***

“I’m sure that, in time, we’ll all adjust, but I hope you won’t take it wrongly if I tell you I find myself more than a little terrified when I contemplate the future and reflect upon what’s followed in your wake in the space of less than a single five-day. Especially because a part of me suspects the real chaos and confusion is yet to come.”
King Haarahld, Safehold

“When I was a girl, I dreamt of standing in a room looking at a girl who was and was not myself, who stood looking at another girl, who also was and was not myself. My mother took this for a nightmare. I saw it as the beginning of a career in physics.”
Rosalind Lutece, Bioshock: Infinite.

***

John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 20th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

The first step in making this alliance work, everyone agreed, was to make sure that everyone was familiar with what the other side had - technological exchange meant that soon, each army might be using equipment they'd never seen before.

For the humans of the BDF, this was by and large a matter of being reintroduced to bigger, better and more standardised guns, though the PHL had definitely made some top-notch new stuff with their researchers and tech that they needed to be familiarised with. Typically, Stabsunteroffizier - now Feldwebel - Viktor Kraber had volunteered to demonstrate most of this, along with Lieutenant Winston’s team (“testing new shit” being one of their self-proclaimed skills, and nobody thinking it wise to argue with them). Kraber had been particularly instructive - not the least because he had such a hands on approach…

***

“And as you can see, Aegis’ MMG - the very same one I have here -” he patted the massive belt-fed weapon on a sling over one shoulder - shoots fokkin lightning!” Kraber crowed. “Look at it go!”

Aegis had bit down on the trigger, firing off a long, saturating burst from the two MG2023s mounted on his saddle. There’d been complaints about the weight of the things from some BDF ponies, but the state of the targets afterwards had changed their minds.

With a pleh! Aegis had took his mouth off of the trigger mechanism.

“...I’m tempted to ask why you thought this was a good idea,” one BDF man asked.

“Easy. Newfoals can resist pain - but they can’t resist their muscles contracting,” Aegis explained.

“Or having whatever they’re wearing cooked into their fokkin’ skin. You can lay traps with the thing, make an improvised boundary, start a fire with incendiary ammo… I guess it could work sort of like a flamethrower in that case,” Kraber said.

“It was kind of a solution looking for a problem,” Aegis said.

“Well, we’re always fokked up the gat, so we have a lot of problems,” Kraber said. “It’d probably find a few. I could literally draw up a gun that shoots bees and someone would find a practical application… somehow. Besides, who are we to turn down a gun that shoots fokkin’ lightning?”

“I couldn’t,” Aegis agreed, a smile on his broad face.

“Fokkin’ kwaai,” Kraber said. “Next thing - I’ve been carrying this for close to a year now. 14mm revolver - It’s got an onboard manufactory that introduces wax into the shotgun shells, makes a decent improvised slug...”

***

It had, suffice to say, gone rather well. For the PHL personnel, though…

When the first suggestion for equipment exchange had come through, there had been a brief bit of confusion - those who hadn't seen the BDF contingent arrive had worked on what Elliot had said in his interview: that the BDF didn't have much in the way of modern gear left. Consequently there was a momentary disbelief, among personnel like Lieutenant Kellman, that the BDF had anything they could give the PHL.

Appearances, hwoever, could be decieving.

The BDF’s people had a whole set of technologies and magics for the PHL to learn about. Considering just how little they apparently had for their ground troops, their specialised stuff - the product of their ‘Archives’ R&D, apparently - was ridiculous. There had been an optional lecture set up very quickly for any PHL personnel who wanted to learn about a specific piece of tech, and that had turned out to be very popular…

***

Stood at the head of the designated lecture room was a man in black military fatigues, the insignia of a Sergeant on his arm, along with a symbol that they had seen on several of these soldiers - a flayed skull over a national flag, specifically in this man's case the St. George's cross. Stood near this man was a man in a slightly threadbare suit, a soft smile on his face as he watched the volunteers enter.

And then there was the armour.

Standing at something like six and a half, maybe seven feet tall, it stood at the centre of the presentation arrangement. The armour was imposing: massive pauldrons, a fully enclosed helmet, bulky chestplate and greaves, gauntlets and vambraces, all coming together to make something that looked like a cross between a knight in shining armour and a Space Marine. Covering the armour were a series of black markings - runes, Celtic, Norse and others that were far more difficult to place. A bulky helmet with a three-filter gas mask sat atop it. Nobody could tell if it was a man or a woman in there, but then, it was armour - it was protection first and foremost.

"Good evening ladies," the Sergeant said, walking up and down the line of volunteers. "My name is Sergeant Nathaniel Moore." He paused, looking at the group for a moment before grinning. "I'd like to introduce you to your new best friend: the Paladin Mark I Powered Armour."

There were a few whispers as the troops took a moment to examine the armour closely. It certainly looked impressive, that much was true.

"Based on heavily modified Armacham designs for the PEV1 power armour, the Paladin Mark I is a fully powered set of steel armour designed specifically for use by our Iron Clad soldiers," Sergeant Moore continued, his harsh London accent especially odd to those of the group who had never met a British evacuee. "It is powered by the runes you see covering it."

“Hooray for runes,” the armoured figure said, giving an ironic salute. Though the voice was tinny, it was definitely a woman.

"Not only is the armour powered by magic, it is enhanced by magic," the Sergeant said. "The technological element to this machine adds strength to the already empowered human inside, but there is no technology powering this baby. She's powered by one hundred percent magically generated energy, a pretty-much-infinite source of power. Once we've got the kinks worked out, they're talking about powering the whole country with just batteries of these runes. That's if the country survives that long, anyway."

“Which it will,” the Iron Clad said. “Having these things guarantees it.”

“There are minus sides, of course,” Moore continued, ignoring her interruption. “The armour’s currently designed to work with Iron Clad modifications, and the Mark II and Mark III designs follow that through. Mark IV and V should, in theory, be available for average joes, but the IV and V won’t be in production for years.”

One of the soldiers raised a hand, and Moore pointed at her.

“Sylvia Garcia, sir,” she said, speaking surprisingly quietly. “Question about the armour - is it just for those ‘Knights of Albion’ guys or can anyone use it?”

“The Knights have been the overwhelming majority of our first volunteers for the Iron Clad program,” the suited man put in. “Sir Elise here for example.”

The Iron Clad gave another salute, this time slightly less ironic.

“But there are other soldiers in the Iron Clad program,” Moore added.

Sylvia nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. Another soldier raised a hand.

“And who are you?” Moore asked.

“Jack Trevelyan, sir,” the sandy-blonde man said with a slight frown. “You said these were runes?”

“I did,” Moore said. “And they are.”

“How did you get around the difficulty in applying them?” Trevelyan asked. “The only reason runics weren’t applied to armour or troops en masse here was -”

“You’re confusing these for the runes you’re familiar with,” the suited man put in. “I’ve had a glance at the Crystal Runics your people have, and rest assured, our runes are human in origin, requiring a different set of constituent elements and ingredients - and incantations - to be made to work effectively.”

“Which means,” Moore added, “that they can be etched in with a chisel - or drawn on with a marker pen if you’re really desperate - and do not require anything but a good, solid bit of spellcasting to get them to work - the kind the average monkey with a decent copy of Liber Magia and the ability to read it out loud with conviction could do.”

As if to emphasise Moore's words, the suited man tapped the book he was holding, smiling slightly.

“No Crystals?” Trevelyan asked.

“Nope,” Moore said. “I don’t think any of our people have even worked with Equestrian Crystal before. Least not in a weaponised capacity. Too hard to come by.”

“I think we had a few Crystal Ponies on the team and there was a bit of cul-de-sac work done,” the suited man said quietly. “It was just too inefficient. But our runes were up to the task for the most part, though Chalcedony was working on something…”

It was impossible for the suited man not to notice the low chorus of mutters he heard at the mention of that name.

“… but so far that's all been, as I said, cul-de-sac research.”

“There's got to be a payoff somewhere though,” Trevelyan put in. “Power, reliability, that kind of thing.”

Moore nodded. “Way I hear it told, they don't have the raw power yours do -”

Moore remembered the test where he’d seen the other Kraber demonstrating a revolver the size of a small shotgun. It had shattered the target, taken out a chunk of the two next to it, and left a large smoking hole in the wall, then a massive dent in the wall behind that.

“...What was that about the hippocratic oath?” Kraber’s large pony friend had asked.

“This was my best fokking idea ever,” Kraber had breathed, a huge grin on his face.

He looked at the suited man, who was frowning thoughtfully.

“The exact levels and comparative abilities and applications of the two types haven't been determined,” the man said eventually. “Obviously, the more permanent the etching the more powerful and reliable the rune. Marker pen won't last long. Etching will.” He paused thoughtfully. “I believe Equestrian crystal might enhance runic effectiveness - given that it has magically conductive properties - but how much of a ‘payoff’ there is, we don't yet know.”

“So what about the ‘Iron Clad’ modifications?” Trevelyan asked. “What are they?”

Moore coughed. “I’m sure you'll understand that I can't tell you much - I’m not a techie or a Watcher after all. All I know is there's hormones, some gene work, some magical augmentation.”

The suited man smiled slightly. “The process is two parts biological augmentations to one part magical reinforcement. The subjects are hormonally modified and genetically enhanced to produce stronger, hardier specimens - more efficient muscle energy usage, more endurance, faster healing. The magic adds a layer of reinforcement, enhancing these effects for the subjects. At present, known side effects can include mild personality change and some irritability, as well as magic burnout being a common side effect.”

“And what is magic burnout?” Trevelyan asked.

“The human body can only channel so much magical energy directly before the cells begin to deteriorate under the stress,” the suited man explained. “The process is similar to radiation poisoning, occurring mainly when huge amounts of magic are channeled through the body. Most ordinary spell casting cannot cause it unless one uses magic near constantly for all things at all times, to the point of complete and total saturation of all cells on a massive level.”

“Like living in Equestria?” Sylvia asked.

“The effect of living in Equestria would be negligible at best,” the suited man said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Like living in an area with slightly more toxins in the air or slightly more radiation in the atmosphere, or slightly more UV. As best we can tell from our one real case of burnout, the magic has to be part of the body to initiate true burnout - and the Clads are enhanced to the point of having a magic reserve.”

“Why give your soldiers augmentations that can cause burnout?” Trevelyan asked.

“What's the point in not doing?” Moore asked. “Nobody in Britain is gonna die of old age if Solamina has her way, and even if she doesn’t, most of it won’t anyway. Better to take the chance and become a better fighter, a better weapon - better to be one step closer to winning so someone else can.”

“And I thought we were pessimistic,” an earth pony with prosthetic metal legs sighed.

There was a long pause as everyone in the room considered this.

“I've got a question,” Sylvia said after a moment. “What are the Knights of Albion? I know a lot of your Clads are Knights, but I’m not clear on the difference.”

There was a long pause as Moore and the suited man contemplated this.

“Well first off, there is a difference,” Moore said slowly. “For example, Idle, Hart and Gregson - the GG3’s guards - aren’t Knights.”

“Wouldn't fuckin’ have Idle,” Elise muttered.

“And Sir Elise is obviously happy to explain everything about the Knights,” Moore added, folding his arms and staring at her.

Elise folded her arms in turn, looking imposing in the armour. “We’re Knights. We fight the enemy. We help the helpless. Before the end of any battle, either we slay all before us or we die. Is there something else to know?”

“Well, is there anything special about you guys?” Sylvia asked.

“What’s your definition of ‘special’?” Elise asked, sounding slightly irritated.

“What got you guys, out of all the troops in your BDF, the right to wear that armour, for a kickoff?” Trevelyan asked, cutting Sylvia off. “What’s the deal?”

“The ‘deal’,” Elise said, now definitely sounding irritated, “is that we volunteered. All of us. Some of the regulars balked when they were told there were risks involved. None of us did.”

“What risks?” Sylvia asked with a frown.

Elise glanced at the suited man, and he sighed heavily.

“The Iron Clad project was experimental. Even the armour is - no one had ever developed armour of this type on a mass scale, and no one had made anything that combined these technologies with magic.” He paused, looking morose. “I’m sorry to say the early Clad modifications had mortalities, much as we tried to prevent it.”

“Aye,” the pony with prosthetic legs said. “Always so sad to lose people in testing.”

“You have, too?” Moore asked.

The pony nodded. “People brave enough to test something new and dangerous are a rare commodity. The PHL was working on REV10 power armor with runic enhancements once… A good friend of mine lost a spine to it. They nixed the project, then gave most of its roles to Diamond Dogs.”

“The Knights of Albion volunteered not only because it was an extension of our role,” Elise added, “but because none of us believed it was right to let others take those risks and not take it ourselves. Such is the way of self sacrifice - our liege-Lord has showed us that path, and we shall follow.”

“Liege-Lord?” Trevelyan asked, frowning in confusion.

“Lord Albion,” Elise clarified. “You probably know the name David Elliot better. It was him who helped make us what we are.”

She said nothing more, and there was a moment’s confusion.

“So there’s nothing special about your troops?” Trevelyan asked.

“We’re all naturally a little stronger and faster than the average fighter,” Elise said with a shrug. “That’s our blessing.”

“There is one other thing,” Moore said, folding his arms, “but from what I hear, we’re not allowed to tell you yet. Something about ‘official secrets’.”

“Which is bollocks,” Elise added, “but we’ve got no choice but to keep some things from you until your scientists can work them out.”

“Wait, our scientists?” Sylvia asked, frowning. “What do they have to do with it?”

“That, you should ask them, not me,” Elise shrugged. She paused, folding her arms. “Any other questions?”

“Um, yeah,” Sylvia asked, looking a little sheepish. “How do I join?”

***

BDF Liaison Office, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 19th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

It was still weird having his own office here - he’d never had one before. Made him feel all… official.

When Elliot had thought of the military, judging by his great-grandfather’s tales he’d thought of rigidity, standardization, discipline, of neatly pressed uniforms and a rigid, regimented structure of command. However, what with the total area of human controlled land reduced from most of the world to about 315 square kilometers and a population of about 14 million, thanks to bloody Solamina -

Thanks to all of us, really, Elliot thought suddenly, remembering what he knew of the camps with a grimace.

...The less on that score, the better.

With the world reduced so much, the BDF couldn’t be choosy. Apparently the PHL hadn't managed to reach that point yet, as evidenced by the fact that they had standardized weaponry, and - as far as he knew - had not ended up filling the army with more militant cults than the average game of Necromunda after the DM spent too much time watching the Mad Max movies. Back home, more often than not, he’d find soldiers that might generously fit the standards of a 21st century army fighting back to back with soldiers who looked for all the world like they’d crawled out of a trench in the first world war. And that was leaving out the Equestrian Resistance troops, where the only uniforms were khaki shirts, a dagger - or if you were lucky, a P220 or one of its prototypes they couldn’t afford to shelve - and, of course, not being the other guy.

Sighing, Elliot sat down and went over the report in his hands. A lot of the initial interactions and equipment training had - according to this - gone… reasonably well. There was definitely interest in people from this new world volunteering for the Iron Clad program. As well as that, he had heard reports that new weapons were being manufactured for the BDF and shipped out posthaste, which brought a smile to his face. The number one complaint he had heard from every BDF trooper he has worked with since the war started was the lack of decent standardised weaponry. There’d always been someone complaining about not enough ammo, or being allotted the wrong caliber. Funnily enough, it was the same complaint he had heard from Sato in regards to weapon manufacturing - in order to maximise the number of useful weapons, ammo for various different types of guns had to be produced, making it less easy to keep everyone highly stocked.

Now, of course, it was less of a problem. Apparently, for the last year, the PHL had a large amount of weaponry thanks to a certain Afrikaner having revealed lots of HLF weapons stashes. A lot of said weapons were Kalashnikovs, which was always a plus.

Added to that was the fact that - as time went on - the need for an increased BDF presence (which was to say, any BDF presence at all) in the unsullied “Downtime” Equestria was being made clear. Reports were coming in every few hours - or for them, every few days - about what was going on there. Some of the stuff blew Elliot's mind: Sombra? Griffin armies? And whatever had happened to Marcus Renee… well, it was certainly interesting, to put a none too fine point on it. More and more, however, it convinced Elliot that there needed to be a BDF presence there. It seemed the alliance of key personnel was being situated there, with representatives from every major group. It seemed fitting that such a group have a representative from his Earth.

He quickly pulled up a word document (ah, Word. God bless Bill Gates) and began to type. It’d been far too long since he’d been able to use one, and his typing was more than a little rusty, but he’d had an iPad before Dover and it had had a Qwerty, so he wasn't completely at the ‘one finger death typing’ stage.

To Representative Sato, General Anderson, and Prince Blueblood, Ruling Council.

I write in regards to the so-called ‘Downtime’ Equus that has become the meeting point for various officers and commanders. It is my considered opinion that a small task force headed by a representative should be selected and sent to represent our world’s interests to the alliance of governments congregating in that world, for the sake of making certain that we remain in the loop with regards to plans and tactics being considered and discussed, as well as bringing our own thoughts and ideas to the planning table, as well as our own experience with the Solaminan Empire.

Regards,

David Elliot, Brigadier, Chief Liaison.

“Chief Liaison,” he sighed, kicking back in the chair. “How. About. That.”

“Going well?” he heard a voice ask as he finished typing. He looked up to see Lyra staring at him, a smile on her face as she entered the room.

“Yeah, sort of,” Elliot said with a nod. “Well… kinda. It’s weird.”

“Having money and resources, huh?” Lyra chuckled. “It’s like the war never happened.”

“I know,” Elliot said quietly. “Just finished a letter to the council. We need people on that ‘Downtime’ Equestria, and we need them there soon.”

“You want us there to sightsee?” Lyra smirked.

“I want us there because this is an alliance, and we’re part of it the same as anyone,” Elliot said. He sighed. “We had any luck upgrading the P220 yet?”

“Well I keep hearing that the P220 was still a thing in this world,” Lyra said.

“Constants and variables, huh?” Elliot asked.

“Seems like. But so far everyone’s still too surprised at, well, me, and almost as surprised that we only have the P220 and schematics for the 220a to get around to getting me schematics for the P300,” Lyra said with a shrug. “Mostly me, though.”

“There’s a 300 model now?” Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow and ignoring the last comment.

“Apparently, or at least here there is,” Lyra said, smiling. Her smile faded slightly. “They’ve found ways to make it automatically stabilize. How… how are you holding up?”

Elliot shrugged. “No altercations, a few requests for information, a little bit of admin work… nothing too strenuous yet. I keep waiting for the hammer to fall…”

He trailed off as a man in black fatigues entered the small office, without even pausing to knock. He frowned slightly as he regarded Lyra, who stared back with a dry expression. The man looked to Elliot, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“Can I help you?” the BDF Brigadier asked.

“Brigadier Elliot?” the man asked, frowning slightly.

“Eeyup,” Elliot said, nodding once. “What can I do for you?”

The man smiled slightly. “My name is Colonel Harrison Munro. I'm with FEAR - more to the point, I work with R&D.”

“Ah,” Elliot said, feeling slightly irritated - he wasn't an R&D expert, so this stuff landing on his desk was frustrating. “Here to discuss a weapon design? Or is it a power source, solar panels or what have y-”

“Not today,” Munro said quietly. “I’m here with… a request, of sorts.”

Elliot frowned, and shared a glance with Lyra. She raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

“Alright,” he said, looking back to Munro. “What's the request?”

Munro sighed. “It's a little tricky - you'll have to be filled in on a lot of the background. Firstly, I should ask that this conversation remain between us, and that Ambassador - uh, sorry, Miss Heartstrings…”

“Operative,” Elliot corrected coldly.

“Excuse me - that Operative Heartstrings not be present,” Munro finished.

“Why?” Lyra asked, frowning.

“What I have to say is very sensitive,” Munro said quietly. “So sensitive in fact that neither President Davis nor Colonel Renee were ever made aware of my operations. I needed absolute deniability and that included leaving them out of it.”

Elliot folded his arms. “Sounds shady.”

“It is,” Munro said quietly. “But that shadiness is necessary.”

Elliot glanced at Lyra, who gazed at Munro for a long moment before nodding slowly. The Brigadier looked at Munro with a steady glare.

“Alright,” he said, “you've got my attention. But anything you have to say can be said in front of Operative Heartstrings. She’s one of the best friends I have left, one of the top ponies under my command, and I’d trust her with my life.”

Lyra coughed sheepishly, a slight smile gracing her face. Munro didn't look happy about that, but after a moment he nodded.

“Very well, then.” He took a breath. “What do you know about our HLF?”

Elliot blinked, surprised by the question. “Not much, I admit. Word on the ground generally isn’t what I’d consider ‘favourable’.”

“That would be a rather large understatement,” Munro said gravely. “Suffice it to say, the HLF are largely considered to be at best useless, and at worst completely psychotic and actively a threat to the security of the world.”

“Sounds horrible,” Elliot said grimly, raising an eyebrow. “What does it have to do with me, beyond my being on this planet at the moment?”

“As I said, the HLF are largely considered in those terms,” Munro said pointedly. “There is always an exception to the rule, and in this instance it's a pretty large exception. A man named Maximilian Yarrow ran a group of HLF called the Reavers. I don't suppose you've heard of them?”

The last column from Gilead. So they existed here too, in some way.

“I've heard of our version, and I know Kraber mentioned Yarrow,” Elliot said slowly. “So… what's the deal?”

“Funny you should say it like that,” Munro said with a soft smirk. “I had a deal with the Reavers. They took care of some stuff for me - did some work that the PHL hadn't noticed, helped bolster a couple of places. In return for that and their generally good service record as HLF, I supported them. I gave them to notch weapons from Armachams latest stock, I gave them support when they needed it, even hid them from unfriendly eyes.”

“‘Unfriendly eyes’?” Lyra asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Other HLF wanted them dead for wanting a unified front with us,” Munro said. “And there were many in the PHL who wanted all HLF purged or folded in under our command. Including them.”

Munro sighed, lost in thought for a moment.

“Why?” Lyra asked. “Our HLF worked fine with our people. Still do…”

“How did yours form?” Munro asked.

“The ‘human liberation front’ was a bunch of people who came together to protect refugees from rogue PER during the Barrier’s expansion,” Elliot said quietly. “Bit of a mixed bag - more than a few looters, psychopaths and maniacs about - but they generally were the only consistent thing out there.”

“Well,” Munro said. “Ours came when a man that lost his wife took over a support group made to deal with the families of the ponified, and made it into something like the KKK, just so he could kill every pony in revenge. Including the ponies under our command. We had a medical convoy once… and they attacked it, tortured the ponies onboard, and stole the supplies for themselves.” Munro sighed. “What a clusterfuck that was.”

“Then what made the Reavers better?” Lyra asked, frowning.

“They never fired on us,” Munro said. “You’ll…” he looked downwards. “We’ve done a lot of things you could hate us for. I won’t blame you, and even I hate us for some of the things we’ve done. I just want you to know… when it comes to the HLF, we have a lot of old grudges.”

“We’ve got a few skeletons in our closets too, Colonel,” Lyra said.

“It's not a time where people always act their best,” Elliot added, his eyes downcast. “You're not Gilead. That's something.”

“Well, the Reavers never liked the lengths we went to,” Munro said quietly. “It's probably why they never joined the PHL when most everyone else sane from that group did. Kraber made a big, public apology when he was crashing a skyliner into an evacuated area, made a speech asking any HLF sane enough to leave… and God knows how or why, but the Afrikaner bastard was convincing.”

“Yarrow’s Reavers weren’t so convinced?” Lyra guessed.

“No, they weren’t,” Munro said. “Yarrow didn't see why he should swap Mike Carter for Marcus Renee.”

“What does that mean?” Elliot asked.

“In response to the HLF destroying our medical convoy, we - that is, the U.S. army - attacked their settlement at Defiance,” Munro said simply. With a kind of eroded, affected flatness to the tone. “There were women and children there. Were. Some of them tried to fight back… I don’t want to know how many didn’t. Didn't change the end result.”

Lyra's eyes widened. “Accident? Collateral damage?”

“No,” Munro said bluntly. “We… I’m told we expected there to be women and children, and basically the force sent was… authorised to do what had to be done. No consequences, no court martials. Carte Blanche.”

Lyra blanched. “That’s… horrible.”

Munro sighed. “The directive was, so I’m told, ‘put the fear of God into them’.” He laughed bitterly. “And God knows we did that. Didn't actually help in the end - just made the bad ones worse and alienated some of the good ones.”

“Yarrow,” Lyra guessed.

“Yarrow,” Munro nodded. “When he found out, he told me he was done sticking his neck out for people who wanted his head.”

“Did people want his head?” Elliot asked, frowning in confusion. “Sounds to me like no one reasonable would have argued for taking him out, regardless of what they might think of the other HLF.”

“Unfortunately, there were people,”
Munro said grimly. “There was an… attack in Montreal. A three-way brawl between Imperials, HLF, and us. One hundred fifty Reavers went in, all those advanced guns I gave them out, and all those troops ready to die helping us.” The Colonel paused, rubbing his head. “They lost fifty people, or thereabouts, fighting PER and other HLF, and they even had people helping us against the Inperials. Outside of Lieutenant Ze’ev and Heliotrope, who were, shall we say, ignored… no one noticed or cared that those fighters had been on our side. They were HLF. One report afterward - can't remember who wrote it - said that they'd ‘painted a target on their ass’ for using those guns there.”

“But… they helped you,” Lyra pointed out.

“Sure they did,” Munro said. “But no one cared. I know neither the President nor the good Colonel Renee were altogether thrilled by the existence of the Reavers and their guns, let alone the question of where they got their equipment. I couldn't exactly speak up - I’d have been cashiered out of the military, even if I wasn't shot. Afterwards, their role was downplayed by the media.”

“Why would they do that?!” Lyra gasped.

“Mixed messages,” Munro said grimly. “Thanks to HLF being in the business of trying to keep people safe from ponies whether they - ponies or human - liked it or not, there was the question of how it would look on the propaganda, I guess. Can't have HLF, any HLF, being the heroes of the hour when they're your villains and you want to decry them. Makes things complicated right when we can’t afford it, because apparently we think the public are idiots.”

“Propaganda,” Elliot groaned. “Never fucking changes.”

“Anyway,” Munro said quietly. “No one realised - or cared - how much we owed them, and there were… more than a few enquiries about how they came to get those weapons, enquiries my associates tried very hard to cover up. I’m just lucky they managed to succeed in doing so.”

“So you saved them from getting folded - or purged - presumably at great personal risk,” Elliot said softly, folding his arms. “Why? Why would you take that risk? You'll forgive me, but you don't seem the type.”

“I’m not. But they lost over seven hundred of their people helping me, helping us all,” Munro said simply. “I thought they deserved better than to be wiped out, locked away and forgotten. I saved them.” He sighed. “They helped me, one last time, a few months ago, during a rather tricky situation. Since then, I've heard nothing from them - until now.”

“Sounds like quite a story,” Elliot conceded. “But what does it have to do with me?”

“Yarrow died in that last mission,” Munro said quietly. “And from what I've heard since then, they've been looking for a reason to fight - something worth dying for, since the rest of the world decided to shit on ‘em. Now, apparently, they've found it.”

It took Elliot a moment to realise what Munro meant, when it finally hit him, he blinked, eyes widening in shock.

“Me?” he asked. “Why me?”

“They see in you a man worth following, I guess,” Munro said quietly. “Someone who’s got nothing to do with fascists backing a military dictatorship like us, I guess.”

“Come on,” Lyra said. “No need to beat yourself up that badly…”

“Oh, there is,” Munro said. “If you knew even a tenth of the dirty business we’ve done…”

“And you don’t know a hundredth of ours,” Elliot said. “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of at the end of the world. Let’s just agree we’re all mutually disgusted and move on.”

“Deal,” Munro said. “In any case - they contacted me to get me to get you. And they wanted me to see that you got to them, so they can personally meet you - and ask for political asylum.”

“Asylum?” Lyra repeated. “They want asylum? In our world?”

“In this world they're still wanted criminals, and more than a few people want their heads,” Munro explained. “In your world they have a chance for a fresh start, a chance to die fighting and have people actually care when they give their all. All you have to do is go there, grant them the asylum, and escort them here to be transported to your world.”

Elliot sighed, putting a hand over his eyes. “That's… going to take some doing.”

“Well, you are the man who killed a clone of the Tyrant,” Munro said with a slight smirk. “I get the feeling this isn't going to be quite that hard.” He turned to go, placing a card on the desk as he went. “My contact details are there. Call me when you've made your choice, and I’ll get a team together to escort you.”

He left the room, leaving Elliot and Lyra alone.

“You're gonna go get them, aren't you,” she stated rhetorically.

“I think so,” he said.

“Figures.” She took a breath, before nodding. “I’m going with you.”

“No, you're staying here to oversee this bullshit while I'm gone,” he told her, tapping the pile of paperwork with a sigh. “Someone I trust needs to. Lord knows Eric won't: probably end up knighting half the base while I was gone.”

Lyra looked set to protest, then sighed. “Fine. But take somepony you trust, along with whoever the Council lumbers you with.”

He nodded. “I will do. Send word ahead.”

She nodded, and left the office, a troubled look on her face. Sighing, he slumped back in his chair, feeling drained.

When did life get this complicated?

***

John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 20th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

A man in a gas mask lovingly set down a Bren gun, patting it slightly, before picking up a bigger gun. He seemed to be inspecting it.

The gun bore a vague resemblance to an MG42, with the same squarish barrel shroud, though with the heavier barrel, it vaguely reminded him more of the PPSH subguns some of the Russians had brought to Britain. A set of oval-shaped protrusions poked from the holes, with a long strip of black metal down the right side of the weapon, where the barrel would be changed out. Small bits of electronics with black electrical tape covering the lights festooned the larger-than-normal receiver. Its stock was made of polymer - oh, how he’d missed having a comfortable stock! - and there looked to be a set of arrows on the stock, pointing down to the butt of the pistol grip.

Finally, tied on with some string, there was a little cardboard note. To Viktor, in the hopes that you'll find it as awesome as I did, Viktor.

The gas-mask wearing man looked at the note, before shrugging and hefting the MG2019.

I also left you a large belt of HEIAP rounds I stole from an HLF weapons cache. Save them for a special occasion. I didn’t load them, of course. Who in the fok stores loaded firearms? That’s an accident begging to happen.

I also left in my old pipebomb launcher, a grenade launcher, and a flaregun.

By the way, this is also a cobbled-together prototype, and they never quite fixed the energy distribution. The extra energy it uses to imbue the rounds makes the handguard burn like a varknaaier. This hurts the fok out of your hand. Half the reason I added in a pipebomb launcher was to have a handguard I liked.

Also, you can bury this thing in a crate made out of teak sometime. Absolutely nothing bad will happen to it.

“I like it,” he said after a moment.

***

Governing Council Chamber, Scottish Archives, February 27th, 2030 - 'Avatar' Earth.

Dinky Doo entered the council room, papers kept on a clipboard under her forearm, as Prince Blueblood was sitting down. Mr Sato and General Anderson were both already there, looking harried but surprisingly cheerful. Morale had reached a high with the news of this new world and the alliance.

“Ah, Dinky!” Blueblood said as Dinky entered. “Excellent, you're here right on time.”

Dinky nodded. “Always am, sir.”

“Of course,” Blueblood said with a smile. “Anyway, what's on the agenda for today?”

Dinky pulled out the clipboard and set it down, her eyes glancing over it.

“Usual set of standard things to go over,” she said simply. “Requests from various places. A disciplinary action from -”

“Anything important?” Anderson said irritably. “I'm about done with dealing with little problems for this week.”

Dinky pursed her lips and went back to her clipboard.

“Three items marked as ‘urgent: top priority’, sirs,” she said simply. “One report from our contingent in the so-called ‘Spectrum’ Earth…”

“Who even called it that?” Anderson muttered.

“… and two requests from Brigadier Elliot,” Dinky finished, ignoring the comment.

Sato leaned forward in his chair. “Requests?”

Dinky nodded, passing the clipboard to Blueblood, who glanced over it.

“One request for a BDF contingent and representative to be sent to the ‘Downtime’ Equestria,” the Prince said with a slight frown. “Since we don't have a presence there but there seems to be a lot of events happening there worthy of our attention.”

“The Doctor is there, isn't he?” Sato asked, folding his arms. “Surely he could -”

“The Doctor is, to say the least, unreliable as a rule,” Anderson said with a snort. “Asking him of all ponies to represent us would be like asking a goldfish with amnesia to represent the ocean. He'd just flit off and do something else.”

“Who could we send then?” Sato asked, frowning.

Blueblood sighed, a resigned smile on his face. “Seems to me like there's only one practical candidate.”

It took the other two men a moment to realise just who Prince Blueblood meant. Anderson scowled.

“Out of the question,” he said sternly. “As a council member -”

“As a council member I am the best choice,” Blueblood cut him off. “I’m the Prince of the Equestrian Exodite Government-in-Exile, I'm the representative of my people’s interests in this world. I’m also a key member of the Council, meaning I speak for the surviving humans just as well.”

“A valid point,” Sato said with a sceptical frown, “but you are also, by virtue of these facts, valuable. We cannot risk losing you.”

“Believe me, I've considered the risks,” Blueblood said with a wry smile. “I've no desire to wander hither and thither across dimensions, no desire to leave this bunker, and I've certainly no great enthusiasm for the idea of going to another Equestria just to be confronted with a saner version of my Aunt. Pony God knows, that'll cause some weird moments. But I'm the best choice. Sent with a Night Guard contingent I could be the best chance we have. The motion is up.”

Anderson sighed. “Opposed.”

“Supported,” Sato said. Anderson glared at him. “He's right - it's a good idea. We might well be faced with a golden opportunity. It is not one we should ignore.”

Anderson sighed, then leant back and waved a hand. “Whatever. Next item.”

“Brigadier Elliot has received a request for asylum from a group of humans from the Spectrum Earth,” Dinky said quietly. “He requests permission to take a taskforce and retrieve these people.”

“Given that their Earth is in a state of open warfare with that other Equestria,” Blueblood said quietly, “I can see the need for escort. He say who these people are?”

“Uh… ‘Reavers’, sir,” Dinky said. “Subset of HLF.”

Anderson frowned, looking around the table. “I know Maxi Yarrow in our world by reputation. Anything we need to know about this one?”

“The information packets we received concerning ‘HLF’ are very… lacking,” Sato said with a frown. “There is a lot of information on key individuals - Michael and Verity Carter, Atlas Galt, Leonid Lovikov, John Birch… also considerable amounts about events - the Three Weeks of Blood, Sutra Cross’ murder, the massacre of Defiance and the subsequent purge… Some chaos in Montreal...”

“But nothing on Yarrow’s people?” Anderson asked.

Sato shook his head. “The Reavers are on a list of HLF formations. Quite low down. There are other names we might recognise, and some we might not, but most are listed as defunct. The Reavers are listed as ‘unknown’.”

Anderson and Blueblood shared a glance.

“A request for asylum means they think they're at risk of something unpleasant if they stay where they are,” Blueblood said quietly. “Which begs the question - what did they do to deserve that unpleasant something?”

Sato motioned for Dinky to pass him the clipboard, and he glanced over the paper with narrowed, scrutinising eyes.

“The request carries Brigadier Elliot’s recommendation for approval,” he said. “Whatever they've done, Elliot thinks we should accept their request.”

Anderson breathed out, a more neutral expression on his face. “Right.”

Blueblood raised an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

“Elliot’s the man on the ground,” Anderson said simply. “If I trust anyone to know the full details, I trust him. He knows it'll be his head that rolls if he's wrong.” He grinned. “The motion is up.”

“Supported,” Sato said at once.

Blueblood sighed. “Supported, provisional to Elliot having a bloody good explanation.”

“Right then,” Anderson said, sighing. “What next?”

***

New York, November 20th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

A young woman with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and features that might have been pretty once, clad in a set of heavy armour printed with an Armacham logo, was sat on her own in a small improvised bedroom. A letter was clutched in her gauntleted hand, tear stained and crumpled from being read multiple times.

Dear Sam,

I don’t know when this will reach you - or even if it will. I've gotten this letter to a man who, if he isn't trustworthy, at least isn’t a complete dick. I don't know whether you're alive, dead, or worse than dead.

I hope to God you're somewhere safe, far away from the fighting. A false hope, I know, knowing you, but I hope on anyway. False hopes seem to be my stock in trade. In either case, I hope wherever you are, you're doing what feels right for you.

You've heard things about me, I’m sure. Some of them are true. Some of them aren't. I can't tell you which is which, because I truthfully don't know what you know. Munro might. I don't know how much he’ll tell you. I don’t know if he’ll tell you anything. Guess it’s hope again, eh?

Know that I love you, and that whatever you choose to do, I’m proud of you. I wish you were here, with me, but I know you’re doing what is right for you.

I love you.

Dad.

Samantha Yarrow stood up, shaking her head. She put a helmet on her head and stepped out of the bedroom into a small, homemade lab/armoury.

Once she had been PHL. She'd wanted to help people, if she could, and the only other choice for fighting the Solar Empire had been the HLF - riddled with lunatics and indiscriminate. She'd spent years with them, ignoring the stigma attached to her name, ignoring the hostility, the suspicion, the blatant accusations of stealing advanced tech. Eventually she'd been transferred to the command of one Yael Ze’ev, who had treated her well.

Then Nipville had happened. Burning, burning, the smell would never leave her nostrils and she would never ever be free of it…

She could understand why. Understanding wasn't the point. The point was that a war crime had happened, barely anyone had been spared, and Yael Ze’ev, as good a commanding officer, as good a person as she might have been, should have been removed from service, court martialed, imprisoned. PHL command should have denounced it.

They didn’t not denounce it, but they didn’t exactly make a big show of condemning it. Yael was demoted, sent somewhere else, kept around as barely more than a consultant in what by all rights should have been the middle of nowhere, then found herself a hero of the Battle of Montreal, Viktor fucking Kraber at her side, with consequences lost somewhere in the rubble. As far as Sam knew, she was still in service, with her old rank to boot.

And her father was dead.

She had hated him. He had been HLF - she had equated him with Galt and Carter and Lovikov. She had been ashamed of him, ashamed of herself for being his daughter. She had never known exactly what he had done. But then she had found out: an officer named Munro had given her the letter, and a list of her father’s exact deeds. Saving Prince Harry from PER on the Cain Run. Fighting the anomaly Imperial Creed. And Montreal…

… and the PHL wanted his head. He had helped them, and done far less than an officer they lauded now as a hero, but they wanted his head.

Sam Yarrow, perhaps more like her father than she thought, had decided to say ‘fuck that’. She absconded with a truck of Armacham gear she had been ordered to deliver somewhere, and had set up shop as an independent in New York. Pretty soon, others came to her, joining her efforts to keep the streets clean.

“Sam,” a shaven-headed man said in greeting. He wore similar armour, daubed in Norse runes. This was Peter McReady, an HLF man who claimed to have served with Sam’s father - Maximilian Yarrow. It was he who had told her that her father was… was…

She ignored the slow welling of feelings. “Peter. We got anything?”

“Since that so-called ‘Avatar’ guy showed up? PER have been pretty fuckin’ silent,” McReady said grimly. “I don't trust it. Scared PER plus potion plus new weirdness plus Imperial backing equals…”

He looked over at Samantha, his voice trailing off.

“Nothing good?” she supplied with a humourless smirk.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Something like that.”

“Them being scared worries you?” she asked.

“I fought them a lot,” he replied simply. “Afraid means cunning. Fearless PER, I can deal with. They’re gone quick, and they’re predictable.”

She shrugged. “At least they don’t have anypony like Shieldwall with them anymore.”

“Small blessings,” McReady shrugged. “Also, Grant says she’s run the numbers, and she can definitely make your Type-12 shoot about one and a half times faster.”

“I believe her,” Sam said with a wry grin. “Anything else?”

McReady looked concerned for a moment. “Yeah. I got a text from Preston.”

Sam frowned - McReady had mentioned Preston before. He and Peter had both been Odinsons - the rather florid name, but then, that was dad. Amongst all the chaos, confusion, and violence of the Conversion War, he was still a little weird. It hasn't been the weirdest name (seriously, why name a military unit after minor antagonists from Les Mis other than to seem sophisticated for the sake of sophistication? And what was a Kraken Grenadier meant to be, anyway?) but it had been very like her father.

“What did he want?” Sam asked.

Peter took a deep breath before speaking - and suddenly, Sam knew this was really important. Peter was always confident - hesitation suggested… concern.

“He told me the Reavers… were preparing to move,” he said after a moment. “They're preparing to enter the fight again.”

Sam frowned, confused. “To… they're… going to come back?”

“Preston wanted me to come back,” Peter said quietly. “I never told him what I was doing - for all Rither, Idle and Preston know, I'm still in prison. Only Erin and Preacher went back.”

Sam thought for a moment, her mind flicking quickly through her options.

The Reavers. The people who fought with Dad. When she’d learned about the Reavers, Sam Yarrow had wanted to find them, but something had held her back - a desire to help the people of New York, to put down rogue PER the PHL almost never saw to. Now though…

No matter how she swung it… the Reavers… felt like home. They felt honest, in some way the PHL just couldn’t quite capture.

“You want to go back?” she asked.

McReady frowned slightly. “I failed Yarrow. I'm here… I'm here to protect you. Because you're his daughter.” He paused. “Do you want to go?”

Sam thought for a moment, and then she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Yeah I do.”

***

BDF Liaison Office, John F. Kennedy Airport, New York. November 20th, 2023 - 'Spectrum' Earth.

Elliot tensed slightly when he read the team list Major Redmond had handed him. Redmond - a dark skinned Texan BDF officer eager to see the old home - had never been Elliot’s biggest fan, preferring things he could understand to a mystical power he barely believed in (a rather ironic sentiment coming from a new Gaian cultist) and, more importantly, was just one man. Nonetheless, he had always respected Elliot’s dedication and skill, even if they had butted heads occasionally.

“You’re sure about this?” Elliot asked.

“Anderson was very specific, Brigadier,” Redmond said with a slight raised eyebrow. “This is the ground team he’s giving you. This mission is important: we’ll be on foreign soil, helping extract people from this world.”

Elliot frowned slightly at the emphasis on his rank. He hadn’t expected everyone to be happy - Redmond was clearly more bemused than anything else. Still, better than angry.

“So his answer is to give me a squad of Blackbands?” Elliot asked, folding his arms. “Please tell me this doesn’t go pear-shaped.”

“No promises,” Redmond said.

Blackbands were notorious soldiers among the BDF, for all the wrong reasons. You couldn’t live without them, but that wasn’t to say you could live with knowing what they did. The remnants of special forces, paramilitary elite and crack mercenaries from both the BDF and the Exodite movement, the Blackbands were the cloak and dagger specialists of the Council. They were the ones you called whenever the integrity of the British Isles was threatened by smaller but deadlier infiltrations. No matter what it was - PER agents, rogue HLF extremists, pony saboteurs, Imperial secret weapons… the Blackbands handled it quickly and with extreme prejudice.

For example: Once, there had been an… incident of shantytowns and civvie shelters somewhere in the Tyne and Wear Metro disappearing overnight. The next three days, there’d been smoke wafting up from the stations.

Officially they worked outside of the parameters of the BDF, operating with near impunity and answering only to the Council. They had the right to do whatever was necessary and it was by their discretion that they set the limits of what they were allowed to get away with to complete their missions. The only thing that ensured their members’ loyalty most of the time was the fact that they had no other options but to serve. To be given command and responsibility over a squad of them was a complete surprise, a huge honour and a hefty burden.

“You need the best at your back,” Redmond said simply. “Anderson picked these operatives personally.”

Elliot sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Tell me there aren’t that many troublemakers.”

“Ducane’s a bit of a loose cannon,” Redmond replied, frowning slightly, “but Ze’ev, Abboudi, Horowitz and O’Riley are top notch operatives, and Mortimer -”

“Mortimer?” Elliot repeated. “As in, that guy who -”

“Yes,” Redmond said, cutting him off. “I know what you’ll say, but he’s top rated for any mission you care to throw him at, one of the Resistance’s best, and he’s perfect for this kind of mission. Plus he’s testing a P221 for us.”

Elliot groaned. “You said this was important - I’d have thought that meant no experimental shit.”

Redmond grinned. “You thought wrong. They’re waiting for you by the APC.”

Sighing, Elliot moved to follow Redmond.

“So,” he said. “Heard whether the Council had discussed my recommendation yet?”

“They haven’t told me,” Redmond said blandly. “Though I’d guess they’re considering it, since they’d usually have dismissed it by now if they were going to.”

“That’s something,” Elliot said quietly, as they headed to the centre’s exit.

***

FEAR APC.

Lieutenant - formerly Sergeant - David Elliot frowned at the rank insignia on his uniform as though expecting it to bite him. He had not been expecting a promotion, but according to the good Colonel Munro, ‘this is too important for a lesser operative’. He was stood outside their old APC, the one that had seen them through Fairport, Bastion and the EHS crisis. They were going to head off in a few minutes, a rendezvous with… people… waiting up ahead of them.

People, he thought grimly. Yeah, sure. How about ‘me’. Me. Fucking me for God’s sake! God-me! Miracle working me! I mean, what the hell?!

“Feeling confident?” his friend Sam asked quietly from next to him. “About this, I mean?”

David glanced at his friend. “No, not really. He’s gonna be there, isn’t he? Would you be confident?”

“Yeah,” Sam said with a wry grin. “Not gonna lie, that has the potential to be a mite awkward.”

“A mite?” came the voice of a True Grit, coming up behind the two. Behind him stood Steady Hoof, his old friend, his favoured P225 on his back.

“Alright, fine, more that a mite,” Sam said with a shrug. “Look, the guy’ll be you. Not like he’s all that scary.”

“He's not you,” David said with a slight frown. “He's me. I’m the one who has to deal with him being me.”

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “Grit, Hoof, get in the APC with Errant. Wake him up while you're at it.”

Grit sighed, before heading off. “Don't do anything daft, say anything daft, or generally speak.”

“I will bear that in mind,” Sam said with a smirk as the two ponies headed off into the old APC.

“So,” David said quietly, making Sam feel a stab of concern for his friend. “What?”

“Simple - I’m doing my job as your sodding best friend,” Sam replied with a smile. “Mate, you can't get too hung up on these guys.”

“Can I not?” David asked, folding his arms.

“Hey, for all we know, there's gonna be a bunch of people we know in that other world,” Sam said with a smirk. “You're there. They have a Lyra. Maybe there’s an Elise, a Grit, an Errant… we don't know. But you can't get weird about -”

“It's not just that he's me,” David said suddenly, cutting him off. He looked at Sam with a strangely haunted expression. “He’s that me.”

“‘That’ you?” Sam repeated with a frown. “What the hell does that mean?”

David looked up at the sky, his lips pursing.

“I dream of it,” he said quietly. “That place he's from. A Lyra he knows, who knows him. A - a power I never understood. Fighting Celestia…” He closed his eyes. “It's all so strange. So… familiar, but alien too.”

Sam folded his arms. “You… you dreamed of this?”

“Yeah,” David said quietly. “Yeah, I did. I’m not the only one.”

“You're kidding,” Sam said.

David shrugged. “Kraber does - he told me about it once. I think I heard rumours of others with it too, too many to all be true but - y’know.”

Sam sighed. “So… you've dreamed of his life. What's it like?”

David looked at the ground, eyebrows furrowed.

“Terrible,” he said after a moment. “It's fucking terrible.”

Sam looked at his friend for a long time. He'd seen David in pensive moods before - even downright terrible moods. But this… it was like he had aged twenty years. Lines covered his face - was that fear? Worry? Or was it responsibility - this other man’s responsibility?

“What are you afraid of?” Sam asked his friend honestly.

David looked up at him. “I’m afraid that when I look at him, I’ll see - I’ll see me. Screaming back at me. I remember what he felt. I know him. He's afraid, Sam. He's so afraid. And he's alone.”

Suddenly, Sam found himself moved to pity. How alone was this other Elliot? What was he like?

“Then we’ll make sure he isn't,” he said simply. “Mate… he's you. And if he's as alone as you say, he needs people. Dare I say it, he needs us.”

David gave a wan smile. “Maybe you're right.”

“‘Course I’m right, it's my job,” Sam grinned. “Now come on - they'll have woken Errant up by now, that’ll be fuckin’ hilarious.”

***

The Blackbands were stood outside a battered but serviceable BDF APC in khaki and brown, the words ‘Fuck you, fuck your potion, fuck your tyrant and fuck your manners’ written on one side in big red letters, a hoof print left right below it. Redmond chuckled as he and Elliot approached the vehicle.

“Cute,” Elliot said with a raised eyebrow. “What next, ‘Buck Solamina up the plot’?”

“Not bad,” a gravelly voice said with a chuckle. “Shoulda done that one myself. Though I know someone who contracted flaming gonorrhea that wanted the job.”

“Gross,” Redmond said.

A spiky-maned muddy-brown stallion stepped out, clad in a Kevlar chestplate with a stained bandana on. His cutie mark was burned off, replaced on the bare scar tissue by a tattoo of a horse-head skull.

“Corporal Mortimer,” the pony said, sitting something out of his mouth. “Blackband two one seven. I guess you're the Avatar of Albion?”

“Brigadier David Elliot,” Elliot said, nodding at the stallion cautiously.

“Yeah, probably still gonna call you Al,” Mortimer said with a chuckle. “Hey, guys! They're here!”

From the truck came a few troops in the usual battered fatigues of the BDF. One was a dark haired Israeli woman with hard features and a scar down one side of her face. Another was a shaven headed man, a goatee gracing his chin. Another man, blonde and stubbly with a disdainful expression, flicked a cigarette away from himself with a snort. The last was a dark-skinned man wearing sunglasses with a beanie on his head. All of them had black armbands on.

“Brigadier,” Redmond said, pointing at the Blackbands. “These are Captain Yael Ze’ev -” and the woman nodded, “Sergeant Alec Ducane,” to which the blonde man smirked, “Operative Mustafa Abboudi,” and the sunglasses-wearing man nodded, “and Operative Dan Horowitz.” The bald man nodded once. “Operative Ian O’Riley is in the truck - he's your driver.”

Elliot nodded. “Alright. I’m Brigadier David -”

“We know who you are, glow stick,” Ducane smirked. “We ain’t stupid.”

Elliot frowned. “No, I suppose you're not.”

Redmond glanced between Elliot and Ducane. “There going to be an issue?”

“I can handle myself, Major,” Elliot said quietly. “Please tell Colonel Munro I’ll meet his team at the rendezvous point on schedule.”

Redmond nodded and turned to leave. For a moment, Elliot and the Blackbands were left sizing one another up.

“Alright,” the Brigadier finally said. “I'll assume you've been briefed on the mission.”

“Help this world’s version of Yarrow’s Reavers,” Ze’ev said at once. “Can do, will do, sir.”

“Seems a waste o’ time to me,” Ducane said with a shrug. “They don't sound like what I'd call prime military assets.”

“What the fuck do you know, Ducane?” Horowitz said with a scowl.

“I know I don't like pointless missions,” Ducane retorted.

Elliot folded his arms. “We should, I suppose, consider ourselves fortunate that you aren't in charge of deciding what ‘pointless’ means in this context.”

Ducane chuckled. “If I was, your Avatarness, your shiny ass would probably be right up on that list.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow at that. “Really?”

“Sure,” Ducane said. “Fuck this magic bull. I always said it. Get the Doc to drop a nuke on Solly’s head. End of. No biggie.”

“We've all heard the ‘nuke on Solly’s head’ idea,” Mortimer said with a groan. “How many times have I gotta tell you - she can teleport. She’d see it coming. You'd glass a town and just get some pissed-off locals”

“So? Still a town of Imp suckers fuckin’ wrecked,” Ducane snorted. “Get any decent ponies to exit stage left and we’ve got a good ‘un.”

“Well, when you find out how to get a nuclear weapon to the other end of the earth, let me know,” Ze’ev said. “Cos if the Doc was gonna do it, he'd have done it.”

“Simplicity must be so fun to live with,” Abboudi said blandly.

“Hey, fuck you man,” Ducane snorted.

“Fascinating as your unique perspective on tactics is, Mr Ducane,” Elliot said dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm, “I suggest we get on with our mission.”

“Oh, absolutely your shiny hiney-ness,” Ducane smirked. “After your most beneficent self.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow and walked onto the APC. Ze’ev followed, throwing Ducane a warning glance as she did so. After her came Horowitz.

“You're gonna get smacked back, I can tell,” the big man said.

“Fuck him,” Ducane muttered. “So he's some magic fucker - who cares? Bet he's a pansy in a real fight.”

“Tell that to the Elements,” Abboudi put in with a smirk as he too stepped onto the APC. Ducane chuckled.

“I would suggest,” Ze’ev said from inside the APC, “That you kindly shut your fucking face before I do something we both regret.”

“I suggest everyone calms down,” Elliot scowled from next to her. He sighed. “This is going to be a long trip.”

“Fortunately, O’Riley knows a few drinkin’ songs,” Horowitz grinned. “Don'tcha ya old bastard?”

“Sure I do,” O’Riley called back in a broad Irish brogue. “When I’m drunk!”

There was a smattering of laughter from the Blackbands and Elliot sighed to himself.

I should've brought Lyra with me, he thought.

A few moments later, the APC was on the move, heading for the rendezvous.

Author's Notes:

You may have noticed a mention of Diamond Dogs being trained to use heavy weaponry. This is a completely legitimate photo of the early days of the process from what is definitely deep within the PHL archives.