Date: 7:00 AM, April 2, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The core’s air hung thick with dust and the sour stench of ichor, dawn’s gray light filtering through the viewport onto a scene of carnage—gaunt corpses piled at the shattered hatch, blood streaking the floor where soldiers had fallen. Sarah sat on a crate, her M16 empty, knife sheathed, the psychic hum a dull pulse—“Wait… heal…”—the Tyranids licking wounds beyond the mountain. Her hands steadied, but her chest ached—exhaustion, loss, the weight of another fight survived.

  Kessler leaned against a wall, pistol holstered—empty—wiping gaunt blood from her face, her rifle magless beside her. Five soldiers stood, battered but breathing—Rodriguez among them, bandaging a gash on his arm, the others sorting scraps of ammo. Harrington paced near the console, screens flickering—bio-ships retreated to fifteen miles, F-22s patrolling, the valley smoldering from jet strikes.

  “Tally,” Harrington said, voice rough, stopping at a tech’s station—Miller’s replacement, a shaky kid named Carter, glasses fogged.

  Carter tapped a tablet, voice trembling. “Five combat-ready—us here. Twelve wounded, med bay’s packed. Civvies—forty-eight, ten critical. Ammo—three mags, two grenades, no RPGs. Power’s at 40%, backup’s flickering.”

  “Jets?” Kessler asked, pushing off the wall.

  “East wing’s got four F-22s up,” Carter said. “Fuel’s low—hour left, then they pull. Bio-ships are static—nodes rebuilding, slow. Seismic’s quiet—Tyrant’s west, Trygon deep, no moves.”

  Harrington nodded, grim. “Dawn cost us—Miller, three more. Held the line, but we’re threadbare.” He turned to Sarah. “Your link?”

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  She rubbed her temple, the hum steady—“Regroup…” “They’re resting—rebuilding nodes, healing. Tyrant’s hurt bad—Trygon too. Planning, not rushing.” Jake’s echo stayed silent, a void she felt but couldn’t fill.

  “Good,” Harrington said, grabbing a radio. “East wing, this is Cheyenne—status?”

  “Pierce here,” crackled back. “Jets’ll hold ‘til noon—drop’s dry, no more coming. East’s got twenty guns, bunkers full—West’s yours to hold. Bio-ships massing north—watch it.”

  “Noon,” Harrington muttered, setting the radio down. “Five hours—rest, scavenge, reinforce. Core’s our spine—traps, whatever we’ve got.”

  Sarah stood, stretching—cuts stung, but she moved. “Scavenge where?”

  “Outer rooms,” he said. “Wreckage—ammo, tools, anything. Kessler, lead—Thompson, Rodriguez, with her.”

  Kessler grabbed a crowbar from a crate. “Let’s hunt—beats sitting.” Rodriguez nodded, slinging his rifle—five rounds left—joining them as they headed to the breached hatch.

  The tunnel beyond was a graveyard—gaunt limbs, shattered steel, blood drying in cracks. Sarah pried a crate open—med kits, two, bandages soaked but usable. Kessler kicked a gaunt corpse aside, finding a mag—ten rounds—tossing it to Rodriguez. “Jackpot,” she said, dry.

  Sarah salvaged a flashlight, batteries dead—still, weight for a club. The hum twitched—“Watch…”—her head snapping up. “They’re stirring—not close, but awake.”

  “Figures,” Kessler said, prying another crate—grenade, one, dented but live. “Keeps us honest.”

  They hauled back—med kits, mag, grenade, scraps of steel—dumping it in the core. Harrington watched, approving. “Good—traps on the hatch, restock med bay. Rest ‘til noon—then we brace.”

  Sarah sank onto her cot, rifle beside her, the grenade Kessler’s now. Civilians stirred—forty-eight, eyes hollow, a woman handing her water, silent thanks. She drank, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Tyranids waiting, jets fading east by noon.

  Rodriguez sat nearby, cleaning his rifle. “Lost my cousin at JBLM,” he said, quiet. “You?”

  “Brother,” Sarah replied, knife in hand. “Maybe—still looking.”

  He nodded, no words—just shared weight. Kessler sprawled, eyes closed but alert. “Five hours—then round three.”

  Harrington stood at the screens—bio-ships north now, a new angle. “Tally’s low,” he said, half to himself. “But we’re here.”

  Sarah gripped the knife, the hum a steady beat—Jake gone, the fight hers. Noon loomed—a survivor’s tally, not a win.