Chapter Six: Shadow of the Mind.

"It was good that you killed them…"
Alias Conrad Coldwood, Not Safe, Off soundtrack.

***

The two sat opposite one another. She sighed, not sure how to proceed. This was beyond anything she could have imagined - she had never thought that this moment would come for her, and if it ever did she had expected something entirely different from herself. She looked up at him.

He was slumped still against the wall, not looking at her. His memory was all there. He remembered every single thing, and to her great surprise, it was killing him.

"So," she said simply, unsure how to proceed from here. "What now?"

He looked back at her. "That depends, Captain Sparkle. What do you think should happen now?"

She smiled, a cold and empty thing, far removed from whatever she used to have. "I don’t know."

***

A few minutes later, Small Mercy and Sam returned, a handful of chalk pieces in Sam’s hand. He passed them to Mercy, who quickly drew a couple of chalk circles in the ground, surrounding the unconscious Elliot and encompassing both Small Mercy and Sam as well.

"This is how John does it, right?" Sam asked Sparkle with a raised eyebrow. The mare was stood outside the circles, looking faintly irritated.

"Chalk circle method has a few advantages," she noted drily. "I take it you know what you’re doing, Mercy?"

"Of course," Mercy replied. "We are going to help him." She gave Sparkle a half grin. "Have a little faith."

“Faith,” Sparkle snorted. “I had faith once. Now I have experience. Try not to get trapped in his subconscious, Miss Mercy.”

“That’s enough, Sparkle,” Sam snapped. “We’ve heard your opinion, and given that I disagree with your opinion and I’m in charge, I’m ignoring it. You have a job to do. Do it.”

Sparkle sighed. “Fine. Sit down, both of you. If I’m going to be the one pulling you out, I have to be the one sending you in.”

The two sat down. A moment passed as Sparkle’s horn glowed, and then…

***

The two, Small Mercy and Sam, found themselves in a long, thin corridor, white doors on either side running up as far as the eye could see.

“Well,” Sam said quietly to himself, frowning. “This… is not what I was expecting.”

"Out of curiosity," Mercy said. "What were you expecting?"

“I dunno, some Escher-esque abomination of architecture,” Sam shrugged, looking faintly bemused. “Was the sort of thing I thought minds did - you know, made no sense."

“If it helps, we are only on the surface of his mind,” Mercy pointed out.

"No, true," Sam sighed. "I suppose these doors might lead to different… memories? Thoughts? Bits of his mind?”

"An apt metaphor," the mare chuckled nervously. "We should probably delve down deeper. Are you ready?"

“Probably a bad idea to split up,” Sam said quietly, hand reaching almost unconsciously for his gun. “So don't stray too far. Come on.”

He set off down the corridor, but almost immediately the lights seemed to flicker. A moment later, Sam had disappeared, leaving Small Mercy alone.

"Hello!" Mercy called out, her voice echoing down the halls.

“Hello,” a voice whispered in her ear. She jumped, and turned around, finding herself facing a cloaked and hooded figure, his robe all black. His face was shrouded in shadow.

Mercy stood strong. "Who are you?"

“Now isn’t that strange,” the figure said, his voice cold, clinical and utterly terrifying. “I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

***

Sam spun around, looking for Small Mercy, but he could see no sign of her.

“Mercy?!” he yelled. “Mercy, are you there?!”

“There is no mercy!” a voice whispered from behind him. He turned again, gun drawn, only to face an empty corridor.

Since Sam had become an Iron Clad, there were altogether few things he had met that scared him. By and large, nothing he encountered was beyond his capacity to kill. This… this was entirely unpleasant. It was almost like…

“Fighting shadows?” a voice asked from behind him, once again a sibilant whisper. He spun around again. “Not everything in this world is an enemy you can fight.”

“I can try,” Sam murmured.

He spun again…

***

… only to find himself standing on a pier. He frowned - he recognised this place. It was the town of Whitby in Yorkshire, a rather famous coastal town that he had rarely had the chance to visit before the war. He had been here during the battle though - the battle where his friend had died

This town was burning like an eerie echo of that battle. Soldiers charged all around him, equipped in hazmat suits and wielding a variety of weapons. To his surprise - and consternation - he couldn’t see any Equestrian Resistance troops. There were ponies charging all around him, enemy troops grappling with BDF soldiers or being shot down, but he couldn’t see any friendly ponies.

Where are they all? he wondered. The Equestrian Resistance was never as numerous as the BDF - at least not in the beginning - but they were always there. You could always see a Resistance group fighting somewhere.

He jogged down to the pier, ignoring the fighting as best he could. Nothing was coming near him, and a brief experiment with trying to showed that either the world around him was partially intangible, or he was.

"Cover fire!" he heard a familiar voice yell. His heart almost stopped when he saw David, yelling for his men to get down as Pegasi flew all around them. He only caught his friend's face for a second before he pulled his Hazmat helmet and mask back on. Sam got a little closer to him, intrigued.

"Sam!" he heard David's voice yell.

"I'm here!" Sam said, speaking before he could stop himself. He frowned slightly, confused.

"Sam, where the hell are you?!" this Elliot yelled. "I need a sit rep now!"

A strange, cackling laugh sounded from Elliot's radio, and he frowned slightly, as though confused.

"Got hit by a potion bomb," a voice crackled from the radio after a moment - a voice that sounded a lot like Sam's own. "Hurt a lot, you know. But hey ho, feeling much better now."

Elliot swore, and Sam swore with him, eyes wide in shock. This Elliot's version of him had been ponified...

"Where are you?" Elliot asked, his voice grim. Sam moved a bit closer to him, wondering how this would play out. In this battle when he had fought it,

Suddenly, a flying form crashed into Elliot, hooves pounding at his Kevlar-plated chest. Still wearing the loose remains of a BDF uniform, a pale blue Pegasus with a blonde mane was grinning at the prone soldier.

"Surprise!" the new Convie yelled, and Sam, watching this travesty, found himself feeling vaguely ill: that was him. Him as a Convie. That was… that was terrifying. It was like watching yourself die, except in some ways, this was worse...

"Seriously,” the Convie Sam continued brightly, “you should consider taking the potion - this isn't nearly as bad as I thought it would..."

This Elliot, growling in anger, threw the Pegasus off of him. He kicked the downed Sam and stamped on his wing, signalling for his squad to keep advancing. Sam winced slightly at the sound of bones breaking. He had met Pegasi - occasionally called, rather unkindly, ‘clipped-wings’ - who had lost the capacity to fly thanks to some catastrophic injury to their wings. It was, supposedly, horrible.

"Argh!" screamed the new Pegasus. "Watch the wings, I just got these!"

This David didn’t say anything. He took his pistol out and aimed it at the Pegasus’ head. The not-Sam looked shocked for a moment, as though surprised his friend would do anything like that to him.

"Dave..." the Convie said, eyes wide as he stared into the barrel of the gun, "it's me, mate, it’s -!”

A gunshot rang out before the not-Sam could finish begging for his life, and the Pegasus' head slumped to the floor, the shocked expression almost comical but the eyes wide and accusing. Sam blinked in surprise at that - the way this Elliot had just shot him,without even giving him a chance to speak…

This Elliot threw his pistol into the sea, took up his rifle, and shot down two more Pegasi, their bodies crashing into the water as well. He moved on, methodical and unstoppable… leaving behind a very troubled Sam.

His Elliot had died at Whitby, but he had done so from being impaled on a Guard’s spear. This… he didn’t know if he would have been capable of killing Dave had their situation been reversed, even if he was a Convie. What had this war done to Elliot? Or more accurately, what had this war, this strange, alternative war with no Resistance fighters or any ponies on their side at all, done to him?

Before he could think more on this troubling turn of events, he turned to find a bright light waiting for him, and then he was somewhere else...

***

The cloaked figure seemed to regard Mercy almost as though she were a lab specimen - it made no moves, and yet its glare, from beneath that hood, made her… uncomfortable. The lights around them flickered and fizzled as though the mental building’s electricity were failing, making her nervous - and it didn’t help that figure seemed to melt into the shadows every time the light flickered, as though he were not really there.

"My name is Dr Small Mercy of the Resistance," she declared. Mercy looked the figure up and down. He seems both real and unreal at once. "What are you to Elliot?"

"You imply disparity where none exists," the figure said slowly. "I am Elliot. You are within his mind. All you see is Elliot."

Mercy eased herself back. The figure made sense but Elliot didn't make her feel like she was drowning on land.

"If you are Elliot then you know who I am and that I don't mean you any harm." she said sternly.

“Perhaps,” the figure said slowly. “You have come seeking knowledge.”

“I’ve come to help him remember,” she responded, readying herself with a knockback spell.

“You may not find that a wise choice,” the figure said, its voice tinged with dark amusement. “It may bring more pain than joy.”

“Answer me this. Will it stop the mental fits he has?” The glow of Mercy’s horn began to light the corridor but the dark quickly concealed the effect around her.

“Perhaps,” the hooded figure said again, stepping back from her and seeming almost to step into the shadows. “But if that is what you wish, beware… there is more to what you seek than meets the eye…”

And then he was gone. A few moments later, however, there was a new light in the corridor as a door opened inwards, spilling light from where it was into the corridor.

Mercy approached the door cautiously and peered inside. She could see nothing but light. The figure may have given her what she wanted or he may have just been lying. If he was truly an aspect of Elliot then he would be lying.

“Okay then,” Mercy said with a sigh before slowly walking into the radiant light of the door.

She found herself in what looked like a battlefield: ruined buildings surrounded her, and she could see the bodies of ponies in Guard armour and what looked like BDF, minus the battered look and even more rag tag equipment. She frowned, looking around, before seeing, to her surprise, a familiar sight - she could see David Elliot, his hair black, his face less lined and a long leather coat over some sort of battered body armour as he strode across the field, slaying Guards as they charged him. He was wielding a sword that looked almost as long as he was, its hilt black marble and its silver blade covered in blood. All around him were others, dressed in all-enclosing bodysuits, each personalised somehow.

“Press on!” Elliot was yelling. “No mercy for the scum!”

He charged forward, bounding past Small Mercy’s position as though he hadn’t even seen her, instead smashing into a group of Royal Guard further ahead of her. His sword moved faster than she thought such a weapon could have ever moved. Suddenly, a pony charged forward, grabbing onto him from behind.

With a roar of effort, he threw her off of him and towards Mercy’s position. Suddenly the mare had landed right in front of Mercy, her back broken over a rock. The mare was gasping for breath, choking on her own blood. Small Mercy was too shocked to speak.

“Commander Albion!” one of the armoured soldiers yelled from near her, and she turned to see one of the men pointing at the mare’s twitching, choking form. “One of the fokkers survived!”

Elliot turned from his fresh slaughter, and with a scowl on his face, he marched toward the injured mare’s position. He stood over her, not three feet from Small Mercy’s position.

“It’s a Royal Guard,” one of the other men said, walking up to him. “Might be worth interrogating.”

“No,” Elliot said, his voice a growl. “Not worth words. Not worth anything.”

He reached down and, with one hand, picked up the choking mare by the throat. He held her up, looking her dead in her terrified eyes, and began to squeeze slowly. Small Mercy heard the bones slowly creaking, and then cracking, the mare making terrified croaking noises, barely struggling…

And then there was a sudden snap, and the mare went limp in Elliot’s hands. He dropped her, his face impassive.

“No mercy,” he said softly.

And without another word, he marched off back to the slaughter, the troops following him, ignoring the dead Royal Guard.

Mercy stood there, not daring to move or even make a sound. They hadn’t seen her. The memories couldn’t see her. The only positive thought out of all of this. This Elliot, or Albion, was more than a soldier. He was a tyrant, not the man she spoke to earlier. This was the monster he regretted.

Monsters don’t just appear, they are created by something.

The sight of Elliot’s past hadn’t answered anything, it had simply dug up more questions. For Small Mercy that meant she wasn’t finished yet.

With ‘Elliot’ and his men nearly out of sight she rushed towards them, hoping to find actual answers. And hoping that she wouldn’t see something like that for a while.

She followed them for a little while, until she stopped by a small ruined building with a closed door near her. She watched this force killing more guards with a frown. Nothing seemed to be changing - the men would kill ponies, the ponies would try to fight back…

And then the door she was bunkering down near opened. She tensed, but all there was in the doorway was more light. Frowning, she stepped through…

***

Sam found himself in a small building. There was a corridor, battered and dusty, and he could hear voices coming from behind a door. He walked up to the door, frowning slightly as he listened to the voices. One was David’s, though he sounded tired and old, and the other was the voice of John Constantine, one of the masterminds behind some of the Iron Clad work.

“You know this is the only way,” Constantine was saying.

“Of course it’s the only way, John,” Elliot replied, sounding snappish. “Don’t patronise me. But I’m allowed to have a moment of hesitation, aren’t I? This is my life.”

“And you’re going to give it to save the rest of the human race,” John said simply.

“Yes, I am. I’m giving up my life for this,” Elliot said quietly. “Aren’t I allowed to hesitate?”

“Not when there’s this much at stake,” Constantine said.

The door was open, or open enough that Sam could edge in. Then he found his hand phasing through the door, and he remembered that these things were essentially intangible. He stepped inside the small room, and raised an eyebrow in surprise at what he was seeing.

The small room itself was bare save for a bed and a single chalk circle on the floor. Elliot was sat on the bed, wearing a white vest and black, battered combat trousers. There were bloodstains across the vest, and he looked tired and much, much older than he had been at Whitby, his hair greying and his face lined with worries. He was talking, not to the John Constantine that Sam knew, but to a yellow Earth Pony, a battered trenchcoat slung over a white shirt open at the neck. The most distinctive thing about this pony was the cutie mark on his flank, the number 666 emblazoned there in black.

“And what happens after we win?” Elliot asked this pony. “We just enslave another race.”

The yellow pony looked unsympathetic. “Tell me they don’t deserve it for what they did.”

“They…” Elliot began.

“Tell me honestly,” the pony cut him off.

Elliot sighed. “They never came to help us,” he admitted. “There might be those who wanted to though.”

“But,” the pony said, “they didn’t come.”

“No,” Elliot admitted quietly, looking tired.

“Exactly,” the pony said, nodding firmly. “Far as I’m concerned - far as a lot of people are concerned - they deserve everything they fucking get”

Elliot sighed. “This plan, Constantine. Will it work?”

“I don’t know,” the pony - Constantine? Really? - replied. “In theory, the Avatar is a demi-God. I don’t know of anything you can’t do if you can channel enough power.”

“Which we know I can,” Elliot said, looking less than happy. “Still, doing this single-handed…”

“We can’t spare anyone to follow you,” Constantine sighed. “You know that. Hell, I had Kraber, Smith and half those loons you call your spec ops banging at my door, practically demanding that I send them with you.”

“Good men,” Elliot said quietly, looking at the floor. “Willing to follow me to my death.”

“Not your death,” Constantine said, leaning forward. “The Tyrant’s death. You will slaughter her. I believe in you, Dave. I always have. You will go to Equestria, and you will stop this. You will save us all.”

Elliot looked up at Constantine, eyes filled with tears.

“Is it worth the price?” he asked quietly. “We’ll destroy millions of lives. Civilians too.”

“They started the killing of civilians,” Constantine pointed out. “You were in London, in Whitby, in Manchester. You saw the death, the destruction. You saw them slaughter everything in their way.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said, frowning. “Yeah I did.”

“So tell me we don’t deserve vengeance, then,” Constantine asked. “Please. Tell me there’s some other punishment fitting.”

“You know I can’t,” Elliot said.

“Because you know there isn’t,” Constantine countered. “You know that this is the only way to end this, and this is the only way we can ever exact just penance from them for what they did.”

“An eye for an eye,” Elliot nodded quietly. “They destroyed us.”

“So we’ll destroy them,” Constantine replied angrily.

“We’re monsters,” Elliot noted conversationally.

“We are what they made us,” Constantine replied. He sighed. “You need anything before I send you?”

“No,” Elliot said, sighing and standing up. “Just prayers.”

“That, you have,” the pony said with a slight smile. “Good luck.”

“I’ll need it,” Elliot sighed. He closed his eyes, and Constantine began mumbling. A moment later, there was a flash of light, and Elliot - and Sam - were somewhere else...

***

Small Mercy found herself looking at an odd scene. She was inside a small hut, the sound of battle roaring in the distance. She could see Elliot, dressed in battered body armour not unlike the outfits his soldiers had been wearing in the previous memory, and a man in battered suit and trenchcoat with a cigarette still firmly clamped in his mouth - this, she realised in mild surprise, was John Constantine, a man who worked with the Resistance and BDF researchers in Scotland. And yet, this Constantine looked wearied, as though whatever he had seen was too much already.

"Just hold bloody still," this Constantine said, his tone angry as he walked around the chalk circle he had drawn around Elliot.

"I am doing, Constantine!" Elliot replied, trying not to sound impatient. “If you could fucking hurry up, I’d be happier - there's a battle going on out there!”

"Yeah, yeah, I hear it," the man said tiredly. "Powers of Albion, powers ancient and wise..."

To Small Mercy's shock, Elliot began to glow softly with some sort of golden light. He looked surprised as well, scowling down at his glowing hands in surprise.

Before she could begin to ponder what this meant though, a soldier burst in, panting slightly.

"Sir!" he said, looking panicked. "The enemy - they've broken through! A team is inbound here, we have to go!"

"Shit!" Constantine swore. "Hold 'em off, I'm almost done!"

"B-but...!" the soldier protested.

"I said go!" Constantine screamed. The man immediately darted out, looking even more shocked. Constantine turned back to Elliot, continuing his muttering. "Powers of Albion, come to me. Powers of Albion, come to me."

Elliot's entire body was enveloped by the golden light, until nothing could be seen of him save a faint silhouette. Constantine kept mumbling, moving his hands slightly as he did so.

And then, without warning, there was a crack of gunfire from outside. Constantine grimaced and kept mumbling, and didn't stop until the door to the little shack was blown open by Unicorn magic. He turned to see what had come through - only to get a splash of potion to the face.

Small Mercy's eyes widened in surprise. Rarity - the same Rarity who was part of Echo team, Captain Sparkle's elite group and the bearers of the Elements of Harmony - stepped inside the small hut, looking faintly amused.

"Welcome to the herd," she said smugly.

Constantine turned away from her, agony clearly coursing through him as the potion did it's dreadful work. His flesh began sloughing off, and Small Mercy could hear the crack of bones...

"In the name... of Albion," the man said, gritting his teeth as his body sprouted yellow hair and his skeleton shifted itself, "in our hour... of need... come to us... grant us... an Avatar...!"

He screamed in agony as the potion took full effect, just as another, louder scream erupted from the beam of light that had once been Elliot. The silhouette within the beam seemed to grow larger, and then suddenly the beam began emitting a dreadful screaming - Small Mercy's ears flattened against her skull at that noise, that dreadful noise...

Suddenly, a shockwave of magical power erupted, knocking Rarity out through the doorway of the small hut. Surprised, Small Mercy dashed outside, half of her already wondering how bad Rarity's injuries were before remembering that this Rarity was not her ally.

Small Mercy could see smoke in the distance, some sort of sign of a battle being fought - there had been attacks on Dover, but never anything like this. Clearly, Elliot had been through worse memories.

Mercy turned back to look at the hut, only to blink in amazement at what had come forth.

The man might have been David Elliot, younger faced and furious, save for the long hair that blew about his head as though struck by its own wind. He wore armour, dull iron and ancient in appearance and yet majestic and regal. A war cloak flapped behind him, a high collar surrounding his head, and in his hand he wielded a blade at least as long as he was, with a hilt of black marble set with a single crystal.

He was glaring at Rarity with the force of a thousand suns. The elegantly coiffed mare's eyes widened slightly, and she stepped back from the figure, clearly more than a little intimidated by the sheer power he was exuding. Small Mercy couldn't help but be overwhelmed and impressed as well - was this what Elliot had done to fight the crystal golems?

"And who are you supposed to be?" Rarity asked this changed Elliot, trying to be dismissive even as she quailed.

The armoured figure pointed his sword right at her in response.

"I am the Avatar of Albion," he said simply.

"Impressive title," Rarity said, clearly trying to make herself feel brave. She summoned her own sword with her horn; it was a delicate-looking rapier, though it crackled slightly with some unknown power. "But don't think you can frighten me."

"I do not mean to frighten you, Rarity, Sub-Commander of the Solaminan Army," the being said, a soft growl in its throat. "I mean to kill you."

Snorting, she charged at him, her blade spinning and swinging at him. But even as she struck, his own blade intercepted hers, faster than the oversized thing should have been able to move. Before she could do anything, he had manoeuvred his blade to send hers flying away, leaving her defenceless. Shrieking slightly, she threw a bolt of magic straight at his face. The blast impacted him directly in the face, and he jerked his head back slightly. For a moment, Rarity grinned madly, but then he lowered his head and looked right at her, a small grin on his face.

"My turn," he said. He stepped toward her. Desperately, she threw more bolts of magic, but they impacted on the armour and - though they created small explosions of purple energy on him, he didn't even slow down. He brought his sword down in an almost lazy move, and in desperation she raised a shield - only for the sword to cut through the shield and into her shoulder. Small Mercy winced slightly at the soft thunk of metal impacting bone.

Screaming in agony, Rarity fell to the floor, the sword coming away from her shoulder with a wet tearing sound.

"Interesting," the figure said. He stood over her, raising his blade one handed in a motion oddly like a batter in a game of rounders.

"Please!" Rarity screamed desperately. "Please have mercy!"

"Why?" the figure asked.

And then the blade swung in a powerful arc, slicing clean through Rarity's neck and sending her headless corpse slumping to the floor. Satisfied, the figure that might have once been David Elliot turned to look back at the small hut. He stalked toward the hut, before looking at the yellow Earth Pony that had once been John Constantine. Without a word, he knelt by the unconscious pony and placed a hand on his head. There was a twitch, and then the pony screamed in shock, waking up and skittering away from the armoured man.

"Y-y-you.." he said, eyes wide. "Y-you're..."

"The Avatar you summoned, John Constantine," the armoured figure said, sounding faintly amused. "I am the vengeance you seek - the vengeance you deserve."

Constantine - the pony that had been Constantine - looked down at his own body, eyes wide with horror.

"No," he said softly. "Please no."

"I am sorry," the Avatar said, speaking almost softly now. "You are cursed now to this form."

Please don’t do it, Small Mercy thought at this. He was your...

Small Mercy’s eyes lit up when she witnessed Albion, the monster who had slaughtered countless ponies, simply smile at the Converted.

"I have freed your mind from the Tyrant's magic," the Avatar continued. "Now all that is left is vengeance."

The former human looked up at him, eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Vengeance. Fucking pony bastards will pay for this, I fucking promise you!"

"No, John," the Avatar said. "I promise you. You brought me here to enact vengeance - now you shall have it."

Without another word, the Avatar turned and walked out of the hut, heading for the battle nearby, his sword rested on his shoulder almost lazily. Small Mercy almost didn't want to follow him.

“Vengeance,” Small Mercy muttered to herself. That was what had fuelled Albion. The destruction of his home. In Elliot’s reality, even the Elements had decided to destroy mankind. The answers were coming to her now. Mercy wanted Elliot, the real Elliot, there beside her so she could talk to him about this. That time would have to wait.

She turned back to the hut, only to see that the ruined doorway had a new door, sitting open and beckoning her to come in with its bright light. Frowning slightly and wondering what other horrors awaited her in the memory of David Elliot, she walked through the door...

***