Date: 8:00 PM, April 2, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  Night settled over Cheyenne Mountain like a heavy shroud, the core’s dim lights flickering over a scene of ruin—gaunt corpses slumped at the breached hatch, blood and ichor mingling in cracks where Ortiz and Lee had fallen. Sarah sat on a crate, M16 with one round left, knife sheathed, the psychic hum a steady murmur—“Rest… plan…”—the Tyranids regrouping beyond reach. Her hands steadied, but her chest tightened—each loss a scar, dusk’s reckoning etched deep.

  Kessler leaned against a wall, gaunt claw strapped to her belt, rifle cracked and empty—her last three rounds spent, pistol gone. One soldier remained—Harrington’s last, a wiry private named Diaz, bandaging a cut on his arm, rifle down to two rounds scavenged from the dead. Civilians—forty—huddled in the rear, medics weaving through, their whispers a fragile thread in the silence.

  Harrington stood at the console, screens dim—bio-ships north, ten miles out, nodes pulsing slow, the lone jet lost to static. “Tally,” he said, voice worn thin, waving Diaz over—no tech left, Jenkins gone, the tablet cracked on the floor.

  Diaz stepped up, voice low. “One combat-ready—me. Six wounded, med bay’s full—ten critical. Civvies—forty, two more lost, panic’s up. Ammo—three rounds, me and Thompson. Power’s at 30%, backup’s coughing.”

  “Jets?” Sarah asked, rubbing her temple, the hum steady—“Watch…”

  “East’s silent,” Diaz said. “Last F-22 didn’t check in—assume down. Bio-ships north, nodes spawning—Trygon’s level 6, seismic low. Tyrant’s west, quiet.”

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  Harrington’s jaw clenched. “Dusk gutted us—Ortiz, Lee, Jenkins, three more. Core’s a shell—one gun short of nothing.” He turned to Sarah. “Your link?”

  She nodded, the hum a pulse—“Build…” “They’re resting—nodes growing, slow. Trygon’s deep, Tyrant’s waiting—hurt, but planning.” Jake’s echo stayed silent, a hole she couldn’t fill—later, if there was one.

  “Good,” Harrington said, grabbing a steel bar—crowbar gone, this scavenged from rubble. “Scavenge—tunnels, scraps, anything. Kessler, Thompson—go. Diaz, traps—rig the hatch.”

  Kessler pushed off, claw in hand. “Night’s work—let’s sift.” Sarah grabbed her rifle, following—Diaz trailed, clutching his two rounds, eyes sharp despite the weight.

  The north tunnel was a slaughter pit—gaunt limbs, shattered steel, blood crusting. Sarah pried a crate—med kit, torn, gauze usable—handing it to Diaz. Kessler kicked a corpse, finding a mag—three rounds—tossing it to Sarah. “Four now,” she said, dry.

  Diaz salvaged a flashlight—cracked, flickering—while Sarah dragged a steel plate, heavy but weldable. The hum twitched—“Stir…”—her head snapping up. “They’re moving—not close, but awake.”

  “Always,” Kessler muttered, prying a gaunt claw—second one, sharp, a twin for her belt. “Keeps us alive.”

  They hauled back—med kit, mag, steel, claw—dumping it in the core. Diaz wired the flashlight, a weak beam, while Kessler patched the hatch, welding scraps tight. Sarah set the three rounds in her rifle—four total—Diaz keeping his two.

  Harrington watched, bar down. “Good—med bay, rest ‘til dawn. Bio-ships north’s the play—watch it.”

  Sarah sank onto her cot, rifle beside her, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Tyranids patient, nodes spawning. A civilian—a man, gaunt, hollow—handed her water, hands trembling. “Thanks,” she said, drinking, his nod silent.

  Kessler sat, twinning claws on her belt, testing edges. “One gun, scraps—hell of a night.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, knife out, tracing Ortiz’s blood—faint now, another ghost. “Held—barely.”

  Harrington stood at the screens—bio-ships north, a shadow growing. “Dawn’s next,” he said, low. “Reckoning’s ours—still here.”

  Sarah gripped her rifle, the hum a steady beat—no Jake, just the fight. Night stretched—a survivor’s scrap, not a win.