Date: 8:30 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The inner core was a steel-walled tomb, a final redoubt carved from the mountain’s heart—narrow, defensible, suffocating. Sarah crouched behind a barricade of crates and welded plates, her M16 down to its last mag, the psychic hum a relentless drum—“Closer… end…”—the Tyranid pulse hammering her skull. Kessler knelt beside her, rifle propped, three rounds rattling in her pocket. Harrington stood at the center, directing the remnants—eighteen soldiers, a handful of grenades, and dwindling hope.

  The sanctum’s outer walls groaned, cracks spidering as the Hive Tyrant’s roars echoed from above, the Trygon’s screeches clawing up from below. Screens flickered—bio-ships tightened their orbit, tendrils probing the sealed breaches, gaunts massing in the rubble. The air stank of sweat, gunpowder, and fear, the hum’s whisper—“Break you…”—a promise seeping through the steel.

  “Positions!” Harrington barked, voice cutting the tension. “Choke point—here, now. They come, we bleed ‘em dry.” He pointed at the core’s single entrance—a reinforced hatch, mined with the last C4, a kill zone rigged tight.

  Nguyen limped over, RPG slung, one rocket left. “Seismic’s off the charts—Tyrant’s through the upper tunnel, Trygon’s hit level 10. Minutes, maybe.”

  Sarah’s grip tightened, the hum shifting—“Together…”—a cold certainty. “They’re syncing—both at once. Tyrant top, Trygon bottom.”

  Harrington nodded, grim. “Double hammer—pinch us dead. Mines first—then guns. Hold ‘til we can’t.”

  Kessler checked her rifle, smirking faintly. “Been a hell of a ride, Thompson.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, voice steady despite the shake in her chest. Jake’s echo flickered—“Sarah… sorry…”—weak, fading, then gone. She swallowed, focusing—him later, survival now.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  A rumble shook the core—dual roars, above and below, steel screeching. The hatch buckled, claws piercing through—the Tyrant’s blade-arm, slashing, as the floor cracked, Trygon’s tendrils snaking up. Soldiers shouted, rifles up, the trap springing—Harrington hit the detonator, C4 igniting in a deafening blast.

  Fire roared through the hatch, shredding gaunts, rocking the Tyrant back—ichor sprayed, its roar faltering. Below, the floor blast caught the Trygon mid-rise, tendrils burning, forcing it down. Dust choked the air, the hum screaming—“Pain…”—but alive, both alive.

  “Fire!” Harrington yelled, pistol blazing. Sarah and Kessler opened up—bullets tore into gaunts spilling through the hatch, ichor pooling, bodies piling. Nguyen launched his RPG—the rocket slammed the Tyrant’s chest, cracking chitin, staggering it, but it lunged, claw smashing a soldier into pulp.

  The Trygon erupted again, floor giving way—its maw snapped, dragging a screaming Nguyen down, RPG clattering. Sarah fired, emptying her mag into its eyes—ichor gushed, blinding it, slowing it. Kessler tossed her last grenade—it exploded in its throat, flesh tearing, and it screeched, retreating once more.

  “Ammo!” Harrington shouted—soldiers tossed mags, thin reserves, as the Tyrant forced through, half the hatch gone. Sarah grabbed a fallen rifle—five rounds—firing at its face, sparks flying off its maw. Kessler’s rifle clicked empty—she drew her pistol, two shots, then nothing.

  “Out!” she yelled, ducking as the Tyrant swiped, crates splintering. Harrington fired, pistol dry, then grabbed a steel bar, swinging—crack, into its claw, useless but defiant.

  The core shrank—ten soldiers left, civilians screaming behind, the hum a triumph—“Yours…”—as the Tyrant loomed, Trygon’s roar rising again. Sarah’s rifle clicked—empty. She drew her knife, last stand, heart pounding.

  A new rumble hit—not Tyranid, mechanical—jets, loud, close. Screens flared—F-22s, three, streaking from the east, missiles slamming the bio-ships outside. Explosions lit the sky, tendrils burning, forcing them back. The Tyrant paused, head swiveling, psychic hum faltering—“Threat…”

  “Reinforcements!” Harrington grinned, bloody but fierce. “NORAD—east held!”

  The Trygon screeched, retreating—jets strafed the mountain, buying seconds. The Tyrant roared, clawing forward—Sarah lunged, knife sinking into its cracked chest, ichor soaking her. It staggered, swiping—she rolled, Kessler pulling her back.

  “Hold!” Harrington yelled, as jets circled, the core trembling but standing. The Tyrant glared, then retreated—slow, wounded, into the dark.

  Sarah collapsed, knife dripping, the hum weak—“Later…”—a promise deferred. They’d held. Barely.