***

When We Needed Him Most.

London. January 26th. 2030.

An explosion rocked the ground, shaking the entire area. Elliot stumbled slightly, cursing as more of St Paul’s fell away, the old masonry succumbing to hours of bombardment.

“Hell Blazer!” he yelled into his earpiece. “Are you clear yet?!”

“No!” he heard the scouse-accented voice of his friend over the comms. “We need another six minutes!”

“I don’t know if I can give you that!” Elliot yelled.

He had been fighting for hours. His body was burning, muscles aching as he swung the heavy blade Excalibur again and again. All around him were the bodies of humans, Resistance ponies and the Converted and Royal Guard forces that had attacked them. Spell wounds, bullet holes and lacerations were the norm: this had been brutal. He had started this battle with something like one hundred volunteers, Resistance and human alike. Now, he was alone - the others were dead, or in some cases worse than dead (I’m sorry, Jan). All that was left here was him, standing on the top of St Paul’s stairs, hacking away at the horde as they charged him - he couldn’t keep this up forever. His body was on fire, nerves firing away everywhere, screaming at him to ohGodstop... but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The evacuees needed him to hold this line, and so he would. One last time.

Another piece of the masonry fell down. Elliot grinned, despite the hopelessness of the situation. Here he was, fighting for the last of humanity in front of one of the greatest symbols of Britain left.

Fitting, he thought, for a last battle.

“There’s still time for you to try and get clear!” Hell Blazer said. “We can have fire support gunships to you in…”

“No!” Elliot yelled, coughing slightly as he hacked another Royal Guardspony down. “I have to do this, it’s the only way to buy us a fighting chance!”

“Dave,” Hell Blazer said softly, but Elliot ignored him.

“Is this all you have!” the Avatar yelled at the approaching hordes of ponies. He spun his blade and cut another two down in a single strike, before unleashing a single wave of energy outwards that sent dozens sprawling. He took a breath.

“Right then,” he said. “Going dark, John.”

“Dave…” he heard his friend say. “Good luck.”

“And to you,” he replied. And then he let go.

A bright, all consuming light flooded the streets of London, as a great pillar of light as bright as the sun burst into existence atop the steps of the old cathedral. From that pillar stepped a figure - tall, silver-armoured, with long black hair flowing in the sun and fiery eyes, grim and unstoppable. The Avatar of Albion was here, one last time.

“Ponies of Equestria!” he yelled to the oncoming hordes as they charged. The horde seemed to stand still, as if waiting for his words. “Your death is nigh, unless you stand down and flee this place now!”

“You’re bluffing!” somepony yelled. An orange Pegasus with a purple mane stepped forward, dressed in all the best Royal Guard finery. His voice was young, brave and determined. “We’ve defeated you, you monster! Your armies are gone, your allies have fled, and we control this city! It’s you who should stand down!”

“Flash Sentry of Equestria,” the Avatar said, narrowing his eyes at the great pony commander. “Thou art brave, but thou art a fool. Thou art facing a foe thy magics and thy bravery cannot defeat. Leave now or die.” He snorted, a soft grin growing on his face. “If you test me… you will fail.”

“He’s bluffing!” Sentry yelled back to his army. “He’s alone, one man against the might of Her Majesty’s armies! Nothing can stand before us now - for the honour of Equestria, charge!”

Emboldened, the armies of Equestria charged. Sighing at the futility of their deaths, the Avatar gripped his blade tighter.

“So be it,” he said quietly. “You have chosen your own fates.”

He pointed the blade of Excalibur towards the ground and planted it in the concrete, the blade cracking the stonework as it embedded itself there. He closed his eyes. A golden glow began forming all around him, ever expanding in intensity as the hordes of Equestria’s forces charged him. The glow grew brighter and brighter, and still they charged, but as they reached him, Flash Sentry and his advance guard slowed… and then they noticed something wrong. Before their very eyes, the light washed over them, waves and waves of energy flowing around them, through them, past them. Flash Sentry was the first to notice, and he closed his eyes - and then they could all feel it, an itching, tingling sensation. It felt like columns of ants were marching over their bodies, an unbearable feeling.

Suddenly one of the Guardsponies screamed as he looked at his hooves. His body was falling apart, crumbling away like sand. Soon everypony saw their bodies beginning to crumble, skin, flesh and bone falling away as the light disassembled them and blew them apart. The army collapsed, order disappearing as they tried to flee the terrible force that now permeated their bodies. However it was too late; even as they ran they could not escape the Avatar’s most terrible assault, as their bodies began disintegrating into ashes.

Stonework, concrete, metal, glass… flesh… all of it melted before that light as it washed through the lines of Equestrian soldiers, burning through their lines and incinerating everything in it’s path. The light kept growing brighter, almost as if a second star had been born on the surface of the planet Earth, a blinding, radiant light…

And then… there was nothing. For over six hundred square miles, there was nothing left in the City of London - no buildings, no ponies, no humans. Just barren, dark brown wasteland - except for one thing. In the dead centre of this devastation, there was a single patch of concrete - and upon that concrete stood the Avatar. He surveyed the destruction he had caused: there was no sign that there had ever been an army here, or a city, that there had ever been a desperate fight to save his friends or a band of heroes standing at his side. Still: he would remain here, a monument. He felt pain, but as suddenly as it had come the pain faded, and he knew it had begun. He looked at his hand, noting the paling skin with an almost detached curiosity, and then his body began stiffening. He winced, gripping Excalibur tighter, as his entire form began turning paler, stiffer... calcifying, ossifying, turning solid and hard... and then he was still. His body had become a statue of solidified ash, stronger than any stone, eternal and unmoving - the last protector of Albion, standing watch forever over his kingdom, the shining silver blade Excalibur still gripped in his hand, planted in the rock and concrete.

It was over.

***

After the End.

Canterlot. July 12th. Year 1 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2030 human calendar).

Twilight smiled a bittersweet smile. It had taken much hardship and sacrifice to come to this point. Billions of the Converted, millions of Equestria-born ponies, and most of her close personal friends had all been killed in the war. The humans had made the ponies fight tooth and hoof for every single inch of ground they had taken, every single life, every single moment. Their leader, the so-called Avatar of Albion, had apparently fought like a man possessed: thousands of ponies had died at his hand alone. When he had finally fallen, his body apparently had disintegrated in an explosion so massive it levelled the entire city of London to the ground, killing tens of thousands (including Commanders Fancy Pants and Flash Sentry).

Fortunately, after that the humans had no force able to stand against the ponies of Equestria. Their weapons, though powerful, were running on empty, as were they. The last of them had been converted or killed, save for a few dozen who had fled into the undergrowth, most likely never to emerge.

Rumours of the so-called Equestrian Resistance surviving the war were still a bother. It irritated Twilight that the traitor Blueblood had survived and escaped, along with thousands of other ponies. Other traitors - Doctor Hooves, Lyra Heartstrings and the deviant Converted Hell Blazer - had also survived, somehow. Still, tonight it didn't matter.

Tonight, on the streets of Canterlot, ponies were celebrating a victory hard fought and well earned. Flags and banners adorned the streets and Converted and Equestria-Born alike were in the streets, partying to their heart's content. It made Twilight happy to see such joy among the ponies of Equestria again. She vaguely thought that Pinkie would have loved to be part of such a party... and then her smile faded. It would be a long time, she thought, before the war's after-effects left the populace. Everypony had lost someone - either to the humans or else they had joined the Resistance. In some cases - the Apple Family's especially - it was often both.

"Bit for your thoughts, Commander?" came a serene, oddly-accented voice. Twilight turned, to find herself facing Sol Invictus. The golden-coated pony's eyes were wide with joy, and he was beaming at her, his red mane grown out a tiny bit since she had last seen him, where it had been cropped for battle. She smiled back, a little half heartedly.

"Just thinking about what I've lost, Chancellor Invictus," she said politely. "And please, call me Twilight. With the crisis past, I'm no longer part of our armed forces."

"Nonetheless, the rank is one of respect," Invictus said. "Nonetheless, I shall do as you ask... Twilight." He seemed a little less than comfortable with such familiarity.

"Congratulations on your appointment to the position of Council Chancellor," Twilight said, nodding at him. He smiled modestly: 'Chancellor' was the title now used for the chief of the new Equestrian Council - essentially a glorified body of talking heads who supposedly would advise Empress Solamina on affairs of state. Privately, Twilight didn't see them doing any better than the previous council, but it couldn't hurt, and they would likely be able to apprise the Empress of situations among the general populace.

"My thanks," he said politely. "It is by Her beneficence that I have come so far, given my lowly origins."
Twilight's smile soured a touch. Invictus believed Solamina to be a Goddess. In actual fact, he had founded the Solaminan cult, even coining the name that Princess Celestia would eventually take as empress. His influence was undeniable - and Twilight disliked it. To her, Empress Solamina was as she had always been - wise ruler, inviolate and untouchable, the pinnacle of all Ponykind could ever hope to accomplish or be in a single body. To Invictus, these traits made her a Goddess. To Twilight, they made her a very real role model. Still, he was allowed to view her however he wished - and she could not deny, his help with rousing the Converted to battle had certainly helped turn the tide in the war.

"In any case," he continued, still smiling. "I should retire for the night. The honoured Blessed Star and myself have an appointment with Princess Cadence to discuss new Converted Welfare measures, especially since so many of our new Converted now come from Britain - many have guilt relating to their actions."

"I can imagine," Twilight said idly.

"Good evening Commander," Invictus said. With that, the Converted walked off, heading for his private chambers situated in the nearby council building.

Twilight sighed: one of the things she supposed she'd have to learn for the sake of harmony was how to get along with ponies like Invictus, even if she didn't like him very much.

As the party continued, she began idly wondering what she would do now with her life. While there were many affairs of state that she could theoretically become involved with, a large part of her considered the possibility of just going home and working in the library again. That being said, Ponyville was a lot emptier these days: a lot of her friends from the town were gone, either traitors to the cause or else killed in the war. She sighed - even Spike had…

"Ma'am?" she heard a Royal Guard say. "Are you alright?"

She turned, but the Guard hadn't been talking to her. He had been talking to a beatific blue unicorn in a white robe that covered her lack of a cutie mark: she was the Converted priestess Blessed Star, Sol Invictus' counterpart. However, she was a very different kind of pony to the Sun Warrior Priest. Where he was filled with righteous fury, she was filled with compassion. Where he had been the pony behind the creation of the tools of the statues of Solamina called the Solar Idols, tools of destruction, she had been the one who formed the "Beacons of her Light", giant altars with small, benevolent figures of Solamina atop them that served to remind the ponies of their duty. One of her Beacons was, in fact, permanently stationed in the city as a reminder of Solamina's benevolence.

Blessed Star was standing still, staring at nothing. The ponies she had been talking to were whispering to each other worriedly, but she didn't react to them. The glass she held in a magical grip shattered in midair, a shard cutting her cheek as it exploded, but it still didn't provoke a reaction.

"Ma'am?" the Royal Guard asked, approaching the unicorn. "Are you alright?"

"Lady Blessed Star?" Twilight added, approaching the priestess. "Is something wrong?"

Blessed Star looked up at Twilight, her eyes locking on the purple unicorn's - and Twilight was struck by just how wide they were... and how filled with turmoil, like a thousand different emotions were running through her mind at once.

"Lady Blessed Star?" Twilight asked again, frowning.

The unicorn smiled, a wide rictus that was wholly unnerving to everypony that saw it - and then she started smashing her head into the concrete floor. Once - nopony moved, shocked as blood flew from her muzzle. Twice - teeth fell out, and her nose flattened under the impact. Three times - more blood flew as her horn snapped off and her face malformed under the power of the impact, and still nopony moved to help her, shocked out of all reason by the display. Four times - and she fell to the floor, twitching as her brain still fired off impulses to her no-longer responsive limbs. She spasmed twice, and then was still, her breathing stopped forever.

"Commander Sparkle?" the Guard asked, looking sick. He looked to Twilight as though she held any answers to this horror.

Before Twilight could answer him, could even begin to address what she was seeing, there was a loud smash from somewhere. Somepony screamed.

And then with a loud thud, a mutilated golden-coated body impacted on the ground behind her. She jumped, an involuntary shriek escaping her lips. Her eyes widened as she realised she was looking at the body of Sol Invictus. His expression was one of horror, and carved into his chest in shaky writing were two words.

NEVER FORGIVEN.

That's when the screaming really started...

***

Skin of Metal.

Somewhere in Equestria. May 4th. Year 5 of the New Solaminan Calendar. (2035 human calendar).

Hands.

The figure surveyed the hands that it now found itself in possession of. They were, of course, flawless - the figure had made them itself, it’s prior form slaving over the hands, making sure every single intricate detail was perfect, just perfect. They were plated in verdigrised copper, the turquoise hint one of a last few residual reminders of the old life. They moved exactly like the real thing, every separate plate smoothly sliding over one another in perfect harmony, every artificial muscle movement exactly in line with the operation of real hands. Yes…

It had taken five years of dedicated research, fleeing from those who would seek to end the glorious work before it began. The puppets of Solamina were gradually becoming aware, the figure could already tell - there was more and more dissent on the streets of Equestria’s cities - but still, it had been a dangerous road.

But she had done it.

“Yes…” the voice muttered. It sounded at once familiar and alien - her own voice filtered through the hollow metal of the throat and the mouth cavity, shaped by metal musculature, resonating through the echo chambers of artificial lungs that needed no oxygen, no anything. “This is perfect…”

She had always wanted hands.

Lyra Heartstrings took her first steps from the dark cavern she had made her home - her legs were strong, her arms were powerful, and her hands - her fists - were adamant, and with them she would free humanity and restore to them that which had been lost. She would cut the strings… and have revenge on her kind for their atrocities.

“The great work is begun,” she said, her voice resonating even more. “And no one will stand in it’s way now!”

***

Embers of Hope.

Somewhere in the Everfree Forest. April 4th. Year 6 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2036 human calendar).

The small group had met in secret: their ways had been separate, and it had taken a lot of persuading to pull these disparate groups together for this pivotal meeting.

The white Unicorn arrived first, removing her hood with a wary eye on her surroundings. She didn't trust this place, and being completely fair she didn't trust the ponies she was about to meet any more than she had when they first suggested this meeting... but at the same time she knew it was important. She came alone - if this was, as she suspected, some kind of Solaminan trap, her Lieutenants could continue her work without her.

The second to arrive were the Pegasi. Two of them arrived in Wonderbolt uniforms, looking stern. The third, a young orange Pegasus, wore a grey uniform shirt. On one side of the uniform shirt was a symbol representing the Wonderbolts, a yellow lightning bolt within a blue circle, and on the other was a symbol of twelve ponies flying away from a representation of a planet - the planet Earth. This was the symbol of Grey Squadron, a symbol adopted by this Pegasus as her own.

"Sweetie Belle," the mare said as she landed, glancing around suspiciously. "You came."

"I did," the Unicorn replied, nodding at the new arrivals. "Good to see you, Scoots."

Scootaloo, formerly of the Wonderbolts but now leader of a small band of Pegasi survivors of the Cloudsdale Purge, smiled grimly. "Yeah. I guess it's good to be anywhere after Cloudsdale."

"I heard about that," Sweetie said softly. "I'm sor-"

"Save it," Scootaloo snapped. "I'm not here for a pity party, I'm here on business."

"We all are," a new voice spoke quietly. From out of the undergrowth came a pale yellow mare, with two grim looking escorts. "I guess this isn't a trap after all, huh?"

"Seems not," Sweetie Belle said. She examined her two former friends. "I'll admit. I was surprised to hear from you two. I didn't think you'd be..."

"Be what?" Scootaloo said sarcastically. "Listening out for Songbird's secret messages on Resistance FM?"

Sweetie grinned. "I'd like to hope I'm not so obvious."

"You're obvious to us," Scootaloo said with a wry smile.

"Yeah," Applebloom added, chuckling slightly. "I'd know your voice a mile off. Doing a Prench accent just makes you sound silly."

"Huh," Sweetie said, shrugging. Her friends still knew her too well, it seemed. "In any case: I'm glad you both came."

"What exactly is this all about, Sweetie Belle?" Scootaloo asked. "The message just asked for anypony who led a Resistance group to meet here."

"Simple really," Sweetie said softly. "Our groups - Resistance FM, the Pegasi remnant and the Equestrian Rebellion - need to unite."

The other two shared a sceptical glance.

"Unite how?" Scootaloo asked.

"Right now, there's no on big resistance movement," Sweetie clarified. "Nopony's come out and made a big movement with the express purpose of taking on the Empire."

"Hey," Applebloom protested. "I've not been doing nothin' you know."

"And we're not exactly scotch mist, or whatever those Convie buckers say," Scootaloo said with a smirk.

"But you're not armies," Sweetie Belle said. "We're not organised. We're not united. We're not strong enough individually to take on Solamina's forces."

The other two shared uneasy glances. Much as neither of them wanted to admit it, Sweetie Belle was right. Neither of their respective groups could do anything other than scratch at the Empire like important kittens.

"So what do you suggest we do?" Scootaloo asked.

"Simple," Sweetie Belle said. She fired a spell off into the sky, and suddenly an image appeared above their heads, beneath the canopy of the trees so it wasn't visible beyond the forest. The image was a flower blooming within a winged horseshoe. "Together, we're stronger. Together, we can do something." She looked both of her old friends in the eye. "This is our declaration: we are the Resistance. For as long as we live, we will fight to free Equestria from the tyranny of Solamina and her armies, to free natural-born ponies and Converted alike from her iron hoof."

She held a hoof out expectantly. Scootaloo, grinning slightly, placed hers on top of Sweetie Belle's.

"We'll keep on fighting until we can't fight anymore," she said, sounding more serious than anypony present had ever heard her.

"Freedom for Equestria," Applebloom added, putting her own hoof in the mix. "Freedom or death."

The three of them grinned at each other: for the first time in years, none of them had doubt, and none of them had fear. They knew what they had to do. As one, they looked up at the symbol Sweetie had created, and basked in the light.

It was the beginning of something wonderful...

***

Pain.

Former USA state of Oregon. March 7th. Year 7 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2037 human calendar).

Pain - agony and the cracking of bones, the tearing and sloughing of flesh, the burning sensation of the entire body stretching and contorting under the stresses of a magic induced change.

In ones and twos, they had come here. In this place, thousands and thousands of them had come to begin the change, to regain what they had lost. They had been human. Some had tossed their humanity away. Some had theirs ripped away from them. But now all suffered: their souls ached with the sensation of having forever lost what they once were, a gaping maw in the centre of their very being, eating away at what was left. And that was what had motivated them.

The knowledge was ancient and forbidden, but together they had learned ways to restore that which was once theirs: to restore their humanity. There was a hope - a desperate, impossible hope - that maybe, just maybe, this would fix whatever was wrong with them. There were a thousand plans, a thousand rituals, each as Eldritch and impossible as the last.

It had always been a fool's hope.

She was the first to awaken. She had been one to toss her humanity away: she had thought it would make her better. And for a time, maybe, it had, or maybe she had just been blind to the pain. But then the pain came: the pain of knowing, without knowing how or why, that you were wrong, that your mind and body and form and everything was so utterly wrong... and she had known then that she had chosen wrongly, that she had chosen the wrong side in the war, the wrong side of this great conflict. Though it was too late to save her species from their extinction... she could, maybe, restore them.

At first she thought she had succeeded. She held up a hand, and it was a hand: five long, slender digits wiggled at her command, and her face broke into a smile... until she realised that they were too long, too slender... and they were bright rosy pink.

"No..." she murmured. She held up her restored hand to her head: her face felt much as it had... but her eyes were huge, and she could still feel, almost hidden by her hair, a small, boney protuberance - her unicorn horn. "No!" she said, louder this time, tears forming in her too-large eyes.

And then she saw those who had come with her.

A few - one or two - looked almost human. Some looked almost pony, except that their eyes had shrunk or they had grown cloven hooves, some seemed to be halfway, starting human before turning pony... and some were… some were...

She retched. They weren't ponies, that much was certain, but neither were they human. And worse still, she could feel the hole deep within her being, yawning as wide and painful as ever, as though all this had done nothing but made it worse.

As others began awakening to their new forms, Penelope Hatfield screamed into the night. And soon, her screams were joined by a thousand others...

***

Red With The Blood Of Martyrs.

New Darwin, Horsetralia (formerly Australia). May 12th. Year 7 of the New Solaminan Calendar.

"Little" Red Book stepped up to the podium. The young mare was an idealist: it had taken her five long years to reach this point. Copies of her manifesto had circulated among the Converted and the proletariat of the Equestrian populace for years, but only now could she stand in front of her ponies and say, without doubt, that she was proud of what she had accomplished here.

Silence descended as she stepped up. She surveyed the massive crowd: all of the ponies in front of her had come when she called, and she was prouder than words could say that she could call them comrades.

"My friends!" she began. "My comrades! Today is the beginning of a beautiful new era! Today, we have helped this city to cast off the shackles of Imperialist Oppression. Solamina's tyranny has been defeated, not just by the strength of our hooves, but by the strength of our convictions! But the battle is not over yet."

As she spoke, a line of ponies were led out in front of the crowd. A few boos and hisses could be heard but most remained silent, waiting for Red Book to speak.

"These ponies are the first oppressors to feel the taste of our sweet revenge!" she yelled, indicating the group. These ponies were the local Royal Guard commander, one of Solamina's governors and a series of civil servants: the bureaucracy that had propped up the tyranny for too long. "These ponies used your sweat to line their pockets: now, our toil has brought them to their knees. They used your blood to build their ivory towers: now, we cast down those towers, and we spill their blood!"

At a signal from her, spells from her unicorns launched, hitting each of the oppressors in turn.

"Comrades," Red Book said. "Let us begin as we mean to continue. No mercy for those who have oppressed us, those who have enslaved us! They trod us into the dirt. Now, we shall bury them in it!"

***

Causa est Mortis.

The Ruin Of London. June 4th. Year 8 of the New Solaminan Calendar.

His name... he didn't remember his name. All he remembered was that he was a pony, and he had come here to die.

Once upon a time he had been a human being: a man who had made choices, and those choices had, somehow, led him to become this: a pony. He didn't remember those choices anymore: he was starved and delirious, and had come to this place to die. All around him were the bones of those who came here to die. Ponies - Converted - like him, who had felt the emptiness reach out, and had let it's sweet embrace claim them. Now, he too would feel it.

He walked, almost aimlessly. He didn't know where he was going or what force kept his legs going despite the fact that he could barely see and could barely feel, and yet he kept going.

Finally, just when he thought he was about to give up, just when he thought his time had finally come... he saw it.

It was a lone figure: human in appearance, the last thing standing in this barren place, strong and proud against the backdrop of destruction. All around it were sprouting plants, flowers and grass. He approached it with wide eyes, not believing what he was seeing, his feet almost moving of their own accord. It stood tall, gripping a great metal blade that, despite it's exposure to the elements, remained untouched by rust or the passage of time.

"Albion..." he whispered, the name a memory. He dropped to his pony knees before the podium upon which the figure sat, his gaze travelling up to the face of this edifice. The face was stern and brave.

And it seemed to be looking right at him.

You're not done yet, it seemed to say to him. You still have work ahead, my friend.

"What work?" he said, eyes wide and voice cracking from underuse.

As if in answer, a gust of wind blew across the wasteland. A piece of material, blown around in the wind, landed at the Pony's feet. He looked down, eyes wide, at the symbols embroidered on it: a human skull, set upon an image of the planet Earth. Below this was a motto, scrawled in white, scribbly handwriting.

"Until the body awakes to it's own death, we will put it to use."

He looked at it for a moment, and then he remembered, he understood.

He had come here to die.

He had.

He ate a flower, and then another. Slowly, he felt strength return to his frail form. He gazed up at the statue, basking in it's radiance for but a moment before he turned, heading back to the coast and the small boat he had taken to this foreboding place.

He had work to put his body to before the end.

***

Deceived.

Canterlot. March 4th. Year 9 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2039 human calendar).

“Our time has come. For nearly ten years, we have prepared, grown stronger… while you rested in your cradle of power, believing your ponies were safe and protected - but you were deceived. Our powers, our arts, have blinded you, and the strife that has claimed your lands has distracted you. You were deceived by your false Empress, the murderess who slaughtered a species to further her own power. And now… finally… we have returned.”
- The Pronouncement of Magnus.

Big Macintosh sighed as he patrolled the streets of Canterlot outside the Royal Imperial Mausoleum. For many years after the war had ended, he had tried to lie to himself and tell himself that yes, his place was still the farm, Sweet Apple Acres, like it always had been. But destiny was a fine thing when you had your family with you… now, he had nopony. Applejack had died and her body had never been recovered. Applebloom had gone into building contractor work (though recently he had lost touch with her after some… heated words via letters) and Granny Smith had died in her sleep. This was worse than his parents: he had been supported then by family. There were plenty of Apples in Equestria, but the entire family had been divided by the war. It just wasn’t the same.

And so he had joined the Royal Guard. It was good, honest work, and he had made a few friends. It wasn’t the farm - nothing could be - but it was enough for him. Almost.

“Hey Big Mac!” one of his colleagues yelled over to him. “Check this bucker out!”

Mac sighed as he walked over. Sure enough, a dark brown Unicorn in a long black cloak was approaching them, a determined frown on his face.

“You take this one, Del,” Mac said quietly. The pony who had spoken, Delicate Fire, nodded and walked over to the figure.

“Hey buster!” he yelled. “Get yourself gone!”

In a flash, the Unicorn’s horn lit up, firing off at Fire. The guard was thrown backwards into a wall, landing at a funny angle. At once, Mac charged the figure, but the Unicorn sidestepped him with a devilish grin.

Cursing, Mac stood - but suddenly, a loud crashing noise distracted him. He turned - to see smoke rising from the streets beyond the Mausoleum complex. A moment later, thirty or so figures in dark armour reminiscent of his Guard armour appeared… they looked almost like…

“Night Guard!” somepony screamed. Of course - the Night Guard! Once respected, the Night Guard had rebelled against Solamina before the Declaration of Empire, and now they were known to have fought alongside the traitorous Resistance during the war, the personal guards of the Archtraitor Blueblood himself. For them to be here…

“Excuse me,” a soft voice spoke from behind him. Mac bucked without thinking, but missed, the pony - the same, dark maned Unicorn who had killed Delicate Fire - teleported in front of him, grinning. Mac lashed out with a foreleg, catching the Unicorn and throwing him backwards. Dazed slightly, the Unicorn stopped himself with a magical field that surrounded his body.

“Now, that was rude,” the Unicorn said with a soft grin. He charged his horn and fired off at Mac, but Guard training had made him fast as well as strong and he dodged the spells.

All around him, Mausoleum Guard and the Night Guard fought, killing each other - one Night Guard charged him, and he rewarded the pony with a buck to the head that crushed his skull. Another pony, this one a Pegasus, screamed a war cry and dive bombed him, but he dodged and the traitor hit the ground head first with a wet crunch. Then he found himself once more under attack from the Unicorn in the black cloak, a darting blade lashing out at him. He dodged attack after attack, and reached to grab his own blade with his teeth. He blocked a strike meant for his throat, and moved to counter. There was a flash of light…

And suddenly, he felt a sharp something in the back of his neck, his enemy nowhere to be seen. He blinked in shock. As he looked up, he saw the last of the Mausoleum Guard falling, as a giant, polished black marble sarcophagus with a silver moon engraved into it was lifted out by two Night Guard unicorns.

“You were brave, but you were deceived,” the Unicorn said softly. “And your false Empire will fall.”

Big Mac collapsed to the ground, his eyes facing the sky. The last thing he saw was hordes of Night Guard Pegasi and a handful of constructs reminiscent of super-Zeppelins floating above his head, raining fire down on the city of Canterlot…

***

Mankind lost. Ponykind won.

The Avatar of Albion died in battle. The human race was utterly obliterated. A handful of survivors fled underground, perhaps never to emerge. The ponies of Equestria, led by the evil Astra Solamina Maxima, revelled in their triumph... for a time.

That was twenty years ago.

It is year 20 of the New Solaminan Calendar, 2050 in the old human reckoning. The Empire is strong: thousand upon thousands of Royal Guard and Militia hold an iron grip over the country of Equestria and it's colonies on what was Earth. Beyond them, the Solaminan Church is a vast, shining and ever-watchful edifice that none dare question.

Elsewhere, the Midnight Guard, last of the Old Resistance, use the arcane arts and forbidden Necromancy to fight against the Empire's forces. The New Resistance fights for the freedom of ponies everywhere. The Dead Men put their bodies to use, until they finally awaken to the realisation of their own death.

Elsewhere still, the Ponies' State fight to conquer oppression, never realising that they slip closer and closer toward tyranny themselves, the Anthroponies - hybrids created by forbidden magic - fight to make others suffer as they have suffered, and deep in the dark places of the world, the Iron Men, mechanical automatons controlled by the souls of Converted and Pony alike, seek an unknown objective, their ultimate purpose... unknown.

Earth has fallen. Humanity is dead. When we needed him most, he fell. But maybe, just maybe, he will return.

And on that day, the world may know the power of Albion...