***

“Do you believe in destiny?”
Pyrrha Nikos, RWBY.

“Everything has a purpose, Proteus. So the Emperor ordains.”
Chaplain Carnak, Ultramarines.

***

Undisclosed PER camp, U.S.A, ‘Spectrum’ Earth, November 21st, 2023.

Adelaide Morrison frowned as she walked up to the strange pony who had come to meet with her group.

For the last fifteen months, ever since her immediate superiors were killed, Adelaide had been trying her best to do what she knew was right: she had shepherded Newfoals from cities, in some cases bringing them reborn into the world herself.

It was so sad what could happen to Newfoals. Sometimes, they’d march for the Barrier, towards their new home… and not all would make it. And, more often than not, the story went that HLF and PHL would use them as target practice or a testing ground for newer, bigger guns. It made her proud to think that she was making her world that little bit brighter. Sure, most people she’d known hadn’t seen it that way, but one only had to look at how much happier they were as Newfoals to realise that they were better off that way, free of human foibles - anger, hatred, uncertainty… all gone.

It was an improvement, right? There had to be a Night Vale reference for this, but Adelaide couldn’t think of it. Oh well, it couldn’t be important. It wasn’t as if people incessantly used Night Vale to describe newfoals.

She had only rarely had contact with Imperial Ponies themselves - the odd information collector here, the odd Royal Guardspony providing additional supplies there: nothing much, but enough that she felt part of the larger fight. Although she knew her part was ultimately small, it was enough that she had had her place in the grand scheme.

Anything to make a better world, she had always thought. That was her goal: a world free of the corruption of the old world, free of the tyranny of the so-called “elected” governments who served any interest but that of the people, of the politicians who cared only for their pockets. Free to make everything… better.

This mare, though… her coat was sickly blue-grey, not unlike the colour of a drowned corpse, and her thick mane was tangled and black. Across her body she wore a black robe. The entire impression was of something unnatural… wrong, even.

A wrong Newfoal, Adelaide found herself thinking. That’s what she is: one of the things born when the potion goes bad.

Adelaide had heard stories, but she had never countenanced them - they’d always been like fairy tales, half believed and probably utter shit but still something you remembered, when you thought long and hard. It had been inevitable, the stories said - the number of ponifications going on, it was always more than likely that there were some that hadn’t been entirely… right. You heard names - Imperial Creed, Quickblade, Reaper… names that were the names of those things that should have been happy, healthy new ponies, but weren’t.

But they’re on our side, so we tolerate them, the stories always added. There are always the broken in war. The price of our new age.

The strange mare wasn't alone, either: a mare with a green coat, a short black mane and oddly clouded eyes was stood next to her, looking serious and yet, at the same time, curious, as though she understood nothing and everything that she was seeing. She wore a simple set of ringmail, but other than that there was little to set her apart. There were a few regular Newfoals with them, but these two were the ones that caught Adelaide’s attention.

Remembering her manners, Adelaide bowed slightly.

“Hello,” she said simply. “How can I help you?”

The black-maned mare smiled sweetly. “You are Adelaide Morrison, of the PER, correct?”

Adelaide frowned. “Yes.”

“Good,” the mare said. “I am Morgause. This is my colleague and potion-sister, Caliburn. We are here on the business of the Queen.”

Adelaide nodded slowly. “I figured as much, ma’am. What can I do help you?”

“We are here to recruit you,” Morgause said. “What do you know of the human knight who battled a clone of Her Majesty in Boston?”

Adelaide blinked. “I thought that was a PHL PR stunt.”

“Alas, it was not,” Morgause said, bowing her head slightly in a kind of faux-despair - if Adelaide hadn’t known better, she’d have thought the mare disingenuous, but that was surely impossible from a Newfoal.

Nonetheless, her words made Adelaide’s blood run cold: that had been real? A human being had grown limbs back, and if what this mare had said was true, he had battled against the Queen’s clone… had been able to stand against Her radiance.

A human being with all that power… it was not a pleasant concept. Adelaide knew in her heart that humans couldn’t be trusted with that. She wouldn’t trust herself.

“We have been tasked with the being’s death,” Morgause said, “and we require more forces to achieve that goal.”

Adelaide straightened. “There's not many of us, ma’am, but we’ll give our all.”

“I do not require more soldiers,” Morgause said quietly. “Soldiers are simple, and this being has proven able to slay them at his leisure. I need something entirely different - I need a sister.”

Morgause’s horn glowed, and from within her black robe a small vial full of purple liquid appeared. Adelaide’s eyes widened.

“Oh,” she said simply.

Morgause nodded. “Are you ready to join us in battle?”

Adelaide hesitated only for a moment. She reached her hand out and took the vial.

Destiny was calling.

***

Caliburn frowned as she watched the birth of her new sister. There was an odd sensation creeping over her skin, one she almost couldn’t place. She knew she should feel happy, even as the strange cracking sounds came from the shifting, morphing human form.

So, she thought with a frown. Is that… what is that?

She couldn’t say for certain. Morgause had said that they were a rebirth, a renewal, that they were transcending one form for another, and that they should feel glad for the one who was born anew. But for some reason, all it did was make Caliburn feel uncomfortable - like she was watching something that shouldn’t have been happening.

Maybe it’s because it’s a private moment, meant to be experienced, not witnessed, she reasoned to herself, though that felt like a stretch. If this act was as positive a moment as Morgause described, shouldn’t she feel… more… happy?

That’s it. I should feel happy, and I don’t.

Why?

More importantly, if I’m going through this many hoops to say why I should be happy… what does that mean?

After a moment, the new pony - her sister - was lying there before them. She was alabaster, with a pair of white wings that flexed, as though they were testing themselves. A short, blue-green mane flopped over one eye. Green eyes opened, narrow and full of some sort of indescribable anger, and the mare looked hither and thither, before her eyes settled on Morgause.

“Sister,” she said at once, and she straightened up, a smile on her face. “I am Avalon. I am here to slay the Avatar, in the name of the Sun.”

Caliburn glanced sidelong at Morgause. The black-maned mare was smiling, though there was a certain coldness to it that made it seem less than genuine.

“Good,” she said. Without another word, she turned around and headed off, and Avalon followed without a word. Caliburn fell in line behind them.

“Are you alright?” she asked her new sister as they walked.

“Yes!” Avalon said chirpily, still smiling.

“Are you sure?” Caliburn asked.

“Of course,” Avalon replied happily. “We’re going to go kill our enemy now, for Queen Celestia. That’s enough to make anypony happy.”

Is it? Caliburn asked herself silently. Then… why am I not?

***

HLF Settlement 'Bastion', Secure Location.

Sam Lake watched as David Elliot - the other version of David Elliot - walked off. The blonde FEAR trooper knew that his eyes were red raw from unshed tears, but he still wouldn't let them fall. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. John was sat next to him, looking at him with concerned eyes, and Sam knew his friend meant well… but he hadn’t known David nearly as long as Sam had.

They’d been together through everything, made every choice together. They’d joined up together, fought on the Barrierfall front together, been brought together when Munro drafted them for FEAR… to face life, to face this war, without David by his side felt…

Wrong. Wrong on so many levels that the wrongness threatened to overwhelm him and swallow him up.

‘Together we’re unstoppable’, remember? Sam thought quietly. But you’re not here, are you Dave? It’s just me. And me, on my own…

“Dammit,” he said quietly. “Just… dammit.”

John poked him in the shoulder, and Sam glanced at the older man, who looked sad himself, though he at least seemed to be keeping himself together.

“Mate,” he said quietly. “We’ll all miss Dave. But it isn’t… y’know, it isn’t that guy’s fault.”

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “Believe me, John, I fucking know. I just…”

He lowered his head, not sure how to sum up the feelings he was having. His best friend in the world was gone, and he wanted… he desperately wanted… to find someone, anyone to blame for it. Maybe the other Elliot, this Avatar guy, was just the most convenient target for that rage, that pain… and Sam knew that wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” True Grit said quietly. “Isn’t Erin here?”

Sam threw him a glare. “Yeah. Erin’s supposed to be here. If she’s anywhere - last I heard she’d gotten released, but…”

“Then maybe you should go find her,” Grit said, cutting him off. “God knows, you need something.”

Sam looked to John, who shrugged, then to Steady Hoof, who nodded, and finally to the unconscious form of the injured Errant Flight, who was being looked after by the pony from the other group.

“But,” he said quietly, “I’m needed here.”

“World won’t end if you find yourself a shoulder to cry on,” John said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone if these wankers don’t.”

Sam smiled. “Thanks guys. I owe you one.”

He stood up slowly, and walked over to one of the armoured soldiers, who frowned at him as he approached.

“Whadda you want, PHL?” he asked.

“I want to know if Erin’s around,” Sam said simply. “Tell her Sam’s here, and he wants to see her.”

The armoured man frowned, as though he recognised the name, and then he nodded.

“Alright,” he said gruffly. “I’ll pass it on - it’s up to Erin if she wants to speak to you, PHL.”

“I know,” Sam said quietly.

He moved to sit down again, and John patted him on the shoulder.

“She’s here, mate,” he said, though he didn’t sound as confident as his words made out. “I’m sure of it.”

“I guess I’ll find out,” Sam said quietly.

***

Joseph Rither’s Cabin.

David Elliot found himself stood in the log cabin that - apparently - was the office of Joseph Rither. There was a hammer hung on one wall, a simplistic thing that looked like it had seen more than its fair share of action. There was also a picture of a man with cropped hair and a grey beard hung on another wall: he was digging something, muscular arms and a toned chest visible through a short-sleeved vest. Apart from these sparse decorations, there was very little to the room. A desk, a chair, a sleek-looking rifle propped up against one wall - very little to tell Elliot anything about this man he was meant to speak with.

Rither had moved behind the desk, and was stood by a window, looking out at more of Bastion.

“So,” the older man said after a long moment. “I watched your interview. Your world sounds… well, it sounds fucking horrible, I have to admit.”

Elliot didn’t know how to respond to that, and so he didn't.

Rither turned to look at him. “I saw what you did on that television thing the PHL did. But the PHL are clever. I want to know if you’re the real deal, and not just some fake.”

Elliot frowned. “How exactly am I supposed to prove that? You got anyone here that needs a new hand?”

“No,” Rither said quietly. “But I reckon that’s not a requirement for you showing off some of your fancy magic.”

Elliot sighed. “Alright - you want fancy magic to prove I am who I say I am, I can oblige - on one proviso.”

“Which is?” Rither asked.

“You tell me why I should,” Elliot said shortly, his expression surprisingly stern for the normally quite jovial (or at least relaxed) man.

Rither raised an eyebrow at that, but Elliot’s expression didn’t change.

“Why you should?” the older man asked with a frown. “As in, why you should have to prove yourself? Do you expect me to trust you on your word?”

“Maybe not,” Elliot said. “But I’m the man you asked for.”

“You could be,” Rither said. “Or you could be a glorified actor. You look exactly like a PHL man who came here once, a long time ago.”

There was a long pause.

“My other self,” Elliot said quietly, “is seven years younger than I am.”

“A good actor can pull off ‘old’,” Rither said. “Makeup, CGI. I saw a man fly in a movie from the seventies, so God know what we can do now.”

“Maybe,” Elliot said grimly. “But I’m not him. I’d have him here to prove it, but we left him behind on the road - by now, he's almost certainly dead… or worse.”

Rither’s expression softened. “I’m… I’m sorry to hear that. He stood with us on a bad day.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Elliot said. He held up a hand, and it glowed softly, the soft light illuminating the otherwise quite dim cabin. “But not as sorry as I intend to make the Solar Empire.”

Rither looked at the hand with an appreciative nod. “And you’ve not got any of those fancy runes on you?”

“I can strip down, if you like,” Elliot said with a slight smirk. “Not exactly what I signed up for, but -”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rither said softly, an amused grin lighting up his face. “I think I believe you.” He turned to the picture of the bearded man. “He left me a great burden, you know. Hundreds of good people - the best of the HLF - to be my charge.”

Elliot looked at the picture, a slight frown on his face. “Is that Maximilian Yarrow?”

“Yes,” Rither said softly. “He was a good man - a man who showed us a better way. I dunno where we’d be without him.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “But he’s dead, now?”

“Died a few months ago,” Rither said quietly. “He won't be remembered by anyone but us - but he will be remembered by eternity.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “Why do you want asylum in my world?”

Rither sighed. “The PHL have good men and bad, but thanks to Heartstrings, I think they try to stay good, even though they don't always manage it. The HLF had good men and bad too - but for us, the good got drowned by the bad. Men like Leonid Lovikov, Atlas Galt, Aaron O’Donnell, Mike Carter…” He paused. “You wouldn't know those names, so I’ll make it simple. The name HLF became a brand, a brand that you can't escape from, a brand that makes you scum and nothing else no matter how much blood you spill saving people. We’ve given everything. We’ve gotten precious little back.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “You want a fresh start.”

“Aye,” Rither said softly. “Your world - we can go there, fight without fear of those we fight for shooting us in the back, and we can die for something, heads held high.”

Elliot sighed, scratching the back of his head. “You’re sure your work is done here?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rither asked.

“This war isn’t over yet,” Elliot said. “What’s to say you don’t have a place out there, still? A job to do?”

Rither scowled. “When we tried to help, our help got ignored and our good name got spat on. Would you help people who shat on you?”

“Maybe not, but that’s not the question,” Elliot said. “I know a Joe Rither. In my world, he doesn’t run from a fight. Neither does our world’s Maximilian Yarrow. So why are you?”

“Because we aren’t welcome,” Rither said at once. “We never were.”

“You fought for years, though, from what I heard,” Elliot pointed out. “Why now?”

“We fought, and we lost,” Rither corrected. “There comes a time when you’ve got to stop banging your head against a brick wall.”

“Maybe,” Elliot said. “Or maybe you’ve got to take a sledgehammer to it instead.”

Rither said nothing, and Elliot sighed.

“How soon can you get your people packed and ready to go?” he asked the Reavers’ leader.

“They've been packing for four days,” Rither said. “All we needed was your assurance.”

Elliot nodded, and then held out a hand. “You just got it, Mr Rither.”

Joseph took his hand, and shook it firmly. “That's all I needed.”

***

PHL Base, New York.

When Lieutenant Kellman came into Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee’s office, he looked - for want of a better word - terrified, which didn't bode well.

Cheerilee had already had to allow a group of ponies from the BDF - Prince Blueblood of all ponies - to go through to the other Equestria. The Prince had been polite, but determined, and Cheerilee had seen no reason to hold him here or prevent him from going. Nonetheless, it was not ideal. After that, she'd been asked to look into arranging a similar group to send to the ‘Avatar’ Earth. After that, of course, had been a meeting with Bittersweet Harshwinny which… well, it had been an experience.

And now, Kellman was here. He was holding a folder, his knuckles bone white from tension.

“Ma’am,” he said, saluting.

“Lieutenant,” she said with a sigh. “If that's not good news you're holding, there's an old saying about bearers of bad news.”

“Don't shoot the messenger, ma’am,” he said quietly. He pulled out several photos from the folder. “We thought you'd want to see this.”

He handed her the photos and she began looking them over.

“What the hell am I looking at, Mr Kellman?” Cheerilee asked.

“We had satellites looking over Europe,” Kellman replied. “I've been going over the images of the last few days, and we’ve had some… developments.”

“Define ‘developments’,” Cheerilee said irritably.

“Well, as you can see, this was twelve hours ago over Switzerland,” the officer said, motioning to the first few images. “Potioneers were gathering in… well, the report says ‘unprecedented numbers’, but it's safe to say that’s the understatement of the century.”

Cheerilee’s frown deepened as she looked over the photos. “Estimates?”

“Over a thousand, easily,” Kellman said quietly. “The strange thing is this: two hours later, most of them had dispersed.”

Cheerilee blinked, before looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“‘Dispersed’, Lieutenant?” she asked quietly.

“We estimate ninety percent of the assembled forces pulled out,” Kellman reported grimly. “The remaining forces are still gathered, and we think they're taking on troops, but we’ve no explanation as to why the rest dispersed.”

Cheerilee’s frown deepened. “Anything from our sources?”

“Nothing whatsoever,” Kellman said mournfully. “Either they don't know, or they do and they're not deigning to tell us. Either way, it presents a question.”

“Why did they disperse - where did they go instead,” Cheerilee said quietly. She turned her head away. “Alright, thank you for the report. You're dismissed.”

Kellman saluted and exited, leaving Cheerilee alone with her thoughts.

Why do I get the feeling this shit is about to get more complicated? she thought grimly.

***

Bastion.

Elliot stepped out of Rither’s cabin, and took a breath. He had to admit - this place was nice, in a rustic sense. If it weren’t for little touches, he might almost believe it was just a nice, peaceful place in the middle of nowhere. But there were obvious sign that this was more than a town - a tank was sat in amongst the buildings in what might have been town centre, aiming a rusty battle-cannon at the main gate as though it was expecting a horde of Newfoals to swarm in. There were turrets dotted about, manned by grim looking men and women who looked like they’d seen the wrong shade of “too much”, an expression Elliot was all-too familiar with.

Strangely enough, there was also a two-legged Mechsuit with the stamped legend ‘REV6’ right above a handwritten message reading ‘Little Berty’. It was wandering around in a patrol pattern.

Curious, Elliot thought, almost detached, and he felt the almost absurd desire to chuckle. There are more things in heaven and Earth…

“Hey, sir!” he heard a voice call over to him. He looked, to see Ze’ev and Mortimer approaching.

“All fine, Captain,” he said to Ze’ev. “How is everyone?”

“Little shaken from the fight,” Ze’ev admitted. “One thing to hear about a Zerg rush. Another to live through it.”

“Plus those things were fucking creepy,” Mortimer added blandly, as though he were discussing the weather. “Gimme a Convie any day.”

Elliot smiled wanly. “I know what you mean. I had a bit of culture shock when I fought them myself. Plus these ones seemed to have some direction.”

“Is that unusual?” Ze’ev asked.

“For these things?” Elliot asked. “I… think so?”

“Tactics or not, they're still creepy,” Mortimer said with a snort.

“No argument there,” Elliot said. “Still - it’s over for the moment. We got here.”

“Not all of us,” Ze’ev said quietly.

Elliot frowned slightly. “No. Not all of us.”

Mortimer coughed. “Uh… sir, the… the guy, your… the other you’s friend? He’s… not looking good.”

Elliot nodded slowly, feeling a sudden weight seem to descend on his shoulders. He had been dreading that conversation.

Really dreading that conversation.

“No,” he said quietly. “No, I suppose he’s not.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to him?” Ze’ev asked, folding her arms.

Elliot straightened slightly. “I’d like you to help Mr Rither prepare his people for evacuation, Ze’ev. Get the rest of the team on it, and the FEAR people, too.”

Ze’ev nodded, not commenting on the change of subject. “Yes, sir. If that’s all.”

Elliot nodded, and Ze’ev headed off, Mortimer in tow. The Brigadier was left alone, wondering what he should do.

***

Bastion Approach.

Samantha Yarrow jolted awake, her eyes opening in shock. Her hand strayed almost blindly for her sidearm.

“Calm down!” the voice of Peter McReady said. He appeared over her, heavily armoured and wide-eyed, and she relaxed a fraction.

The two of them were in an armoured jeep she’d pilfered when she absconded from the PHL. It wasn't exactly designed for creature comforts, but it was practical and sturdy.

“How we doing?” she asked.

“We’re about fifteen minutes out,” he said, “if I remember my distances and my directions perfectly.”

“And do you?” Yarrow asked.

McReady grinned. “Ish.”

Yarrow chuckled. “‘Ish’. Hot diggedy damn. You're just asking for me to punch you.” She sobered slightly. “So - looking forward to being home?”

McReady didn't answer for a moment, though his face seemed to harden slightly.

“Maxi’s dead,” he said after a moment. “I don't know how much like home it’ll feel.”

Samantha sighed. “I… guess I know the feeling. I don’t even know if I have a home anymore. I thought the PHL was it, but it wasn't. New York wasn't either.”

McReady looked at her. “You’re Yarrow’s little girl. Your home’s with the people who owed him their lives. I promise you that much.”

Samantha smiled wryly. “I wish I believed that. I feel like I spent years hating my father on principle. Now he's dead, I don't know what to believe.”

“You believe that he was a better man than you thought,” McReady pointed out.

“Yeah,” Samantha said slowly. “I guess I do.”

“And now, you get to meet the people who owe him everything,” McReady said quietly. “I promise you - this place will be home for you.” He sighed. “Anyway, we’ll be there soon.”

***

New York. Knights of Albion camp.

Sir Thomas Dayne stood to attention as Sir Eric stood before him. Eric had a pensive expression on his face - which, given the subject of his thoughts, was understandable.

“You're sure about this?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said quietly. “We need to test it. I’m willing to volunteer. I am no Iron Clad, and I am not irreplaceable.”

“All our people are irreplaceable, Dayne,” Eric said gently. “I have already lost Sir Jason to a needless sacrifice. I will not lose another.”

“It isn’t needless,” Thomas replied. “We need to know if we are protected from this world’s version of the potion. There is only one test.”

Eric sighed. He had discussed briefly with PHL R&D the effects of an Albion Knight’s abilities, but the question had come up in short order about their effectiveness against the potion of this world. Eric had said he would find a willing volunteer - he didn't like that he needed to, but he had no choice. Already there were volunteers wanting to join the order - how could he ask them to do that if the protection they promised was not universal?

“I have procured a single vial,” he said after a moment. “The stuff is sick, it radiates it, so I’m thankful we only have the one vial.”

Thomas nodded. “One will suffice. We shall have our answer.”

Eric nodded, and motioned to a nearby knight, who dashed off. A moment later, the knight returned, carrying a small box. Eric set it on the ground and opened it gently.

“Be ready, brother,” he instructed the knight next to him. The knight nodded.

Thomas grimaced as he saw the small vial and held out his hand. Eric opened it, still grimacing, before dropping one drop onto Thomas’ palm.

At once, Thomas winced slightly as it hissed against his skin. He could almost feel a pressure in the back of his head.

Submit.

No.

He was a knight of Albion. He had faced the demon brew before and triumphed. This would be no different.

Submit!

Never.

It hissed and crackled, but did not boil. Eric frowned and the knight behind him moved a hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Wait,” Thomas said.

No monkey can resist my will.

I am a knight of Albion, demon thing. I have faced worse than you. You have no power over me.

I will take you and remake you as I see fit.

Something pinged in Thomas’ mind, and the pressure suddenly eased.

No, you won't. This one is already chosen, his fate tied to a higher force than you. You have lost.

The potion suddenly hissed angrily, before evaporating in a hiss of steam and disappearing. Eric breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you alright, brother?” he asked Thomas.

I am of purpose.

“Yes,” Thomas Dayne said simply. “I am.”

***

Bastion.

“Alright,” the Doctor said, folding his arms as a couple of men in dark grey body armour started moving past him, carrying some heavy looking crates into the TARDIS, “d’you want to possibly be a tiny bit more careful with all that?”

The two men glared at him, but they started moving a bit more gently. The Doctor smiled.

“Hey, Doc!” a voice said from behind him.

He turned, to see the spiky-haired, petite form of Erin Hansen, one of his old acquaintances from the Reavers, standing nearby, arms folded. He smiled at her.

“Erin,” he said. “Good to see you well.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling back, though it was somewhat half-hearted. “Been a long few months. Got captured by the PHL at one point -”

“I’d heard,” the Doctor said quietly, his smile fading. “Still, you're out now.”

“Yeah, I’m out,” Erin agreed. “Kinda wondering whether you had anything to do with it.”

The Doctor didn't answer, though he gave a slightly sheepish smile.

“Heard you took the fall for your high-up PHL friend, too,” Erin added. “That can't have been fun.”

The Doctor nodded slowly, absently fiddling with the cuff of his coat.

“I don't know what you saw in us, Doc,” the girl continued. “Dunno if you still see it. There are days I’m not sure I do.”

“Oh, I see it,” the Doctor said quietly. “I always have. I always will. You were good people, good people bound together by common purpose. It's a shame it's come to this - running from this world to another - but I believe that you’re still good people. I couldn’t let that fall through the cracks.”

“‘Running’,” Erin said, clicking her tongue. “Yeah. That's the part that gets me. Joe says that we’ll be able to make a better life over there. I don't know that I believe that.”

“Why not?” the Doctor asked.

“Because it's running,” Erin said quietly. “Why should we run when we did nothing wrong?”

“And what would you do instead?” the Doctor asked, folding his arms.

Erin shook her head. “I don't think that I know what's best. That's Joe’s job, now. But I don't want to run.”

The Doctor smiled. “I know what you mean.”

Erin sighed. She frowned slightly as she looked over to the nearby PHL troops.

“They sent him,” she said quietly.

The Doctor glanced over. “Yes. Yes they did.”

Erin sighed. “He - he lost his friend, didn't he? He looks like he lost someone.”

“Yes,” the Doctor said quietly. “Yes he did.” He glanced at her. “If I may pry -”

“No,” she said shortly. “Not your business.”

He shrugged. “If you say so, Erin. All I can say is that, in my experience, there’s not enough love in the world.”

Erin snorted. “You got that right.” Her expression softened. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Don't mention it,” he said with a smile. “Now, I'd better go keep an eye on this lot, or they'll get it all wrong without me.”

He headed off to help a couple of men who were lifting a crate marked ‘fragile’, leaving Erin alone with her thoughts.

***

New York.

There were about twenty of them - some in their power armour, others in patchwork combinations of plate armour and modern battle-gear, swords girt at their sides. Men, women, even a couple of ponies.

It was stupid, really - the desire to join a self-styled ‘knightly order’. And yet, strangely, Sylvia wasn't the only one there. There were about five or six people and ponies - PHL all - who had come with her, all of them looking a combination of bemused and nervous. And why shouldn't they? This was patently ridiculous - people playing at chivalry and knightliness in the middle of a war. And yet, somehow, every single one of the Knights surrounding them looked utterly serious, focused even.

The “official” line on joining these guys was… well, that there wasn't an official line. Nobody had said not to, probably because nobody had asked.

The leader - the young, dark skinned man they called Sir Eric - was standing on a makeshift stage (really, little more than a few boxes). He wore his power armour, looked solemn and dignified.

“Welcome,” he said sombrely. “Are you all prepared? Any questions?”

“What’s the process?” Sylvia asked. “This was honestly kind of a spur of the moment thing.”

“This is not a decision to take lightly,” Eric cautioned. “What is done cannot be undone.”

“If you can take it, then so can I,” Sylvia said.

“Very well,” Eric said, nodding slowly. “We are imbued with a small measure of the Avatar’s power. It grants us gifts - if we believe. A knight of Albion is stronger, faster than a normal fighter. And we are protected.”

“Is there a catch?” asked one pony with a cutie mark of a halberd.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked.

“Last time someone offered these people transcendence, there was a catch,” halberd pony said. “So… what is it?”

Eric nodded slowly. “I suppose we don't know what every effect is. We know only what we have experienced - strength, protection, a sense of purpose.” He smirked. “I don't think any of us are sterile.”

“Sir Janice got pregnant a few weeks ago,” one knight piped up. “So, no, not sterile.”

“As I say, though, you need to believe,” Eric said, “or the process is useless.”

“Believe in what, exactly?” one man asked. “I’m… I’ve been a bit soured to God, lately. The little feeling in the back of my head that He’s listening? It’s gone. He hasn’t said anything for awhile.”

“Most of us believe in the Avatar,” Eric said quietly. “We have seen what he has accomplished. I stood with him at Cornwall when he turned aside an entire army - I held Excalibur itself. But others here have their own faith. What matters is that you believe.”

“What's the protection from?” someone else asked.

Eric smiled. “I will show you.”

He motioned, and one knight brought a small, locked box onto the stage, set it down, and unlocked it. From it, Eric retrieved a single vial of a very familiar looking purple liquid.

“Motherfucker,” the halberd pony said.

“Least you’ll be immune,” said the man who’d claimed to be soured to religion. But it was an act. Anyone could see that.

“It holds fear for you, does it?” Eric asked. “This vile demon brew?”

“Of course it does,” the man said angrily. “Have you seen Newfoals?! Why the fuck would you keep this?! We burn every ounce of it. It’s the only thing we can think of that gets it gone before we need the ground decontaminated.”

“No,” Eric admitted. “Only Converted, and this is the potion of our world that makes them. But the effect, I imagine, is roughly analogous.” He uncorked the vial. “Fear is powerful. It is a test of faith. The truest test.”

He held up his bare right hand, and dripped a small amount of potion on it.

And nothing happened. He didn't change, or wince. The liquid slowly fizzled, before evaporating in a hiss of steam.

“Is it a trick?” someone asked. Halfheartedly.

It wasn’t. These people… the Avatar had shrugged it off like it was nothing.

“It is no trick,” Eric confirmed. “Though of course, you're welcome to try it for yourself.” He chuckled. “I wouldn't recommend that.”

He spread his arms wide. “Who will step up first?”

“How…” the pony breathed.

“That's crazy,” someone else said with a disbelieving shake of their head.

And Sylvia, before she realized it, was stepping up to Sir Eric.

“Well,” Sylvia said. “I think I believe in God. A hell for everyone that drove the world to the brink… and a heaven for everyone that did their best. So… Fuck fear.”

Eric nodded slowly. “What is your name?”

“Sylvia Garcia,” she said. “I… I watched my parents get ponified in New Mexico.” She didn’t know why she’d said that. “I don’t care what this looks like. If I never have to be afraid of being like them, never have to wake up screaming, know that I can walk through what the Empire throws at us…”

She shrugged.

“Well. Fuck fear.”

Eric nodded, a smile on his face. “That, I respect.”

He motioned to one of his men, who brought forward another case. This one was long and thin, and when Eric opened it, it contained a sword - simplistic, a few markings etched in that might have been runes.

“Kneel, Sylvia Garcia,” Eric intoned solemnly.

She did so, shaking slightly, bowing her head almost instinctively.

“You are charged with sacred purpose,” Eric said solemnly. “The defence of humanity. The protection of the weak and helpless. The upholding of truth and honour. In this cause, you may be asked to lay down life and limb. Do you understand and accept?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I accept. If it’s bad enough I can’t solve it by walking through the potion, then someone has to lay down their life”

Eric placed the flat of the blade on her right shoulder, then her left, before turning the pommel of the blade and extending it to her. Hesitantly, she gripped the hilt of the sword, before standing.

“Henceforth, you are Sir Sylvia, first knight of this new world,” Eric said loudly. “Now.” He held up the same vial. “We test your faith.”

Sylvia nodded, before holding out a hand. Eric tilted the potion, and Sylvia didn't flinch as the purple liquid dripped onto her palm…

Mom screaming. Dad… laughing.

They’d want me to be strong.

...and the purple gunk melted into steam, a soft hissing sound escaping it.

Sylvia stared at her open hand. At the limb that was most certainly not a hoof. At a conversion process that didn’t destroy her mind and body…

There’s not even a burn mark, she thought. Not even dead skin.

...And started laughing hysterically.

She didn’t know why. It didn’t make sense. But here she was. Unponified, laughing, finally at least mostly safe.

“I feel like I could find the monster in my closet as a child,” she said when the laughs subsided. “And throttle the bastard.”

“Welcome, sister,” Eric said softly. He was smiling proudly. “I promise you - this is only the beginning.”

And Sylvia Garcia believed.

***

Bastion.

Sam Lake scowled as the other Elliot walked slowly up to him. The man sat opposite him, a frown on his face.

Too many lines. Hints of grey. The stubble too long. Not David, even if he is David.

“So,” the Not-David said.

“So,” Sam replied.

“You’re mad at me,” the other man said softly.

“No, I’m not,” Sam said. Even he didn’t sound convinced by the time the words left his mouth.

“You’re not okay either way,” Elliot said. “Can I…”

“What? Talk to me?” Sam asked, scowling. His expression softened slightly. “Shit. This - look, I’m not gonna keep saying I’m not mad. But…”

He trailed off.

“He was your best friend,” Elliot said quietly.

“We went to see Day of the Doctor together,” Sam said softly. “We went to join up together. We made it through all of this - all of this shit together. And now…”

“Now he's gone,” Elliot said quietly. “And you don't know how to feel.”

“It’d be easier if there was a body,” Sam said, “but there isn't. Even if there was - he's been potioned, hasn't he? No two ways about it. He's one of those things.”

Elliot sighed. “Yeah. He probably is.”

“Fuck,” Sam swore. “Just… fuck.”

Elliot sighed, before sitting next to him. “I know this isn't exactly what you want to hear, but… well, I know how you feel.”

“Do you?” Sam asked blandly.

“What do you think happened to you?” Elliot asked quietly, looking at him with haunted eyes. “Battle of Whitby. You led one squad, I led another.”

Sam nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “And then?”

“And then you attacked me, and I killed you,” Elliot said stiffly. “It… wasn’t… I don't like thinking about it.”

Sam nodded again. He sighed. “You… you've seen a lot. Maybe more than me or David ever did. And you've a lot more riding on your shoulders.”

“You might say that,” Elliot said with a wry smirk.

There was a pause for a long moment.

“D’you still watch Doctor Who?” Sam asked after a moment.

“I… don't think it exists,” Elliot said with a slightly confused expression. “Is it anything like Professor X? I mean, I know a Doctor Hooves...”

“Time Lord, bigger-on-the-inside time machine, that kind of thing?” Sam asked. “Wait. Doctor Whooves?”

“I… I don’t know, it’s kind of confusing,” Elliot smiled. “Anyway - it all sounds similar to Professor X, except that the Professor’s people are called ‘Sentinels of History’ and his machine - the SATNA - isn’t bigger on the inside - it's more like his own personal pocket dimension that he can move the access port to…”

***

Bastion Entrance

When the jeep pulled up, Samantha and McReady both got out, arms held up as the guards approached them, rifles raised. Samantha noted the top-tier equipment, just as she'd been told to expect, and smiled softly.

“Alright,” one of the guards said. “Who are you, and why -”

“Shut up, Karl,” McReady called out. “It's me. I’m back.”

The guard lowered his rifle. “Peter? That you?”

“Aye,” McReady said with a slight smirk. “I came with a friend.”

Samantha nodded. Karl frowned at her for a moment, before his eyes widened.

“Is that who I think it is?” he asked.

“Who do you think I am?” Samantha asked quietly.

“Maxi showed me a picture of you, not long after my little girl died,” Karl said. He motioned. “Come with me, you two.”

He motioned for the gate to be opened, and a moment later they did, creaking slightly, allowing Samantha and McReady to follow Karl. She glanced back, noticing that her jeep was being entered and started up by another Reaver.

“Welcome to Bastion,” Karl said, and Samantha turned back to look at the small town.

Soldiers - or armoured individuals, anyway - walking hither and thither, some giving her a look.

“Welcome home, Samantha,” McReady said quietly.

***

Outside Bastion.

Three Newfoals stood atop a hill overlooking Bastion. The forest was hiding them from view.

“There it is,” Morgause said quietly, a cruel smile playing across her features. “The fortress of the Reavers - Maximilian Yarrow’s folly. Poor fool.”

Caliburn frowned, scrutinising the palisades and concrete walls with a practiced eye. “It seems well guarded, but with enough force -”

“Yarrow’s deluded followers are not today’s target,” Morgause said. “The Avatar within those walls is.”

She turned to Avalon, who was standing still as stone, as though waiting for orders. Morgause removed a loose rock from the woods, and wrapped a parchment around it carefully. Her horn glowed, saturating the rock, and then she passed it to her sister.

“Drop this in their courtyard,” she instructed Avalon. “Do not injure any of them - we only want their attention, not their ire.”

“I understand,” Avalon replied. She grabbed the rock and took to the sky at once.

“As for you, sister,” Morgause said. Her horn glowed again, and a long stick slowly floated into the air. “I have a gift.”

The stick crackled with energy, glowing and twisting, until suddenly there was a flash of light, and in place of a stick, there was a sword - it was long, gleaming silver with a black hilt, a sapphire set into it. The name Caliburn was etched along the blade.

“For me?” Caliburn asked.

“For you,” Morgause said. “It is your destiny.”

***

Bastion.

It hadn’t really been Sam’s fault - or Dave’s, for that matter - but at some point, Dave had just been out of it.

He’d just… shut down for a second, said he wanted to sit by himself for a bit.

What was that about? Sam wondered. There’s… there’s a lifetime of things he went through that I didn’t. Is it me? Am I pissing him off, the same way he pissed me off? Am I too much like his friend, just like he’s -

He thought for a moment.

Actually, how many of the same things did we go through?

It was as he wandered aimlessly through the camp that he bumped - almost literally - into Erin.

They stood, staring at each other for a second.

“Got any beer?” Erin asked.

“No. You?” Sam asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Erin said. “It’s terrible and we have to brew it ourselves.”

“I might be willing to-” Sam started.

“No, you might not be,” Erin sighed, as she collapsed on the porch of a prefab. “This is so…”

“So what?” Sam asked. “I was going to go with crazy.”

“That works,” Erin sighed. “PHL in Bastion. It’s something we hoped would never happen again.”

Sam decided he didn’t want to touch that one. “Really. Everything else and that’s what you’re questioning.”

“I’m starting small, Sam,” Erin said. “Someday, I may actually end up understanding that there’s an alternate version of Dave that just happens to be a demigod or something.”

“The alternate version of Dave whose world you want to evacuate to,” Sam added.

“I figured it’d help me understand,” Erin said.

“I think we’re all having trouble with that one,” Sam sighed. “I… I watched that on TV. The other Dave growing back a potion-amputee’s hand.”

“Is it… really Dave?” Erin asked, confused.

“Yes,” Sam said. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“What?”

“It’s just that he’s Dave,” Sam said. “But I don’t know how much is our Dave. It’s not like we didn’t go to uni together, but… I’m thinking… let’s say I try to tell him about the time I went and tried to date that girl at that coffeeshop. Is he going to remember it, or is he going to tell me that I decided against that?”

“What difference does it make?” Erin asked.

“That all the little details might just be off,” Sam explained. “I might drop some cue. I could be talking about how he was commiserating while writing an essay on Tolkien, but Dave… the Avatar… might say he was writing about China Mieville.”

“I honestly can’t think of Dave writing essays on Mieville,” Erin said.

“It’s the little things,” Sam said. “I’ve said a lot of things that I’d expect him to react to, but he just doesn’t even bat an eyebrow.Maybe I’ll say that, but… it’s like he’s so close to my Dave, I could almost touch him… but h-”

Before he could say anything else, there was a sudden commotion, and with a heavy thunk, a rock wrapped in what might have been parchment landed in the centre of the courtyard, narrowly missing an armoured Reaver.

“Check the skies!” someone yelled, and the soldiers sprang into action.

***

Elliot approached the rock carefully, a frown on his face. Whoever had thrown it had saturated it in magic, most likely seeking to get his attention.

“Major Elliot?” he heard Ze’ev ask. “What is it?”

Elliot didn't reply for a moment. He knelt by the rock, a hand grazing it. The magic dissipated, and he gently unwrapped the parchment. A message was written on it.

The woods beyond Bastion. Your destiny awaits, Avatar of Albion. Are you ready to meet it?

Elliot frowned.

“Sir?” Ze’ev said again.

“A message,” he said, standing up slowly. “It's a message.”

“Who from?” Ze’ev asked, frowning at it. “What do they want?”

“If I had to guess, the leader of the ponies who attacked us on the road,” Elliot said quietly. “As for what they want?” He rolled his shoulders. “Me.”

“You're not gonna go?” Sam asked, eyes wide in shock. “It's a trap! Like, the most obvious trap in history!”

“I know,” Elliot said, smiling slightly. “I’m good at traps. What’ll they do? Potion me?”

“Yes,” Ze’ev said bluntly.

“And you know how that goes.” He turned to Ze’ev. “Help set up a defence. They might try to attack.”

“Understood,” the Captain said grimly. “And you?”

Elliot smiled grimly. “I have an appointment.”

***

Outside Bastion.

Caliburn took a breath, trying to steady herself. Nearby, Morgause and Avalon were stood, watching the little shanty town with eager eyes.

“So,” Caliburn said, trying to be conversational. “If I may, how am I supposed to fight a being like him?”

Morgause didn’t respond, and Avalon merely turned to look at her like she’d spoken French.

What is French, anyway?

“Forgive me,” Caliburn said, “but from what I’ve heard, this being fought a mirror-pool duplicate of our Queen to a standstill. Does not this suggest that he is more powerful than only one of us?”

Avalon looked at her again. “Do you have doubts, sister?”

“Of course not,” Caliburn insisted. “I just question the strategy’s… efficacy.”

“You mistake the strategy’s purpose, that is why you doubt,” Morgause said softly, and Avalon looked at her. “Today is not the day the Avatar of Albion will die.”

Avalon frowned. “Sister, we exist to slay that being. The Queen will brook no delay.”

“Delay is necessary,” Morgause said patiently. “The first engagement showed us that he is powerful - throwing warm bodies at him will only result in him making them dead bodies.”

“It is our duty to die for the Queen,” Avalon insisted.

Morgause glanced at her, a slight frown on her face. “I do not question it. Do you question my devotion?”

“I - no, sister,” Avalon said. “But -”

“Then silence,” Morgause said. “He will step outside of the fortress of Maximilian Yarrow’s folly, and when he does we will take his measure.”

“Which is where I come in?” Caliburn guessed.

“Precisely,” Morgause said. “You are not meant to slay him - nor to be slain by him,” she added in what might have been an effort at reassurance. “Your mission is to gain his measure, and in your doing so, we will learn how to best him once and for all.”

Caliburn nodded slowly. Alright. Alright.

She had to admit - there was something enticing about the prospect of duelling this enemy: of fighting to prove herself against him. It felt like something that she was meant to do. Her forehoof moved idly to the hilt of the blade slung across her back.

What I’m meant for. Her eyes glanced up at the sky. But…

Is it all that I am?

***

Outside Bastion.

He walked into the woods, his eyes narrowed at the empty spaces between the trees. His skin itched, almost pre-emptively. It was like the air itself was full of something off, something tingling in his mind like a waiting axe, wanting to fall on his neck.

“So,” Elliot said aloud to the world, “does anyone want to step forward and do this like men, or ponies, or whatever? Or are we content to hide?”

Who’s hiding? a voice seemed to echo through the woods.

“Well, seeing as I can’t see you,” Elliot said with a shrug, “I guess that’d be you.”

Forgive me if I don’t wish to step forward like a lamb to the slaughter, the voice said sibilantly. I wish to be alive at the end of this day.

“Then you picked the wrong side and the wrong enemy,” Elliot said grimly. He cracked his knuckles. “Come on out. Let’s do this.”

If you insist on a battle, the voice said, our sister will provide.

“‘Our’?” Elliot repeated. He turned around again at the sound of leaves crunching - and then he saw her.

She was a mare. Her fur was forest green, with a deep, almost sea-green mane, cut short into a bowl cut. A sword was slung over her shoulder, its style and design not unlike Excalibur, if Excalibur were made for one of a pony’s stature. She was looking at him with a serene expression - not one of anger or disgust, but one almost of contemplation - or remorse.

“Greetings,” she said softly. “I am Caliburn.”

Elliot frowned, and suddenly he understood.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “I know who you are. Or who you were.”

“Then you know more than me,” she said quietly. “I’m still not certain of my place. But I know that my sister says you are our enemy.”

“I am,” Elliot said quietly. “I’m the enemy of the Tyrant that made the potion that turned you from you into whatever mockery I’m looking at.”

She frowned slightly at that. “I see. You think there's something wrong, something unnatural, in me.”

“I’d ask if you could feel it too,” Elliot said angrily, “but I’m afraid I’d be disappointed.”

“Oh, I do feel it,” Caliburn said softly. “I feel it in my bones. Something’s… missing. Incomplete.”

Elliot frowned at that. This was certainly more… verbose than he'd been expecting from a Newfoal.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I was born not knowing anything, except what I am told is true,” Caliburn said quietly, a frown on her face. “I was born feeling as though there was more - a greater destiny waiting, beyond this.”

Elliot flexed a fist. “Maybe there is. Maybe you don't have to fight for a cause you don't believe in.”

“I don't believe in any cause,” Caliburn said, tilting her head. “Isn't that strange? Avalon, my sister, speaks as though there is nothing but the cause, and Morgause… well, Morgause is as she is. But me? I don't believe in the cause. I just do what Morgause says.”

“Why?” Elliot asked.

“Because I don't know what else to do, what else there is to do.” The mare took a deep breath. “But it doesn't matter. My duty has been set before me, and I must perform it.”

She stepped forward, a single hoof going to the sword at her back. Elliot tensed.

“First,” she said quietly, “the formalities.”

With a flash of movement, she suddenly threw a vial at him. He held up a hand reflexively and the vial smashed across his arm. There was a hissing sound and an itching sensation, and then the potion dissolved into steam.

“As expected,” she said, a slight smile gracing her features. “Now - as Knights, we fight to the death. Yes, that sounds about right.”

“We don't have to do this,” Elliot said quietly. His hand extended outwards, Excalibur materialising.

“I think we do,” Caliburn said, one hoof going to the hilt of her sword. “Do you accept, Sir?”

He growled and raised Excalibur into a guard stance.

“Yes,” he replied. “I accept.”

“To the death then,” she said, “for the honour of my lady.”

And suddenly she leapt forward, her sword flashing out. He brought Excalibur up to block, and for a moment the two held their clash, before she suddenly leapt above him, the sword moving from her forehoof to one of her back ones, lashing out and forcing him to block it. Deftly she released her sword and grabbed it with another forehoof, before launching a blistering spate of attacks, moving like a tornado. He blocked strike after strike, but he couldn't help but be forced on the defensive by her attacks.

“Come on!” she yelled. “Is that all you -?!”

He sidestepped, parrying a blow before slamming Excalibur’s pommel into the side of her head. She staggered, and only just dodged a sweeping hack made to take her head off. She leapt into the sky, backflipping away from him, before bringing her sword into a relaxed guard, a smile on her face.

“That… that was invigorating!” she said with a cheerful tone he hadn't heard from her before. “I enjoyed it!”

“So glad to amuse you,” Elliot growled.

“No, not amused,” she said, “but -”

She grinned, before suddenly jumping at him again. He dodged a thrust, and blocked a swipe, before stepping back as she brought her blade down in a hacking motion. As she began striking again, Caliburn began speaking, almost as though reciting.

“Memories broken, the truth goes unspoken, I’ve even forgotten my name…”

Her blade moved from hoof to hoof as she dodged and span, moving like a leaf twisting in the wind.

“I don’t know the season, or what is the reason I’m standing here holding my blade…”

She thrust forward again, and he parried the blow before riposting, forcing her to block the strike and step backwards.

“I remember that from somewhere!” she said, almost excitedly. “I remember -!”

He dashed forward, knocking her blade out of the way and shouldering her to the ground. She rolled to the left of his downward hack and kicked up with her back legs, forcing him to jump backwards, and then she stood, grinning.

“I remember you,” she said. “The lonely knight desperate to save his people. You're alone and afraid but you fight on, anyway, knowing that you're doomed, because it's all you have left.”

“Nice to know not all of my other self is gone,” Elliot said dryly. “But it's not important what you remember. You're a mockery of him, nothing more.”

“‘Nothing more’, huh?” Caliburn asked, grinning. “Well, if you really think so, then by all means…” She moved into a guard stance. “Come at me.”

***

Bastion.

Everyone was running around, looking confused or scared. Joe Rither was motioning to his troops to man the palisades or take up other defensive positions, and they were moving with an efficiency that belied their more ‘amateur’ origins.

Samantha Yarrow had jogged up to Rither as soon as the nonsense began.

“How can I help?!” she asked.

Joe had looked at her, his eyes widening in what might have been recognition, but he had pointed to a defensive tower.

“Get in that and tell me what’s out there,” he said. He passed her a radio. “Frequency preset 4. Go.”

Hefting her Type-7, Sam jogged over to the tower, climbing the ladder up to the top as quickly as she could. Once there she found a set of binoculars, and after a quick dust she put them to her eyes, looking around.

“Reaver One to Tower Two,” she heard Rither’s voice buzzing in her ear after a moment. “Samantha. That's you. Report, over.”

She tapped her headset. “Not seeing anything - no Pegasi, no Newfoal forces. If they're out there, they're better hidden than anything I’ve seen, over.”

“Acknowledged,” Joe said. “Keep watch, make sure -”

“Wait!” Samantha said, her binoculars turning on a small black shape approaching Bastion. “There's something incoming, over.”

“I need a better description, Samantha, over,”
Rither said sharply.

Samantha adjusted her binoculars. “Looks like… its a helicopter. Top of the range - can't be PER, over.”

“Any sign of markings, over?” Rither asked.

“Hold,” she said. She adjusted the binoculars again. “Can confirm PHL markings, over.”

“Roger,” Rither said. “Out.”

Samantha frowned as the copter approached Bastion, before slowly landing on a pad further back from the palisade. She saw a few figures disgorged from it - soldiers in tough-looking armour - was that power armour?! - led by…

“Shit,” she swore, as Lyra Heartstrings stepped off the helicopter.

***

Landing Pad.

Operative Lyra Heartstrings grimaced slightly - she’d always hated the noise of helicopters. Almost immediately, she saw a muscular black man in heavy armour approach her and her team.

“Ma’am,” the man said. “I’m Preston. Mind me asking what you're doing here?”

“Lyra Heartstrings,” Lyra said by way of introduction.

“I know who you are, ma’am,” Preston said.

“I’m here looking for my people,” Lyra said. “I’ve got reason to believe that you’ll be under attack presently.”

“We know,” Preston said grimly. “Joe’s got us setting up our defences already.”

“Well, my people can help,” Lyra said. She turned to the lead soldier, a woman in all-enclosing power armour. “Samantha, get our troops deployed!”

“Ma’am!” the Iron Clad replied smartly, before motioning for her squad to follow her. Lyra turned to Preston.

“Where's David Elliot, the Avatar?” she asked.

Preston sighed. “You're not gonna like the answer to that.”

***

Outside Bastion.

Elliot blocked another blow, snarling as he riposted, only for Caliburn to backflip away. She was getting more confident, her moves more energetic, and she seemed to have no limit to how much energy she could use.

The worst part was her smile. It wasn't the smile of a Newfoal - it was a genuine, heartfelt smile. She was enjoying this, on some deep, profound level.

He parried another blow, dodging backwards as she swept her blade out at him, before he stabbed forward - only for her to parry him and riposte, forcing him to quickly block. He shoved her sword away and hacked at her, but she dodged that blow too.

“Stop trying to hit me and hit me!” she said with a short laugh. “Now, where is that from -”

He kicked out, sending her reeling back, and he lashed out again, but she backflipped away again, before moving into a guard stance. Elliot stepped back, settling into his own defensive posture, and for a moment they stood still, stalemated.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked her. “If you don't believe in your cause -”

“I don't believe in any cause,” Caliburn corrected. “Not yours, not Morgause’s. Why is that difficult to accept?”

“Because you fight too well for somepony who doesn't have a cause,” he asked. “What are you? Rincewind?”

“I’m not some… some eternal coward!” she yelled.

“Besides which,” Elliot said, ignoring her reply, “You’re too human for anything Celestia would make.”

“Maybe that's the point,” she said. “Or maybe there isn't one.”

“You’re pointless?” Elliot asked. “Is that what you’re saying? Because most of the Newfoals are, from what I’ve seen.”

“Maybe we all are,” Caliburn quipped, grinning. “Maybe the only point is what we choose.”

“Did you choose this?” Elliot asked.

Caliburn paused. “No.”

“Would you have?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

Elliot began pacing, circling her, his guard adjusting to match his position. Her guard adjusted too, following him slowly.

“You're a knight,” he said after a moment, “or you posture as one.”

“I am one,” she said simply.

“And yet,” he said, “you're serving Celestia out of choice - even the choice to not make a different choice.”

“Isn't a knight supposed to serve their liege?” Caliburn asked.

“A knight is supposed to protect the weak, the innocent,” Elliot retorted. “A knight eschews meanness and cowardice, fights with honour and keeps faith. You? You have no faith, and you fight for those who hurt the weak and the innocent alike.”

Caliburn frowned. “And what else is there?”

“Defect,” he said at once. “Surrender and defect. You can be a great ally to the BDF or the PHL or whoever you want to -”

“How would it be ‘keeping faith’ to turn traitor?” she asked snappishly.

“How is it being knightly? How is it keeping faith to fight for Celestia’s cause just because you haven't got anything better to do?” Elliot countered with a smirk. “You know I’m right.”

Caliburn sighed. “I -”

“David!” a voice called from the distance. Elliot turned, looking for the source of the voice. When he turned back, Caliburn was gone.

“Dammit,” he swore.

A moment later, Lyra arrived, breathless from running but looking determined. Her expression softened when she saw him standing alone.

“David?” she asked. “Are you alright?”

He didn't answer for a moment, Excalibur slowly dissolving away, but then he turned and smiled at her.

“I’m fine,” he said softly. “I think Bastion’s probably safe from attack now. We can get on with evacuating.”

Lyra nodded slowly. “I can have the Clads help with that. I brought them to help fight, but - well.” She paused. “Are you sure you're alright?”

“I will be,” he said quietly. “I will be.”

He walked back in the direction of Bastion, and Lyra followed slowly, not sure what had happened - or what she could say.

***

In a clearing, not far from Bastion, the three Caliburn class Newfoals stood.

“So,” Morgause said. “You were stalemated against his untransformed self.”

“Yes,” Caliburn said quietly.

“Good,” Morgause said. “We’ve learned your limits and his in that form. There is something to take from this.”

“I still say we should attack him now,” Avalon snarled. “One swift attack by all three of us -”

“He wields powers we do not comprehend yet,” Morgause said softly, her voice a sibilant hiss that silenced all dissent. “We will only attack when victory against him is assured. We are not the ordinary Newfoal, to be wasted and thrown aside. We are different - we are special.”

Avalon nodded. “As you say.”

Caliburn nodded too, though it was half hearted.

‘How is it keeping faith to fight for Celestia’s cause just because you haven't got anything better to do?’

She rolled her neck slightly, trying to ease some of her tension. Maybe she was wrong to fight with Morgause and Avalon, or maybe she wasn't.

She would find out soon enough.

***

Author's Notes:

I was gonna title this "The Only Thing I Know For Real (there will be blood shed! THE ONLY THING I'VE EVER KNOWN!") but then I remembered the actual title. Uhhhh... whoops. MAH MISTAKE