“Is anyone in here!”

An ax broke through the main door of the concert hall, splintering wood across the velvet carpet. The firefighter swung again and again, each cut rattling the bones in her arms. These doors were thick but she would get through them.

Finally, the door gave, and the firefighter forced her way in. Thick smoke poured into the massive room through her new opening. Now inside she saw that the flames hadn’t damaged the main concert hall too bad yet. The high ceiling caused a lot of the smoke to disperse, yet it was just a matter of time. The flames had already begun to climb up the walls.

The firefighter turned her attention to the center stage and what she saw stunned her a moment. The composer and conductor, Figaro, sat on center stage atop a stack of over a dozen body bags like an obsidian throne. A hundred kids surrounded him, sitting on the floor like disciples to a teacher. Figaro flipped a large knife in his hand absent-mindedly. They all seemed completely oblivious or no, rather apathetic to the fire. Not only that but the children were eating what looked like to be raw meat. Dark red blood dribbled from a hundred chins and puddled on the floor.

Flames began to ignite the first few rows of seats in the hall.

“What are you doing!” shouted the firefighter, “Let’s go!”

Figaro turned his attention to the woman covered from head to toe with protective gear. For a moment she thought she saw disgust in his eyes before he stood from his throne and addressed the eating kids.

“Alright young ones,” said Figaro, “time to go with the mean lady.”

The flames grew and grew. The firefighter's grip on her ax tightened, “Why is he being so damn difficult!” she thought, “these kids’ lives are at stake!”

Behind her the firefighter heard a sound almost like the whirr of machinery. She went to turn around but before she could a metal arm went through her chest. Bones cracked and crimson blood poured onto the velvet carpet. An icy chill spread over the woman as she slumped over, Havok’s arm unsheathing from her flesh.

Figaro’s face broke into a grin, “Oh well would you look at that.”

“FIGARO!” screamed Havok, blood steaming off his metal arm.

Havok stepped past the flames, completely ignoring their licks. His eyes were locked on Figaro, a stare forged in fury.

The children for the first time looked up from their meals, their teeth separating from the raw bloody flesh in their hands. The crowd of a red stained hundred split, making way for Havok and creating a path straight to Figaro.

The composer smiled and looked down his nose at the soldier, “What can I do for the prestigious squad leader of Avaes?”

“Where is SINCLAIR!” shouted Havok, his voice hoarse.

Figaro’s patronizing smile only grew as he pointed to Havok with his knife, “And why should I tell you that?”

Havok’s scarred face twisted in anger, “We’re on the SAME SIDE DAMN IT!”

These words wiped the grin off of Figaro’s face, “Where was Avaes when their hunting dog went out of control? When their hitman threatened me and killed my 16 comrades? I owe Avaes and by extension you, NOTHING.”

Havok’s jaw tightened, Figaro was right. Sinclair was Avaes’s right hand of judgment. When he betrayed them, Avaes folded like tissue paper. They could do nothing to protect the 17, their most trusted clients, from their own rogue employee. It was infuriating.

Figaro turned to his children, “Young ones, who hasn’t eaten yet?”

A few raised their hands in response. The composer’s eyes reflected those of a proud father. Figaro bent down to one of the body bags at his feet and unzipped one. A line of still hungry children formed in front of their eccentric parent.

Havok finally formed grunting words, “Don’t lie and call the 17 your COMRADES. They were barely tolerable for you.”

Figaro chuckled, absent his silver ring, “You are more perceptive than you look my lovely metal man.” Figaro spun the knife in his hand and opened the flap to the body bag. He began his cutting as if he was carving a perfectly baked turkey. The sounds of sloshing blood and tearing meat came from Figaro’s work.

Havok lowered his eyes and inside the body-bag saw the mutilated face of the She-Wolf. The soldier’s muscles tensed in disgust. He ran his eyes over the stack of body bags that served as Figaro’s throne. He counted 16. Havok turned to the children watching their teeth rip through their bloody meal as he connected the dots.

The fucking freak was feeding them the corpses of the other 16.

“Here you go sweetie,” said Figaro placing a slab of flesh in the first child’s hands. The child smiled and returned to her place in the burning concert hall, already ravenously chewing through her piece.

A few days ago, this sight would have emptied Havok’s stomach, but that was not the case anymore. The flames crackled and spat, flying up the walls faster than before as Figaro cut another piece off the She-Wolf. Havok scanned his eyes over the composer. This whole damn show wasn’t for nothing. Figaro was doing this for a reason.

“Director won’t be happy about this,” said Havok with a snarl.

“The Director be damned!” yelled out Figaro. The anger was out of character for the composer. Figaro took a second to collect himself before continuing, “I’ve moved onto a better partnership.”

There it was, that is what all this was all about. This was Figaro’s formal resignation from his association with Avaes.

“What BETTER partner?” grunted Havok.

“A partner who is far more effective,” Figaro grinned up at Havok, “and far more interesting. Someone that has even stood up to Avaes, and who tore their right-hand man away from them.”

Havok's metal arm grabbed Figaro by the neck and forced him up, “You’re working with CICERO!”

Figaro’s grin grew, “Oops I suppose I let it slip.”

Cicero had stolen something valuable from Avaes. Havok didn’t know what it was but it was something so important that the company had pushed all their assets towards its retrieval. Not only that but it was something so important that Sinclair would turn on his own and tear apart the world to get his hands on it. Cicero was the enemy. The bastard had caused ALL OF THIS.

Havok’s steel grip tightened as his anger rose, “I should CRUSH you.”

Figaro chuckled through a constricted windpipe. There was movement behind Havok. He shifted his eyes to look at his side. Figaro’s hundred children were pointing perfectly sharp scissors at him, ready to strike, blood still staining their lips.

“You may know pain Havok,” said Figaro through another chuckle, “But have you ever felt the torment of a hundred scissors plunging into your skin, gouging out your eyes and severing your tongue. Have you felt a hundred sets of teeth ripping you apart piece by piece until you are nothing but bone? Because I’m sure my children are still hungry.”

Havok’s fury laden eyes locked back onto Figaro. He would gain nothing from the composer’s death, nor his own. Havok released the man and turned to walk away. The children sheathed their scissors but continued to stare at him. Havok’s jaw tightened. He had wasted so much time on nothing. He needed to find Sinclair if the other soldiers hadn’t already located him.

“Squad Leader Havok,” said Figaro, “despite everything I will do you a favor. A choice.”

Havok continued to walk away.

“Sinclair’s location or Cicero’s true identity. Which would you like?”

Havok stopped. The flames nipped at the soldier’s heels as he turned around to look at Figaro. The composer smiled. A one-sided game was never fun.

“You only get one. So, which will it be? Sinclair or Cicero?”