***

"You'll thank me when this is over."
Genevieve Aristide, F.E.A.R 2: Project Origin.

"Here's forty shillings on the drum
To those who volunteer to come,
To 'list and fight the foe today
Over the Hills and far away."
John Tams, Over The Hills And Far Away.

***

New York, USA. April 4th, 2020.

In an office, there sat a pale but hearty looking man in his late forties, slightly gone to seed but seemingly mostly as strong and combat-built as he would have been in his youth. His smart uniform was black, with a white patch on his jacket, the letters F.E.A.R printed on it in small letters, underneath which was the name H. Munro.

The room was sparsely decorated; other than a picture of a young man and the older man himself, there were no personal effects to speak of. He had a pistol secured under his desk - several of his colleagues (and indeed many of the FEAR organisation's best soldiers and coordinators) had met unfortunate ends recently thanks to the recent spate of PER attacks (or thanks to nearby soldiers who had been more than happy to finish what the PER started), and he was in no mood to join them any time soon. The organisation had managed to survive the attacks of course - they were luckier than some, and they had of course been preparing for some sort of attack, but that didn't mean that the attacks they'd suffered hadn't left them with a lot of gaps to fill in the organisation.

H. Munro himself was tapping one finger against the desk impatiently. Today, he had an appointment: supposedly a very important appointment, if the message (from some Senator or another) arranging it was anything to go by. Still, he was willing to listen - he could promise nothing more.

A moment later, there was a soft knock on his door.

"Enter," he called out.

The door opened, and an older woman - fifty or sixty, maybe a little older - stepped into the room. Her hair was cut in a harsh bob, and she was power dressed to obliterate, much less kill. In her hand she carried a smart - and likely very expensive - briefcase. Her lean frame spoke of determination and a sort of cutting edge, like a particularly over-sharpened pencil - the kind that you'd jam in someone's eye in a pinch, and she certainly looked like she'd be willing to do that if you pushed her.

"Colonel Munro, I presume," she said with a shark smile.

"Genevieve Aristide," he replied, inclining his head. "Rare for a lowly officer like myself to get a visit from the President of Armacham Technology Corp herself."

"I dare say it is 'lowly officers' that will be deciding our immediate futures, Colonel Munro," Aristide commented drily. She moved closer to the desk. "May I sit?"

"By all means," Munro said. "I'm eager to hear what you have to say."

"Not yet you aren't," Aristide said with a smirk. "But you will be."

That was intriguing, and Munro didn't mind admitting it. He raised an eyebrow at her, a slight smirk gracing his features.

"I know you guys have been working overtime on weapons contracts," he said softly, bringing out a file from his desk. "From what I hear, you've even been working on some PHL weapon contracts for Miss Heartstrings - the ATC Hammerhoof, for example: I heard it's supposed to blow the P2 series out of the water."

Aristide took her seat, before laying the briefcase on the desk and opening it. "Quite."

"You guys worked the issues out yet?" he asked.

"Not quite," she admitted through slightly gritted teeth.

"Ah well," Munro said, smirking. "I guess you'll figure it out soon enough - you guys have a lot of contracts on still."

"You're right about all that," she said, smiling coldly. "But I didn't come here to talk to you about regular weapons contracts, Colonel. I'm here about something far more special."

She took out a single file from her briefcase and passed him it. Frowning, he looked over the front page, upon which two words were emblazoned in bold writing.

Project Perseus.

"I'd heard about this," he said quietly. "Your little 'clone soldier' project."

"Not so little anymore," she said with a wry smirk. "We've dozens of Replica battalions in progress. We're confident that they'll be ready for en masse deployment within the next few months - purely at the discretion of the UN, of course."

He glanced up at her. "What's the play?"

"You've seen Newfoals," Aristide said. "They're a surprisingly effective weapon." She smirked. "The demoralisation factor of their biological components and creation are almost as effective a weapon as the actual resultant soldiers themselves. Some might say more so."

To hear her talk, you wouldn't think that she was talking about people - maybe she was the sort of person who saw people as meat products to be utilised and discarded accordingly. Munro had met the type before. In that respect, she might have been either the best person to be thinking about weapons for this war, or the worst.

"And you think Perseus is the UN's answer to that," he said, nodding.

"Of course it is. Think about it," Aristide said cuttingly. "The Replica forces are expendable - if expensive - troops, with no families and no connections. They can be flash trained and they're impervious to fear, negating the first advantage of the Newfoals. Their combat armour is airtight, acting as a defence against potion bombing, and even if you managed to ponify one somehow, the thing would automatically self-sever from the command network and be essentially lobotomised - making it useless for the Empire as anything more than a large, fleshy, pony-shaped paperweight, and thus negating the second advantage of the Newfoals."

"Sounds like you have a compelling case there, Ms Aristide," Munro said with a raised eyebrow. "So why are you talking to me, when this is the sort of thing you should be taking to the UN security council?"

Aristide shifted uncomfortably. "Perseus was originally mandated at the request of the Department of Defense, and was under their auspices. That mandate… has since been revoked by order of President Davis. He's ordered the project terminated, and we've officially been forced to oblige."

Munro frowned. "Then why are we still discussing it?"

"Certain parties that I am in contact with have deemed President Davis the best man to lead us through these troubled times," Aristide replied grimly, "or he would have ceased to be an obstacle in this matter."

Munro paled. She was talking treason. Very high level treason. And since this was during wartime…. he shuddered. He didn't want to think about that. These were trying times, and he was stressed enough without this shit.

"That is… a very frank admission, Ms Aristide," he said quietly.

"We are living in dangerous days, Colonel Munro," Aristide replied simply. "All options must be thoroughly examined and considered, even those we might consider… distasteful."

"I'd call high treason high treason more than 'distasteful'," Munro said.

"And what if Davis was a weak leader? Or we had a hardliner HLF officer or PER lackey in power?" Aristide asked, sounding irritated with this line of conversation.

"But we don't," Munro pointed out.

"Which is why he remains," Aristide said, holding up a hand to forestall further conversation. "In any case - Davis' resolve has convinced those certain parties that he needs to stay. But that does not mean those parties agree with every decision he makes." She leaned forward slightly. "FEAR was incorporated to deal with the problem of paranormal activity - rogue psionics, ESP phenomena… in a way, your group may have the most experience outside of the PHL in the kind of fights we're about to engage in. You're also used to remaining... confidential about your work."

Munro had to admit, she had a point there.

"So, what?" he asked, choosing to not comment. "We just go against the orders of the CinC?"

"Yes," Aristide said. "Are there any issues with that?"

Munro sighed, before taking out two glasses and a bottle of brandy. He poured himself a glass, then Aristide one, and then he raised his glass in a toast.

"Just making sure we're clear that this is a bad idea," he said simply. "So, Ms Aristide. How shall we start?"

Aristide grinned. "There are certain international parties I'm going to contact concerning the Replica program. They should be most interested in the Perseus program and the potential it has. As for right now, I suggest we begin planning the next step." She downed her drink. "We have a lot to do."

***

M62, Junction 32. May 15th, 2020.

"Drive! Drive!"

The gunner on the turret yelled again, louder that time, before once again bringing his 50cal to bear on the oncoming Pegasi chasing after the APC. The weapon barked, blasting Pegasi from the sky in spurts of blood and gore. The armoured vehicle jolted slightly as it drove, jostling its occupants.

The pale grey Unicorn mare was the only pony in the little jeep, and she was acutely aware of all the eyes of the other survivors focusing on her. She couldn't blame them really - this was the end of their lives as they had known them, and it came at the hooves of ponies, at the behest of the mare known to some almost as a deity. How could they not blame her, even unconsciously?

Nonetheless, her PHL papers had gotten her access to this transport - the last jeep leaving the North of England. It was full of people who had seen too much. She saw a redheaded man, his blonde wife and their little girl huddled in one corner, a pair of grim looking soldiers sat by the entranceway…

Then suddenly there was a scream from above them. The mare looked up to see the turret operator slumped by his gun, a spear through his chest. The jeep came to a stop.

"Shit," the driver muttered. "PER roadblock, too many to drive past."

"Crap," one of the soldiers muttered. "Masks on, John."

The other soldier, a dark haired man, pulled a gas mask over his face as his compatriot did the same. Neither of them looked like they wanted to go out there, but they didn't have much choice.

"Come out!" a PER man yelled. "There's no getting past us!"

The mare glanced at the soldiers, who looked back at her. She looked back at the family. The red haired father was gripping his wife's hand tightly, a grim look on his face. His daughter was looking at her with a slight smile on her face.

"Pony!" she said with a happy grin. The man smiled, almost as though he couldn't help it.

"Yes dear, she's a pony," he said, sounding as though he was doing his best to not panic.

The little girl stood up, and the man reached out, but before he could stop her, she had tottered off to the mare, stopping right in front of her. The mare, almost despite herself, smiled at the little girl. She was blonde, her hair curly, falling down past her ears. Her green eyes were wide and bright, and when she smiled she showed two big front teeth.

"You're a pony!" she said, surprisingly eloquently. Her smile dropped as she suddenly became thoughtful. "Daddy says ponies aren't all bad, but a lot of them are. Are you a bad pony?"

"Ellie, come back…" the man hissed.

The mare found herself blinking back tears. Was she a bad pony? Here she was, hiding and huddling amongst these civilians. She had never been a fighter - but dammit, she was PHL!

"I… I'd like to hope not," she said softly.

"Oh," the little girl said. She smiled again. "Daddy says that the bad ponies want to hurt us, but you're a good pony, so you won't, will you?"

"No," the mare said at once. "Never. I promise you that."

"Will you pro… pro… keep us safe from the bad ones?" the girl asked, stumbling over the word 'protect'. The mare steeled herself, a tear leaking out of her eye.

"Yes," she said simply. "Yes I will."

She turned at once, looking to the two armed men.

"I'm going to go out first," she said softly. "They'll hesitate with me - maybe only for a moment, but they will. I'll yell 'now', and you two come out and lay down suppressing fire. That clear?"

"Uh…" the first soldier said softly. "I think so. John?"

The one called 'John' nodded, hefting his L85. The first soldier moved his hand to the door control. A moment later, the door to the APC opened, and out she stepped, before looping round to walk to the front of the vehicle.

She could see a half dozen Pegasi, most likely the group who had been chasing the APC. They were standing around a pair of hijacked military jeeps, one of which had the words 'Celestia Eternal!' spray painted on the front. Five men with various weapons in hand aimed at her.

"Hold your fire!" she yelled. "I've come to parley!"

"There are people in there that need to be potioned!" one of the men called. "The Barrier's only thirty miles north of us now!"

"I know that," the mare said.

"Then why haven't you… wait," the PER member said, frowning. "That's a PHL badge -"

"Now!" the mare bellowed suddenly, her horn glowing.

And with a cry, the two soldiers came out from behind the APC, ducking out to lay down a suppressing fire.

"Shut the door!" one of them - 'John', the mare thought - bellowed. The other soldier ducked behind the APC.

That should give them some time, at least, she thought, her horn lighting up as she sent a concussive spell at the Pegasi. Luck must have been with her (or her target must have been an absolutely moronic Newfoal), because she obliterated one Pegasus where she stood, bits of the mare's blood splattering all over her compatriots. Some purple liquid splashed outward too, hitting one PER member who started screeching in agony - clearly the Pegasus had been carrying a potion-bandolier.

The PER members fired back, but their aim was poor, most of the small arms fire just bouncing off the armoured vehicle. Nonetheless, the mare was forced to run for cover as the guns were turned on her.

Suddenly, one of the jeeps exploded in a fiery conflagration, the remains showering over the remaining jeep. The PER in the jeep tried to bring their turret around, but another missile lanced out and blasted the rear of the jeep to smouldering wreckage. The remaining PER and Pegasi found themselves suddenly blasted apart by a hail of small arms fire.

The mare blinked through the smoke of the burning vehicles, to see - of all things - a tank, sitting on the road, aiming right at the ruined jeeps. Next to it was a jeep, and further along the road she could see more. A man jumped off one jeep and seemed to be yelling orders to other men, and a few moments later he and a half dozen others were approaching the dead PER and their destroyed transports.

The man was old - he had greying hair and a beard, and he wore a battered leather trenchcoat over thin and flexible body armour. In his hands he held a shotgun, and hung from his belt was a combat knife. As he approached the mare, she noted that he had a small armband on, an armband shared by most of the group he was with.

HLF.

She tensed, trying not to feel suddenly afraid. She could see the leader narrow his eyes at her, approaching her even as his men headed off to check the PER were all dead. When he reached her, he looked her over as though daring her to speak.

"PHL," he finally said, speaking somewhat gruffly, his accent unfamiliar - like some sort of bastardised mix of West Country and Irish.

"Y-yes," she replied shakily, trying to force her voice not to break. "I am."

"Huh," he said, spitting thoughtfully. "Run along, runaway. Get in your jeep and head for your evac point."

"W-why aren't you…?" she began.

"Attacking you?" he cut her off, scowling at her. "You ain't my problem, little runaway. The Empire is, and the PER is. You're just a bystander. Now get your arse gone before I change my mind."

She turned and raced back for the APC before he changed his mind, the two soldiers already inside and waiting for her.

A moment later, the armoured vehicle was once more racing down the road, passing the HLF convoy as it went. The mare couldn't see - there weren't any windows - but she could feel the APC weaving between different vehicles. There must have been quite a few…

She found herself wondering just who she had just encountered - HLF were usually not so picky about their targets as all that. Indeed, usually they were fine just attacking anypony they met. At the end. Of the day though, she had no desire to question providence.

"Excuse me," a soft voice said. She looked up, to see the mother of little Ellie staring at her. "I just wanted to say… I think you were very brave."

"Thank you," the mare said with a smile.

"What's your name?" the redheaded father asked.

"Chalcedony," the mare replied, still shaken. "My name's Chalcedony."

***

HMS Queen Elizabeth. May 30th, 2020.

On reflection, Prince Harry had been more right than he had known in his prediction to Lyra Heartstrings about his accounts.

In the aftermath of the fall of Britain, he found himself standing on the deck of the HMS Queen Elizabeth (bittersweet humour reached him at that thought), an Aircraft Carrier that had been, along with her sister ship the Prince of Wales (technically, possibly him now), had been rushed into service at the outset of the crisis. Next to him stood William, now - thanks to the death ('think of it as death: the truth isn't so clean, but everything they are is dead') of their father and his wife - the King of Britain. Somewhere else on this boat, Lyra Heartstrings and her bodyguard Marcus Renee were speaking to survivors, Lyra trying to comfort ponies and humans alike.

William didn't say anything for the longest while, merely standing next to his brother, looking out at the slowly shrinking sight of their home with turbulent, stormy eyes. Finally, Harry spoke, seeking to break the tense silence.

"The King is dead," he said, speaking as quietly and respectfully as he could. "Long live the King."

William was silent for a long moment, clearly thinking about... something. Harry didn't want to push the issue.

"I don't think I'm quite ready to be a King," William finally replied after a long pause, not looking at Harry.

"I know, Wills," Harry said, giving his brother a sidelong glance, before looking back out. "If it helps, I don't think father was ready either, but he still did what was necessary."

"And now, he and Camilla are as good as dead," William said sharply, his voice cracking slightly. "Along with Britain itself."

"Wills," Harry said quietly, but his brother had already stormed off. Harry sighed, returning his gaze to the sea.

"It hit him hard," a voice said quietly. Harry turned, to see Marcus Renee, Lyra's Marine friend and guard, standing near him. The Marine was a passing acquaintance of Harry's from his work guarding Lyra, though Harry understood William knew him a tad better. "The whole thing. I don't think he was quite prepared for it."

"It hit us all hard, Mr Renee," Harry replied quietly, turning back to the sea. "My brother is a strong man, and more importantly he's the King. He'll do what's needed of him."

There was a pause as the two looked back out at the sea.

"He held one of the Newfoals… one of the ones that used to be a Royal Marine… in his arms as the thing died," Renee said quietly, sounding oddly moved. "It... it's strange. He didn't care that the thing would kill him or ponify him as soon as look at him. It was one of his subjects, all the same, and he cared. I don't think I expected that."

"Royalty isn't about being above our subjects," Harry said, thinking back to lessons his grandmother and father had taught him with a slight, morose smile. "It is about serving them. It is a service we are born to, but we bear it all the same, with grace and dignity. That's what my father and grandmother always taught us, and that's what I live by."

There was a brief pause as Harry let this sink in.

"I'm sorry about your father," Renee continued after a moment. "My brother... Jacob... he went the same way."

"My condolences," Harry said quietly. He threw a sidelong glance at the American. "It's the worst kind of loss, isn't it?"

"If by that you mean the bastards mind-fucked our family, practically killing all they were, but didn't give them the decency of actually dying or us the closure of actually burying them," the man said, a hint of bitterness running through his tone, "then yeah. It is."

"Again, my condolences," Harry said, looking back to the sea. "We can only fight to honour their memories."

"Well, your brother certainly looks angry enough to," Renee said, turning to see where the King had gone.

"As do you," Harry added, giving the soldier a sidelong glance.

"What about you?" Renee asked quietly. "There's a lot to still do, Your Highness. What's your plan?"

"I know there's a lot to do," Harry said, glancing at the tough American soldier briefly. "But my intention is rather simple, Mr Renee." He clenched a fist, before returning his gaze to the sea. "I told you we served our people. I'll serve now. I'm a soldier of the British army. I've fought before, and in honour of everything my family has lost, I'll fight again."

He saw the grin forming on the American's face, "Well then, Your Highness. We'd better be sure you're well equipped."

"Yes, you had better be sure," Harry said with a chuckle. "I'm still one of the PHL's shareholders."

***

Elsewhere on the deck of the HMS Illustrious, clad in a military uniform with two stripes on his upper arm, David Elliot was sat staring out to sea. He watched the purple glow on the horizon disappear slowly as the aircraft carrier he was on slowly make its way away from the monstrous thing. Everything he had ever known - his family, his home town, the graves of his beloved grandparents… all of it was gone forever.

He didn't know how to feel. He didn't know what to think. His life… it was gone. All of it. Everything.

He sat down slowly, feeling numb. He had been running on adrenaline for days - he and his friend Sam, fighting the whole way and trying to save as many civilians as they could, had made it to the Illustrious with only a few hours to spare. A few hours later, no less a personage than Prince William himself (now King, if the reports of King Charles' ponification had any veracity) had been aboard, seen talking with a US Marine and with his brother, Prince Harry.

It seemed so surreal to Elliot, as he looked across the sea - Britain was nothing, now. A collection of nothing, a diaspora of the lost.

Elliot sighed, still staring out there. He had joined the army in hopes of stopping this sort of thing from happening - but it hadn't, had it? It hadn't made the slightest bit of difference, any more than it would make the slightest bit of difference if he just jumped off of this bloody big boat, into the briney, and let the waves swallow him up.

He wouldn't be the first. He probably wouldn't be the last. He had even seen one or two people throw themselves off, too far away to stop them - they were so distraught that they'd happily die rather than face living on in a world of such uncertainty, or worse - being at risk of becoming a mindless puppet.

He'd have felt like a hypocrite to try and stop them, really, since he was thinking of doing the exact same thing.

"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice asked. Elliot looked up, to see the smiling face of a redheaded man. He wore a t-shirt and hoodie underneath a long tweed coat, and he tossed a coin at David, who caught it. It was an old Queen Elizabeth two pence piece - there had been so little time after the death of Queen Elizabeth that very little money with King Charles' visage had been printed. Elliot smiled slightly, pocketing the coin.

"Just thinking about being part of a diaspora," he said honestly. "It's… odd."

"That's true," the other man said, sitting next to him, sighing. "Still - you're alive. You might get to go home again, one day."

"To what?" Elliot asked with a raised eyebrow, gesturing at the Barrier. "There's nothing left behind that."

"Maybe not," the redhead said with a sigh. "But as a great man once said, 'as long as one person from that isle still breathes, the core of our nation - it's ideals, it's history - remains, no matter what happened to the rocks and the soil.'"

"Who the hell said that?" Elliot asked, frowning.

"Hm?" the man replied. "Oh - King William. Er… in about two years." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm a little earlier than I thought."

"Are you some kind of crazy person?" Elliot asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Probably," the man said with a grin. He held out his hand. "You can call me Dr. Bowman."

Elliot shook his hand, smirking slightly despite himself. "David Elliot."

"A pleasure to have known you, in any time, David Elliot," Bowman said with a smile. He straightened slightly, looking vaguely morose as he did so. "Now, time I was off, I think."

"Off?" Elliot repeated. "Off where?"

"Oh, around," Bowman said airily, waving a hand. "I won't be seeing you again, but, and here's a little bit of a spoiler warning for you… you'll be seeing me."

With that, he stood up and stalked off, leaving Elliot alone to ponder what that particular conversation might have been about. He dismissed it after a moment - he wasn't in the mood for weirdos.

He turned to look back at the Barrier in the distance, and he sighed softly to himself.

"As long as one of us still breathes, huh," he murmured. "Well, I'm still here for now. That's something."

"Dave!" a voice called. Elliot turned to see his friend Sam approaching - a green male Unicorn pony behind him. Elliot frowned slightly - he wasn't one of those HLF nutjobs, but he didn't exactly like ponies, especially after today.

"What's up, Sam?" he asked, his eyes flickering over to the pony every so often.

Sam - a blonde-haired man with a grin on his face. "Apparently we're getting our marching orders."

"Our marching orders?" Elliot repeated. "They do know that the British Isles just got wiped the fuck off the map, right?"

"Yep," Sam said with an odd, slightly manic grin. "But the good news is, we're still in the fight. And even better - they're giving us the chance to go give the bastards responsible some payback."

Elliot thought about that for a moment, then stood up, stretching slightly.

"Alright, I'm game," he said. He looked down at the pony. "Sorry, who are…?"

"Oh, sorry," the pony said with a slight smile. He was wiry and muscular, with scars on one cheek and a battered kite-shield for a cutie mark. "True Grit - PHL pony, and officially part of your team, Corporal."

He saluted, and Elliot saluted back, before registering what the pony had said.

"Wait a minute," he said, holding up a hand. "You wanna run that one by me again?"

***

Author's Notes:

Don't mind me, just laying thread…

Also: apologies if this came up twice in people's - bloody touch screen phones….