Night — The Last Quiet Hour
Atlanta, Georgia.
The sky had gone almost black when I left my building. A damp wind dragged the smell of smoke and hot metal through the streets; somewhere far off, a siren rose and fell like a half-remembered alarm. People were inside their homes. Lights were dimmed. The city that still obeyed rules was on edge — the perfect condition for a man who didn't intend to obey them.
My duffel was lighter than it had been in the day: the essentials folded tight, the rest tucked into that impossible inventory the Operator Protocol kept for me. On my back a faded jacket that passed for a maintenance coat, a cap pulled low, a cheap badge in my pocket with a photocopied template and a generic logo. Everything else — wire cutters, folding saw, crowbar, starter pack, spare mags — felt like extensions of my hands.
I checked the list in my head and felt the quiet steadiness of the Protocol.
[Zephyr Ward — Current]Skills: Firearms Handling Lv.1 | Maintenance Lv.2 | Physical Conditioning Lv.2 | Planning Lv.1 | Stealth Lv.1 | TACTICIAN Lv.2
TACTICIAN had already sorted permutations into a workable script. It recommended Plan A with procedural refinements—cut the maintenance gap at a precise point where the camera swept the least; use the garbage truck's schedule for a timed noise cover; prime the starter with a low-current jump before attempting to crank the engine. It was all cold calculus and rehearsal.
Calculus that had to happen with hands, not thoughts.
I moved on foot, taking the side-route I'd walked all afternoon, keeping to shadow and avoiding areas where streetlamps pooled light. My heartbeat matched the plan's metronome: slow in, fast out. I counted the transit steps mentally — fences, gaps, a low concrete curb that offered a two-second pivot to hide a silhouette. The new Tactician pathway let me overlay these micro-choices without congesting my head with minutiae.
At the north maintenance gap the fence line breathed under the wind. The metal was old; the ground below it had sagged years ago. I crouched in the scrub and ran a gloved hand over the wire. Trash tangled in the bottom strand made a natural muffler for sound if I worked from the right angle. I set up a mirrored sequence in my head, then let muscle memory take over.
Two soft snips and the fence fell open like a mouth. No alarm. No creak loud enough to carry more than twenty feet. The city slept, or pretended to.
[Action: Breach — Fence Cut][Skill Check: Stealth Lv.1 — PASS]
The maintenance path smelled of diesel and old rubber. Halfway along it a pair of floodlights hung dormant; beyond them, a camera blinked once and then rolled slowly, unable to focus in the soot-hazed night. I slid across the tarmac like a shadow, counting steps to the motor pool. The HEMTT sat where I'd seen it from the overpass — hulking, patient, eight wheels like the ribs of an armored beast.
The motor pool had only one set of lights on, a guard post less manned than daytime. Two figures moved near the main gate, faces glossed with sweat and fear. Tactician whispered the best thread: avoid the gate, move the service lane, time the sprint between the guard's route and the van's headlights. It was less about luck than threading the smallest needle.
I moved in the silhouette of a maintenance worker: coat, cap, the slow gait I'd practiced to pass on a neighbor's balcony the week before. If anyone called, I had a script: "Night maintenance crew — generator issues." A believable voice would cut suspicion in half. I'd practiced the words. That was the advantage the Protocol gave me — it turned rehearsal into plausible reality.
At twenty meters I dropped behind a maintenance crate and checked the HEMTT's cab. Glass was intact. Door handle cold. No keys in sight. Not unusual; units were often left keyless in the lot, keys filed at the office or carried by crew. That was a variable I'd planned for: a starter bypass and a method to crank an old diesel's solenoid without throwing a fedal alarm.
I squatted at the rear axle and opened a service panel. Corrosion nibbled at the bolts, but my tools turned them. The Protocol nudged me on the correct sequence: test the starter relay, merge starter cable to a jumper in a gradual current to avoid popping a fuse, then prime fuel pressure. Maintenance Lv.2 at work — mechanical reflex that burned into my hands from hours of practice.
I worked fast, fingers moving through rehearsed steps. A distant shout cracked the air; someone arguing two blocks away. The guard at the gate looked up. Tactician pinged: Delay three seconds; cover your back; proceed. I finished the last wire cap and tightened the relay clamp.
I stood, heart a metronome. The cab door yielded with a soft click when I eased it. Diesel breath warmed the air inside. Old oil. The smell of machinery that did not complain. The starter motor whined when I engaged the jumper and the HEMTT answered with a long, patient rumble that vibrated through the chassis and into my teeth. The beast woke.
[Action: Vehicle Start — SUCCESS][Skill Check: Maintenance Lv.2 — PASS]
I slid into the driver's seat and let the engine settle. All my rehearsals compressed into a single, blessedly uneventful moment. The dash lights glowed. The parking brake took a metallic groan. Outside, the guards continued their slow perimeter rotation, none noticing the steady thump of an eight-wheel truck idling under cover of night.
I eased the HEMTT forward in low gear, keeping the rubber whisper-quiet against gravel, hugging the dark rear wall where shadows swallowed outlines. The plan had always assumed some improvisation; this was it. I used the loading dock's slope to mask the silhouette from the camera's sweep. For two minutes the world held its breath.
Then an engine coughed somewhere — a delivery truck starting late, a car door slamming — the city making small noises like someone clearing a throat. It was enough. Enough to mask the HEMTT as it rolled past the floodlight blindspot.
My palms were damp on the wheel. The Protocol kept the tempo with quiet nudges: route a two-block arc to a service road, then merge onto a side street that led back toward the construction yard I'd used as a fuel cache. The truck handled like a sleeping animal. Eight wheels ate the road; the cab felt like a small room.
Out of habit I checked my surroundings: no roadblocks, no civilian clusters, no police lights. I dialed a slow speed, blinking off the cab lights to preserve the illusion of night maintenance. I felt the system's silent approval as it logged the action.
[Inventory Check: HEMTT Status — Engine Functional | Fuel: ~60% | Cargo Bay Clear]
The city lay quiet and brittle behind me as I moved. I kept my head low and my hands steady, twisting the wheel with a calm that felt older than my years. I'd rehearsed the escape lanes, the alternate diversions, and the small contingencies for when things inevitably went wrong. For now, nothing had gone wrong. For now, I had the truck.
When I turned onto the service road that led away from the depot, my breath finally came easier. I allowed myself one small, private smile — not of victory, but of work done.
The Protocol logged progress in silence: a successful infiltration, vehicle acquisition without force, an executed escape path with no direct engagement. That was the baseline. The rest would be conversion, fortification, and the slow arithmetic of survival.
Up ahead, the construction yard's faint lights winked like beacons. I kept to the shadows, eased the HEMTT into the hidden cut I'd prepared the day before, and cut the engine. The silence that followed felt obscene, like the world had been paused for a breath.
I sat in that dark and listened to my heart. Outside, the night was full of small alarms and distant reports — a prelude, not yet the chorus. Tomorrow would be louder. For now, I had the truck, the tools, and an empty bay that smelled like diesel and possibility.
I let the Protocol file the moment as another data point. TACTICIAN quietly optimized the next steps in my head: boards to brace the cabin, the run to the fuel stash, the modifications to the cargo bay. The consolidation had worked. The plan had worked. The city still breathed.
And I was ready.
(To be continued...)