burning one’s own house down
The war continues. The emergency has been upgraded to insurgency along the east coast, parts of the mid-west, Colorado and Wyoming. It seems that everyone from the Hellfolk to the SAS is getting in on it.
I was one of those detailed to defend the Hovel, an indefensible monstrosity of beautiful carpentry and abominable masonry, located deep in the Blue Ridge, that appears to have been selected for preservation for reasons known only to the arcane community. We knew we were on a death mission, because the Silverfish were our first attackers. We managed to beat them back - at times with fisticuffs and entrenching tools - and they pulled away. There was much shouting and backslapping, but I knew it was a feint. I took a fire-team to the other end of the hovel, dodging sniper beams covering the windows, and when I got to the other side, and joined with my dug-in comrades, I saw the silverfish were heading this way now.
Still, we got reinforcements - ships, mecha, magical troops. I engaged in single combat with one of the silvers - no mean feat - as the battle raged elsewhere, and had the pleasure of auditing their thoughtwaves - they wanted to send more troops to take me down because I had “pinged” - shown up on their numenal radar so to speak. Then that fight was over.
Before I know it I am out leading a patrol to reconnoitre into the foothills. We run into an RAF crawler recon unit. They are delighted to see a “Yank” combat team still alive. They say things weren’t looking so good down south along the coast when they made the Leap. I reflect that they rarely have for at least two centuries.