There was some kind of force pulling Marissa toward the front door. She soon felt cool evening air on her face. Opening her eyes, she saw the gray night lit by the glow of the street lights. There were people plodding back and forth along the city street. She wanted to stay there and watch them but knew that her mother was following her and she had to make haste. She had to get to a place where she could rest, and think, and make sense of everything.

There were several buildings towards the end of the street, each with windows of dark gray glass. There was a gap between the two closest ones. It was narrow but seemed to go on forever into the darkness. Looking more closely at it she thought she saw the outline of a little figure, glowing faintly with red light. She squinted, trying to better make out the alleyway. All the while, those scenes of brutality continued to play in her mind, overshadowing her vision. With this distraction, it was too late that Marissa noticed the figure burning red and then something hurtling towards her out of the darkness.

Something exploded by Marissa, showering her with glass. The impact flung her forward and a car alarm began to ring shrilly. There was another flash of light and a boom and then the whole street filled with a plume of smoke, totally obscuring her vision and any chance of looking into the alleyway.

Within seconds, police sirens were approaching and people were streaming past Marissa, buffeting her without regard. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, and now Marissa wasn't quite sure if her mother had been following her at all.

"Come out and lift your hands up to the sky" said a loud voice filtered through a megaphone. Marissa wasn't sure if the order was directed towards her. She began to stumble after the rest of the crowd, her shoes kicking up even more dust.

Suddenly, the dark figure appeared again on her right. It was diminutive in size - no one she knew from this world or the Valorian one was that small, unless this was a child. Regardless, she could not see its face through the smoke. She could see it was smiling, but that was it. It raised a hand and pointed its arm at her. It took Marissa a few seconds to understand the gesture. I'm going to get you, it seemed to be saying, and Marissa briefly wildly considered that the girl from before had followed her here to finish her off.

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Another ear-splitting warning from the police broke Marissa's concentration. With it, the stranger seemed to melt away. In its place was the piercing beam of a flashlight that cut through the smog. Marissa kept her hands up and advanced towards the light, preparing her excuses for the police: I'm sorry officer. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. (Had she been?) I'm sorry officer. My mother is Abigail Townsend, and I am a bit confused myself. (Understandable.)

From behind the beam of light emerged a young man wearing a handsome brown leather jacket and carrying a torch. She had never seen him before. He beckoned in a friendly and comforting but slightly odd gesture. Marissa had only time to know that the man had a mop of brown hair and was fine-featured but not Prince Andrew before a pair of police hands wielding firearms burst into view.

She had no weapon herself - her sword was gone wherever she was from - and no choice but to flee towards the man and hope he would protect her. After all, he could have done nothing but watch from the crowd as the police laid into her. Her legs barely touched the ground as she ran, screaming, as a wave of gunfire swept past her head. She collided with arms that she knew were his. In the split second before the arms grabbed her, she saw several police officers behind him and, disturbingly, the shadow of a gauzy white cloak. Then, the man tightened his hold, and together they vanished into the smoke.

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When the smoke cleared, the man was unconscious, and the girl clearly dead. The police chief sent the rest away; they had somehow failed to notice that he was a tall fellow in a white cloak who seemed quite curious about the girl's body. In his hands was a pistol. He used it to gently turn her over. It was a clear violation of the sanctity of the dead, but in doing so he could now see the girl's coarse face and know that this was simply a crude dummy - a replica. Somewhere, probably far away now, Marissa lived. The man sighed and pulled out his scryglass. "She's dead," he reported.