“Remember the good old days, when it was impossible to keep a secret on a ship this small?”
Tom Paris, Star Trek: Voyager - Worst Case Scenario.

Spandam: “YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE! YOU MORONS CAN'T CHALLENGE THE ENTIRE WORLD AND EXPECT TO WIN!”
Luffy: “OH, YEAH?!? BRING IT OOOOOOOOOON!!!”
Monkey D. Luffy and Spandam, One Piece

***

Private office, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

All across the PHL base, rumours were flying. It was often said that you could never keep a secret in the military, and in this case it was entirely true: though there had been a certain unofficial air of secrecy concerning the armoured figure who had battled the Clone alongside the Luna and Discord of another world, it now seemed like everybody on the base had heard the story.

Besides, it would’ve been nigh-impossible to keep the truth from anyone that had been at Boston. And miracles had a way to get tongues going and lips flapping.

Personally, Cheerilee blamed Kraber. The man’s ability to keep a secret was… unreliable at best. Like that time he’d told a story about how he joined the PHL and revealed the truth behind the altogether weird crystal pony (at least, ae looked like a crystal pony) that worked in R&D...

Right now, rumours were flying about of a whole world of super-powered Knights who could challenge the Tyrant, how but a single squad of them would end the war in a week by slaying Celestia in her palace. Which, in all fairness, probably was not Kraber’s fault, but these stories had a tendency to get exaggerated a bit. Having spoken to Elliot - and seen what had happened to him after his battle with the Tyrant - Cheerilee knew such rumours were dangerous. His world was in dire straits, and expecting that world to be able to help the same way the new Equestria would was... dangerous.

She looked up as her door knocked. She smiled - fortunately, she had already figured out the best way to go forward with this problem.

A blue mare entered the room, looking around nervously before sitting down in front of Cheerilee, smiling slightly.

"Hello Lieutenant Colonel," the mare said.

"Miss True Quill," Cheerilee greeted. "I'm glad you came at such short notice."

"It's no trouble," True Quill said with a smile. "I was going to head down to Boston eventually to speak with some contacts for my article..."

"Ah, yes, I'd heard about that," Cheerilee said. "How's that coming along?"

True Quill gave a rather bittersweet smile. "There've been some... experiences. Needless to say, I'm not sure I'd want to do it all again."

"It's an important job," Cheerilee said with a smile. "Maybe more important than you realise, given the events in Boston and their implications: yours might be the voice that rallies the new Equestria into joining us. But I've got a task that's rather more important for you - an immediate priority."

She slid a file forward, the image of David Elliot on the front. To her surprise, Quill's face lit up in recognition.

"Sergeant Elliot?" she said, frowning in confusion. "I don't understand."

"You know him?" Cheerilee asked.

"He's one of the contacts in Boston I mentioned," Quill said softly. "He was moved down there in the last few hours as part of relief efforts for the city's garrisons, I was going to meet him and his squad at a bar..."

Her voice trailed off, and she frowned at the picture on the cover. "This isn't the same man. A brother? But Elliot’s an only child..."

"You're right," Cheerilee said, smiling, "it isn't. How did you know?"

"Little things," Quill said. "Grey hairs, stubble, lines here and there..."

"You know his face that well?" Cheerilee asked.

"I have an eye for detail - comes with the job," True Quill replied shortly. She glanced up. "Besides, they’ve got different looks to them. Plus he's not bad looking."

Cheerilee shrugged. "If you say so."

True Quill looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Who is this guy, then?"

"You'll have heard rumours of the 'knight' who helped Major Bauer and the Boston forces against the Queen's clone?" Cheerilee asked.

"I did hear something about that," True Quill said. She looked down at the file. "This... this Elliot? That was him?"

"He's from another world," Cheerilee said slowly. "A world more desperate than ours if what we've heard is true."

True Quill raised both eyebrows at that, clearly surprised. Cheerilee chuckled.

"I know," she said softly, finding herself unduly amused. "I found it more than a little hard to believe myself." She sobered up somewhat, her smile fading. "Still, if these stories are accurate their world is in desperate need of help... but because of his rather, shall we say, ostentatious introduction, Elliot has generated some rumours that we'll be getting help from them... when it's likely the opposite that is true." Cheerilee sighed, and her posture sagged. “Why’d this all have to happen at once?”

"I guess we're just lucky," True Quill said with a tight smile.

Cheerilee smiled back. "I guess so."

"So you want me to interview him?" Quill asked.

"The interview will be recorded and broadcast for everyone to see," Cheerilee said softly. "And people will learn the truth."

True Quill nodded slowly. "When do I start?"

***

A bar in Boston. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

"#Pastel pissin' ponies, pissin' pastel piss!" three men sang, waving their beer glasses around raucously. "#If they're pissin' at you, you'd better hope they miss! If one of them hits you, give the nag a kiss! Pastel pissin' ponies, pissin' pastel piss!"

It was night in Boston, in one of the bars situated in a deserted, wrecked suburb that wasn’t quite outside the evacuation zone. People had crept back into at least this part of the city in a trickle, and one enterprising fellow had reopened up his bar to brisk business.

In this particular bar, three men and three ponies were sat in the bar, determined to at least attempt to drink their sorrows away. One of the men was dark haired and had stubble, tired brown eyes looking out at the world with some sort of resignation to an unhappy end. The man sitting next to him was blonde and clean shaven, and sounded chirpier even if he wasn't really. The last man was also blonde, with stubble and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth almost lazily. All three of them were wearing military uniforms, but each had their own personalisations: the dark haired man had two long daggers in holsters on his back, the first blonde man had at least three extra pistols on various parts of his person, and the last man was wearing, of all things, a long tan-coloured trenchcoat.

The ponies were an equally eclectic bunch. The first was a green Unicorn with scars on one side of his face, and his cutie mark was a battered kite shield. He wore a green and brown camo-pattern shirt. The second was a grey stallion with a scarred throat and a tower shield cutie mark, also wearing a camo-pattern shirt, though his was in urban camo colours. The last was a dark beech-coloured Pegasus with a short brown mane and goggles on, wearing a grey combat vest and bearing a red kite-shield cutie mark with a pair of golden wings within it.

They were singing a song they had come up with nearly a year ago, on Christmas night of 2022, not long after Kraber had staggered into the bar and met them. 'Come up with' was the best term one could apply, since the song was patently ridiculous and had been first created when most of them were drunk out of their minds.

The men finished the song raucously, the dark haired man drumming his hands on the table with a cheer. There was a moment or so of pause as they sat in silence, finishing their drinks.

"So," the trenchcoated man, John Constantine, said after a moment. "Don't suppose you guys have heard the latest rumours running around."

"Depends," the other blonde man, Sam Lake, said with a grin. "D'you mean the one where Errant Flight slept with Bright Wonder, or -"

"Piss off!" Errant Flight, the Pegasus, snapped good-naturedly. "Besides, everypony knows she's not my type. Too bubbly."

True Grit, the Unicorn, gave a smirk. "Think he means the one about the magic knight bloke who came and gave Celestia the most radical mane-cut in history."

"I'd heard that one," Flight said with a smirk. "Magic man with a big sword running around killing Newfoals like nobody's business."

The dark haired man was frowning. "Right bollocks, ain't it? Like that prank call Kraber hit me with while I was still fucking jet-lagged."

"'Prank call'?" John said, raising an eyebrow."What prank call was that, Dave?"

"Like you don't fucking know," David Elliot said with a half scowl, half smirk. "The one you, him and Errant Flight must've cooked up."

Errant raised both hooves in the air. "Don't look at me, pal, I haven't pulled a prank since Milwaukee."

There was a collective groan at the bar from everyone and everypony there.

"So it isn't a prank?" Dave asked, his expression becoming oddly serious for a drunk man.

"Nope," Errant said. "Was planning one next week, if we lived, but -"

"Oh don't fucking tell him!" John snapped. "We were gonna keep it a -" He trailed off, sighing. "Oh, never fucking mind, no point now, is there?"

"So what did Kraber say that you thought was a prank?" Sam asked.

Dave didn't answer, looking too deep in thought to speak. Before he could, however, they were interrupted.

"'Hey, fellas," the bartender, a rather surly looking man with a scruffy beard, said with a frown. "Keep it down, would ya? I'm puttin' the TV on."

The bar was blessed with having a plasma screen TV present, hung on a wall, and the bartender quickly turned it on, as though he was waiting for something.

"What's on that's got your goat?" Sam asked with a raised eyebrow.

"There's meant ta be a big show interviewin' the guy who helped put the fake Tyrant down," the bartender replied. "Lettin' people know who he is, what he wants, where he came from, that sorta thing. All sorts of crazy rumours flying about, even people saying they saw Princess Luna and it’s best to settle it before it gets out of hand."

"We know," Errant said with a grin. "Man, you shoulda heard some of the crap I was hearing."

"Pile o' wank, if you ask me," John muttered. "No way the guy's really all that. It'll be like Bauer, some sort of fancy armour thing like the exoskeletons from Edge of Tomorrow. And Luna? That’ll probably be some enhancement program."

"Yeah," True Grit said. "That sounds fair."

His grey Earth Pony compatriot, a stallion named Steady Hoof, nodded emphatically. Steady Hoof had lost his vocal cords to a Royal Guard spear over a year ago, and they had yet to find a decent way of paying for his operation. "Times like this I miss the NHS," True Grit had said at the time.

The TV flared to life, and the image of a studio was broadcast, a blue mare looking at the camera with a wan smile.

"Here, that's that Quill bird who wanted to interview us," Sam said with a smile. "Who's that with her though?"

Everyone and everypony there took a moment to react with various levels of surprise as they realised exactly who was sitting opposite True Quill. The man looked older, more ragged, more world-weary, more timeworn, but it was most emphatically David Elliot.

"Oh, piss," Dave said, his eyes wide.

The bartender looked at Dave, then at the Elliot on the screen, then back to Dave.

"Your brother?" he asked.

Dave's forehead abruptly decided to have an intimate meeting with the bar. “God… dammit, Kraber.”

***

PHL base, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

This David Elliot, True Quill had to admit as she entered the makeshift studio space that had been set up, cut something of a raggedy figure. He wore a t-shirt and battered trousers, and wore riding boots that looked like they had seen better days. He was chuckling about something when Quill sat opposite him in the makeshift interview room.

"Set zose cameras up!" Photo Finish was snapping at some hapless cameramen. "I vant zis interview to go perfectly, and zat means no screwups like ze last time!"

Elliot sighed and leaned back in the comfy chair they had provided, as though the simple upholstery was a luxury. Quill found herself wondering exactly how true that was - after all, his world was supposedly 'more desperate than theirs...'

She snorted unconsciously. Despite the fact that she was trying to keep an open mind, she had great difficulty believing that. Her world had suffered so much - Celestia, the totem-proles, the Crystal war... and half this Earth was gone, the remainder under constant threat of utter obliteration and domination.

No, whatever this man had gone through, it couldn't be that bad. He seemed... sane. Normal, even, which she wouldn't have expected from a world worse off than her own.

Shaking her head, she moved to sit opposite the man.

"Ah, hello," he said when he caught sight of her. "This is all quite fancy, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Some of the best equipment we have left is here."

"And the best chairs too," Elliot said with a sigh, leaning back into the chair. "You know, they haven't made a decent sofa in three years. Funny the things you miss. Upholstery, for God's sake. You’d think we’d miss regular releases of video games, the latest tripe from Hollywood, decent food, decent internet… but no. Sofas." He lounged back slightly. "God. That is comfy."

Quill didn't reply, though she raised an eyebrow at the comment.

"So," she began. "Your name is David Elliot, correct?"

"Major David Elliot, British Defence Force," Elliot confirmed with a nod. "Also known by the rank 'Force Commander'."

Quill smiled. "Well, my name is..."

"True Quill," Elliot interrupted. "You're a reporter."

True Quill frowned - as far as she knew, this was a completely cold meeting, and Elliot had been told nothing apart from that he was being interviewed.

"Um... yes," she said. "How do you...?"

"You're a correspondent," he said easily. "Reporting from the front. In my world, that is. What is it you do here?"

True Quill found herself oddly taken aback by the man's tone. "Um... PHL. Propaganda division. I do interviews mainly, but I arrange some events, I did some of the posters..."

"Not bad," the man said, nodding slowly. "Worthy job."

Ignoring that comment (and feeling slightly patronised, all things considered), Quill motioned to Photo Finish that she was ready. The mare nodded, and a moment later the red light signalling that they were transmitting was on, casting a small but almost baleful red light over part of the makeshift studio. A camera pointed at True Quill, who settled her notes quickly and turned to it with her best smile.

"Hello, everyone and everypony," she said. "My name is True Quill. Welcome to a special interview with the individual being heralded as 'the Tyrant Slayer...'"

"That's a real thing people say?" Elliot interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

Ignoring him, Quill continued. "May I present Major David Elliot, of the 'British Defence Force'."

"Uh, hi," Elliot said, waving at the camera pointing at him, smiling awkwardly. "Forgive me if I'm a little weirded out - not actually seen a working telly transmission in five years, never been on camera. Feeling a little bit uncultured right about now."

"I'm... sure," Quill said, nonplussed. Truth be told, she felt as though she had started losing control of the interview - that was not a good feeling this early on. Taking a breath, she continued. "Major, perhaps we should begin by recounting some events our viewer may have speculated on in the short time you've been here."

"What's to speculate about?" Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow. "I came, I saw, I picked a fight with an Alicorn and, with a lot of help from a couple of people - well, your Major Bauer, another Alicorn and a whatever-the-hell-he-was - I managed to introduce her to the business end of my sword."

"You make it sound rather unimpressive," Quill said with a slight smile.

"It was impressive, as an event," Elliot said with a raised eyebrow. "I just wasn't all that impressive a part of it."

True Quill analysed his tone briefly - it didn't feel like false modesty.

"From all accounts, yours was the final blow," she said.

Elliot shrugged. "Discord and Luna were keeping her still enough to land it, and even then it took your Major Bauer literally jumping out of the sky and cutting her wing off, followed by Kraber and most of a city's gunfire, to slow her down so we could both manage it. It wouldn't be going out on a limb to say it could have have been done without me."

"And yet," Quill said, "it wasn't. A lot of rumours have been flying about you - PHL secret weapon, divine being..."

"Hooray for the bullshit brigade," Elliot scoffed. He put a hand to his mouth. "Ah, hell, am I allowed to swear?!"

True Quill chuckled. "Yes, you're fine to swear."

"Yay," Elliot said with a slight smile. "Let's set the record straight on one thing then - before yesterday, I'd never been on this Earth before. I'd never heard of your PHL, your Celestia, none of it."

"So that's an important point to make," Quill said. "You're from another world."

Elliot nodded. "That's right. Another Earth, with its own problems and its own Tyrant."

"What's that like?" Quill asked, feeling the question was a simple and vague one and would allow him to expand on it at his leisure.

"Shit," he replied shortly.

There was a moment's awkward pause, and Quill blinked at the succinct reply. She had been hoping for a little more from him, and she could see Photo Finish facehoofing from the corner of her eye.

"Um... elaborate?" she asked, conscious that the man's genial tone and friendly expression had been replaced by a slight coolness.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Really shit."

True Quill coughed at that. "Um... I might need you to be a little more detailed. Our audience needs to have some idea, after all."

"Why?" Elliot asked. "Their world - your world - seems like it has the gist."

"Please?" True Quill tried.

Elliot sat forward, frowning at her, and she suddenly realised from his expression that she had touched on a sore spot for him.

"You want me to describe my world to you?" he said. "Fine."

He took a deep breath, before gesturing out at the packed pseudo-studio, full of camera equipment and people operating that equipment, even an audience of what he’d been told were randomly selected civilians. Which had been a nice move on the PHL’s part, it seemed. If the audience was full of military, people would be skeptical. But this way, people would filter out into the world, tell their neighbors what they saw.

Which meant that what he was going to say was going to screw with a lot of people. But, fuck it - this had to be said.

"D'you know what I think when I look at your world?" he asked her, looking back at her with a neutral expression.

True Quill shook her head and went for a drink of water. "What?"

"'Why the fuck are they so lucky?'" he said simply.

True Quill coughed, choking on her water and looking back at him with a scandalised expression.

"'Lucky'?" she repeated, outraged. Her opinion was shared, evidently, as the other people of the impromptu studio were staring up at him with vaguely apprehensive, disturbed, or almost angry looks.

"Look at your world," Elliot said, not the least bit abashed. "More left after the same amount of time. Better equipment. Better weapons. You've lost a lot, sure, but there's more hope here - or at least there should be, hard as that might be to hear."

"Just a bit," True Quill said, frowning.

"But there is hope here," Elliot said. "There’s more of you, more of everything you need to fight. There’s even one of me, and I doubt he’s seen half the things I did. You're fighting with a chance, odd as that must sound."

True Quill scowled at him. "I don't think that 'odd' covers it, Major. Some of our viewers might find that remark... disingenuous in the extreme, to put it mildly."

"I don’t give a damn about ingenuousness. You and your audience haven't been to my world," Elliot said coldly, looking almost as offended, but visibly straining himself to keep calm. "I come here and standard issue is some fucking sci-fi armour, guns augmented by magic and even the ponies have badass miniguns strapped to their arses. You know what standard issue for ponies in the Equestrian Resistance is on my world?"

True Quill gestured for him to elaborate.

"A khaki shirt, Kevlar armour underneath if you're lucky, and a dagger or similar bladed weapon," Elliot said.

True Quill frowned. "A... shirt and dagger? What possible good could that do?"

"They're close combat specialists," Elliot said with a shrug. "Royal Guard get up close, they keep the fuckers off the gunners."

"Don't you have guns for them?" Quill asked. The invention of guns for ponies was one of the pivotal inventions of the PHL, something that had made the war winnable in many people's minds.

Elliot chuckled, though it seemed devoid of real humour. "We invented precisely one workable gun design for the Resistance, and it's a temperamental piece of shit called the P220 that I've seen maybe six in the field of because we barely have the foundries to make them or the metals to make them from, and barely any of the equipment needed to allow them to aim them properly. Compare that to your world. Guns, armour... you look like you've got a chance. Hell, Kraber walks around with an MG2019 looking like something from Elysium -"

"You know Kraber?" Quill asked.

"Sure I do," Elliot said. "He's the first person in this world who didn't treat me like a psycho or an idiot."

"I interviewed him once," True Quill said. "I...think he told me that he thought the MG2019 looked like something from Killzone, Singularity, or Evolve - if you're wanting to reference something that is."

Elliot raised an eyebrow at her. "That's... really not the point. In my world we'd be lucky if we had one of those lying about somewhere, much less having ammo for it. I know a bloke who runs around with an M1 Garand and thinks he's lucky! We’re halfway down to flintlocks, swords, and harsh words."

"I... don't know what an M1 Garand is," True Quill said sheepishly.

"Eight-round semiauto rifle," Elliot explained tiredly. "It's pretty overpowered for close combat, if that's anything. Friend of a friend said he saw it overpenetrate four convies in the same shot, but it's just not as useful as the average M16 or what have you. And, I should add, it's about ninety years old where I'm from."

True Quill's eyes widened in shock. Ninety year old equipment… admittedly, before The Crystal War, Royal Guard equipment didn’t seem to have changed at all, but it would at least be replaced if it aged poorly enough.

"Mother of Luna," she said softly, "using equipment that ancient… how have you survived?"

Elliot smiled wanly. "When the war started there were one hundred and forty million people on the British Isles. After one year there were ninety six million. Two years was eighty million. Three was sixty three. Four was forty three. Five was twenty six. When I left at the start of the sixth year, we had fourteen."

True Quill blinked, trying to run those numbers through her head. "I don't even know how that attrition rate would work."

Elliot shrugged. "The first year was starvation, rioting, the camps, and we were getting used to fighting ponies. After that it was just constant raids and assaults. Manchester took a lot out of us. So did Coventry, Plymouth, Lancaster..." he sighed. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of.”

True Quill frowned. "And how many casualties have the Equestrians taken?"

"Estimates have hit the billions range," Elliot said tiredly, "thanks to census information we've obtained from the Empire thanks to Resistance spies."

True Quill choked, blinking in horror. "Billions?"

"Billions," Elliot repeated with a nod. He took a deep breath, looking at his hands, which had found themselves clasped in front of him, the knuckles white from clutching. "There's... an island in the Channel Islands that we use to... to dump bodies. Convies, Guard, a couple of the Elements of Order ended up there I think..."

"Elements of Order?" Quill repeated. "You mean the Elements of Harmony? They're dead?"

"I meant 'Order'," Elliot said, looking surprisingly uncomfortable. "And that's… not important. We can only use the island for bodies when we can manage it - sometimes we just dump them in rivers or the ocean. It's... not nice. We usually manage to give our own something resembling a good burial, though. Usually."

True Quill sat back in her chair, slumped on her haunches and not entirely sure what to say.

"It's..." she began.

"Then there's equipment shortages," Elliot added, cutting her off. "I told you one guy I know uses an M1 Garand? Well, we tend to have a hodgepodge. Sure, new guns are made and ammo for them, but not enough for everyone all the time. We have to roll out the museum pieces, and oft-times we're forced to make ammo for that to tide us over til we can make an L85 or something - which actually makes the situation worse since it takes more resources to make multiple different types of ammo than it does to make one single type, but if we want guns that keep firing we have to do it. I’d say we do quality over quantity, but we sort of bounce back and forth." He chuckled, a humourless noise full of resentment. "You know, it's funny."

"What is?" True Quill asked quietly.

"If we hadn't lost so many soldiers, we might actually be worse off," Elliot clarified. "As it is, we have less troops, but the same amount of guns. If we still had the numbers we had, some of us might have been reduced to wooden spears, sharpened rocks, and harsh words. But as it is, we’re getting somewhere with guns. I even heard they were designing more stuff. Progress, right?"

True Quill shook her head, already feeling out of her depth. What this Elliot was describing was... insanity.

"Um, maybe we should move on," she said, checking her notes.

Elliot shrugged. "If you like."

True Quill looked back up at him, clearing her throat. "I was interested in asking about your abilities, they've not really been clearly described."

Elliot nodded. "I can see why they might be of interest."

"You killed a clone of the Tyrant," Quill pointed out. "To some people, that's the first really big sign of hope we've had since Lyra died."

"It wasn't all that easy," Elliot commented, looking wistful. "You know, I'd always expected fighting the Tyrant would be hard..."

"I'll ask about that in a moment," Quill promised. "I'd like to start by asking where these powers came from."

"Oh. Well that's easy enough," Elliot said. "My friend John Constantine - not that he was my friend at the time - was a magician."

True Quill raised an eyebrow. "A human magician?"

Elliot shrugged. "In my world, that sort of stuff is an underbelly. Or it was. It's kind of common knowledge now."

"I was supposed to interview a John Constantine in Boston," Quill commented, noting that point with interest. "But he's not a magician."

Elliot chuckled. "Ha. Different Constantine. Actually, he doesn't go by Constantine now. He goes by Hell Blazer."

True Quill frowned. "That sounds like a pony name."

"It is," Elliot said with a smile. "That'd be because he's a Convie."

True Quill frowned for a moment, trying to place the term.

"A Convie?" she repeated - no, that was... ah yes, she remembered: old British slang for Newfoals. "You mean he's a Newfoal?"

To her surprise, Elliot started slightly, scowling at her - as though using that term offended him.

"No way," he said harshly. "The things you have here are fucking insane. Converted might be docile fuckers, but they have brains, minds, something going on beyond 'worship Solamina, obey Solamina'. Your Newfoals are terrifying compared to that."

True Quill couldn't help but chuckle.

"Your Newfoals have minds?" she asked. The thought was... incredulous.

Elliot scowled at her. "They are called the Converted, and I'd appreciate it if you remembered the distinction. They’re actually allowed their own thoughts - though from what we can tell, there’s certain ways they’re just not allowed to think, though they seem perfectly normal most of the time. They just stop thinking when they come even close to questioning or remembering. Newfoals are proof it could be worse, I guess - that looked like a living death." He paused. "Hell Blazer though - he was stuck in that state for a minute or so, and he’s still traumatised by it, so I can’t imagine how terrible it’d be to be one of those… things. Still, Hell Blazer’s a luckier sod than most."

"How d'you mean?" Quill asked.

"In his case, he had something guarding his soul from the normal shattering damages Conversion has on it," Elliot explained. "Made it possible to fix his mind."

True Quill frowned. "Guarding his soul? What?"

Elliot nodded. "We think it was one of the demons he owes his soul to."

"Demons?" Quill repeated flatly. "...What."

Elliot chuckled. "Yeah, he owes his soul to some demons. They kind of get uppity when someone else takes their stuff. Still, here’s wishing the Tyrant Sun might’ve been a bit more grabby with what she considered hers..."

True Quill slowly put her notebook down, then her pen, as though wondering how to comprehend what she was hearing. Finally, she shook her head.

"I... have no idea how to comprehend any of this," she said. "It's... it's all insane."

Elliot raised an eyebrow, a somewhat humourless smile on his face. "Welcome to my life."

***

A bar in Boston. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

“...Sam?” Dave asked. “Have I gone insane?”

“No,” Errant Flight said, “You’re going sane in a crazy world.”

"But…” Dave said. His mouth was moving, sure, but there weren’t sounds coming out of it.

“This is a lot to take in,” True Grit said quietly. “And I mean a lot. Do you guys believe any of this?”

“I’m trying to get over the bit about me being a magician who got turned into a Newfoal,” John said softly. “That.. doesn’t sound like something I’d enjoy. I… I need a moment. And a stiff drink. Hey, bartender? You got any drinks where someone froze out all the bits that aren’t alcohol?”

The bartender nodded.

“Well, then I need one. Now,” John said.

“I guess it's not all sunshine and rainbows,” Sam said quietly. “You ok, mate?”

“Yeah, fine,” John said quietly, taking cautious sips of his drink. “You know, rattled a bit. Mostly fine.”

“Hey fellas, shut up, yeah?” the barman asked. “I’m watching this.”

“Sorry,” Sam said amiably.

With no further commentary for the moment, the group continued to watch the interview.

***

PHL base, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

"So, your Constantine knew magic," Quill said. "And so…?"

"And so, he summoned a power to inhabit my body and grant me the power to be the warrior humanity needed," Elliot said with a nod. "The power of Albion."

"What exactly is it?" Quill asked. "Where does it come from?"

Elliot tilted his head thoughtfully. "That's a good question. It's… part of Earth, but deeper. Older. With it, I'm not just myself - I'm the Avatar of one of the deepest powers of the Earth, able to do… more."

"What… can you do?" Quill asked, her eyebrows twisting quizzically.

Elliot paused, as though pondering the question.

"I dunno," he said softly after a moment. "I know what I have done - I've fought the Tyrant, your Tyrant. I flew, I fired balls of energy and magical blasts that did a number on her. I can also heal myself - and I could heal others: did it for Kraber. I can delve into minds and free them of the taint of Solamina, and I grappled with the thing in Newfoals' minds. But when I tried that, well, it died. That thing's the micro-manager from hell."

"What exactly is it?" True Quill asked.

"Cold, dark, and full of hatred," Elliot said simply. "Also full of itself, but with good reason. Still: it could…"

He trailed off, frowning, his eyes drifting out over the audience.

"Could what?" Quill asked.

Instead of replying, Elliot held up a hand - and suddenly, it began glowing. Quill's eyes widened… and suddenly someone in the audience began glowing too - a woman with a stump where her hand used to be. Almost certainly, she’d been a potion amputee, and hadn’t been able to afford a prosthetic or just hadn’t found the time. Everyone stared at the stump in awe as suddenly it began growing new bone, flesh and muscle… and suddenly a new hand was there, flexing oddly as the woman stared at it. She wiggled her fingers, enjoying the satisfying cracks they made.

And then Elliot started retching, blood cascading from his nose in a steady stream.

"Are you -"

"Fine! Fine, I'm fine," Elliot said, waving a hand.

"Get a medical team!" True Quill called.

"I'm fine!" Elliot protested. "This... it happens all the time when I overdo it. Cells..." he coughed. “Can’t… can’t quite handle it.”

"What… what did you do?" Quill asked, looking at the woman.

"I could sense it," Elliot replied simply.

"What?" Quill asked, frowning.

"You know their souls are touched by the power of the potion?" Elliot asked in return, indicating the woman. "Anyone who's touched by it and gets saved by amputation. I could feel it - like tendrils touching their minds." He looked over at the woman. "Bad dreams? Dark thoughts?"

"I - yes," the woman said softly. "Yes, I had those. I was afraid to sleep for awhile."

"Not anymore," Elliot said, smiling slightly as he wiped his nose off. "You're free. I can't free the Newfoals from it, that's all-but impossible - but I can free those who've been touched by that power in a lighter way. Now..." he looked over at her. “When this is over, take a long nap. You’ll thank me when you wake up feeling rejuvenated.”

True Quill looked from the woman to Elliot and back again, before sitting back on her chair, eyes wide in shock.

“Well,” said one of the cameramen, an American man with a thick handlebar mustache and a bald pate covered in burn scars. “I seem to have just seen a miracle.”

“That you did,” a cameramare said, speaking quietly. “That. You. Did.”

“But… but that’s impossible,” True Quill said softly.

“No, it isn’t,” Elliot replied. “Don’t you think you live in a world where ‘impossible’ has ceased to have any practical meaning? Don’t you think a world with anti-Alicorn guns, Tyrants and monsters, is a world that should stop questioning?” He started laughing. “I mean damn, I tore Celestia’s head apart, only after I’d been hitting her with Excalibur for a good half hour! Impossible is nothing!”

He started laughing even more, apparently unable to contain himself, and to her own surprise, True Quill laughed too.

"You know what," she said after a moment. "I think I'm starting to believe that anything's possible."

“Good,” Elliot said. “Then you’re learning.”

***

PHL base, secure location, November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

A man with a phone tapped out a number, his eyes fixed to the television screen, which had just finished showing David Elliot’s ‘miracle’. After a few moments, the phone was answered.

“Are you seeing this?” the man asked without preamble.

”If you mean the man who can regrow limbs,” the voice on the other end said, ”then yeah - seeing. Still… working on believing.”

“I’ve been keeping track,” the man said. “He’s gone through a lot of the keywords we had listed. Avatar, Solamina…”

“That, in and of itself, should not be a damning indictment,” the voice on the phone said.

The man paused. “Agreed. But it should be cause to be careful.”

The voice paused in turn. “Agreed. We shall keep watch, then. And if it turns out this man is a threat…”

“We eliminate him,” the man finished sharply. “We can’t afford more threats than we’re already facing.”

There was a long pause. ”Again. Agreed.”

The other end went dead, and the man put the receiver down.

“We eliminate him,” the man said. “If it won’t already be too late.”

***

HLF Settlement 'Bastion', Secure Location, November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

A man named Joe Rither watched what was on screen with wide eyes. Behind him were a dozen of his people, all of them as shocked as he was.

These people were the Reavers: oftentimes, they'd been described as 'the only sane people in the HLF', and while that wasn't entirely fair to the rest of the HLF, nor was it strictly accurate (or it hadn't been), it was true enough that they had been the only HLF to ever work with the PHL to any real degree. Of course, that had been the past.

Joe Rither was the man in charge of the Reavers: he hadn't always been, though. Once, a man - a great man by the name of Maximilian Yarrow - had led them. He had given them hope, led them through hell and stood firm with them against the worst things imaginable. He had shown them the path of the Valhallan, to seek glorious death in battle - to make a difference before the end, and to face it with no fear.

And he had died.

Already low on hope, their heroism ignored, their sacrifices (oh, so many good friends gone forever), their very lives threatened by a nation that saw the letters "HLF" as a condemnation worthy of immediate execution in most cases, the Reavers - all one and a half thousand of them - had retreated to Bastion, a small settlement they had founded to hide and to live, away from the PHL Yarrow had ceased to trust and the war they no longer had any part to play in. Away from those who had killed women and children and would bury the crimes forever, who would justify their own atrocities as they condemned the atrocities of others.

After one final fight, Yarrow had died, going to Valhalla in a way that none could dispute was a historic end. Joe Rither had accepted command of his despondent soldiers, and told them in no uncertain terms: even if it killed him, he would see them all through the gates of Valhalla.

But now… the rumours of the knight who killed the Tyrant were everywhere, and this Elliot - a man like and yet unlike a man Rither had spoken to once - was that man. He was more than a man, wasn't he though? He was… he was a warrior. He was a hero.

Would such a man scorn the help of the Reavers? Would such a man see the letters HLF as such a condemnation… or would he see beyond them to see the valiant few?

Joe turned to look for a face, and found it amongst those watching the broadcast. A dark haired man with a beard was looking at him.

"You're thinking it too," the man said in a strong southern English accent. "He might be a gatekeeper, holding the way to Valhalla."

Joe smiled. "You always believed more than me, John."

John Idle nodded. "And I was right to. This is it, isn't it? This is the hour we ride again."

Joe nodded slowly, a bemused smirk on his face. "It might be. Let's not get ahead of ourselves too much. Get me Munro."

John nodded and dashed off, and Joe took a breath, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Maxi, if only you’d stayed to witness our return, to witness this hour when we might have a chance to make some difference again, he thought. I hope we do you proud. I'll do my best as I always have. It’s the least I can do

***

PHL base, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

"I honestly don't know what else I can ask you," True Quill said quietly. "Except…"

Elliot sat back in his sofa, reclining slightly. "Except?"

"Have you come here to help us?" True Quill asked.

Elliot closed his eyes. He put a hand over his face.

"I didn't come here on purpose at all," he said. "And my world needs me. It needs me a lot more than you do - if I can get back, that's my duty."

True Quill nodded slowly.

"But…" Elliot continued, "I know if I can help your people in any way, I will."

True Quill inhaled. "Really?"

"Everything I can do, I will," Elliot nodded. "It'd be a real dick move to leave you in the lurch now."

True Quill nodded slowly. "I… given what we just saw, I can see why people think you're going to save us."

"People save themselves," Elliot replied slowly. "I'm just a person, too: I've been given a weapon to help win a war, just like your Marcus Renee and his runes, or Stephan Bauer and his armour. My weapons are a little more… ostentatious in some respects, but that's all they are." He smiled. "But I'm going to do what I can. Everything I can."

"But you have powers beyond anything we've seen a human being use," Quill pointed out.

"I might," Elliot shrugged. "But anyone worthy could have done what I have. Anyone can become more than they think they are. I've found some things to be a matter of faith alone."

True Quill nodded slowly. "Thank you, Mr Elliot - Major Elliot. This has been… an interesting experience."

"You're welcome," Elliot replied with a smile.

***

A bar in Boston. November 17th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

There was a long moment's pause as the program ended and everyone in the bar took a moment to reflect on what they'd just seen.

“I’m calling Kraber,” Dave sighed after a moment, pulling out his phone and standing up.

“How come?” John asked.

“Because that mad sod knew about this!” Dave replied, walking away from the bar and holding the phone up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ja?”

Elliot growled. “How did… why’d you… I thought that was a prank!”

“How?!” Kraber asked. “I turned on facetime and everything! How could you possibly-”

“Shenanigans?” Dave asked.

Kraber sighed. “Okay. Fair enough.”

“You talkin’ to Dave?” Aegis yelled from somewhere in the background.

“Ja,” Kraber said.

“Ask him if he saw the int--”

“Did you see the interview?” Kraber interrupted. “Sorry - sorry, bru, I just really hate relaying stuff over a phone. Speakerphone time!”

“Yeah, I saw,” Dave said, and sighed. “I’m so confused.” He paused. “How are you taking this so well, anyway?”

“Life is like an issue of Nextwave,” Aegis said. “Anything can happen. You just have to learn to accept that.”

“Honestly,” Kraber said. "It really wasn’t that much of a surprise to me.”

Dave sighed. "Those fucking dreams." He paused. "Oh Christ, that's him, isn't it? The fucking knight that loony in the Reavers camp was talking about, the one I saw in my dreams."

"Yup," Kraber said.

"Fuck!" Dave swore. He paused. "Oh shit. Oh shit, it's all real, isn't it?"

"Don't worry about it," Kraber said, sounding half reassuring and half worried himself. "I don't think he's the worst one. And if that one shows up… stuff's in hand."

"'Stuff'?" Dave repeated.

"Stuff," Kraber repeated. "Anyway, enjoy your drinking. Don't get too worried - it's not like the guy'll show up to say 'hi'. Besides, if he does, I still have a contingency plan."

“..It’s a silly plan,” Aegis added.

“But it’s my best idea,” Kraber sighed. “Which is sad, I know.”

Dave shook his head. "Not what I'm worried about, but thanks."

And then the phone disconnected. Dave blinked and put it away.

He'd had dreams before, dreams of other lives. Some of those dreams had been amazing, maybe even inspiring to a degree. They’d shown him worlds where he had been able to make a real difference. Others… others had been different. Nightmarish, even. To know they were real, that they were all real…

"Fuck it," he swore. "I'm getting pissed. Bartender, give me something that won’t let me feel my face.”

***

Scottish Archives, February 25th, 2030 - 'Avatar' Earth

The Council were sat in session as the two figures - the normal looking man and the Draconequus - walked into the room. The Draconequus looked bored, and the man looked... tired.

It was Anderson who spoke first. "So, Discord and... Q, was it?"

"That's correct," the suited man said with a tight smile.

"You claimed to have news of our 'lost sheep'," the Australian general said quietly. "I assume - though it's not an assumption we're making widely known - that you're talking about Major Elliot."

"Guy with magic sword and a habit of talking like ye olde English?" Discord asked.

"… yes," Anderson said with a grimace. "I'm sure you'll understand why we're… just a tiny bit suspicious of that."

"Just a tiny bit," Discord repeated. "Hey, at least you haven't shot me up yet, which is one up on the other guys."

"The thought had crossed some minds," Prince Blueblood said with a scowl. "And trust me, we've some weapons we're itching to test."

Discord scowled in return at the Prince. "Why in the name of all that's good and chaotic in the world is that little plotwipe here?"

"That 'little plotwipe'," General Anderson said, narrowing his eyes, "is the Prince of the Equestrian Government in Exile. A little respect might be due for that."

"He is?" Discord said, raising an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how bad an idea that is? He'll -"

Q coughed, and Discord threw him a look.

"What?" he asked.

"This isn't your world," Q said quietly. "Try to remember that not every Equestria has your history. I'd have thought I was proof enough of that."

Discord scowled, then sighed. "Fine. Sorry, Prince Bluenose."

Blueblood said nothing, simply raising his eyebrow with a slight smirk.

"So," Anderson continued. "Elliot. News."

"You're obviously aware that he was sent to another world," Q said briskly. "Your little spell-caster's intention was to send him to fight Empress Solamina. A… bold plan."

"If utterly stupid," Discord added. "One man against a Tyrant? I've seen Elliot fight, and that knight-boy gig he pulls out isn't levelled up enough - not for our Celestia or your… Solamina." He sounded disturbed even saying the name. "He really needs to go dungeon crawling more. Maybe grind a bit, and spec into other skill trees... that or use a gameshark."

Anderson shared a glance with Mr Sato, who shrugged, and with Blueblood, who was shaking his head with an amused grin. He looked back to Q and Discord. The former was rolling his eyes at the latter’s humour.

"So he's alive," Anderson reiterated quietly.

"Yeah," Discord said. "Alive and fresh out of a coma, having decided that apparently no holiday to a parallel Earth is complete without taking on an Alicorn Tyrant in hand to hoof combat and - with a little help from yours truly and some others - killing her.”

The Council exchanged glances of surprise and wonder.

“He killed a Tyrant?” Blueblood asked.

“More properly, he killed a clone of the Tyrant,” Discord said. “Quite brutally, I might add. Ripped her head apart with his bare hands.”

Sato threw Anderson a glance, and Anderson leant back in his chair, eyes wide.

“Well,” he said softly, “I… don’t know how to react to that. At all.”

“I’m still having trouble understanding how there can be another world out there, with its own Tyrant,” Blueblood said. “It’s… just a bit out there.”

“Out there or not, it’s your reality,” Q said softly.

“So,” Anderson said, frowning at the two chaos-entities. “If this is true, why are you two here?”

“I would have thought that would be obvious,” Discord said with a smirk. “We’re here to help you get knight-boy back.”

“And, while we’re at it, foster communication with the parallel Earth,” Q added.

“And what good will that do us?” Anderson asked with a frown. "If this other world's in as much shit as we are…"

“You mean apart from a world with more troops, more resources, better guns and better technology, including weapons specifically designed to put an Alicorn down for good?” Discord asked sarcastically. “Oh, I don’t see how it could help at all.”

The Council members exchanged glances, none of them looking nearly as happy at that pronouncement as Discord might have expected.

“You’ll forgive us, Lord Discord,” Sato said, speaking first, his tone one of polite uncertainty, “but we have had precious few pieces of positive news during this war - Elliot's own ascension to the position of 'Avatar of Albion' notwithstanding. For you to come now with this information…”

“It’s a stretch to believe, I know,” Q said, throwing his counterpart a look. “I’d be more than a little suspicious about it myself if I were you. But it is the truth.”

“There might be some world with super-weapons,” Anderson said darkly, “but don’t pretend that you’ve got any authority to make wild promises about them helping us with them.”

Discord opened his mouth to make a scathing comment about Anderson’s obvious trust issues, but Q cut him off with a warning look.

“Look,” Q said, “you’re right - we can’t make any promises. But we can get you a fair hearing from these people.”

“Can you?” Anderson asked, clearly doubtful.

“They owe me a favour, at least,” Discord said, shrugging. “I did help put down that clone, too.”

The Council sat in silence for a moment, exchanging glances as they tried to decide whether this could be trusted. Anderson looked entirely unhappy with the whole thing, as though he suspected it was a trap. Sato didn’t look any happier with it, neither did Blueblood.

All the same… did they really have a choice?

“We’ll… have to deliberate this further,” Anderson said softly. “In the meantime…”

“In the meantime,” Discord said, “I fancy going around and having a look-see at this world of yours, see what’s different.”

“That presents a significant security risk,” Blueblood said with a frown.

“I wasn’t asking permission, Bluenose,” Discord sneered. And with that, he had vanished. Q sighed.

“I don’t know about you fellas,” he said, “but I happen to think I have far more class.”

***

Canterlot, February 25th, Year 6 of the New Solaminan Calendar (2030) - ‘Solaminan’ Equus.

You are strapped to the bed, as much - so they told you - for your own safety as for the safety of others.

The first thing you feel - though the last thing you'd admit to - is fear.

You shouldn't fear - fear is something for those who have not been chosen for a great honour by High Commander Twilight Sparkle herself. Fear is something for those who have not been granted the greatest gift in history. Fear is not something you should be feeling, given the fact that you are among the most blessed ponies in the entirety of Equestria right now.

All the same… this isn't exactly a situation conducive to feelings of wellness or relaxation. In fact despite your best efforts to remind yourself of your good fortune you feel rather nervous, terrified even. A small but loud part of you is even trying to tell the rest of you to flee, to get away and never come back.

Still, you ignore that part of you. You remember, you volunteered for this - when the call came, you answered without hesitation.

"Captain?" a voice asks, and you turn to see High Commander Twilight Sparkle herself staring at you, a smile on her face. "Are you prepared?"

And you try not to hesitate when you speak.

"Yes."

“Good,” Sparkle says. She pulls out a vial of orange liquid. “I hope this doesn’t hurt too much.”

She puts the vial to your mouth, and you drink, closing your eyes at the sudden, burning pain...

... only to find your eyes opening. You are in the middle of a field, alone. It is unremarkable - plain grass, green and untarnished, seemingly stretching on, flat and featureless, forever, further than the eye can see.

What?

You do not understand why you are here. You do not understand what this place is. You do not know…

… you do not know anything. You do not remember who you are: not your name, your history… nothing.

"Who am I?" you say aloud, as though expecting the words to have meaning here.

A voice, familiar and yet not so, answers. My name is Moondancer, Captain of the Solaminan Guard.

But none of those words mean anything - they are dust in the wind, to be discarded and ignored.

Why are you here? a voice asks suddenly, echoing through you, around you - it is part of you and separate from you, all at once.

"I…" you begin, but you have no answer.

Are you here to serve? the voice asks. To fight?

"Yes!" you call out desperately. You remember that - that is why you’re here - and it feels right! "I've come to… to fight! To fight for… for…"

For what? Why do you choose to fight?

A memory comes unbidden.

Why are you a Guard, Daddy?

Because there are a lot of griffons and dragons and moles and other creatures out beyond the borders of Equestria who don't like ponies very much. And ponies like me stand between them and little fillies like you. So I fight for Monarch and Realm, to keep little fillies like you safe.

"For Monarch and Realm," you answer - it is truth, it is right, it is part of you in a way you cannot fathom. "I’ve come to fight for Monarch and Realm, to defend my people from their enemies!"

There is a silence, and you are suddenly seized by fear, terror even. Have you said the wrong thing? Have you angered the voice? Will it deny you the right to fight for what you believe in?

Very well then, it finally says, and you breathe a sigh of relief. You have come here a supplicant. You shall leave here as a weapon, a commander, the guiding hoof of armies. You are not Moondancer.

No, of course you aren’t. How could you be? Moondancer is not you. Moondancer was never you. That weak mare with her past and her failings and all the pain she felt is one you abandon wholeheartedly.

You are the first of your kind. You are Centuria, commander, warrior, the tip of the spear, the right hoof of Solamina.

You kneel, accepting the words without question - they are the truth. They are your truth - the only truth you will ever need.

"I am Centuria," you repeat. "I am the tip of the spear, the right hoof of Solamina."

You are the weapon by which the Empress’ enemies will fall.

“I am a weapon.”

You are the means of deliverance for the lost.

“I am deliverance.”

You feel no fear except one.

“I fear to fail my Empress.”

You have no love but one.

“I love my Empress and her Empire.”

You know no joy but one.

“I know the joy of eternal service, until death.”

And the voice is pleased.

And now, it says, Centuria, tip of the spear, blade of Solamina, you will awake.

And your eyes open. Commander Sparkle - leader, superior officer, Element of Magic, chosen of Solamina - is looking at you with wide eyes.

“Captain?” she asks.

You shake your head, and you kneel before her.

“I am Centuria, first of the Empress’ chosen, tip of the spear,” you say humbly. “Show me my foe so that I may destroy them, Commander.”

And Sparkle smiles, and you know in your newly emboldened heart that you have done well.

***

Scottish Archives, February 25th, 2030 - ‘Avatar’ Earth.

“Discord is here?” Vinyl Scratch said, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”

The DJ was on FaceTime again - Lyra had felt the need to keep her updated, though this time, Hell Blazer was also in on the conversation. Vinyl, thank the Pony God, had the good sense to not mention the previous conversation she'd had with Lyra a few days ago.

“Uh huh,” Hell Blazer said with a smirk. “You know, I think Lyra had the same reaction.”

“Buck off,” Lyra said in a polite tone. “Anyway - we thought we’d let you know.”

”Yeah, ‘preciate it,” Vinyl said. “It’s weird hearing Tavi’s voice on Resistance FM these days - she talks about the buildup, and she sounds… scared, you know?”

“Yeah,” Lyra said softly. “We know.”

"Makes me wish I was with her - more than usual, I mean," Vinyl added, looking morose

"We'll get you to her one day," Lyra promised.

The DJ gave a warm smile, one Lyra returned. She knew how Vinyl felt, perhaps better than the DJ could have realised…

“So what do you think he’s there for?” Vinyl asked, changing the subject quickly. “Come to end Solamina with one snap of a talon?”

“Would that it were so easy,” a new voice said. Lyra jumped, and turned, to see the suited man - Q - standing behind her, a smirk on his face.

“Can you not do that, please?” she asked, sounding tetchy. “I don’t trust you as is, I don’t need you trying to give me a heart attack.”

“Not that I could, given your… additions,” Q said, smirking as he looked her over. “I thought I’d come see ‘what’s up’, as the hip ponies put it.”

“Take it from me, the ‘hip’ ponies ain’t doin’ anything of the sort,” Vinyl said with a smirk.

“Aw, and here I thought I would get down wiv da yoof as the British put it,” Q sad with a mock sad face. “So - whatcha doin’?”

“Talking,” Hell Blazer said with a frown. “Unless you want to piss off?”

“Not really,” Q admitted. “But if you insist… I just thought you might appreciate some information about your precious David Elliot…”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “David?! Where is he?! What do you know?!”

Q smirked. “Oh, now you’re interested.”

“What are you talking about, you plotwipe?” Vinyl said with a frown.

Q frowned at her. “Look, I’m sure being down there is all well and good, but I don’t like talking to a screen.”

In a sudden flash of light, Vinyl Scratch was standing there, looking at once shocked and amazed.

“Whoa,” she said softly.

“Yes, ‘whoa’,” Q said drolly. “Anyway - what did you think ‘little lost sheep’ meant?”

“Could have meant anything, knowing Discord,” Lyra said, scowling.

“Really?” Q asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, somepony needs to have a little more faith.”

“Excuse us for not trusting the two weirdos who decide to open a portal to the single most secure location in Britain,” Hell Blazer said scathingly. “It’s almost like you were doing something bound to make us suspicious or something.”

Q smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s… true, I suppose.”

"Hey," Hell Blazer said, frowning. "Where's your mate gone?"

Q shrugged. "'Somewhere else', I believe is the appropriate term."

***

London, February 25th, 2030 - ‘Avatar’ Earth.

Discord, the size of a robin, stood looking over the ruins of the city of London, a small frown on his face.

This city… the devastation here made Boston look like it had just had a spring clean, and this place, so he understood it, had never been subject to the tender mercies of an Alicorn. He could see the hazmat-suited forms of soldiers patrolling through the city, their weapons a hodgepodge - there were fairly advanced looking guns, similar to the sort he’d seen before, but there were also guns that looked old and battered, makeshift even. It looked as though every gun serviceable had been grabbed and put in someone’s hands.

The ponies wandering around looked even less well equipped - one or two had bulky, odd looking contraptions that were frankly archaic in comparison to the PHL’s weaponry. Most, however, just had daggers and simple, lightly armoured vests on. It was like looking at a militia. Heck, it was like looking at a post-apocalyptic world.

Well, it kinda is. And yet somehow, these are the people who’ve held off against this ‘Solaminan Empire’, he thought with disbelief. I dunno how they do it.

He snapped a claw, and suddenly he was on the street, invisible, looking at the soldiers as they built new barricades to replace the old. Some of them - soldiers in grey fatigues with little bits of plate armour strapped to them - gave off a weird vibe, one that felt oddly familiar.

He shook his head. He’d seen enough. Enough to find himself wondering just how these people could ever hope to help the other Earth he’d seen - and frankly enough to wonder how these people could be helped.

***

Scottish Archives, February 25th, 2030 - ‘Avatar’ Earth.

When General Anderson came to Sir Eric’s room, Eric knew immediately that something was afoot. The General’s presence in and of itself was a sign that there was more at work than the usual mission.

“Sir Eric,” the General said softly, nodding respectfully. “How goes the training of the Iron Clads?”

“We have a full two hundred soldiers ready and able to fight,” Eric replied at once. “I would stake my life on their worth, sir.”

Anderson smiled tightly. Eric had often found Anderson to be a little… disbelieving of the abilities of the knights of Albion. He couldn’t necessarily blame him - before he had felt the touch of Excalibur, he could never have dreamed that he could be what he was today.

“Good,” the General said. “We have news. Important news.”

Eric tensed, eyes wide. “Sir?”

“Confirmation has come that David Elliot is alive,” Anderson said softly. “He was transported to another world, one facing a similar conflict to our own. We’ve been contacted by… representatives of that world, and after some deliberation… and disagreement… we’ve decided that the best course of action is to send a contingent to support Elliot in his efforts there. This is top secret - you cannot divulge this outside of the mission team you assemble.”

“Mission team?” Eric repeated. “How many soldiers am I bringing?”

“I want a Clad contingent, volunteer only, as many as will go with you,” Anderson said. “I’ll be honest - I was hesitant about this mission. The other two members of the council are more inclined to trust these… representatives... than I am. They’ll be meeting with them shortly to relay our decision. I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t one big trap…”

“But if it is,” Eric said holding up a hand, “my soldiers are willing to face it head on. Say no more, General. I will assemble my force. Where and when?”

“Main lobby, March 1st, zero eight hundred,” Anderson said. “Make it clear that this is likely a one-way trip.”

“I will be crystal clear,” Eric replied. “You’ll have your Clad contingent, sir.”

Anderson nodded and left, and Eric began compiling a list of those he could trust to follow him into a mission into almost certain death. He quickly amended that into ‘a short list’ - most of his troops would follow him into certain death without questioning it, but he couldn’t take all of them. He needed to pick a small number, no more than thirty.

He sighed, and began thinking.

***

The Undead ran his hands through his hair as he walked through the corridors of the Archives, thinking back to the battle of London - the last place where Elliot had been. It was strange that so much had hinged on that battle, so hopeless as it had seemed: his brothers and sisters in walking death had been forced to abandon every other position they had held in the city prior to the last attack, and had holed themselves up in St Paul's Cathedral. Many of them were still there all these months later and had made themselves a common sight in the city centre since then. The Undead had, however, ordered some of his best to join him up at the Archives to help in guarding the special projects that were currently underway.

It was strange really - the lull was different to any other brief pause in the war that he had ever known, and up until now he hadn’t understood how it could have happened (though it didn’t really affect the performance of his duties significantly). Still - now he knew. Elliot was alive, and there was another war, more duties to fulfill.

That did, however, leave him with a small dilemma. It was only right, as the leader of his proud organisation, to lead his brothers and sisters in the new front that had been opened up. On the other hand that left him with the problem of choosing who would take command of the various contingents that had been ordered to stay behind.

He had thought long and hard over who would serve as the best candidate and had finally narrowed his choices down to who he thought was the best option.

He stepped out of the Archives’ interior and out into an open compound. The area was underground as well, access granted through a large tunnel that was built into the wall across from him. Vehicles of every type were moving back and forth in a continuous stream of traffic, bringing supplies, soldiers and news constantly.

The Undead stopped and stood by the door, waiting for a particular vehicle to arrive.

An old combat jeep, its black custom paint scratched and battered, rolled into the vehicle compound and came to a stop in the designated parking space. A door opened and out stepped several figures. They were all in Dead Man uniform, three men, one woman and a young girl.

Only one of the men had the Undead’s full attention. He was an older man, with dark cropped hair that was rapidly greying and aged lines over his face. The cut of his uniform suggested he had a broad build that didn’t yet look like it was threatening to go to fat and his bearing was confident and strong despite his age. The Undead would always recognise Joseph “Old Joe” Rither, the man responsible for the Dead Men becoming the organised fighting force they were today.

The group of Dead Men all walked over to the Undead the moment they saw him. Stopping a few paces away from him they all stood straight at attention and saluted. The Undead did the same in return.

“At ease,” he said in a professional tone. The group all relaxed, the young girl slouching more than the others. Having gotten the required professional pleasantries out of the way the Undead settled to tell them the news. “As you all know we have been called to conduct a highly secretive and specialised mission. I myself have been requested for this escapade and I fully intend to perform my duties as they’ve been given to me.” The Undead took another breath studying the expressions of his subordinates. “Of course, this presents the problem of deciding who performs my own duties to you while I am gone. I have, after careful deliberation, decided that Commander Joseph Rither will serve as my replacement until either my mission is complete or I have gone to rejoin my soul in death.”

The group were somewhat surprised by their leader’s proclamation. Several blinked in confusion as the Undead’s words registered and the young girl cocked her head slightly as she contemplated the declaration. None of them had known about any secret missions, just the reallocation of various forces. Now their leader was going away somewhere and Joe was supposed to take his place.

"If I may, sir, I do not believe I am well suited to the task," Joe said quietly.

"No, but I do," the Undead replied. "You're the best man I have, Joseph. I trust you."

The older man considered this, the Undead had heard him constantly reject the idea of higher leadership. His reasons had always been his own but now, now he had a greater duty and like every Dead Man he would be expected to disregard his own desires in the name of humanity and the realm. After several more seconds, Joe finally nodding, looking resigned.

“It would be an honour, sir,” Joe replied, saluting once again.

“Excellent,” the Undead said, his lips curling in a small smile. He always knew he could count on the older man to take charge when he was needed.

“Can I ask what this mission is?” Joe asked.

“I wouldn’t tell you even if I did know anything,” the Undead shrugged. “They barely even gave us guidelines: ‘Take your best men, be prepared’. But the orders come from the very top, after all.”

"Very well, sir," Joe said quietly. "Good luck."

The Undead nodded. "I imagine I'll need it. For all we know, this is a trap." He grinned. "That, at least, promises some excitement."

***

When Discord had returned he had been mostly silent, and the two of them had mostly paced since then. Q was capable of patience when he needed to be - after all, he had had to wait for millennia for the ponies of his Equestria to… well, in any case, he hadn’t expected the same dedication from his other self. Surprisingly, though, the other him seemed to have been surprisingly amenable to such patience. Maybe he was used to waiting too, or maybe - though Q doubted it - he had realised just what a serious situation they had been landed in. Two Tyrants… was not a fun idea, no matter how crazy you were.

When Blueblood and Sato exited the council chambers shortly thereafter, they looked resolute. Rupert Giles was with them, looking frustrated.

"So," Q asked. "Have you come to a decision?"

"We have," Blueblood said quietly.

“We have decided to trust you,” Sato said. “To a degree.”

“A ‘degree’?” Discord repeated. “Want to explain how that works?”

“We’re sending you back to you world with what we’ll call... a diplomatic envoy,” Blueblood said.

“Why do I get the feeling that ‘diplomatic envoy’ is a euphemism?” Discord asked.

Blueblood smirked. “It isn’t - not really. But we’ll be sending a contingent of our forces through. If the situation is a dire as you describe, I get the feeling they’ll be needed.”

"It will be a message of peace and a show of tacit support," Sato said amiably. "One we hope to be repeated by the government on the other side."

"And if this is some kind of trap, they will obviously be in a position to make you bleed for it," Blueblood added, a slight edge to his voice. "And they will."

Discord scoffed. Blueblood fixed him with a glare.

"Look," Discord said. "I've seen your world, pal. It's in a state that, in no two ways, is laughable. I have no idea how you're all still alive, and frankly I have no idea how you purport to kill Celly - or Solamina - with guns that look like they'd fall apart if I sneezed at them."

Sato glanced at Giles, who looked at him and then nodded. He looked at Discord.

"Carcerem," he said softly.

Discord raised an eyebrow, and tried to bring his arm up to turn the man into a frog - and he found he couldn't move. He looked down at himself - there was no outward change. He looked at Q, who shrugged, then at Giles.

"Need more demonstration?" Blueblood asked.

Discord growled. A moment (and a flex of magical power) later, whatever spell had been holding him was broken. He raised his claw -

"Poena!" Giles snapped, and Discord steppedbackagonyshootingthroughhisbodyashefeltlikehisnerveswereonfire…

And then it was over. Breathing heavily, irritated, Discord growled at Giles, glaring at him in hatred.

"Don't threaten my people, Mr Discord," Blueblood said quietly. "You'll find that while our guns 'look like they'd fall apart if you sneezed at them', we have far more than just guns: and even our guns are getting a lot better than we've let you see."

Discord looked up at Q, who was smirking.

"This is funny?!" he asked.

"Of course it's funny," Q said, sounding like he was struggling to hold in a laugh. "You judged a book by a shabby cover, and it bit you because it's the Monster book of Monsters. That's hilarious."

"In any case," Blueblood continued. "We'll be sending the team through, and you're going with them. Is that acceptable?"

"If it wasn't, would that stop you?" Discord asked sarcastically.

"It is always good," Mr Sato said with a smirk, "to ask."

***

Hanger 17, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 18th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

When the portal event began, almost every soldier in the facility had been mobilised. The swirling vortex in the middle of hangar 17 was similar to the one that had heralded Marcus’ return, but there were subtle differences.

For one thing, it had come into existence entirely spontaneously.

Cheerilee was watching the portal with narrowed eyes. Nearby, Kraber had the MG2023 aimed at the portal, a mad grin on his face. Aegis was next to him, his assault saddle’s two F3-Thunderlords at the ready. Around them, other troops had their rifles at the ready, none of them feeling entirely comfortable.

“Doctor?” Cheerilee asked Doctor Whooves, who was stood nearby. “What are we looking at?”

The stallion had his sonic screwdriver aimed at the portal, and he looked at the little device with a confused frown. Honestly, Cheerilee was never sure how he got results from the thing. She’d learned simply to not ask.

“The thaumic signature is… not what one would expect from a Solar Empire portal,” the Doctor said after a moment. “In faaaact…” He raised an eyebrow. “It's nonexistent."

"Pardon?" Cheerilee asked.

The Doctor frowned. "This isn’t a portal based on thaumic energy at all.”

“What?!” Cheerilee asked. “How is that possible?!”

“I dunno,” the Doctor said, grinning as he scanned some more. “Oh… oh, that is brilliant! This is more like a common-or-garden wormhole. Pure science, none of the confusing little salmagundi you PHL seem to love! Oh, it has been too long!”

“Fascinating as I’m sure it is,” Aegis said, “shouldn’t we be worried about what’s gonna come out of it?”

“Well, it won’t be Newfoals,” the Doctor said confidently. His smile faded. “Could be aliens.”

“Aliens?” Cheerilee repeated, blinking. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope,” the Doctor said. “Daleks, Cybermen, Osirans, space vampires… could be Cthulhu.”

“What?!” Cheerilee yelled.

"Oh yeah," the Doctor said. "Cthulhu, Azathoth, Ug-Qualtoth, Ghatanothoa, Yig… Albert, Fred the mildly miffed, Dave the Smelly…"

"You're joking," Cheerilee said flatly.

"About Yig, yes," the Doctor said. "About Dave the Smelly, no. Worst Golgothan ever. Bad weekend."

Kraber guffawed. “#Look to the sky, way up on high, there in the night stars are now right. Eons have passed: now then at last, prison walls break, Old Ones awake!”

“Not helping Viktor,” Aegis said softly.

“And yet,” Kraber said, “it was still funny?” He smirked. “Fok it. Whatever it is, I’mma bliksem it-”

“Please don’t!” a voice called from out of the portal. “I’d rather not be… ‘bliksemmed’ today!”

“I was gonna say if it attacked!” Kraber protested to the voice as the rest of the group aimed their weapons at it.

“Sure you were,” Aegis sighed, a bit jokingly, though the voice had unnerved him.

“Hey, the last visitor was nice,” Kraber pointed out. “I’m gonna reserve judgment.”

A moment later, Discord stepped out of the portal, looking slightly sheepish. It wasn’t, however, quite the same Discord - he had a giant letter ‘Q’ printed on the front of his body, and he grinned slightly as he looked around.

“Well, this is fancy,” he said. “Lots of guns. Nice and human.”

“Hey!” a pony called.

“What? Humans like weapons, especially American humans,” the new Discord said. “And this place is full of them.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Kraber said, brandishing the MG2023. "And I'm South African."

“Case in point, though,” the new Discord said with a smirk as he pointed at the MG2023. “Anyway - I’ve come with a special delivery for a Mr David Elliot? You might know him - big guy, armour, giant sword, kills Alicorns…”

“What do you want him for?” Kraber asked, frowning.

“I don’t want him, but it’d be a poor show on my part if he wasn’t here,” the new Discord said. “And the people who’ll be stepping through won’t like him not being here… and them not liking it might make things messy. First impressions are everything, after all.” He looked over at Kraber. “Wait. You seem familiar. Have we met before?”

“I don’t know,” Kraber shrugged. “Maybe?”

Cheerilee looked at Kraber. “Go get Elliot. We’ve got this.”

“I’d kinda prefer to stay and keep my gun trained on this fokker,” Kraber said, indicating the new Discord, who raised an eyebrow.

“Just go,” Aegis said tiredly.

Kraber looked uncertain. "You sure?"

"Yup," Aegis said. "We got this."

"They don't," the new Discord said unhelpfully. "But if they want to think so…"

“Just don’t go completely crazy without me, Viktor,” Aegis said, growling slightly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, bru,” Kraber replied with a grin, and with that he jogged out of the hangar.

***

Elliot looked up from his chair when Kraber entered, MG2023 in his hand. Elliot frowned the minute he saw that - Kraber being armed almost certainly meant that something was up.

“We’ve got a problem in Hangar 17,” Kraber said softly. “Of the ‘we might need a big sword’ kind.”

“What kind of problem is that?” Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The ‘a guy who looks like Discord just came claiming he’s bringing a special delivery for you’ kind of problem,” Kraber said with a grin. “Come on - this could be fun. Or maybe the end of the world - one or the other.”

With that he headed out, and Elliot, grabbing his military coat and ‘speed-killer’, followed him.

Elliot raised an eyebrow as they strode down the corridor. “You sound oddly enthusiastic about the end of the world.”

“Yoh, fok nae,” Kraber said. “But speaking of that, I knew a few guys who’d have loved to see the end of the world. They’d have thought it was the best fight ever... Besides. If it’s what I’m afraid it is, we’re all fokked up the poes. More than usual.”

He said that without his expression having changed at all.

***

Discord - the new Discord - was still standing by the portal when they got there, looking impatient. Elliot flexed a fist as he approached the figure, Kraber moving back to his firing position.

The new Discord looked down at him, an appraising light in his eye.

“So you’re the Avatar,” he said simply. “I must say, you’re a little taller than I thought you’d be.”

“And you’re… what? Another Discord?” Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s with the ‘Q’?”

“It’s my name,” this Discord said. “You could call me it, if you like. Or DisQord if you prefer: humans love their silly names, don't they? They did last time I spent any real time with them.”

Elliot winced at the tortured pronunciation. “Why would we call you that?”

“Well for one thing,” another voice - Discord’s voice - said, “it’ll make life easier if we can differentiate.”

Another Discord - presumably the one Elliot had already met - popped his head out of the portal. “They’re getting antsy over here, we set?”

DisQord looked at him, smirking. “Yup.” He looked at Elliot. “You might wanna step back, some people are coming through.”

Elliot frowned, and did so, wondering what was going to happen. “Who?”

“Why, your friends,” DisQord said. “This world’s Discord found your world, and I told him I’d help out.”

Elliot’s eyes widened. “You mean -”

“I mean your world’s Council got together a little expedition to come through,” DisQord said with a wink. He stood next to Elliot, looking at the portal.

“So hang on,” Cheerilee said, trotting up to stand at DisQord’s side. “You’re telling me that there’s a diplomatic envoy coming?”

“One with an escort,” DisQord said. “Somehow, they thought myself and my learned colleague were fibbing a bit.”

“Couldn’t possibly imagine why,” Cheerilee muttered, straightening up. “It’s not like you’re the Lord of lies and chaos or something.”

DisQord shushed her and concentrated on the portal. Elliot looked down at Cheerilee, who shrugged, and then he looked back at the portal himself. Suddenly he was faced with the idea of his people coming through the portal. How would they react to this world? How would this world react to them?

"What can we expect?" Cheerilee asked quietly.

Elliot glanced down at her. "Couldn't tell you. We've never had to send a diplomatic envoy before. Everyone else is much too dead to have an embassy." He smiled a little sheepishly. "Don't expect them to look their best though. The BDF can be… ratty."

Cheerilee nodded, smirking slightly. "Duly noted."

Elliot straightened up slightly, trying to look his best and keep an air of martial pride. He was perhaps more than a little aware that he was surrounded by troopers in top-notch gear with advanced weapons: when the brave, proud and slightly battered BDF sent forces through, they'd look hopelessly under-equipped by comparison.

DisQord, standing next to him, smiled at him, a knowing glint in his eye. Elliot frowned slightly.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," the Draconequus said with a smirk. "Just wondering what you'll make of this."

There was a pause, and then the other Discord stepped through. With a slightly theatrical air about him, he bowed.

“Presenting the forces of the British Defence Force,” he said, his voice taking on a haughty faux-British accent.

A moment later, two small, four-legged figures stepped through. One, an Earth Pony stallion, wore a tan trenchcoat, and had a sour expression on, not helped by the cigarette he was smoking. His trenchcoat didn't quite cover the cutie mark on his flank displaying the number 666. The other…

The other was a Unicorn mare, her coat minty-green edging towards turquoise. One eye glinted slightly with metal, and there were implants bolted along her barrel and into her legs, but the white and green mane was unmistakable, as was the lyre cutie mark.

Elliot’s eyes widened in shock. “Lyra?”

Next to him, Cheerilee looked - well, that was the thing. ‘Surprised’ didn't even begin to cover it. She looked like she'd seen Jesus’ ghost.

“...Son of a fuck,” Aegis breathed, and he looked like he had trouble standing up. “It’s… her. It’s really, really her. I missed her so much!”

“Eish” Kraber said. “Looks like I have some -” The look of utter, crushing anguish on his face, the tears welling up in his eyes, the pure regret, could have shattered the heart of the most stoic Dead Man. He caught himself, through there was a slight waver in his voice. “- apologies to make,” he finished, looking a little downcast. “Missing the appointment is probably the least of them.”

All over the room, ponies, humans, minotaurs, diamond dogs, griffons, even zebras, all of them were excitedly whispering among themselves. Some were kowtowing, bowing reverently. One woman with a long, jagged scar over her left eye was holding up a hammered-metal necklace shaped into the simplistic lyre-shape of Lyra’s cutie mark.

One Diamond Dog, an anthropomorphic shape vaguely resembling either a Lapphund or a border collie with dark blue-gray-black patches of fur where Elliot would have expected to see black, knelt down on one knee, as if accepting a knighthood from one of the Knights of Albion, as had several others.

“Easy,” Elliot said. “It’s… not your Lyra. And...” he looked around. “What’re all these people doing?” he asked.

“Plenty of us… well, hold Lyra in high regard,” Aegis explained. He adjusted his bandanna a little, showing a network of scars and burnt flesh under the red scrap of cloth. “I took the brunt of a car-bombing meant for her, once. There’s people calling me ‘The Shield’ like I was one of the apostles.”

“Apostles,” Elliot said, wonderingly. “Guess we’re not all that different in some ways. Is it… is it as religious as I think it is?”

Aegis nodded.

“And a lot of us call her Saint Lyra,” Kraber added.

“Do you…” Elliot asked, not sure how to ask the odd question.

“Nah. Still Ashkenazi Jewish,” Kraber said. “Maybe like my counterpart. Here’s hoping he still has a bit of the faith, being a Dead Man sounds draining. Personally, I’m thinking she’s a tzaddik.”

The mare - Lyra - blinked slightly, as though her eyes were adjusting to the light, and then her eyes aligned upon Elliot, widening. Before anyone could do anything, she was charging at him, knocking him to the floor with an improbably strong bearhug.

“David!” she yelled, sounding more relieved and excited than he thought he had ever heard her. “OhponyGodyou’rereallyaliveIdon’tbelieveitwherehaveyoubeenareyouok?!”

Everyone looked shocked at the open display - certainly, whatever they'd been expecting, this was not it.

“Breathe, Lyra,” Elliot choked slightly.

“Oi, Lyra, get off him!” the stallion added. “Remember protocol! He can't answer if he’s unconscious from asphyxiation! And the implants can’t be helping!”

“Fok protocol, this is clearly a touching reunion!” Kraber yelled out in mock-outrage.

“Yeah, let ‘em have this!” Aegis added. A nearby Thestral mare with gunmetal-silver locks (A night guard? Haven’t seen those in awhile!) and a nameplate reading ‘Lunar Phase’ held a hoof to her mouth and chuckled. Her throaty laugh was surprisingly deep, though. She was standing next to Aegis - evidently, her laughter was infectious.

Lyra jumped off Elliot, suddenly aware of the fact that she had just bounded on top of him in complete ignorance of protocol and in front of about two dozen strangers. She coughed sheepishly before standing to attention.

“Operative Heartstrings, requesting status report, Major,” she said smartly, though a little smirk still found its way onto her face.

“Lyra…?” Cheerilee said weakly from next to Elliot. “You're… you're…”

Lyra glanced at her, frowning slightly. “Representative?”

Elliot held up his hands. “Different worlds, guys. Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee, this is Operative Lyra Heartstrings, part of my special ops unit. And this is -”

“Hell Blazer,” the stallion said, smirking. “Master of the Dark Arts.”

Elliot coughed.

“Alright fine, dabbler,” Hell Blazer groaned. “I'm tons better since I met this idiot, mind you. Helps to learn a bit on the fly.”

“You're…” Cheerilee said, swallowing slightly. “You're the envoy?”

“No, just part of the escort,” Lyra said softly. “Neither of us would miss this. Speaking of - John?”

Hell Blazer nodded, tapped his foot, and a small silvery shape formed in the air next to him, before darting back through the portal.

“Was that magic?” Aegis asked. “But he hasn't got -” He paused. “No. Never mind. Not doing that. ”

“Once was enough,” Kraber agreed.

“What else is part of the escort?” Elliot asked.

Lyra grinned. “You just wait.”

There was a pause, and then suddenly, armoured figures began marching through the portal. Most were of a bulky design, though two or three were sleeker and lighter. They had surprisingly advanced looking rifles, and girt at their sides were swords. Each figure hd custom designs painted onto their armour - some had dragons, some had flags of countries, and some had intricate runes. Every suit of armour had a number printed on it: the leader, in on of the slimmer suits, had the number 001 printed on his chestplate. Their helmets resembled nothing so much as medieval helms with the tubes and filters of gas-masks.

“What?” Elliot breathed out. “But -”

“What are these?” Cheerilee exclaimed.

Elliot couldn't reply. He knew, rationally, what he was looking at, but the idea that they'd actually been completed…

Behind these figures came thirty figures in black trenchcoats and gas masks, holding a variety of guns, though most were modern at least. Each trenchcoat had the symbol of a flayed skull over a national flag, and each soldier moved in eery silence. One figure held a Bren with a edgy grip, as though expecting trouble.

The leader of the armoured group looked at Elliot for a moment. Elliot looked back, frowning slightly at the figure. Suddenly the figure’s hands went to his helmet, and he removed it, revealing a dark skinned, surprisingly young man with wide eyes.

“My lord Albion,” he said softly. “Is it… is it truly you?”

“Eric?” Elliot said, shocked. “You’re… you're a…”

“My lord, I must know if it is you,” Eric Smith said.

Elliot blinked, then held up a hand. Excalibur flashed into existence, glowing brightly in the dim hanger.

Eric grinned, before pointing at Elliot and turning to his men. “Knights of Albion - behold our liege Lord! Behold the Avatar!”

As one, every single armoured figure dropped to their knees and bowed their heads in supplication. Eric did so too, though he couldn't stop the wide grin from staying on his face. The trenchcoated figures, meanwhile, saluted smartly.

Elliot, unsure what to do, brought Excalibur into a salute of his own before planting it in the ground.

“So… this is the envoy?” he asked weakly.

“No sir,” Eric said, standing up. “We are the escort. Hell Blazer, I deem the situation sound.”

“As do I,” the leader of the trenchcoated figures added. “Send for her.”

One of the trenchcoated men turned and walked back through. A moment later, a final three pony figures stepped through the portal. One was a grey-purple mare, young, with a blonde mane and a slightly somber expression. One was a beech Pegasus in a red flightsuit, goggles over his eyes, and the last was…

… Cheerilee. Less battered and muscular than the Cheerilee standing next to Elliot, but definitely Cheerilee.

“Ah, hello!” she said pleasantly, her normal accent tinged with a little bit of a British edge from years spent there. “Cheerilee, Representative of the ruling council and the Exodite movement. How are we all?”

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee blinked. “Oh, for the love of…”

“Is it just me,” said the thestral who was evidently named Lunar Phase, “Or does whoever organized this have a wicked sense of irony?”

“No, it isn’t just you,” Aegis said.

“Aweh, jou’re right,” Kraber agreed, nodding.

“I wouldn't have said ‘irony’,” DisQord said. “I would have said ‘hilarity’. Considering the rather serious nature of some of the things we’ll need to talk about… humour is a good thing.”

“Seconded,” Discord added grimly. “And make no mistake everypony - we’ve all got a lot to talk about.”

Author's Notes:

Jed
"Hello all. Jed here. Now, you might have noticed updates on this have been reasonably regular - monthly in fact. That's a result of being fortuitously ahead of ourselves for a while: a lot of material's been around for a while and we've been able to expand on it.

Unfortunately, there's a lot less of what's next that's been pre-written. That, coupled with Doc's commitments to the brilliant Light Despondent (go read it, it's linked in the long description) and other work and my own commitments to original writing projects, means that AOA in general is suffering from a dearth of updates and Convergence, unfortunately, will no longer be updated every month. I can't say when it will be updated, but hopefully we'll find time to write something for the new year. I'll let Doc round us off."

Fluffy
Well: This one's been fun! I may have cut off editing a bit early on account of it being 2:40 AM here (Fluffy is sleep need) but yes - I've been very busy with Light, and another upcoming Spectrum side-story. No, they never stahp. Rest assured, we'll have the next chapter doc started by the end of the week... and the chapter of my other fanfic, written as I wait for TB3 to return after the sabbatical he's taken to work on his novel.

That, and I couldn't get it out of my head. ALso, some of you may be wondering about the crystal pony mentioned. I can assure you, ae is not important at all and will definitely not be plot-relevant to light.