The World's First Dungeon Vs Zane

Zane slowed the hire van and eased it onto the gravel shoulder of the main road. The engine hummed low as dust curled around the headlights. Behind him, two other sets of beams swung into the verge one by one.

Kai was the first out, frowning as he pulled his jacket tighter against the cool night air. "What's wrong? We lose something?"

Zane stepped down from the van, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, just… had a thought." He gestured down the dark road toward their property, still a good distance off. "When we get back, we shouldn't park these right next to the house. Think about it. Once the system fully kicks in tomorrow—no power, no electronics—I'd bet these won't ever start again."

Tarni leaned against the doorframe of his battered truck, arms folded. Even in the shadows, his grin carried that easy confidence he'd been wearing all night. "Good point. No sense leaving them as oversized garden ornaments right outside the door. Park them back from the house—we unload after tomorrow's shenanigans."

Bell tapped the roof of her car, already nodding. "Makes sense. Keep the space clear. We don't know what kind of fight might spill into the yard either."

"Exactly." Zane's shoulders relaxed a little as he looked around at their tired, determined faces. "Glad we're on the same page."

The group piled back into their vehicles, headlights blinking in unison as the small convoy crept the last stretch toward the farmhouse. They pulled into the wide paddock off to the side, leaving a generous buffer between the vehicles and the main house. In the quiet, the engines cut out one after the other, leaving only the chirp of crickets and the occasional distant bark of a dog.

They gathered near the porch light, arms loaded with last-minute bags. The night air smelled faintly of dust, eucalyptus, and something else—expectation.

"Good work today, everybody," Lily said, rolling her shoulders and setting her haul down. "We pulled a mountain of supplies in record time."

"Yeah," Kai agreed, letting out a tired laugh. "If my arms didn't know they could carry three times as much now, they'd be filing complaints."

Bell gave a small smile as she dug her phone out of her pocket, holding it up before tucking it away again. "I sent a detailed message to James. Everything I could think of."

That earned a ripple of amusement from Tarni. "Ooh, man. I'd pay good money to see his face when he reads that. He'll either think you're a prophet or completely lost it."

"Maybe both," Bell admitted with a shrug. "But at least he'll be ready. Or readier than most."

There wasn't much more to say. They all felt it—the heaviness of the clock ticking down. Tomorrow wasn't just another dungeon run. Tomorrow was the edge of the cliff.

"Alright," Zane said at last, clapping his hands together once. "Five hours. That's all we're getting. Up just before dawn, a quick brekky then straight into the dungeon. No excuses."

"Five luxurious hours," Kai muttered, dragging his boots toward the house.

They filtered inside, one by one, offering quiet "good nights" that carried more weight than usual. Boots thudded on the old wooden floorboards, bags hit the corners of their rooms, and doors clicked shut.

For a while, the farmhouse was filled with the restless sounds of settling in—water running, floorboards creaking, whispered exchanges—but slowly even those faded.

And in the hush of the last night before the world changed, the house finally grew still.

Staff Sergeant Lewis preferred the hour before dawn. The world was quieter then—fewer distractions, fewer people to worry about—and it let him think in the clean, truncated slices that military planning required. He sat at his kitchen table with the map spread, a battered thermos half-empty, and a laptop screen haloed dimly by the glow of the road outside. On paper, on roster forms and in the terse messages he'd been swapped with Sergeant Barry Smith and the rest of his team, the plan had come together. On the ground, it would have to be flexible.

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They'd had the briefing two nights ago and the follow-ups that made a plan feel real—the kind of small checks that caught the things you didn't notice when you were nervous or in a hurry. Barry no Night Vision Goggle traing, so no after-dark technical insertion. The training hours to keep everyone safe with them weren't on hand. That sank into the plan and shaped it.

"So—just after dawn," Lewis murmured to himself, tapping the map. "Dawn gives us light, coherence, and fewer unknowns."

He flipped through his checklist for the hundredth time: vehicle readiness, call signs, radio frequencies, rally points, contingency extraction routes. He had the local layout in his head—streets, fence lines, the Riders' property just a few clicks out of town. The terrain was as much an ally as an enemy; open paddocks made vehicle approaches obvious, but they also limited places for an enemy to hide. He liked that. He disliked surprises.

Lewis checked the roster on his phone. Men and women assigned, times to collect, who was staying on overwatch, who was tasked with communications. They'd start post-sunrise, when the light was good enough to move without NVGs, no risky close-quarters timing in the dark. Clean in; clean out.

He assigned pickup windows. "I'll swing the western route," he told himself aloud, tracing the line on the map. "Pick up Hutch, Deev, and Maya. Barry takes the parkland meet; he'll have the radio relay and the extra kit. We link, roll together, and approach from the south flank."

The standing area was a small park roughly five clicks down the road from the Riders' front fence—open, with a line of trees that gave enough cover to stay unseen by casual onlookers, but not so dense they couldn't get radios clear. It was the sort of neutral place you could hide a dozen uniforms without spooking the locals. Barry would be waiting there, kit stacked beside him, chewing his nails or dragging on a smoke. Lewis smiled despite himself; Uf this went well He would ask to have Barry transferred to his Unit.

He keyed through signal plans, frequencies, and the ancillary gear. Basic comms, spare batteries, tarps, an evidentiary kit. They were not going in there to slaughter anyone—they had rules and they had to keep them—but they would be ready to secure the compound, detain if required, and hand the situation back to CSI authorities in as clean a way as possible. The rules were iron: no heroics if they could avoid them; protect the public at all costs.

Lewis double-checked the legal briefings too—warrants in hand, clear lines of authority. If they stepped past those lines, the plan fell apart legally and practically. They had to be a team that could hit hard and vanish or a team that could secure and process; there was no room for improvising jurisdictional errors.

There was always a human edge to these plans that maps and procedures couldn't capture. He thought of the families who might be around the Riders' place. He thought of the people in town who'd see camouflage and think — correctly — that trouble had come. That weighed on him as much as the tactical matrix.

By 03:45 he had the route timed. He would be at the first house at 04:10, with three quick stops planned down the western route before swinging the truck toward the parkland. Barry's ETA at the stand was 04:35; Lewis would be there no later than 04:50 with the rest of the team accounted for. They'd do a final comms check, run a silent approach, and then move to position. Sunrise was forecast just after 05:30—dawn light enough to work without NVGs, but early enough to catch a lot of people groggy, a detail that had tactical benefit.

He typed a short message to Barry, professional and to the point: Parkland meet 04:50. Legal team ready. Keep channels clear. A second ping confirmed Barry's receipt. The reply: Copy. Standing by.

Lewis closed his laptop and leaned back. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment and allowed himself a small, private frustration: there were never enough hours to sleep the night before something like this. He poured another cup of coffee and let it go cold.

Outside, the town slept on, unaware. In the quiet that came before movement, Lewis found the small, steady rhythm that steadied the men. He had checked the maps, checked the people, checked the paperwork. All that remained was to drive, to gather the team, and to execute the plan with the discipline they'd practised a thousand dull times over.

In the car, the hum of the engine felt like a metronome. He collected his kit, slung the radio across his chest, and stepped into the night. The world was small at that hour: one road, one park, one plan. Dawn would tell the rest.

Kaitlyn needed to pee. With only the glow of her mobile to light the way, she padded across the damp grass toward the line of twelve Portaloos set up for tomorrow's event. She held her breath as she opened the door, then spent the next three minutes—by her phone's clock—scanning every corner for spiders. Only once she was sure it was safe did she finally let herself go.

By the time she stepped back out, the clock read 4:03 a.m. The air was cool, heavy with dew, and her socks squelched faintly as she walked. On the way back to her sleeping bag, a sudden loud noise split the silence. Kaitlyn froze—then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

It was just Max, snoring like a bear in their little makeshift fort. Creeping closer, she switched her phone to video mode and quietly filmed him, the guttural rumble shaking the canvas. After a solid couple of minutes, she decided to up the comedy—pressing her dew-wet foot against his side. Max snorted, flinched, and rolled over, the snoring cutting off at once. Kaitlyn nearly dropped her phone from laughing.

She stared at the recording, grinning ear to ear. The only question now was what to do with it. Show the whole gang in the morning and milk the laughs right away—or save it for the 21st, when the timing would make it even more priceless?