Date: 6:00 PM, April 1, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dusk bled orange across the mountain, casting long shadows over the core’s cracked walls as Sarah stood at the viewport, M16 slung, the psychic hum a steady throb—“Spawn… strike…”—the Tyranids’ intent sharpening with the fading light. Kessler paced nearby, mine detonator in hand, while Harrington stared at the screens—bio-ships loomed fifteen miles west, hive nodes pulsing in the valley, organic spires now ten feet high, birthing shapes in the gloom.
A rumble grew—jets, not Tyranids—six F-22s roaring from the east, followed by a C-130, its belly low, parachutes blooming as crates dropped onto the ridge. Soldiers cheered, thin but fierce, rushing to haul the haul—ammo, med kits, a crate marked “Fuel—Handle With Care.”
“Pierce kept his word,” Harrington said, radio up. “East wing, this is Cheyenne—drop’s down, jets in position.”
“Copy,” Pierce crackled back. “F-22s’ll hit the nodes—two runs, then pull. You’ve got ten minutes—resupply, hold tight. Out.”
Sarah grabbed a fresh mag—twenty rounds—slamming it home, the weight a small comfort. Kessler cracked open a crate—grenades, five, and an RPG rocket, grinning faintly. “Better than spit.”
“Much,” Sarah said, the hum spiking—“Now…”—her head snapping up. “They’re moving—nodes spawning, fast!”
Harrington spun to the screens—drone feed flared, gaunts and hormagaunts spilling from the spires, a chittering tide surging toward the mountain. Above, the bio-ships pulsed, tendrils twitching, gargoyles launching skyward. “Jets—go!” he barked into the comm.
The F-22s dove, missiles streaking—explosions lit the valley, nodes shattering, ichor and flesh raining as the swarm screeched. Two spires collapsed, crushed under fire, but three stood, spewing more—hundreds now, claws gleaming. Gargoyles met the jets, a dogfight erupting—tracers and claws clashing, one F-22 spiraling down, flaming.
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“Outer line—mines!” Harrington ordered. A soldier hit a remote—booms rocked the west approach, gaunts shredded in blasts, slowing the tide. Sarah’s hum roared—“Anger…”—the Hive Tyrant’s roar echoing, its battered form rising from the rubble, charging with the swarm.
“Topside!” she yelled, pointing—screens showed it, wing torn but claws slashing, shrugging off turret fire. The Trygon’s screech answered from below, seismic spiking—level 8 now, tunneling up.
Kessler gripped the detonator. “Double whammy—again.”
Harrington waved soldiers to the hatch—ten left, armed fresh—rifles, the RPG handed to a wiry private, Evans. “Hold the core—mines first, then guns. Thompson, Kessler—with me, upper deck.”
They ran, stairs rattling, emerging onto the observation deck—wind cold, dusk fading to night. The Tyrant loomed half a mile out, gaunts swarming ahead, jets strafing—missiles hit its flank, ichor gushing, but it roared, psychic scream buckling Sarah—“You…”—locking on her.
“RPG!” Harrington shouted—Evans fired, rocket streaking—boom, the Tyrant’s chest cracked wider, staggering it. Kessler tossed a grenade—exploded at its feet, gaunts scattering, buying yards.
Below, the core shook—a tech’s voice crackled—“Trygon’s through—level 5!”—gunfire echoing up, mines blasting, holding it back. Sarah fired her M16, bursts into the swarm—bodies fell, but the Tyrant lunged, claw smashing a turret, soldiers screaming.
“Jets—focus it!” Harrington radioed—F-22s banked, rockets slamming the Tyrant—fire bloomed, its roar faltering, one arm dangling. It retreated, dragging itself west, gaunts peeling back, bio-ships hovering, stalled.
Sarah panted, rifle hot, the hum weakening—“Later…”—a grudging pause. “They’re pulling off.”
“For now,” Harrington said, binoculars down. “Jets’ll chase—core’s holding?”
Kessler’s radio buzzed—“Trygon’s down—sealed level 5. Three dead, but we’re clear.”
Harrington exhaled, rare relief. “Dusk’s ours—rearm, rest. They’ll hit harder next.”
Sarah nodded, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Jake’s ghost silent, the fight hers alone now. The mountain stood, dusk’s promise kept—fragile, but real.
