Date: 12:00 PM, April 3, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Noon burned through the core’s cracked viewport, a harsh light glinting off gaunt corpses and blood-streaked steel as Sarah stood, knife in hand, the psychic hum flaring—“Now… strike…”—a sharp twist that snapped her alert. Kessler rose beside her, leg stiff but steady, twin gaunt claws strapped tight, the bent pipe her last weapon—rifles empty, ammo a memory. The hum roared—“North… all…”—Tyranids waking, their patience spent.
“Trouble,” Sarah said, voice tight, as a rumble shook the core—north wall, seismic twitching below. Harrington stirred on his cot, chest bandaged, eyes sharp despite the blood loss—medic hovering, hands full with forty civilians trembling behind.
“Status!” Harrington croaked, waving Kessler over—screens dead, power at 25%, no tech left to tally.
Kessler limped up, pipe ready. “North’s stirring—Thompson’s head says it. Trygon’s deep, level 5 maybe—seismic’s up. Bio-ships—ten miles, closing fast.”
Sarah nodded, the hum screaming—“Swarm…” “North—gaunts, hormagaunts, gargoyles—Trygon’s climbing, synced!” she shouted, knife gripped, the Tyrant’s pulse faint—west, still wounded, but the north loomed.
“Core’s it!” Harrington rasped, pushing up—medic protested, he waved her off, grabbing the steel bar. “Hatch—hold ‘em! Kessler, Thompson—flanks, I’m center!”
The north hatch trembled—claws scraped, gaunts screeching—Kessler swung her pipe—crack, a gaunt’s skull caved as it breached, ichor spraying. Sarah lunged—knife sank into a throat, a hormagaunt screeching, falling—but the swarm pressed, claws tearing steel wider.
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Below, the floor shook—Trygon’s roar, level 4—tendrils punched up, snagging a civilian—a scream cut short, blood splashing. Sarah slashed—knife severed a tendril, Kessler sealing the hole with steel, welding fast, sparks flying—Trygon stalled, screeching.
“North’s through!” Harrington yelled, bar swinging—crack, a gaunt dropped, but a claw raked his leg—he grunted, stumbling, blood pooling. Sarah dove—knife gutted a gaunt, dragging him back—Kessler’s claws danced, slashing two, ichor soaking her.
The hatch split—gaunts flooded, five, then ten—hormagaunts leaping, faster, deadlier. Sarah’s knife flashed—another down, Kessler’s pipe bent further—crack, a skull shattered—but a claw slashed her arm, blood gushing—she hissed, retreating.
“Fall back!” Harrington shouted, bar snapping—gaunts swarmed, civilians screaming, medics dragging wounded to the rear. The hum screamed—“End…”—Sarah staggered, Trygon roaring below—steel buckled, tendrils snaking up again.
Kessler slashed—claw sank into a gaunt, but a hormagaunt tackled her—claws raked her side, she yelled, rolling free, pipe lost. Sarah lunged—knife sank into its back, saving her—but the swarm pressed, eight now, no guns, no traps.
A jet’s roar—faint, east—one F-22, limping—missiles streaked north, hitting a bio-ship—fire bloomed, tendrils burning, gaunts faltering. The hum weakened—“Pain… wait…”—Trygon retreated, level 5, north swarm pulling back, bio-ships stalling—ten miles again.
Sarah panted, knife dripping—Kessler clutched her side, blood seeping, claws red. Harrington slumped, leg and chest bleeding—medic rushed, pressing gauze. “Held,” he rasped, voice fading. “Noon’s ours—barely.”
Sarah nodded, the hum a whisper—“Soon…”—no Jake, just the enemy, patient. Two fighters—wounded—forty civvies, core cracked, standing on scraps.
Kessler smirked, faint, arm trembling. “Still kicking.”
Sarah gripped her knife—noon’s fragile hold, a breath, not a win.
