Caliban woke to the screech of sirens, a thunderous fleet of wailing that shook the streets. The detective slowly got up from the hard concrete, holding his head in pain.

“Damn it,” he said squinting as flashing colors spun around his vision.

As his sight finally came back Caliban looked around him. He was in an alley, only a few feet from the main road. The ground was littered with broken bottles, concert posters and stacks of papers that leaned against rusted dumpsters.

“What the hell happened,” said Caliban through a cough, trying to collect his thoughts. The air was heavy with black smog and it smelled like shit. He couldn’t have been out for more than a few hours, the sun was still high in the sky. Where was Sinclair though, and Dandy? Caliban patted at his chest, he was still alive too. How was that possible? Sinclair must’ve found a way to escape, dumped him in this alley and then detonated Dandy’s bomb. Which meant…

“Dandy’s dead,” said Caliban giving himself a moment to process the thought. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets. His hand felt at something but he ignored it.

The detective walked out into the main street. There would be time to mourn later, first, he needed to find Grey. Hopefully, his partner still had a hold of the boy.

As Caliban walked out onto the street he finally caught sight of it all. Massive streams of black smoke belched from flame. He was more than ten blocks away from it but he could still see the smoke, but it wasn’t Figaro’s concert hall. The hall was in the complete opposite direction. So, then what the fuck was that? Crowds of people were outside, ensuing in chaos. Some people ran towards the flames, some away and some just stood and watched. If he was right then the direction of the fire was…

“The airport,” said Caliban, his eyes going wide. He felt at the object in his pocket again but this time pulled it out. His heart skipped a beat as he looked at the plastic trigger that laid in his hand, a slight bend in the middle, a physical reminder of his cowardice. Cicero’s robotic words rung in his head.

“Two trains have bombs on them, one is this one and the other is a train headed south. In 15 minutes the south line will reach the airport, and when it does. Well. You know. BOOM!”

Caliban looked back up to the typhoon of smoke. Sinclair hadn’t sentenced Dandy to death, not in the slightest. Sinclair, like him, had chosen the other train and with it the airport.

------------------------------------------------

The detective panted as he finally stopped running, his lungs screaming out in pain from the thick, death-ridden air. He looked up to see a massive building collapsing on itself. The airport’s concrete roof cracked under its own weight, the explosion had blown out most of the supports. Police officers yelled as loud as they could over the deafening roar of the flames, directing people out of harm's way and firefighters tried helplessly to calm the flames. The inferno only grew though, feeding on everything it could. This fire put the one at the concert hall to shame. Figaro’s loss was nothing more than a campfire in comparison. Caliban backed up as the ground shook. Steel frames collapsed with a loud creak. Behind the building erupted a massive wall of red, licking the sky with blistering heat, taking with it metal shards.

“DAMN IT” yelled a familiar voice, “THOSE PLANES ARE LIKE TIME BOMBS WITH THIS FIRE!”

The chief turned around and looked towards Caliban.

“DETECTIVE,” yelled the chief, approaching him quickly and grabbing him by the collar with his chubby fingers, “YOU FOLLOWED SINCLAIR. AFTER I FUCKING SAID NO. YOU BETTER NOT HAVE HAD A PART IN THIS!”

Caliban gripped the cylinder in his pocket tighter. His own words taunted his thoughts.

“They might be innocent, yeah, but if they died what would change? Who cared if a few died for the greater good?”

Caliban looked around as people screamed, their faces covered in ash and burns. Innocent citizens were mutilated, limbs torn off by scalding steel and debris embedded into skulls.

This isn’t what he wanted, not at all. Caliban’s vision got blurry as his eyes stung. He looked back at the chief and swallowed his morals. “I don’t know anything about this,” said Caliban, his heart aching in response to his own words.

The chiefs grip loosened and he turned away from the detective, his anger slightly quelled.

Caliban wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, “Wait! Chief where is Grey? Is he alright?”

The chief looked back at Caliban, his eyes held a slight darkness to them, a sadness.

--------------------------------

The television clicked on, and a voice entered the room with it.

“More than four days have passed since the mysterious explosion at Keller-Dale Airport and still the fires have yet to be fully contained. As of now, there are more than 3,000 confirmed dead along with another 2,000 injured, most in critical condition. An incident that has surpassed 911 in causalities. Authorities are still unsure of the cause of the explosion, despite many theories circulating. Everyone wants to know why this happened, and who is to blame for such a traged-“

Adam clicked the power button and got up quickly. The motel bed squeaked in response.

The News repeated the same thing over and over, just in different words and with an increasing number. Apparently, no one suspected Cicero yet but people were getting antsy. People needed someone to blame and soon. Tension was building all too quick. Adam looked towards Sinclair as he laid back on an overstuffed red chair. His eyes were closed. What would people do if they knew this man chose to kill upwards of 3000 to save one girl? That was the choice Sinclair had made, and even Adam didn't understand it.

He looked at his phone. “6:24 PM SAT."

He stretched and then headed for the room’s door.

“Where are you going?” said Sinclair his eyes still closed

“Just headed out for some fresh air,” said Adam.

Sinclair paused a moment, sensing the lie but decided to let it go, “Don’t get caught.”

Adam pulled his black coat off the hook and slipped it on. He then opened the door and stepped outside.

After a short ride-share, Adam found himself in front of a slightly shabby Tudor-style house. The white paneled walls were discolored but still pretty. The yard was well mowed and there were a few flower bushes pressed against the dark red brick. A stone laid path lead to the glass door at the front.

Why the hell was he here? He couldn’t believe himself. He didn’t belong someplace like this. Adam rubbed his thumb over the small photo in his hand. It was of a small framed, frowning girl, her arms crossed and her eyes fiery. It wasn’t like he was planning on staying or anything. He had just forgotten to give back the photo is all. He was just here to give it back.

He walked towards the front door until he heard a loud crash. Adam stopped halfway up the stone path and looked through the window.

Grey was in the living room, holding a picture frame in his hand. His arm was bleeding from a fresh wound and his leg was cast. Broken glass littered the wooden floor. The detective fell to his knees and pressed the picture frame to his forehead, tears streaming down his face. Grey yelled in agony as he threw the picture against the wall and fell back to his knees. The frame clattered to the ground, the glass cracked. As Adam saw it his heart sank.

The subject of the broken photo was the same as the one Adam held.

Adam turned around and started to walk home. There would be no overcooked steaks, nor bland veggies this night. No burned biscuits, nor over-sweetened tea.

This world truly was garbage, it took anything pure and twisted it beyond repair or recognition. This world was absolute filth.

Over three thousand dead in the explosions, and just one of them happened to be a small dark-skinned girl, with a knack for spelling and a fire in her heart. A little girl who was the light in a single man’s eye. A light that now no longer existed.