The man walked with a certain composure reserved only for businessmen and movie stars, but he was neither as anyone could see just by looking at him. At intervals he reached up to adjust his hat which looked like a necessary fixture on his head, as natural as a nose or an eye; in effect something that was needed to make him look normal. The long trench coat matched his fedora in color and a hint of darker fabric showed near the lapels. He was in every way a style manifested and with each stride the ground seemed to catch him gingerly, only to release him again a moment later. This man was in complete control of his surroundings.

A lady, apparently the object of his attention, was walking away not hurriedly, but briskly. She seemed to quicken her pace the closer the man got but she did so with dignity. Yet the closer he got, the more flustered she looked under close investigation. The man did not appear to be following her or even to be going to anyone or anywhere specific. He did move with a purpose, but he seemed a man with purpose so there was no sign that he was following her.

She knew better and with a first hint of worry, she turned a corner into a crowded side street. It was evening, but the stores remained open late into the night and she quickly blended into a group of people. She was smart enough to slow her walk considerably to avoid sticking out. The man was smart too, though. He quickly spotted her and did some blending of his own, concealing himself well among a group of roguish young men dressed to the nines.

The woman was momentarily fooled and she allowed herself to stray slightly from the pack she had been traveling in, like a lone gazelle making a fatal mistake for the camera that would reveal her nature to audiences in industrialized countries, watching TV with whimsy and delight while unaware of the brute force of nature. The man, never a moment behind, gladly accepted the role of the lion and moved with a predatory sense of action. His stealth concealed his intentions to the surrounding throngs of product consumers, though his alternate consumerism was now less hidden if anyone would take the time to pay attention.

The woman understood her error when she spotted the man moving towards her, though he never made eye contact and appeared simply to be traversing the street. His progress was momentarily hindered by a vehicle cutting its way through the crowds and the woman used her opportunity to retreat back into a slew of walkers, allowing their current to put distance between her and the man.

His tenacity was unbridled; he proceeded with new resolve and his power became more visible with each step. Soon, the groups of people, as though anticipating something greater than them approaching, began to part in reaction to his approach. The woman glanced over her shoulder and was shocked at the incredible amount of ground he had covered in order to attain her. She doubled her efforts, but to no avail. The man easily kept pace and artfully wove through thick crowds of drunks only now stumbling out of dive bars and happy hour taverns.

The woman took a chance and cut down an alley. She gave up the protection of numbers and attention for a moment of acceleration with the goal of finding a sanctuary of some sort from the man's gaze, yet he reached the same street before she could turn another corner and he began to easily overtake her.

Her dignity was lost; she made a failed attempt to return to the pack of city dwellers and found that the man had all too suddenly fallen upon her. Her hopes were dashed and with despair she turned to face her opponent. He held a pistol, drawn silently and swiftly. His grasp was firm and sure, but there was some effort of restraint showing through his otherwise faultless visage. He spoke with a voice that could only confirm he was the man that all his physical features suggested he would be.

"Do you know...who I am, Mrs. Vaughn?"

The lady, who was in fact Mrs. Vaughn, took her time responding, but she knew what she would say the instant she was asked the question.

"You are Constable William R. Derby."

"Well done, Mrs. Vaughn, well done. I trust you do not require explanation as to why it is I have placed you at my mercy?"

"Do not take me for a fool or you may not take me at all, Derby. The game has only just begun."

Mrs. Vaughn unsheathed her sword; it was the very blade with which she had dispatched seven police officers earlier that day. Derby, the only officer to survive the encounter, revealed his own saber and prepared himself for the duel. Mrs. Vaughn was aware that his skill was greater than the all the men she had defeated earlier combined, but she was not worried. As the most famous assassin in the northern hemisphere, she considered it luck that she was even located. To think that she could be defeated by a cop!

Derby saluted, revealing his sense of honor; the gesture was met by Mrs. Vaughn who always appreciated a worthy adversary in a contest of close combat.

They began.

Her sword was thrust low and met with a level of surprise on Derby's part that may have suggested he never stood a chance, but his confidence was regained with startling speed and a circular parry landed a shallow gash on the lower ribs of Mrs. Vaughn. He wasn't going to give her any slack.

"Hardball, eh? I certainly hope you know what you're getting yourself into."

The fight continued with ferocity and grace. Derby masterfully dodged and avoided Mrs. Vaughn's advances, but his windows for attack appeared few and far between. Though Derby remained in a bubble of safety, Mrs. Vaughn controlled the fight.

For some twenty or thirty minutes the conflict raged. A drunkard stumbled upon the battle and immediately assumed he had had too much Bourbon. He promised himself he would sober up and he quickly fled the scene. No one else found the pair as they dueled late into the evening.

Each of the fighters grew tired and began to make mistakes. Flesh wounds became common but mortal attacks were delivered with slowness and easily avoided.

At some point, Derby gained his second wind, and the battle became very one-sided. Mrs. Vaughn found herself the victim of more and more well-placed slices. The pain was beginning to overtake her and Derby realized he had taken control. He toyed with her a bit and decided to cripple her so he could make the arrest.

Mrs. Vaughn closed her trap. She sliced out with her second sword, a short and well concealed blade which she unsheathed from the inside of her thigh under her dress. Derby's arm was cut clean through. The pain was surprisingly not bad, but the horror of having the limb detached was a shock for him. He had heard of the ghost-limb feeling and was immediately aware of it in his own case. He could feel his fingers closing into a fist yet his arm rested in the gutter, a stream of blood flowing into a storm drain were the squeal of rats was growing excited.

Mrs. Vaughn paused to rest and then repositioned herself behind the distracted Derby. His hat had fallen off and his previously well-covered body seemed strangely vulnerable. Mrs. Vaughn cocked the sword back and was about to swing the deathblow when she was aware of the smell of gunpowder. Her ears were ringing as well, though she never heard the bang. The bullet pierced her heart and with great disappointment, she died before her body hit the cobblestone. Her hair matched the color of her blood and Derby found the sight of the body strangely disturbing, though he had seen many dead people before. He removed his belt and tied of the stump of his arm. He grabbed his hat, and then moved quickly to find medical attention.