Date: 9:00 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The inner core lay in ruins—barricades splintered, floor cracked, ichor pooling where the Trygon had clawed through. Sarah sat on a crate, her knife—still slick with Tyrant blood—beside her, the M16 empty across her lap. The psychic hum had dulled to a murmur—“Rest… return…”—a retreat, not a defeat, the Hive Tyrant and Trygon licking wounds in the dark. Her body ached, every breath a labor, but she was alive.

  Kessler slumped nearby, pistol holstered, her face streaked with dust and sweat. Eight soldiers remained—bloodied, silent—patching wounds or staring at the sealed hatch, rifles clutched like lifelines. Harrington stood at the console, screens flickering—F-22s circled outside, bio-ships pulling back, their tendrils charred by missile strikes. Dawn’s light seeped through a cracked viewport, pale and cold, painting the carnage in stark relief.

  “Status,” Harrington rasped, voice raw, turning to a surviving tech—Miller, glasses cracked, hands trembling on a tablet.

  “Jets bought us breathing room,” Miller said. “Bio-ships retreated ten miles—west flank’s quiet, for now. Seismic’s low—Tyrant’s topside, Trygon deep, both stalled. Power’s at 50%, ammo’s scraps—five mags, one RPG.”

  “Civvies?” Kessler asked, wiping her brow.

  “Sixty left,” Miller replied. “Med bay’s holding—ten critical. We’re stretched.”

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  Harrington nodded, grim but steady. “NORAD’s east wing sent the jets—means they’re alive, fighting. We’re not alone.” He glanced at Sarah. “Your head?”

  She rubbed her temple, the hum faint—“Watching…”—a predator’s patience. “They’re not gone—regrouping, planning. No Jake—just them now.” Her voice caught, his last echo—“Sorry…”—a ghost she couldn’t bury.

  “Good enough,” Harrington said, holstering his pistol. “Rest—two hours, then we rebuild. Kessler, Thompson, med bay—clean up, eat. We’re still in this.”

  Sarah stood, legs shaky, Kessler rising with a grunt. “Vasquez, Nguyen—hell of a price,” Kessler muttered, eyes on the floor where blood stained the cracks.

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, knife in hand, its weight a reminder—Rodriguez, Hayes, now them. “Kept us going.”

  They shuffled to the med bay—a cramped room, cots overflowing, medics stitching wounds under dim lights. A soldier handed them bandages, water, MREs—stale, but food. Sarah sat, peeling off her vest, cuts stinging as she cleaned them. Kessler wolfed down a ration, wincing as she flexed her bruised arm.

  “Think we’ll hold?” Sarah asked, sipping water, the hum a background ache.

  “Long as the jets fly,” Kessler said, chewing. “Mountain’s tough—us too. But they’ll hit again—smarter.”

  Sarah nodded, staring at the knife—Jake’s face flickered, human once, not the four-eyed thing she’d killed. “Gotta find him—real him. If he’s still there.”

  Kessler’s gaze softened, rare. “Might not be, Thompson. Prep for that.”

  “I know,” Sarah said, voice low. “But I’ll look.”

  A rumble stirred the room—jets, not Tyranids, patrolling the sky. Medics glanced up, relieved, as Harrington’s voice crackled over a speaker—“All units, stand down—two-hour window. Rest, rearm. We’re not done.”

  Sarah leaned back, closing her eyes, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Tyranids waiting, bio-ships lurking. The dawn was fragile, a borrowed breath, but Cheyenne stood—cracked, bleeding, defiant. She gripped the knife, resolve hardening.

  Two hours. Then back to it.