Computers have become virtually unknown in the New York of 2019; it's too easy for Britney to infiltrate their systems and make both them and their users willing drones. So the line of glowing screens in a room in Manhattan is an unusual sight. But these computers have never known the touch of the Internet, have never been connected to anything other than the wall and the printer. They are nothing more than word processors, glorified typewriters; in fact, there are typewriters among them, squat black machines with paper hanging out of their tops.

This place is the base of operations for one of the most feared and despised terrorist groups in brainwashed America, the group of women who call themselves the Amazons. Their pen names- their aliases of war- are listed in post offices with approximate descriptions of their physical attributes. Their words sear the eyes of the Channel 1 idiots who dare to walk the streets of Manhattan, but their ideas remain behind even after the initial disgust comes up.

Their styles and topic matter vary from person to person. Opal and the Wraith are pure sap, writers of sport romance. The Baby takes on television personalities with an offbeat yet steamy style. The Snow Queen conjures wild images with her metaphors, her works crossing many genres. The Switch-Hitter and the Atheist go right for the smut in sports and novels. The Wanderer, the Guitarist, Light in the Dark, a myriad of others; they came from all corners of the country, fleeing the slow tightening of government control over their homes. Slowly, they gathered in New York, the last refuge for people like them.

And the one who had already been in New York welcomed them with open arms. The woman known now as Slash Stewart looks up from her computer screen, blinking bleary brown eyes and tossing a lock of her waist-length brown hair out of her face. "Mother of God, being a stealth commando is hell on your back," she says to no one in particular.

The door bangs against the wall as a skinny woman with ghostly-white skin dashes into the room. "G, we got trouble," she gasps, her voice betraying her Southern origins. "Feds comin' up the avenue mighty strong."

Slash Stewart meets the Wraith's eyes. This is one of her oldest friends, her first within the slash fandom that gave her the name she chose. "You can't tell me you didn't know this was coming," she tells the blonde. "We're too much trouble to them. We make people think, and that's bad for the government. Get the group ready. It's showdown time."

"I hate last stands," the Wraith remarks.

"Well, you're not gonna be around for this one, so it doesn't matter. I want you to get the group out of here. Go to the Rutgers Building, Broadway and 73rd. They'll take you in there."

"You think I'm gonna tell 'em to leave you here? That wouldn't be proper."

"This is something I gotta do by myself."

"No, you don't. I'm not gonna let you die."

"News flash. *I'm* not gonna let *you*, and Laurell, and everyone else here die. Hurry up and get everyone out the back." When she sees the Wraith hesitating, she screams, "Laurel's life depends on this, remember?! GET OUT!"

The Wraith finally gives in, because she has to when her best friend plays the trump card of her beloved, hurrying through the house and shouting to the other Amazons. Slash Stewart reaches into a cabinet next to the window. There are a few guns there, things she's kept secret from the rest of the group. She suspects that a couple of her colleagues knew, but never commented. It doesn't matter anymore. After today, a whole lot of things aren't going to matter anymore. She loads the rifles, the revolvers, and the shotgun, breaks a window in the front room, and starts shooting at the tiny targets she can see in the distance. Her aim isn't all that good, but she puts out the shots rapidly, and she can see figures falling. She doesn't know if they're dead or injured, not from that distance. She doesn't care, either; these people are trying to kill her and the people she cares about, and that idea fills her with rage. She's almost pleased when the agents come closer so she can see them better and shoot them better. Her teeth are bared. She's not a fearsome-looking woman normally, but she's a fiercely protective one, and when people try to hurt the people she protects she will go berserk.

"Need a hand?" The voice belongs to a Brooklyn girl; no way she could be anything else. Christián Espinel, one of the few slashers to have been in New York at the outset; Slash Stewart knows her too well to remember her pen name. "I'll load 'em, you shoot 'em. We might make it out after all."

"Riiiiiight," Slash Stewart snorts, taking the rifle out of the kid's hands. "Why didn't you leave with the Wraith and the rest?"

"I'm a New Yorker. We fight back." Chris loads a revolver, takes a bead, and kills an agent in the distance. "Youse ever gonna tell me that name of yours that you been hidin' all these years?"

Slash Stewart hesitates. After all, the reason she goes by her pen name in the first place is because she hates her first name with an undying passion. But she refuses to die a stranger. "Gina. My parents decided Georgina was a good name for a kid. I like Slash better."

The two women don't have much else to say to each other now, because the Feds are firing back and they have to dodge. Chris takes her own cache of guns to a window across the hall and lays down cover fire so that Slash Stewart can take out agents at her leisure; she gets the same treatment from the older woman. The only words that cut the air now are along the lines of "DIE MOTHERFUCKER DIE DIE DIE!!!!!!!"

Chris goes down screaming, hand over her stomach. Slash Stewart can't bear to look, is almost relieved when the screams turn into whimpers and the whimpers fade into silence. She takes out a couple of more agents, but they're at the window now, they're at the door, and this time she runs, praying to a God that she doesn't really believe in that the Wraith had enough time to get everyone clear of the area, because she doesn't know how much longer she can distract the pursuit. "Hey, assholes! It's me you want!" she yells. "I'm Slash Stewart!"

They turn to her. "We got one of them dykes!" one of the suited men calls out. Someone who has to be his superior- has to be, no one else could pull off that kind of arrogance with a straight face- enters the scene with proper pompousness. She can't help but laugh; out of all the Amazons, only three of them are straight, and they still manage to screw up. Her gaze covers the room quickly, instincts coming to the fore: fnd another gun, find an escape route, find something, anything that will keep this fight going a little longer, let the Wraith get a little further up Broadway with the rest of New York's Most Wanted.

The gun still in her hand feels a little heavier than it did before, and it hits her that not all the bullets have been used. She grins and starts firing. There were three shots left when she started and she takes down three more agents before she has to start using the gun as a blunt instrument. It doesn't take long for the experience of the law enforcement officers to shine through, and she's soon overpowered.

"There's a ten-thousand-dollar reward for you alive," the leader of the group says.

"Wish I'd known that before. I'm flat broke. Ten grand woulda been handy."

He hits her about the face with the gun. "Shut up, bitch. Because the reward for you dead is right up at twenty-five thousand and a guaranteed mate. Boys..."

She doesn't bother thinking oh, shit. She got past that stage when this began. Her next-to-last thought, as the agents cock their guns at her, is man, I hope everyone got to the Refuge safely!

Her last thought, one that ends before its time as the darkness claims her, was at least I don't have to worry about you anymore, mi corazon... love you... And then she falls, perforated by enough bullet holes to bring down an entire posse. By the time the agents stir from pumping her body full of lead, the rest of the Amazons have already reached safety at the church that flies a rainbow flag.