You can feel the panic subsiding and giving way to exasperation and exhaustion as you slump behind a piece of cover, growling at the ruins of your rifle. Apparently, a few thousand rounds in a single engagement was enough to start warping the barrel beyond the point of usability - that seems to be about in line with your luck. There's nothing more that you can do with this thing but scream as you whip around, over the concrete block you're using for cover, and hurl it at the swarm of alien insects. It smashes into one of their heads with sufficient force to splatter brains on the ground - one down, twenty zillion to go.
It was stupid to try and hold this part of the city, but of course, command wouldn't listen. Chicago was already fucked - the fact that you and the rest of the Enhanced Legion were stuck in here, trying to hold off the swarm instead of falling back to a better position, makes you realize just how fucking useless your leaders are. You'd be cussing out the general's name if you weren't busy fighting for your life, forced to pick up a knife and slash at anything coming near for simple lack of a better weapon, or time to find anything better. The courthouse that was supposed to be a last bastion has, most likely, become your grave.
You don't want to go out thinking about that, about the hate, about how you got fucked over after giving everything for this planet. You want to think about Wyn. About how you should've listened to her. About how you should've said you were sorry the last time you spoke. About her smile and laugh and the way she always made your feel warm inside just by being in the room. You want to think about the aisle you should've been walking down to reach her right now, the big frilly white dress you should have been marveling at as you took her hands into yours and recited your vows.
The rest of the squad is trying to back up to the roof, to evac chopper that's supposed to be hauling you out of here. You already know you won't make it. Neither will they, probably. Even as Richter forces you back, demands that you go, tells you that you still have something to live for - you're certain that every bug you slice open is just delaying the inevitable. The swarm is all around you - the swarm will consume everything in its path. And it seems you're in its path, as one of them leaps on you, a lucky strike sinking venomous fangs into your arm. Richter blasts it, but it's too late - and before he can put you out of your misery, his head gets ripped off.
You scream as you feel the venom spreading, coursing into your veins. You've seen the videos of what happens. You've even seen it a few times in the field. Their bites are infectious, loaded with a retrovirus that changes you. Makes you into one of them. They sense that you're changing, swarming right past you to go kill your friends as the infection starts to overtake you. Desperately, you try to cling to your identity, the person you were - you scream and try to tell yourself that you're Michelle Danvers, that you're not an alien. That you're not a monster. But it's slipping, slipping away. Before long, all that you can hold onto is her, Wyn, the woman you love, the woman who probably thinks you'll die hating her.
And then, with a jolt, you flop out of bed.
You're groaning as you try to sit back up, still buck naked from the previous night, a cold sweat all over your body from the most intense nightmare of your life. Your eyes are slow to open - mercifully, the sun isn't quite out yet. But Farrah isn't there - you have a moment of panic before you look up to see her poking her head in from the hallway, already in a bathrobe. She looks about ready to make a joke about sleeping beauty, but upon realizing how haggard and terrified you look, she discards the idea. Instead, she rushes over, the loose-hanging bathrobe showing off her ample cleavage - that, at least, helps you calm down some. "Kate? You okay?"
After a second, you slowly nod. "Yeah... yeah, sorry, just... bad dream. Really intense."
She nods, seemingly relieved. "Half as intense as what I did to your ass last night?"
"Damn near," you reply, forcing out a little laugh. "We're not late, are we?"
"No, thankfully, but you better get moving." She smiles warmly as she pulls you up to your feet, taking a moment to give you a sweet, gentle kiss. Just as before, the feeling of her lips against yours lights up your whole world, shocking you awake enough to yank the robe off and squeeze her enormous chest with both hands. She giggles, but uses your morning horniness to lure you to the bathroom and into a steaming hot shower. It does the job of cleaning you up, despite your focus on making out with Farrah; she has to finally shove you off with a playful laught to make you go get dressed and have breakfast.
After scarfing down the morning meal and throwing on some of Farrah's clothes - somehow, they actually fit alright, despite your chest being nowhere near as impressive - she's leading you out the door to her car. It's the hardest thing in the world to be thinking about the upcoming day of shooting, and not the drop dead gorgeous woman giving you a ride. In fact, as she parks the car, the raging fire in your loins makes you wonder if you might have time for a quickie - one little climb up to a rocking orgasm before you start shooting. If nothing else, it'd get you two into character, wouldn't it?