***

“It is an army bred for a single purpose - to destroy the world of Men.”
Aragorn, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.

“Some days I know that if I let my brain fully understand what my gut was propelling me into, it'd chuck itself out my ear.”
Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan

***

Joint PHL/BDF manned base, Boston. 22nd November, 2023.

A little convoy of jeeps, APCs, and other vehicles drove slowly through the streets of Boston, followed by one PHL helicopter and two unmarked military-grade copters. Though they had transmitted the necessary clearance, more than a few soldiers were waiting for it, the surly figure of Lieutenant Becker Kellman chief amongst them.

The little convoy came to a half outside the base itself, and a few moments later, David Elliot stepped out of the the lead jeep. He had discarded his green military coat, wearing a simple long-sleeved t-shirt and battered trousers with boots. Behind him came Operative Lyra Heartstrings, and with them was Joseph Rither and Dr Bowman.

“Brigadier Elliot,” Kellman said stiffly. “Operative Heartstrings.” He glared at the Doctor. “Doctor Bowman.”

“Ah, hello there, Becker,” the Doctor said with a smirk. “How’re things?”

“You've got some interesting company with you, sir,” Kellman said to Elliot, ignoring the Doctor. “I’m afraid that they'll have to be taken into custody.”

“That would be impossible, I’m afraid,” Elliot said simply. “These people are under my personal authority.”

“Excuse me?” Kellman said, raising an eyebrow.

“He said these people are under his personal authority, Becker,” the Doctor said with a smile. “You can still hear, right?”

“I - I’m not even going to dignify that,” Kellman sighed. He looked at Elliot. “I’m not sure that your personal authority extends to these people, sir.”

“They asked for asylum, I granted it under the authority of my world’s Governing Council as the foremost representative in the area,” Elliot said simply. “Tell me, is that somehow difficult to believe?”

“I - sir, these people are criminals,” Kellman sputtered. “They're dangerous.”

“Are they?” Elliot asked. “I've been going over their records on the trip. No PHL kills. No PHL engagements. They've actively assisted PHL activities in the past.” He smirked. “They even helped you, Mr Kellman, for which you reported your Lieutenant and got her transferred.”

Kellman sighed. “Even so, the HLF are a terrorist organisation -”

“As I’ve said, these people are under my personal authority,” Elliot said. “Their punishment is in my hands, and I’ve already made my decision regarding it.”

“You can’t just take authority over them!” Kellman snapped. “They’re the goddamn HLF - they have to -!”

Elliot held up a hand. “They’re people who’ve fought alongside my friends in the past. As I understand it, we owe them a lot. I have been granted the authority to grant them asylum, if they request it -”

“Which we have,” Rither said simply.

“And I’m exercising that authority,” Elliot finished. “If you have a problem with me granting them asylum, you’re welcome to appeal to my superiors.”

Kellman closed his mouth, a scowl developing on his face. “Fine. But don’t think I won’t take this up with my superiors, sir.”

“That’s your right, Lieutenant Kellman,” Elliot replied with a slight smile. “But somehow, I don’t see your superiors wanting to risk an alliance over a couple of thousand people that, as far as I can tell, nobody cared enough about to look for before.”

Kellman sighed. “We’ll see. Sir.”

He turned away, and Rither walked up to Elliot.

“He’s not going to be a problem, is he?” he asked quietly.

“The PHL might have one or two loose Kellman’s running around,” the Doctor said, “but unlike the poor old HLF, they're overwhelmed by people who actually know how to prioritise. No one’s going to make a big deal out of this. Not today.”

Rither made a growl that might have been agreement or annoyance, no one could tell which.

“You’ll have to forgive him for not being trusting, Elliot,” the Doctor said.

If looks could kill, the Doctor would have been on the verge of regenerating.

“...Understanding?” the Doctor suggested.

Rither just shrugged noncommittally.

“The HLF of this world and yours aren’t the same,” the Doctor said. “Yours, from what I recall, were mostly formed by people at their best when the world was at its worst.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “Okay. That makes sense.”

“The HLF of this world are, erm…” the Doctor said, and looked to Rither. “I’ll let him explain.”

“Let’s say that there’s groups out there that’d almost make me agree with that irritating desk-jockey,” Rither said. He spoke the words so bitterly that it was as if he had reached down his throat and dragged them up from some deep, acidic place, the edges cutting through him. As if it hurt to say them. “Bad men, who did bad things to good people, good ponies. That PER bastard Fairbairn said we weren’t even a ‘serious threat, just an excuse.’.”

“But there are good people, too,” the Doctor said. “You’re proof of that.”

“The bad people were louder,” Rither said bitterly. “They always are. And they were luckier. And now, thanks to their luck and their loudness, the name ‘HLF’ on this world means them, no matter what you do to try and change it.”

“I’m sorry,” Elliot said softly.

Rither sighed. “Yarrow wanted us to make it better. We did our best, but we had a lot against us. Double agents, And now look at us. We’ve looked for more than a few causes to support - putting down the EHS, stopping Imperial Creed, even First Montreal. But...”

“You think you’d be better served in my world,” Elliot said, nodding slightly.

“Exactly,” Rither said.

“Anyway,” the Doctor said, “I’m going to check they packed the TARDIS safely and she’s all in one piece. We’ll talk later, Brigadier.”

“Looking forward to it,” Elliot said diplomatically.

“I suspect we’ll have to talk as well,” Rither said grimly. “If you really do have ‘something in mind’ for us.”

Elliot nodded. “It’ll have to be later though. I need to see a few people, find out what’s been going on - if I missed anything. I’m sure there’ll be some reports from the other Equestria to go through.”

Rither frowned. “Right. We’ll talk later. I’ll get my people set up in the meantime - I assume I’m still sending my civvies with Bowman?”

“Aye,” Elliot said.

“That’s something at least,” Rither said. “Whatever mad shit you’ve got planned, at least I know my people will be safe.”

He walked off, and Elliot sighed, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up somewhat.

“Tired?” Lyra asked quietly.

“It's been a long few days,” Elliot said quietly. “Lots of things to do, and not much time to just - stop, I guess.”

“Agreed,” Lyra said with a soft smile. “‘Stopping’ for a few days is the kind of luxury we’ve not had, huh?”

“Not at all,” Elliot said quietly. He glanced down at her. “I've been meaning to ask - why did you come out after me?”

Lyra glanced up at him. “Because I thought you were in danger.”

Elliot blinked, before a slow smile spread across his face.

“Thanks, Lyra,” he said sincerely. “I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” she said softly. “Whenever you need me.”

There was a pause as the two of them stood in front of the PHL base. Lyra blinked, as though suddenly aware that she was staring at him.

“David,” she began.

“Excuse me, sir?” a voice interrupted, and the two of them turned to see a PHL soldier approaching. “Brigadier Elliot - you’re wanted by Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee. Something about Prince Blueblood?”

Elliot nodded. “Thank you. I’ll go as soon as I can.”

The soldier saluted and turned away, before heading off. Elliot turned to look at Lyra, who had looked away from him.

“You’d best get going,” she said evenly. “I probably have paperwork to catch up on anyway.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Talk later?”

“Yeah,” she said. She looked up at him. “Take care.”

“You too,” he said, before heading off.

She watched him walk for a moment, before snorting in frustration, then suddenly her augmented hoof slammed into the tarmac in an almost involuntary move, cracking it.

“Ma’am?” another voice asked.

A mare with a PHL uniform on approached her, one of the little lyre pendants hanging around her neck. Lyra sighed.

Pony God, in the name of all that is holy, not again!

“Yes?” she asked.

“Are you alright, Kind Mare - uh, ma’am?” the mare asked, looking at the cracked tarmac nervously. “Did… did something happen?”

Lyra scowled. “Alright, whatever ‘oh my God it’s the messiah’ thing you have going on, please stop. I’m not your Lyra. I’m not the messiah.” She sighed, and her eyes turned towards the direction of Elliot, who had just entered the building. “And whatever’s up with me, I don’t want to talk about it.”

The mare looked between Lyra and the door with a confused expression. “Uh… do you… I mean, is he…?”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Do you really want to ask that?”

“It’s just…” the mare said. “Uh… if you… why don’t you… uh…”

“If you’re about to ask me ‘why don’t I just tell him’, I would reconsider,” Lyra said, tapping the tarmac. “Touchy subject.”

“Uh, I meant no disrespect, Kind Ma - uh, ma’am,” the mare said. “It’s just… you’re Lyra Heartstrings. You can… uh… well, you can do anything.”

Lyra snorted. “Anything, huh.”

“Y-yes!” the mare said. “It was Lyra Heartstrings who brought ponies and humans together, who created the PHL, who -”

“Did Lyra Heartstrings ever have to deal with being in love with a man who could never love her back?!” Lyra snapped. She closed her eyes, immediately regretting her words.

“B-but why wouldn’t he?” the mare asked. “You’re -”

“If you say ‘I’m Lyra Heartstrings’, I swear to the White Horse, you are going to have your head stuffed so far up your plot…” Lyra growled. “I am not your Lyra, and even if I was, she clearly wasn’t a bloody messiah, because she’s dead, and even if she was as bloody perfect as you lot seem to think, I’ll reiterate this: I am not her.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m getting damned tired of being compared to her. It’s not leaving much room for me.”

The mare swallowed. “I… uh… sorry, ma’am. It’s… you have to understand, it’s…”

“Difficult, yes, I know,” Lyra said heavily. “I know how people can be with their messiahs, believe me.” Her eyes drifted to the door again. “As for the Brigadier… he… I… there are a lot of reasons I can’t just go up to him and… I don’t know. You have no idea how strange it’s seen, interspecies relationships. You lot seem to have taken to them like Jorogumo to… well, just about anypony.”

The mare stammered, seemingly unsure what to say.

Lyra sighed. “You know what? Forget it. What’s your name?”

“Calliope,” the mare said. “Like the-”

“Musical instrument?” Lyra asked.

“I was going to say Homestuck character, but that works too.”

Lyra sighed. “Alright, Calliope. You do me a favour and forget I ever said anything.”

Calliope nodded. “I can do that, Kind Ma- uh, ma’am.”

Lyra sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been called worse things. For the record, I’m not that ‘kind’, though.”

“I’m sure that's not true,” Calliope said softly.

Lyra snorted. “All due respect, kid, but you don't know me.”

She turned and walked off, leaving a very bemused Calliope on her own.

“Lyra Heartstrings and the Avatar of Albion?” the mare said out loud, almost as though thinking aloud. “Is… is that sacrilege?”

“What’d I say?!” Lyra called back.

Calliope blushed. “Sorry, K - ma’am!”

***

PHL Research lab, New York.

There were two men and a green pony mare standing in the main lab room when Colonel Munro came to speak with them. One was a wiry man with short hair. He wore a simple suit, slightly tattered but still reasonably presentable, with a dark shirt and tie, and glasses. The other was auburn haired, had a beard and wore a leather coat over a t-shirt and jeans.

“Gentlemen, ma'am,” Munro said simply. “I take it you're the magic experts I’ve been asking for?”

“That's correct,” the suited man said primly. “Wesley Wyndham-Price at your service.”

“Dr Well Being, part of the Iron Clad program,” the mare added.

The leather coated man simply nodded.

“It’ll be good to have you here,” Munro said. “I've been tasked with working out stopgap measures while the rest of our R&D division is at work in Downtime Equus.”

“What a curious name,” Price said. “If I may, what is its etymology?”

“Someone read too much David Weber,” Munro replied with a slight frown. “Does it matter what the etymology of the name is? We have a job to do here.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't matter,” Price said with a sigh. “I just - well, to tell you the truth I used to have an interest in the etymology of words when I was younger man. What with the war and such, I'm not able to indulge that interest as often as I used to…”

“Ignore him when he rambles,” the other man interjected. “He's actually good at his job when he tries.”

Price sighed. “As ever, Mr Canterbury, you are a beacon of good manners.”

The leather coated man - Canterbury - shrugged.

“We’re getting off track,” Munro said bluntly. “I’ve been tasked with working out a number of different ways we can help each other in the short term. Obviously, a long term series of ideas can be worked out by our colleagues in the Downtime Equestria -”

“But a short term method is for here and now,” Canterbury said. “Alright - Wes, show ‘im what you've got.”

“Ah, yes,” Price said with a slight smile. “Now - there are obviously a variety of ways our knowledge of magic can help, but I suspect a little added punch to our forces on the ground would be appreciated, yes?”

“That's one option,” Munro said dryly. “Learning about these ‘Iron Clads’ might be something to contribute to that.”

“It might be somewhat difficult to replicate our research in a short time frame,” Well Being said softly. “Nonetheless, I’ll see to it that you get what I can offer you. We have exhaustive notes on the project that your teams will be able to peruse.”

“We also have more… esoteric tools at our disposal,” Price added. He glanced at his leather-coated compatriot. “Mr Canterbury is an expert at the summoning of spirits, for example.”

Munro frowned. “Spirits? You mean the dead?”

“Not spirits of that sort,” Price said. “David?”

Canterbury coughed. “Loosely speaking, the kinds of spirits I deal with are conceptual. That is to say, they're connected to concepts - love, hate, fear, strength, duty…”

“Spirits of concepts are high-tier,” Price said. “Even a handful - even one - can greatly aid in a conflict.”

“‘Spirits of concepts’… Jesus Christ,” Munro said, putting his head in his hand. “You’ll forgive me if this is all very… beyond me.”

“That’s alright,” Price said. “I doubt we’ll have to teach you much. It’s more a case of summoning them ourselves.”

“Minus side is, summoning them takes time,” Canterbury said. “Every single spirit has to be summoned individually. We could probably summon - what, three, four? - in a week. If that.”

“And if they agree,” Price added. “There’s no guarantee that they will.”

Munro sighed. “Alright, we can look into that. Now, is there anything else?”

Price and Canterbury exchanged a glance, and then Price smiled.

“I hope you’re prepared to be here a while, Colonel,” he said apologetically…

***

Unspecified Location.

The organization didn’t have a name. This had been a deliberate choice when they met up, finally came in contact. Part of the reason was that they didn’t want to be traced. The other reason was that any name they picked - for examples, “The Watchers In The Dark,” or “The Cabal” - sounded silly to all of them.

“The Watchers In The Dark” had probably been the most apt one, though. They weren’t a cult, they weren’t the Illuminati, and they weren’t pulling the strings of the PHL. None of them wanted that responsibility. They were simply a group of people who would meet in the utmost privacy to discuss things of shared interest to PHL R&D or other powerful organizations.

“So,” a man said with a frown, leaning back in his chair. “He's helping HLF now.”

“The Reavers are one of the better groups,” a voice on the phone said, “but he did it without giving the PHL warning, without asking UN permission to extradite them or release them to his custody -”

“It makes sense that a man like him wouldn't know the proper channels,” the man said quietly. “But still, he should have learned to use the proper channels, discovered what they were.”

“You’re worried,” the voice stated.

“Damn right,” the man said. “Demigods with too much personal power, never mind the political power he has? He has cults. Some of our people have been joining them. These aren't just idiots with long hair and no jobs, these are soldiers - even some of those damn Space Marines they've got going on.”

“Our estimates are that we could have some kind of equivalent on hand soon,” the voice said, “but we don't know if they'd actually be the same - there's things we don't know about the Iron Clad program yet. Munro is getting information, but -”

“It's all happening so fast,” the man finished. He shook his head. “Tell me we have something else.”

The voice chuckled. “As it happens, I do. I can have her show up to our next meeting.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Is there a reason I haven't heard about her before?”

“She’s a Zebra,” the voice replied. “Claims to know more about the Avatar than we do.”

“Not that that's difficult,” the man sighed. He leaned back in his chair. “Alright, new plan. You send this Zebra to me, and in the meantime, recall Vinyl Scratch.”

“What for?” the voice asked.

“We’re going to ask her to help,” the man said, smiling to himself. “She's due a little trip.”

***

Joint PHL/BDF Camp, Fenway Park, Boston.

Fenway Park was packed with people: soldiers in raggedy BDF gear speaking with PHL soldiers in their high-tech equipment, Iron Clads marching up and down in formation. More than a few of these were “Knights of Albion”, their stance a little more stuff, their hands gripping sword hilts as much as they did rifles.

“Don't get them,” one PHL soldier said quietly. “‘Knights’ my ass. What good’s a sword anyway?”

“You've not seen them training,” a Unicorn stallion said quietly. “Have you?”

“Training?” the soldier asked. “No, why?”

The Unicorn motioned, and the two of them followed the Clads as they reached a small, impromptu training arena.

There were two: both of them were knights: one was a Clad, the other a regular fighter. They were sparring with swords, each moving with fluid grace. The Clad moved slowly and deliberately, one step, then another, his blade moving to intercept the knight’s quick strikes. The knight seemed to have the advantage of speed, and was dodging sweeps and strikes.

“Still,” the soldier said shortly, “doesn't change my point. Sword in a gunfight is useless.”

“It's not a gunfight though, is it?” the Unicorn pointed out. “And look at these guys.”

As he spoke, the knight lashed out, too quick for the Clad’s blade - but before it could hit the Paladin armour, a soft glow appeared, before the sword - and the knight - were repelled.

“You see?!” the Clad called. “I am better than before.”

“I can see,” the knight said ruefully. “I guess I’ll need more practice.”

“Chin up,” the Clad said. “I suspect you're on the list somewhere - they'll probably give you the next mark up.”

“Hey,” the soldier called out, catching the two’s attention. “You do know it's the 21st Century, right?”

The two looked at him like he’d grown another head.

“Dude, shut up,” the Unicorn hissed.

The soldier ignored him. “I dunno how it is on your world, but over here we kinda outgrew swords when we invented the machine gun with armour piercing rounds.”

The knight looked at the Clad. “You want to field this one?”

“Alright,” the Clad said, turning to the soldier. “I can hit anything with a gun. But can you beat me with a sword?”

“Probably not,” the soldier said with a snort. “But I only need my gun.”

“Ah, I see,” the knight said. He looked thoughtful for a moment. He held up a sidearm. “This gun?”

The soldier’s eyes widened, going to his side holster. “Hey, how -?!”

“You cannot always rely on this,” the Clad said, tossing the weapon to the ground in front of the soldier. “In the heat of battle, when you are overrun, you must meet the enemy blade to blade. That is where we excel, and when the Solaminan Empire comes, that is where you will fall - because you brought a gun to a sword fight.”

He said nothing more, instead turning to his colleague as they began a new spar. The soldier picked his gun up sheepishly, checking it over.

“I thought you had a rune?” the Unicorn asked.

“I do,” the soldier said. “It must not be working.”

The Unicorn’s horn glowed for a moment, before he shook his head. “I can't grip it. It must just be them.”

“Fucking A,” the soldier hissed. “So these bastards have super magic?”

“Hey, at least they're on our side,” the Unicorn pointed out.

“Yeah, sure,” the soldier said. “For now.”

***

Kraber didn’t look happy with himself.

Then again, Kraber usually didn’t look happy unless something horrifying was happening, usually to somebody he didn’t like, which would have made this normal if not for the fact that he was actually staring at himself.

“This… is a nice change of pace,” said the Kraber with the oversized Lewis Gun. An old gas mask and spiky pickehaube sat on a nearby table. “I haven’t seen this many actually well-equipped people in years.”

Aegis was sitting nearby, drinking from a bowl of beer and desperately wishing it was bottomless.

“You know,” the Kraber with the Lewis Gun said, “I actually have a spare Penetrator. Reminded me of this gun I made in Dead Space 3.”

“Was there an underbarrel bolas or a force gun?” Aegis asked, not slurred in the slightest

“Merde, how are you not even tipsy?!” the Kraber with the Lewis Gun asked.

“He’s just showing off,” the other Kraber explained. “I actually made something like that for a laugh. I call it the Moondowner. It’s… well, it’s hidden deep in my locker.”

“Quelle surprise,” the Kraber with the Lewis Gun muttered. “Some fokkers have all the luck. I’ve been lucky to keep finding ammo for this thing.”

“How does ammo keep getting made, anyway?” Aegis asked. “I’ve been wondering how logistics even works in your world.”

“Would ‘very fokkin’ poorly’ cover it?” Lewis Gun Kraber said with a dry chuckle. “Usually, when a trooper reports he’s out of ammo on a museum piece, an effort is made to replace it with something that actually has ammo. Ever seen an L85 or a PK-470, made with reclaimed metals?”

“I used a Kalashnikov like that once,” Kraber said. “Well. Not quite - more of a Dragunov, chopped down, with two ten-round mags welded to each other. Looked like shit, but it was nice enough.”

“Exactly. Piece of kak, but it still fires. Other times, specialised ammo can be ordered in - if you’re really fokkin’ desperate. Most of the time, though, people just pick up some dead kontgesig’s gun. We can’t just standardize our guns, because ammo’s being made for whatever we can get. And we can’t standardize ammo, because there’s guns being made for whatever ammo we can make. You see?”

Kraber and Aegis exchanged glances.

“Well shit,” Aegis summed up. “That sounds fucking terrible.”

“I’ve been lucky,” Lewis Gun Kraber said. “Managed to keep this thing stocked. Mostly by learning the art of conserving ammunition”

Kraber guffawed. “You kidding me?”

“Nope,” Lewis Gun Kraber said, before giving a slightly nasty grin. “I just stab people instead. And the damn thing is heavy, anyway.”

Kraber chuckled. “Had me worried for a second there.”

“Been meaning to ask, by the way,” Aegis said with a frown. “What’s with the French?”

“Oh, that,” Lewis Gun Kraber said with a shrug. “Had to learn French in the Foreign Legion. Samuel helped me out with that. ‘Course, I never got as far as I would have liked - France kind of disintegrated.” He frowned. “Funny the stuff you get used to thinking.”

“Fokked up shit, no question,” Kraber agreed. “Like the time I got head-explody."

"Wait. Head-explody?"

"Ja, a newfoal connected to my mind and I made them fokkin' explode by remembering at them," Kraber said. "There was also the time I got turned into a mare by poison joke spit.”

Lewis Gun Kraber snorted. “I'll see that, and raise you fighting the spirit of Futility, or the time I found myself escorting Horatio Steed for a month while he went hiking in Wales.”

“What's so weird about hiking in Wales?” Aegis asked.

“Spelunking, Skyrim style,” Lewis Gun Kraber said shortly. “It was me, Samuel, and a woman called Gail Lightfoot, and we spent half the time up there fighting wraiths and spectres that the war stirred up, just while we were looking for Merlin. And we never found the fokking branleur.”

Aegis shook his head. “Alright, it's official. You're both bad luck magnets.”

“Ja,” Lewis Gun Kraber said.

“Absofokkinlutely,” Kraber agreed. “It’s like…” he stroked his beard. “Did you star in a production of Repo: The Genetic Opera as Nathan Wallace too?”

Lewis Gun Kraber nodded.

“It’s like Nny once said,” Kraber said. “You can let your problems beat you down, or laugh at them.”

Aegis stared at them both. “You’re terrible at that last part.”

“It’s a Kraber family tradition to bliksem your problems,” Lewis Gun Kraber said. “I thought you'd know that by now.”

***

Reaver Camp.

Joe Rither was idly cleaning a pistol when Elliot found him. He had his armour off, revealing a simple tank top and black fatigue trousers.

“What can we expect of your world?” Rither asked. He was still obviously bitter.

“I’m not sure how best to describe it,” Elliot admitted. “Did you see the interview?”

“Yeah, I heard what your world is like,” Rither said. “We got cable at Bastion. Another thing to thank the good Doctor for.”

Elliot scratched the back of his head. I miss cable, he thought.

“No, what I want to know,” Rither said, “Is if we’ll be welcome. We’re probably not bringing any game-changing weapons or tactics, I just want to know: Will we be welcome?”

“Mr. Rither?” Elliot asked, confused.

“I’m not a happy man,” Rither said, nodding slowly at nothing in particular. “But… before you answer that, tell me: What are your world’s HLF like?”

Elliot folded his arms. “A mixed bag. Ostensibly the HLF were founded as an extra-national force of volunteers and mercenaries to help evacuate civilians from the areas affected by the Barrier, not to mention -”

“Did they help?” Rither interrupted.

Elliot nodded slowly. “Yes, they did. Mostly.”

Rither’s face darkened. “...mostly?”

“There were always… well, you probably know the sort,” Elliot said sheepishly. “People who wanted to fight their own battles, or kill innocent ponies, or loot cities as they passed through, or extort people they were supposed to be protecting. There were a lot of less-than-savoury sorts amongst the HLF.”

“Were they weeded out?” Rither asked.

“Actually, they Darwinned themselves to death mostly,” Elliot said, chuckling mirthlessly. “A man named Birch apparently led a bunch of people to Fairport in Gilead, saying there was some secret bunker. He never got heard from again. Other HLF joined Gilead, or died shooting at the Barrier in the Middle East or in Africa.”

“Ah… the bad eggs were more of an exception in your world,” Rither said, almost wistful. “Wish we could’ve been there.”

“I don’t think you would,” Elliot said, quiet. His head was bowed and Rither couldn’t see his eyes for a second. He looked… old. Very, very tired. As if he was trying to hold back anger. “I was lucky-” the words almost physically hurt to say so - “enough I didn’t have to flee anywhere. The survivors told the worst possible tales. If they lived long enough. If we let them.”

Rither suddenly felt the urge to let that last sentence go unquestioned. “I don’t think you know what we’ve been through here,” he said. “If anything, working among that might be an improvement.”

“Well,” Elliot said. “Sorry, but… not all too well, no. I don’t know.” He smiled wryly. “Although, technically, you did work amongst the HLF.”

Rither raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The last boat from America before the Sanctified Republic of Gilead took complete control was the USS Enterprise,” Elliot said slowly. “And the Enterprise was under the command of Maximilian Yarrow, and the Reavers.” He blinked. “Could… could going through the Days Of Expansion in my world really have been an improvement? How bad could things-”

“Listen,” Rither said. “Everyone has more questions than there are leaves on a tree, but there’s one I have to ask. I need peace of mind.”

He was silent for a second.

“...I also need to explain,” Rither said. “We’ve extended trust to a lot of people. Once, we trusted other HLF. We believed we could make them something like what you just described. A unified front of fighters, unattached to any country. We believed that while the PHL could handle bigger things, we could keep things safe on a smaller front. We believed in… in goodwill.”

Elliot looked expectantly.

“Our ‘bad eggs’ have only recently, as you said, ‘darwinned’ themselves.” Rither snorted. “One group, just recently, apparently forged a truce with PER just for the sake of spiting the PHL during Barrierfall evacuation.”

Elliot’s brain abruptly shut down. “...What.”

“I can’t pretend I understand it,” Rither said. “Before we realized how many ‘bad eggs’ were in the HLF, we trusted them... and we were brushed off and ignored at best. Called horsefuckers and shot at worst. We thought we could at least rely on the PHL, but they’ve shot our scouts during particularly bad PER attacks and swept us under the rug. We trusted Kraber to have a conscience - he was only manipulating us to get him to the leader of our world’s PER, and backslid as soon as we were done. We trusted him again, and he told people to abandon the HLF. Said there was nothing of worth in it - right after we had fought and lost people helping the PHL. And when we surfaced in Montreal to help, other HLF declared war on us. Yarrow gave up at that moment. Can you imagine? A man with such vision, a man that forged so many people from so many units… giving up,” Rither said. “Broke my heart, but we’d been hurt too many times.”

“What are you trying to say?” Elliot asked.

“I mean,” Rither said, “That we’ve extended our trust before, and time and time again it’s been betrayed. I have to know that won’t happen.”

“That depends on what you think I’m going to do,” Elliot said. “I’m willing to let every single one of your people settle on my Earth if they’d choose to. I won’t ask you - any of you - to give more than you have already.” He paused. “It sounds like you’ve given enough.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’,” Rither said with a mirthless smile.

Elliot sighed. “Frankly, what happened to you sounds like a tragedy. It doesn’t strike me as right that you should have given everything you did for nothing.”

“You don’t do good because you want a reward,” Rither said. “You do it because it’s right. Although,” he admitted. “I’m getting quite tired of getting nothing at best. I’d just be happy to know someone out there at least recognizes us for doing the right thing. Won’t happen though.” He shook his head dolefully. “I happen to know the history books have already been written. We’re on the losing side.”

Elliot nodded slowly. “Alright - new question. What are the HLF doing currently on this world?”

“I honestly don’t care at this point,” Rither said. “Probably turning into the bandits from Mad Max, stealing from food stores, making their own little fiefdoms, maybe terrorist attacks. I don’t even know what the point of some of the attacks are. I don’t know if they know.”

Elliot nodded slowly a thoughtful expression on his face.

“I have a proposal for you,” he said after a moment.

Rither frowned. “What proposal?”

“You might not care what the HLF on this world are doing,” the Brigadier said, “but they could still pose - at best, an unwelcome distraction at a crucial moment. At worst, a threat to the world’s security.”

Rither snorted. “Doubt it. The last competent HLF outside of us died with Aeron Grant. And they were the ones that made that truce, which says a lot about what we’re dealing with.”

“Don’t underestimate desperate people: even an idiot with a gun can still kill people,” Elliot said softly. He ran a hand over his stubble-covered chin. “If you were incorporated into the BDF and given authority to act as part of the BDF, you could also be given authority to… well, deal with the HLF on this world.”

Rither raised an eyebrow. “You mean kill them?”

“Not necessarily,” Elliot said. “Like I said - they must be desperate. More of them might be willing to reconsider what they’re doing than you’d think. If they are, we could certainly do with more warm bodies on the field.”

Rither snorted. “You’re talking about unifying the remains of the HLF.”

Elliot nodded. “Something like it.”

“Can’t be done,” Rither said dismissively. “We tried in some form or another for almost five years. And here we are.”

“And you’re just going to give up,” Elliot said. “That’s it. No more lives. No more quarters. Leaving the arcade.”

“You’re damn right,” Rither said. “I’ve lost enough lives - good people’s lives! If Maxi Yarrow couldn’t unify these idiots, what chance do I have?”

“I don’t know,” Elliot said with a shrug. “But I know what chance you have if you don’t try. None.”

“Then what do you suggest for this?” Rither asked. “Yarrow had plans. Dangle a carrot -” he pointed to a large, intricate-looking weapon nearby, “- then the stick if things go pear-shaped. Sell them on dreams. Show them some unity. But apparently -”

The sarcasm in his voice could have melted sheet metal, it was that acidic.

“- the threat of not being able to annihilate four-legged candy-colored horsies was considered to be unreasonable,” Rither said.

“Rither,” Elliot said. “I understand why you’re here. I understand that you’re upset. I understand that if I ask ‘what would Yarrow want’, then you’ll say that-”

Rither opened his mouth.

“It actually is what he wanted,” Elliot said. “...Wow. Right down to the same syllables. I’m actually impressed. But you’d do more good out there, rather than here. Give it another shot.”

Rither remained silent.

“Last time you tried, you didn’t have another world, or the threat of Barrierfall on America, or me,” Elliot said.

“How do we weed out the dumb ones?” Rither asked.

Elliot smiled. It was the first thing even approaching enthusiasm that he’d seen from Rither.

“Leave that to us,” Elliot said. “But I think you need to do this, Joseph Rither. All of you. I think it’s time the Reavers got their chance to show the world what the HLF can really be.” He turned to go. “It’s time you rewrote those history books.”

He walked off, leaving Rither alone to contemplate what had been said.

***

PHL Aerospace Centre, New York.

PHL Aerospace was widely considered the crap division, no matter how much you wanted to be an astronaut as a kid, if only for how goddamn depressing it all was. You couldn’t think of it as an escape from the Barrier - only inevitable death from radiation poisoning, starvation, and possibly asphyxiation led that way. Being able to see the advance of the Barrier didn’t help either.

And yet nobody would discount the work they did on communications satellites.

A pony operating a console linked up to one such satellite was a shaky brown-and-white mare with wholly incongruous earthlike coloration named Silent Step. The kind of people who worked in conditions like this - finding projections for evac routes, observing Equestrian movements across the Atlantic, overseeing PHL troop movements - had been unceremoniously dubbed the Jitter Division by one of the armed guards.

Silent Step was currently living up to the group’s name - dark bags sagged under her eyes from lack of sleep, and she shook from coffee so overpoweringly pungent that anypony who smelt it might think the mere fumes of the drink would work just as well.

She was currently going over some satellite images they had received, and her eyes were widening with horror at the images as she went over them.

“How recent are these?!” she asked one of her colleagues.

“Uh,” the man said, “about three or four hours?”

Silent Step cursed, before picking up a telephone and dialling the number for HQ.

“Hello? Cheerilee’s office?!” she said urgently once the pony on the other end picked up, resisting the almost instinctual stammer. “It’s Silent Step at Aerospace. You need to tell the Lieutenant - she should take a look at this!”

***

Cheerilee’s Office, New York.

When Elliot entered Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee’s office, she looked up at him, her eyes tired. Her desk was covered in paperwork, and it looked like she had gone over all of it repeatedly. There were reports, images, briefing documents, requisition orders…

“Brigadier Elliot,” she said quietly. “Finished running around after stray HLF?”

Elliot nodded, not rising to it. “I’ve done what I set out to do in that regard.”

“How nice,” Cheerilee said, to her credit at least sounding like she was trying not to sound sarcastic. “I’ve had Lieutenant Kellman throwing fits.”

“Ah, yes,” Elliot said, scratching the back of his head. “He did seem to think I was making a mistake.”

“He would,” Cheerilee said. “He has something of a history with the Reavers. Still,” she added, “it's done now, and I have more important things to discuss with you. I’ll be honest, I didn't expect you to get here so quickly.”

“The Doctor gave me a lift - Bowman, that is,” Elliot said.

“Ah, that explains it. Can't say I’m surprised he’s still pottering around,” Cheerilee said with a nod. She pushed a small document forward. “Had a request from Prince Blueblood to go to Downtime Equestria.”

Elliot picked up the document, scanning over it. “And?”

“And, I’m going to grant it, but I’m wondering whether it's really a good idea,” she said. “The way I understand it, there are a lot of differences. It might be culture shock for your Prince and his entourage.”

Elliot frowned. “The same issue exists with yours, doesn't it?”

“No, because it's our past, and we know what to expect,” Cheerilee said. She sighed. “I’m just saying, if this is really necessary I’m fine with it, but -”

“The Downtime Equestrians deserve a chance to speak with our people,” Elliot put in. “And we deserve a chance to speak with them. We are allies, after all.”

“True,” Cheerilee said with a sigh. “As I said, I've granted them the pass. Even have DisQord giving them a portal entrance.”

“Nice of him,” Elliot said.

“Well, it makes a change from him being an ass,” Cheerilee said with a smirk. At Elliot’s questioning expression, she shrugged again. “He's been doing some… interesting stuff. Remind me to forward you Marcus’ report.”

“I’d be interested in reading it,” Elliot agreed. “Any word on - well, the enemy?”

Cheerilee frowned. “There, things are murkier. We know nothing about your Solaminan Empire. They’re just quiet.”

“I can't say that fills me with optimism,” Elliot said grimly. “I’d prefer having some idea of what the bitch is doing.”

“As would the UN,” Cheerilee told him. “I've been inundated with requests for information about her, but so far we don't seem to know anything. All we can glean is that she's powerful, but even that's just guesswork based on what Discord’s told us.”

“You mean DisQord?” Elliot asked.

“I mean both of them,” Cheerilee said. “DisQord’s report of her being backed up by a power we can't comprehend is supported by Discord’s report on her nearly killing him.”

Elliot sighed. And that was what he had to fight, one day.

“Add to that the fact that we’re facing her Empire, which from what we’ve heard is just as formidable as the Solar Empire, and you can understand the concern,” Cheerilee added.

“Quite,” Elliot said quietly.

“And in the meantime,” Cheerilee went on, “the Solar Empire’s obviously building up to something, judging from the Queen’s letter. We had some satellite images in of a buildup, but those stopped and the congregation disappeared after a while.”

“‘Disappeared’?” Elliot repeated.

“The buildup wasn't spotted again,” Cheerilee said with a frown. “Maybe they redeployed. Or maybe the Queen rethought her strategy. Maybe there's some conflict we’re not aware of.”

“But, you've got no idea what’s really happening,” Elliot finished. “Yay.”

“It doesn't help that the Resistance’s intelligence just isn't getting to us,” Cheerilee said quietly. “I had a meeting scheduled with Harshwhinny, but - oh, sorry,” she cut herself off, noticing his expression. “Bittersweet Harshwhinny is the leader of our world’s Equestrian Resistance. She's as pleasant as the name suggests.”

“No doubt,” Elliot commented dryly. “What happened to your meeting?”

“She cancelled,” Cheerilee said. “They heard about your world, we think - I think the idea of another Tyrant gave her a metaphorical aneurism.”

Elliot snorted. “Believe me, it wasn't fun for me either.”

“I believe your opinion was made clear by the bloodied pieces of skull that the clone’s head was reduced to, and Kraber’s… promise of what to do with her skull,” Cheerilee said in a deadpan tone. “But the clarification is nice.”

Elliot chuckled. “Anything else while I’m here?”

“As it happens -” Cheerilee began, but suddenly her phone rang. She sighed, holding up a hoof, before picking up the phone. “Hello?” She paused, frowning. “Is it urgent?” Her face turned stony. “I see. I’ll be right there.”

She hung up the phone, taking a deep breath.

“What's wrong?” Elliot asked.

“That was Aerospace division,” Cheerilee said quietly. “We need to go. Now.”

***

An Unremarkable Room

It was hard to find unoccupied space, but they’d managed. The man on the other end of the phone had found the Zebra - whose name was Abadom - a space under an abandoned store. A microphone and some speakers stood inside.

Abadom lounged on a couch, her muzzle in a bag of potato chips. “What a day. This… mmmmmfmfmf... seems a bit overdramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

“It seemed unobtrusive enough,” said one man. His voice was modulated, an odd mechanical edge to it. Like something he might have heard in a TV show from when he was a child. “Now. One of us-”

Abadom noticed how he avoided giving names. But then, it wasn’t a surprise. People who made arrangements like this obviously had things to hide.

“I understand that before you worked for the PHL, you studied mythology at Trottingham University?” another person asked.

Abadom cocked her head. “Not that it’s very useful here. I just do what the PHL ask, however severe. They need propaganda edited, I do it. But I couldn’t on this Avatar - something was wrong, I knew it.”

“You’re logged as suffering a nervous breakdown,” someone added.

“But it wasn’t a nervous breakdown,” someone said. “I was told that you know more about this visitor… this Avatar… than we do.”

"Not much. I know fragments of stories from ancient lore," Abadom said. "This avatar, they come in times of chaotic war. There are many, each a world's silent sentry.... except when they are not."

"What does that mean?" the man asked.

"The destruction wrought," Abadom continued, "It can be endless - those who fight almost defenseless. In my home, there rests a stone, a dreadful legend. A story that brings the chill of wind. But the story is... If they are summoned by dying earth, it is right to celebrate in mirth. But if they come unprovoked... then all safety, all autonomy is revoked."

"Revoked?" another person asked. "What do you mean, revoked?"

"All destroyed, taken, by that which makes this war a breeze," Abadom said. "Not even a challenge to them. Done with ease."

“I… don’t know what this means,” another member of the Group said sheepishly.

“What it means is that he is the harbinger,” Abadom said. “He… came to our world. Unprovoked. And according to the story that my grandmother told me, this is never a good sign. He is wicked. A… a projection of some kind from a force spanning worlds beyond count. He may say he’s not, but he is connected all the same. Inextricably. The power is like a tree through many worlds, and it touches him.”

“What does this… this force do?”

“To those who force perfection, he’s an infection. He comes in great and terrible fury… but some diseases are worse than the cure.”

“My God! She means The Limiting Factor,” someone said.

“Excuse me?” Abadom asked.

“That was Hex’s codename for a…. A force of some kind. Outside of this universe. Something that finds situations like ours, and ends them along with any dissent or independence. Hex banned any research into it.”

“Ending the war sounds good,” one person said.

“Not the way that Hex’s… source said it worked. It’ll crush the Solar Empire, then it will take us over and grind any resistance into the dust. Use us as resources to crush even more, even if they’re not Converting anyone. He said we should under no uncertain terms contact it, and now its agent… is here.”

“Did Hex have a countermeasure?”

“He said that he was going to attempt to do something to end the War last week,” one person said.

The man snorted. “Seeing as we’re all still fighting, I can only assume it didn’t work.”

“No,” the person said softly. “It didn't.”

“This begs a question,” another member of the Group said. “If this Avatar really is this dangerous, how the hell do we kill him?”

“That is a very good question,” Abadom said. “But if I may, I have a suggestion.”

There was a pause, before finally the man spoke.

“We’re listening.”

Abadom took a breath. “I was not alone in my knowledge of these matters. I know of one other who knows of your ‘factor’. She and I, working together, may be able to find a way to go about this endeavour.”

“We’ll grant any resources you need,” the man said.

“I am truly grateful,” she smiled. “But you realise drastic measures must be on the table.”

“Whatever needs to be done,” the man said.

***

PHL Aerospace.

When Elliot and Cheerilee arrived, the place was in a state of controlled panic. Men, women and ponies were dashing hither and thither, carrying sheafs of paper.

“Lieutenant Colonel!” a panicked voice said. “You're here!”

A brown and white mare trotted over to the two of them, her eyes wide with horror.

“Silent Step,” Cheerilee said. “What's your status here?”

“I… can't explain it, ma’am,” Step said. “You need to see it.”

She led Cheerilee and Elliot to a computer terminal that was displaying realtime satellite images. Elliot took a moment to marvel at the images he was seeing - it had been a long time since anyone in his world had been able to access the satellites.

The images were… interesting. It looked like a giant black blot coming over the Atlantic.

“What is this?” Elliot asked.

“The best way to explain it is… well, clouds,” Silent Step said quietly. “A massive storm front of some kind has developed - too quickly to be a natural phenomenon.”

Cheerilee frowned at the readings on the screen. “When did this start?”

“We’re not entirely certain, ma’am,” Silent Step said grimly. “It seems to have… crept up on us.”

Elliot frowned, looking the readings over. “Could this be Equestrian in origin?”

“Sir, we’ve never even anything of that scale,” Silent Step said with a dubious expression. “I mean, the chances of them being able to manipulate the weather to that degree -”

“But it could be Equestria,” Cheerilee interrupted. “If the Tyrant’s planning on hitting Boston first, there’s every chance she could be pulling out all the stops - and a storm front big enough to hide an entire fleet of skyliners and then some would certainly be -”

“Pulling out all the stops,” Elliot finished. “And conveniently enough, there was ‘an entire fleet of skyliners and then some’ in that force that showed up on the satellite image before they ‘disappeared’, wasn’t there?”

“Yeah,” Cheerilee said grimly. “Step, is it approaching us here?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Silent Step said grimly. “We’re working on exact timing, but -”

“It’ll be here soon,” Cheerilee said grimly. “She said as much, didn’t she? That she’d be coming here to finish us off.”

Elliot frowned. “Can we inform the soldiers in the Downtime Equus?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Cheerilee said grimly. “But you realise this means we’ve got very little time left before they get here.”

Elliot nodded. “You know, I had a horrible feeling you’d say that.” He took a deep breath, and tried to look cheerful. “I guess it’s time to see if the R&D boys are worth their salt.”

***

Boston.

Two Zebras met in a quiet part of what was left of the city of Boston. Given what had happened, ‘quiet’ was relative - soldiers bustled everywhere, and there was a sense of danger looming overhead.

Abadom’s colleague was shaven maned and beautiful in a stately way, her features classical and chiseled.

“You're sure of this information?” she asked. “There could be no miscommunication?”

“Beyond any doubt, Malaika,” Abadom said quietly. “We are dealing with the Dark Avatar.”

Malaika blew air through her lips soundlessly. “This is grave indeed, but it explains this miraculous human and his strange deeds.” She snorted. “And to think, we were banished from our home for knowing that from beyond our realm this ill-wind was blowing.”

“They could not have known as we did yet,” Abadom reasoned. “For we had to unlock ancient secrets.”

“And we were right,” Malaika hissed. “Look around - we are surrounded by his Knights. He brought a legion to our door, and with it yet more war.”

Abadom nodded slowly. “I know. Now - what must we do? Where must we go?”

Malaika sighed. “Hope lies in the newfound Equestria. Go there and approach Celestia. Maybe the new world will have the strength to slay this Avatar before great length.”

“That may prove… difficult to achieve,” Abadom pointed out. “Ours is not a tale easy to believe.”

“I know that too, my friend,” Malaika acknowledged. She sighed. “This may lead us to a bitter end.”

“Then it is a path we walk knowing what awaits,” Abadom said after a moment. “Let us hurry now, before it is too late.”

“‘Too late’,” echoed Malaika. “Maybe it is. But we will pray for luck in this.”

Abadom nodded. Without another word, the two headed off.

They had much to do.

Author's Notes:

I miss hamsteak....