Calligan was exhausted. Working around the clock for days had worn him down to the barest vestiges of what could still pass as a living human being. He stumbled slowly to the doorway of his apartment, and fumbled with the key, desperate for whatever small amount of rest he could scavenge from the remainder of the night.

Calligan was not a man of extravagant tastes. His apartment was small and relatively unadorned, bearing only what he deemed necessary to live a comfortable enough life. A small coffee table sat in the living room, flanked by a single small loveseat. Beside it, a telephone was mounted on the wall, the most expensive item in the apartment.

Connected to the living room was Calligan’s bedroom, which he quickly made a beeline for, not bothering with any of the lights. Its lone furnishings were a simple twin sized bed and a single small bookshelf, loaded with books. Calligan would often read them when he had the time, though he scarcely had that anymore.

Tonight was no different. Removing his holster, Calligan gently placed his gun on top of the bookshelf. He then collapsed upon his bed still fully dressed. In an instant, he plunged into a deep sleep.

Calligan awoke abruptly to the noisy ringing of the telephone in the other room. Bleary-eyed and confused, he stumbled his way to it, tripping over the coffee table as he went. His lights were still off, and there was no sign of sunshine through the curtains covering his windows. Calligan couldn’t help but wonder who would be calling him at a time like this.

Hesitantly, Calligan picked up the receiver and placed it against his ear. He was greeted with the frantic voice of the operator, informing him he had an urgent call. He didn’t even have time to request the transfer, before the operator connected the lines.

Calligan was immediately met with a mass of confused sounds. There was shouting and screaming, and the sound of loud bangs in the background.

“Hello?” He asked, unsure of what to say or what to think. His question was met with a familiar voice, one that gave him a mixture of both comfort and alarm.

“Cal!” Crystal shouted, her voice almost being drowned out by the noise around her. “You have to come to the precinct, we’re under attack. They caught us by surprise, and so many are dead.”

“Who’s attacking? What’s going on?” Calligan shouted back into the receiver.

“I don’t have time to explain. Just hurry!”

With that, the line went dead. Calligan rushed to his room, grabbing his gun and crashing out of the door to his apartment. As he scrambled towards his vehicle parked outside, he could hear the faint echoes of gunshots in the distance. It was impossible to tell exactly how far away they were, only that they were growing more numerous and more frantic with each passing moment.

Starting his car and putting it in gear, Calligan raced for the precinct. At first, things seemed peaceful as he made his way rapidly towards the station, but in no time at all he was immersed in a full on warzone. Dodging through firefights, past exploding molotovs, and around makeshift roadblocks and barriers, Calligan watched his beloved city scream in its madness. Men bled out and cars burned in the streets, yet somehow, none of this concerned Calligan as he shot by at breakneck speeds. The only thing that he could think about was that Crystal needed him, and he wasn’t going to let her down.

He was only three blocks away from the precinct, his car scarcely recognizable with all its damage, when a bullet ripped through what was left of his windshield and into his shoulder. Reeling from the blow, Calligan lost control of the wheel, crashing into a nearby light post.

Dizzy from the shock of what just happened, Calligan set his resolve, and stumbled his way out of the ruined vehicle. He was covered in small cuts and scrapes and was bleeding profusely from his right shoulder, but he felt no pain as his adrenaline pumped through him. He pointed himself in the direction of the police station and began to make his way to it on foot.

From Crystal’s phone call, Calligan expected the station to be under siege and surrounded by enemies. Instead, by the time he came to it, it was burning. No one stood siege outside, pointing their guns towards the doors. Instead they stood wide open, presenting an abandoned atrium filled with debris, and smeared with blood. Smoke billowed from the roof and the whole building shook with cries of anguish and terror.

Drawing his gun, Calligan rushed through the ruined doors. The receptionists’ desk was destroyed, a mere shattered remnant of what it had been. Bodies were scattered all around, some with weapons drawn but many gunned down undefended. None of them looked like Crystal.

That gave Calligan some hope, but he still had no idea where she might be. He began frantically searching every room he could find, but every one he came to was either empty, or filled with the dead and dying. With each one, he was slowly losing hope, worried she might be gone or lost among the dead.

Suddenly, the air was rent with a shrill scream. It was strong and full, drowning out all the other cries of anguish filling the station.

Frantically scouring for the source of the cry, Calligan found only one possible location, the Commissioner’s office. He didn’t hesitate, charging through the door with enough force to relieve the door of its hinges, his pistol level and ready for any threat that lay beyond.

It took him a fraction of a second to process the room. It was cluttered, with chairs strewn around it and a big heavy desk turned over on its side. Several officers lay about the room, their uniforms soaked with blood. In the room’s middle stood McCullough, his arm outstretched and holding a gun of his own. It was pointed towards a corner of the room, where Calligan could see Crystal cowering piteously in a corner, her hands thrown over her face.

Calligan didn’t think. He sprung towards McCullough, knocking him down just as he squeezed the trigger. The gun fired, but McCullough was already falling and the bullet hit nothing. Calligan, now on top of McCullough, brandished his own weapon, pointing it at McCullough’s face.

Undeterred, McCullough swung his own gun as best he could, successfully smashing the barrel into the side of Calligan’s head, stunning him. Taking advantage of this, McCullough pushed Calligan off of him and leveled his gun at him. Before he could fire, Calligan sprung up and grabbed at McCullough’s pistol with his free hand, forcing it upwards. It went off once again, and Calligan could feel the bullet zip past him.

Struggling for control of the gun, McCullough aimed a left cross at Calligan's face. Calligan was faster, however, planting the barrel of his gun on McCullough’s forearm and pulling the trigger.

McCullough howled in pain as the bullet pierced his arm, and his gun dropped to the ground. In a rage, he lunged at Calligan, jamming his thumb into the bullet wound in his shoulder.

Pain seared through Calligan’s arm, causing him to drop his own gun as well. He attempted to retaliate with a left hook, but was met with a volley of fists from McCullough. Stumbling back, Calligan managed to dodge most of them, but a clean cross connected with his jaw; sending him reeling.

Taking advantage of his opponent’s instability, McCullough stepped in, grabbing Calligan by the collar. Before he could make a move, Calligan threw himself forward, slamming his forehead into McCullough’s nose. Stunned, McCullough stepped back, and Calligan grabbed him, letting loose a flurry of vicious knees and elbows. When the onslaught was through, McCullough, now swollen and bloodied, crumpled to the ground.

Calligan stood there for a moment, staring at the man he’d called both his partner and friend. Then solemnly, he went and collected his pistol from the floor. With no expression on his face, he crouched beside McCullough, leveling the gun at him.

“I thought better of you than to threaten harmless women, Mac.” He said, disappointment dripping from every word.

McCullough, laboring for breath, let out a short burst of laughter in reply.

“Harmless, is she?” He wheezed. “You don’t know who she is, do you, Cal?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s been with the Syndicate all along. Telling them our every move.”

Calligan shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Why would she?”

He turned to look at Crystal, but, to his astonishment, she was no longer huddled in the corner. Instead, she stood over the two of them, a gun in her hand and pointed at them. Tears streamed down her face as she pulled the trigger.

Falling weakly to his knees, Calligan clutched at his chest his shirt swiftly soaking with blood. He could feel his energy rapidly fading, and started to collapse.

Just as he was falling, he felt two gentle hands embrace him, cradling his head. It was Crystal. Tears streamed down her face.

“I'm sorry, Cal.” She sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

Calligan said nothing. His strength was failing him, and everything was growing hazy. With all the willpower he could muster, he raised his right hand; still clutching the gun, he squeezed the trigger.

Calligan watched the blurry form of Crystal crumple unceremoniously into a lifeless heap, and everything went black.