Three Days Before the Fall Atlanta, Georgia
Dawn came like an accusation — too bright, too ordinary. I moved before the sun fully opened, the apartment quiet around me. The duffel lay packed by the door, the pistol cleaned and holstered, the sketchpad with depot plans tucked under my arm. It was the last full day I'd have where the streets still obeyed the rules of civilization. I intended to use it.
The Operator Protocol sat in the back of my mind like a silent partner. No lights. No flashy bells. Just numbers.
[Zephyr Ward][Skills: Firearms Handling Lv.1 | Maintenance Lv.2 | Physical Conditioning Lv.2 | Scouting Lv.1 | Situational Awareness Lv.1 | Planning Lv.1 | Stealth Lv.1 | Recon Analysis Lv.2]
I checked the list like a man checking a safety harness. Everything that mattered was there. No fluff. No false promises. The system's simplicity was its virtue: train, do, improve.
First order of business was a full daylight pass along my planned route. I needed to see any changes in guard rotation, new vehicles, or civilian behaviors that might make a planned approach dumb and expensive. The route I'd pick would avoid main arteries as much as possible — side alleys, service roads, a series of low-clearance bridges that gave cover from highway cameras.
Walking the route, I moved like a ghost in a town that still thought it was safe. I ducked under a scaffolding, counted the number of maintenance workers at a nearby site, and noted the garbage truck schedule — predictable, a noisy cover if I needed one. In the plaza near the depot's perimeter I watched a small group of men arguing about gas prices. They didn't know what was about to eat their world. That ignorance was a luxury I didn't have.
Everything I observed fed into the three skills I'd leaned on for recon: Scouting, Situational Awareness, and Recon Analysis. I ran permutations — alley approach vs. service-road cut, the effect of a false radio call to distract the gate, the timeline between shift changes. Each mental run-through tightened the plan. Each repetition felt less like guesswork and more like calibration.
By noon I'd mapped every blind spot I could find from street level. Cameras had ancient lenses, and shadows fell neatly across the north fence at certain hours. There was a maintenance gate that only opened for crews. There was a loading dock with a downward slope that could hide a truck's approach from one of the cameras. All of it was data. It all mattered.
I paused on a rusted fire escape to catch my breath and replay the last four recon runs in my head. The Protocol, always unobtrusive, ticked the progress counters as I mentally rehearsed cutting a fence quietly, the angle to approach the vehicle without a silhouette showing on camera, and the sequence for hot-wiring an older diesel ignition if the key wasn't where it was supposed to be.
Then the system did what it had been built to do: it optimized.
[SYSTEM NOTICE — Operator Protocol]Related Skill Cluster Detected: SCOUTING / SITUATIONAL AWARENESS / RECON ANALYSISComposite Skill Created: TACTICIANComposite Level Calculated: Lv.2Effect: TACTICIAN Lv.2 established. Sub-skills consolidated permanently.Stat Bonus: +1 % boost to INT.Training Efficiency Bonus: +10% for tactical/recon activities.
The message wasn't loud. It never was. It arrived like an almost-cold clarity in the back of my skull. The three skills I'd been using blinked out of the visible list and, in their place, TACTICIAN Lv.2 sat like a new tool on my belt.
I felt it immediately — thinking felt sharper, options sorted more quickly, contingencies layering themselves without me having to force the mental tape. Where before I'd run through possibilities one by one, now the best threads rose to the surface like oil on water. The +1 to INT registered as a faint widening of mental bandwidth. It wasn't magic; it was efficiency. The Protocol had merged the habits and distilled them into a new, superior pathway for tactical reasoning.
I took a breath and let the feeling anchor my attention. This was exactly the kind of QOL upgrade I'd wanted — fewer tiny skills to micromanage, better high-level synthesis. The bonus training speed was practical too; every simulated run I'd done today would now accelerate future recon and planning.
With the new Tactician skill active, the plan tightened.
Plan A still looked clean — the maintenance gap in the west fence, a silent cut, a ten-minute sprint to the motor pool, and a cold-start procedure if keys were missing. The composite skill suggested a cleaner sequence for the hot-wiring: check the solenoid and starter connections first, then prime the fuel pressure if the HEMTT's glow plugs were fouled. Maintenance Lv.2 grounded those steps in reality; Tactician Lv.2 ordered them for speed.
I walked the perimeter again, eyes on my watch, rehearsing the timing like a metronome. I prepped a signal I could use if things went sideways — three quick flashes from a mirrored surface, followed by a long hold on the radio. Simple, unmistakable, and something a single operator could use without shouting.
Late afternoon bled into evening. The city's mood flickered; grocery stores had shorter queues, gas stations saw more foot traffic, and news chatter turned from "isolated incidents" to "local surge of violence." Patterns I'd mentally logged began to match the creeping panic I'd anticipated. Sirens moved closer. A neighbor banged on a building door, asking for help. People were starting to seek answers, but answers were the one thing the city wouldn't give them in time.
Back at the apartment I staged gear for tomorrow's final run: wire cutters, a folding saw, a crowbar, two spare mags, a battery starter, and a lightweight sling for carrying a toolkit. A worker coat from Baxter, a faded cap, and a template I'd printed at the copy shop for a plausible-looking ID sat folded on top of the duffel. I'd not yet decided which mask to take — gas mask would draw attention and be hot. A shemagh would be low-profile and useful for dust. Little decisions cluster into big consequences.
The Tactician skill hummed at the edge of my thoughts, keeping permutations ordered and priority lists ranked. The system's consolidation had done more than clear clutter; it had given me a cognitive spine. Where I'd once have had to toggle between micro-skill branches, the Protocol now presented a coherent tactical map I could follow.
Night fell with an electrical snap of distant alarms. I checked the map one last time and set backups in place — three cached routes to the HEMTT, two alternate evasion lanes, and a small fuel pickup point I'd arranged at the construction yard for emergency use. The truck would be my prize, but I'd earn it on the day the city lost its manners. Not tonight. Tonight was for sharpening the blade.
I went to bed early and slept in short, efficient bursts — not restful sleep, but the kind that kept reflexes warm. My last thought before the dark was a simple tactical framing: Observation first. Move only with advantage. Take the truck when the city is loud enough to hide me.
Three days remained. The countdown wasn't abstract anymore; it was an audible thing under my ribs. The Protocol had given me a gift — clarity — and I intended to spend it wisely.
(To be continued...)