***

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead ... On, on, you noblest English./Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! .... The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge/Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'"
- King Henry V, Henry V, Act III.

No one's gonna take me alive,
The time has come to make things right,
You and I must fight for our rights,
You and I must fight to survive…
Muse, Knights of Cydonia.

***

Hull, England. August 14th, 2019.

A man, sat in the middle of a café, took a sip of his drink and frowned. He had dark hair and stubble, and there were bags under his tired brown eyes – he had spent the last five hours thinking things through, and he didn't like any of it.

War. War against an enemy consumed and committed to their total destruction. It was a terrifying idea – he had hoped such a conflict would never happen in his lifetime. God knew such things had been threatened before: terror organisations, nuclear conflict… but this? This was a war of genocide, or more properly xenocide. The sort of conflict a man didn't normally find himself even considering the possibility of, let alone actually finding himself in the middle of it.

"Dave," a voice said, and he looked up from his thoughts to see the concerned blue eyes of his friend Sam Lake. Sam was blonde haired and handsome faced: where David was a dark haired and faintly germanic man with a lean, muscular frame, Sam was fairer, paler, and in some respects slighter.

He sat down opposite David, a coffee in his hand, and waited for his friend to say something. David, however, wasn't sure what to say - there was too much going on, and he didn't know how to deal with a lot of it.

"What's up?" Sam finally asked softly, looking at his friend with concern. "Your message sounded pretty urgent."

"That'd be because it was," David said quietly. He sighed. "You saw the news?"

"What?" Sam said, chuckling mirthlessly. "War with the pastel ponies? The imminent end of all life thanks to an advancing wall of death? Yeah, I had in fact seen it. Somewhere in the red tops. Almost missed it between the sports section, the topless models and the TV times." He sobered up, any limited humour in his comments dying. "You're worried."

"Damn right I'm worried," David said, looking at his friend incredulously. "The world's about to end, isn't it?"

"Aye," Sam said. "Aye, I guess it is."

David sighed. "And we're gonna… do what?"

"That implies there's something we can do," Sam said with a sad, mirthless smile.

"Isn't there?" David asked.

Sam was silent for a long moment, as though contemplating something. Truth be told, David already had an idea, but he wanted to see what his oldest friend thought first.

"Well," Sam finally said, "it strikes me that there's two things we can do." He smiled, a slightly sombre thing. "Fight or flight."

David smiled back. As always, he and his best friend were on the exact same wavelength. He picked up his coffee and held it up, and Sam tapped his own against it. Though they both knew the road ahead would be hard, they were both ready to stand by each other's side.

"If man were meant to fly," Elliot said, "we'd all be wearing our underwear on the outside with big 'S's on our chests."

"And we'd all look bloody stupid for it, mate," Sam finished.

***

Liverpool, England. August 20th, 2019.

A blonde-haired, grim-faced man in a trenchcoat walked at a brisk pace towards his apartment building, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he did so. He had never considered himself a particularly paranoid man, but these were not days where lack of caution served you well. Even if they had been, his was a life where lack of caution might see you in a gutter anyway.

In his hands he clutched an envelope, and he felt his sweaty palms slip slightly on the slightly laminated material of the envelope. He glanced at it every so often too, as though making sure it was still there.

He reached his apartment building a few moments later, and, with another quick glance over his shoulder, he entered the grotty building. He was glad to be home - his files were waiting for him, and this latest envelope might well be the thing that helped bring him even closer to the truth.

"Oi! Mrs Mason!" he called to his crotchety old landlady. "I'm back!"

It was always polite to let her know he was back in the apartment building, mainly because she always needed his help with something, even if she was a right bitch most of the time.

"Hello dear!" the voice of Mrs Mason called back, sounding oddly cheerful and upbeat. "How was your day out?"

The man frowned slightly at that response. "Fine. How're you?"

"Perfect, dear, absolutely perfect," the old woman replied.

Okay, something was definitely up. Mrs Mason was never that cheerful. It made him feel... suspicious. He walked up the stairs to his own flat door and opened it, checking for the little white string that he'd left in the door. As he suspected, it was gone. A quick glance into his flat made it clear that someone had been looking through his possessions. His files, so meticulously ordered, had been messed with.

A lifetime of paranoia had made him incredibly suspicious of anything, but before today, he had never been proven right that someone was after him. He quickly grabbed a cricket bat from a hidden safe spot and hid behind his front door, dropping the envelope as he did so.

"Mrs Mason?" he called down. "Has someone been here?"

"Oh yes, dear," the woman replied, and he heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. "Some new friends of mine. They're ever such lovely lads..."

He pushed himself further into hiding as someone came into the flat through the front door - or rather, somepony. She was yellow, with a brown mane. She was looking off into the room the man had just been in.

"Hello?" she called, and it was Mrs Mason's voice, chirpy and cheerful as it now sounded. "Are you here? I was hoping to say hello - also, it's not Mrs Mason anymore. I go by 'Delicate Daisy' now…"

With a yell, he swung the cricket bat and cracked the back of the Newfoal's head. Stunned, she fell to the floor, but she managed to turn her head, an impossibly wide grin on her face.

"Oh, hello, dear!" she said, grinning. "I was hoping you'd be here - my friends are dying to meet -!"

He swung his bat again, and her head snapped at an impossible angle, teeth flying out. He panted slightly, feeling sick to the teeth.

"What the fuck?!" he swore. "What the actual... fucking... FUCK?!"

He had expected a lot of things - governments and crazies and FBI and CIA and MIB, but he hadn't expected ponies. Mrs Mason's 'new friends'… they must have been PER, or else why would she have gone Newfoal? Mad old bint - unfortunate old bint as well, since the PER weren't known to be bothered about whether you wanted to go Newfoal…

Why in the name of God were they after him? Unless…

He glanced down at the envelope he had dropped on the floor. It's title, 'confidential report on human psionic activity', glared up at him in its small black font.

Unless some of the bullshit I've been looking at… is something they want to know about, something they're after…

Well fuck. That was typical. He glanced out of his window to see if there was anyone else out there - no one for now, but he knew if the PER were involved, chances were something else was gonna happen eventually.

"Right then," he said. He pulled out his mobile and dialled a number. A moment later he was put through. "Chas? It's John. Get your arse to mine, top sharp, PER are after me. Yes, PER, the horsefucking ones. Cheers."

He put the phone away, sighing. He considered the possibility of going through his old files, but he dismissed it. It was more than likely that they'd set up potion-bombs or other such shit, and he liked his hands. And his hair.

Here's me, John Constantine, trying to learn about psionics and secret government shit, and the first hint I get that I'm onto anything worth a shit is a terrorist organisation led by pastel ponies coming after me. He sighed, and took a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting up with a wry expression. Well, that's just magic.

***

Buckingham Palace, September 4th, 2019.

Prince Harry was in a smart tuxedo, looking for all the world like the young(ish) heartthrob prince he was known as in his younger days. His father had decided that, in order to help the world prepare for the war they were about to fight, he would organise a fundraiser for Lyra Heartstrings' PHL.

Harry had disagreed fiercely with him on this notion: the PHL were, to him, a waste of time. He had spent the weeks since the death of his grandmother looking up HLF propaganda, learning as much as he could about ponies and ponification. Any time he didn't spend researching the situation, he spent training: it had been a few years since his military service, and he was determined that should the need arise for him to take up arms, he would not fail the people of Britain as he had his grandmother.

The HLF were... interesting. The rational part of his mind told him that they didn't know, they didn't have a clue how to even start trying to do something about the Equestrian crisis itself, no plan for the Barrier. But rationality had left him: he was angry. He wanted nothing more than to kill the ponies. All of them. Make them bleed, make them suffer. When he visited HLF rallies and went on their websites, they might not have had all the answers... but they spoke to his rage better than anyone else. They told him that he wasn't alone, that his anger would find acceptance here, that he could do something. Hell, even the worst extremists, men like Viktor Kraber, were doing something, and something was better than nothing. The man had gone after twenty-six conversion bureaus for God's sake - if that wasn't doing something, what was?

Nonetheless, his father had insisted on the function, and Harry- by virtue of being one of the sons of the King - had to attend, no matter how personally affronted the whole thing made him feel.

"The world is under attack by pastel ponies and here we are at a function hosted by one," he said quietly to his brother, William. "It's enough to make you feel sick."

The heir to the throne, his thinning hair brushed into a combover, frowned at his younger brother. It was not a new argument - they had been having the same discussion for weeks. Where Harry was more and more involved with HLF propaganda and websites, William had thrown his full effort into the PHL.

"You should learn to be more open minded," William said quietly. "I've spoken with Miss Heartstrings - she seems genuinely devoted to the cause of unity between our two peoples."

"So did Celestia," Harry said dismissively. "But that bitch soon showed her true colours."

"Harry," William said in a warning tone.

"You're not going to say anything to convince me, Will," Harry said angrily, trying to keep his voice down. "I don't trust ponies. They come to our world spouting peace and friendship and then they stab us in the back!"

William sighed. "Not every pony is our enemy, Harry." He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. "We all miss Grandmother..."

"It isn't just about that!" Harry said hotly. "It's about not just blindly trusting these things just because they talk the talk, Will!"

"Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry," William said quietly. "She backs it up."

"Prove it," Harry snapped at William, leaning forward angrily. "You prove to me that these equine bastards aren't spies, or traitors, just waiting to stab us in the back or douse us with that purple shit!"

William didn't answer, but his eyes slowly drifted over Harry's shoulder, until they landed on something behind him. Harry turned, to find himself facing the turquoise form of Lyra Heartstrings herself, her eyes wide and a look of genuine sadness on her face. Next to her stood King Charles, looking mildly irritated, which was 'King Charles facial expression' code for absolutely furious.

"Ambassador," William said softly. "I apologise for my brother, he's..."

"Don't apologise for me," Harry said angrily. "I'm in my thirties, I can quite adequately speak for myself."

"And a great deal of it you have done," King Charles said, sounding almost annoyed - right, definitely furious then. "I think it's time you went back to your chambers, Harry -"

"No, Your Majesty," Lyra said quietly, interrupting the King. "It's alright. I think your son's question deserves an answer."

She stepped forward, looking Harry directly in the eye, before bowing. "Your Royal Highness. I'm honoured to meet you."

"Ambassador Heartstrings," Harry said formally, though he couldn't keep a slight glare from his face. "I wish I could say the same. Unfortunately, given recent events between our two peoples..."

"I'm sorry," Lyra said quietly, interrupting him.

This took Harry quite by surprise, and he frowned in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked quietly.

"I said, I'm sorry," Lyra repeated. "About your Grandmother, and about the war."

"Ambassador Heartstrings, that's quite..." Charles began, giving his son the King Charles equivalent of a Death Glare (one Harry had become inordinately familiar with).

"No, it's necessary, Your Majesty," Lyra said angrily, talking over her shoulder. "Because it's as much the fault of ponies who didn't see as it is the fault of ponies who are fighting alongside Celestia's armies now. Every one of us who didn't spot the madness before it was too late is as culpable as the ones who are perpetuating it." Lyra looked Harry in the eyes. "If I had known sooner what was being planned - if I had guessed what Celestia might have done... there were clues, Your Highness, and I didn't do enough about them. I... I was so close to figuring it out, but I was too slow. And because of that, your grandmother, Prime Minister Rokubungi, guards and soldiers and hundreds of others... everyone who died because of the PER's attacks... everyone who died when Celestia made her address... all of them..."

She choked, tears in her eyes as she spoke. She coughed, before speaking again, her voice strengthening again."Every person who died... their blood is on my hooves, every bit as much as it is on Celestia and the PER's."

Harry, faced with such an honest self appraisal, was shocked into speechlessness. He gaped for a moment, trying to find the words to respond, but Lyra was apparently not done yet.

"I promise you, Your Highness," she said, speaking with more conviction than Harry had heard in a long time from anyone. "With every beat of my heart, with every breath in my body, I will fight to avenge those we have all lost, and save those who are left."

Harry, shocked by her honesty, could only stare, speechless.

Her spiel done, Lyra nodded her head slightly and wandered off. Charles threw Harry another mildly annoyed expression, and then he, too, walked off to mingle.

"I don't think I've seen her that upset for a while," William commented softly.

Harry said nothing, frowning slightly after the Ambassador. After a moment, he went to go get a drink. William left him to it.

***

He spent the next few hours of the fundraiser sat by himself, drinking brandy and trying his best to reconcile the HLF's propaganda with Lyra Heartstrings' obvious sincerity.

The HLF were already fractious when it came to her - some people, like Maxi Yarrow, tended to ignore PHL and state the real fight was the Empire, and that the PHL were at worst a nonentity and, at best, might prove useful… ish. Others thought that Lyra Heartstrings was no better than any other pony, that they were all the same.

Harry had, rationally speaking, never advocated for the total obliteration of ponies as some had - he defined himself as being loosely in the same camp as Yarrow, if less tolerant. And hearing her speak…

"Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry. She backs it up."

Wills had always been the more temperate of the two of them, but he was also smart. And Wills trusted her.

Maybe Harry could… begin to trust her. Maybe the PHL might prove to be something more than he had thought. Either way, they'd never be something unless they got help.

At the end of the fundraiser, he sought out Ambassador Heartstrings. She looked faintly morose, and he knew from that face that tonight must have been a disappointment for her. The PHL had a long way to go, still.

"Ambassador," he said as he approached her. She looked up.

"Your highness!" she said, sounding a bit surprised. "I wasn't expecting you to still be here."

"Father wouldn't have let me leave anyway," Harry said with a wry smile. "I wanted to have a word with you, if I may."

"Of course," the Ambassador said.

He paused, trying to think of a way to say this. After a moment, he crouched down until he was at eye level with her.

"Ambassador," he said quietly, "I've spent the last few months hating every pony I knew of on principle." He paused, trying to think of the best way to put this. "I think you might have just proved me wrong. Maybe… maybe more wrong than I've been in a long time, about some things, anyway. Let me ask you something: what does the PHL hope to do, assuming you get your funding?"

"Help humans and ponies work together to survive the war, and… stop the Barrier. Maybe even destroy it," Lyra said at once, as if it were a well rehearsed sentiment - though that didn't rob it of it's power or sincerity. Quite the opposite in fact.

"Destroy the Barrier," he mused. "Well. The HLF... I've done my research, and they have no idea what they're doing in that regard. They don't have the funding or the resources to make anything really special, and if they had funding, I think half of them would just spend it on more guns rather than anything useful. The other half might try to make something of it - but they're too fractious."

"It's a shame," Lyra said softly. "The HTF were a real force for good in this world."

"Perhaps. In any case - you have access to magic, so…" He paused. "Do you think there is a way to stop the Barrier?"

"I don't know, Your Highness," Lyra said honestly after a moment, "but I know I intend to find out."

"I see," Harry said quietly. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a chequebook. He quickly signed off a number and handed it to Lyra, who stared at it for a moment in shock, her eyes widening in amazement.

"This..." she said, gaping slightly. "This is..."

"More than enough to truly begin funding your PHL," Harry finished for her. "I know, Ambassador Heartstrings. That happens to be most of the contents of my personal accounts. I get the feeling I won't need them soon."

"B-but-"

"Ambassador," Harry interrupted, "It's unlikely in the extreme that I'm the only one who thinks… thought... that way about your people, not after the PER's actions or Celestia's pronouncement. There's plenty of people in this world who won't be able to trust you, people that think that killing everything on four legs in sight is the right decision. I don't even think I blame them for that."

Lyra's face fell slightly.

"So," he continued. "You need to find a way to convince those people." He paused, smiling slightly. "To win their respect, to unite our world against this threat in the way you intend, you are going to need to do good. And it's an unfortunate thing in our society that if you want to do good… you need money."

Lyra nodded slowly. "Thank you, your highness."

"Don't thank me yet, Ambassador," he said grimly. "We've a long struggle ahead, and I get the feeling we're going to need everything we have to survive it. Or else..." Actually, he couldn't think of what would happen, but it was unlikely to be a good thing. "Or else we'll lose. Everything."

***

Windsor Great Park, October 12th, 2019.

King Charles III stood with his arms behind his back, looking out as men and ponies began drilling in the repurposed park. He had been quite happy to give the park to Lyra - Ambassador Heartstrings, he reminded himself: Lyra was a personal friend, but her professional duties came first. He hoped that - between the money she had been given by Harry and the land Charles himself had apportioned - she would be able to make something of her PHL.

"Excuse me, your majesty?" one of his guards said, and he turned his head slightly. "Someone's here to see you. He claims to be from the government."

"Ah," Charles said, nodding once. He knew who that probably was. "Right, send him through."

A few moments later, the man was led in: dressed in an impeccable suit, carrying an umbrella, with at least a half dozen more stress lines and wrinkles than what Charles remembered, and hair that was definitely greying (and receding). Charles' guard looked uncomfortable even standing next to the man.

"Thank you, Jones, that will be all," Charles said. "I'm sure I'll be perfectly safe."

"Yes your majesty," the guard said, nodding. He threw a final look at the suited man, and then walked off, clearly still not comfortable.

Charles smiled slightly, before turning to look back at the training ponies.

"Been keeping busy?" he asked idly.

"Unfortunately, I cannot say I have," the man replied wearily.

"No, I suppose none of us can," Charles said idly. "Still, one supposes one must keep the niceties up. It's the little things that matter."

The man said nothing, simply staring ahead in that scrutinizing gaze of his.

"I suppose," Charles continued, "that you wanted to speak to me about something important. You usually do."

"It concerns Miss Heartstrings, your majesty," he replied simply. "It strikes me as unusual that Prince Harry would personally fund her… organization and for you to provide, ah, 'training grounds', for her needs."

"Unusual?" Charles said, turning to face the man. "Perhaps." He gave an oddly feral grin for the otherwise reserved monarch. "But there is such a thing as 'revenge'. If the PHL can give us an edge against Celestia, and I believe they can, then I intend to give Miss Heartstrings everything I can short of my still-beating heart, and maybe even that if I have to."

Unexpectedly however, the man gave a lighthearted, uncharacteristic chuckle.

"Perhaps I should have rephrased that, my apologies," he quickly said. "I simply found Prince Harry's newfound respect for Miss Heartstrings rather… abrupt, to say the least."

"Ah. Well, Harry's a hothead," Charles said, smiling. "He wants to do something, and when he makes his mind up little can sway him. I hear he's still been talking to some HLF as well - certain individuals who advocate aggressive action. In this case, however, I believe Miss Heartstrings does have one advantage."

"And that is?" the man enquired, folding his arms - Charles chuckled. For a man who was as intelligent as he was, his suited acquaintance could be very clueless sometimes.

"Absolute sincerity," Charles said simply. "She believes what she says. Anything less wouldn't have convinced my mother, nor myself, and certainly not Harry, not after what he's been through." He turned back to watching the training PHL volunteers. "Sincerity is something we need more of in the days to come."

"Of course," the man nodded, if a bit unsure. "The Empire has, begrudgingly, proven that is indeed the case, your majesty. Which brings us back to Miss Heartstrings - is she, by any chance, available?"

"As to that, I couldn't say," Charles said. "But I'm certain I could arrange for her to be in the near future. I am funding her, after all. I take it you wish to discuss something with her?"

"Rather, she wished to discuss a proposal with myself a few months past, before -" the man took a heavy sigh "- the NATO debacle, as the papers gleefully described it. Regrettably, certain events and circumstances have prevented myself from fulfilling my end of the deal; I'm here to simply clear some unpaid debts with Miss Heartstrings."

The man's tone made it clear he was in no mood to negotiate.

"I will be awaiting her in the car, your highness. Good afternoon," the man turned to leave.

"Before you go," Charles said, and the man paused. "I have no issue arranging the meeting with Ambassador Heartstrings, provided you agree to perform one small, shall we say, favour for me."

The man raised an eyebrow in brief contemplation, before letting out a reluctant sigh.

"Very well - I suppose there is no harm done from a simple favour."

"I hope you believe so once I am done," Charles said quietly. "I will speak plainly - I don't expect to survive this conflict."

The suited man raised an eyebrow.

"...that is a reasonable expectation, all things considered," he finally said. "Carry on."

"I won't be able to stop my sons from doing whatever they see fit," Charles said. "That is their business, after all. And should I die… well, then there's very little I could do to stop them doing anything, unless perhaps the afterlife is more forgiving than I had imagined. But given your, shall we say, considerable influence… I would be grateful if you could 'keep an eye' on them, with all that entails, please."

The man cast his cold gaze on Charles, eyeing him with scrutiny. But finally, he relented.

"Certain things can be arranged for that matter, your majesty," he said, frowning slightly. "Prince Harry, as I recall, had certain… intentions in this debacle. A career in the special forces is not too far fetched for the Prince, I believe. The failure of Captain Griffin's detachment in recent memory is perhaps a deterrent for now, but the young Prince's, ah, 'hothead' personality, as you put it, would prevail eventually."

Charles nodded, and for a moment there was a pregnant silence. The suited man raised his eyebrow again expectantly.

"There is one other thing," Charles finally added, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an envelope. "In the event I die or… well, in the event I die, given that the alternative isn't really an 'alternative' so much as a matter of semantics… I'd like you to see to it that this is delivered to William or Harry - whichever of them is made King, and God-willing William survives to become King - or indeed anything, so long as it's human."

He handed over the envelope, with the man readily accepting it silently. In spite of the curiosity flashing by in his eyes, Charles knew the man would not open it without his strict permission.

"I will leave the matter in your no-doubt capable hands," Charles said simply, inclining his head slightly. "After all, recent… slippages aside, you are still one of the more capable individuals to arrange such matters as required."

"Likewise, your majesty," the man nodded respectfully. "I will do whatever is still within my jurisdiction, I can assure you."

"That's all any of us can do, really," Charles said softly. He bowed his head. "These are dark days, and they will get darker still, I know that much. We can but hope we can survive them."

The man nodded, before returning to his awaiting car. He had a slightly more upbeat rhythm to his walk - to Charles' inward amusement.

"I say, Jones," he said to his bodyguard, who had walked back up to him. "Please fetch Ambassador Heartstrings here for me - I believe she has an appointment with a man with an umbrella."

"Um… yes, your majesty," Jones replied, before heading off. Charles watched him go, before briefly glancing back at the waiting car. He turned back to the training grounds, his mind racing with curiosity.

"King Charles?" a familiar voice asked a few minutes later. Charles turned to see the familiar form of Ambassador Heartstrings arriving. He smiled.

"Ambassador," he said warmly. "Good to see you - I trust everything is going well?"

"More than well, really," Lyra said with a smile. "But I believe you wanted to see me for some reason?"

"I did," Charles said. "A… mutual acquaintance is waiting in that car over there to speak with you. A matter of some importance I shouldn't wonder."

"Mutual acquaintance?" Lyra repeated.

"I believe you'll know the chap when you see him," Charles said. "Well dressed, slightly balding. Carries an umbrella. Naming no names, of course - he doesn't like that, after all."

Lyra's eyes widened, her knees trembling in realization. "Oh. Oh, I see. If you'll excuse me, your majesty."

She headed off for the car at once, rushing off in through the opened door. Within a few moments, the suited man's assistant closed the door before taking her seat inside, and the car drove off.

Charles turned away from the departed car and went back to looking at the training ponies. He decided that he was glad that he didn't know the suited gentleman's relationship with Ambassador Heartstrings, and he didn't care to enquire all that much into it. He simply found himself grateful that - for now - he could ask favours that might… just might... keep his family safe.

It was all one could really do in these times, any more.

***