Date: 8:15 AM, April 1, 2025
Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
The inner sanctum’s air hung heavy, laced with the acrid sting of welding torches and the faint rot of Trygon ichor seeping through the sealed floor. Sarah leaned against a crate, her M16 propped beside her, its barrel warm from the last burst. Her hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, the psychic hum weaving a tightrope in her skull—“Regroup… stronger…”—the Tyranid pulse steady, patient, inevitable.
Kessler crouched nearby, wiping sweat from her brow, her rifle’s mag half-empty. “That thing’s not done,” she said, voice rough, nodding at the patched hole. “Just licking its wounds.”
“Yeah,” Sarah replied, rubbing her eyes. Jake’s whisper flickered—“Sarah… hold…”—faint, fractured, a lifeline she couldn’t grasp. “They’re planning—both of ‘em, Tyrant and Trygon.”
Harrington strode over, his uniform streaked with dust, pistol holstered but hand hovering near it. “They’re syncing—bio-ships too,” he said, glancing at a flickering screen—west wall feeds showed tendrils probing the rubble, gargoyles circling tighter. “Seismic’s quiet, but that’s a feint. Nguyen—reserves?”
Nguyen, nursing a bruised arm, tapped a tablet. “Twenty troops left—combat fit. Ammo’s critical—two RPGs, small arms scraping by. Power’s at 60%, backup’s straining. Civvies—seventy now, med bay’s overflowing.”
“Twenty,” Harrington muttered, jaw tight. “Last stand’s here—inner doors, choke points. Rig what’s left—mines, C4, anything. Thompson, your head?”
Sarah closed her eyes, sifting the hum—“Wait… strike…”—a cold intent, layered, deliberate. “They’re holding—building for something big. Tyrant’s still topside, Trygon below. Feels… coordinated.”
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“Ambush,” Kessler said, standing. “Hit us from both ends—pinch us dry.”
Harrington nodded, grim. “Then we hit first—draw ‘em in, bleed ‘em here.” He waved a tech over. “Detonators—tunnel charges, remote. Nguyen, arm the squad—every round counts.”
The room buzzed—soldiers dragging steel beams, piling crates, a makeshift barricade rising around the sanctum’s core. Sarah grabbed her rifle, checking the mag—ten rounds, maybe. Kessler handed her a grenade—“Last one,” she said, smirking faintly. “Make it count.”
A low rumble shook the walls—subtle, then sharp, seismic spiking. The hum roared—“Now…”—Sarah’s breath caught. “They’re moving—both!”
The floor erupted again—Trygon, faster, its maw bursting through, tendrils lashing. Soldiers fired, a ragged volley—bullets sank into its hide, slowing it. Nguyen launched an RPG—boom, ichor sprayed, rocking it back, but it roared, tail smashing a barricade, sending a soldier sprawling, neck snapped.
“Topside!” a tech yelled—screens flared, the Hive Tyrant tearing through the gate’s rubble, gaunts flooding behind, bio-ships dropping more. Harrington grabbed the radio—“Outer teams, collapse the tunnel—now!”—a distant blast answered, rubble choking the breach, but screeches echoed closer.
Sarah fired at the Trygon, grenade in hand—pulled the pin, threw. It exploded under its jaw, flesh tearing, and it screeched, retreating again, the hole a mess of ichor and dust. “It’s out!” she shouted, as soldiers sealed it once more.
But the walls shook harder—Tyrant’s roar, topside, clawing down. Harrington spun to Nguyen. “Charges—blow the upper tunnel!”
Nguyen punched the remote—another boom, the ceiling trembling, dust raining. The hum pulsed—“Trapped… but alive…”—Tyrant stalled, Trygon too, but the sanctum groaned, cracks widening.
“Held ‘em,” Kessler panted, reloading—three rounds left. “For what—minutes?”
“Enough,” Harrington said, staring at the screens—bio-ships hovered, relentless, but the mountain stood. “Regroup—inner core, last line. Thompson, Kessler—with me.”
Sarah nodded, gripping her rifle, the hum a steady beat—“Soon…”—Jake’s echo gone, just the enemy now. They moved, soldiers falling back, twenty guns against a tide. The sanctum shrank, reserves spent, but they weren’t dead yet.
Not yet.
