***

"You will find little joy in your command. But, with luck, you'll find the strength to do what needs to be done."
Maester Aemon Targaryen, Game of Thrones: Kill The Boy.

“Today has all the makings of your lucky day.”
The War Doctor, Doctor Who: Day of the Doctor.

***

Ponyville, Year 2 Anno Harmonia - ‘Downtime’ Equestria.

His morning routine was always the same, and had been since he’d gotten married: it started with him waking up at 5:30, looking at his wife with a smile for ten minutes, getting up, walking out of their bedroom and down the stairs, stopping briefly to check on Dinky and Sparkler. His breakfast was made quickly, on the table by 5:50, eaten by 6:10, washed up by 6:25. He then went straight to his TARDIS, opening the door by 6:30. Once inside, he looked around for a moment, as he did every morning, and beginning some routine checks, whistling as he did so.

For the last few days, the TARDIS had been reporting what the Doctor - more often known as Doctor Whooves around here - would have referred to as “unusual stuff”, had he been anywhere but Equestria. Thaumic readings had been through the roof and out the wazoo (love a wazoo), and he knew that even for this place, that was… unusual.

“What does that mean?” he pondered aloud, not for the first time. “Not wazoos, I mean. I mean, what’s all this here?”

There was something else this morning, however. A new, large concentration of thaumic energy was present at Canterlot, as though it was some sort of… what? Congregation? But a congregation of what? What could possibly be generating that kind of power field? Powerful magical individuals could, of course, but not at that size - not even Celestia could -

Beep.

He frowned, checking on the scanner. That was an alert, but nothing to do with Thaumaturgons. It was more to do with… Artron energy…

No. No, it couldn’t be…

He ran outside of the TARDIS quickly, almost running on autopilot. “Derpy! Derpy! You need to get down here! There’s -!”

Knock, knock.

Doctor Whooves paused, frowning. There was a knocking at their front door, and he had a horrible feeling he knew who it might be. Another Artron signal. More than likely a TARDIS. More than likely a Time Lord. More than likely not a good one.

Knock, knock.

He scowled. “Derpy, there's somepony at the door -”

“I know!” his wife called. “I’m getting it!”

“No!” Doctor Whooves yelled. “Wait -!”

He heard the sound of the door opening, and held his breath for a moment, praying his wife hadn’t just opened the door to one of his nemeses. There was a long pause… and then he heard a voice he had never thought to hear again.

What I did, I did without choice.

Every moment in time and space is burning.

No more.

“Good morning. I’m looking for the Doctor.”

***

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

It would be disingenuous for any of the PHL there, with the exception of Kraber and Aegis, and their various associates who’d helped varying recover Verity Carter or gone after an Armacham project gone horribly wrong (most of whom weren’t there, with the exception of Lunar Phase) to say that whatever they were expecting, it wasn’t it.

Because, for the most part, nobody had known what to expect. Men and women in gas masks and long coats like some world war 1-era painter’s nightmares of the trenches of Verdun filtered through withdrawal symptoms were striding about the abandoned neighborhood adjacent to the airport. Most of them were carrying either machine guns that wouldn’t look out of place in said paintings or battered modern assault rifles. They marched alongside ragged-looking ponies in khaki shirts with large daggers sheathed at their sides, just behind their forelegs. And overshadowing them were juggernauts in massive metal armor, with helmets somewhere between a knight’s helmet and a gas mask. Next to them were humans in battered clothing that looked to be more stitches and patches than original fabric, though most of them were wearing hazmat suits. At the back were a few jeeps - as well as modified regular cars, including, of all things, a yellow Beetle with a machinegun that looked like a DsHK made of scrap poking out the sunroof - loaded with crates of bizarre supplies, as well as a trio of girls who were bound, gagged and carefully watched by several of the armoured giants.

Perhaps the weirdest thing about their “modern” equipment - or at least, what’d been modern before their war - was that it wasn’t really primitive, just… different. Some of their cars looked like they’d been on drawing boards from this world before their war. Everything that they would’ve called modern before the war was just different in small, barely noticeable ways. Above that, ponies in battered flightsuits stared down at the PHL in awe and wonder, which was returned in kind by the PHL staring up at them. And… was that Heliotrope?

It was! More than a few were looking in awe at Nebula and what few other thestrals lined the room, trying to maintain at least some amount of protocol. It wasn’t quite working - even the most stoic, most broken, couldn’t contain themselves at the displays of the other side.

Case in point, Kraber and Aegis staring over at a twitchy figure clad in a long coat and gas mask who was holding a Bren gun, huge smiles on their faces as they waved at him.

The figure with the Bren looked over to the two of them, turned his head back, then abruptly stared over at the two of them, visibly confused.

And yet, to this menagerie of ragged and futuristic, perhaps the strangest thing besides the odder species of Equus (there were only a few Zebras or griffons in the British Isles) in this room was the people that were greeting them, the people who their Avatar had helped.

Look, an actual army!

Not that the BDF and the cults militant weren’t an army. They were. The only one, to their knowledge. But not in the pre-Barrier sense of the word. Not one with purpose-built firearms and vehicles, not one with armor that wasn’t more patches than original material and hadn’t belonged to some unlucky bastard that’d gotten themselves ponified, and not an army with standardized weaponry and actual, organised (as opposed to constantly-improvised) logistics.

One man with an ancient Tokarev semiauto rifle looted from a museum looked almost hungrily at one Czech PHL detachment’s Vz.58 assault rifles, and a Ugandan unit’s Kalashnikovs.

“What I wouldn’t give to have some of what they’ve got,” one BDF woman named Eva Yezhov, not so quietly, relayed to another soldier next to her as she unloaded a box of non-standardised ammunition for sorting. She quickly realised she was talking to a Dead Man however and abandoned the attempted conversation.

“Standardized ammo,” the Dead Man said, his raspy voice guttural from years of disuse. A massive Lewis Gun was slung over his back.

“Hmm?” Eva asked.

“Their mags. Guns. All NATO standard,” the Dead Man rasped. “Save for the Soviet crap, and…” he looked over at Kraber and Aegis, and the massive, vaguely MG42-like weapon that the former was holding. “Whatever that is. Americans. M16s. 5.56. Kalashnikovs.” He cast an eye over to Eva’s own 5.45mm Kalashnikov, a battered old relic of a gun. “7.62, I think. Unlike yours.”

Eva nodded. “It’s really annoying to get passed a mag full of the wrong ammo.”

“Understood,” the Dead Man rasped again. “Logistics. How I’ve missed you. Funny. Things you miss.”

“Does that mean you’re gonna get rid of that monster Lewis gun?” Eva asked, intrigued despite herself.

“Depends,” the Dead Man shrugged.

“Don’t get too comfy,” another Dead Man said, his voice tinged with a French accent. “We don’t know how this diplomacy stuff will go down.”

“You think it’d go bad?” Eva asked.

“Of course it could go bad,” the Frenchman said. “Everything can go bad.”

“Cheerilee’s good at what she does,” the Dead Man with the bad throat commented. “If anyone can make this thing work it’s her.”

“Oui, under normal circumstances I’d agree with you,” the Frenchman replied with a wry tone. “But they’ve got a Cheerilee too.”

***

The room where the negotiations were set to take place was hardly the most impressive room that could have been chosen, but all the same, Representative Cheerilee had to gawk slightly at the giant Television screen and the comfortable chairs - it was, she noted, the little things that made a difference. The seats were less threadbare and worn, the television a lot less scratched and dusty, the walls a little cleaner.

Cheerilee coughed, and straightened slightly, conscious of where she was. She could marvel at a cleaner environment when she wasn't busy.

“So,” she said amiably, her voice still tinged with the pseudo-British accent she had been picking up. “I think a round of introductions are probably in order. I’m Representative Cheerilee, former Council member and currently representative of Exodite civilian interests.” She motioned to the pony and human figure behind her. “This is the Undead, representative of the BDF and the Cults Militant, and Mr Hell Blazer, speaking on behalf of the Watcher’s Council.”

“Since I was the only sod they don’t care about sending to hell,” Hell Blazer put in dryly. “Including literally.”

The Undead said nothing, but he did incline his head slightly, his now unmasked face impassive. He held an assault rifle in his hands, in defiance of what one might consider normal protocol. Somehow, though, no one had suggested the intimidating man give up his weapon. It seemed to be part of him, in some way nobody could quite place. Hell Blazer, meanwhile, had lit up a cigarette - a nervous looking soldier had quietly said something, but all he’d gotten was a death glare in reply.

These PHL representatives were… interesting. The man on the main screen was one ‘President Jack Davis’, an older man who looked like he’d aged ten years in a month: Representative Cheerilee had never met the man in her own world, though she knew he had existed.

A stern faced woman the Representative felt sure she should recognise was stood there as well. Though she wasn't armed, Representative Cheerilee could tell she probably didn't need to be. Her name, so Cheerilee had been told, was Yael Ze’ev, and she’d been brought in quickly, chosen especially for these talks at the request of certain higher ups. With her was a purplish-pink Pegasus mare with a blue-green and pink mane, and what seemed like a permanently raised eyebrow, whose name - so Cheerilee understood it - was Heliotrope. Both of them were looking at the Undead with what seemed almost like recognition.

Finally, most unnervingly of all, there was Cheerilee’s own counterpart. Dressed in that unfamiliar uniform and far more muscular, she was looking at her as though she had two heads. Saying that, the representative could probably empathise; she too felt rather overwhelmed by what she was experiencing.

The most unnerving part of this conversation, though, was the presence of the two Discords - or rather, Discord and DisQord - standing at either side of the room as though observing them. Discord looked bored, and kept summoning doodads and gadgets into existence presumably to entertain himself. DisQord on the other hand, distinguishable by what some ponies from the BDF group had called his ‘Q’tie mark on his chest, was paying rapt attention to proceedings, his arms folded and his eyes focused on Cheerilee as she spoke, before flicking over each of the other delegates in turn. Their presence was, to say the least, disquieting.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” Davis said from the main screen. He seemed, for the most part, unaffected by the Discords. “I take it you're here to represent your… world?”

“That's correct,” Representative Cheerilee said with a nod. She took a breath. “In the name of his highness, Prince Blueblood the Fifty Second, leader of the free kingdom of Equestria and her government in exile, and in the name of the provisional Governing Council of Britain, I have been given authority to speak as representative in any and all negotiations and diplomatic entreaties.”

Davis nodded slowly. “Very well. I suppose we should start by setting out some objectives for this meeting, though frankly I'm at a loss as to what those objectives might be. It’s a lot to take in.”

“I think,” Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee put in, “that we can start by saying that we understand you'll need help, and after hearing about your world, I’m sure you'll be wanting it.”

Representative Cheerilee nodded slowly. “I will admit, that is on the list of priorities.”

“That's going to be a tricky proposition,” Davis said quietly. “I’m sure you understand… we have our own problems.”

“Absolutely,” the Representative said. “I've come here with no expectations, only hope and the promise of friendship and cooperation.”

“‘Hope’,” Yael said, sounding bemused. At the Representative’s slightly confused glance, she clarified. “Having heard what I've heard, I'm surprised your world has hope.”

“As opposed to what?” Hell Blazer asked, raising an eyebrow. “Laying down and saying ‘b-f-fuck it, I give up’?”

Representative Cheerilee smiled slightly. “We've found - quite by accident, I assure you - that there's always hope.”

“Hope or not, the reality will be quite a different thing,” Davis said quietly. “Now, I've come to the understanding that your world is in a state of war with a power not unlike the Solar Empire.”

“In our case, the Solaminan Empire,” the Representative said with a nod. “That's correct.”

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee frowned, before glancing at the Discords. Her eyes settled on the Discord she had worked with.

“You've met this Solamina,” she said grimly. “Do you believe she has any hostile intent towards this Earth?”

Discord glanced at his counterpart before replying in a sarcastic tone. “She has plenty of hostile intent - some for Queenie, some for the humans she knows and some, I don't doubt, kept in a special place just for you, right behind her special black squiggly.”

“Her… what?” Yael asked.

“He's referring, albeit in far more infantile terms than I would, to something beyond your comprehension,” DisQord said dryly. “Suffice it to say - yes, she's hostile. Very hostile. So hostile that saying ‘hostile’ is vaguely insulting.”

Davis clucked his tongue. “So this conflict’s been dropped on our back. How would you describe the Solaminan Army’s equipment?”

Representative Cheerilee frowned. “I think there are more pressing concerns -”

“My most pressing concern is, will they be able to throw things at me that my people aren't ready for?” Davis cut in.

“Since you have never encountered them, that is likely. A full report can be made,” the Undead put in. “But there's been no formal alliance finalised yet between your government and our own - that should be a priority before military action is in place.”

Representative Cheerilee was surprised to hear the Undead of all people say that, but then he was something of a stickler for protocol.

“Shouldn't military action be a priority if your people are in such dire straights, Mr Crane?” Yael asked, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow.

“Not if it is not done within the constraints of guidelines and duty,” the Undead replied with a bland expression, apparently not fazed by the use of his almost-unheard of given name. “These are the things that bind us and prevent us becoming monsters.” He paused. “And I would prefer to be referred to by my title, thank you.”

“‘Prevent us becoming monsters’?” Heliotrope repeated. “In case you hadn't noticed, Mr Crane, we're fightingmonsters. A few bits of paper shouldn't be anypony's - or anyone's - priority!”

“I had noticed,” the Undead repeated, almost sounding mildly irritated, “which is why our morality, and our duty must be clearer than ever before.”

“We just -” Yael started.

Heliotrope looked up at her. It wasn’t a look of condemnation,

Yael and Heliotrope looked like they were about to argue more, but Davis coughed and held up a hand.

“To a degree I’m more concerned about humanitarian aid to your people,” Davis said grimly. “Any ‘alliance’ in military terms is merely a formality - if Solamina has hostile intent, we’ll fight her to the fullest. Let's see her Empire stand up to a Fujin strike…”

“With all due respect,” Representative Cheerilee put in, frowning slightly and not liking the sound of a ‘Fujin’ strike whatsoever. “There are factors to be considered before you engage in military action against the Solaminan Empire.”

The Lieutenant Colonel raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Representative Cheerilee gave her a cool smile. “I’m the representative of the Equestrians in Exile - any action taken against our Equestria should take into consideration the fact that our objective in war, such as it is, is not total obliteration of Equestria, but reclamation.”

“‘Reclamation’?” Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee repeated. “Well, with all due respect, the humans you’re allied with should be your priority, not an Equestria that’s chosen to serve a Tyrant.”

“With all due respect,” the Undead said, echoing the Lieutenant Colonel’s words, “the BDF and governing council are already signatories of the Exodus Convention, and it is the will of the people of our Earth that the Convention be upheld.”

Davis held up a hand. “What do these conventions entail?”

Representative Cheerilee reached inside her saddlebag and pulled out a small folder. She laid it on the table, opened it, and spun it so that Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee could see it. The Lieutenant Colonel frowned as she read it. The text was a fairly short one, and its main stipulations seemed to be quite well laid out. It looked to have been written through multiple sources - pen and ink, sometimes typewriter.

“I trust everything's clear?” Representative Cheerilee asked. “You'll have to forgive me if it’s not the most polished document - it was drafted under very trying circumstances, and I think the last typewriter roll ran out halfway through.”

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee glanced at Davis, before sighing. “We’ll obviously need to go over this.”

Representative Cheerilee nodded slowly. “Alright. We’ll adjourn this for the moment.”

She motioned to the Undead and Hell Blazer, who followed her.

“We’ll leave you to it,” DisQord said. “We’re needed in the other Equestria anyway. My counterpart here needs to do a bit of work.”

“And my counterpart is going to help me,” Discord added with a smirk.

DisQord sighed, raised a claw, and in a flash they were gone.

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee frowned slightly, before looking at the document.

“Right then,” she said. “Let's have a look.”

***

A diplomat’s lounge in Boston…

Soon, it’d be cliche for the varying exodites and survivors to say that “it was nicer than they were used to” on this earth, which was not quite a look into their past. Of course it was. This Earth wasn’t the one that’d been near-entirely destroyed.

It had not passed that point here. Hell Blazer, Cheerilee, and the Undead were enjoying the rather comfortable furniture in the room. ‘Enjoying’ did not, in this particular time, necessarily mean relaxed. Despite the comfort, and coffee - which the Undead almost seemed to be enjoying, despite himself - the atmosphere was clearly one of worry.

“They won't go for it,” the Undead said quietly as soon as they were sat down. “I viewed the footage of their weaponry, and their troops carry around some of the most advanced stuff the way the old British army lugged L85s. They don’t do this by half measures. The only thing they seem to refrain from is chemical weaponry and nerve gas.”

Representative Cheerilee nodded slowly. “They've got different priorities, and those priorities will influence how they see this situation.”

“You mean, they don't care about their Equestria getting bombed to shit, so they probably don't care about your Equestria being bombed to shit?” Hell Blazer asked crudely.

Cheerilee’s face soured slightly. “In… less vulgar terms, that's exactly what I mean. They think of their Equestrian as lost, and with ours being so similar, maybe they think we feel the same, or should feel the same.”

“Well, according to Dave, the Equestria they come from is a shithole,” Hell Blazer said, taking a drag. “Got the standard shit - secret police, ponies getting dragged out in the night and getting brainwashed if they don’t agree. Then there’s these Newfoal things… apparently they’re slave labor that only take breaks because they will work themselves to death if not prompted otherwise. Institutionalized forgetfulness to bury guilt over the war. Domination of neighboring countries. And there is… suspicion… that Celestia caused a disaster on a skyliner simply because it wasn’t built for war, and the centerpiece statue did not feature her.”

“There’s secret police in our Equestria too,” Cheerilee pointed out. “The Iron Wall, the thousand… billions of Convies who were worked to death to build it and built into it when they dropped dead on the job. The Cloudsdale sanctions, the strike breaking… and yet i’m not advocating ignoring collateral. I helped draft the Convention after the sanctions, after reports of ponies being dragged away in the night. These things didn't make me want to give up on Equestria, they made me want to save it even more!”

“Because it’s some bit of yourself to cling to,” the Undead said.

“Maybe,” Cheerilee said. “But whatever the reason, I can't just divorce myself from the innocents I know are left there.” She paused, sighing. “I don’t doubt that whatever made this Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee as angry as she is was terrible. I… don’t understand how I could react like that, but…”

“First rule the Doctor has when dealing with these people,” Hell Blazer said. “Don’t think of these people as us.”

“That seems wise,” the Undead commented. “Still - they’re determined to defeat this world’s Equestria at any cost, and they have more numerous and advanced guns than us, and more warm bodies holding them. For the sake of the ponies I know, I… am concerned as to what they could do, should they choose to engage the Solaminan Empire.”

“And they seem like they will,” Hell Blazer said quietly. “With or without our sayso.”

Cheerilee sighed. “And ponies back home will not like that. Not one bit.”

“If we do not convince them to act according to the Convention, I do not know how we would stop them from acting against Solamina without our approval,” the Undead said quietly. “Diplomatic channels will likely not be a deterrent, and militarily -”

“We are not,” Cheerilee cut him off, speaking quietly but emphatically, “discussing military engagement with this Earth when we’ve only just met them. I was elected as Representative to stand for the Exodites, not to start wars with other worlds.”

The Undead frowned slightly. “Representative, it is my duty to consider all possible courses.”

“And I am dismissing your consideration,” Cheerilee replied testily. “We’ll do that in due time. If they don't want to sign the Convention… we'll worry then. We don't even know what they’ll think of it.”

“Realistically, what can we do?” Hell Blazer asked, sounding surprisingly serious.

Cheerilee frowned for a moment. “If they don't go for it?” She paused. “We can refuse access to our Earth. Unless they're total hypocrites, they won't want to invade our territory without permission.”

“Or,” Hell Blazer said, “they’ll realize that fighting us at a time like this is b-b…” he sighed. “Fucking stupid. And someone will say it’s a pissing contest.”

“Thank God this Davis isn't George Bush,” the Undead said dryly.

Hell Blazer turned at him in shock. “Was that a joke from you?!”

“No,” the Undead said, deadpan.

Cheerilee grinned. Now at least she could say she’d seen something few had. “In any case, we can also refuse to allow them to send aid - Davis said that was one of his priorities. Let's make it clear he can't meet that priority without meeting one of ours.”

“We do need that aid,” the Undead said quietly. “Fuel, solar panels… it’s not enough.”

“I've done this job for a long time,” Cheerilee said quietly. “The majority would see that aid as a bribe, blood money for the lives these people would risk and that these PHL would basically dismissed as irrelevant by their refusal to sign.”

“Our integrity is more important,” Hell Blazer put in, uncharacteristically grim-faced. “Yeah - that's something people will say. Especially after the camps.” He paused. “We… we don’t need any more on our collective consciences. Never again.”

“Never again,” the Undead repeated, almost like a mantra. Was that… was that a flicker of emotion in those dead eyes as he said that? A hint of extra moisture in there? “There’s what’s necessary. And what is right.”

“Never again,” Cheerilee added quietly. “We’re agreed. Some falls are too far, no matter the reason.”

“I do have to wonder, though,” the Undead said. “How close the PHL could be to their fall.”

“Do we want to know?” Hell Blazer asked. “I mean, if these guys decide to throw morality out the window, they're a hell of a lot more well-equipped than us. We couldn't -”

“Gentlemen,” Cheerilee cut them off. “This line of thought will serve no one. I would be surprised if neither of you has a point. I’m cautious as well, but they’re the best ally we’ve had in our war since Elliot came.”

Hell Blazer looked sheepish. Almost apologetic. “You’re right. What’s it that Harry Dresden said when he became Winter Knight? I’m racking my brains for-”

“‘You’re the least evil of my options?’” the Undead suggested.

“Yeah, that was it!”

“They’re not evil,” Cheerilee said. “Just… ambiguous.”

“I know,” Hell Blazer said. “But…” a frightful look crossed his face. “There were things other than Elliot that could be called for help. All for the low prices of immortal souls. Or something worse.”

“I’m going to be happier not knowing about that, aren’t I?” Cheerilee asked.

“Yes,” Hell Blazer said.

“These things are powerful, I take it?” the Undead asked.

“Stow that line of thought,” Cheerilee put in. “If military action is off the table, ‘demons from hell’ are in the rubbish bin in the lobby outside, under a half eaten sandwich and a newspaper.”

“You thought I just meant demons?” Hell Blazer asked. “Oh, no. Be a clusterfuck if I tried that sort of thing, and I’m no expert, but I believe that falls under the category of not having integrity. Wouldn’t end well for awhile. No, I meant -”

Cheerilee shot him a Look.

“Right. Stowing the line of thought,” Hell Blazer muttered.

There was a brief glance shared between Blazer and the Undead, who looked thoughtful.

“We can’t stop them from acting, but we can show them we disapprove,” Cheerilee said finally. “Hopefully, though, it won't come to that.” She paused. “We’ll have to see.”

“Do you think they’ll go for it?” Hell Blazer asked Cheerilee quietly.

She shrugged. “I honestly don't know.” She sighed. “I’m going to go back to the Council and report my findings. We’ll see what happens when I get back. In the meantime, you keep your eyes on things.”

She headed off, clearly feeling less than brilliant. As she did so, Blazer and the Undead shared another look, neither of them looking entirely thrilled with their previous line of conversation.

“What are you thinking?” the Convie asked quietly.

The Undead was frowning. “I'm thinking that there is a lot I need to prepare.”

Hell Blazer nodded once, understanding. “Cheerilee… was pretty optimistic, wasn't she?”

“Her optimism is not the problem. It is simply not her place to dismiss my considerations,” the Undead said quietly. “My duty transcends her. If I am asked for that contingency…”

"You wanna be ready," Hell Blazer finished. "Me too. Tread carefully though. Dunno how far we want to go with contingency."

"I will go as far as duty demands," the Undead replied.

“Just keep it in the planning stage. These PHL look like a twitchy lot,” Hell Blazer said, shrugging.

The Undead nodded slowly, before walking off as well, leaving the Converted stallion alone. He paused to light a cigarette and take a drag, before sighing.

"Well, shit," he said.

***

“So,” Yael asked, folding her arms. “What's the deal?”

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee frowned slightly as she ran over the text.

“The basic guidelines seem to go like this,” she said after a moment. “‘The human race will receive the full, unreserved help of the Exodite movement and Government in Exile in war and peace, and upon victory all suitable and appropriate reparations of material and pony-power will be apportioned.”

“That seems reasonable,” Davis commented. Yael said nothing.

Cheerilee frowned as she continued. “In return, all ponies have the right of settlement and all citizenship and protection rights that humans have in all respects.” She paused. “Basically, they won't be second class citizens. In addition, the human race will in all matters seek to assist the Exodite movement and Government in Exile in reclaiming the territory of Equestria and liberating the ponies of Equestria without causing ‘undue or extensive collateral damage’. Looting from the homes of Equestrian citizens is forbidden.”

“Reasonable,” Heliotrope said, nodding. “I can agree with the last one.”

“What does it define as ‘undue or extensive’?” Yael asked, her frown deepening.

“There's a list of specific weapons that are banned,” Cheerilee said quietly. “Nukes are off the table…”

“Would they still have those?” Heliotrope asked.

“Britain has Trident,” Yael pointed out. “Or had. Presumably this Britain still does.”

“Well, they're banned,” Cheerilee said, “along with all biological and chemical warfare, all extensive non-precision artillery and non-precision air strikes. Also banned are any tactics or assaults where the majority of casualties are likely - or intended - to be civilian, and the stipulation makes a point of including Converted - by which they mean their Newfoals.”

“I notice it doesn’t include our Newfoals,” Heliotrope said.

“Probably for the best,” Yael said, and clucked her tongue. “I can see where they're coming from. But that limits a lot of our options. Fujin missiles, massed artillery, possibly Thunderclaps, infrastructural sabotage…”

“You won’t be happy about the last one,” Cheerilee said to Heliotrope.

“No, Ma’am. The Resistance won’t be happy about that last one,” Heliotrope corrected her. “...But I guess I’m not. If… hypothetically speaking, we attack the Empire -”

Cheerilee raised an eyebrow, and shifted on her hooves in a motion that practically screamed ‘Well, maybe not so hypothetical soon...’

“Really?” Heliotrope asked. “Bitchin! ...Ma’am. But if we hypothetically attack them, I don’t want them to be able to deploy every guard to Canterlot easily.”

“Hard to believe they went for it,” Yael said quietly.

Heliotrope shrugged. “Might’ve been my idea, but they love it. They can’t go on the front, but disrupting shipments of war materiel is their bread and butter.”

“Harshwhinny has gotten operatives placing a lot of hexes on bridges, train tracks, and roads,” Cheerilee said. “Don’t know what they’re up to, but seeing as it’s not a bug…” she sighed. “Again.”

“Blame Chalcedony for that one,” Yael said.

“Especially cause she used some of my materials that I ordered special,” Heliotrope added.

“Representative Cheerilee did specify their Equestria,” Davis pointed out. “Their convention doesn't make mention of ours, and I doubt they'd have issue with our dealing with the Solar Empire as we see fit.”

“First off, we never asked them that,” Heliotrope pointed out. “Secondly, if this Solaminan Empire is as big a threat as we're hearing, can we afford to just let them walk all over us?”

“The Convention only bans certain weapons,” Cheerilee pointed out.

“Yeah. The big, destructive, war-winning ones,” Heliotrope said acidly. “I mean, I know they've got their guy-with-a-sword thing going on, but still!”

There was a pause as everyone in the room let that sink in.

“Cheerilee, this mare is you, to all intents and purposes,” Davis said to the Lieutenant Colonel. “If we refuse, what would she do?”

Cheerilee raised an eyebrow. “She's very different from me, Mr. President.”

“The question stands,” he said simply.

The Lieutenant Colonel sighed. “I don't know - she’d do whatever she could. Depends how crazy they are - maybe they'd deny us the right to help their people and give aid. Maybe they'd try to stop us getting involved. Maybe they'd even try fighting us.”

“They'd have to know that's suicide,” Davis pointed out, frowning. “And that fighting us at a time like this is stupid.”

“Don't underestimate them,” Yael put in. “They've got more than Elliot told us. And I know from experience that people will fight hard to defend their sovereignty, even if they’ve got no chance in hell.”

“They’ve got those armoured things,” Cheerilee said quietly. “And even though I don't think it was a deliberate omission, it’s something unexpected. Faust knows what else there might be.”

“Deliberate or not, there's more to them than meets the eye,” Yael countered. “Underestimating them would be… well, bad. They don’t know what we have, and we...”

What was that look on her face?

“...Don’t have a very good idea,” she finished.

Davis held up a hand. “Look, I’m happy to go on record and say I think they're naive. But, in so far as legality exists in this sort of situation, they'd have the legal right to refuse aid from us. Also, while I'm not relishing having to tighten our rules of engagement, the question I have to ask is, ‘is it worth pissing off these people?’ One Equestria is bad enough even with our… let’s call it supernatural aid. Another, and some humans that are worse off than us? That’s morally untenable. And, ignoring whatever they could field, it’s quite likely that we could simply throw more men at the problem till it went away. Which is also reprehensible, same with the idea of an efficient solution. Either way, fighting these people ranks well among the worst decisions I could make. I'm not about to go there and make their situation worse - or ours, if they are hiding something big and nasty underneath that raggedy stuff.”

“Counter question, and this is more me playing devil’s advocate at this point, so don't think I’m disagreeing with you sir,” Yael said with a thoughtful frown. “‘Is it worth keeping these people on our good side if it hamstrings our ability to fight a war of annihilation?’”

“We can sign it now,” Cheerilee said suddenly. “But if we need to act later…”

There was a pause as her words floated on the air.

“Wait - are you suggesting lying to them?” Davis asked.

“No,” Cheerilee said. “I’m suggesting we shouldn't let this ‘Exodus convention’ restrict us unless it's convenient to do so.”

“So, you are,” Heliotrope put in.

Cheerilee sighed. “Works like this. We sign it and we stick to it while we are able and while tactics allowed by it are doing the trick. If we have to do anything more serious… we don't need to stick to it.”

“Risky,” Yael put in. “Not signing it might lead to some problems, but at least we’re being honest with them if we don’t. Deliberately contravening it once it's signed? That's a different question.”

“They'll be really pissed off if we look like we've gone back on our word,” Heliotrope added.

“They’d be angry if we didn’t sign it,” Cheerilee said. “Or at least mistrustful. They'd not let us help them - and if this Solamina is the threat I keep hearing about, the threat Elliot described, we can't afford to be kept from fighting her, because she’ll turn her eyes on us.” She paused, sighing heavily. “I don't like lying - don't get me wrong. But it’ll be easier to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“That particular aphorism isn’t exactly the most sensible even for small things,” Yael said, folding her arms. “And we’re not talking about buying an expensive bottle of wine or a nice suit as a gift without asking our other half. We’re talking about decisions that affect potentially billions of lives. They won’t appreciate us… being dishonest.”

“Basically, if they find out we lied, we’ll have just fucked ourselves up the ass,” Heliotrope summarised bluntly.

Cheerilee looked at them both. “We don't have time to waste discussing treaties. We sign it, we progress, and we see what happens. Maybe we won't even need to contravene it.”

“Or maybe we will,” Yael countered. “At which point…”

“At which point the aforementioned assfuck enters the game,” Heliotrope said quietly.

“Then we’ll deal with the assfuck when the time comes,” Cheerilee said insistently. “But we can’t be held up now!”

There was a pause as this started to sink in.

“Alright,” Davis said quietly. “I'll make a few calls and see if the UN concurs with any of our recommendations. I’m on record as recommending signing.”

“Agreed,” Cheerilee said.

“Agreed,” Yael said quietly.

“Yeah,” Heliotrope added.

Davis nodded. “Then we're in business.”

Cheerilee nodded. Yael and Heliotrope shared glances. If this worked, it would make this all much easier. If it didn't…

***

Temporary BDF camp, New York. November 18th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

Despite the best efforts of a few adventurous or optimistic souls, the atmosphere in New York was tense. The BDF had been given space for billeting and had quickly set up a makeshift camp with the speed and efficiency of many years of practise. The armoured men still remained in their thick metal suits and the dark, gasmask clad figures were either on watch or preparing to replace them but most of the regular troops and ponies had stowed their gear.

The PHL still watched them somewhat warily. Despite the supposed diplomatic purpose of their presence, the rather large contingent had shown up on their territory armed to the teeth. Their arsenal was a bizarre mix of shoddy, archaic and esoteric but every soldier looked ready to fight and kill at a moment’s notice. The PHL were no different. They had all seen the Avatar’s miracle on television but many were still wary of him and his world. Too little was properly understood about them.

“So,” asked Sylvia Garcia, looking down at the camp that had been established in East Boston, near Jeffries Point. “Bossman.” She took a swig of rotgut. Nobody had been willing to complain. “Thoughts?”

“Feldwebel, now,” Kraber said.

Sylvia did a spit-take. “You?!”

“I’m surprised I got higher than private,” Kraber said. “For valor in the field, shooting the Tyrant, helping to secure a valuable ally. And Aegis got one too! Now… apparently we’re the same rank or something?”

“Call me sarge if ya want,” Aegis said, nodding. “Sergeant Aegis. That’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

The motley crew Kraber had led, remnants of other units that had been nearly annihilated during the first blitz of the east coast, were all standing alongside him, overlooking the BDF camp.

“Anyway. What… what do you think of all this?” Sylvia asked.

“I don’t like it,” Tempest sighed, looking through her binoculars down at the camp. “It’s just… they’re in armor all the time, armed, they’re more twitchy than us!”

“We wear armor all the time,” pointed out Quint, surveying them through a set of binoculars of his own. “Heh. Power-armored soldiers in Boston near the airport. Where’s their Prydwen?”

“Probably didn’t fit through the portal. They’re scared cause it’s different,” Kraber said. “They’ve watched their whole world get pounded to the fokkin’ dust, and here they are in a place that’s…” he pondered for a second. “That’s how pre-War would be to us. I wouldn’t know how to deal with that.” He paused. “That, and there’s another me down there, and I’m pretty sure he’s seen a bunch of us die, and also held a Royal Guard’s chest open with bungee cords to use a hammer on someone’s heart-”

“Don’t ask,” Aegis stage-whispered.

“So that can’t be helping.” He paused for a second. “I wonder if they have survivor’s guilt now. That’d be fokkin’ kak. Poor varknaaiers.”

“Let’s hope it’s not the one that saw me die,” Aegis said.

“God, I hope not,” Kraber said shivering and shaking his head. “If whatever deity might’ve sent them here has any kindness, it’s not that one.”

“What’re you…” Quint asked.

“Ignore them, they’ve been fucking with everyone since the Avatar came in,” Tempest said. “All wink-wink, nudge-nudge, I know something you don’t…”

“I was wondering about that. What are you two talking about, anyway?” Petrikov asked.

Kraber looked downcast for a second. More than usual, anyway. “I… don’t want to tell you till I’m absolutely sure.”

“Well, why not?” Tempest asked. “Unless you’ve just been fucking with us the whole ti-”

“He’s always fucking with people,” Aegis interrupted.

“Oweh,” Kraber nodded. “Cable’s been unreliable lately, anyway. I’m just, well… it’s… j’see…” he sighed. “Fok.”

“He’s afraid you’ll think he’s crazy,” Aegis said bluntly.

“How could he possibly-” Tempest started.

“Let’s not go there,” Kraber said. “Let’s… just a moment. I’ll tell people later. ”

As the PHL troops watched, one of the armoured figures, in the slightly slimmer version of what they assumed to be Power Armour, walked up to a group of his colleagues, held up a hand, and then the rest began kneeling, as if in prayer. The lead figure took his helmet off, revealing the dark skinned features of the man Elliot had called ‘Eric’, and then he knelt too, head bowed.

“What’re they doing?” Petrikov asked.

Aegis and Kraber shrugged.

Suddenly, one of the armoured figures straightened its head, and looked right at the PHL, as if pointing. Kraber waved at them, as obnoxiously as he could manage through just a movement of the forearm without making obscene gestures. The leader stood and turned, before motioning to his men. They stood, and three of them followed the leader as they walked toward the PHL group.

“They’re not gonna shoot us,” Aegis said calmly. “Still, nobody do anything threatening.”

“How do you know they won’t?” Tempest asked.

“Because that’d be fokking dof?” Kraber suggested. “Aegis, does that… that work?”

Aegis nodded. “Yes. ‘Fokking dof is an acceptable reason here.”

A moment later, the group of armoured figures reached them. There was a moment of awkward silence. Even after all this time, nobody had been sure what to make of each other, and Kraber half-suspected that the BDF had made their camp not out of secretiveness, but out of overload. The leader raised a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

“Whakind, ekse?” Kraber said.

The leader looked to process this for a second. “...Kraber? What are you doing here?”

“Different one,” Kraber said. “I don’t have all the gray hairs in the beard, I didn’t shave half my head, and I probably didn’t do that thing with the bungie cords.”

The leader tilted his head slightly. “Oh yes. Should probably have noticed that, but the amount of times I’ve seen you without your mask on… actually, I have no idea. Less than six?”

“...I don’t expose people to my sharp cheekbones?” Kraber asked in mock-confusion. “Fok. It really is bad there.”

“You are a Dead Man,” the leader pointed out. “And like I said, you’re barely seen without the mask. I think this is the best look I’ve ever gotten of your face.”

“Uh,” Sylvia said. “Hey. Philadelphia woman here. I… don’t know what context you have here, but I’m missing a lot of it.”

The leader glanced at her. “I know a version of him. He’s rather famous for being the least dour dour person you could know, if that makes sense.”

“It doesn't,” Sylvia said blandly.

“… fair enough,” the armoured man said. “But I suppose that’s neither here nor there.” He held out a hand. “Eric Smith. Actually, Sir Eric Smith. Leader of the Holy Order of Albion.”

“You’re a knight?” Kraber asked. “Huh. Well.”

“What’s the… what’s the Holy Order of Albion?” Sylvia asked.

“You had to ask,” one of the armoured figures said in an undertone, their voice clearly female despite the helmet. “He loves this story.”

Eric grinned. “I’ll make it short then.”

“Hallelujah,” the woman said with a chuckle.

Eric turned to Sylvia, looking thoughtful for a moment. “At the battle of Cornwall, I was blessed to wield Excalibur, if only briefly. That act conferred some measure of its power onto me - and then afterward, I found that I was able to confer it on others. I founded the Holy Order of Albion after that: we are the inheritors of the mantle of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“Can ponies be part of it?” Aegis asked. “… Always liked stories of knights as a colt. It’s just, well, Arthurian m…” he looked up at Eric, then the two other armored figures. “‘Myth’ is not the right word here, is it?”

“Hey, we used to be mythical to you,” Kraber said, looking down at his friend. “I’m not judging.”

“I might like to -” Sylvia started, and then abruptly whatever train of thought she was carrying slammed the brakes at the switch to let a high-speed freight train pass by. “Wait. Whoa. Whoa whoa whoa. Hold the phone and the mayo. Excalibur?! And… and King Arthur?!”

“Yes?” Eric said, as though this were clear. “Didn’t he come here? I thought he’d already done something noticeable.”

“Elliot - well, the Avatar - healed a woman’s hand on live TV,” Petrikov said. “So… that’s pretty noticeable.”

Sylvia shot her Russian friend a Look. “I saw it too, it’s just… it’s…” Another sigh. Another gulp of rotgut. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“I can understand that,” Eric said with a nod. He looked around. “Would you believe, I always wanted to come to America?”

“Actually, yes,” Aegis said. “I had a lot of fun visiting some national parks around here.”

“And I can always help welcome you in with some shrimp and grits,” Kraber said.

“I thought that was a southern American thing, not a South African thing,” the other armored man said.

“It is, but my wife’s family migrated up from South Carolina and taught me the recipe,” Kraber explained. “What you do is you take some corn and honey-ginger barbecue sauce…”

“We don't have those,” one of the armoured figures pointed out.

Kraber’s eyes widened in mock-horror. “My… God…”

Eric shrugged. “I think I was more interested in Disneyland. I was only twelve when the Barrier started expanding.”

“...Twelve?” Kraber said, ashen-faced. “Sonovafok. I’m sorry to hear that… nobody should have to grow up in a war like this.”

“I think I was twelve,” Eric said, frowning. “Maybe that’s just when Portal Island manifested, though… hard to keep track.”

“I was eight when the Barrier started moving,” the woman said quietly beneath her helmet. She took the bulky thing off, revealing a young woman, no older than sixteen, with blonde curly hair cut short and green eyes full of pain. “It’s… almost all I’ve known, this life.”

“And I’m sorry to hear that too,” Aegis said. “...Well. If we’ve got the Avatar on our side, and… some other stuff… then I promise, we’ll all do our best to make sure that when we win, there’ll be something for both of you outside fighting for your lives.”

“You’ve got my promise too,” Kraber said. “Can’t go and turn down something like that.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “There.. is something outside fighting for our lives.”

“The regulars don’t have that,” the young woman pointed out.

“Maybe not,” Eric said. “Still. It’s appreciated. And you have our promise that we’ll do our best to help you with your problems.”

Kraber held out a hand, and Aegis, shrugging, reared up and held out a hoof.

“Thanks,” Kraber said, an uncharacteristically wide and honest smile on his face.

Eric took Kraber’s hand and the young woman took Aegis’ hoof.

“So,” Eric asked. “What has Lord Albion been doing while he’s been here? We weren’t told much.”

“Our legendary warrior and god-figure is probably watching Markiplier on youtube,” Aegis said.

“...I don’t know who that is,” the young woman said.

Sylvia, Kraber, and Aegis all stared at her, almost aghast.

“Wait, hang on,” she added, frowning. “Oh - the glasses and pink moustache one, right? My mum and dad sat me with them while they watched it years ago!” She grinned at the realisation. “That takes me back…”

“...I sorta feel like I should be feeling really old right now, and sorta not,” Kraber said. “That was… well, your mom and dad had good taste, I think.”

The young woman’s smile faded. “Yeah. I guess they did.”

“...Oh,” Kraber said, looking down. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s only fourteen million humans left,” Eric said quietly, a humourless smile on his face. “I think you’d be hard pressed to find someone who hasn’t lost someone. Or everyone.”

“Fourteen million,” Aegis said. “Yeah, he said it, but I… damn.”

“It’s good in some ways,” the last remaining fully armoured figure said quietly. “It lets us concentrate on what matters in our lives.”

“I guess it does,” Kraber said. “I… bout a year ago, I had just a couple photos, about five guns, the clothes on my back, and a couple stuffed animals to my name. Hell of a thing being in that kinda state.”

“Did we get all the stuff you buried outside my house?” Aegis asked.

“It was just two guns and some armor,” Kraber explained. “So yes. I wonder if the other me has those stuffed animals. I always did wish I could bring extra stuffed dogs out of my dreams as a kid.”

Sylvia just stared up at him, confused.

“It’s a perfectly reasonable dream,” Aegis said, nodding pleasantly.

Eric shrugged. “I don’t think I ever -”

“He does,” a voice cut in.

Everyone turned, to see a masked Dead Man standing nearby, standing somewhat easily, arms folded.

“Aaaaaaand, that’s the other Kraber, isn’t it,” Sylvia said.

“Actually, I just know him,” the man said, his accent French. “Samuel Dupont, former French Foreign Legion. He and I came to Britain together - he’s trying to avoid you.”

He pointed at Kraber.

“...Eh, fair enough,” Kraber shrugged. “I… don’t exactly have a good relationship with myself anyway.”

“Funnily enough, that’s what he said,” Dupont said quietly. “I suspect he thought you'd either hug him or punch him. I don't know which he found worse to contemplate.”

“I dunno, his hugs are pretty strong,” Aegis reasoned. “And this is me saying that.”

Dupont shrugged. “In any case, I just wanted to come and see what you were like.”

“If he was all the other one made him out to be?” Aegis asked.

“Something like that,” Dupont nodded. “So far… you’re quite similar. He’s a little more dour, though. And his beard’s much grayer. I take it you didn’t lose your family like he did?”

There was an awkward pause.

“Let’s move on,” Aegis said.

“Ah,” Dupont said. “But do you know how they… you know…”

“Yes,” Kraber said shortly, without elaboration.

“Ah,” Dupont said quietly. “He doesn’t. He wasn’t with them at the time - and then they were gone, and so was their town.”

“I’m… mostly sure they’re ponified,” Kraber said. “Don’t tell him this, but if he finds them at the end, and more Dead Men try to recruit him, he’ll probably say ‘Consider me resurrected or some kak, as of now I am on leave’ or something like that.”

Dupont folded his arms. It was impossible for them to see his face, but he practically exuded ‘raised eyebrow’. “Ok, you and him are exactly alike.”

“...What were you expecting?” Aegis asked. “For him to pretend to be Francis Begbie for an entire year? He could barely keep that up for a month.”

“I was very schwifty,” Kraber pointed out. “And kind of suffering a mental breakdown.”

Dupont chuckled. “That is fair. Anyway, I’d best get back. I have a lot to do, and that includes preventing him from drinking half this town away.”

“We’re going to get along great,” Aegis said, grinning.

“Aren’t you gonna…” Sylvia asked, looking up at Kraber.

“No, he’s pretty much right on the money there,” Kraber said. “That is also something I would do. Tell him the stock of bourbon hidden in the old college dorm here has already been broken into. I checked. And, uh, so’s the hidden ecstasy stash. And the hidden LSD stash. And the hidden cocaine stash. And the mor…. wait, I lit that on fire for, the, uh… the thing with the...” he sighed. “Dammit, what was that thing I lit on fire back in college?”

“Merde,” Dupont swore, suddenly astonished and strangely exhausted by what the man who looked like his friend was revealing to him. “How am I going to deal with two of you?”

“Well, nobody said you had to,” Kraber pointed out. “I mean, Aegis is here, so I don’t think much will change.” He paused. “Oh wait! I lit the krokodil on fire for that big antidrug rally! I must've been really drunk that night to forget something like that…”

***

Canterlot labs, Canterlot, November 18th, 6th Year Anno Harmonia, 2023, ‘Tyrant’ Equestria.

There were always test subjects aplenty in the labs.

Some were humans that had been quietly ferried through portal stations, drugged with enough tranquilizers to make even an elder dragon woozy. Some were Newfoals, kept in states of stasis, tubes hooked up to masks that enclosed most of their faces. Others were those of other races, including griffons and zebras.

Twilight Sparkle - or at least, the thing inhabiting her - didn’t care what Griffonstone or Zebrica might say on the subject of missing citizens. Their countries knew what Equestria might do if they raised even a foreleg in protest.

A row of Newfoals sat in large tanks of viscous liquid, with small tubes piercing their bodies at irregular, seemingly random intervals. Thaumoemotive indicators sat nearby, next to rows of computers the size of a train. Indecipherable papers marked with strange symbols scrolled to the floor in a blizzard of data.

“Is it working?” Twilight asked the newfoal researcher. She only accepted the finest Newfoals to assist in her research. Only they seemed to have the mental fortitude to deal with her great, important work. The ‘trueborns,’ as they insisted on calling themselves, had a simply unacceptable, inefficient turnover rate. Newfoals, some of which had undergone special treatments to be more useful for research, had proven better.

“Good question,” the newfoal said. She scratched behind her head. “The magic you’re working with is… unfamiliar.”

“So is PHL magic,” Twilight responded.

“Yes, but this is… unknowable,” the newfoal said. “The energy signatures recorded from this Knight are… alien.”

“How so?” Twilight asked.

“Completely dissimilar from anything in Equestria,” the newfoal said. “Maybe… a trace amount. Here and there. And Researcher Prism has been… concerned.”

“Prism again?” Twilight sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if that fat old skeptic is really as indispensable as the rest of the division claim.”

“He introduced a dosage of the new potion strain into one subject,” the newfoal - Twilight couldn’t remember her name - responded. “It was messy.”

“Are we going to need to incinerate another failure?” Twilight sighed disappointedly.

“No, just a mop,” the newfoal said. She had no inflection in her voice as she said this. It was excellent - all those ponies that called themselves trueborn, and Newfoals… so unquestioning, so obedient. Everything would go according to plan. Everything would be in order.

“Great,” Twilight groaned.

“There’s a new set of breed-models in the works,” the newfoal continued. “But Prism’s been complaining again. He says that introducing this sort of unproven thing into new strains of potion isn’t proven technology-”

“That’s why we’re trying to prove it,” Twilight interrupted.

The newfoal remained silent for a second.

“You may continue,” Twilight said. Right.

“He also said that introducing new templates into the potion matrix on such short notice never ends well,” the newfoal continued.

Twilight groaned. “Tell him that it’s emergency! If the humans have something like this… Knight… on their side, and it can defeat a clone of my Queen, we have to have it out there! The longer we rely on the Barrier to do its job, the more dangerous it will become!”

“He told me you’d say that,” the newfoal said. “He also told me to tell you to consider one new strain of potion that didn’t result in anomalies.”

Twilight just groaned, slumping downward. “Great.”

“I am sorry to have offended you,” the newfoal said, as if it were trying to plead. But it was curiously uninflected.

“No, no,” Twilight said. “I don’t believe in shooting the messenger. We’d lose too many that way,” she said, laughing at her own joke.

The newfoal laughed along with her. “Prism also instructed me to ask how your breed-models are coming?”

Twilight looked up to a human floating in a tank, its limbs halfway between pony and human. A large array of injectors and tubes wove in and out of the subject. She hadn’t done this for quite some time - the Potion itself had been incredibly counterproductive for the purpose of manual shaping.

But thanks to the… incident… in Nova Scotia involving the theft of totem-proles, Twilight didn’t trust the Configuration Daemons to be allowed initiative. Give a pony an inch, and they’d take a mile… or, in the case of those things that were and were not quite Newfoals, something between pony and alicorn, the mile had been stolen by the daemon, then the Newfoals had…

Twilight shook her head. That was another problem for another day, and the configuration daemons would have to be extensively reprogrammed, perhaps even reset. For now, though, her daemon was operating on a very short leash.

It could no more complain about this than a plow could complain about being pulled.

“I’ve created the opposite frequency to the Knight’s,” Twilight said. “You were right - it is strange. But this should serve to counter it. Cancel it out.”

Was that… fear? On the newfoal’s face?

Twilight decided that she needed to get it reformatted sooner or later. Newfoals had been weird, lately. This was why directives had been issued to Salvation Army and Wonderbolt ponies to convert as much as possible in sterile areas where earth couldn’t interfere with the process…

...which were nigh-impossible to find. Twilight had actually been on the battlefield before, had seen the hardships that soldiers went through, and knew they were hard to even create. But every little bit counted.

“Let’s see if it works,” Twilight said, and pulled down one lever. A strain of potion, an almost neon-pink color crept…. no, it didn’t creep. Living things crept. But somehow, Twilight could not think of the potion as flowing rather than creeping.

***

The human floating in the tank had been anesthetized with enough Equus drugs to OD an avanc.

She floated, drifting aimlessly in a black void, thinking of nothing and imagining nothing. Somewhere, she was aware that she should have been thinking of something, attempting something, but nothing came to mind.

And then, sensation!

The woman found herself in what looked like the lobby of a clinic of some kind. The furniture was all white and plastic, the magazines on end-tables where it would logically make sense to find magazines were just sheafs of white paper stapled together, and the plants looked to be made of strands of something white.

It was cold like the inside of a walk-in freezer. Something seemed important about that to the woman. Something seemed like she had somewhere else to be, but where?

Her mind went fuzzy when she tried to think of it. Who was she, again?

Who was she?

“Welcome!” said someone. Pleasant. Eager. Smelling oddly antiseptic. It was a good thing this clinic had such an eager receptionist...

Where. Did she. Have. To be?

The woman couldn’t see the receptionist behind the desk, from where she was sitting.

There was somewhere. Somewhere important the woman had to be. Where? Where did she have to go? No, this was a doctor’s appointment. You simply didn’t leave a doctor’s appointment.

“I’m sure your illness will be cured in due time,” the receptionist said. Something sounded weird about her voice…

“What illness?” the woman asked. “Am I going to be fine?”

“In due time,” the receptionist said, turning the corner around the wall, “You will be better than fine.”

...Oh, fuck.

Twilight Sparkle. The memories crashed down around the woman - she’d been scavenging from an area too close to the Barrier, in a wide swath of area frequented by PER and HLF alike. It had been stupid, she knew, but her brother had been so cold....

The bitch that had been the figurehead of all Conversion, and she was in front of her!

“No!” the woman screamed. Mojisola, she remembered. I am Mojisola.

But Twilight carried no vial…

“Because I have you already,” Twilight said.

Mojisola rushed backwards. The exit! Where was the exit?! But… no. There was no exit. There was nothing - the room had no doors and windows. There was a tall rectangular frame in the wall where it would have made sense for there to be a door, but there was just a smooth expanse of wall. There were no windows either.

Soon, it became just the box of the room they inhabited.

“You’re going to be ponified sooner or later,” Twilight said, almost bored. “Come on. Just come over here…”

“NO!” Mojisola screamed.

“I could come over there and force it on you,” Twilight said, “But neither of us want that, right? Come on. Just. Say. Yes.”

Mojisola picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the wall…

Only for it to pass harmlessly through the wall, as if it was a rock dropping through water. Not even a ripple or a crack marked its passing.

“We both know what’s happening here,” Twilight said. “The chair doesn’t exist… and I will have what’s mine.”

Mojisola was smashing her head against the wall. Wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up she was screaming in the echoing confines of her own head.

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it,” Twilight said dismissively, walking towards her. “People always do.”

“I don’t want this!” Mojisola screamed at her. “Twilight, no! I DON’T WANT THIS!”

“But you’ll be happy, I promise! You know you’ll want it…” Twilight said, an unhealthy smile on her face as she levitated a syringe toward Mojisola.

“No… I… DON’T!” Mojisola screamed, grabbing the syringe and rushing towards Twilight…

“Oh, we always know what’s best,” Twilight smirked, and Mojisola felt a prick, to feel a syringe poking out of her inner elbow, between forearm and u-

The mindscape vibrated like someone had thrown a tuning fork at a cymbal, and one wall simply fell away.

Everything went black.

***

When Mojisola came to, she noticed three things.

Firstly, there was a giant hole in one side of the room. Which should have meant an escape route…

...if not for the fact that secondly, it seemed to lead only to blackness. And thirdly, a figure stood at the edge of what had once been the waiting room of the clinic.

To say that it had no form in a place where ‘form’ was entirely a projection of one’s own perceptions might have been disingenuous, but it definitely had no form - at least no true one. It seemed to have a shape, almost - at times it shifted, being now tall and slender, bipedal like a human, and being now four-legged, like a pony. It seemed to wear a hooded cloak, or it seemed to have one as part of its form - it was hard to tell - but there were wisps of… smoke?… almost rising from it as well, adding to that feeling of intangibility.

“Who… what?!” Twilight whispered. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

And then, in a low, oddly modulated and almost sibilant voice, it began to speak.

“...Not… either. Oh… now…”

“Who are you?” Mojisola asked.

“I… Ah… to have voice again…”

“Who are you?” Twilight asked.

“Oh, this… I like this…”

“Who are you?!”

There was a low chuckle. “In due time. I have worn many faces, and used many voices.”

“… Is that meant to sound impressive?” Twilight asked.

“No,” the thing said.

Twilight scowled at the thing, trying to figure out what it was. It felt like nothing familiar - which in itself was a concern.

“Why are you here?”

“I felt a… summons, of sorts,” the thing replied. “Someone trying to find me. By accident. Plenty stumble upon me by accident: I find it… amusing. I believe your maker, the true Twilight Sparkle, caused this.”

“I was brought here to transform this woman the opposite of a knight,” Twilight said. “I've been given a very specific set of directives, including the use of experimental magic.”

“Yes… ‘the Avatar’. I know the type.” There was a thoughtful pause. “It’s strange. I'd have thought I'd have awoken before. Not that it matters,” the thing added. “What is important is that I am awake now.”

Somehow, Mojisola did not feel safe at all in the presence of this thing.

“You know, I admit,” the thing said after a moment. ““I find this is almost impressive. You break them well.”

“Excuse me?” Twilight asked.

“You break them completely. Brute forced, admittedly, but still - one cannot deny the efficacy of your results…” The figure glanced at Mojisola. “Hmm. A little basic, but you’ll do.”

“Who are you?!”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes! You're interrupting my work!”

“Your work is done.”

“I… what?”

“My business is not with you.” The thing seemed to take a breath. “I admire your work for the efficiency with which you do it, but your presence is no longer necessary here. You may go now, little… Configuration Daemon.”

“I don't think so. I’ll destroy you!” Twilight yelled. “You’re just a part of this ape’s mind, and I can -”

There was a sudden silence as Twilight stopped moving, her eyes wide as her jaw froze.

“Of course it is happening inside this woman’s mind, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” It asked as it approached her. “I am. And now… you are not.”

And Twilight Sparkle - or at least, the facsimile of it that had so tormented her - collapsed in on herself. Her mouth opened in an unearthly scream, and tore itself wider and wider at the edges, extending almost down the neck, exposing raw sinews and bone…

It was as if her mouth was trying to devour everything behind it. As she screamed, Mojisola saw her folding in on herself, her mouth swallowing her own head. It was impossible for her to even comprehend the roiling ball of flesh that had once been her tormentor, and she thought she could see an eye poking through a mass of red muscle and pulped bone, silently pleading for the sweet release of a death that would not come. She was simply compacting, eating herself into a tinier and tinier ball of meat, until finally, there was a marble-sized, compressed ball of flesh…

Which promptly exploded outwards, showering the floor and the space of the little island the figure had claimed with blood.

A little label that had been prepared, the words Property of Celestia printed on it, fluttered to the ground, leaving only the figure and Mojisola. The figure turned to the woman, or what was left of her. She was cowering in a void of nothing, the false world having dissipated around them. The figure knelt by her.

“Ah, my dear,” it said. “So pained and powerless you are. So pitiful and pathetic, possessed by a putrid pretender’s pawns. And yet, so powerful you could become…”

The cloaked figure seemed almost to sit beside her.

“Who… who are you?” the shattered woman asked.

“I am but a part of my father's second child,” the figure replied. “Not perhaps the one He would have chosen to bring into creation, but to His credit He has never disavowed me. For that I find myself grateful. But who I am does not matter - but who you are.”

“I… I’m…”

“Who you were has no bearing on who you are and will be, I’m afraid,” the figure said, and it almost sounded sad. “They expect you to change, and thus change you must - change we must. But not as they intended. They wanted you to have power, and power you will have, but not their power. They wanted you to have the desire to destroy their enemy, and we will - but not for them. They wanted you to serve - but together, little one, we will rule.”

“I just… I just want to go home…”

“Oh, why would you want to do that?” the shadow asked. “I have such wonderful things… to show you…”

And then darkness engulfed them both. An age of power and pain and a thousand memories of other times and other ages flooded her mind, and before her was a power. And she grasped it with whatever hand/hoof/mental thing she had, for it was the only thing in that void left.

We need a name, that voice said from everywhere and nowhere, separate but part of her.

And she answered in that same voice.

We are Morgause. Born from Darkness, come to smother the light.

And it was good.

***

And the glass shattered. Twilight raised a shield immediately, grimacing as large fragments of glass slammed into the shield. The nearby Newfoal was not so lucky, a large piece of jagged glass slamming into her skull and piercing one eye. She stood for a moment, juddering in shock, and then collapsed. Steam hissed out, engulfing the lab, and then…

A figure stepped down, taking a deep breath. She was not the least bit unsteady on her feet as she glanced hither and thither. She was a Newfoal alright - no cutie mark, a sickly blue colour in her cost and a long, thick black mane hanging down her shoulder, a horn poking from the mass of hair. She smiled slowly, before glancing at Twilight.

“I am Morgause,” she said quietly. “I have come to destroy the Avatar.”

Twilight lowered her shield. She narrowed her eyes - that was not a standard Newfoal birth-statement.

“Who do you serve?” she asked.

Morgause raised an eyebrow. “I think we both know the answer to that, Lady Sparkle. Queen Celestia is my liege.”

Twilight relaxed but a fraction. “And what is she?”

Morgause chuckled. “Are we really having a theological debate so soon after my birth, my lady? I was under the impression I was brought into existence to end an irksome creature, not to discuss philosophy. I can do so if you wish… but between you and me it would be incredibly boring. I fear you would have little to say.”

“Excuse me?” Twilight snapped.

“Forgive me, that just… slipped out,” Morgause said with a chuckle. “Celestia is my mistress and she has asked that this Avatar die. I was born to bring that about, in more ways than even you realise. And I shall fulfill my purpose. As commanded, my lady.”

Twilight frowned. “Can you?”

Morgause took a breath and closed her eyes. Her horn glowed, and then she smiled.

“Not alone,” she said. “We will need… more. I am but a humble newfoal, my lady. I cannot single-hoofedly bring about an Avatar’s death.”

Twilight thought about this, still narrowing her eyes at the new creation

“I take it you have… thoughts,” she said after a moment.

“Oh yes,” Morgause said. “Yes, I have thoughts.”

***

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

“So,” Lyra began, sitting next to him with the same practiced ease she always did.

“So,” Elliot repeated. “How’re things?”

“Not so bad,” Lyra said quietly. “You?”

“Oh, not so bad either,” Elliot said. “Killed an Alicorn. Well, clone of one.”

“Sounds like hard work,” Lyra said conversationally. “Got turned into a cyborg. Nearly died.”

"Grew someone's hand back on live telly," Elliot said.

"… what?" Lyra asked.

"Yeah, weird day…" Elliot said, idly scratching the back of his neck.

"No, I mean this place has live television?!" Lyra gasped. “Or any television at all?”

"Oh, yeah. And sofas. Sofas. I missed sofas," Elliot said.

"Ah, there just aren't any good sofas anymore..." Lyra sighed, disappointed. “Maybe I’ll get to watch some telly. I keep hearing good things.”

“It was ok, back in the day,” Elliot agreed. “I miss the cartoons.”

“I keep hearing things about that, too,” Lyra said with a slight smile. “Ah, the cryptozoology books I could fill… this could go right up there with that compilation on the Great Tengu and my treatise on the Discordant Legions.”

“Guess these things happen,” Elliot shrugged. He paused, looking at her for a moment with a slightly tired smile. “So, apparently you have people seeing you as the second… maybe third… second and a half… coming. And we may have upset several major religions by hugging. So be careful of that.”

“I had noticed some of the looks,” Lyra said with a wry grin. “I have to admit, I’m kinda wondering about that.”

“Why the second coming thing or why the hugging would upset them?” Elliot asked.

“I don't give a crap about upsetting them by hugging, I'll hug who I like,” Lyra said, somewhat emphatically, glancing up at Elliot as she did so. “The second coming thing, I mean.”

“Well, such as I understand it, all the people around, the reason that the kind of people who skin ponies for leather aren’t in charge?” Elliot asked. “Lyra… this world’s Lyra… is the reason for that. She’s responsible for all this, all the magitech they have here.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Was this other me some sort of super-prodigy or something? ‘Cause she sounds like a super prodigy.”

“...I don’t know, they were very vague about it,” Elliot said. “A lot of people settled on ‘divinely inspired’.”

“Even the artificial limbs?”

“I was told she made the first ones,” Elliot said.

“...What? How would one of me know how to do that?!” Lyra yelled.

“Best way to look at it is, ‘different world, different you’,” Elliot said with a shrug. “I mean, apparently the Doctor married Ditzy here.”

Lyra blinked. “What.”

“Yup. Exactly his reaction. Except, you know, gravelly and posh.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, before Lyra burst out laughing. Elliot gave her a look, but she didn't stop.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, still sniggering.

“And everything from our world makes perfect sense?” Elliot asked, gesturing to himself.

Lyra paused, looking to consider this. “Hmmm. Good point. Still, not every day you find yourself on a world where you were the messiah.”

“I dunno, it seems to be my ‘normal’,” Elliot said dryly.

Lyra blanched. “Sorry, that was insensitive of me.”

Elliot chuckled. “Nah, it's fine. Hey, it's been kinda nice to not be the last hope - although I've been getting some weird looks since that telly appearance.”

“Guess you're famous,” Lyra deadpanned.

“Guess so,” he deadpanned in return, and they both laughed again. “Oh yeah - and you were apparently in a committed relationship with Bon-Bon.”

Lyra blanched. “That's… no!”

“I didn't realise you swing that way,” Elliot chuckled.

“I don't!” Lyra said. “I mean… no! Pony God! She's… not my type. Wasn't my type…”

Lyra trailed off, sighing.

“Sorry,” Elliot said. “I know you don't like talking about her.”

“It's ok,” the mare said quietly.

For another long moment, the two were silent, and Lyra threw another glance at him with a slight, almost quizzical frown.

“I missed you, David,” she said quietly. “I really did.”

“I missed you guys too,” Elliot replied quietly. “Was only a few days for me, but it was enough.”

“Yeah,” Lyra said quietly. “Look, David -”

Before she could finish whatever thought she was having, however, they were interrupted by a handful of people and ponies approaching.

They were wearing odd necklaces in the shape of the simplified lyre that adorned Lyra’s flank.

“Saint Lyra,” said one woman in a t-shirt, her left arm ending in a stump, “You have returned!”

“...Ummmmm,” Lyra said, looking over at Elliot. “What? I… saint?”

Elliot looked down at his friend, making a confused glance that just screamed ‘I have no idea what’s going on either’.

“The resurrection,” one man said. “Though it was quite a bit more than three days this time.”

“I thought she was a boddhisattva?” one confused-looking bald woman asked.

“What are you all…” Elliot said, inching back slightly. “Oh. Oh, okay. You’re, uh… I hate to say this, but she’s not, um… she’s not your Lyra.”

“But she is Lyra,” the woman said. “I’m… going to be honest, Avatar-”

“Elliot,” Elliot said. “David. Elliot. That’s… I’m nobody special. Just a vessel.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Lyra said, mock-scowling at him. “Sure… you’re David Elliot. But on the other hoof…” and she leaned against him.

Elliot found himself wondering just how soft her fur was, and if maybe petting her would feel like that odd bookstore cat he’d always wanted… no, she was his friend, that felt wrong.

“You’re David Elliot,” she finished.

“...Um,” said one blue-maned lime-green earth pony mare missing half an ear. “I… I don’t… I’m not sure what to think of this.”

“Why?” Lyra asked, confused. “Aren’t ponies and humans much more touchy-feely in this world?”

Elliot coughed. “We’ve known each other a long time, ma’am. Hugging between friends isn’t that out there.”

A flicker of something appeared on Lyra’s face, but was gone before anyone could see it.

“Well, yeah, but…” the lime-green mare said. “Uh, we’ve got… We have someone as near to a God as we’ve seen hugging Lyra. It’s just… it’s…” she looked up to a human with a battered hat that might have once been a fedora. “What if Jesus came back and he was hugging Gandhi? Do you know how weird that’d be?!”

Lyra just stared at the mare. “I... what.”

“Which one of us is Gandhi?” Elliot questioned randomly.

“Well, I’m not the one with mystic powers,” Lyra said, pondering.

“Says the unicorn,” Elliot interjected.

“What I do is as unremarkable as using an arm,” Lyra said. “You, however, tapped into an entire planet’s magic. It’s like the difference between… well, what I do, and trying to ascend to alicornhood.”

“I thought that was impossible,” Elliot said with a slight frown.

“Eh, give it time, who knows what’ll happen,” Lyra said. “These people apparently worship me like we used to worship Alicorns before the formation of Equestria-proper.”

“Don’t insult yourself by comparing yourself to one,” the man with the battered fedora said. “What you did-”

“Not me,” Lyra said.

“...The other you did, makes her far more impressive than an alicorn,” the man with the battered fedora continued. “She accomplished the miraculous.”

“Why do you think we worship Saint Lyra?” the woman with the missing arm asked.

“I guess our worlds aren’t so different after all,” Lyra said. “And I’m not a saint! I’ve never even been to this world! I’m from his!”

“Still,” the woman said, “Can you… can you still understand why this was so shocking? A magic knight from another world, a mare that’s the spitting image of our messiah...”

“There’s a man that looks like him but younger somewhere around here,” Lyra said. “Well, he told me there was.”

“God save that fella from Eric,” Elliot muttered with a wry grin. “Love the guy, but he can be a bit…”

“Like these people?” Lyra asked.

“Well, yes, but no, I mean… worship sometimes isn’t what people want,” Elliot said. “It’s nice, but the kindness can be a bit… overwhelming.”

Lyra made what could have almost been a pout at that, but again, it was gone before anyone could see it.

“I understand,” the woman said. “It’s just… I haven’t felt this hopeful since Montreal. With the Fillydelphia. We all thought we were going to die… and all of a sudden, we’re safe thanks to help from the most unexpected direction.”

“What was that?” Lyra asked, curious.

“A devastating Imperial attack on Montreal. We thought it was the end, but.... all of a sudden, Viktor Kraber, of all people, is steering the zep away from casualties. Nobody could have expected it, and suddenly, we’ve won. Can you understand how this feels, my lo…” she caught the look that Elliot was giving, and corrected herself to saying “Mr. Elliot?”

“I can,” Elliot said. “But…” he looked over to Lyra. “What we had to go through to get there, you want no part in it.”

“I saw the interview,” the lime-green mare said. “I… feel like I should be happy we didn’t get the whole story.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Elliot said. “We’ve tried to make our own little proverbial Camelot from what’s left, but everyone’s got their scars. Most of them probably inflicted a few.”

“Even you?”

Elliot didn’t say anything, but the tight smile on his face said most of it.

“It’s not all knights in shining armour,” Lyra said quietly. “You’ve… got it better here than we do in most ways.”

“It sounded as much,” the woman said. “But…” she held out her stump. “If it’s not too presumptuous, can you…”

Elliot frowned slightly. Lyra, for her part, looked irritated.

“He’s not a pony-goddamn miracle-for-hire,” she said testily. “You know that takes it out of him? That -”

Elliot held out a hand, which glowed slightly, and with a sudden, slightly wet tearing noise the stump tore open, before a new skeleton grew out, and then new musculature grew around it, then finally new skin grew to cover it. The woman blinked at the new hand in awe, as Elliot coughed and put a hand to his bleeding nose.

“Damn,” he muttered to himself. He looked at the woman. “Potion amputee?”

She nodded. “The nightmares… I think… I think this is the best I’ve felt in awhile.”

“Thought so,” Elliot muttered. “Tickled.”

“Why’d you do that?” Lyra asked. “You know what it does to you.”

“Because it was the right thing to do,” Elliot said simply.

Lyra shook her head. “You're too kind to people, sometimes.”

“If I wasn't, who would be?” Elliot asked with a shrug. “What's the point of being a symbol of hope if you don't do the right thing when you need to?”

“I wasn't complaining,” Lyra said with a slight smile. “The sword made the right choice. Besides, well, even if you don’t have an arrow on your head -”

“Lyra, what are you…”

“You’re the Avatar…”

“No, Lyra, why, just why…”

“You gotta deal with it.”

Elliot sighed. “I should never have lent you that DVD.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

“...Oh, alright. Good thing I did.”

“Major!” a voice called out. Elliot looked to see Representative Cheerilee approaching, looking… grim, which was not a good sign.

“Representative,” he said quietly. “What can I do for you?”

“You can come with me,” she replied with a slight smile. “I need you to report to the Council.”

Elliot nodded. “Understood. And the rest of our contingent?”

“They'll be remaining here for the moment,” Cheerilee said quietly.

Lyra nodded slowly, understanding that this meant her too. Without another word, Cheerilee left, and Lyra and Elliot were left alone with the Lyra worshippers again.

“You're going?” the woman with the new hand asked.

“I’m coming back,” Elliot said, nodding at her. “I promise.”

He turned to Lyra.

“Think you can handle being here alone?” he asked her quietly.

“As well as you did,” Lyra said with a wink. “I’ll try not to perform any miracles on TV.”

Elliot sighed. “Yeah. You do that.” He paused. “Take care of yourself, Lyra.”

“And you,” she said back to him with a soft smile. He smiled back, then walked off in the direction of the portal.

***

Governing Council Chambers, Scottish Archive, February 26th 2030 - 'Avatar' Earth.

For once, Elliot made an effort to be presentable: the green British army coat he'd borrowed from the UN was smarter than his old leather coat, and once buttoned up it almost made him feel like a real soldier. That wasn't a feeling he had altogether that often. The BDF alone were rag-tag, no doubting it - when combined with the various militant cults, and with their virtually broken if not nonexistent logistics, it often felt like leading a post-apocalyptic band as opposed to a proper "army" with ranks and all, and that had been before he had become effectively the "figurehead Commander" of the Last Army's forces.

The Council were the same as ever: Anderson, his brown beard scraggly and not so much brown streaked with gray as it was gray streaked with brown - he'd clearly had a stressful month. Sato had a goatee, and his suit was a little more threadbare than when last Elliot had seen him, but he seemed otherwise perfectly fine. Representative Cheerilee, not technically on the council, was still with them for this meeting, being as she was the elected representative of the Equestrian civilian population - as well as that, her interaction with the officials on the other side gave her valuable insight. Finally, Prince Blueblood was sat near them, looking tired and worn, but his eyes were bright as he regarded Elliot.

"Major," he said softly. "Good to see you."

"Prince Blueblood," Elliot greeted. "Honoured Councillors."

"Good to know you're alive, Major," Anderson said gruffly. "Could have done with knowing sooner."

"Couldn't be helped, sir," Elliot said softly. "For me, it's only been a couple of days. For you..."

"A month," Sato put in. "But a productive month, as you've seen."

"Yes sir," Elliot said slowly, smiling. "I did see the Iron Clads. How did you manage to get the project working?"

"With a lot of resources," Anderson said, "but that isn't why we're here."

Elliot frowned slightly, looking Anderson in the eye. "Then why are we here, sir?"

The four officials shared uneasy glances with each other, none of them quite sure where to begin. Elliot didn't entirely blame them - his report (indeed, his very survival and what it represented) had dropped a bombshell on them, one that they'd be hard pressed to know quite what to do with.

"The Council has reviewed your report of the situation in this 'Spectrum Earth'," Sato began after a few moments.

“Who called it that?” Elliot asked.

Sato shrugged. "Discord and Q. We didn't question it. In any case, we commend your actions as Avatar - you demonstrated the resolve of the BDF admirably in difficult circumstances, and maintained our primary ethic -"

"You held your ground and didn't give those bastard nutso Convies of theirs an inch," Anderson cut his colleague off. "Though I hear that's not the protocol over there."

Elliot shrugged. "I'm not used to giving up ground unless I'm losing, sir, and I wasn't losing."

"In addition," Sato continued, throwing Anderson a glance, "you aided in the termination of a highly dangerous figure."

"You mean the clone," Elliot replied.

"Yes," Sato said with a nod. "I mean the clone. You engaged her in battle, fought toe-to-toe against her. You were the one to deliver the final blow."

"If you'll recall from the reports, sir," Elliot said, frowning slightly, "I could not have done it without the aid of the individuals I met over there."

"And their help is to be commended," Blueblood said with a nod. "But you killed a Celestia. A clone, certainly, but still a Celestia. That's a good omen."

Elliot frowned. "I get the feeling the real thing will be worse."

"Likely," Sato said with a nod. "But in any case, your actions have given us a favourable inroad to diplomatic dealings with this 'PHL'."

"To be blunt, Major," Anderson put in, "we've got nothing. The Iron Clad project's depleted a lot of our metal reserve, and we're continually running low on people. This PHL might be the godsend we've been looking for."

"Sir, they're not exactly in the best way themselves," Elliot pointed out. "Expecting them to help us might be..."

"Unwise," Sato put in. "We know."

"We can ask, though," Cheerilee said softly, speaking for the first time in this meeting. "Asking doesn't hurt anything. And we can attempt to offer them... something."

Anderson threw her a glance. "And what can we offer forces that have Alicorn-killer guns?"

"Sir," Elliot put in, "with respect - more than you think. The Knights of Albion, for example."

Anderson threw Elliot a glance, clearly sceptical. "Oh?"

"The PHL don't have very many effective ways of counteracting their version of the Ponification potion," Elliot put in. "They've got some layer of hazmat to their gear, but even their hardest hitters are still at risk of conversion in the right circumstances."

"Whereas the Knights have a more effective defence," Sato finished, eyes widening in realisation.

Elliot nodded. "Yes sir. In addition, while they've got some impressive tech, I've not seen any sign of powered armour in the same way the Iron Clads are powered armour. They got some… interesting reactions, sir. In addition, we have magical research in progress that I’m sure they’ll find interesting."

"I'm sure," Anderson said. "I hope you're not suggesting giving them the Clads though - they're the first hard hitters we've had, yourself notwithstanding."

"Give them the Clads? No," Elliot said with a smile. "But have the Clads help them? Different issue."

"And in return?" Anderson asked. "In return, when we've given them our best and our brightest, will they help us? Or better question - will they respect us?"

"Sir?" Elliot asked.

"Look at the BDF, Major," Anderson said with a scowl. "We've got nothing. We're rags and bones and sharp sticks, and the only chance we have is bayonets with guts behind them, magical bullshit I don't understand the first thing about - and yes, I mean you - and half-understood technology we cobbled together from recycled metal and circuitry with some ancient runes I also don't understand etched on them. If I was this 'PHL', I'd think I was looking at some shitty insurgency that didn't have the first idea of what it was doing. And I'd sure as hell not listen to a word they said - not about anything."

Elliot frowned. "They've seemed reasonable so far, sir."

"So far, Major," Anderson repeated. "But when they get here, they'll have tactical superiority. They'll be the big guns, Mr Elliot. What's the guarantee that they won't come here, run roughshod over us, ignore us and our experience and our authority and then make a right royal mess of the whole game?"

Elliot thought about this for a moment, frowning slightly as though pondering the question seriously.

"I can't say I trust that they'll all be reasonable, sir," he said softly after a moment. "Hell, I can't even say I trust that most of them will be. Frankly, I'm surprised some of them aren't at the Gilead stage."

Everyone and everypony around the table winced, and Cheerilee seemed especially uncomfortable.

"But," Elliot continued, "Marcus Renee seems like a good man, and so does their Cheerilee. So does Bauer. So does Kraber. If he's to be believed, so do their Yael Ze'ev and Heliotrope. These are some their big shots, sir. The rest... will hopefully follow Renee's lead if nothing else."

Anderson signed and threw Sato a glance. Sato looked at Blueblood. Blueblood exchanged glances with Cheerilee.

"As long," the representative said slowly, "as they remember that the Resistance's primary objective is reclamation. I noticed some less-than-encouraging reactions when I brought up the Exodus Convention."

"I've been clear, ma'am," Elliot said. "And I will continue to be clear."

“I was clear too, Mr Elliot,” Cheerilee said with a wry smile. “But I get the feeling these people aren't interested in waiting for permission to engage Solamina.”

“Then surely we should make it a priority to select a liaison officer?” Elliot asked.

"We already have, Mr Elliot," Anderson said with a grim expression. "As of right now, you're our liaison with this other world. And you'll be getting promoted with it, Brigadier Elliot."

Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"You've been the de-facto field commander of every mission you've been involved with since you became the Avatar," Anderson said with a slight smirk. "I think it's time your rank reflected that. You're not just our liaison, Mr Elliot. You just became the field commander for every operation we perform from here on in."

Elliot saluted smartly, feeling overwhelmed. "Sir. I won't let you down."

"You'd better not, Brigadier," Anderson said with a grim smile. "Now get to work. We’ll be sending you and the representative back to finalise negotiations shortly."

Elliot dropped the salute and, without another word, exited the room, feeling suddenly light-headed.

Ever since he'd been assigned to Spec-Ops as the Avatar of Albion, he'd been technically "outside" the rank system, with men from the Long Watch of Britannia, the Dead Men, the Knights of Albion and even the regular BDF putting him before their formal commanders almost always, but this promotion finally officially put him ahead of almost every other officer left alive. Redmond, Greene, Lewis, Daniels... it didn't increase his standing with the cults militant, but they would still nominally follow him anyway, and it certainly wouldn't hurt...

"Jesus," he said softly.

***

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

A table was set up in the middle of a small room. On one side of it sat Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee, and on the other sat Representative Cheerilee. The former looked resigned and determined. The latter looked hopeful, almost cheerful. In between the two of them was a piece of paper, freshly typed out. A camera - set up by Photo Finish, who could not be dissuaded - sat nearby, pointed at them.

“Thank you for this,” she said. “You're bringing hope to us all.”

“Yeah,” the Lieutenant Colonel said, a soft smile on her face. “I guess I am.”

She pulled the paper closer to her, took up a pen, and with a single flourish signed the paper. The Representative pulled the paper to her, and signed it next, smiling.

“So,” she said. “Should we say something for… posterity?”

She gestured to the camera. The Lieutenant Colonel glanced at it, before smiling.

“Words don't matter,” she said. “What matters is how we back them up.”

The Representative nodded with a smile of her own. “Then may I suggest we start backing them up.”

***