Follow us, through a world you know, a world at war with pastel ponies, through pain, through the death of innocence, through a world gone mad, on the edge of oblivion…once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…
There was never going to be any way of telling all those stories, but make no mistake, they were there. The secret ones, the smaller ones, the ones you'd never believe and the ones you'd never heard of. Men like Edwin Richards and Maximilian Yarrow, like Jacob Levy and Amadeus Cain, soldiers who fought the war on the front lines and held on though there was nothing to hold on to.
Broken men, twisted dreams, and the promise that the worst is yet to come.
These are the stories you'd never have heard. These are the forgotten.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.
A story of the The Conversion Bureau: The Other Side of the Spectrum.
Prologue: The End and the Beginning.
Writers: Jed R.
Editors Doctor Fluffy, Sledge115, DarthSonic66, LordTurbo, redskin122004.
***
2018: The arrival on Earth of Equestria, a magical land populated by ponies. They bring gifts, including the ponification potion, a serum that transforms human beings into "Newfoals". At first, nothing is suspected.
2019: After unrest, concerns about the Newfoals and their growing divergence from their original human personalities, and other issues that have sparked violence across the world, the Barrier, a large wall of magic that destroys all humans and human-made objects it touches, begins expanding outward from its origin point in CERN. War is declared by humanity on the ponies for this deliberate attack. They are aided in this by sane ponies, largely led by the PHL, founded by Lyra Heartstrings.
2023: The year that war ended.
But before all that, there was an age of giants and legends, an age of heroes and monsters… an age that has yet to tell all of its stories…
***
Boston. The end of the war…
King William V of Great Britain stood upon a balcony overlooking the city of Boston, or what was left of it (which was scant little). He felt a surprising sense of… calm.
It was over. The war had been won. Impossibly - incredibly - they had survived.
The Tyrant was dead.
He couldn’t quite believe it really. There had been a long time - almost too long a time - where it had felt like the war could end only in death or ponification, where those who wanted to avoid one had to choose the other, and those who wanted neither were living on borrowed time. He’d known men who’d seen nothing at the end of the road, who had rode the road to the road’s ending for fear of there being nothing beyond, who’d destroyed themselves rather than let the world do it for them.
He’d also seen broken men, men who’d made choices to hurt other people, and they had survived longer than they had had any right to.
He sighed, looking down at the iPad mini in his hand, the speech he had been in the process of typing still on there, the cursor blinking at him.
“Trouble writing the speech, your Majesty?” a familiar voice asked. William turned, a smile on his face, as he found himself facing True Quill, a young PHL journalist he’d met at Christmas last year.
“A little,” he admitted. “How are you, True Quill?”
The blue mare shrugged. “I’ve… been better. The war might be over, but so much has been lost…”
“You’re telling me,” William said with a wry, somewhat humourless chuckle. “I’ve seen some of the worst of it.”
True Quill blanched. “I’m… sorry, your Majesty. That was thoughtless.”
“It’s alright,” William said quietly. “Under the circumstances, there were far worse things you could have said.”
He turned to look back out of the balcony, a wistful expression on his face, and True Quill came up to join him.
“You know… when all this war business started, all those years ago… I don’t think anyone could have foreseen where it would have taken us,” he said quietly.
“Maybe not,” True Quill agreed. “But then again, where has it taken us? The world’s a bigger place than it was… but it’s smaller too. There’s been so much death, so many people lost…”
“And yet in the last two months, we’ve had more hope than we could have thought to have in two years,” William replied quietly. “You know, at one point the entire world thought like Maxi Yarrow, that we’d hit the end and all that was left was a glorious last hurrah?”
True Quill frowned. “I know that name, I think.”
“Indeed?” William said, smirking. “I wonder - do you know some of the stories I heard from Harry over the years? Some of the insane things I’ve heard him tell me about?”
“I’ve heard some stories,” True Quill admitted. “Rumours about things like the Fairport Incident, the chase across the dying wastes, Imperial Creed, Yarrow… I even heard about the EHS, though not much more than rumours.”
“I heard a little about them, and more besides,” William said with a sigh. “You ever thought of writing about these things? Making sure it doesn’t all get forgotten?”
“I don’t know where I’d start, your Highness,” True Quill admitted. “There are always going to be a lot of untold stories in this world.”
“Perhaps,” William agreed. He turned back to face her. “Let’s start tonight, if you don’t mind. I’d like to see what we can do.”
True Quill raised an eyebrow. “Tonight? Don’t you have a speech to write?”
William shrugged. “I never write my speeches, really. Somehow, winging it seems to work for me.” He grinned, and walked over to his makeshift desk, tapping the icon to start a new document on his google docs app. “Come on - let’s make a start.”
“Alright,” True Quill agreed. “Where shall we start?”
William looked up at her, then blinked, before frowning slightly.
“The beginning,” he said quietly. “Just after Balmoral. Poor Harry… he took it even worse than our father did, even worse than me…”
***
Buckingham Palace. July 3rd, 2019.
In a room in what some might have called the moral heart of Britain, a red-headed man was watching the most heart-wrenching thing he could possibly imagine.
“You think you can come into MY palace, MY country, and destroy the will of MY people! I may be old and decrepit, but I. WILL. NOT. STAND FOR THIS INSULT!”
“Potion the bitch!”
“I think not. Say goodbye to the world, and may God Almighty show you the mercy I withhold!”
Click. Rewind.
“You think you can come into MY palace, MY country, and destroy the will of MY people! I may be old and decrepit, but I. WILL. NOT. STAND FOR THIS INSULT!”
Click. Rewind.
"I. WILL. NOT. STAND FOR THIS INSULT!”
"You shouldn't torture yourself, son."
Prince Harry of Britain clicked the pause button on the recording and turned to see his father, now King Charles III of Britain, staring sadly at him. The older man looked quietly maudlin, his grey, thinning hair and wrinkled face looking ten years older than he had a few weeks ago. He was stood in the doorway of the small room, arms folded. He looked weary and heavy-hearted, and it was a harsh reminder for Harry that yes, he had lost his Grandmother, but his father had lost his mother, someone he had known for all of his seventy years, and a loss Harry was all too familiar with.
"There was nothing you could have done to save her," Charles continued, stepping into Harry's room, his expression dour but nonetheless resolute. "We must be thankful that she died with her humanity intact, instead of becoming one of Celestia's... puppets."
Harry turned away from his father with a miserable sigh.
"I should have defended her myself," he said quietly, looking at the image of his grandmother, the expression on her face defiant and resolute to the last. "With a gun, with my body, with my very life if I had to. She shouldn't have had to die at the hands of those... bastard lunatics."
"She didn't," Charles replied, sighing as he stared at his mother's visage on the screen with an unreadable expression halfway between sorrow and pride. "She died at her own, speaking words to comfort and inspire her subjects, just as she knew she should." He smiled a grim smile. "As far as deaths go, I think Mother would have been more than satisfied with it. Some are already calling it 'the Balmoral address', or so I've been told."
"She should have died in her sleep, peacefully, surrounded by her family," Harry said angrily, resisting the urge to smash the television. "Those bastard ponies and their potion. I knew it was all trouble, I always did."
"Perhaps," Charles said amicably. "But there are those among ponies who don't agree with what's been done by their… leader."
He sounded somewhat disgusted when he said leader, and Harry noted that he refused to say 'Queen': Charles had respect for that title and what it entailed after all, and it was more than apparent to anyone paying attention that Celestia did not.
"I don't care what they don't agree on," the young Prince said, and his father sighed unhappily. "Fat lot of good they've done. Where were they when Celestia's PER puppets did this? Where were they when this ponification nonsense started in the first place? Why are they even here at all...?"
"Son," Charles said firmly, a stern look upon his face. "Like it or not, the ponies are here to stay, both those who are our enemies, and those who are our friends."
"Father," Harry said, his voice as determined and resolute as his father's had ever been, "for what they've done, for what they've allowed to happen - to us, to this country, to the world - no pony is my friend."
Editors: Doctor Fluffy, DarthSonic66, LordTurbo, redskin122004.
***
"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead ... On, on, you noblest English./Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! .... The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge/Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'" - King Henry V, Henry V, Act III.
No one's gonna take me alive, The time has come to make things right, You and I must fight for our rights, You and I must fight to survive… Muse, Knights of Cydonia.
***
Hull, England. August 14th, 2019.
A man, sat in the middle of a café, took a sip of his drink and frowned. He had dark hair and stubble, and there were bags under his tired brown eyes – he had spent the last five hours thinking things through, and he didn't like any of it.
War. War against an enemy consumed and committed to their total destruction. It was a terrifying idea – he had hoped such a conflict would never happen in his lifetime. God knew such things had been threatened before: terror organisations, nuclear conflict… but this? This was a war of genocide, or more properly xenocide. The sort of conflict a man didn't normally find himself even considering the possibility of, let alone actually finding himself in the middle of it.
"Dave," a voice said, and he looked up from his thoughts to see the concerned blue eyes of his friend Sam Lake. Sam was blonde haired and handsome faced: where David was a dark haired and faintly germanic man with a lean, muscular frame, Sam was fairer, paler, and in some respects slighter.
He sat down opposite David, a coffee in his hand, and waited for his friend to say something. David, however, wasn't sure what to say - there was too much going on, and he didn't know how to deal with a lot of it.
"What's up?" Sam finally asked softly, looking at his friend with concern. "Your message sounded pretty urgent."
"That'd be because it was," David said quietly. He sighed. "You saw the news?"
"What?" Sam said, chuckling mirthlessly. "War with the pastel ponies? The imminent end of all life thanks to an advancing wall of death? Yeah, I had in fact seen it. Somewhere in the red tops. Almost missed it between the sports section, the topless models and the TV times." He sobered up, any limited humour in his comments dying. "You're worried."
"Damn right I'm worried," David said, looking at his friend incredulously. "The world's about to end, isn't it?"
"Aye," Sam said. "Aye, I guess it is."
David sighed. "And we're gonna… do what?"
"That implies there's something we can do," Sam said with a sad, mirthless smile.
"Isn't there?" David asked.
Sam was silent for a long moment, as though contemplating something. Truth be told, David already had an idea, but he wanted to see what his oldest friend thought first.
"Well," Sam finally said, "it strikes me that there's two things we can do." He smiled, a slightly sombre thing. "Fight or flight."
David smiled back. As always, he and his best friend were on the exact same wavelength. He picked up his coffee and held it up, and Sam tapped his own against it. Though they both knew the road ahead would be hard, they were both ready to stand by each other's side.
"If man were meant to fly," Elliot said, "we'd all be wearing our underwear on the outside with big 'S's on our chests."
"And we'd all look bloody stupid for it, mate," Sam finished.
***
Liverpool, England. August 20th, 2019.
A blonde-haired, grim-faced man in a trenchcoat walked at a brisk pace towards his apartment building, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he did so. He had never considered himself a particularly paranoid man, but these were not days where lack of caution served you well. Even if they had been, his was a life where lack of caution might see you in a gutter anyway.
In his hands he clutched an envelope, and he felt his sweaty palms slip slightly on the slightly laminated material of the envelope. He glanced at it every so often too, as though making sure it was still there.
He reached his apartment building a few moments later, and, with another quick glance over his shoulder, he entered the grotty building. He was glad to be home - his files were waiting for him, and this latest envelope might well be the thing that helped bring him even closer to the truth.
"Oi! Mrs Mason!" he called to his crotchety old landlady. "I'm back!"
It was always polite to let her know he was back in the apartment building, mainly because she always needed his help with something, even if she was a right bitch most of the time.
"Hello dear!" the voice of Mrs Mason called back, sounding oddly cheerful and upbeat. "How was your day out?"
The man frowned slightly at that response. "Fine. How're you?"
"Perfect, dear, absolutely perfect," the old woman replied.
Okay, something was definitely up. Mrs Mason was never that cheerful. It made him feel... suspicious. He walked up the stairs to his own flat door and opened it, checking for the little white string that he'd left in the door. As he suspected, it was gone. A quick glance into his flat made it clear that someone had been looking through his possessions. His files, so meticulously ordered, had been messed with.
A lifetime of paranoia had made him incredibly suspicious of anything, but before today, he had never been proven right that someone was after him. He quickly grabbed a cricket bat from a hidden safe spot and hid behind his front door, dropping the envelope as he did so.
"Mrs Mason?" he called down. "Has someone been here?"
"Oh yes, dear," the woman replied, and he heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. "Some new friends of mine. They're ever such lovely lads..."
He pushed himself further into hiding as someone came into the flat through the front door - or rather, somepony. She was yellow, with a brown mane. She was looking off into the room the man had just been in.
"Hello?" she called, and it was Mrs Mason's voice, chirpy and cheerful as it now sounded. "Are you here? I was hoping to say hello - also, it's not Mrs Mason anymore. I go by 'Delicate Daisy' now…"
With a yell, he swung the cricket bat and cracked the back of the Newfoal's head. Stunned, she fell to the floor, but she managed to turn her head, an impossibly wide grin on her face.
"Oh, hello, dear!" she said, grinning. "I was hoping you'd be here - my friends are dying to meet -!"
He swung his bat again, and her head snapped at an impossible angle, teeth flying out. He panted slightly, feeling sick to the teeth.
"What the fuck?!" he swore. "What the actual... fucking... FUCK?!"
He had expected a lot of things - governments and crazies and FBI and CIA and MIB, but he hadn't expected ponies. Mrs Mason's 'new friends'… they must have been PER, or else why would she have gone Newfoal? Mad old bint - unfortunate old bint as well, since the PER weren't known to be bothered about whether you wanted to go Newfoal…
Why in the name of God were they after him? Unless…
He glanced down at the envelope he had dropped on the floor. It's title, 'confidential report on human psionic activity', glared up at him in its small black font.
Unless some of the bullshit I've been looking at… is something they want to know about, something they're after…
Well fuck. That was typical. He glanced out of his window to see if there was anyone else out there - no one for now, but he knew if the PER were involved, chances were something else was gonna happen eventually.
"Right then," he said. He pulled out his mobile and dialled a number. A moment later he was put through. "Chas? It's John. Get your arse to mine, top sharp, PER are after me. Yes, PER, the horsefucking ones. Cheers."
He put the phone away, sighing. He considered the possibility of going through his old files, but he dismissed it. It was more than likely that they'd set up potion-bombs or other such shit, and he liked his hands. And his hair.
Here's me, John Constantine, trying to learn about psionics and secret government shit, and the first hint I get that I'm onto anything worth a shit is a terrorist organisation led by pastel ponies coming after me. He sighed, and took a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting up with a wry expression. Well, that's just magic.
***
Buckingham Palace, September 4th, 2019.
Prince Harry was in a smart tuxedo, looking for all the world like the young(ish) heartthrob prince he was known as in his younger days. His father had decided that, in order to help the world prepare for the war they were about to fight, he would organise a fundraiser for Lyra Heartstrings' PHL.
Harry had disagreed fiercely with him on this notion: the PHL were, to him, a waste of time. He had spent the weeks since the death of his grandmother looking up HLF propaganda, learning as much as he could about ponies and ponification. Any time he didn't spend researching the situation, he spent training: it had been a few years since his military service, and he was determined that should the need arise for him to take up arms, he would not fail the people of Britain as he had his grandmother.
The HLF were... interesting. The rational part of his mind told him that they didn't know, they didn't have a clue how to even start trying to do something about the Equestrian crisis itself, no plan for the Barrier. But rationality had left him: he was angry. He wanted nothing more than to kill the ponies. All of them. Make them bleed, make them suffer. When he visited HLF rallies and went on their websites, they might not have had all the answers... but they spoke to his rage better than anyone else. They told him that he wasn't alone, that his anger would find acceptance here, that he could do something. Hell, even the worst extremists, men like Viktor Kraber, were doing something, and something was better than nothing. The man had gone after twenty-six conversion bureaus for God's sake - if that wasn't doing something, what was?
Nonetheless, his father had insisted on the function, and Harry- by virtue of being one of the sons of the King - had to attend, no matter how personally affronted the whole thing made him feel.
"The world is under attack by pastel ponies and here we are at a function hosted by one," he said quietly to his brother, William. "It's enough to make you feel sick."
The heir to the throne, his thinning hair brushed into a combover, frowned at his younger brother. It was not a new argument - they had been having the same discussion for weeks. Where Harry was more and more involved with HLF propaganda and websites, William had thrown his full effort into the PHL.
"You should learn to be more open minded," William said quietly. "I've spoken with Miss Heartstrings - she seems genuinely devoted to the cause of unity between our two peoples."
"So did Celestia," Harry said dismissively. "But that bitch soon showed her true colours."
"Harry," William said in a warning tone.
"You're not going to say anything to convince me, Will," Harry said angrily, trying to keep his voice down. "I don't trust ponies. They come to our world spouting peace and friendship and then they stab us in the back!"
William sighed. "Not every pony is our enemy, Harry." He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. "We all miss Grandmother..."
"It isn't just about that!" Harry said hotly. "It's about not just blindly trusting these things just because they talk the talk, Will!"
"Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry," William said quietly. "She backs it up."
"Prove it," Harry snapped at William, leaning forward angrily. "You prove to me that these equine bastards aren't spies, or traitors, just waiting to stab us in the back or douse us with that purple shit!"
William didn't answer, but his eyes slowly drifted over Harry's shoulder, until they landed on something behind him. Harry turned, to find himself facing the turquoise form of Lyra Heartstrings herself, her eyes wide and a look of genuine sadness on her face. Next to her stood King Charles, looking mildly irritated, which was 'King Charles facial expression' code for absolutely furious.
"Ambassador," William said softly. "I apologise for my brother, he's..."
"Don't apologise for me," Harry said angrily. "I'm in my thirties, I can quite adequately speak for myself."
"And a great deal of it you have done," King Charles said, sounding almost annoyed - right, definitely furious then. "I think it's time you went back to your chambers, Harry -"
"No, Your Majesty," Lyra said quietly, interrupting the King. "It's alright. I think your son's question deserves an answer."
She stepped forward, looking Harry directly in the eye, before bowing. "Your Royal Highness. I'm honoured to meet you."
"Ambassador Heartstrings," Harry said formally, though he couldn't keep a slight glare from his face. "I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, given recent events between our two peoples..."
"I'm sorry," Lyra said quietly, interrupting him.
This took Harry quite by surprise, and he frowned in confusion.
"I beg your pardon?" he asked quietly.
"I said, I'm sorry," Lyra repeated. "About your Grandmother, and about the war."
"Ambassador Heartstrings, that's quite..." Charles began, giving his son the King Charles equivalent of a Death Glare (one Harry had become inordinately familiar with).
"No, it's necessary, Your Majesty," Lyra said angrily, talking over her shoulder. "Because it's as much the fault of ponies who didn't see as it is the fault of ponies who are fighting alongside Celestia's armies now. Every one of us who didn't spot the madness before it was too late is as culpable as the ones who are perpetuating it." Lyra looked Harry in the eyes. "If I had known sooner what was being planned - if I had guessed what Celestia might have done... there were clues, Your Highness, and I didn't do enough about them. I... I was so close to figuring it out, but I was too slow. And because of that, your grandmother, Prime Minister Rokubungi, guards and soldiers and hundreds of others... everyone who died because of the PER's attacks... everyone who died when Celestia made her address... all of them..."
She choked, tears in her eyes as she spoke. She coughed, before speaking again, her voice strengthening again."Every person who died... their blood is on my hooves, every bit as much as it is on Celestia and the PER's."
Harry, faced with such an honest self appraisal, was shocked into speechlessness. He gaped for a moment, trying to find the words to respond, but Lyra was apparently not done yet.
"I promise you, Your Highness," she said, speaking with more conviction than Harry had heard in a long time from anyone. "With every beat of my heart, with every breath in my body, I will fight to avenge those we have all lost, and save those who are left."
Harry, shocked by her honesty, could only stare, speechless.
Her spiel done, Lyra nodded her head slightly and wandered off. Charles threw Harry another mildly annoyed expression, and then he, too, walked off to mingle.
"I don't think I've seen her that upset for a while," William commented softly.
Harry said nothing, frowning slightly after the Ambassador. After a moment, he went to go get a drink. William left him to it.
***
He spent the next few hours of the fundraiser sat by himself, drinking brandy and trying his best to reconcile the HLF's propaganda with Lyra Heartstrings' obvious sincerity.
The HLF were already fractious when it came to her - some people, like Maxi Yarrow, tended to ignore PHL and state the real fight was the Empire, and that the PHL were at worst a nonentity and, at best, might prove useful… ish. Others thought that Lyra Heartstrings was no better than any other pony, that they were all the same.
Harry had, rationally speaking, never advocated for the total obliteration of ponies as some had - he defined himself as being loosely in the same camp as Yarrow, if less tolerant. And hearing her speak…
"Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry. She backs it up."
Wills had always been the more temperate of the two of them, but he was also smart. And Wills trusted her.
Maybe Harry could… begin to trust her. Maybe the PHL might prove to be something more than he had thought. Either way, they'd never be something unless they got help.
At the end of the fundraiser, he sought out Ambassador Heartstrings. She looked faintly morose, and he knew from that face that tonight must have been a disappointment for her. The PHL had a long way to go, still.
"Ambassador," he said as he approached her. She looked up.
"Your highness!" she said, sounding a bit surprised. "I wasn't expecting you to still be here."
"Father wouldn't have let me leave anyway," Harry said with a wry smile. "I wanted to have a word with you, if I may."
"Of course," the Ambassador said.
He paused, trying to think of a way to say this. After a moment, he crouched down until he was at eye level with her.
"Ambassador," he said quietly, "I've spent the last few months hating every pony I knew of on principle." He paused, trying to think of the best way to put this. "I think you might have just proved me wrong. Maybe… maybe more wrong than I've been in a long time, about some things, anyway. Let me ask you something: what does the PHL hope to do, assuming you get your funding?"
"Help humans and ponies work together to survive the war, and… stop the Barrier. Maybe even destroy it," Lyra said at once, as if it were a well rehearsed sentiment - though that didn't rob it of it's power or sincerity. Quite the opposite in fact.
"Destroy the Barrier," he mused. "Well. The HLF... I've done my research, and they have no idea what they're doing in that regard. They don't have the funding or the resources to make anything really special, and if they had funding, I think half of them would just spend it on more guns rather than anything useful. The other half might try to make something of it - but they're too fractious."
"It's a shame," Lyra said softly. "The HTF were a real force for good in this world."
"Perhaps. In any case - you have access to magic, so…" He paused. "Do you think there is a way to stop the Barrier?"
"I don't know, Your Highness," Lyra said honestly after a moment, "but I know I intend to find out."
"I see," Harry said quietly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a chequebook. He quickly signed off a number and handed it to Lyra, who stared at it for a moment in shock, her eyes widening in amazement.
"This..." she said, gaping slightly. "This is..."
"More than enough to truly begin funding your PHL," Harry finished for her. "I know, Ambassador Heartstrings. That happens to be most of the contents of my personal accounts. I get the feeling I won't need them soon."
"B-but-"
"Ambassador," Harry interrupted, "It's unlikely in the extreme that I'm the only one who thinks… thought... that way about your people, not after the PER's actions or Celestia's pronouncement. There's plenty of people in this world who won't be able to trust you, people that think that killing everything on four legs in sight is the right decision. I don't even think I blame them for that."
Lyra's face fell slightly.
"So," he continued. "You need to find a way to convince those people." He paused, smiling slightly. "To win their respect, to unite our world against this threat in the way you intend, you are going to need to do good. And it's an unfortunate thing in our society that if you want to do good… you need money."
Lyra nodded slowly. "Thank you, your highness."
"Don't thank me yet, Ambassador," he said grimly. "We've a long struggle ahead, and I get the feeling we're going to need everything we have to survive it. Or else..." Actually, he couldn't think of what would happen, but it was unlikely to be a good thing. "Or else we'll lose. Everything."
***
Windsor Great Park, October 12th, 2019.
King Charles III stood with his arms behind his back, looking out as men and ponies began drilling in the repurposed park. He had been quite happy to give the park to Lyra - Ambassador Heartstrings, he reminded himself: Lyra was a personal friend, but her professional duties came first. He hoped that - between the money she had been given by Harry and the land Charles himself had apportioned - she would be able to make something of her PHL.
"Excuse me, your majesty?" one of his guards said, and he turned his head slightly. "Someone's here to see you. He claims to be from the government."
"Ah," Charles said, nodding once. He knew who that probably was. "Right, send him through."
A few moments later, the man was led in: dressed in an impeccable suit, carrying an umbrella, with at least a half dozen more stress lines and wrinkles than what Charles remembered, and hair that was definitely greying (and receding). Charles' guard looked uncomfortable even standing next to the man.
"Thank you, Jones, that will be all," Charles said. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe."
"Yes your majesty," the guard said, nodding. He threw a final look at the suited man, and then walked off, clearly still not comfortable.
Charles smiled slightly, before turning to look back at the training ponies.
"Been keeping busy?" he asked idly.
"Unfortunately, I cannot say I have," the man replied wearily.
"No, I suppose none of us can," Charles said idly. "Still, one supposes one must keep the niceties up. It's the little things that matter."
The man said nothing, simply staring ahead in that scrutinizing gaze of his.
"I suppose," Charles continued, "that you wanted to speak to me about something important. You usually do."
"It concerns Miss Heartstrings, your majesty," he replied simply. "It strikes me as unusual that Prince Harry would personally fund her… organization and for you to provide, ah, 'training grounds', for her needs."
"Unusual?" Charles said, turning to face the man. "Perhaps." He gave an oddly feral grin for the otherwise reserved monarch. "But there is such a thing as 'revenge'. If the PHL can give us an edge against Celestia, and I believe they can, then I intend to give Miss Heartstrings everything I can short of my still-beating heart, and maybe even that if I have to."
Unexpectedly however, the man gave a lighthearted, uncharacteristic chuckle.
"Perhaps I should have rephrased that, my apologies," he quickly said. "I simply found Prince Harry's newfound respect for Miss Heartstrings rather… abrupt, to say the least."
"Ah. Well, Harry's a hothead," Charles said, smiling. "He wants to do something, and when he makes his mind up little can sway him. I hear he's still been talking to some HLF as well - certain individuals who advocate aggressive action. In this case, however, I believe Miss Heartstrings does have one advantage."
"And that is?" the man enquired, folding his arms - Charles chuckled. For a man who was as intelligent as he was, his suited acquaintance could be very clueless sometimes.
"Absolute sincerity," Charles said simply. "She believes what she says. Anything less wouldn't have convinced my mother, nor myself, and certainly not Harry, not after what he's been through." He turned back to watching the training PHL volunteers. "Sincerity is something we need more of in the days to come."
"Of course," the man nodded, if a bit unsure. "The Empire has, begrudgingly, proven that is indeed the case, your majesty. Which brings us back to Miss Heartstrings - is she, by any chance, available?"
"As to that, I couldn't say," Charles said. "But I'm certain I could arrange for her to be in the near future. I am funding her, after all. I take it you wish to discuss something with her?"
"Rather, she wished to discuss a proposal with myself a few months past, before -" the man took a heavy sigh "- the NATO debacle, as the papers gleefully described it. Regrettably, certain events and circumstances have prevented myself from fulfilling my end of the deal; I'm here to simply clear some unpaid debts with Miss Heartstrings."
The man's tone made it clear he was in no mood to negotiate.
"I will be awaiting her in the car, your highness. Good afternoon," the man turned to leave.
"Before you go," Charles said, and the man paused. "I have no issue arranging the meeting with Ambassador Heartstrings, provided you agree to perform one small, shall we say, favour for me."
The man raised an eyebrow in brief contemplation, before letting out a reluctant sigh.
"Very well - I suppose there is no harm done from a simple favour."
"I hope you believe so once I am done," Charles said quietly. "I will speak plainly - I don't expect to survive this conflict."
The suited man raised an eyebrow.
"...that is a reasonable expectation, all things considered," he finally said. "Carry on."
"I won't be able to stop my sons from doing whatever they see fit," Charles said. "That is their business, after all. And should I die… well, then there's very little I could do to stop them doing anything, unless perhaps the afterlife is more forgiving than I had imagined. But given your, shall we say, considerable influence… I would be grateful if you could 'keep an eye' on them, with all that entails, please."
The man cast his cold gaze on Charles, eyeing him with scrutiny. But finally, he relented.
"Certain things can be arranged for that matter, your majesty," he said, frowning slightly. "Prince Harry, as I recall, had certain… intentions in this debacle. A career in the special forces is not too far fetched for the Prince, I believe. The failure of Captain Griffin's detachment in recent memory is perhaps a deterrent for now, but the young Prince's, ah, 'hothead' personality, as you put it, would prevail eventually."
Charles nodded, and for a moment there was a pregnant silence. The suited man raised his eyebrow again expectantly.
"There is one other thing," Charles finally added, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. "In the event I die or… well, in the event I die, given that the alternative isn't really an 'alternative' so much as a matter of semantics… I'd like you to see to it that this is delivered to William or Harry - whichever of them is made King, and God-willing William survives to become King - or indeed anything, so long as it's human."
He handed over the envelope, with the man readily accepting it silently. In spite of the curiosity flashing by in his eyes, Charles knew the man would not open it without his strict permission.
"I will leave the matter in your no-doubt capable hands," Charles said simply, inclining his head slightly. "After all, recent… slippages aside, you are still one of the more capable individuals to arrange such matters as required."
"Likewise, your majesty," the man nodded respectfully. "I will do whatever is still within my jurisdiction, I can assure you."
"That's all any of us can do, really," Charles said softly. He bowed his head. "These are dark days, and they will get darker still, I know that much. We can but hope we can survive them."
The man nodded, before returning to his awaiting car. He had a slightly more upbeat rhythm to his walk - to Charles' inward amusement.
"I say, Jones," he said to his bodyguard, who had walked back up to him. "Please fetch Ambassador Heartstrings here for me - I believe she has an appointment with a man with an umbrella."
"Um… yes, your majesty," Jones replied, before heading off. Charles watched him go, before briefly glancing back at the waiting car. He turned back to the training grounds, his mind racing with curiosity.
"King Charles?" a familiar voice asked a few minutes later. Charles turned to see the familiar form of Ambassador Heartstrings arriving. He smiled.
"Ambassador," he said warmly. "Good to see you - I trust everything is going well?"
"More than well, really," Lyra said with a smile. "But I believe you wanted to see me for some reason?"
"I did," Charles said. "A… mutual acquaintance is waiting in that car over there to speak with you. A matter of some importance I shouldn't wonder."
"Mutual acquaintance?" Lyra repeated.
"I believe you'll know the chap when you see him," Charles said. "Well dressed, slightly balding. Carries an umbrella. Naming no names, of course - he doesn't like that, after all."
Lyra's eyes widened, her knees trembling in realization. "Oh. Oh, I see. If you'll excuse me, your majesty."
She headed off for the car at once, rushing off in through the opened door. Within a few moments, the suited man's assistant closed the door before taking her seat inside, and the car drove off.
Charles turned away from the departed car and went back to looking at the training ponies. He decided that he was glad that he didn't know the suited gentleman's relationship with Ambassador Heartstrings, and he didn't care to enquire all that much into it. He simply found himself grateful that - for now - he could ask favours that might… just might... keep his family safe.
It was all one could really do in these times, any more.
Editors: Doctor Fluffy, Sledge115, DarthSonic66, LordTurbo, redskin122004.
***
"You'll thank me when this is over." Genevieve Aristide, F.E.A.R 2: Project Origin.
"Here's forty shillings on the drum To those who volunteer to come, To 'list and fight the foe today Over the Hills and far away." John Tams, Over The Hills And Far Away.
***
New York, USA. April 4th, 2020.
In an office, there sat a pale but hearty looking man in his late forties, slightly gone to seed but seemingly mostly as strong and combat-built as he would have been in his youth. His smart uniform was black, with a white patch on his jacket, the letters F.E.A.R printed on it in small letters, underneath which was the name H. Munro.
The room was sparsely decorated; other than a picture of a young man and the older man himself, there were no personal effects to speak of. He had a pistol secured under his desk - several of his colleagues (and indeed many of the FEAR organisation's best soldiers and coordinators) had met unfortunate ends recently thanks to the recent spate of PER attacks (or thanks to nearby soldiers who had been more than happy to finish what the PER started), and he was in no mood to join them any time soon. The organisation had managed to survive the attacks of course - they were luckier than some, and they had of course been preparing for some sort of attack, but that didn't mean that the attacks they'd suffered hadn't left them with a lot of gaps to fill in the organisation.
H. Munro himself was tapping one finger against the desk impatiently. Today, he had an appointment: supposedly a very important appointment, if the message (from some Senator or another) arranging it was anything to go by. Still, he was willing to listen - he could promise nothing more.
A moment later, there was a soft knock on his door.
"Enter," he called out.
The door opened, and an older woman - fifty or sixty, maybe a little older - stepped into the room. Her hair was cut in a harsh bob, and she was power dressed to obliterate, much less kill. In her hand she carried a smart - and likely very expensive - briefcase. Her lean frame spoke of determination and a sort of cutting edge, like a particularly over-sharpened pencil - the kind that you'd jam in someone's eye in a pinch, and she certainly looked like she'd be willing to do that if you pushed her.
"Colonel Munro, I presume," she said with a shark smile.
"Genevieve Aristide," he replied, inclining his head. "Rare for a lowly officer like myself to get a visit from the President of Armacham Technology Corp herself."
"I dare say it is 'lowly officers' that will be deciding our immediate futures, Colonel Munro," Aristide commented drily. She moved closer to the desk. "May I sit?"
"By all means," Munro said. "I'm eager to hear what you have to say."
"Not yet you aren't," Aristide said with a smirk. "But you will be."
That was intriguing, and Munro didn't mind admitting it. He raised an eyebrow at her, a slight smirk gracing his features.
"I know you guys have been working overtime on weapons contracts," he said softly, bringing out a file from his desk. "From what I hear, you've even been working on some PHL weapon contracts for Miss Heartstrings - the ATC Hammerhoof, for example: I heard it's supposed to blow the P2 series out of the water."
Aristide took her seat, before laying the briefcase on the desk and opening it. "Quite."
"You guys worked the issues out yet?" he asked.
"Not quite," she admitted through slightly gritted teeth.
"Ah well," Munro said, smirking. "I guess you'll figure it out soon enough - you guys have a lot of contracts on still."
"You're right about all that," she said, smiling coldly. "But I didn't come here to talk to you about regular weapons contracts, Colonel. I'm here about something far more special."
She took out a single file from her briefcase and passed him it. Frowning, he looked over the front page, upon which two words were emblazoned in bold writing.
Project Perseus.
"I'd heard about this," he said quietly. "Your little 'clone soldier' project."
"Not so little anymore," she said with a wry smirk. "We've dozens of Replica battalions in progress. We're confident that they'll be ready for en masse deployment within the next few months - purely at the discretion of the UN, of course."
He glanced up at her. "What's the play?"
"You've seen Newfoals," Aristide said. "They're a surprisingly effective weapon." She smirked. "The demoralisation factor of their biological components and creation are almost as effective a weapon as the actual resultant soldiers themselves. Some might say more so."
To hear her talk, you wouldn't think that she was talking about people - maybe she was the sort of person who saw people as meat products to be utilised and discarded accordingly. Munro had met the type before. In that respect, she might have been either the best person to be thinking about weapons for this war, or the worst.
"And you think Perseus is the UN's answer to that," he said, nodding.
"Of course it is. Think about it," Aristide said cuttingly. "The Replica forces are expendable - if expensive - troops, with no families and no connections. They can be flash trained and they're impervious to fear, negating the first advantage of the Newfoals. Their combat armour is airtight, acting as a defence against potion bombing, and even if you managed to ponify one somehow, the thing would automatically self-sever from the command network and be essentially lobotomised - making it useless for the Empire as anything more than a large, fleshy, pony-shaped paperweight, and thus negating the second advantage of the Newfoals."
"Sounds like you have a compelling case there, Ms Aristide," Munro said with a raised eyebrow. "So why are you talking to me, when this is the sort of thing you should be taking to the UN security council?"
Aristide shifted uncomfortably. "Perseus was originally mandated at the request of the Department of Defense, and was under their auspices. That mandate… has since been revoked by order of President Davis. He's ordered the project terminated, and we've officially been forced to oblige."
Munro frowned. "Then why are we still discussing it?"
"Certain parties that I am in contact with have deemed President Davis the best man to lead us through these troubled times," Aristide replied grimly, "or he would have ceased to be an obstacle in this matter."
Munro paled. She was talking treason. Very high level treason. And since this was during wartime…. he shuddered. He didn't want to think about that. These were trying times, and he was stressed enough without this shit.
"That is… a very frank admission, Ms Aristide," he said quietly.
"We are living in dangerous days, Colonel Munro," Aristide replied simply. "All options must be thoroughly examined and considered, even those we might consider… distasteful."
"I'd call high treason high treason more than 'distasteful'," Munro said.
"And what if Davis was a weak leader? Or we had a hardliner HLF officer or PER lackey in power?" Aristide asked, sounding irritated with this line of conversation.
"But we don't," Munro pointed out.
"Which is why he remains," Aristide said, holding up a hand to forestall further conversation. "In any case - Davis' resolve has convinced those certain parties that he needs to stay. But that does not mean those parties agree with every decision he makes." She leaned forward slightly. "FEAR was incorporated to deal with the problem of paranormal activity - rogue psionics, ESP phenomena… in a way, your group may have the most experience outside of the PHL in the kind of fights we're about to engage in. You're also used to remaining... confidential about your work."
Munro had to admit, she had a point there.
"So, what?" he asked, choosing to not comment. "We just go against the orders of the CinC?"
"Yes," Aristide said. "Are there any issues with that?"
Munro sighed, before taking out two glasses and a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass, then Aristide one, and then he raised his glass in a toast.
"Just making sure we're clear that this is a bad idea," he said simply. "So, Ms Aristide. How shall we start?"
Aristide grinned. "There are certain international parties I'm going to contact concerning the Replica program. They should be most interested in the Perseus program and the potential it has. As for right now, I suggest we begin planning the next step." She downed her drink. "We have a lot to do."
***
M62, Junction 32. May 15th, 2020.
"Drive! Drive!"
The gunner on the turret yelled again, louder that time, before once again bringing his 50cal to bear on the oncoming Pegasi chasing after the APC. The weapon barked, blasting Pegasi from the sky in spurts of blood and gore. The armoured vehicle jolted slightly as it drove, jostling its occupants.
The pale grey Unicorn mare was the only pony in the little jeep, and she was acutely aware of all the eyes of the other survivors focusing on her. She couldn't blame them really - this was the end of their lives as they had known them, and it came at the hooves of ponies, at the behest of the mare known to some almost as a deity. How could they not blame her, even unconsciously?
Nonetheless, her PHL papers had gotten her access to this transport - the last jeep leaving the North of England. It was full of people who had seen too much. She saw a redheaded man, his blonde wife and their little girl huddled in one corner, a pair of grim looking soldiers sat by the entranceway…
Then suddenly there was a scream from above them. The mare looked up to see the turret operator slumped by his gun, a spear through his chest. The jeep came to a stop.
"Shit," the driver muttered. "PER roadblock, too many to drive past."
"Crap," one of the soldiers muttered. "Masks on, John."
The other soldier, a dark haired man, pulled a gas mask over his face as his compatriot did the same. Neither of them looked like they wanted to go out there, but they didn't have much choice.
"Come out!" a PER man yelled. "There's no getting past us!"
The mare glanced at the soldiers, who looked back at her. She looked back at the family. The red haired father was gripping his wife's hand tightly, a grim look on his face. His daughter was looking at her with a slight smile on her face.
"Pony!" she said with a happy grin. The man smiled, almost as though he couldn't help it.
"Yes dear, she's a pony," he said, sounding as though he was doing his best to not panic.
The little girl stood up, and the man reached out, but before he could stop her, she had tottered off to the mare, stopping right in front of her. The mare, almost despite herself, smiled at the little girl. She was blonde, her hair curly, falling down past her ears. Her green eyes were wide and bright, and when she smiled she showed two big front teeth.
"You're a pony!" she said, surprisingly eloquently. Her smile dropped as she suddenly became thoughtful. "Daddy says ponies aren't all bad, but a lot of them are. Are you a bad pony?"
"Ellie, come back…" the man hissed.
The mare found herself blinking back tears. Was she a bad pony? Here she was, hiding and huddling amongst these civilians. She had never been a fighter - but dammit, she was PHL!
"I… I'd like to hope not," she said softly.
"Oh," the little girl said. She smiled again. "Daddy says that the bad ponies want to hurt us, but you're a good pony, so you won't, will you?"
"No," the mare said at once. "Never. I promise you that."
"Will you pro… pro… keep us safe from the bad ones?" the girl asked, stumbling over the word 'protect'. The mare steeled herself, a tear leaking out of her eye.
"Yes," she said simply. "Yes I will."
She turned at once, looking to the two armed men.
"I'm going to go out first," she said softly. "They'll hesitate with me - maybe only for a moment, but they will. I'll yell 'now', and you two come out and lay down suppressing fire. That clear?"
"Uh…" the first soldier said softly. "I think so. John?"
The one called 'John' nodded, hefting his L85. The first soldier moved his hand to the door control. A moment later, the door to the APC opened, and out she stepped, before looping round to walk to the front of the vehicle.
She could see a half dozen Pegasi, most likely the group who had been chasing the APC. They were standing around a pair of hijacked military jeeps, one of which had the words 'Celestia Eternal!' spray painted on the front. Five men with various weapons in hand aimed at her.
"Hold your fire!" she yelled. "I've come to parley!"
"There are people in there that need to be potioned!" one of the men called. "The Barrier's only thirty miles north of us now!"
"I know that," the mare said.
"Then why haven't you… wait," the PER member said, frowning. "That's a PHL badge -"
"Now!" the mare bellowed suddenly, her horn glowing.
And with a cry, the two soldiers came out from behind the APC, ducking out to lay down a suppressing fire.
"Shut the door!" one of them - 'John', the mare thought - bellowed. The other soldier ducked behind the APC.
That should give them some time, at least, she thought, her horn lighting up as she sent a concussive spell at the Pegasi. Luck must have been with her (or her target must have been an absolutely moronic Newfoal), because she obliterated one Pegasus where she stood, bits of the mare's blood splattering all over her compatriots. Some purple liquid splashed outward too, hitting one PER member who started screeching in agony - clearly the Pegasus had been carrying a potion-bandolier.
The PER members fired back, but their aim was poor, most of the small arms fire just bouncing off the armoured vehicle. Nonetheless, the mare was forced to run for cover as the guns were turned on her.
Suddenly, one of the jeeps exploded in a fiery conflagration, the remains showering over the remaining jeep. The PER in the jeep tried to bring their turret around, but another missile lanced out and blasted the rear of the jeep to smouldering wreckage. The remaining PER and Pegasi found themselves suddenly blasted apart by a hail of small arms fire.
The mare blinked through the smoke of the burning vehicles, to see - of all things - a tank, sitting on the road, aiming right at the ruined jeeps. Next to it was a jeep, and further along the road she could see more. A man jumped off one jeep and seemed to be yelling orders to other men, and a few moments later he and a half dozen others were approaching the dead PER and their destroyed transports.
The man was old - he had greying hair and a beard, and he wore a battered leather trenchcoat over thin and flexible body armour. In his hands he held a shotgun, and hung from his belt was a combat knife. As he approached the mare, she noted that he had a small armband on, an armband shared by most of the group he was with.
HLF.
She tensed, trying not to feel suddenly afraid. She could see the leader narrow his eyes at her, approaching her even as his men headed off to check the PER were all dead. When he reached her, he looked her over as though daring her to speak.
"PHL," he finally said, speaking somewhat gruffly, his accent unfamiliar - like some sort of bastardised mix of West Country and Irish.
"Y-yes," she replied shakily, trying to force her voice not to break. "I am."
"Huh," he said, spitting thoughtfully. "Run along, runaway. Get in your jeep and head for your evac point."
"W-why aren't you…?" she began.
"Attacking you?" he cut her off, scowling at her. "You ain't my problem, little runaway. The Empire is, and the PER is. You're just a bystander. Now get your arse gone before I change my mind."
She turned and raced back for the APC before he changed his mind, the two soldiers already inside and waiting for her.
A moment later, the armoured vehicle was once more racing down the road, passing the HLF convoy as it went. The mare couldn't see - there weren't any windows - but she could feel the APC weaving between different vehicles. There must have been quite a few…
She found herself wondering just who she had just encountered - HLF were usually not so picky about their targets as all that. Indeed, usually they were fine just attacking anypony they met. At the end. Of the day though, she had no desire to question providence.
"Excuse me," a soft voice said. She looked up, to see the mother of little Ellie staring at her. "I just wanted to say… I think you were very brave."
"Thank you," the mare said with a smile.
"What's your name?" the redheaded father asked.
"Chalcedony," the mare replied, still shaken. "My name's Chalcedony."
***
HMS Queen Elizabeth. May 30th, 2020.
On reflection, Prince Harry had been more right than he had known in his prediction to Lyra Heartstrings about his accounts.
In the aftermath of the fall of Britain, he found himself standing on the deck of the HMS Queen Elizabeth (bittersweet humour reached him at that thought), an Aircraft Carrier that had been, along with her sister ship the Prince of Wales (technically, possibly him now), had been rushed into service at the outset of the crisis. Next to him stood William, now - thanks to the death ('think of it as death: the truth isn't so clean, but everything they are is dead') of their father and his wife - the King of Britain. Somewhere else on this boat, Lyra Heartstrings and her bodyguard Marcus Renee were speaking to survivors, Lyra trying to comfort ponies and humans alike.
William didn't say anything for the longest while, merely standing next to his brother, looking out at the slowly shrinking sight of their home with turbulent, stormy eyes. Finally, Harry spoke, seeking to break the tense silence.
"The King is dead," he said, speaking as quietly and respectfully as he could. "Long live the King."
William was silent for a long moment, clearly thinking about... something. Harry didn't want to push the issue.
"I don't think I'm quite ready to be a King," William finally replied after a long pause, not looking at Harry.
"I know, Wills," Harry said, giving his brother a sidelong glance, before looking back out. "If it helps, I don't think father was ready either, but he still did what was necessary."
"And now, he and Camilla are as good as dead," William said sharply, his voice cracking slightly. "Along with Britain itself."
"Wills," Harry said quietly, but his brother had already stormed off. Harry sighed, returning his gaze to the sea.
"It hit him hard," a voice said quietly. Harry turned, to see Marcus Renee, Lyra's Marine friend and guard, standing near him. The Marine was a passing acquaintance of Harry's from his work guarding Lyra, though Harry understood William knew him a tad better. "The whole thing. I don't think he was quite prepared for it."
"It hit us all hard, Mr Renee," Harry replied quietly, turning back to the sea. "My brother is a strong man, and more importantly he's the King. He'll do what's needed of him."
There was a pause as the two looked back out at the sea.
"He held one of the Newfoals… one of the ones that used to be a Royal Marine… in his arms as the thing died," Renee said quietly, sounding oddly moved. "It... it's strange. He didn't care that the thing would kill him or ponify him as soon as look at him. It was one of his subjects, all the same, and he cared. I don't think I expected that."
"Royalty isn't about being above our subjects," Harry said, thinking back to lessons his grandmother and father had taught him with a slight, morose smile. "It is about serving them. It is a service we are born to, but we bear it all the same, with grace and dignity. That's what my father and grandmother always taught us, and that's what I live by."
There was a brief pause as Harry let this sink in.
"I'm sorry about your father," Renee continued after a moment. "My brother... Jacob... he went the same way."
"My condolences," Harry said quietly. He threw a sidelong glance at the American. "It's the worst kind of loss, isn't it?"
"If by that you mean the bastards mind-fucked our family, practically killing all they were, but didn't give them the decency of actually dying or us the closure of actually burying them," the man said, a hint of bitterness running through his tone, "then yeah. It is."
"Again, my condolences," Harry said, looking back to the sea. "We can only fight to honour their memories."
"Well, your brother certainly looks angry enough to," Renee said, turning to see where the King had gone.
"As do you," Harry added, giving the soldier a sidelong glance.
"What about you?" Renee asked quietly. "There's a lot to still do, Your Highness. What's your plan?"
"I know there's a lot to do," Harry said, glancing at the tough American soldier briefly. "But my intention is rather simple, Mr Renee." He clenched a fist, before returning his gaze to the sea. "I told you we served our people. I'll serve now. I'm a soldier of the British army. I've fought before, and in honour of everything my family has lost, I'll fight again."
He saw the grin forming on the American's face, "Well then, Your Highness. We'd better be sure you're well equipped."
"Yes, you had better be sure," Harry said with a chuckle. "I'm still one of the PHL's shareholders."
***
Elsewhere on the deck of the HMS Illustrious, clad in a military uniform with two stripes on his upper arm, David Elliot was sat staring out to sea. He watched the purple glow on the horizon disappear slowly as the aircraft carrier he was on slowly make its way away from the monstrous thing. Everything he had ever known - his family, his home town, the graves of his beloved grandparents… all of it was gone forever.
He didn't know how to feel. He didn't know what to think. His life… it was gone. All of it. Everything.
He sat down slowly, feeling numb. He had been running on adrenaline for days - he and his friend Sam, fighting the whole way and trying to save as many civilians as they could, had made it to the Illustrious with only a few hours to spare. A few hours later, no less a personage than Prince William himself (now King, if the reports of King Charles' ponification had any veracity) had been aboard, seen talking with a US Marine and with his brother, Prince Harry.
It seemed so surreal to Elliot, as he looked across the sea - Britain was nothing, now. A collection of nothing, a diaspora of the lost.
Elliot sighed, still staring out there. He had joined the army in hopes of stopping this sort of thing from happening - but it hadn't, had it? It hadn't made the slightest bit of difference, any more than it would make the slightest bit of difference if he just jumped off of this bloody big boat, into the briney, and let the waves swallow him up.
He wouldn't be the first. He probably wouldn't be the last. He had even seen one or two people throw themselves off, too far away to stop them - they were so distraught that they'd happily die rather than face living on in a world of such uncertainty, or worse - being at risk of becoming a mindless puppet.
He'd have felt like a hypocrite to try and stop them, really, since he was thinking of doing the exact same thing.
"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice asked. Elliot looked up, to see the smiling face of a redheaded man. He wore a t-shirt and hoodie underneath a long tweed coat, and he tossed a coin at David, who caught it. It was an old Queen Elizabeth two pence piece - there had been so little time after the death of Queen Elizabeth that very little money with King Charles' visage had been printed. Elliot smiled slightly, pocketing the coin.
"Just thinking about being part of a diaspora," he said honestly. "It's… odd."
"That's true," the other man said, sitting next to him, sighing. "Still - you're alive. You might get to go home again, one day."
"To what?" Elliot asked with a raised eyebrow, gesturing at the Barrier. "There's nothing left behind that."
"Maybe not," the redhead said with a sigh. "But as a great man once said, 'as long as one person from that isle still breathes, the core of our nation - it's ideals, it's history - remains, no matter what happened to the rocks and the soil.'"
"Who the hell said that?" Elliot asked, frowning.
"Hm?" the man replied. "Oh - King William. Er… in about two years." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm a little earlier than I thought."
"Are you some kind of crazy person?" Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
"Probably," the man said with a grin. He held out his hand. "You can call me Dr. Bowman."
Elliot shook his hand, smirking slightly despite himself. "David Elliot."
"A pleasure to have known you, in any time, David Elliot," Bowman said with a smile. He straightened slightly, looking vaguely morose as he did so. "Now, time I was off, I think."
"Off?" Elliot repeated. "Off where?"
"Oh, around," Bowman said airily, waving a hand. "I won't be seeing you again, but, and here's a little bit of a spoiler warning for you… you'll be seeing me."
With that, he stood up and stalked off, leaving Elliot alone to ponder what that particular conversation might have been about. He dismissed it after a moment - he wasn't in the mood for weirdos.
He turned to look back at the Barrier in the distance, and he sighed softly to himself.
"As long as one of us still breathes, huh," he murmured. "Well, I'm still here for now. That's something."
"Dave!" a voice called. Elliot turned to see his friend Sam approaching - a green male Unicorn pony behind him. Elliot frowned slightly - he wasn't one of those HLF nutjobs, but he didn't exactly like ponies, especially after today.
"What's up, Sam?" he asked, his eyes flickering over to the pony every so often.
Sam - a blonde-haired man with a grin on his face. "Apparently we're getting our marching orders."
"Our marching orders?" Elliot repeated. "They do know that the British Isles just got wiped the fuck off the map, right?"
"Yep," Sam said with an odd, slightly manic grin. "But the good news is, we're still in the fight. And even better - they're giving us the chance to go give the bastards responsible some payback."
Elliot thought about that for a moment, then stood up, stretching slightly.
"Alright, I'm game," he said. He looked down at the pony. "Sorry, who are…?"
"Oh, sorry," the pony said with a slight smile. He was wiry and muscular, with scars on one cheek and a battered kite-shield for a cutie mark. "True Grit - PHL pony, and officially part of your team, Corporal."
He saluted, and Elliot saluted back, before registering what the pony had said.
"Wait a minute," he said, holding up a hand. "You wanna run that one by me again?"
"They will not force us, They will stop degrading us, They will not control us, We will be victorious." Muse, Uprising.
***
Stanley, Falklands Islands. June 7th, 2020.
King William reread the note in his hand with a slight tear developing in his eye.
The envelope had reached him at the temporary base of UK Armed Forces operations, delivered by a slightly disheveled looking woman "on behalf of an important official in the British Government", which had certainly caught William's attention. When William had opened it, a smaller note had been attached to another envelope by a single paperclip.
Your father instructed myself to hand over the contents of this envelope to you, in the event of your coronation and his premature abdication or demise. I apologize for the inability to deliver this personally. - MH
William didn't quite know who "MH" was - though he had some ideas, based on a few conversations he had overheard over the years - but "MH"'s identity was nothing compared to the actual letter itself. He had read it with shaking hands, and then again, more composed, trying his best to comprehend what the letter was saying, to feel every word resonate as he knew it should.
"Your majesty?" an aid's voice said quietly. He looked up, to see the aid, a young blonde man, motioning him out into the press conference room that had been hastily arranged. He smiled, not moving.
"Tell me something, Daniel," he asked softly. "Do you believe those we've lost stay with us, somehow?"
The aid, Daniel, blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "I… wouldn't know, your majesty."
"It was a rhetorical question, Daniel," William said with a kind smile. "No one has an answer really, I expect."
"If you say so sir," Daniel said softly, still looking confused. God bless the aids - they were never prepared for a philosophical chat. "They're ready for you now."
William nodded once. "I'll be out in a moment."
Daniel left, and William briefly looked himself in the mirror. His suit was a little dishevelled itself - understandable really. He'd left a lot of worldly possessions behind… and a lot more than worldly possessions. Still, he's managed to escape with his life, and his wife and children were safe.
He sighed, straightened his tie, and then changed his mind and took it off, leaving his shirt unbuttoned. He smiled slightly. He didn't look like anyone's idea of a king now.
"Right then," he said.
He turned and walked out of the room, onto the stage where everyone - and more than a few ponies - were waiting. He didn't recognise any of the people or ponies in the audience, and he found himself wishing that Lyra or Harry were here. Either of them would be able to support him. He also found himself wishing that Kate was here as well, but his beloved wife and family had been moved to a secure location in Canada for the time being, and would be going to Australia - projected to be one of the last places to fall - soon enough.
"People of Britain and the Commonwealth," he said softly. "Thank you for attending. I realise that this is not a time for celebration, nor is it a time to embellish necessities with needless ceremony, which is why I have forgone a more extravagant coronation in favour of a small ceremony that the assembled press will be attending later today." He paused. "I have words here to say to you, words written by my father for precisely this eventuality. I believe they will speak most adequately for this moment - and I believe in this time, he deserves for them to be heard."
He opened the letter, glanced down at the writing and the signature that he knew he would never see again, and he began to speak.
***
PHL Compound, Secure Location.
Far away from the Falklands, Lyra Heartstrings had turned the radio on to listen to King William's inaugural address. It was with mixed feelings that she listened - she would have wanted to be there, but her work prevented her. Ideally of course, she would have preferred it if Charles had survived. She knew he would have faced these days with poise, dignity and courage.
Then again, William was facing it the exact same way, so that was something, she supposed.
She steeled herself. She could mourn her lost friends… already so many… another time. Right now, she needed to be strong. She sat back and closed her eyes as what were effectively the last words of King Charles III began drifting from the radio.
"To the people of Britain, whom, if this letter is being read, I have left behind, I give my sincerest thanks for your acceptance as monarch and your support during what may have been the most trying time of our country's long existence.
"I will not shun the truth, not hide it from the people of Britain. These are dark days, and they will only get darker still."
It had felt like a good time to start working on her journal again. It sat, unfinished, lying on a nearby table. She'd been a little bit stuck on the last entry from July 6th:
"I don't… Am I angry? Sad? Betrayed? I don't even know how to feel. I'm in shock. It's like everything good's gone, and the rest's been turned upside down. And now, the portal… It's expanding. CERN is gone, and most of the people on the campus are dead. There's riots all over Switzerland, that crazy bastard Viktor Kraber blew up the Graz Conversion Bureau and the Ganz Conversion Bureau, and the world's just falling apart.
Guess this is how the world ends. Ponies like me and the PHL are the closest, and humans are gonna run scared. We're gonna get hurt, and people like Kraber are gonna do a lot of the hurting. I'm scared, more than I've ever been, even more than I was when the Crystal Empire's siege golems invaded Manehattan. I think I'll be alright - I've got a bodyguard - a big, stocky human marine. He used to be an embassy guard in Seems like he has a marefriend… While he had every reason to kill her, he didn't. He's a good soldier, but he's a kind man too"
It was almost too much for her. The pressure was mounting, but she knew she couldn't - wouldn't - back down.
I have to do this, she thought. Backing down, giving up - that wasn't even on the level of an abstract concept.
After all, if she didn't find a way to end this war, if she didn't succeed in ending the threat Celestia now posed… no one would.
***
Somewhere in Southern Israel...
"The world is changing. And change, as anyone knows, is painful, especially when that change leads us through so much heartache and sorrow.
"It would be easy in such times to give in to fear, to surrender hope and to embrace despair. Despair is a comfort in some ways - it gives us the space to do things we know are wrong, because there is no tomorrow, and thus there are no consequences for today."
The ponies, all part of Queen Celestia's Solar Empire, fled across the desert, towards towns to use for more converts or maybe just for refuge. A tall, lanky man on a motorcycle followed.
The lanky man had been reduced to two impulses. Maybe three.
Kill. Survive. Revenge.
Though something seemed to awaken in him as he listened to this inaugural speech over the radio. God only knew how he was hearing it out here.
There wasn't anything the lanky man was wearing that wasn't stolen or scavenged. His Galil and FAL had been taken from a poor ponified kontgesig who was now rotting in the desert with a bullethole in his head, his shotgun the same. His clothes had been stolen from the dead. His .45 pistol had been scavenged from a dead man. His beaten-up touring motorcycle belonged to a survivor who'd been ponified, and lay on the ground on a highway, dead. Suicide had been preferable to being little more than a fokkin zombie.
And maybe, just maybe, this poor dusty scrap of a life.
He carried a bag of sparse remnants of his previous life. He was the last of the HLF unit there, and he was reasonably sure he'd pissed off most of the IDF. Apparently, someone had been well and truly woedend at him for shooting that purple-pink pegasus. Bliksem, he'd missed the wings!
He listened to the radio quizzically. Seriously, how the fok am I hearing this out here?
Viktor Kraber continued on, heading further south, toward the gunfire. He'd heard a rumor that Pinkie Pie would be around there, that she'd left France by now, but he doubted it.
Things usually didn't seem to go right for him.
***
Paused PER Convoy, Somewhere in Poland.
"I cannot say whether there will be a tomorrow. For me, if you are hearing this, I know my tomorrow's are no more, save perhaps - I fear, though I pray I am spared this - as a puppet of the Tyrant who threatens our world. But I will not despair, even though I know my end may be near - the end of my tomorrow is not the end of yours."
"Aw, isn't that sweet?"
Jacob Levy threw the other man a scowl. Levy was a cropped-haired man, lean and muscular, with hard eyes. He wore a simple Kevlar vest over a tank top, with hard wearing combat pants and boots. He had a pistol in a holster on one side, and a combat knife in a sheath on the other.
"I mean," the other man continued, "listen to that - that's grade A bittersweet bull there. Brings a tear to the old eyes - of amusement, in my case, but still."
The other man was quite a different figure to Levy. He wore a dusty blue suit over a white shirt unbuttoned halfway down, exposing a pale chest with a scar diagonally across, coming down from right to left. He had green eyes and hair that he'd bleached blonde, and he was smiling, almost chuckling.
"Have some respect," Levy said with a growl.
"Respect?" the other man said, his eyebrows twisting into a frown, the ends of his mouth quirking into a quizzical smile.
"He's delivering a eulogy," Levy pointed out, scowling. "You can at least be silent for it."
"Aw, come on," the other man said, chuckling sadistically. "You know as well as I do that Charley's not dead: right now, he's probably prancing around praising Queenie and living it up in Equestria, a permanent grin on his face."
Levy restrained the urge to punch the other man.
"Can't you take anything seriously?" he asked.
"In case you hadn't noticed, buckaroo," the other man said with a slight, malicious snigger, "you and I are fighting in a war of pastel toy horses vs humankind, and - real newsflash for you, here - we're on the horsey side of the spectrum. Heck, half a dozen of our guys have potioned themselves in the last week. This ain't a serious situation, not in the least, so forgive me for trying to see the amusing side." He paused, giving Levy a quizzical look. "What's got your goat, anyhow? You're about twenty percent dour-er than you usually are."
Levy sighed morosely. "My home's gone. Tends to bring you down."
The other man scoffed. "And you helped make it gone, pal, only a year after helping plan the most audacious bit of high treason I ever did see."
"I know I helped end my home," Levy said with a scowl. "That doesn't mean I won't miss it. I grew up there - everything I am comes from what I experienced, good and bad." He paused, then smiled mirthlessly. "And you're the one who murdered almost the entire House of Commons. Was there any real reason to kill them all?"
"Yeah, I was sparing 'em from having to learn how to actually work," the other man chuckled. "Can't imagine Queenie's got much need of career politicians." He leered at Levy. "Seriously though. I loved Balmoral. Sure, the end result was a little more explosive than you'd planned on, but damn, Lizzie was riled up by that one and no mistake. And then she was atomised, but hey, you win some, you lose some."
"You make it sound like I enjoy the pain I cause," Levy said softly, looking away from the man.
"If you're so cut up, take the purple pastel pony potion," the other man said. "I hear tell that makes it all better."
Levy scowled. "No."
"No?" the other man repeated, leaning forward. "And why not?"
Levy growled for a moment, and then, quicker than the other man could react, he grabbed him by his lapels and lifted him up. The other man looked shocked for a moment, before chuckling almost insanely.
"Listen to me and listen well, you slimy piece of filth," Levy growled. "I don't care what good you think you've done for us. The only reason you're alive is that I can't afford to be picky anymore!"
"Oh, you don't think I deserve a place in magic-pastel-ponyland?" the man asked in a mock-upset voice.
"Psychopaths like you don't deserve to go to a better world!" Levy snapped. "You don't deserve happiness!"
The other man snickered. "Oh, Jakey, Jakey, Jakey… what makes you think I want it? I'm helping you for my own reasons, and none of them involve giving a shit about 'happiness' as you define it. Certainly, none of them involve being a pastel pony in pastel ponyland"
"Oh yeah?" Levy said. "And what might those reasons be?"
"My own," the man said with a slight frown. "You don't like me poking my nose in your business, Jakey boy, so don't you poke your nose in mine. Unlike you, I'm perfectly happy tearing noses off with my teeth, and that isn't exaggeration. Wouldn't be artistic, but I've salvaged great work from worse."
Levy narrowed his eyes at the man.
"One day Cain, I'm going to kill you," he said simply, dropping the man.
If anything, this gave the man - Cain - an even wider grin on his face. He dusted off his suit, looking humorously affronted at the dust on it.
"One day, Jakey, I think you're gonna try," he admitted, grinning viciously. "That should be fun."
***
Stanley, Falklands Islands. June 7th, 2020.
William looked up at his audience. They were watching with wet eyes and soft smiles, and he knew - he knew - that he had made the right choice in giving this speech. He looked down and finished his father's letter.
"'To you who hear this, know this. There will be a tomorrow - it is not a tomorrow we will reach easily. There will be blood, tears, sweat, toil and fear, more fear than any of us have ever known. But the darkest night will lead to a brighter day, if we stay true to our ideals and remain strong in the face of adversity. Just as despair will lead us to defeat, I know that hope will lead us to victory.'"
William looked up at the audience again, his resolve strengthened by his father’s words.
"'I remain yours, in service until my dying day, Charles III of the House of Windsor'." He paused. "My father was a good man. And I will forever be in his shadow. These years are his years, years he deserved. I swear I will not squander them. I will serve the people of Britain until the end."
He smiled slightly, thinking of his father. He would always remember him - he had been a good man, better than a lot of people had given him credit for in some ways. His death (better to think of it that way) was another tragic loss in a string of tragic losses.
But William would not let it keep him from his duty.
***
HMS Queen Elizabeth, the Atlantic Ocean. June 8th, 2020.
Sat in a briefing room with the entirety of their company, David Elliot felt… uneasy. His squad, consisting of himself, Sam, a dark-haired man called Alderman, a redhead named Sambold, the three ponies - True Grit, his friend Steady Hoof, a grey Earth Pony stallion, and a pale, brown-maned Pegasus mare named Bright Wonder - as well as their Sergeant, an easy-going man called John Moffett, were sat waiting for a rundown of their next deployment.
David threw the ponies in his squad another quick glance. He still wasn't sure he entirely trusted Wonder, Hoof or even True Grit, who'd been remarkably friendly. He'd never been HLF (though he'd known a few people who'd joined the organisation's ranks) but he had lost his entire home to ponies. Ponies - fine, not these ponies, but ponies all the same - had taken everything from him.
Was it wrong to not trust them?
"Alright," the stern, RP-accented voice of their company commander, Captain Harcourt, said, cutting off David's train of thought. The man - a tall, thin man with a pencil thin moustache, every inch the image of a model British officer - was stood in front of a projector, swagger stick in hand. "Settle down."
The room quieted down, and Harcourt sighed, his eyes scanning the room.
"Ladies, gentlemen, mares, stallions and whatever 'orrible little buggers lay in-between," he said. "You're here because, as of now, what's left of Europe is undergoing a massive evacuation. Projected estimates show that the Barrier will expand and obliterate the entire continent within the year."
The entire room was filled with hushed murmurs. David looked to Sam, who had his eyes closed, as though trying to calculate the sheer number of people they were about to lose. Alderman and Sambold both looked tired, and - perhaps not entirely surprisingly - the ponies looked horrified.
"These estimates are, of course, not perfect," Harcourt continued grimly. "But we'll run with them for the moment." He took a breath. "That being the case, our obvious priority must be combating attempts by the enemy to sabotage refugee columns…"
"Sir," someone interrupted, "shouldn't our priority be kicking the fucking sun-bitch's arse?!"
A cheer went up from the the assembled soldiers, human and pony alike.
Harcourt gave a thin smile. "Much as I admire the spirit in which that remark was intended, no - that is not our priority at present. R&D are the ones in charge of investigating means past the Barrier, and as of yet I've heard nothing about their progress. In any case, soldier - even with Queen Celestia's death a priority, there are still millions of refugees to save."
"And how are we going to do that, sir?" someone else called out. "The weapons we have aren't worth shit against Guard shields, they have potion bombs -"
"If you'll shut up and let me finish," Harcourt said, cutting the speaker off, "I'll tell you how. And from here on, I don't want any more interruptions - I know we've lost a lot, and I know having to integrate ponies into your units has left some people feeling irritated, but button it. We're soldiers, and what's more, we're His Majesty's army, and some of the best damn soldiers on the planet. Let's remember that and start acting like it, lads and lasses."
This seemed to raise the room's spirits a little, and even David found himself smiling slightly.
"Right then," Harcourt said. "This is how this is going to go down…"
***
HMS Illustrious, the Atlantic Ocean. June 8th, 2020.
They still hadn't made land, even after weeks at sea. The general plan seemed to be to take on survivors from smaller boats that were escaping from the Barrier and to haul them aboard, vet them for PER membership and potion vials, then stow them wherever there was room. It was the best anyone, and anypony, could do.
Chalcedony found herself looking out at the horizon, feeling the foreboding coming from it. True, the Barrier wouldn't kill her the same way it would atomise these humans, but it represented something… worse.
It represented Equestria. Equestria, the looming giant of a tyrannical state that she, like so many others, had disavowed. Equestria the once-kind, the once-beautiful, now destined to be neither forevermore.
Part of her, it had to be admitted, wanted to hope that the PHL and whatever Resistance was in Equestria were able to somehow salvage… something. But what was that something likely to be?
She sighed. Equestria the beautiful was dead. Equestria the monster was the present. At best, all they would have in the future would be Equestria the grey, the twilight of a grand old world, forever silenced, always destined to look back at the glorious old times with nostalgia and longing.
"The past," she said aloud to herself, "is another country."
"You're right there," a new voice said quietly.
Chalcedony turned, to find a man sitting slightly behind her, looking out on the sky with a soft smile. He wore a green tweed coat with a suede collar over a shirt, waistcoat and some sort of cravat, topped off with brown corduroy trousers.
"Sorry," Chalcedony said with a sheepish smile. "Just thinking aloud."
"Best kind sometimes," the man replied evenly. "Which is to say, I do a lot of that kind of thinking. Saying something aloud often makes it sound different."
"Well, it makes a sound…" Chalcedony pointed out. "Plain old thinking doesn't do that."
The man gave her a look - with those oddly intense brown eyes - that suggested that he'd never once considered that.
"Blimey," he said. "Maybe that's it. Been wanting to crack that one. I've been meaning to write a thesis…"
He trailed off at Chalcedony's expression, somewhere between amusement and tiredness.
"Sorry," she said. "The charmer routine doesn't really work on me."
"'Charmer routine'?" the man repeated, raising an eyebrow. "This isn't a charmer routine. This is called 'connecting'. It's that thing people do when they're not brooding by themselves." He shrugged. "Not that a bit of brooding can't be helpful, but…"
"I was not brooding," Chalcedony said with a scowl. "I was…"
"Oh, you were," the man said with a smirk. "I doubt Bruce Wayne himself could top your brooding levels." He made an expansive gesture with his arms. "Maximum brooding power!" He paused, looking thoughtful. "I wonder if one could make a generator that ran on brooding…"
"Wouldn't you 'brood' if you'd seen your home descend into madness?" she asked, ignoring his aside. "If everything you thought you knew about ponies - people - you thought were benevolent and wise suddenly got tossed into the garbage chute, and you were left with… nothing?"
The man's amused expression went away. "I know how that feels."
"Ha," Chalcedony snorted.
"No," the man insisted, his voice soft and sad, "I do - better than you think I do."
Chalcedony snorted. "I don't see how."
"There are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy," the man said simply.
"Shouldn't that be 'our' philosophy?" Chalcedony asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, you're a Shakespeare buff!" the man said approvingly, an almost childishly excited grin on his face. "Actually, old Billy did write 'our' but the copy given to the first actor to play Hamlet was a little bit badly written out - over enthusiastic copyboy, I think…"
Chalcedony sighed. Clearly this man was just a bit crazy. Understandable, really - this entire situation was not one that sanity tended to remain around for. Still - she didn't find herself in the mood to deal with insane people.
"Tell me," the man said suddenly. "Do you suppose second chances are important?"
"Second chances?" Chalcedony repeated. "It depends who they're for."
"For us," the man said. "You, me, the people on this ship."
"That's a… very vague identification," Chalcedony said, raising an eyebrow. "Some people deserve second chances."
"Ah, I didn't say deserve," the man said with a grin. "If I had said deserve, that would be a different question. I said, 'do you suppose they're important?', which in my mind is an entirely different question."
"Alright," Chalcedony said, nodding slowly. "So, second chances - maybe they are important. Depends on what you did that needs a second chance, maybe in what you're gonna do with it too."
"In what way?" the man asked.
"I'm not sure," Chalcedony admitted with a slight shrug. "I've never been in a position where I needed a second chance."
The man gave a slight, sombre smile, one that suddenly made him seem a lot older than he had a few moments ago. "Well, I suppose you're lucky, then."
Chalcedony found herself frowning thoughtfully at him, as though there was something behind that veneer of cheerfulness. Maybe something that did need a second chance.
"Are you looking for a second chance?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm well past 'second'," he said with a humourless smile. "But I like to think there are always more for those that need them."
"It's a nice thought," Chalcedony agreed. "If a little misplaced in this world."
"Do you think so?" the man asked.
"The world is going to hell," Chalcedony pointed out. "Equestria's already there. There are no more chances for some people."
The man gave a sad smile. "I think, and bear in mind this is just me… I think that second chances are more important than ever."
"Really?" Chalcedony asked.
"Oh yes," the man said, smiling slightly. "For example, I happen to know that there were a few PER on this ship. If I hadn't done anything - quick word to the Captain, that sort of thing - they'd have sabotaged this ship, leaving it dead in the water, just waiting for an attack by the Empire. Most of the people on this ship would have been - that is to say, probably would have been killed or ponified. Now they haven't been."
Chalcedony frowned slightly. "What? What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about making a difference, because of a second chance," the man said with a smile. "And if you like, you can help me make a difference."
"What are you, some sort of secret agent or something?" the mare asked, frowning.
"'Or something'," the man replied with a grin. "I'm going by Doctor Bowman, but you can call me Doctor."
He held out a hand, and Chalcedony - not quite knowing why - took it and shook it.
She didn't know why, but she felt like she'd taken a step towards something big.
***
SAS Emergency Training Camp. Falklands Islands. June 10th, 2020.
"I'm sorry, what?"
SAS Captain Edwin Richards frowned in disbelief at the man who stood opposite him. Of all the men he had anticipated wanting to join the depleted but still active ranks of the SAS, none surprised him as much as the man he was speaking with now.
"You heard me," Prince Harry said with a frown. "I want to join the SAS. If I understand the general military plan, your units are going to be sent into some of the nastiest areas of conflict to help hold the line while the civilians get out, no matter what. I've also heard more than the odd rumour about you going after priority PER targets. I want to be part of all that."
"Your Highness, training for the SAS is not a game," the grizzled looking SAS soldier said, sighing slightly. "We'll be going into some of the most dangerous fronts of this war - I'm expecting a massive mortality rate from all this."
"I've been a soldier, Captain," Harry replied, trying not to sound annoyed at the man's attitude. Plenty of people had treated him like a pampered royal, and he was having none of it. "I served in Afghanistan. I know full well that war, any war, is no game. Especially this war. In fact I highly doubt you'll find many men who've lost more than my family."
Richards sighed, shaking his head. He was clearly reluctant, but he was also a man who knew that he'd need every willing gun he could muster if he was to maintain the SAS as an effective fighting force.
"I won't turn away good, willing fighters," he said slowly. "But it won't be easy for you, Your Highness."
"It's not easy for anyone," Harry said. "But I'll do whatever I have to."
Richards frowned slightly, still feeling uncertain about allowing the Prince to join, but after a moment he reluctantly held out a hand.
"Welcome to the SAS, Your Highness," he said quietly.
Editors: Doctor Fluffy, OverlordCornutt redskin122004.
***
“Don't talk like you're one of them! You're not, even if you'd like to be. To them you're just a freak, like me. They need you right now, but when they don't, they'll cast you out - like a leper. See, their morals, their 'code'… it's a bad joke, dropped at the first sign of trouble. They're only as good as the world allows them to be. I'll show you, when the chips are down, these - ah - 'civilised people'? They'll eat each other. See, I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve.” The Joker, The Dark Knight.
“I've been up in the air, out of my head, Stuck in a moment of emotion I destroyed. Is this the end I feel?” 30 Seconds To Mars, Up In The Air.
***
Kukle, Poland, June 12th, 2020.
Blood-slicked boots crunched along hard ground as the Devil approached Paul Taylor, the dark-haired soldier trying desperately to inch away from the figure as he strode closer and closer. The Devil was surprisingly… normal looking, when you got down to it. He wore a blue suit, crumpled and worn with holes burned through parts of it, a shirt unbuttoned to the nth degree and a long black overcoat that flapped in the wind.
All around Taylor, the village he and his squad had been assigned to protect burned. There were dozens of PER militia soldiers running around, lightly armed and armoured but dangerous nonetheless, all of them shooting or potioning at will. In a way, the Devil was the one who was most calm about all this. He had a look of amusement in his eyes as he merrily side-stepped his way over to Taylor, whistling a ditty as he did so.
He had been calm as he sidestepped swipes from desperate civilians, as he dodged gunfire and retaliated with a small machine-pistol he had since discarded. He had been calm when he brought his knife out and, somehow, killed men with more training and experience than Taylor would now ever have. He had been calm as he fought Taylor, blocking his blows with surprising ease for a civilian, before stabbing him in the leg, forcing him to the ground. He had been calm as he watched Taylor try to crawl away from him, a look of barely restrained glee on his face.
Taylor knew he had to do… something. The soldier tried to go for his sidearm, but the Devil kicked out and sent it flying across the burning street. He knelt down beside Taylor, a grin on his face.
"Hi there, pal," he said. "How're things?"
Taylor tried to spit, but he didn't even have the strength anymore - he was reasonably sure this bastard had hit an artery.
"Just do what you were gonna do you bastard!" he growled, coughing slightly from his injuries.
"What I was going to do?" the Devil repeated. "Why, that's an intriguing question. What was I going to do?"
One gloved hand came up, and in it, Taylor could see a small purple vial. The Devil smiled.
"#Purple pony potion in a purple pony pot," the man sing-songed. "#If you get it on you I'm afraid that that's your lot."
"Do it," Taylor growled. "Come on you bastard. Do it! Or don't you have the balls, you rat bast -"
The Devil's other hand shot out, and suddenly grabbed Taylor's jaw, forcing his mouth to stay open and preventing him from speaking.
"Do you know one fun thing about the potion, kiddo?" the Devil asked. "I could do whatever I wanted to you before I gave you it, and you'd still be happy to see me after. It's instinctive. You'd also be in one piece, albeit one pony piece. So let's not talk about not having balls." The Devil grinned. "Or I might find the time, before your permanent makeover, to make you lose yours."
"Cain!" a new voice called out, interrupting the Devil.
The Devil's grin faded and he turned to look at who had yelled for him. Taylor saw a cropped-haired PER man in light armour looking at the Devil with a frown on his face, an SMG held in one hand.
"Whaddya want, Jakey-boy?" the Devil - Cain - asked with a smirk.
"Stop torturing that poor bastard and potion him!" the man called Levy ordered.
Cain looked back at Taylor, an apologetic smile on his face.
"Well, you heard the man!" he said, sounding less annoyed than his eyes were screaming. He uncorked the little potion-vial and jammed its contents in Taylor's still open mouth. He had time to cough and splutter before the change started to take him…
***
Amadeus Cain growled as he watched the ponification get underway. It was a nasty thing to watch, but he had dumped it down his victim’s mouth, preventing it from causing maximum pain.
That was… vexing.
Levy had been increasingly impatient with him as their little convoy had progressed. By and large, the two men and been willing to tolerate one another up until this point: Cain had done what Levy needed, and Levy had given Cain free reign as long as he didn’t jeapordise their operation.
Now though…
Now he's spoiling my fun, Cain thought to himself, clucking his tongue. I do his dirty work for him, maybe better than any of these lackies, and he still doesn’t let me have my fun properly. No, I do not appreciate that. Not at all.
If his dear brother Armando had taught him anything, it was that one must be flexible to new situations. One could ride the current status quo that one was part of only so long as the current status quo fulfilled what you desired of it, and then - once the status quo outlived its usefulness - one had to find a new status quo, and ride that the same way. Ride the road to the road’s end, but then get off the road and find a new one.
Not that that went so well for him, Amadeus thought with a slightly rueful smile. He looked down at the ponifying figure as it started to finish up. But how was he to know what awaited him? Ah, dear Quickblade - where are you now I wonder…?
The new pseudo-pony stirred and opened its eyes, looking up at Amadeus with fake gratitude.
"Oh!" he said, sounding chirpy. "Hello!”
“Hello,” Amadeus said coldly.
“My name’s Resilient Shield! Thank you for freeing me from that ape body!” the Newfoal said. “Thank you so very -!"
With a sudden, vicious growl, Cain brought his boot down on the Newfoal's head, again and again, the thing barely having time to react before its brain started firing off nervous twitches to the entire body as its skull caved in on the soft matter, turning it to pulp.
One stomp, two stomp, smashy, smashy, smushy, squishy, crunch.
Cain looked at his blood covered suit and sighed. He'd been needing a new suit anyway.
He had nearly reached the end of this road, and there were others worth following that led, hopefully, to better spoils. The HLF might want a psychopath, or the new PHL might want to know the secrets that Cain had.
Still, he mused as he walked away - the status quo wasn't quite done yet. Maybe he could get one more thing from it first…
***
SAS Emergency Training Camp. Falklands Islands. June 2020.
The SAS ran a simple policy: if you failed, in any way, you'd be RTU'd (Returned To Unit). If you bragged, or acted like an arsehole, you'd be RTU'd. If you died in action, you'd be RTU'd retroactively the second before your death. The SAS were the best, and the SAS never died in action, no matter what.
SAS training was a hard trial. No, scratch that. "Hard" was a word that was so far below what SAS training could be described as that using it was not only horribly inaccurate, it was actually rather laughable and in some respects vaguely insulting. There were a number of soldiers attempting to join this elite group (many inspired by the death of Britain to do something different with their lives), but half of them were RTU'd in the first week for various reasons, leaving only a cadre of dedicated soldiers in their wake. By the end of the second week, half of these soldiers had been RTU'd as well. The remaining troops were strong, hardy, free thinking men who without a shadow of a doubt were some of the best fighters ever trained. Harry was proud to be part of that number - though he was absolutely exhausted by the training, he knew he was one step closer to making a difference.
What surprised Harry was the presence of a former PHL pony among the various new recruits to the SAS. The stallion's name was Ever Stern: he had a dark grey coat, black mane and a cutie mark displaying a hammer and anvil. He had been the subject of some unfortunate ribbing in the initial weeks of training, but the soldiers responsible for that had all been RTU'd, while he remained, facing every challenge with the same grim expression and stoic manner. He was strong, hardy and true to his name, stern and uncompromising.
Harry had made it his business to get to know the pony. Their initial conversations had been terse - Ever Stern seemed inclined to believe that he was here to train and no more - but Harry persevered.
Eventually, it was conversations about their families that convinced Stern to open up. One night during an all-nighter walk, Harry found himself talking to the pony about their respective lives and what had led them to this point. He found Stern surprisingly open.
"My entire family were guards," Stern had said, almost matter-of-factly. "But me? I made things. Metalwork, mainly. My Dad wasn't exactly supportive but your destiny's just that, you know?"
"I can understand what you mean," Harry had replied. For him, while his destiny had never been spelled out by a magical mark on his arse, he had still had a life of duty and service as part of his birthright, and very little chance to ever be anything else. Those few occasions where he had forgotten that - youthful indiscretions, mainly, though the time he wore a Nazi costume at a fancy-dress party seemed to stick in his memory - he had been sharply reminded that his duty was to be more than just "Harry": his duty was to be Prince Harry, with all the title represented, even in his supposed free time.
"Well, when the war started my family started being... different," Stern had continued, a soft frown developing on his face. "That's when I knew I had to get the hell out. I couldn't be in the same place as those... things wearing my family's faces and talking in their voices.”
Harry had heard this said of some ponies who had remained in Equestria, especially some of the PHL members' families: that they hadn't really been themselves anymore. He vaguely wondered how similar it was to ponification - maybe there was more in common between him and these ponies than he had thought.
"When I joined the PHL I thought I'd be able to make a difference," Ever Stern had finished, interrupting Harry's musing.
"But you didn't?" Harry had asked. Most ponies who joined the PHL were more than satisfied with what it had accomplished.
"Don't get me wrong," Stern had said, holding up a hoof. "They do good. Heartstrings does good. Better than I could do, than anypony could have done. She pulled a bunch of ragtag misfits together and turned them into an army, and that means those of us who stayed sane can actually help you.”
Harry had smirked at that. Stern clearly hadn't seen some of the stuff on the drawing boards. Harry had - he had, after all, paid for the things, and indeed the boards they'd been drawn on. As one of the financial benefactors of the organisation, he still - to his own surprise - got more than a few update emails concerning the progress the PHL was making. It was nice, really, if somewhat superfluous. Even so, Harry remembered when the PHL had been like that, and so he could well understand what Stern was talking about.
“I'm all for that,” Stern had continued. “But when your entire family's been guards, you can't really settle for an army of ragtag misfits - hell, not even an army of ragtag misfits with a budget and guts. It... wasn't enough for me. I needed something with history"
Harry had nodded. The PHL were good - but they didn’t have the history that the SAS did.
"Maybe they’ll be better one day," the pony continued, "but you've got to challenge yourself. When I heard about the SAS, the stuff they’ve done - how hard being one of them is..."
"You had to be the first pony to join," Harry had finished for him, a knowing expression on his face.
"More than that," Stern had said, a hard grin forming on his grim features. "I'm gonna be the first pony to kick this course squarely in its flank and show it who's the bucking boss."
After that, Harry had been certain he would find himself friends with this pony, a certainty that was proven correct. It was also a certainty he would find himself incredibly grateful for later on.
***
The Barrierfall Front, June 24th, 2020.
"I hate this," True Grit groused.
David Elliot glanced up at him, looking up from the book he had been reading. The green Unicorn was leaning against the wall of the trench, looking fairly annoyed. Near him, his grey Earth Pony friend Steady Hoof was having an impromptu nap - not that anyone blamed him. They had been in this trench for about two weeks, holding the line between the land that was being evacuated and the land where the evacuees were running to, but it was wearing on them.
David didn't say anything, instead looking back to his book with a sigh. The edict that human and pony troops would begin working with each other might have been met initially with contention amongst some quarters, but they had mostly acquitted themselves well. It helped that the PHL’s Resistance P220a, the weapon Hoof wielded, was a... competent weapon for the use of the pony troopers, though there were more than a few complaints.
"We all hate this," Sam said, looking bored. He was playing solitaire on his iPhone. "You're not exactly unique there, Grit."
“Yeah, but this is stupid,” Grit said softly. “What are we doing here?!”
That was an interesting question, David mused with a wry smirk, though he didn’t say anything aloud. Truth be told, he was often more than a little concerned about the line they were holding here. It was, in theory, their stopgap defensive point, a point beyond which there would be safety for those fleeing the Barrier. In practice, no one believed it would be able to do a damn thing against the Barrier and few believed it would be much of a defensive line either.
The PER might have been easy enough to put down when you had the men to do it (though small patrols of men tended to vanish when they went into hotspots, and rumours of villages simply vanishing didn’t help), but the Empire were a different matter. Unicorn shields were almost impenetrable by normal means unless you concentrated enough firepower to punch through, and that was difficult to do when you were being potion-bombed.
“And we’ve been in this field for how long?!” True Grit added.
“About three weeks,” Sam said with a sigh. “For the fifth time.”
“Is that green shit whining again?” a new voice asked, and the pony turned to look as Alderman walked up to the group from further in the trench, Sergeant Moffett, Ernie Sambold and Bright Wonder with him. The mare looked tired - she tended to operate as the squad’s scout.
“Fuck off,” True Grit replied in a surprisingly amiable tone. “I’m pointing out how stupid us being here is.”
“Well you don’t have to worry about that much longer,” Moffett said with a tired smile. “We’ll be pulling out in two days.”
Sam, David and Grit all groaned as one.
“It's the fucking Barrier, isn’t it?” the blonde man asked quietly.
“One week,” Moffett said quietly. “According to command, there’s now ‘an intolerably low chance of friendly survivors being retrieved’ from anywhere beyond this position. They’re saying it’ll pass through Russia in the next month - there’s already whispers about St Petersburg being the next to go.”
“Bollocks,” David swore, and he put his book back in his pack. “At least we’ve not seen much PER.”
“That would be further down the line,” Ernie, a surprisingly cheerful fella when you got to know him, said quietly. “We’ve just come from down there… Jesus, the things we’ve seen…”
“Stow it,” Moffett said. “Let’s not focus on the bad yet.”
“And when are we supposed to focus on the bad?” Sam asked, looking annoyed. “This is the third line we’ve pulled back from since this operation started, and it’s only been two weeks! There’s gonna come a point where we can’t pull back anymore!”
“But,” Moffett said softly, “that day is not today. Today, we can pull back and hold a new line, and we’ll keep doing that until the boffins give us better equipment for the job. Clear?”
There was a soft, dejected chorus of affirmatives from the squad. David and Sam exchanged glances, both men feeling the same thing: this war was a long defeat, and they were the unfortunate sods on the front line of it.
“I hope to God that the boffins come up with whatever they’re coming up with soon,” Sam said quietly to David as they packed up. “Because if they don’t, we’re dead.”
***
HLS Purity, June 24th, 2020.
The Human Liberation Ship Purity.
It was a pretty fucking grandiose name for an old, repurposed cruise liner turned battleship, and likely soon to turn floating tomb. The name was liberally scrawled in spray-paint across one side, alongside similar graffiti - the work of men and women who didn't care what happened to them. The whole thing seemed the same.
Despite the guns lined up along both sides, despite the fact that there were more armed men and women on this boat than any other non-military vessel around, John Idle couldn't help but think of himself as doomed. The dark-haired man was stood on the deck of the ship, staring out.
The HLF had stolen this liner from port, gathered up the crews from any little ships or boats that they could, and were busy zooming along at top speed anywhere they could - anywhere the Barrier and the fucking little geldo bastards weren't. The Captain and crew were all HLF, most of them ex-navy, and Idle felt reasonably confident that they could steer the ship.
Idle had been Army, once, but the Army were working with the PHL and - much as Lyra Heartstrings seemed sincere - Idle didn't trust anything on four hooves that talked. Not since Balmoral. He'd taken leave of the army (in an admittedly over-violent fashion, considering he’d broken a combination of three arms, four ribs and two noses in his exit) and joined the HLF, eventually hooking up with the crowd boarding the Purity. At the time it seemed like escape was possible.
Now, though, he could feel tension in the air - the fear of pony assault was immense, terrifying, like the Potioneer ships might descend at any moment. What if they did? What if this was the end? The Purity was fast but it couldn't outrun the bloody ponies, and they had nothing against those bollocksing shields. And once the potion was onboard, nothing was protecting the people…
As if in answer to the fear in his mind, he saw something in the sky, heading towards them. He frowned. He turned to look at the observation nests nearby, and to his horror, soldiers were jumping to positions, aiming their big guns up.
Then the cry went out - "Potioneer ship!"
Idle cursed, pulling on a gas mask and sealing his hazmat suit double quick. The Captain's policy was that the civvies were downstairs in sealed chambers - but the ponies would likely be landing in force. If they got past the defenders, if even one fucking guard with a potion bandolier got through…
Mayhem.
Well. That wasn’t going to happen on John Idle’s fucking watch.
"Brace for boarders!" someone yelled.
The ship got closer, and suddenly guns lanced out, impacting uselessly on a shield. As they fired, they could see the chariots and Potioneer chariots flying out.
"Fuck," Idle swore.
And then they were among them.
The lucky bastards, the ones like Idle who were clever enough to remember to wear hazmat and other potion-proof gear, were able to shrug off the vile liquid as it hit them, retaliate and open fire on the boarders. The unlucky bastards started screaming - some threw themselves over the edge to die in the water, and some shot themselves. Still more were put down by their own colleagues.
Idle growled as he dodged a potion vial, shooting the little shit that had thrown it and taking down another a moment later. His SMG ratted and tatted as he fired short, controlled bursts, a scowl on his face beneath his mask.
Ponies were landing, here, there and everywhere. Grapples and spears and spells and gunfire became a blur of motion. HLF died or were ponified, ponies exploded or broke beneath fists and knives, Newfoals were born and died in seconds… Idle dodged a spear thrown from one hapless looking pony, and replied by shooting his face off. Another charged right at him, and he grappled with the thing before punching it in the face, knocking it to the floor. He whipped out his combat knife and stabbed it in the neck, listening to the gurgling for a moment before returning to the fray.
More ponies landed, and Idle, breathing hard, charged at a group of them, ramming one to the floor and stomping on his throat before unleashing the remainder of his clip on full auto, shredding more of the bastards as they struggled to get away, bullets tearing through limbs and throats and torsos. Nearby, he saw a Unicorn land with a group of Royal Guard, their chariot making a crash landing as one of the Pegasus pullers was blown in half by HLF anti-air fire.
“Find the civilians!” one of the ponies yelled. “Ponify them, quickly!”
Idle smirked, and opened fire, taking out two of the Unicorn’s compatriots. A moment later, however, the Unicorn had raised a shield and the bullets started bouncing off of it. Idle cursed, wondering how he’d be able to get through that shield, even as the Unicorn smirked at him with the promise of death or worse…
And then suddenly, a hail of bullets rang out, impacting the shield. Impossibly, amazingly, the thing began cracking visibly - and a moment later it imploded, and the bullets continued on course for the Unicorn’s face.
“The hell?” Idle muttered. He turned to look for the source of the bullets, and saw - to his amazement - a squad of hazmat suited troops with a variety of weapons moving out of cover, advancing while firing on the attackers, their movements calm and deliberate. At their head was an older man in a long green military coat, underneath which was a kevlar vest and bodysuit. He had a lever-action shotgun that he used to devastating effect, blowing away any Newfoal or Guard who rushed him, but more importantly was the directions he was giving other troops.
“Concentrate on one spot, right near the head!” he yelled to his men, aiming at another shielded Unicorn. “Collapse it!”
His entourage opened fire, and after about a minute, the shield collapsed under the concentrated firepower, the Unicorn being shredded.
Idle blinked, shocked. He’d rarely seen a shield collapsed like that - normally people were too overwhelmed to be able to concentrate fire on it. He added his own firepower to the group’s, shredding more ponies, and suddenly found himself standing amongst them.
“Stop gaping, lad,” the older man said. “Here!”
The older man passed Idle an assault rifle, and Idle accepted it dumbly, before bringing it up and firing on more ponies.
“Get more people on the big guns!” the older man yelled. “And don’t forget to concentrate your fucking fire!”
“Yes sir!” one of the men yelled, and he and two others started jogging up some stairs, firing on ponies as they did so. Idle jogged up to the older man.
“We can kill as many of these fucks as we like,” he said, “but that goddamn zep is gonna be a problem!”
“Of course it is,” the older man said. But we’ve got heavy weapons below - I’ve got two squads getting that stuff together now.”
“Nothing we have’ll go through that thing’s shields!” Idle said.
The older man gave him a look, before pushing him aside as a Pegasus flew overhead, dodging a potion bomb that impacted nearby, spraying some men in hazmat suits. They shared glances with each other, their expressions unreadable. The older man looked around.
“Everyone human?”
He seemed satisfied by what he saw, and looked up, looking to see where the potioneer-ship was. The zeppelin was getting closer, almost right on top of the Purity.
“Right!” the older man said, spitting. “Thompson and Darrell, get your arses into sniping positions and take out any Pegasi that gets close!”
“Sir!” one man yelled, and he and another man jogged off into position.
The older man turned to Idle. “The missile launchers can get through that shielding, if we weaken it first!”
“And how are we meant to that?!” Idle asked.
“You saw those Unicorns!” the older man said. “Those shields might be tough, but a projectile slamming into it weakens it, even if only by a fraction! We fire enough, it goes crashing down!”
“There’s no way we have enough bullets,” Idle muttered.
The older man grinned. “Hope you’re wrong, boy.”
He looked up, drawing a pistol, and started firing at the zep. The thing was so close that one could almost see the little, fading ripples where the bullets impacted. Grimacing, Idle looked up and leant his own rifle’s bullets to the effort, and a moment later everyone in their little group opened fire on the zeppelin. Pegasi tried moving in on them, but Thompson and Darrell seemed to have the group covered.
The older man emptied the last of his pistol, grimacing at it before dropping it and bringing out a radio.
“You guys done yet?!” he yelled.
Whatever reply he got wasn’t heard over the sudden roar of an explosion. A man had tried throwing a grenade at the zeppelin, but it had fallen, exploding in the air and shredding half a dozen ponies and HLF alike with the shrapnel, as well as buckling the deck itself.
“Bollocks!” Idle swore. “Don’t throw a fucking grenade on a FUCKING SHIP, YOU WANKERS!”
“Great,” the older man grumbled. “Like we needed that.”
“You get an ETA on those blokes with the rockets?” Idle asked.
“They should be here…” the older man began, and then he grinned. “Now!
As he said that, a group of soldiers with missile launchers appeared, dashing out of a door. One of them had a pistol out in his other hand, and shot a pony that was trying to get close to them.
Idle’s joy at seeing the men quickly died, however, when he realised some of them had failed to wear hazmat suits…
Suddenly another Pegasus group flew over the men, and though several of the Pegasi were hit by the snipers, there were still a good half dozen men hit by potion. They began changing, and there was sudden chaos as the new Newfoals began grappling with the missile launcher men.
The older man cursed, and began jogging towards the melee, aiming his shotgun up and catching a Newfoal with a spray. Idle followed, bringing his own gun to bear and putting down more Newfoals.
"This is getting ridiculous!" the older man yelled, but he sounded surprisingly chipper. "Come on!"
He put down the last Newfoal, then picked up a discarded missile launcher, tossing it to Idle, who fumbled with it for a moment.
"You know how to use one of those?!" the older man asked.
"Er, yeah," Idle said hesitantly. "Think so!"
"Just remember!" someone else said. "They're 'rocket launchers', not 'missile launchers' - they can't miss if they don't have the word 'miss' in 'em!"
Idle chuckled bemusedly, before aiming his 'rocket' launcher up at the Potioneer ship.
"On my mark!" the older man yelled. Everyone checked their aim. "Mark!"
About a dozen rocket launchers fired at once, the rockets shooting off at the Zeppelin like the proverbial bats out of hell. One impacted on a shield, then another, then another…
And then one got through, blasting through a wood and steel deck. Another impacted right next to it, blasting through balloon and air and causing the gas to explode in a fiery conflagration. A third missile blew the bridge of the Potioneer ship apart, and you could see ponies scrambling to escape the ship as it burnt.
"We did it!" someone yelled. "We brought it down!"
"Hoo-yah!" someone else bellowed. "Take that, you geldo fuckers!"
Idle grinned too - at the beginning of this fight, he had thought he was doomed, but impossibly, incredibly, they were alive, and they were still human. He laughed - a sound he never thought he'd make again.
"Here!" Idle heard the older man yell. "Get men to the bridge, make sure we're still steering to dodge that fuck!"
"Yes sir!" one of the HLF men said, jogging off. Suddenly there was a silence - ponies were trying to escape and being shot from the air, but the fighting had died down almost immediately, as the Zeppelin slowly sank through the air and headed for the sea.
"What's your name, son?" the older man asked Idle. Idle turned to him, frowning in confusion.
"Me?" he asked.
"Yeah, you," the man said, smiling slightly.
"Idle," Idle said. "My name's John Idle."
"You did good today Idle," the older man congratulated. "Real good."
“Thanks,” Idle said, and he meant it. “Who are…?”
“Yarrow,” the older man said at once. “My name’s Maxi Yarrow.” He looked around, frowning slightly. “‘Scuse me - I’d best go see if I can’t this mess back to some level of fucking organisation.”
With that, the older man walked off, yelling at some men to start fixing the deck while he was at it. Idle watched him go, an odd expression on his face. He didn’t know why, but for the first time since this blasted war had started, he felt… hope.
Maxi Yarrow, huh? he thought to himself. You know, I could get used to listening to a bloke like that. We might actually have a chance after all.
***
Secure office, June 25th, 2020
When a certain smartly-dressed individual sat down at his desk that morning, he had not expected to see an envelope waiting for him. Normally all mail was handled through his assistant. Of course, had this particular mail went through his assistant first, she would have notified him first and foremost.
He had already not been having the best of times. In spite of the numerous precautions in place, both mentally and physically, the United Kingdom's people and political leaders had been scattered in the aftermath of the Barrier’s arrival in every sense of the word. The survival of the Crown was only one part of the greater whole; the destruction of the Parliament, and the presumed demise of the PM during Barrierfall had crippled His Majesty’s Government, leaving a few scattered officials to pick up the pieces.
The European Front was reaching its height, with the remaining states in the Balkans and Eastern Europe holding out for as long as the Barrier permits. Armies in sizes never seen since the height of the Second World War clashed in the battlefields, from the mountains of Greece to the forests of Scandinavia. But the harsh truth of the Conversion War was common knowledge; where the armies fought, the Barrier would follow, and grounds painstakingly fought for would have been left as they were ante bellum.
As such, civilian matters were often brought to the forefront, and the goals of every strategic and tactical decision made shifted to the protection and recovery of the populace. It was an unexpected shift for altruism, One that, for once, became a necessity.
One thing leads to another, and soon enough scores of ships were loaded with as many refugees as they can, no matter the country or race. Tensions remain high on board, though, and the disappearance of the Mamayev Kurgan - along with its top-secret, stolen cargo - proved that the tentative peace between ‘former’ enemy groups were hardly a permanent fixture.
Added to that was the video meeting with Armacham’s Genevieve Aristide he still had to reschedule, and various other problems… well, he supposed it couldn’t be helped. This was a war, after all, and an unfortunately complicated one at that.
Suspecting that the letter was a trap, he scowled at it, wondering what it could be. He could have called someone to dispose of it, but the fact that it was here, past all the various security measures he had ordered put in place to prevent this exact thing from happening, was admittedly… intriguing. First, he took out a small surgical mask and put it over his face, in case there was some sort of anthrax or other biological agent designed to poison him present. Next, he pulled out a waterproof glove from one of his drawers, in case the paper was laced with potion (he’d heard stranger things). With that done, he picked it up and turned it over, to see - of all things - a handwritten note on the envelope.
No, this isn’t a trap. No, it isn’t laced with poison, potion or other unpleasant ‘p’ words. No, I’m not reading your mind - that would be impolite, and frankly it would take too long. Open this.
He raised an eyebrow. Alright - now that was quite unexpected.
He opened the envelope gingerly, still expecting the worst. With that done with, he had a brief glance at letter, his eyes narrowing into a suspicious, yet intrigued expression.
Hello Mikey.
I can call you ‘Mikey’, right? Well, me knowing your name probably A) has you suspicious, and B) has you certain you’re not dealing with anybody ordinary. Right both counts - suspicion is probably a good thing to have on hand regardless of who I am, and I am anything but ordinary.
So, brass tacks. Right now, your engineers on the Thunderchild are having a couple of smidgey problems. I’ve added some notes that they should like.
The suited man glanced in the envelope, and sure enough, there were a couple of pieces of paper with tiny scribblings on them. He looked back at the letter.
I hope you’ll take this as a sign that I mean to help you. I’d do more - really, I wish I could - but I’m technically cheating by even doing this, and I’d have my head if I found out I was here.
The suited man raised an eyebrow. That was an odd comment - but it also provided an… interesting clue.
In any case (the letter continued), you can hopefully expect to hear a little more from me. I’m gonna be working freelance where I can, helping you and a few other folks out where I can. Hopefully you’ll hear more from me soon.
Dr RB.
Well then - that just confirmed what he had already been thinking. His correspondent was many things, clearly, but subtle (or original) wasn’t one of them.
Now, there was just the question of contacting him.
Editors: Doctor Fluffy, RoyalPsycho, The Void, Sledge115, LordTurbo, OverlordCornutt, redskin122004.
***
"Goddamn, this is therapeutic!" Manuel Morales, F.E.A.R 2: Project Origin.
"I AM YOUR REDEEMER! It is by my hand you will rise from the ashes of this world! Immortan Joe, Mad Max: Fury Road.
***
SAS base, Falklands Islands, June 26thk 2020.
The day the new guns came was an... interesting one.
Harry had been training with a small group, including Ever Stern himself and two others. He only knew the other two by their last names - neither were particularly happy men - but that was enough.
Dutch was a dark haired, taciturn man who kept himself to himself, never being particularly effusive. Even by the standards of the ultra focused soldiers of the SAS, he was a grim presence. Nonetheless, no one ever questioned his skill.
Jacobs, by contrast, had lighter hair and was almost talkative - he spoke a lot, almost too much in fact, but only when they weren't off on some sort of exercise. He was almost unnervingly silent when he was working, to the point where he made Ever Stern and Dutch look like chatterboxes.
The new guns were the top of the range in Armacham technology, dispatched from command. The woman who had come to deliver them was English, clad in Armacham-made armour and carrying an HV penetrator over her shoulder. Her blonde hair was tied back, and she had a tired expression on her face. She had two men with her, both wheeling the crates in.
"Hello," she greeted the group. "I'm with Captain Striker’s group - we came to deliver the gear?"
"Bitchin’," Jacobs said with a grin. "Do you come with the guns?"
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that really the best pickup you got?"
Jacobs shrugged. "Months with a bunch of burly guys. So sue me."
The woman shook her head. "Anyway: I just need one of you to sign for this consignment please."
She held out a clipboard, and Harry stepped up to sign it. The woman did a double take at Harry’s face, clearly recognising him, but said nothing, for which Harry was quite grateful.
"So," he asked, handing her the clipboard back. "What have we got here?"
"Oh, plenty," she said, opening one of the crates. She took out a penetrator identical to the one she was carrying. "About forty of these babies and ammo to spare. HV Penetrators are top-of-the-range rifles, and you'll have a lot of fun pinning Newfoals to a wall."
Dutch came over and picked one up, testing it, before putting it back down.
"Got anything with more punch?" he asked.
The woman chuckled. "Oh, you're one of those kind of guys." She opened a separate crate and picked up a heavy looking weapon of a type none of the men had ever seen. "This is a Type 7. They call it a particle weapon, but it's really more like a plasma rifle. Not that it matters - this baby has been proven to be effective on everything - even goes through magic shields after a couple of shots, though whether you'll get your couple of shots is a different question."
Dutch took it with a whistle. "‘Particle weapon’, huh? Nice."
"Have you got anything a bit more old-fashioned?" Harry asked.
The woman frowned slightly. "As in…?"
"As in ‘bullets’," Harry said with a chuckle.
The woman nodded with a smile, before retrieving an assault rifle. It was sleek, black and shiny, with a red scope set atop the main casing.
"VES," she said smartly. "Advanced assault rifle. Top of the line. Armacham bought out one of their rivals and got the plans to manufacture these babies."
"Top mounted sight, too," Harry noted. "Impressive gear."
"Aye," the woman said quietly. "In any case, you can go through the gear yourself - Captain Striker will want me back soon."
She didn't sound very happy about that. Harry frowned slightly.
"What's your name, soldier?" he asked.
She paused, almost hesitant, before replying. "Yarrow. Samantha Yarrow."
There was a long pause as Harry considered that.
"Any relation to -" he began, but she held up a hand.
"Yes sir," she said quietly. "And, no, I don't want to discuss it. If you have a problem, sir -"
"Actually," Harry said quietly, "I wanted to say that I respect your father."
Samantha’s eyes widened slightly, and she straightened up.
"He's HLF," she said simply.
"Yeah, he is, but unlike a lot of those guys, I respect his stance," Harry said, folding his arms. "I used to read a lot about it on the forums - the notion of fighting the good fight, bringing people together to fight the PER. He was probably one of the loudest HLF on the old forum I saw who wasn't just spouting ‘kill all ponies’. Him, Kenny Roger, ‘Redstripe617…’ buncha people with good ideas on there. Just outshouted, I guess."
Samantha frowned. "I never read any of it. Never really wanted to." She shook her head. "Doesn't matter anyway. He's made his choices."
"And you get shit for them," Harry stated, rather than asking. Her scowl said it all. "You let me know if it happens again and I’ll have words with your officers. Ok?"
Samantha said nothing, merely nodding, and then she turned and left, the other two troops following her.
"Did she say she was Maxi Yarrow’s daughter?" Dutch asked.
"Yeah," Harry said quietly.
"Huh," Dutch said. "I kinda liked the sound of him. Wonder what he's doing now?"
Harry shrugged. "Fucked if I know."
***
HLS Purity, June 26th 2020.
In the cabin he’d taken, face wet and eyes bleary from lack of sleep, a man looked at himself in the mirror, and didn’t know what to think.
He was in charge of over two thousand HLF, two thousand men, women and children. How they'd all gotten to this point was a mystery Maximilian Yarrow didn't know how to solve. How he'd somehow gotten any authority out of it was a bigger mystery still. He'd been in charge of the convoy he had brought aboard the Purity, sure, but that had been a few vehicles, a hundred or so men - and that had only been nominal authority, by virtue of him being the only HLF man there with real military experience.
Now though… now he was the man that over two thousand people crammed on this hellhole of a ship considered to be their hero.
I am no hero.
Son of an Irish mother and a half-German man from Devon, Maximilian Yarrow cut a grim figure, he knew. The twenty years of service as a Royal Marine didn't help - the things he'd seen, the things he'd done, and more importantly, the things he hadn't done… it wasn't even funny. He'd fought in wars - often wars he hadn't really believed in then, and certainly didn't believe in now. He'd let his friends die, because he'd been too slow or too far away or too… imperfect.
And yet they called him a hero now. Because he, a trained man amongst dozens of amateur fighters and wannabe heroes, had known what to do, because he had taken charge when no one else had, because he had helped as best he could… these people, a ragtag bunch of misfits, HLF loyalists and idealists, all looked up to him.
I did what had to be done. I took charge when no other man would.
He shook his head. Whether he deserved it - in his own mind or out there - or not, they were looking to him to lead them now. The HLF wasn't an organisation - not a real one. Like all movements of its kind that he had seen over the course of his life, it was fragmented. Broken. People within it had their own agendas. He could already see that it (and more importantly the people within it) wouldn't survive without someone… anyone leading it and making it shape up somehow.
Well then. Do what has to be done.
He looked at himself in the mirror. What kind of leader could he be for these people? This war… was not a war they could win. Sure, they could destroy one zeppelin, but the war was bigger than that.
What’s left?
His eyes drifted to a small pendant hung around his neck. It was an Odin's Horn pendant, a reminder of his paternal grandmother's Danish roots and, more importantly, a reminder that he was the last of his family.
At least the last I know of, he corrected quietly. There was still…
No. Best not to worry about that.
He sighed as he brought his hand up to clasp the pendant.
"The ancient Norsemen believed that they'd go to Valhalla if they died in battle," he said aloud, almost reciting. "Where they'd feast and fight forever, and never die. Where they would be rewarded for their heroism on the field of battle."
His eyes drifted to the word "HLF" on an armband around his arm. He narrowed his eyes - a lot of men who wore that name were scum, simple as. Men who murdered children and ponies because they could. But the name, what that name stood for… that was different. That was very different. It stood, as the name suggested, for liberation.
From what?
Not death. That was patently impossible. He had seen enough men and women - and children, much to his eternal regret - die, enough to know that all things went the same way in the end. What was the liberation from, then, if not death?
From fear of death.
Why fear what you know must come? Why not embrace it instead? Make death - a death worthy of the word, of the pain, of everything - the goal. Know in your heart that death is the end point.
My goal at least.
He had to be clear with them. He had saved them from one battle - he could not save them forever. Only those willing to follow him into the hell that he chose could come with him. The rest would have to find another way, maybe help the PHL (or seek their protection). Much as he didn't think much of them as a fighting force, Heartstrings sounded like she had a good heart.
"Right," he said. "Time to tell these people the plan."
***
Main dining room.
In the Purity’s old dining room, a large space which had once been full of tables and chairs, now converted to a medical bay, people had gathered to try and heal wounds, and feel safe. Among the crowd of injured people, Angela Crane tutted as her husband cringed in pain, the bandage wrapping around his sprained wrist.
"Stop being such a big baby," she said with a chuckle. "You'll be fine."
"It hurts," Richard said quietly. "Can't you be gentler?"
"I could," Angela chuckled. "Doesn't mean I will though."
Richard sighed. He loved his wife dearly - the two of them had met what felt like a long time ago in a DVD shop, and had gotten together through their shared love of horror movies. She loved gore, he loved classics, and so they compromised with Evil Dead and went on from there.
They'd joined the HLF shortly after the formation of the PHL - the notion of trusting ponies, when conversion was such a nasty and ever present reality, did not sit well with either of them. Lyra Heartstrings was all well and good - most people agreed on that - but ponies as a rule being trusted to save the world? That was not something either Crane was willing to do.
When they'd boarded the Purity, there'd been an assumption that there'd be danger, but it had been better than nothing. The attack had been terrifying…
… and then they'd survived. Thanks to one man.
"Hey look," Angela said, pointing up at the stage. "Is that the guy?"
Richard turned, to see the man in the military coat who he'd seen running around, giving orders as the Purity was attacked. He frowned.
"Yeah, it is," he said. "Wonder what he'll have to say?"
The man tapped a microphone that was up on the stage. When no noise came out, a redheaded man in a brown tweed coat stepped up, reconnecting the wires and then taking a small tool to the microphone. After a moment, noise flared from nearby speakers as the redhead tapped the mic.
"There," the redhead spoke into the mic, his voice echoing through the room. "Sorted for you."
He stepped down, leaving the military-coat wearing man alone on the stage.
"Hello," he said, slightly awkwardly. "My name's Maxi Yarrow."
There was a pause, as the man stood on the upper deck looked like he was thinking of what he wanted to say to them all. Even as they watched, though, the Cranes found themselves listening. Something about the man seemed to draw them - an energy around him. He was… somebody.
***
Joe Rither folded his arms as Yarrow began speaking. He'd listened to all sorts of idiots speechify in his time - maybe this guy would have something better to say, maybe he wouldn't. It was worth listening to if only to find out which it would be.
Joe had often thought of starting his own HLF group. He'd joined the HLF because no one else seemed to be doing anything about the damn pony bullshit. He had seen firsthand how… wrong the Newfoals were (I’m sorry I couldn't save you). But the HLF had quickly proven, rather unfortunately (but all too predictably to Joe), that they were full of idiots who were happy to use it as an excuse for violence.
Still, Joe knew there were more than a few good men in the setup, a few fighters he might be able to take and make something out of. Joe didn't exactly relish the idea of leading, but he hadn't found anyone worth following yet, and after years of fighting shite wars for shite men he'd about given up fighting for people he didn't think were worth the cloth their shiny uniforms were made of. If he was really going to fight again, it was going to be for a real cause, one his family and his ancestors would be proud of.
"Alright," Yarrow began. "I know a lot of you are riding high on that victory. We brought down a Potioneer - that's a big deal. We should be fucking proud of that."
A cheer went up from the crowd, and Joe smirked. That was a good way to start. Appeal to their vanity.
"But," Yarrow said, holding up a hand. "But. We're not done. This war isn't going to be won by bringing down one Potioneer. Hell, I'm not sure it'd be won by bringing down fifty. These pony bastards are going to keep coming."
There was a long pause as he let that sink in. Joe frowned as Yarrow paused. Finally, the other man raised a hand.
"And we'll kill the fucks!"
Another cheer went up at that. Joe smiled slightly. Well, that was a well-used dramatic pause. Joe didn't know much about the mechanics of speeches (eloquent as he was, he’d always been too freewheeling to study what made a ‘good’ speech and what didn't), but he knew what he liked, and he knew what worked.
"We can't win forever," Yarrow continued quietly. "There's no way. But we can win today. We can fight. It's what we’re here to do!"
As he continued, Joe found himself listening more intently. Maybe - just maybe - this man, this Yarrow, might be a man worth following.
***
John Idle stood watching raptly as Yarrow spoke. The man had saved their lives - Idle had no doubt about that. He had some idea of what they should be doing, which was more than anyone else in the HLF had ever seemed to have in Idle’s experience.
"There's a good chance that this is it," Yarrow was saying. "You all feel it - the hammer above our heads, waiting to fall." He paused, looking up at the sky. "There used to be a belief that those who died heroically in battle would end up in Valhalla. That the deeds you performed in life would give you an honourable afterlife. I've always clung to that, even in the darkest of times."
Idle found himself nodding. It was a nice idea. And if the past few months had shown anything, it was that the world they had all known could all burn away in an instant.
"We might not be able to win this war," Yarrow said grimly. "But we can fight it! We can choose to die like heroes instead of skulking and cowering like beaten dogs!"
A cheer rose up from the crowd, and Idle added his own voice to it.
"Follow me!" Yarrow called out to them all. "Follow me into battle! Follow me, and we’ll fight until we can't fight anymore! We’ll ride the road until the road ends!"
"Yarrow!" someone called out. "Yarrow!"
"Yarrow!" another person added, raising a fist in the air.
"Yarrow for Valhalla!" Idle called out, raising his own fist into the air as well. He decided, there and then, that he'd follow this man everywhere.
***
Soon, everyone in the room was yelling cries of exultation and victory - everyone had taken up the name Yarrow, and he stood, an odd look of solemnity on his face at the cries of the soldiers before him.
He had, if he were being honest, mixed feelings. Part of him was feeling the same fierce joy that he could hear in their voices, the same fire in his heart. Right now, he felt like he could take on the entire world: he felt like he could fight the bitch herself and win with these people at his back.
But he knew he couldn't get caught up in that feeling. This wasn't about his joy. This was a solemn responsibility: it was the responsibility. Now he had convinced these people to follow him, he had to be worthy of them, he had to earn the loyalty they were giving him. He had to be worthy of their praise.
There's a long road ahead, he thought to himself. But it’ll be worth it. It has to be.
***
Jacob Levy’s PER Camp, Eastern Europe.
Amadeus Cain looked at himself in the mirror, making certain he looked the best he could. Blue pinstripe suit - impeccable as always, neat and tidy as he could make it. Charcoal pinstripe shirt, buttoned thusly, with a loose black tie. Yes, just so. Finally, the trim black overcoat, looking impeccable as always.
Yes, perfect.
He checked that he’d packed everything he wanted. Knives? Check. A gun? A little bland, a little ordinary, but it would do in case he had to defend himself from people wanting to stymie his art. He sighed as he looked around the quiet PER camp. A bunch of cars, hijacked jeeps and other shite like that. Nothing much. Should have been expected from the artless, really.
There came a point where he couldn’t stand to not say anything, couldn’t stand being around such a… boring group of people. Part of him was tempted to go out with a bang, make a great big piece of artistry that would leave people gaping forever… except that he couldn’t be arsed. Spending time amongst these people had resolutely convinced him that they were all so boring that making art of them could, at best, only produce the mediocre.
Still, that didn’t mean he had to stay. That would just be silly.
"Hey, you!" he heard a voice call. He glanced sideways at the approaching form of Nina Baxter, one of the many idiots who ran with Levy.
"Evenin’," he said blandly. "And how are you?"
"Cain?" Baxter said without preamble. "What are you doing out here?"
"Leaving," Cain said simply.
"Leaving?" Baxter repeated. "What do you mean ‘leaving’?!"
"I mean ‘leaving’," Cain said with a snort. "To depart from, go away from, go from, withdraw from, retire from, take oneself off from, exit from, take one's leave of, pull out of, quit, be gone from, decamp from, disappear from, abandon, vacate, absent oneself from, evacuate…"
"But we need you!" Baxter said, eyes wide. "You can't just go!"
"You're half right," Cain said with a snort. "You need me. But I can ‘just go’."
"But what about our work?!" Baxter asked with an almost horrified expression. "We haven't -"
Cain pulled one of the knives out and stabbed her in the throat. Her eyes bulged from shock and she clutched at the knife, trying to stem the blood. He kept the knife there, an impassive look on his face as she gagged and choked. Suddenly, she slumped, and he retracted the knife as she slid to her knees. He gently lifted a foot and pushed her to the ground away from him.
"Your work’s done," he said. "Bye."
He turned around and moved to go, not even sparing Baxter’s body a glance. What would be the point? She hadn't made for a particularly interesting piece of art, any more than she’d been a particularly interesting conversationalist. There were better, more amusing things ahead.
And he'd find them.
***
Fawklands Islands, June 30th, 2020.
Chalcedony sat on a bench, looking out at the green, slightly damp island. It reminded her of Britain, a bit. Maybe that's why it had been chosen to be the home of the British Diaspora's provisional government.
Sitting here, her mind once again turned to the loss of her home. 'Loss' was a loose term of course - her home was still, physically there, but everything it had stood for…
"So!" a voice came from behind her - a familiar voice. "Once more, I find Miss Chalcedony sat brooding, and me with no progress on my brooding generator."
And just like that, Dr Bowman - red hair, tweed coat, brown corduroy pants and ratty green jumper - sat next to her, arms folded as he leaned back, staring at the sky.
"Doctor," Chalcedony said quietly. "It's good to see you."
On the Illustrious, they had spoken a few times, but he had disappeared once the ship had made port with nothing but a small note saying 'I have things to do, meet up shortly'. She'd been fine with that - she supposed every human had something serious to do in this day and age.
"And you," he said quietly. "Tell you what though, this place is perfect for the diaspora. Small damp islands? 'S like they never left home."
Chalcedony smiled tiredly. "I suppose so." Her smile faded. "Can I help you at all?"
"Possibly," Bowman said, his arms still folded. "I… might be able to get a position in PHL R&D. Strictly on a freelance, 'kinda sorta not really there' basis."
"Why?" Chalcedony asked.
"Because the PHL can help save lives, and I want to help them do that," Bowman replied, shrugging.
"I meant, why only on a 'kinda sorta' basis?" Chalcedony clarified, raising an eyebrow.
Bowman glanced down at her. "Well… that would take a lot of explaining. Suffice to say, there are certain reasons why I shouldn't be here that I'll… make clear in time." He grimaced. "I hate sounding pretentious like that."
Chalcedony frowned. "Ok - so what do you want from me?"
"To know if you'd like to join me," Bowman said, smiling slightly. "I could use help - and you could use a purpose."
Chalcedony frowned. "How do you know I'm -?"
"Qualified?" Bowman asked. "Chalcedony, daughter of Quartz, herself a researcher, and Obsidian, a very specific kind of rock farmer. You're a researcher into obscure magics, primarily focused on rocks, minerals and - especially after the Crystal War - Crystal magic and, in the loosest sense of the word, 'technology'." He smirked. "I've 'read your file' so to speak. The Empire actually wanted you back for their totem-prole projects."
Chalcedony growled. "Totem-proles. Urgh. I only did cursory research before I left Equestria -"
"And in R&D - eventually - you'll have the chance to do more," Bowman said with a smile. "I can guarantee it."
Chalcedony looked out at the sky and the green grass.
"Will I help save Earth?" she asked quietly.
"If this works out? Yes," Bowman said. "And maybe even Equus too."
"I don't think I care about Equus," Chalcedony said with a slight smile. "Not after this."
Bowman leaned forward. "Oh - but you should. Millions of people - ponies - still there. A lot of them either innocents… or brainwashed victims."
Chalcedony sighed. "It's… hard to sympathise."
"I know," Bowman said, nodding. "I know how hard it is. How hard it's always going to be. But if it was easy, it wouldn't be life, now would it?"
Chalcedony closed her eyes. "Maybe not." She sighed. "Alright - so how do we begin?"
Bowman stood up. "We begin with you following me. There's something you need to see."
He headed off and Chalcedony, not even certain why she was thinking about going with this crazy man, followed.
“Who are they? I see them when I close my eyes. They say they know you. They say you made them. They say you're going to kill me.” Alma Wade, F.E.A.R.
“One day, my glass will have something to say about what happened with you out there. My glass saw something…” Distinguished Gentleman, A Box Full Of Joy.
***
The Barrierfall Front, Turkey, July 15th, 2020.
David Elliot yawned slightly, feeling the hours weigh down on him. He was standing guard in a town they were in the process of evacuating: it was a small town, not that impressive. The cold night air and the dim light of the lampposts didn't help.
For the last two days, he’d managed to get maybe half an hour of sleep at best, constantly keeping an eye out for fresh attacks. Moffett had been keeping the squad as energised as he could, letting them have what little off-time they could manage, but they simply didn't have enough troops left on the front to manage a genuine defence anymore.
“Hey, Dave,” a voice said from behind him, as Sam came to sit with him. “How’s it going?”
“I’m knackered and the world is ending, how are you?” David asked sarcastically.
Sam chuckled. “Same. Fuckin’ hell. This is ridiculous, innit?”
David nodded. He turned to look back across the town’s streets, sighing.
“How’s Hoof?” he asked.
“True Grit says his leg’ll be fine,” Sam said with a shrug. “But he's swearing up a storm, apparently.”
“Dammit,” David laughed. “That guy never shuts up.”
“No,” Sam agreed with a smile of his own. It turned into a frown a moment later. “Hey, who’s -”
He pointed out a figure walking down the street. The man wore a suit, blue and stripey, with a long overcoat flapping in the wind. In one hand he held a shotgun.
Quickly, David and Sam aimed their rifles at him.
“Who goes there?!” Sam yelled.
The man dropped his shotgun as he approached them, his hands slowly raising. As he got closer, his face became visible under the dim light of the streetlamps. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his pale skin was almost luminescent. His green eyes darted from David to Sam and back again.
“Hello, gents,” said Amadeus Cain, a nasty grin playing upon his features. “I surrender.”
***
SAS base, Falklands Islands, July 17th, 2020.
If SAS training was hard, it was also rewarding - not in terms of medals or praise, but in the sheer sense of achievement one finally felt when one earned those wings. Still, it was war and they were SAS, special ops whose deeds would likely be buried in secret records for years. No one expected a ceremony when you completed it, especially not now. It was more likely to be the case that they would be thrust straight into battle, life and death.
Harry had never had any illusions that this sort of work would be glamorous - the kind of man that did was the kind of man that was quickly RTU'd - but he was ready to do whatever it took to make things right.
The first time he was called into Captain Edwin Richards’ office for a mission, he felt oddly nervous. This war… it was so unlike anything he’d known before. He shook the jitters off.
Richards’ office was sparse, as Harry might have expected. A few pictures here and there, but most of it was files.
“Hello, Lieutenant Wales,” Richards said quietly as Harry entered. Harry still didn’t feel altogether happy with his new rank, but he accepted it. “We have a mission for your group. Top priority.”
“Yes sir,” Harry said shortly. “What are the details?”
“A squad of troops on the have captured Amadeus Cain,” Richards said shortly. “Word is, he surrendered without a fight.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Cain surrendered without a fight? Unlikely.”
“Nonetheless,” Richards said grimly. “I want you to take your squad and rendezvous with them at the Barrierfall Front. The two teams will take Cain to an LZ in Israel.”
“That's a bit of a distance from the Barrierfall front,” Harry pointed out. “Why not dispatch a helicopter and take him directly to a PHL base in the US?”
“Cain’s a priority target,” Richards replied simply. “And we think he has connections to Levy. We’ve subtly leaked that Cain’s in our custody in order to draw Levy out.”
Harry flexed his fists. “Levy. Alright. I take it we have permission to engage him with maximum prejudice if he shows his ugly face.”
Fairport, Armacham Perseus Compound. July 17th, 2020.
Two figures stood in a waiting room, waiting (funnily enough) for a pair of inspectors from PHL R&D who were coming to speak to them about a project. One was a youngish man, shaven-headed and bearded, with a wide-eyed expression seemingly permanently on his face and a smart suit on under a labcoat. The other was an older man, grey haired, with a thick, bristly moustache, a scruffy flannel shirt under his labcoat.
“So who is this inspector?” the younger man, Dr Prentice, asked. “Some F.E.A.R lackey?”
“Something like that,” the older man, Harlan Wade, said with a frown as he looked over a clipboard. “Have you been running these readings every day like I asked?”
“Yeah, Harlan, of course,” Prentice said with his own, slightly confused, frown. “Dunno why they're that important, though. There hasn't been a sign of synchronicity since -”
“Quiet,” Harlan snapped irritably, before his expression softened. “Don't want to worry the idiots about the possibility just yet.”
“But… there isn't a possibility, is there?” Prentice asked.
Harlan raised an eyebrow. “If you don't think there is, you haven't been here long enough, kid. There's a reason we don't go to the Origin facility.”
Prentice was silent for a long moment. “So, the rumours about the Origin facility…”
“Aren't total bullshit, no,” Harlan said blandly. “Which is why I keep an eye on Fettel’s telesthenic signature. Any abnormalities could be a sign of synchronicity.”
“F.E.A.R’s inspections are a means to an end,” Harlan said with a snort. “Aristide bought their Colonel: much as some people like deriding us, we’re still damn-near top of the range. It’s not like anybody else markets laser weaponry, anyway. Their Colonel overlooks the Replica program’s continued existence and doesn't let the top-brass know it's still ongoing. Way I see it, it's win-win.”
Prentice nodded, frowning. “Y’know, I lost a lotta respect for Davis for that.”
Harlan frowned. “For what?”
“Trying to close down the Replica program,” Prentice clarified. “‘This Program is immoral and inhumane’ - I mean, come on, who’d he rather was out there dying? Our guys, our friends, or the fucking clone bastards?”
There was a bitter edge to his voice that made Harlan look up from the clipboard for a moment. “Personal experience?”
“Sister,” Prentice said bluntly. “Barrierfall front.”
Harlan nodded. “I understand.”
“Yeah,” Prentice said tightly. He looked at a wall, a sneer twisting his lips. “‘She died a hero’. Fancy way of sugarcoating the fact that they had to put a bullet in her. Closed casket funeral. Fuckin’ potion. Died a grotesquery, and I’m not even sure she died herself. Don’t want to know.”
Harlan looked back at the clipboard. “Look on the bright side, Prentice. We’re making the most expendable army in the world. One day, there won't be a need for any more dead heroes, thanks to us.”
“Yeah,” Prentice said with a nod. “The Replica don't have family. Poor test-tube motherfuckers.”
There came a tense silence. Harlan glanced at his watch.
“How long does it take a goddamn inspector to get here, anyway?” he pondered aloud. “We’ve got work to do -”
Almost in answer to his comment, the door to the waiting room opened. First through was the steel-haired, square jawed figure of Marshall Disler. The tanned, faintly Hispanic man had always been a stern figure, but he was also, as Harlan knew, reasonable. With him were two other guards in Armacham Security uniforms, carrying RPL SMGs, their sunglasses-and-cap uniforms still seeming slightly ridiculous.
Finally, there were two figures that could only have been the inspectors.
One was a grey Unicorn mare with her mane in a ponytail and a tired expression. She was wearing a labcoat with an ID badge on it. The man she was with was tall, youngish, redheaded and had a soft smile that somehow didn't reach his warm hazel eyes. He wore a dark brown velvet jacket over a white dress-shirt and a black waistcoat, and the ensemble was finished off with a pair of corduroy trousers and a pair of black boots.
“Hello,” the man said, holding out a hand. “I’m Doctor Bowman, but you can call me the Doctor. This is Chalcedony, my -”
“- friend,” the Unicorn finished, glancing at him with a smirk. “Also a colleague.”
“Also a magnificent chess-player,” Bowman added. “Though dreadful at bridge.”
“I only lost twice,” Chalcedony pointed out with a frown.
“We’ve only played three times,” Bowman retorted. “And the second time we got interrupted.”
Chalcedony sighed, before turning to look at Harlan. “Colonel Munro sent us to do a quick tour of the facility, see what was what and make sure it’s all in order.”
Harlan nodded, apparently unfazed by the two’s… eccentric manner.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “Shall we begin with the Replica?”
***
They were stood in a half-empty warehouse on the compound premises, each and every one of them stood in an almost lax position. Each was tall, broad and intimidating, clad in all-enclosing soft Kevlar armour and wearing full-face helmets.
“These are our Variant VI models,” Prentice said blandly as he walked among the figures. “Right now they're in ‘rest’ mode. No psychic commander attached.”
Doctor Bowman glanced at Prentice before looking over the Replica, his eyes taking in every detail.
“We’ll likely be switching to the Variant VII equipment for all of these,” Harlan said as he watched the Doctor’s progress, a frown on his wrinkled features. “Their equipment is slightly more fit-for-purpose when fighting Newfoals. Tougher armour, more airtight in the right spots. Solid plate’s useful against the sort of spears and close-combat this war’s turning into, as well.”
“Good looking stuff,” Bowman said quietly. “Might even be runically modifiable if we needed to.”
“Possibly,” Chalcedony said with a shrug. “I’d have to borrow a set at some point to be sure. Maybe poke it a bit.”
Harlan frowned, looking between the two of them. “I’m sorry - runically modifiable?”
“It's a theory that R&D are running with,” Bowman said lazily.
Harlan nodded slowly. “‘Need-to-know’, I take it.”
“Isn't everything?” Chalcedony asked with an ironic smile.
“I see your point,” Harlan said with a nod. “If you like, I can arrange for a set of Mark VII gear to be in the next set of deliveries to F.E.A.R HQ.”
“Please,” Bowman said brightly. He sniffed, still looking around. “What’s the smell, by the way?”
“Smell?” Harlan asked.
Bowman looked at him, then smiled. “Never mind. Might just be something in the air conditioning.”
He said nothing more, and Harlan shrugged.
“Alright,” he said. “From here, we can go look at the REV mechs and EPAs. We’ve been working on some altered Enhanced Power Armours for -”
“What about your Harbinger program?” Bowman asked, folding his arms. “I’ve heard rumours of lots of different people being tested or mooted as Harbinger candidates for months now. Marcus Renee, Porter Stanley, Michael Becket, Cedric Griffin, Stephan Bauer, Steve Chen, Harry Munro Jnr, Yael Ze’ev, David Elliot, Samantha Yarrow…”
“Harbinger is a sensitive program,” Harlan said, interrupting his flow of names. “I’m not entirely certain it falls under your purview.”
“A lot of things fall under my purview,” Bowman said with a slight smile. “And Chalcedony will tell you, the amount that the Harbinger process could be helpful to us is…”
“The actual modifications produce top-tier psychic commanders with excellent reflexes and improved strength, stamina and response times, which coupled with advancements we’re working on at R&D, could produce significantly improved troops,” Chalcedony said blandly. At Wade’s surprised look, she shrugged. “I happen to know a fair bit about the process from previous forays into Armacham’s project line. We have a few extended notes available to us at F.E.A.R.”
Harlan growled slightly. “I see. Well, in that case, we can explore what little we have of the Harbinger program here. A separate visit would have to be arranged to explore the Harbinger facility itself -”
“I would love to arrange that,” Bowman said with a grin. “Now - giant mechs, yes?”
***
HLS Purity, Briefing Room, July 18th, 2020.
A group of men and women were stood in the briefing room - formerly a lounge - on the Purity. The room was spacious, the fittings mostly intact (albeit not perfect), and the chairs were leather. It was, all in all, not a bad show.
Despite this, though, none of them were entirely comfortable. These people had very little in common, save that most of them had little armbands on with the letters HLF printed on them in white, and some had even had metal badges made. That being said, being surrounded by strangers was not a fun experience, and the amount of paranoia in the room was enough to make grown men weep. Nobody in here liked ponies too much, and they were all HLF, and the man that organized this had hoped that would be enough.
It wasn’t.
It turned out that all the hatred for the end the world did a piss-poor job of breaking down all the other little hatreds - the room was full of communists, objectivists, people from all over the great spectrum of human opinion. And most of them didn’t like each other.
“What the fuck is taking so long?” a blonde man with a ponytail asked in a strong Irish accent. “I've places to be.”
“Agreed,” a man with a flower painted on his otherwise black military-grade armour said, his arms folded. “This seems a larger risk than I would deem worth our while.”
“And those would be…” asked a frenchman with muttonchop sideburns that looked less like sideburns and more like a beard that had been shaved down the middle. He looked bored.
A man in light kevlar with a red beret on held up a hand. “Come on. Listen to Janvier. Patience is a virtue. The war’s not going anywhere.”
“No, but the fucking Barrier is!” the Irishman said. “Britain and Ireland are gone, and here I am waiting for this feckin’ ‘Yarrow’ bastard to -”
“Calm down, O’Donnell,” the flower-armoured man said, holding up a hand. “Despite the risk, Janvier and Soren are right. We’ll soon find out what this is about.”
A few minutes later, a man walked in: he was shaven headed, tattooed and bearded, wearing a long green military coat, and he looked at the group with appraising eyes. He had no armband - a symbol, faintly Nordic, was painted on his under-armour, with the letters HLF beneath it.
“Hello,” he said to the group, nodding at everyone. “I’m Yarrow. I’m glad you've come.”
His eyes glanced along the assembled men and women.
“It’s good to see so many of you here,” he said after a moment. “Rock Riders, Skydivers, Kraken Grenadiers, Sons of Macha, Menschabwehrfraktion, Chimeras, Taskforce Paris, Thenardier Guard… Kevin…”
The flower-armoured man nodded once.
“Who are you again?” the Frenchman asked. His nametag read ‘Louissaint’. Three people stood behind him - an androgynous youth, their femininity not adequately shown by their military dress, a rail-thin scotsman with lank ginger hair, a scraggly little half-beard, and an ugly burn on half of his face, and a hazel-eyed man with his head shaved on both sides of his skull, leaving an almost mohawk-like patch.
“Kevin,” the flower-armoured man said shortly.
“Oh come on, everyone knows Kevin - don't you know Kevin?” the man with the red beret said.
“Oh, I’ve seen him around!” the androgynous youth said.
“No you haven’t,” Kevin sighed.
“...I just wanted you to feel better,” the youth said, dejected.
“Appreciated,” Kevin said blandly.
“Get to the point,” a surly looking man said. “Is this a traveling circus-” he cast a glare over at the youth, who made an oddly feline hiss at him - “Or a serious meeting?”
Birch drew himself up to his full, somewhat unimpressive height. “Colonel Grant is busy preparing for various secret Thenardier Guard operations, which require his full attention. He sends his… apologies.”
The little sneer that accompanied that word left no illusions about what Aeron Grant actually meant.
“Which we appreciate,” Yarrow said shortly. He looked to address the entire table. “I've brought you all here because this war is about to hit the fan. Because the HLF has been splintered, and we can't afford that.”
“Who says we can't afford it?” Birch asked. “You?”
“Shut up, Birch,” Kevin said, not raising his voice but somehow sounding commanding anyway. “Let him speak.”
“Don’t you people have better things to do?” Birch sighed.
“I’m going to with noooooo?” asked the Frenchman with muttonchops.
Yarrow nodded his thanks to Kevin as Birch crossed his arms petulantly. The others there looked at Yarrow expectantly.
“Alright,” Yarrow said. “I've counted - I've about six hundred fighters under my command. Most of the rest of you are running with numbers between two and eight hundred. Soren Hagen, you’ve got - what, four hundred?”
“Three,” the man with the red beret said. “Lost a few in an engagement with the Empire.”
“Still,” Yarrow said. “Kevin’s got a hundred or so, the Rock Riders -”
“We’ve got fifty six,” the surly looking woman said.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Packer,” Yarrow said. “So what - that sort of number, times by - what, twenty of us? Think about that.”
There was a pause as his words sunk in.
“Thousands,” a dark-skinned, muscly man with a little anchor pinned to his HLF armband said. “Easily. Maybe nine, ten thousand? Unite a few of the roving lot, maybe recruit some more ready people, that’ll up quickly.”
“Quite right,” Yarrow said. “There's thousands of battle-ready troops under our command, and that's a force the Empire'd have trouble reckoning with, magic or no magic.”
“All due respect,” the Frenchman said, “but most guns are fucking useless against Empire. A lot of these groups would need a serious upgrade, or they'd just be a few thousand bodies for new Newfoals.” He shrugged at some of the foul looks he got. “Saying it like it is.”
Yarrow nodded. “I’ve thought about that - I used to know people in Armacham - there's tech that’d set us evenly against the Empire. Mechs and armour and guns that’d be more than capable of taking the bastards on. All we’d need is to get them: money, bribes, promises, whatever it took. Then - boom. We’re in this game.”
“So you're suggesting uniting forces?” asked a man with a taut, pinched face, a considering frown on his face. He had eyes of an odd no-color - not quite blue, not quite gray. This was Helmetag, leader of the Menschabwehrfraktion.
“Are you sure that’s advisable, Gregor?” asked a man standing behind him. He had bronze-colored curly hair that he looked to imagine was a mane, but looked more like a mop. An old, battered Russian Army body armor vest read ‘Lovikov’.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” the pinched man said. “What Yarrow here is talking about, Leonid, is unification. Do I like most of the people here? Not likely. But what we need is a united force. Most of our petty problems can wait.”
“It's the only way we can make any progress,” Yarrow said with a nod. “If we stop focusing on little fights, and unite against the common enemy -”
“The feckin’ gluesticks y’mean?” O’Donnell asked, narrowing his eyes.
“The Empire ones, yes,” Yarrow said grimly. “They're our enemies: they're the primary threat.”
“He's not wrong,” Kevin said shortly. “The Empire’s the one to contend with - potioneers, the Barrier, Guards…”
“What about the PHL?” Packer asked, scowling. “We need to think about how we’re gonna deal with them.”
“Not an issue,” Yarrow said dismissively.
A few of the present individuals looked dubious at that pronouncement.
“What,” Janvier of Taskforce Paris said.
“Did I stutter?” Yarrow asked.
“I wish you had,” Janvier said.
O’Donnell scowled. “All of the ponies are issues. They're all our enemy.”
This brought out more cheers and murmurs of approval than Yarrow would be comfortable admitting to have heard.
“Heartstrings isn't,” Yarrow said, frowning right back at O’Donnell. “Right now, her PHL isn't much, but it needn't be our enemy. Hell, they might even figure something out -”
“We don't need them to figure something out. We can,” Helmetag said, cutting him off. “It’s the apocalypse. Last time the world was in the middle of a war that could lead to the death of, well… all things, people came together and thought it out.”
“Without any knowledge or textbooks on the subject?” Soren asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Helmetag said.
“If you haven’t noticed, we don’t have government backing,” Yarrow said. “Or a vast cabal of scientists.”
“We should be, though,” Louissaint said. “We can be. In America, plenty of government officials would support us. I mean, plenty of them are practically slaves to the people that we hire. We’d-”
“Goleman is a fool, and he’s doomed,” Gregor said.
“What?” Yarrow asked. He hadn’t heard this yet.
“I got here early,” Gregor said. “Before Europe was gone, honestly. But Goleman is doomed. I don’t know why, but the PHL offered them more than we could.”
“It’s because ponies know more about magic than us,” Yarrow said, speaking with the cadence of somebody who knew they were going through hell and also knew they had to keep going. “They know magic. We don’t, and the thing we want gone is made of goddamn magic. I -”
“Oh,” Lovikov interrupted. “Pardon me,” he said, with the implication that he was choking back a string of profanity that would not just peel the paint off the Purity’s walls but melt it, “For being. The. slightest. Bit. SUSPICIOUS?!”
Yarrow didn’t bat an eye at his screaming, save for a slight raised eyebrow.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being FUCKING UNREASONABLE for thinking I don’t trust another ‘humanitarian’ organization run by ponies,” Lovikov said. “I have had. Enough. Of. That. Shit. Next they’ll have guns, they’ll be as big as, bigger than any military.”
“Not now,” Lovikov said, cutting him off. “I’ve had enough of that sort of thing.”
“You want to be paranoid, that's your business,” Yarrow said.
“It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” Gregor said. “My adjutant raises good points.”
“The PHL haven't made moves, the Empire has,” Yarrow said, sounding impatient. “You want to talk distrust now, with the Barrier advancing across the world?! Tell me - when there's a train coming towards you, high speed, do you worry whether the shifty looking guy on the other side of the tracks might blackmail you, or do you move out of the way of the train and worry about him afterwards?”
There was a long pause at this, and a few of those present looked at each other, uncomfortable. They knew what he meant, even if they didn't want to.
“If the person - no, the goddamn thing driving the train has a history of spattering people against the front of the engine, and enjoying it,” O’Donnell said, “and the one by the side of the tracks is the same as the goddamn thing which also has said history… then yes.”
“What,” a shaven-headed woman said.
“Look,” O’Donnell said. “Name any one person here who doesn’t have a friend that hasn’t been tricked to their death - or worse - by one of the fucking gluesticks.”
Everybody looked at each other uneasily. Lovikov looked at Helmetag mournfully, somewhat uneasily. At which point, Kevin cocked his head, confused.
“Doesn't change my point,” Yarrow said, scowling. “The thing driving the train will kill you if you don't move immediately, and the other thing doesn't need to do a thing to help it. The Empire is going to destroy the world, unless we fight them. The PHL - at worst, they're playing a long game, and we can deal with them if it comes to that, if we’re alive and human to do it after the Empire’s done. At best, they might actually be what they say they are. Either way - we need to prioritise.”
“Why don't you fuck off, Yarrow?” Birch snapped after a moment.
“Birch, careful,” Helmetag warned.
“No, this is bullshit!” Birch said, his face red with anger. “All the fucking geldos are our enemy, and all of the fucking horse-fucking bastards who help them!” He turned to the others. “We can't stop until every one of those pony bastards and their human collaborators are gone! We can't let them have even a minute to themselves! We’re the only ones who know the truth, the only ones who -!”
“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” another woman, shaven headed and pale, yelled, her voice unexpectedly resonant.
The room went quiet for a second.
“Is that… is that good? Are we good?” she asked.
Nobody answered for a good long moment.
“...Excuse me?” Yarrow asked.
“You,” the woman said, “And me. We’re all going to die. We’re going to die like my uncle, who habitually wore a pin that read ‘I have seen the future,’ right up until he shot himself during the Three Weeks of Blood, half-converted, and the pin got drenched in his own viscera.”
“This seems… needlessly pessimistic,” Janvier said.
“I don’t know,” Helmetag said. “I like her so far.”
“And yet,” Yarrow said, “that's what’ll happen, unless we join forces. She has a point. What’s your name, Ms…”
“MacMurdo,” the woman said. “Andrea MacMurdo.”
“Then listen to me, Andrea MacMurdo,” Yarrow said softly.
“I don’t have to,” Andrea said. “You were thinking this from the moment we got in here: ‘We’re all going to die.’ God’s sakes, Yarrow. You brought a man that employs Viktor Kraber here, in your homebase. That’s not a recipe for agreement, but… but we can make it work. Maybe. But not any later.”
Yarrow considered this, then nodded.
“I believe we can make this work, here, now, today,” he said shortly. “If only because we have no other option. Unified, we’ll be strong. When we’re a force of little nothing's that can be picked off one by one, hiding information from one another and treating everything else like the enemy - that's when we’re going to die.”
“That’ll never happen!” Lovikov interjected, and Helmetag nodded along, a look of fierce agreement on his face.
“Tell me, Birch, how many men does your Colonel - Aeron Grant? - have?” Yarrow asked blandly.
Birch looked uncomfortable. “That's classified.”
Yarrow spread his arms wide. “We’re all HLF here.”
Birch still didn't say anything. Yarrow folded his arms. Helmetag looked at Birch like he was mad.
“We’re HLF, Birch,” he said. “There are no traitors here.”
“All the same,” Birch said slowly. “I am not at liberty to divulge the Thenardier Guards military disposition.”
“See my point?” Yarrow asked.
“Fuck you,” Birch snapped. “Just because I’m not comfortable divulging military secrets -”
“But you're comfortable hearing our numbers,” Soren said with a scowl. “C’mon, Birch. What's the Thenardier Guard packing?”
“It doesn't matter,” Birch said. “You're talking about letting some of the gluesticks live. That's not what we’re about!”
“Oh? ‘Kill all the ponies’, is it?” Yarrow asked.
“Fucking right!” Birch yelled. A couple of others nodded agreement with him.
“Yeah, what then? When you've killed the lot of them, what's your plan then?” Yarrow asked. “Even if we somehow presume that the government backed PHL don’t wipe out whatever number of troops you have, even if we presume that in your zeal to kill every pony you don’t turn us all into targets and get the HLF wiped out, what about after? When you've killed the only experts on magic who might have helped us, and the Barrier’s swallowed the rest of the world and left you with nothing, what will killing all of them have achieved? When you've got no troops but a handful, no guns but antiques, and no hope, what's the plan for any kind of positive outcome going to be?!”
“What's your plan, then, Mr Maxi-pad Yarrow?” Birch retorted. There was a sharp intake of breath at his audacity.
“To fight,” Yarrow said immediately, not missing a beat. “To organise our thousands, arm them, and send them in the direction of the real enemy instead of letting them waste ammo, men and resources killing anything with four hooves they can see! To let the PHL make their magic guns and, if we prove we’re willing to put aside our differences, to get a share in that!”
“The PHL -” Birch began.
“Don't you get it?” Yarrow said. “They're not our enemy! They could even help us, if we let them!”
“Yarrow,” Helmetag said with a frown, “even if we did unite, the PHL are… well, a lot of our people don't trust ponies. Not after all of this.”
“Besides,” Birch said, “Mike’s got a plan -”
“Does he?” Yarrow asked, raising an eyebrow. “What is his plan, exactly?”
“Careful, Yarrow,” O’Donnell said with a scowl. “You're talking about our leader.”
“I’m talking about the man who took a support group from under the Reverend and turned it into splinters to poke the Empire with, governments and other authorities be damned,” Yarrow said angrily. His face softened. “I get Mike’s pain. I do. God knows, we’ve all lost a lot…”
Everyone paused, thinking about whatever personal tragedies were driving them at this point.
“But the man’s not got a plan,” Yarrow continued. “At best he's got a desire to go out there and personally strangle everything on four hooves, and the drive to get a lot of folks to follow him.”
“Isn't that enough?” the Scotsman asked. “We keep fighting -”
“Fighting the wrong people, and fighting without a plan, is stupid,” Yarrow said sharply. “Like I said - I get why he's angry. But it's gonna take a lot of folks to hell and nowhere else.”
“No, you’re gonna take a lot of folks to hell,” Birch said with a sneer. “Helping the PHL’s tantamount to walking into a Bureau.”
“You're a paranoid idiot, Birch,” Soren Hagen said with a smirk. “Say what you like about ponies. Heartstrings talks about the Bureaus like they're worse than the fuckin’ devil.”
“‘Course she does, she’s a fucking liar,” Birch insisted. “Celestia sounded pretty convincing too, remember?!”
There was a murmur of acknowledgement - he did have a point.
“If Heartstrings becomes a problem, it's one we’re equipped to deal with better united, given that she has major government backing and we don't, thanks in part to some people in this room,” Yarrow declared. “And in the meantime, the real threat is clear.”
“And just who,” Packer asked, “do you think should be leading this unified HLF? Mike’s in jail -”
“It's obvious isn't it?” Birch said with a sneer. “He thinks he should do it.”
Yarrow shook his head. “That's not what I’m saying at all -”
“But it is,” Birch insisted. “You think you're better than us, better than Mike Carter.”
“And he would be,” MacMurdo said.
Birch turned towards MacMurdo so quickly that Yarrow swore he heard something crack. “Excuse me?”
“And because of that, the gluesticks and horsefuckers get just what they deserve,” Lovikov said.
“No,” Yarrow said. “What I think MacMurdo’s saying is that… that Carter does not ‘switch off,’ so to speak, and he wants everything to suffer. He doesn't care about winning. Not even about surviving. He just wants to kill everything pony he can before he dies.”
“And this is a bad thing how exactly?” Helmetag asked.
Everyone stared at him.
“Look, everyone would expect Leonid to say that,” Helmetag said.
“No I…” Lovikov started. His voice trailed off.
“That’s what I thought,” Helmetag said. “Just playing devil’s advocate here. Why, from a psychologist’s perspective, is it bad that he doesn’t ‘switch off’?”
“Because he doesn’t detach himself from what he’s doing. The violence. The collateral damage. He doesn’t think of the way to solve a problem,” Yarrow said, surprised at the anger in his voice. Oh, he’d known people like that. People who’d seen their job as an excuse. How he had hated them. “He doesn't care about winning the w-”
“BULLSHIT!” the hazel-eyed frenchman yelled.
“Then why’s he attacking everything, making everyone hate the HLF, Janvier?!” Yarrow snapped. “Tell me. What are Carter’s plans for surviving. How’s he going to take down the Barrier? Is he expecting to suddenly have the Barrier stop at an island in the Pacific and murder his way through the postwar? He doesn't care about surviving this. He cares about hurting things before he dies. He doesn't care about the future, or about fighting to save the future. He thinks it's already done. Hell, I don't even think he thinks that. He doesn't think. He's the last person who should be leading fighting soldiers! He's the last person who should be leading anyone!”
He stood, breathing heavily for a few seconds.
“My old drill sergeant told me that we’d solve problems. That we’d think of the best way to fix a problem. Carter. Doesn’t. Do. That,” Yarrow said. “He’s just a killer.”
“Fuck off!” Birch yelled. “You think that you know best - of course you want to lead this glorious ‘unified HLF’ shit you're spewing!” He slammed his fist onto the table. “News flash, asshole! The HLF is unified, in the common goal of ridding the world of geldos and collaborating shits like you!”
In a flash, he’d brought a pistol out and aimed it at Yarrow, and Packer followed suit. At the same time, though, Soren and Kevin brought sidearms out and aimed them at Birch, and another two or three of the leaders did the same. More aimed guns at them. MacMurdo and the man with the anchor pin aimed guns at those people, and a couple more followed suit, until the entire room was aiming guns at everyone else, except for Yarrow and Helmetag. Even Lovikov was aiming a pistol at Soren.
“So,” Yarrow said calmly. “Is this what the HLF is going to do? Are we all just going to kill ourselves, right here - not just with these guns, but with our decisions? Are we going to decide to remain divided, to shoot at the wrong people? Because that's what I mean. We’re divided. We don't need to be. Despite our differences, we’re all human. All of us want to stay that way. Any differences we have aren't important.”
“He's got a point,” Soren said, his gun aimed now at Packer. She scowled.
“I said Mike has a plan, and I meant it,” Birch said. “And if he doesn't, if somehow you're right, then Colonel Grant does.”
There was a long pause.
“Wasn't he the one calling himself ‘AtlasGalt2k14’ on the forums?” Kevin asked blandly, his gun still trained on Birch’s face.
There was no answer to that particular non-sequitur.
Yarrow held up a hand. As one, the people aiming guns for him lowered them. Then the rest did (Lovikov only at a glare from Helmetag), until only Birch was aiming a gun.
“Well?” Yarrow asked. “What's it to be, John? You kill me, one of my men kills you on the way off?”
Birch lowered his gun. “Colonel Grant will never go for your bullshit. I know I won’t.”
“Then you tell ‘AtlasGalt2k14’ that he’s going to die alone,” Yarrow said shortly. “And any of the rest of you who don't agree. That's not a threat. It's a prediction. Alone, we’re nothing but a bunch of little armies running around shooting at PER ‘til something comes along that we can't kill. Only together can we do anything meaningful.”
The room was silent for a long time. Finally, Birch spat on the floor and stormed out. A moment later, Packer followed him, and the members of Taskforce Paris, and a few others.
Lovikov left, at a gesture from Helmetag. Helmetag himself moved to go, but stopped by Yarrow first.
“I can see what you're trying to do,” he said quietly, “and I think I might even be interested. But not today.”
“Today might be all we get,” Yarrow said.
Helmetag shrugged. “In any case - I have some information you might find useful. A particular target has come into PHL custody, according to a friend of mine on the Barrierfall Front, and he's going to be moved.”
“What target?” Yarrow asked.
“Amadeus Cain,” Helmetag said, scowling slightly. “Given the value, his being transported will not be a simple matter. The PER might try something.”
Yarrow nodded. “I see.”
Helmetag took out a small piece of paper. “Everything I know about the matter. I’m only sorry I can't help more.”
He left. Soon, only a few leaders were left in the room - Soren, Kevin, the man with the anchor, a bald man with a red stripe on his armour, MacMurdo, a pair of younger men with green hoods, and maybe a few others.
“Surprised to see some of you staying here,” Yarrow commented, leaning against the table heavily. “I thought that particular meeting was something of a disaster.”
“Meeting's not over yet, Maxi,” Kevin pointed out. “We’re all still here. And we’re listening.”
Yarrow raised his head. “Is that so?”
“I don't trust ponies, but I think you've got a point, Yarrow,” Soren said slowly. “No point worrying about might be’s when there’s a real threat on the horizon.”
“I think there's a lot of potential in uniting forces,” the man with the anchor added.
“I’m glad some of us do, Ducane,” Yarrow said with a wry grin.
“I see the potential,” the man with the red stripe said, “but there's a lot of questions. You said you didn't mean for you to be in charge - what did you mean?”
Yarrow sighed. “To begin with - every unit, for the moment, would continue individual actions. But with a more unified HLF, we’d be able to coordinate. Act less like a bunch of little groups running around and more like an army.”
The red striped man nodded. “Alright. I can get behind that. So we carry on our own actions but coordinate with other groups, keep each other informed?”
“Aye,” Yarrow said. “That way, to begin with, we can support one another.”
“Alright,” Kevin said, as blandly as anything. “So how can we support you?”
Yarrow smiled. Here was progress. He could smell it. He looked the little piece of paper in his hands over.
“Well for a start,” he said, “does anyone have any helicopters?”
MacMurdo grinned. “I have helicopters. I've got ten of them - stolen military grade that got abandoned at the start of the war, or else my girls brought them with them. Me and my Valkyries are experts with them.”
Yarrow grinned. “Alright. Then we’ve got a plan.”
***
F.E.A.R HQ. July 18th, 2020.
Doctor Bowman was sat opposite Chalcedony, thinking. She still didn't know him very well, but she knew him well enough to know that the expression he was pulling was not one she should be happy to see.
“What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.
He blinked, looking at her as though he’d forgotten she was there. He smiled.
“About Armacham,” he said honestly. “ATC has a lot of secrets. Some they keep more buried than others.”
“The same could be said for most megacorps,” Chalcedony pointed out. “From what I can tell, there aren't many companies out there that don’t have big secrets.”
“None of them are quite like Armacham’s,” the Doctor said grimly. “I've seen too much stuff to think that they're simply hiding dodgy tax deals. For example, there’s whatever they have under the Auburn district in Fairport.”
“Something’s under Fairport?” Chalcedony asked with a frown. “What?”
“I don't know,” the Doctor said, though there was a slightly suspicious edge to his voice. “Whatever it is, it isn't good. In fact, it's so far beyond it that I’m not sure where poetic understatement would be. Then there's the Replica, and the weapons they've got. The psychic commanders. Harbinger. It's all so…”
“Unpleasant?” Chalcedony suggested.
“More than that,” the Doctor said, shaking his head.
“Like what?” Chalcedony asked.
“Harbinger isn't a program to be sniffed at,” the Doctor said quietly. “They've been planning it for years. A lot of the names they've got down for it have been down for a lot longer than this war, and you can bet they weren't planning on getting the participants’ permission if they didn't need to.” He paused. “No, there's something off about all of this.”
“So what do we do?” Chalcedony asked.
“‘Do’?” the Doctor repeated. “We ‘do’ nothing. Armacham has a part to play, and we can't interfere in that. All we can do is keep an eye on it, aim it in the general direction of the Empire…”
“Can we do that?” Chalcedony asked.
“Why not?” the Doctor asked. “Hope it doesn’t… how to put it…”
“Fuck us over later?” Chalcedony asked.
The Doctor frowned. “Language. But yes.” He sighed. “Ah, so many balls to juggle, and never enough time…”
“What does that mean?” Chalcedony asked.
“That we have a long way to go,” the Doctor said quietly. “A long way.”