Caliban sighed, his breath shaky. A week had passed and still, he couldn’t get a hold of himself. The lens of insomnia made the world seem like it was going half speed, sounds were distorted and the daylight stung the detective's dark-rimmed eyes. Caliban sat back in his office chair, the cheap cushions a much-welcomed comfort. His bones ached and his throat burned of bile. He barely had time to sit much less sleep since the destruction of Keller-Dale airport.

The detective looked down at his desk, his eyes sinking to the middle right drawer. He slowly went to grab the handle.

Why did he torture himself like this? It brought him nothing but pain.

Caliban pulled open the drawer. On top of a pile of folders, it sat there, a disgusting little toy. It stared back at him, mocking him. Laughing at his cowardice. Cicero’s little trigger, cheap and plastic, with a slight bend in the middle. With that trigger, he had been given a choice, the lives of a few or the lives of many, and he had chosen wrong. Sinclair might’ve been the one to actually make the choice but the detective was just as guilty.

He could almost hear Cicero’s digitized voice, the shaking of the speeding subway and Dandy’s faint cries. That piece of plastic took him right back to that moment. His lowest moment. Caliban’s warped conscious laughed at him. No, his lowest moment continued. It did not end when Sinclair knocked him out. It continued to this very second. He could hand this trigger over to evidence and tell them that Cicero was the cause, the cause of it all but he didn’t. He did nothing because he was a damn coward. If he told the police everything he knew he would be locking himself up for good. It was a miracle Dandy hadn’t said anything yet. Her words could destroy him. He wasn’t sure why she held out but he was thankful. All that she had told the police was that she was abducted but gave no mention of him or even of Sinclair. For now, they had officers around the clock guarding Dandy’s place. Grey was among them. Hopefully, that would deter Cicero from any future action until they found a more permanent solution.

Caliban eyed the trigger yet again and ran his finger over its surface. Despite things, Cicero and the Sinclairs had been quiet so far. There hadn’t been a peep from any of them since the airport incident, thank fuck. The city couldn’t take much more of this.

There was a knock on his door. Caliban slammed the drawer shut just as one of the new recruits peaked into the office.

“Hey, detective, boss man wants you ASAP. He’s in the parking lot.”

“Shit,” thought Caliban getting up from his chair in a hurry.

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

Caliban jogged up to the Chief who was already getting into a cruiser by the time he made it to the parking lot. The Chief motioned for him to get in. Caliban slipped into the passenger seat, sweat trickling down his forehead. The overweight man cranked the engine and turned on the A/C. The Chief didn’t look much better than Caliban did, with dark sunken eyes to match and a sick yellow tint to his skin.

With his chubby fingers, the Chief wiped the sweat off his upper lip, “Want to know why you aren’t fucking job hunting right now?”

Caliban looked out the window at the passing scenery. He was tired of this strong-arming. The idiot had no issue spitting his displeasure at him, “The same reason you are making Grey work instead of letting him mourn. You can’t spare any men right now.” Caliban knew he shouldn’t press him harder, it was stupid, but the words just flew off his tongue.

The chief’s flabby chin crinkled, “For your information DETECTIVE, the poor bastard asked to work, basically got on his damn knees to be given something to do. But for once you aren’t totally wrong. I can’t spare a single badge right now, but there is more than that.”

Caliban turned towards the chief, curious at what he meant. The chief opened up the center console of the car and pulled out a deep red envelope trimmed with gold. He threw the flashy card onto Caliban’s lap. The detective picked it up confused.

“What is this?” said Caliban opening up the envelope.

“Figaro announced an event he’s doing, some orchestra or some shit. A massive play or concert for the grand opening of his new place and all the proceeds go to helping with relief. Probably just a publicity stunt taking advantage of the terrorist attack. However, all the big shots rolling in money will be there. I am sure like half of Avaes too. It’s just a giant fundraiser for shelters and helping hands all that good shit.”

It made sense Figaro would invite the chief. He wanted all the biggest influencers of the city there, the chief would sadly be on that list. Caliban opened the card. It was covered in fancy script. The top and biggest line said, 'You Are Cordially Invited to Figaro’s Magnum Opus, The Phoenix Subortus and the performance of a lifetime, to give the public charge, the infamous Tragedy of Mark Tully.'

The rest of the card detailed attire, location, and other specifics.

“Figaro is a narcissist through and through,” said Caliban, “Don’t we have more important things to worry about?” The artist was a psycho and a killer but he was not the police’s primary concern right now.

The chief kept his eyes on the road but responded quickly, “Yes, we do. However, you are going to answer something first. That came to the station today, but it wasn’t addressed to me. It was addressed it you Caliban.”

The detective’s breath caught in his throat as he looked back at the card.

“Now,” said the chief his tone lined with accusation, “Why would Figaro want you at this event? An insignificant little detective in a party for big timers. You aren’t telling me something Caliban. Why did Figaro invite you?”

The detective's sweat turned cold, but he lied without hesitation, “I told you that Grey and I went to Figaro’s concert hall. He must see me as a part of this game now, even if I am only a small part.”

Caliban supposed it wasn’t a complete lie, just a bit of withholding the truth. The truth was he was a big piece in this game. He was right in the middle of it all, a powerless detective mixed up in a battle between gods. This fight between Figaro, Sinclair, and Cicero was becoming too much for him, it was all too much.

The chief seemed relatively satisfied, “So you think this has something to do with Sinclair? But why throw the damn concert?”

“Figaro wouldn’t do this without a reason.” The artist was a lunatic but if there was one thing he wouldn’t do it was bore his audience. There was a purpose behind this ‘Phoenix Subortus’. There had to be. Caliban analyzed the card yet again, discarding anything that was pointless. Reading it back all of it was insignificant except for the heading. Take out the fluff and the pointless Latin and all that was left was the play.

‘the performance of a lifetime, to give the public charge, the infamous Tragedy of Mark Tully.’

Caliban’s jaw slowly dropped as realization flooded over him. His history minor had actually come in handy. He was lucky he even got the hint but that was the point he supposed. For Figaro, anyone who couldn’t piece together something like this didn’t deserve to know.

“What is it?” said the chief.

Caliban put his finger on the play’s title, “Tragedy of Mark Tully.”

“What about it?”

“It isn’t a real play and is definitely not infamous. Mark Tully is a hint towards Figaro’s real show.”

“Stop fucking skirting around Caliban and come out with it.

Caliban sneered, this was bad, “Mark Tully is not a play but a name. A name of a specific Roman master of prose. Mark Tully is short for Marcus Tullius.”

The chief tried to process the information but was still confused.

“This roman was more commonly known as Marcus Tullius Cicero,” Caliban paused, “the Tragedy of Mark Tully, to give the public charge. Figaro is stating two things with this sentence.” Caliban played dumb for a moment to cover himself, “The first is that Cicero is the one that caused the terrorist attack on Keller-Dale airport. That Cicero is the one with more than 3000 deaths lying on his shoulders”

The chief locked eyes with Caliban, fear in his face and sweat gleaming off his forehead.

“The second thing he is implying is what really matters though. The Tragedy of Mark Tully. Figaro is going to reveal the identity of the Keller-Dale Bomber. He is going to reveal the identity of Cicero.”