Date: 7:45 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The tunnel to the main gate vibrated with the thunder of artillery and the Hive Tyrant’s roars, each tremor shaking dust from the ceiling. Sarah ran beside Harrington, Kessler, and Vasquez, her M16 heavy in her hands, the psychic hum a relentless drum—“Break… now…”—the Tyrant’s intent boring into her skull. Soldiers lined the passage, faces grim, hauling RPGs and ammo crates, their shouts drowned by the chaos ahead.

  They burst into the gate’s defense post—a cavernous chamber, steel doors buckling, sandbags and turrets forming a ragged line. Dozens of troops fired through slits, tracer rounds streaking into the swarm—gaunts clawing at the gate, gargoyles diving from above. The Tyrant loomed outside, its battered form towering, one wing shredded but its blade-arms slashing, rending steel with every blow.

  “Hold it!” Harrington yelled, grabbing a radio. “Artillery, keep pounding—RPGs, focus that bastard!” He waved Sarah to a sandbag wall, Kessler and Vasquez dropping beside her, weapons up.

  Sarah fired, bursts cutting through gaunts—ichor sprayed, bodies piling, but more surged, endless. Kessler’s M4 chattered, dropping a gargoyle mid-flight, while Vasquez’s shotgun boomed, blasting a gaunt’s head to pulp. “Too damn many!” he shouted, reloading with a wince, blood seeping from his arm.

  The gate screeched, a massive dent buckling inward—the Tyrant’s claw punched through, tearing a gash. Soldiers screamed, firing point-blank, but it swiped, crushing two against the wall, their rifles clattering. Sarah’s stomach lurched, the hum spiking—“Inside…”—as gaunts poured through the breach, claws gleaming.

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  “Fall back—secondary line!” Harrington roared, soldiers retreating to a fallback barricade—more sandbags, a heavy machine gun rattling. Sarah scrambled with them, firing, dropping a gaunt inches from her boots. Kessler lobbed a grenade—it exploded outside, rocking the Tyrant back, ichor gushing from its flank, but it charged again, unstoppable.

  Vasquez grabbed an RPG from a fallen soldier, limping forward. “Cover me!” he yelled, aiming—Sarah and Kessler fired, keeping gaunts off as he launched. The rocket streaked, slamming the Tyrant’s chest—fire bloomed, chitin cracking, and it staggered, roaring, psychic scream buckling Sarah’s knees.

  “Gotcha,” Vasquez grinned—then a gargoyle dove, claws ripping into his back. He screamed, shotgun falling, collapsing as it tore him apart. Sarah fired, killing it, but too late—Vasquez lay still, blood pooling.

  “No!” Kessler shouted, dragging Sarah back as the Tyrant recovered, slamming the gate again. The steel split, a gaping hole—gaunts flooded in, the machine gun mowing dozens before jamming, its crew swarmed.

  Harrington grabbed a comm. “Charges—blow the tunnel, now!” A tech at the rear punched a detonator—seconds ticked, the Tyrant’s roar deafening as it forced through, blade-arms slashing. “Run!” he yelled, shoving Sarah toward an inner passage.

  They bolted, the squad—ten left—sprinting as the countdown hit zero. A blast shook the mountain, fire and rubble swallowing the gate, burying the Tyrant and its swarm. Sarah stumbled, ears ringing, Kessler pulling her up as the tunnel sealed behind—dust choking the air, silence falling hard.

  Harrington panted, leaning on the wall. “Gate’s gone—bought us a choke point. Status?”

  A soldier—Nguyen, blood-streaked—checked a handheld. “Outer breach sealed—Trygon’s still below, bio-ships circling. We’re boxed.”

  Sarah’s head throbbed, the hum shifting—“Trapped…”—not dead, just stalled. “It’s alive,” she said, voice raw. “Under the rubble—digging.”

  Harrington nodded, grim. “Vasquez bought us time—won’t waste it. Inner defenses—regroup, now.”

  They moved, Kessler’s arm around Sarah, the squad limping behind. The mountain held, but the Tyrant’s pulse beat beneath, patient, hungry. Sarah gripped her rifle, Vasquez’s blood on her mind—another loss, another push to keep going.

  The siege wasn’t broken—just paused.