Warsaw

Procession

A deep mist blanketed the cold January morning in the capital of the free world. For most, the day was just beginning. Somewhere on the east side of the Potomac, the leader of that free world was prepping for what would be the last several months of his time as President of the United States. Adjacent, those in other positions of power prepared to either stand with him or against him in their daily bouts of legislation.

Around it all, in the commercial fringes, tourists would be starting their day of sightseeing, potentially following a map provided by the powers that be to create the most authentic, informative, and efficient trek of the many different monuments scattered across the landscape. This wasn't just the hub of power for the country; it was also one of its finest feats of tourism. For all of them, the sun was rising on a new day.

But on the west side of the river, eleven days had come and gone for a group assembled in singular purpose. They were huddled in Arlington National Cemetery, overseeing the quiet, solemn service that was an early burial. Southwest of them, across the highway border and the foliage between, the steel beam framework of a building under construction loomed tall, the locked gates decoratively hidden behind a banner that read, "This is where we reconstruct the world."

Standing on the topmost floor of that framework was a man, eyes sober and pensive. From where he was, he had a clear view into the cemetery, directly to the small group of individuals mourning the loss of their mutual associate. His glasses were able to zoom at whim, designed to work when he narrowed his eyes. It was a crude design, but it did the job. He peered forward, focusing on the woman of the group. She was a widow now, and the daughter in her arms fatherless.

Over 400,000 graves, and there among them rested Eric Odell. But to the man on the shell of a building, he'd rarely been known as Eric Odell; he had been known as Oslo. They had been partners for five years, one month, and seven days. For the onlooker, the sight was perverse. Oslo had left behind a family, shadows of a life he should've kept in his past. Their tenets were framed to remove attachment for good reason. The onlooker had long since abandoned his former name.

Now, to all who knew him and to all who mattered, he was Warsaw.

If he closed his eyes, he could see it all again. The helicopter being shot down, the time spent hiding while waiting for extraction. The way desperation seeped into them both before It arrived. "It" was the only term Warsaw could use to identify the figure. Tall, mechanical, devoid of morality and mortality. An emerald visor that hid what would've been the only humanizing factor of the entire ordeal.

And then there was the knife.

Warsaw's eyes snapped open. The gathered were leaving the grave. Not even the widow and the fatherless daughter remained. He would not approach it now, nor any time in the near future. He had made his peace. He would continue to pay his penance. And the constant blinking message on the screen of his cell phone told him that it was time to continue. Oslo had been dead for eleven days. To Them, that was long enough.

He made a new path back to the ground floor, rappelling down with the help of a rope that would eventually be used to support scaffolding for the north face of the building. His boots hit the wet dirt and left an imprint, which would be filled in by the time the long weekend had passed. Not that any trace of him mattered here. He wouldn't have had access to the construction site if They didn't own the property.

The car was waiting where he'd left it, wedged between a minivan and an SUV. It was small, sleek, black, and as close to government-issue as it came. The more official it looked, the more it fit in with the other vehicles moving about in Washington. Inconspicuous was their mastered state of existence, and allowed their organization to flourish.