Almost a preface.
Thorns Wear Roses
And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
It is darkest where they stand.
The sun struggles to throw off the heavy blanket, peeking under an untucked corner of night to glimpse the world below. And decide if it wants to venture further. For the moment, it seems to hold a negative opinion of waking. The option to dislodge from comforting clutches is weighed and dismissed. And so darkness compels time forward without its promissory light.
Humans are fashioned in such a half-life as this.
Blackness clings to woolen coats, fabric too chilled in the uninspired degrees to provide protection. The temperature has heard the rumor of warmth but forges no agreement with the concept. Two hours before, a group had met to sip the false high and fading heat of coffee. Two had separated from the huddle to venture into the frost. The lake has iced at the edges, sweeps of water lapping beneath the splintered crust of gray. There they remain, loitering in an overgrown park feeding half-asleep ducks. Stale crumbs adhere to frozen beaks.
Crumbs constitute their lead.
Someone shuffles behind them, soiled and ancient, humming three songs at once. Harmless, limping and unconcerned with the cold and the company. Poverty no longer mourning luxury. Cataract eyes pushed past a fraying hoodie weigh out the ducks, then lust after the bread.
The woman will part with four slices, if only to provide an excuse for remaining here. Helping the hungry. As though watching eyes would see an innocent cause in their waiting. Her silent companion might, in daylight, have been said to raise an eyebrow. In this void, such subtleties are lost.
But not the whispers.
There needs to be discourse to maintain the play of purpose. A normal couple. A simple matter. Buried in quiet complaints over the cold are messages meant for the wire. Nothing yet. No movement. No sign.
Motion eventually comes and shivering limbs extend to greet it. Two handshakes. An envelope exchanged. A job accepted. The thin thread stitched into the woman's collar catches the identifiers she has slipped – interesting mole, sorry about the earlobe. The unnamed man scurries away, diving back into a stubborn corner still clutching its side of the covers.
The sun has heeded the final alarm and climbs the clouds in a geriatric arc. It strains to light the departing man's capture one hundred yards from the exchange. Knees driven to the pavement. The body follows. Face pushed against nature's frozen exhalation.
Dawn exposes a glittering world and the homeless man collecting leftover crumbs. Hurried footfalls crunch on the frosted surface toward a collection of limbs. A half dozen men secure one courier, pressing upon a small body unable to resist the weight of tactically geared men. Beneath the pile, the man with a mole and chewed earlobe laughs. Laughs as one with an empty pocket and four aces.
The hidden vest beeps.
Detonates.