Through darkened halls the future creeps,

Where knowledge of tomorrow sleeps.

Past calculations cold and clean,

The truth reveals what might have been.

Dawn never truly came to Sector Four that morning. The fog that had troubled Tanya's dreams now hung like a burial shroud, waiting. She stood at her observation post, field glasses forgotten at her side. Some truths required no magnification.

The British movements had crystallized into a pattern she didn't want to recognize. Not their usual methodical probing, but something more purposeful. More final. Their new defensive positions formed perfect dispersal grids - a geometry that spoke of calculations she had hoped never to see implemented.

Through broken dreams the truth unfolds,

Where darkness of tomorrow holds.

Past hopes that once in sunlight lay,

Now crawls the shadow of today.

Her veterans sensed it too. Their perfect coordination now carried an undertone of restraint, like dancers holding their breath before the music changed. They had begun positioning emergency medical stations on high ground, though no such orders had been given. Their bodies remembered lessons their minds refused to acknowledge.

"The wind patterns have stabilized," her meteorologist reported, voice carefully neutral. The data painted a picture she had seen before, in textbooks that were never discussed in polite company. Perfect conditions for something that shouldn't exist outside of theoretical exercises.

Mark how stillness holds its breath,

Where science contemplates its death.

Through halls where mercy once held court,

Now comes the final war report.

The Processing Centers' silence felt different now - not evolution or transcendence, but the quiet of prey hiding from a predator. Their workers moved with unnatural precision, each breath measured as if they knew how precious air would soon become.

She found herself calculating wind vectors and dispersal rates, old training surfacing like bodies in a flood. The British artillery positions told their own story - not positioned for maximum coverage, but for optimal atmospheric distribution. Their new rockets would arrive soon. Small. Precise. Purpose-built.

Listen to the silence grow,

Where tomorrow's winds shall blow.

Past boundaries of moral sight,

Our children learn what comes of night.

Her intelligence officers brought more pieces to the horrible puzzle. American supply shipments. New medical protocols. Protective equipment that wasn't meant for conventional warfare. Each report another nail in hope's coffin.

"They're calibrating for something specific," she noted, studying the enemy's methodical preparations. Their test launches had mapped every air current, every pressure gradient. They weren't attacking positions anymore. They were targeting the atmosphere itself.

Through autumn mists the future bleeds,

Where science sows tomorrow's seeds.

Watch as wisdom fails to stay

The hand that shapes a darker day.

The morning fog carried impossible refractions now, rainbow patterns that shouldn't exist in nature. Her veterans watched them with professional detachment that couldn't quite mask their understanding. They had begun checking wind directions before each breath, an unconscious preparation for what they knew was coming.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

She found herself walking the forward positions one last time, memorizing details she knew would soon change forever. The way sunlight played on morning dew. The sound of birds that hadn't yet learned to fear the air itself. Small mercies soon to be forgotten.

Mark how knowledge finds its way,

Past hopes of yesterday.

Through halls where mercy once held sway,

Death wears a different face today.

The British would wait for perfect conditions. Their new weapons demanded precision - American precision. She had seen the reports: M9 launch platforms, modified for specialized delivery. Small rockets that turned science itself into a weapon. They would come with the changing wind, when the air was still and the fog hung low.

Her veterans maintained their posts with mechanical precision, though their eyes held knowledge no training could prepare them for. They had seen the signs too - had probably understood before she had allowed herself to admit it. Some horrors required perfect coordination to properly appreciate.

Watch the shadows deeper grow,

Where winds of change prepare to blow.

Through corridors of calculated pain,

Our children learn to breathe again.

The Processing Centers' hymns remained silent, their absence now a requiem for something more than lost innocence. She thought of the children who had once lived here, whose songs had carried warnings she had been too ordered to hear. They had known, somehow. Had sensed the moment when science would turn the very air against those who breathed it.

She found herself touching her throat unconsciously, counting breaths like precious gems. The air felt different now - heavier with possibility and prophecy. Her perfect system seemed suddenly inadequate, like trying to measure an avalanche with a ruler.

Listen to the silence spread,

Where tomorrow weaves its thread.

Through halls where nature once held sway,

Science shapes a different day.

The British would launch at dawn tomorrow. The weather patterns guaranteed it - perfect conditions for their new American weapons. She had already drafted the orders for emergency protocols, though she knew they would make little difference. Some changes went beyond mere tactical response.

Her veterans would face it with perfect coordination, of course. Would maintain their positions until the very air itself betrayed them. She wanted to warn them, to explain what the signs had been telling her. But their eyes held the same knowledge, the same terrible understanding of what tomorrow would bring.

Through darkened halls the future seeps,

Where knowledge of tomorrow keeps

The secrets of our final day,

When science takes our breath away.

She made her final notes with mechanical precision, recording observations that future commanders would need to understand. The British preparations. The American modifications. The way rainbow patterns moved against the wind. Small details that painted a picture of tomorrow's horror.

For the first time since embracing the beauty of perfect coordination, she felt afraid of tomorrow itself. Not of failure or inefficiency - those concerns belonged to a simpler world that would end with the dawn. She feared she had glimpsed the future of warfare, and it wore the face of progress unbound by mercy.

Through autumn winds the whispers grow,

Of things we soon shall come to know.

Where morning mists like shrouds descend,

The very air portends the end.

The distant sound reached her first - that distinctive high-pitched whistle she'd been dreading without understanding why. Her mind made the connection in that terrible instant, all the pieces falling into perfect, horrifying clarity. The American weapon platforms. The dispersal patterns. The rainbow mists. The strange new rockets.

She spun toward the sound, her throat constricting around the word even as the first launches arced through the morning air. The truth burst from her lips in a scream of desperate revelation, too late to save her men but perfect in its terrible understanding:

"GAS!"