoot anything, snort anything at all tonight. We need you functional!”

Pop quietly refilled the glass. Scara grabbed it and stalked off. People moved out her way.

It took a few minutes to find a quiet corner behind some kind of fake plant where Scara could sit and lean her forehead against the cool window. I, she thought desperately, am such a mess.

Someone else picked up her drink. “Heard you were having a go at Paul for smoking,” said Meat Loaf conversationally.

Scara didn’t move. “He gets high as a kite, you know that. And then he’s completely useless for the next twelve hours. We don’t have that. He just shouldn’t be smoking. Full stop.”

“And you shouldn’t be drinking. Full stop.” Meat sat down in a slight rustle, and Scara smelled perfume and cigarette smoke.

“What are you talking about? I can drink anybody here under the table, you know that. And I’m fine in the mornings.”

There was a clink and a gulp. Meat touched her shoulder. “Not these mornings.”

“OK, so maybe that was an exaggeration. I get kind of sick.”

“You get kind of sick even when you haven’t been drinking.” Scara turned away from the window and found herself facing down a pair of bright green, inquisitive eyes.

“What are you saying?” she asked.

Meat squeezed the shoulder. “Don’t play dumb with me, Scara; it doesn’t suit you. You planning on telling him soon?”

“Oh, for the love of God, Meat. Not now. I’m not - ” Meat raised one eyebrow in cool skepticism. Scara rolled her eyes. “Fine, I guess I am. But I can’t - ” She could feel frustrated panic welling up inside her. “I’m going to deal with it after the concert, yeah?”

Her misery must have been obvious, because Meat’s face changed suddenly, and she leaned forward. “Aww, Babe.” Meat hugged her. “Sssh. I’m sorry I was teasing you. I forgot how nervous you get before these things. It’s gonna be OK. Really. Ssssh…”

Scara wriggled out of the other girl’s grasp. “How could you tell?”

Meat fixed her with a cynical green eye. “Did I ever tell you what I did before the Heartbreak found me?”

“Um. No?”

“I dropped out of school and I bunked down on the streets with the junkies and the prostitutes. Trust me, there is nothing I don’t know about sex, kids, and contraception.” Meat wrinkled her nose. “That was eight weeks of an education you don’t get at VirtualHigh, let me tell you. Gaga girls got contraceptives through their food – did you know that?” Scara shook her head. She’d never bothered to wonder about it, since VirtualHigh was nearly all flirtation. “It was part of the diet supplements. Once you go underground…” she shrugged delicately. “Not so much. And I don’t suppose anyone has reorganized that particular aspect of Planet Mall. If anybody’s in charge of it, it’s Commander Khashoggi. Ooof. Can you imagine?” Scara laughed a little at the expression on Meat’s face. “I mean,” the girl continued, “it was bound to happen. You haven’t been getting those supplements for almost a year, and, well, you and Gazz…”

Scara aimed a calibrated glare. “Yeah? Me and Gazz what?”

Meat smirked. “You’ve been having some quality fandango time, that’s all.”

“Look, just because you’re not getting any doesn’t mean you can make fun of me, all right.”

Meat tipped her head back and laughed for a long time. When she finally stopped, she grinned at Scara. “You still stroppy?”

“Guess not.”

“Good. Go out and dance.” Meat stood up. “This is your party, Scaramouche. You deserve it. We are going to rock tomorrow, so go have a good time.” She winked. “Dance with the fit one with green hair if you can’t find Gazz.”

Gazz, Scara thought, her stomach going cold again. Damn. “You dance with him if you think he’s fit.”

Meat’s face twitched a little. “I’m not in a dancing mood,” she said quietly.

“Whatever,” said Scara, putting off the question of Meat’s emotional problems until tomorrow.

Scara escaped and went to bed fairly early. Tomorrow was going to be a long day and she wanted to sleep. It would also allow her to stop thinking about the look on Gazz’s face when she yelled at him, or the guiltily dividing cells in her abdomen. So when Galileo came upstairs much later, he found her curled in the welter of blankets with her hair tied in knots around her face. They kept promising themselves they would find a proper bed somewhere, but never quite getting around to it. So they still slept, as they had since the indescribable madness of Wembley, on a large mattress covered in a nest of blankets. He slipped off his boots with a faint grin …AND the fact that you kept your shoes on… and slid down next to her. Streetlights shining through the crack in the shades lined her face in gold and caught on the curling eyelashes and determined chin. It illuminated the dried tear tracks that skidded over her cheeks and into her hair and Galileo sighed. He touched her hair. You. You, you, you. It seemed to repeat in his head, a silly, pointless refrain that bashed at the gates she put up around herself. I love you, I love you, I love you. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Why is it we’re only peaceful when you’re asleep?” he whispered, with a helpless, rhetorical shrug to the quiet air. He looked at the tear tracks with concern, and pulled her close. “You belong with me, skirmisher. Stop shutting me out.”

She moved, and curled up to him. “Gazz?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry.”

He pushed her hair back, long pianist’s fingers gentle. “I know. Me too.”

“Gazz?”

“Hmm?”

She paused. Tomorrow. After the concert. Then she could tell him, curled up in the dark, just like this. “Never mind.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She snuggled closer, needing to be held. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”