Date: 6:00 PM, April 3, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
Dusk painted Cheyenne Mountain in fading gold, a cruel light seeping through the core’s shattered viewport as Sarah stood, knife slick with ichor, the psychic hum a mournful crescendo—“Now… finish…”—a weight that crushed her chest. Kessler leaned against a crate, side bandaged, blood soaking through—twin gaunt claws her last defense, pipe gone, leg barely holding her up. Harrington sat propped on his cot, chest and leg wrapped, steel bar across his lap—breathing shallow, eyes dim but fierce. Civilians—forty—whimpered behind, medics out of gauze, hope bleeding dry.
The core trembled—north hatch groaning, floor quaking—dual roars, the Hive Tyrant and Trygon, their patience snapped. Sarah’s hum screamed—“All… end…” “They’re here—both, now!” she shouted, voice breaking, knife trembling in her grip.
“Status,” Harrington rasped, bar slipping—medic gone, no one left to tally.
Kessler coughed, blood flecking her lips. “North—swarm’s back. Trygon—level 3, seismic’s spiking. Bio-ships—close, five miles. No jets, no ammo—just us.”
Sarah nodded, the hum a dirge—“Take…” “Tyrant’s north—Trygon below—all they’ve got.” Jake’s echo flickered—“Sarah… sorry…”—soft, final, then silent forever.
“Core’s last,” Harrington said, pushing up—legs buckled, he slumped back, bar clattering. “Hold ‘em—‘til we can’t. Kessler, Thompson—flanks, I’ll… try.”
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The hatch split—gaunts poured in, hormagaunts leaping, the Tyrant’s roar shaking steel—its battered form loomed, claw slashing, tearing the weld apart. Sarah lunged—knife sank into a gaunt’s throat, ichor spraying—but a claw raked her arm, blood gushing—she stumbled, slashing another.
Below, the floor erupted—Trygon’s maw snapped, tendrils snagging a civilian—screams choked off, blood painting the wall. Kessler slashed—claw gutted a gaunt, but her leg gave—hormagaunt tackled her, claws tearing her chest—she yelled, claw sinking into its eye, both falling, blood pooling.
“Kessler!” Sarah yelled, knife flashing—saved her, but the Tyrant charged—claw smashed a crate, missing her by inches. Harrington swung his bar—crack, a gaunt dropped—but the Tyrant swiped, steel bending, hurling him against the wall—he hit hard, neck snapping, eyes blank.
“No!” Sarah screamed, knife slashing—gaunt fell, but the swarm surged—ten, fifteen—civilians shrieking, medics overrun, bodies piling. The hum roared—“Yours…”—Trygon rose, tendrils snaking—Sarah dodged, slashing—ichor sprayed, slowing it.
Kessler crawled, claws red—lungs wet, gasping—“Go… Thompson…”—a hormagaunt lunged—Sarah’s knife missed, claws sank into Kessler’s throat—she choked, blood bubbling, claws stilling.
Sarah staggered—alone—knife dripping, forty gone, core a tomb. The Tyrant loomed—psychic scream crushed her—“End…”—claw raised, she swung—knife sank into its cracked chest, ichor gushing—but it roared, swiping—steel met flesh, her chest tore open, ribs cracking, blood flooding her lungs.
She fell, knife clattering—vision blurred, the hum fading—“Done…”—Tyrant’s eyes glowed, Trygon’s screech a distant echo. Civilians screamed, then silenced—gaunts swarmed, bio-ships pulsed outside, the mountain’s last breath snuffed out.
Sarah’s hand twitched—reaching for the knife, for Jake, for something—then stilled. Dusk faded, gold to black, the core silent—Harrington slumped, Kessler sprawled, forty lives lost, a sad end swallowed by the dark. Cheyenne stood no more, just ruins, a quiet grave under alien stars.
