The Atheist paced the suite of rooms that the Amazons had staked out as their part of the Refuge. "If there's one thing Maverick and Owl never miss, it's the How to Use a Penis workshop. Where are they? If they don't get here soon, we'll have to ask Barry to sub in, and I refuse to be beholden to a Dookie."

"Relax, Cass," the Wanderer said, reaching out to stroke her partner's hair and stop the older woman from continuing to make her dizzy. "They probably saw some handsome hunk of meat marching out of Grand Central and stopped to stare. Or maybe Riley's ran short on waitresses and they volunteered their services- it'd be a great way to spread rumors, wouldn't it?"

"Or some fuckin' tourists got 'em," the Atheist snapped, in no mood for the Wanderer's joking around.

"Since when am I the optimist in this relationship?"

"Since you left Detroit freely and I ran out of Chapel Hill with a lynch mob at my heels. Where the fuck are those boys?" The Atheist's voice was sharp and bitter, and the Wanderer could tell that her partner was trying to keep from crying at the memories.

"I don't like how late they are," the Guitarist said, looking up from her typewriter as the conversation between her two fellow Amazons penetrated into her little world.

"See? If she doesn't like it, something is wrong. She's known them longer than we have."

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and two exhausted men staggered through the doorway with mussed hair, dirt on the knees of their khakis, and identical expressions of relief. "By the Lady!" the Guitarist exclaimed, rushing to her friends' side.

The Wraith entered hard on the men's heels, and the usually mild-mannered leader of the guerilla writers' group looked furious. "Maverick, Owl, what happened?"

Owl combed his dark hair back into order before addressing the Wraith's question. "We were window-shopping on Broadway. Will stopped to check out this little black number, and these two thugs in letterman jackets came up behind us and stuck a gun in my ribs. It was either be marched off to wherever they wanted us to go or get shot right there, and that would have been just wrong."

"That and you thought the wingman was hot," Maverick interrupted with a smile. But it was a strained smile, and it went away quickly as he continued the tale. "They wanted to kill us, all right, but they wanted to do it in front of the Osborne, and right on top of Slash Stewart's memorial."

Maverick's revelation caused a wave of "Oh my God!"s, "By the Lady!"s, and one "Oh, FUCK no!" Owl waited for the noise to die down before he picked up the story. "There were people there when we came across 57th- a guy and a girl, weird, no? But they ducked down into the staircase when they saw the group of us coming- they didn't want to get involved, I don't blame them. Rifleboy made us kneel on the slash and started talking trash. We're still Disciples, though, so we fulfilled the oath. Then Rifleboy called Slash Stewart a fag bitch, and, well-"

"That didn't make sense at all," Maverick cut in. "I mean, yeah, we're fags, and you're dykes-" he pointed at the Wraith and the Atheist to clarify his words- "and you and yours are switchers-" this part was directed at the Wanderer. "And, yeah, there is such a thing as a fag bitch- after all, what else would I call Jeff over here? But you can't be a fag and a bitch if you're a girl. That's just wrong. I don't mind abuse so long as it's accurate, but I refuse to be lumped in willy-nilly with a straight girl unless it involves a hot bisexual man."

"Focus, Will!" everyone yelled, including Owl. "Must you ruin my dramatic moment?" Owl added, ruffling Maverick's hair until Maverick shut up and started styling himself. "In any case, we were this close to death, kneeling on Slash Stewart's slash, and Rifleboy was ready to fire-"

"And this one starts mouthing off about how Slash Stewart got the message faster than Rifleboy ever could, which really made him pissed off-" Maverick interrupted.

"I didn't want them to know that," Owl muttered sheepishly. Before the Guitarist or the Wanderer could gather breath to berate him for his foolishness, he dove back into the tale. "Rifleboy was ready to kill us when this guy came up out of the subway- it was the guy who'd been standing on the corner before- and started taunting him. Rifleboy and his buddy Cute'n'Stupid shot off doctrine a mile a minute, and Good Samaritan wasn't having any of that. Rifleboy decided that some random guy yelling at him was a worse threat to America than a couple of happy fags, pardon my French but you know that was what he was thinking, and swung the gun at Good Samaritan. Well, there are far better places in New York to be on your knees, so we got up and cleared the hell out of Dodge. But we didn't go too far- neither of us is good in a fight, but we couldn't just leave the guy to get beat on by these two punks. Not like he needed us, though- he went totally berserk! He threw one guy under a cab and the other one down the stairs into the station like it was nothing! To be honest with you, it scared me a little, 'cause he seemed like such a nice guy, but he could go totally psycho. After he ditched the second guy, we came right up here."

"I'm glad y'all are all right," the Wraith said, giving each of the men a quick hug. "Can you remember what either of them looked like?"

"Well, the one with the gun had blond streaks in his brown hair, and the other one had just brown hair-"

"Jeff, I meant the Good Samaritan and the girl, not Rifleboy and cute-and-stupid."

Maverick and Owl exchanged looks. "The girl was blonde, maybe your height, stylishly dressed. She looked familiar from somewhere, but I couldn't place her," Maverick said.

"The guy was black-haired, kind of scruffy-looking- he was a lot taller than she was, like her head only came up to his nose. He had a brown leather jacket, a cowboy hat, and by the Lady, did he ever need a fashion intervention. He had a good smell, though, if a little strong."

Maverick snapped his fingers. "They probably got smashed to hell when Rifleboy and cute-and-stupid decided to try and make us die, but someone left violets on the slash. Nice big ones, too, tied with a lavender ribbon. Someone took a lot of care with that bouquet- wish it hadn't gotten beat up."

"Violets were her favorite flower. Yeah, they were her favorite color, but she really loved them for their stubbornness- they'll grow out of any crack in the sidewalk, give 'em enough time. She hardly ever 'fessed up to that, though, she always *said* roses." The Wraith started pacing. "Couldn't be her daddy, he was never black-haired. Both of the Renfair boys were light-haired, and boys sworn to the Reaper don't wear brown anymore anyways. Coulda been someone payin' respects, that's always possible. But maybe, just maybe, there's a real simple explanation. Any y'all remember when we had some un'spected company a while back?"

"You mean when Emily thought a suicide mission'd be fun?" Owl asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.

"Yeah, that."

"Gee, Todd Carter comin' into the Refuge and not blastin' away with a machine gun? Yeah, I don't think we're gonna forget that anytime soon," the Atheist said. "I certainly don't think I'll forget him eyein' me when he thought I couldn't see him."

"Didn't he say that he had William with him up in Toronto?"

"Uh, who?" the Guitarist asked, glancing sidewise at Maverick.

"Gina's boyfriend. You know, the one she was *really* writin' 'bout whenever she wrote somethin' that could make the baby Jesus cry. The one she held out hope for right up 'til the raid. Carter said he knew 'bout them. And if Carter's startin' to move 'tween Toronto and New York, maybe the rest of his guys are too."

"It'd certainly explain why he went berserk when Rifleboy dissed Slash Stewart. I know if someone talked about Jeff like that, I'd have to kill them," Maverick said, pulling Owl close and kissing him gently.

"Ew. Boys kissin'. That's just gross- can't you guys go do that somewhere else?" the Wraith said.

"It could be worse. It could be straight people," the Atheist deadpanned, drawing a wave of laughter from the group.

"I resemble that remark," the Guitarist said.

From there the punning got worse, but the Wraith wasn't there to see it. She slipped out while her friends were dueling and headed to the room she shared with her partner Opal. She had work to do, and multiple channels of communication to explore. Finger on the intercom, she said to Emily, "I need you to do your best to get in touch with Dee Clay. If she or Helen has a beeper or a drop box, tell 'em that I need to talk to Gina's boyfriend as soon as possible. Keep tryin', an' tell me the second you hear anything, even if it's three in the mornin', got that?"

"I hear you, girl. Don't worry 'bout the time, I'm more likely to hear somethin' at three in the mornin' than I am at three in the afternoon. Somethin' up?" There was a little worry in the redhead's voice as she spoke to her old friend.

"Somethin' might be up, but it might be somethin' good for a change. Even if it ain't somethin' good, it's somethin' right, and in the end that's gonna last longer than somethin' good." Once she'd gotten that word to Emily, she sat down with a piece of her stationary- old stationary, old enough to have her given name on it- and started writing in her textbook cursive. Ordinarily she would have used one of the ancient computers that sat menacingly in the basement, but this needed a more personal touch, some proof that there was a living person behind this and not the inhuman specter of Britney. The note was short and to the point- there was a lot more that needed to be said, but it needed to be said in person, and it needed to be said only to the right person.

The envelope she found after fifteen minutes of searching the desk had a print of violets in one corner, and she realized that it had to have come from Gina's old things; at the Amazons' old headquarters in Midtown, everyone's stuff had been kept more or less in common, clothes and books and notepads in separate but jumbled piles that worked the Virgo Wraith's nerves. She sighed wistfully, thinking of her martyred friend who'd just wanted to lead something that resembled a normal life before Britney had warped their world. But she didn't have time to spend brooding over Gina. She would leave that to the expert. Instead, she sealed the envelope, shrugged into a navy blue jacket, and left the Refuge, walking quickly south to a destination she knew better than the way to her old Southern home.

Once she reached the northwest corner of 57th and 7th, where the orange streetlights reflected eerily off the amethyst slash cut into the sidewalk, the Wraith laid an iris on the memorial and taped the envelope to the wall opposite. She remained standing there for a long while, head bowed as she allowed herself to become lost in thought. She willfully ignored the fact that not even Slash Stewart's memorial had been a safe place for her people; this was a time for her memories and idealism, not for reality. She had had enough of reality to make her sick. Once upon a time, she would have talked out a mood like this with Gina, but when the lack of Gina was the cause for that mood, things fell apart.

The night air was too cold for her slender frame, even swathed as she was in the overlarge jacket, so she hurried back to the Refuge. If she was lucky, Emily would already have heard back from someone, and she would be able to make contact with part of Gina's past.

When she came back to her room, Opal was waiting for her with open arms. She gratefully fell into her partner's embrace, accepting the touches and caresses that she needed, even as her best and dearest friend remained on her mind. If Opal was aware of the memories that came between them, that extra chill in the spring air, she said nothing; she had long since grown used to sharing her Wraith with a ghost.

The next morning, the Wraith walked quickly down Broadway, timing her departure so that she would arrive at 57th and 7th a little after ten. The envelope was still there, so she sighed. As much as she had badgered Emily both the previous night and that morning, there had been no word from the resistance. She was starting to wonder if the whole thing had been a delusion, some grand joke played on her and the rest of the city by the rest of the universe because everyone loved to rag on New York. She was tired of it all, tired of living in the last safe place in the country, tired of being in a country that hated her for something that she couldn't help, tired of waiting and believing and hoping that things would somehow get better. Tears of frustration fell from her eyes as one hand curled up into a fist.

"Are you all right?" someone asked her. She looked back and up into a pair of brown eyes shaded under a cowboy hat. Instinctively she took a step back, a step that allowed her to see the stray ends of black hair that curled out from under the stranger's hat and the battered leather jacket that protected him from the elements.

"I might be," she ventured cautiously. Even if she had been planning to say more, she probably wouldn't have after he turned even paler than he already was. Seeming to have already dismissed the Wraith's existence, he tore the envelope off the wall and ripped it open. Since the note was short and he was a quick reader, it wasn't long before he was staring at her. "And unless you opened that for random reasons or we've had a major disaster, I reckon I'm fine. I don't believe we've met in person. My name's Alaine, most folk call me the Wraith."

"William. Never Billy. People have taken to calling me Whitey. Alaine, not Elaine?" When she nodded, he said, "She had a good friend by that name- that you?"

"If it's Gina you're referrin' to, yeah, that'd be me. Heard you were in town and thought it'd be polite to show you 'round our archives, seein' as Gina wrote most of 'em. Besides, we owe you a debt for savin' two of our own."

"Funny you should offer, because that's exactly what I came to New York to do."

"Well then, this is your lucky day. Follow me. I'll vouch for you." The Wraith tilted her head towards Broadway. After a moment of deep thought, Whitey followed her north to the repository of memories and schemes.