Date: 6:00 AM, April 3, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dawn crept over Cheyenne Mountain, a faint gray bleeding through the core’s cracked viewport as Sarah jolted awake, the psychic hum exploding—“Now… all…”—a brutal roar that yanked her to her feet, M16 with four rounds clutched tight. Kessler sprang up beside her, twin gaunt claws strapped to her belt, rifle empty—her last weapon a scavenged steel pipe. The hum screamed—“End…”—the Tyranids’ intent a vise on Sarah’s skull.
“Dawn’s here!” Sarah shouted, as a rumble shook the core—dual roars, north and below, the Hive Tyrant and Trygon syncing their strike. Harrington lunged to the console, screens flaring—bio-ships north, five miles out, nodes disgorging swarms, tendrils dropping gaunts, hormagaunts, gargoyles—a tide crashing in.
“Seismic—Trygon, level 3!” Diaz yelled, lone soldier, rifle with two rounds up, the hatch trembling. “North wall—breach imminent!”
Harrington grabbed his steel bar, voice cutting sharp. “Core’s it—hatch, hold ‘em! Kessler, Thompson—flanks, Diaz, center!”
The floor split—Trygon erupted, tendrils snapping, maw tearing steel—Diaz fired—two rounds—blinding an eye, ichor spraying, but it lunged, tail crushing him against a crate, bones snapping, rifle clattering. Sarah fired—three rounds left—bursts into its flank, slowing it, Kessler swinging her pipe—crack, a tendril broke, forcing it back.
“Seal it!” Harrington yelled, dragging steel—Sarah helped, shoving a plate over the hole, Kessler welding fast, sparks flying. The hatch buckled—gaunts clawed through, the Tyrant’s roar shaking the walls, its battered form looming north, claws slashing.
“Traps out—guns!” Kessler shouted, pipe ready—Sarah fired—two rounds—dropping a gaunt, ichor pooling, but the swarm poured in, hormagaunts leaping, claws gleaming. Harrington swung his bar—crack, a skull caved, but a claw raked his arm, blood gushing—he grunted, retreating.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Sarah’s rifle clicked—one round—firing, gutting a hormagaunt, then drew her knife, slashing—steel met flesh, a gaunt screeching, falling. Kessler’s pipe smashed another—crack, it dropped—her claws slashing a second, ichor spraying, but the Tyrant forced the hatch wide, blade-arm slicing a crate to splinters.
“Fall back!” Harrington yelled, blood dripping—the core shrank, forty civilians screaming, medics dragging wounded to the rear. Sarah lunged—knife sank into a gaunt’s throat, Kessler’s claw twin to hers, dropping another—but the Tyrant roared, psychic scream buckling her—“You…”
It swiped—Sarah dove, Kessler yanked her back, the claw missing by inches, smashing a console—sparks flew, power dropping—25%. The Trygon screeched below—steel groaned, tendrils snaking up again—Sarah fired her last round—ichor gushed, stalling it, Kessler sealing it once more.
“Out!” Kessler panted, pipe bent—Sarah’s rifle useless, knife her only edge. Harrington swung—bar met Tyrant claw, bending, snapping—he stumbled, a gaunt tackling him—claws raked his chest, blood pooling.
“No!” Sarah yelled, knife slashing—gaunt fell, she dragged Harrington back—alive, barely, gasping. The Tyrant loomed, gaunts swarming—ten now—Kessler’s claws danced, two down, but a hormagaunt slashed her leg—she grunted, dropping to a knee.
A rumble—not Tyranid—jets, faint, east—F-22s, two, streaking in—missiles hit the bio-ships north, fire blooming, tendrils burning. The Tyrant roared, faltering—gaunts hesitated, the hum weakening—“Pain… retreat…”—jets strafed, rockets slamming its flank, ichor gushing, forcing it back.
“Trygon’s down!” Kessler yelled—seismic flat, the lower beast stalled. The swarm pulled north, bio-ships retreating—ten miles, battered. Sarah panted, knife dripping—Harrington coughed blood, Kessler limping, claws red.
“Jets—Pierce,” Harrington rasped, clutching his chest. “Held—thread’s ours.”
“Barely,” Sarah said, the hum a whisper—“Later…”—no Jake, just survival, one round gone, one soldier dead. Forty civvies, two fighters—core cracked, standing.
Kessler smirked, faint, leg bleeding. “Still here.”
Sarah gripped her knife—dawn’s last thread, frayed, unbroken.
