She glanced over her shoulder as she ran and then stopped some distance away, helplessly transfixed. Seemingly without reason, her henchman gyrated in a bizarre pantomime; their arms and swords flailed against the air; their feet raised ribbons of dust as they jerked and jigged. Then, like a silver thread woven into an ornate tapestry, unnoticed and then unmistakable, she identified the orb as it zipped around her men. Beneath the incessant buzz, she could suddenly discern their strident cries of pain. Geysers of red mist billowed about them.

Their clumsy counterattacks, their pitiful attempts at protection, all were futile before the fury of the orb. The elder guard lost an arm; the younger one, his head. The towering mass of the Leftist was felled, his hamstrings severed. Within moments, the surgical onslaught was complete, and the victimizers, now victims, had collapsed into quivering heaps, soon to be still. The Which knew that she was next.

Before hysteria could root her to the spot, she dashed away. She ran aimlessly, turning down avenues at random, her eyes frantically searching for a door, an alcove, any place that might provide sanctuary. But the abandoned buildings were pitiless and without providence. Her terror intensified as her options dwindled.

The low, menacing growl had escalated to a roar, and it reverberated off the archaic walls, making it impossible to locate the whereabouts of the murderous orb that was no doubt hunting her. The Which’s desperate whimpers punctuated her gasping attempts to find breath, but she dared not pause to recuperate.

A silver streak appeared in her periphery and she knew that the orb had found her. An involuntary shriek escaped her, and she stopped, cowering, her head swiveling from side to side. She caught a glimpse here, a glimmer there—reflections cast fleetingly on buildings slashed with hard shadows.

The orb was circling her. She turned and turned until she was disoriented and dizzy. White spots flashed before her eyes, confusing her further and exacerbating her sense that the orb was all around her. The maddening sound was fraying her nerves and flaying her rationality.

“Get away from me!” she cried. Even through her terror, The Which was livid with a sense of injustice. She was in possession of the Tinderbox now, why was she not the master of the orb? Still it stalked her, and it was clear that its intent was not benevolent.

The Which stumbled over rubble and tumbled down hard in the center of the deserted street. She writhed in her tangle of robes, her lustrous, long hair falling into her face. Still she clung tenaciously to the Tinderbox with both hands, refusing to let it go. She managed to raise herself on one elbow, her ragged breath sawing at the dust-filled air.