Prologue: Forlorn Faces.

Forlorn faces running from the cold regret.
Empty spaces, something that I can’t forget.
All I wanted was to wish the past away.
But time’s the cruelest ruler that we all obey.
- Dream of Goodbye, Miracle of Sound.

***

Some time in the future.

The two of them were sat opposite one another, the man with nothing left but regret and the mare with more than she should have remembered in her head. Between them was nothing but the rubble strewn floor. His weapons lay discarded on the ground and he had all but forgotten he had them.

The first thing he said was:

“Do you think that someone who makes a mistake can change it? Can make it better?”

In a tone of resigned sympathy she replied:

“I think that they can try to make up for it. But they can't change it. They can’t change anything.”

His own voice now full of hope, he asked:

“But they can try?”

Sighing and shaking her head, she spoke:

“You can try forever. But it won’t give you what you want. It won’t change who you were, what you did.”

Slumping back where he was, he muttered:

“I know. But maybe I can change who I am now.”

***

“Hold that bucking line, hold that bucking line!”

Fighting. Blood. The smell of death on the air, heavier and heavier in his nostrils, a metallic tang in the air that almost made him want to gag. Most of all though, the feeling. The feeling of utter, total desperation - if he failed here, that was it. Endgame. He could not fail. Anger. A feeling of pain - could he keep going? He had to keep going… even if it killed him.

I’m already dead.

And now the feeling changed. It became a feeling of… liberation. A sudden freedom from fear. Acceptance. Drive. Devotion. Duty. Rage... he would fight until there was nothing left to fight, nothing left of him to fight with. There was already nothing left. He would fight for ashes, because those ashes could bring forth a new fire, a fire he would direct and control, a fire that would burn away anything that would dare to threaten the world he had been brought forth to save. Justice. Vengeance. He would not stop, not until he had seen this task through and taken one more mane...

“Do you understand now?”

***

He awoke with a start, sitting up, gasping for breath. He felt as though he hadn’t breathed in a million years, like his lungs were on fire. He rolled onto his side, coughing as he took a deep, rasping breath. His lungs were like two lumps of pain in his chest, his mind foggy and full of uncertainty. His memory was blurred, as though someone had smeared grease on a window in his mind... what had happened to him?

Who was he?

David Elliot, he thought. My name is David Elliot, and I am…

He frowned. He was what? It felt like… something... he didn’t know what, but something… should belong at the end of that sentence. But no matter how hard he tried to think of it, he didn't remember what that could possibly be. It was so close, almost on the tip of his tongue. He was… he was…

Suddenly, there was a flash in his mind as he remembered something.

We’re at war!

The memory was a sudden slap to the face, pumping adrenaline through his system as he mentally and physically braced for some sort of fight. He scrabbled for his weapons and equipment, almost panicking. His shotgun, yes, that was near him, and he grabbed it as if it were his own child. His hand-cannon, still in the holster, ready. His knives…

’Speed-killer’. Sam. Whitby. Death. Murder. Revenge.

Memories - or flashes of memories - went through his head, but they were all too blurry and uncertain for him to completely understand. There was something… something big, something important… but he didn’t…

And suddenly he coughed again, a fit taking him, and he desperately pushed himself up to his feet, keeping a tighter grip on his shotgun than was perhaps necessary. He almost felt like he was drawing strength from the familiar weight.

He looked around, frowning at his surroundings. He was surrounded on all sides by ruined buildings, broken grey spires reaching toward the sky like rotten, jagged teeth. All around him there was devastation, burning rubble and… he nearly retched. There were human bodies all around him - impaled on spears, destroyed by spell damage or otherwise, and he could see the bloody remains of what must have been…

Ponies?

For the briefest of moments, he experienced a state of dazed confusion: he didn't remember why there would be ponies here, and these didn't look like normal ponies...

The war - the war between the British Isles and the Solaminan Empire, where Astra Solamina Maxima tried to conquer what her Barrier had not destroyed. He had joined up when the Barrier had expanded, alongside his friend…

A flash of memory, and now he remembered. These were Equestrians. Ponies from a land far away, in another dimension or something, beyond a portal...

There were bodies of several of these small, pastel-coloured equines…these ponies... near piles of melted-looking flesh. The victims of...

Ponification. Conversion Bureaus. War. Death.

...ponification.

There were neat holes drilled in each of the dead ponies' heads - someone had ended their suffering almost as soon as it had begun.

Thank God for that, at least. Small mercies.

He coughed, suddenly feeling sick. He spat out a wad of phlegm, and was disturbed - and yet, somehow, not entirely surprised - to see bright red blood amongst the small goopy mass of yellowish matter. He coughed again, more phlegm and more blood spraying out, flecks covering the wall. He leant against a wall and tried to steady himself as best he could, closing his eyes and willing the pain away.

“Fuck,” he said, and he was surprised at how raspy his voice sounded. “Fuck.”

He began walking, and staggered slightly as he did so. He had to get somewhere. He had to… find something. Find what?

Soldiers. A command post. Something with soldiers. Some way to…

To what? Help? How could he help, when he was busy coughing blood up?

It’s why I’m here.

He coughed again, leaning against a ruined wall. Where had that thought come from? His mind was groggy, confused, filled with uncertainty...

Almost to distract himself as much as anything else, he looked at himself in the window of a broken, looted shop. He was all there - shirt, waistcoat, neckerchief, trousers, boots, coat…

"Then why ain't you got your little friends here to shoot me, already?" Applejack asked, narrowing her eyes at him with an expression of disgust.

"Because," he said, holding his arms open. "I want to kill you myself.”

He stepped back from the window, frowning at the reflection but not really seeing it, too wrapped up in the memory. His hand twitched to his coat, and he glanced inside of the lining, almost afraid of what he would find…

There were six large locks of hair sewn into the lining of his coat: one was bright, bubbly pink, and curly. One was seven different colours, like a rainbow. One was blonde and wavy. One was deep purple, and sticky as though covered in ancient, decomposed hair gel. One was a slightly softer pink, and straighter than the other pink mane. The last was a slightly lighter purple.

Not locks of hair, he thought, eyes widening. Manes. These are pony manes.

Reflexively, he threw the coat off, staring at it in horror. Manes. He wore a coat with pony manes. That was... why would he...?

Revenge. Trophies. Proof.

“That’s…” he murmured, his eyes wide. “That’s…”

“Hey!” a voice called, distracting him. “There’s another one!”

He turned, to see a group of armoured ponies standing at the other end of the street. Their armour was golden, and they wore crested helmets. Suddenly, everything in his mind crystallised as he realised what he was facing.

Ponies. Royal Guard. The enemy.

He racked the shotgun, eyes widening as battle rage started to fill him. The ponies noticed this and reacted immediately: the Unicorns among them started sending spells at him, though he managed to dodge the few that seemed in any way decently aimed. He pumped his arms, building up his momentum.

"I will fucking murder all of you!" he screamed as he reached them.

The first he barrelled into was knocked to the ground, and he stamped on its head, something giving underneath his feet with an audible crack. Holding the shotgun one handed, he blasted another, blowing the pony clean away. Spinning on his axis, he brought his other hand to the shotgun, racked it and fired again, clipping one pony and blasting another's head clean off. He racked the shotgun a second time and fired, blowing yet another Guardspony off of his feet.

"Victory or death!" he yelled dropping the shotgun and drawing his daggers. He lashed out, catching one in the throat. The pony fell to the ground, gurgling as her life’s blood spilled to the grey ashy road. he span around, stabbing another through the throat. He kicked out at another, the force of the kick breaking the creature’s neck. He killed another, then another, then another... ponies fell like wheat before the scythe, and he was the reaper.

“Die!” one of the ponies yelled, charging him with a spear. He caught the spear, pulled it from the pony’s grip and shoved it through the thing’s eye. Another, this one a Unicorn mare, jumped on him, but he grabbed the mare and threw her down the street, where she landed with an audible crack. Without breaking stride, he turned and, in one fluid motion, drew his hand-cannon and blew another away, before stabbing yet another.

And then, as quickly as the violence had begun, it was over. He was alone in a field of bodies. His hands were stained with blood. His eyes were wide and manic.

And he breathed out.

"Fuck," he swore again. "Just... fuck."

He scowled at the sound of something hissing. He looked down at his hand and saw, to his surprise, a blob of viscous purple potion.

Ponification potion, he thought, and yet the thought came without panic. One of the ponies must have thrown some on him during the fight, thinking that it would save them from their inevitable deaths. As he watched, the blob hissed, steamed and then disappeared, evaporating.

He frowned. That shouldn't have been possible...

... but of course it's possible. It's who you are.

"Who am I?" he asked aloud.

You are David Elliot.

"And who is that?" he murmured.

You'll know.

He scowled. There was something off about this entire thing. Something nagging him at the back of his mind, some memory that he couldn’t quite access.

Still, there was nothing for it. He couldn’t just stand here for hours on end. He might be confused, but he was still sure of one thing. There were enemies in this city - enemies that he would destroy.

It's what I'm here to do.

***

He walked through the ruined city, scowling at the destruction.

Fucking ponies, he thought to himself. Ever since they came it's been nothing but trouble. The whole world's burned and they're to blame. They should have been...

He stopped, clutching his head. He had a massive headache, and he stumbled into a wall, feeling like he was going to collapse. What was this? What did he remember? These memories, these feelings - they were alien to him and yet...

They should all die for what they did.

His mind was fractured. Memories that he didn't recognise flowing through like water through cracked masonry, until...

A sharp crack snapped his mind back to the present. He looked up, eyes wide at the familiar sound of gunfire.

The enemy are near.

He took off, pushing himself faster than he thought he could ever run.

A moment later, he reached an intersection: a group of soldiers were fighting a squadron of Royal Guard: the Guard had unicorns who seemed to be suppressing the squad, but that wouldn't last for long. In a flash, Elliot's shotgun was out and he was firing at the group of Guards. The shells were too thinly spread to cause much damage, but it got their attention enough to give the soldiers chance to fire upon them and tear them all apart. Racking his shotgun once more, Elliot stopped and breathed.

"Cheers," yelled an older Soldier who began to approach him, gun in hand and grit and mud on his face.

The soldier's gun shifted its gaze as he ran across the battlefield. One of the pony bodies moved and he quickly rewarded its stubbornness with a few shiny new bullets.

He saluted Elliot. "Sergeant Walter Minecroft." He looked around the man. "Last of your squadron I take it?"

As those last words left Walter's lips, you could hear him begin to doubt his own question. The eyes of the older warrior darted around Elliot's attire.

"I... I don't remember," Elliot said quietly. He frowned - was there some memory of what he had been doing before?

Battle. Death.

"I think I was in a fight," he added, his voice full of uncertainty.

Walter chuckled. "I should think so. There is a war on."

It was clear that Walter's grey hair didn't come from stress. The scars on his brow were like diary entries, telling Elliot of the Sergeant's bad days.

Some of Walter's men joined him. A (frankly too eager) young soldier joined him by his side.

"Jenkins," Minecroft said, turning to his comrade. "Check this Mr..." Walter gestured for Elliot to continue for him.

"Elliot," Elliot said. "David Elliot."

"Check Mr Elliot for injuries quickly." Walter glanced around the battlefield. No ponies were left alive. "We should savour the brief peace while we have it."

Jenkins nodded and proceeded to handle Elliot like one would a mannequin. If there was such a thing as drive by check ups, Jenkins was the apparently the inventor and world champion.

The "check up" was done so swiftly that the only thing that seemed to have changed about David Elliot was his expression.

"Is that it?" he asked after a moment, raising an eyebrow half in surprise and half in disdain.

"Pretty much," Walter replied with a shrug.

Jenkins paced around Elliot. "No apparent injuries but he doesn't seem all there sir." It was amazing that he wasn't out of breath from the speed of his check up.

"We can discuss things later," Walter said, putting his hand on Jenkins to stop the pacing. "For now let's move." He turned to Elliot. "I suggest you come with us."

The troop saluted their Sergeant and followed his lead as they set off. Elliot followed; he didn’t know where he was, or who these people were, but they were human and that was enough for him.

It would have to be.

Author's Notes:

Well, everybody else got to do an AU, why can't I?

Hello and welcome to Cold Regret, an AOA AU that follows a parallel version of David Elliot as he deals with stuff. What stuff that is will become apparent. This one's a little bit of an experiment on my part, and it'll have moments that are a little more psychological than previous AOA. Hopefully you enjoy it.

With thanks to The Void for helping write Walter Minecroft (his OC from "Interlude: Last Light" from the original AOA) and RoyalPsycho for proofreading and being a pretty awesome sounding board.

Jed.