Date: 7:00 AM, April 3, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dawn’s pale light filtered through the core’s shattered viewport, illuminating a scene of exhaustion and survival—gaunt corpses slumped at the breached hatch, ichor pooling where Diaz had died, blood streaking the floor from Harrington’s chest. Sarah sat on a crate, M16 empty, knife sheathed, the psychic hum a faint murmur—“Rest… rebuild…”—the Tyranids retreating to heal, their menace a quiet echo. Her hands steadied, but her breath came shallow—each loss a weight, dawn’s threadbare victory a thin shield.
Kessler slumped beside her, leg bandaged with scavenged gauze—claw slashes deep, bleeding slow—twin gaunt claws strapped to her belt, pipe bent but clutched tight. Harrington lay on a cot, chest wrapped tight by a medic—civilian, trembling hands—his breathing ragged, blood staining the cloth, but eyes open, sharp. Civilians—forty—huddled in the rear, whispers rising, medics down to scraps of supplies.
“Status,” Harrington croaked, voice a whisper, waving Sarah over—no tech left, Diaz’s rifle silent on the floor.
She stepped up, voice low. “Two combat-ready—me, Kessler, barely. You’re down—six wounded, ten critical in med bay. Civvies—forty, holding. Ammo—none, knives and claws. Power’s at 20%, backup’s flickering.”
“Jets?” Kessler asked, shifting, wincing as her leg protested.
“East sent ‘em,” Harrington rasped. “F-22s—two, hit and run. Bio-ships north, ten miles—screens are dead, but jets pushed ‘em. Trygon’s deep—level 6, quiet. Tyrant’s west—hurt, waiting.”
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Sarah rubbed her temple, the hum steady—“Watch…” “They’re resting—nodes spawning, slow. Tyrant’s weak, Trygon too—planning, not rushing.” Jake’s echo stayed gone—a void she felt, unanswered.
“Good,” Harrington said, coughing—blood flecked his lips, medic pressing harder. “Scavenge—tunnels, anything—meds, steel, power. Kessler, lead—Thompson, with her. Hold ‘til I’m up.”
Kessler nodded, grim, pushing to her feet—leg shaky but set. “Scraps again—let’s move.” Sarah grabbed her knife, following—Harrington’s eyes tracked them, a flicker of trust in the haze.
The north tunnel was a charnel house—gaunt limbs, shattered crates, blood crusting where Diaz’s scream had cut off. Sarah pried a panel—wires, a power cell, cracked but sparking—handing it to Kessler. She kicked a corpse, finding a med kit—torn, antiseptic left—tossing it to Sarah. “Patch him,” Kessler said, dry.
Sarah salvaged a steel shard—sharp, a makeshift blade—while Kessler dragged a plate, weldable, heavy. The hum twitched—“Stir…”—Sarah froze. “They’re waking—not close, but alive.”
“Always,” Kessler muttered, hefting the plate. “Keeps us kicking.”
They hauled back—power cell, med kit, steel, shard—dumping it in the core. The medic wired the cell—lights steadied, 25%—while Sarah handed over the antiseptic, Harrington’s bandage soaked anew, his grunt a thanks. Kessler patched the hatch, welding slow—leg trembling, but steel held.
Harrington watched, eyes half-closed. “Good—rest ‘til noon. Bio-ships north—jets bought us hours.”
Sarah sank onto her cot, knife beside her, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—Tyranids patient, nodes growing. A civilian—a girl, blanket clutched—handed her water, eyes wide but firm. “Thanks,” Sarah said, drinking, her nod a silent echo.
Kessler sat, claws on her lap, leg stiff. “No guns, scraps—hell of a dawn.”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, tracing the knife—Diaz’s blood, Harrington’s fight, ghosts piling. “Held—threadbare.”
Harrington coughed, faint. “Still here—reckon that.”
Sarah gripped her knife, the hum a steady beat—no Jake, just survival. Noon loomed—a frayed thread, not a win.
