***

"Goddamn, this is therapeutic!"
Manuel Morales, F.E.A.R 2: Project Origin.

"I AM YOUR REDEEMER! It is by my hand you will rise from the ashes of this world!
Immortan Joe, Mad Max: Fury Road.

***

SAS base, Falklands Islands, June 26thk 2020.

The day the new guns came was an... interesting one.

Harry had been training with a small group, including Ever Stern himself and two others. He only knew the other two by their last names - neither were particularly happy men - but that was enough.

Dutch was a dark haired, taciturn man who kept himself to himself, never being particularly effusive. Even by the standards of the ultra focused soldiers of the SAS, he was a grim presence. Nonetheless, no one ever questioned his skill.

Jacobs, by contrast, had lighter hair and was almost talkative - he spoke a lot, almost too much in fact, but only when they weren't off on some sort of exercise. He was almost unnervingly silent when he was working, to the point where he made Ever Stern and Dutch look like chatterboxes.

The new guns were the top of the range in Armacham technology, dispatched from command. The woman who had come to deliver them was English, clad in Armacham-made armour and carrying an HV penetrator over her shoulder. Her blonde hair was tied back, and she had a tired expression on her face. She had two men with her, both wheeling the crates in.

"Hello," she greeted the group. "I'm with Captain Striker’s group - we came to deliver the gear?"

"Bitchin’," Jacobs said with a grin. "Do you come with the guns?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Is that really the best pickup you got?"

Jacobs shrugged. "Months with a bunch of burly guys. So sue me."

The woman shook her head. "Anyway: I just need one of you to sign for this consignment please."

She held out a clipboard, and Harry stepped up to sign it. The woman did a double take at Harry’s face, clearly recognising him, but said nothing, for which Harry was quite grateful.

"So," he asked, handing her the clipboard back. "What have we got here?"

"Oh, plenty," she said, opening one of the crates. She took out a penetrator identical to the one she was carrying. "About forty of these babies and ammo to spare. HV Penetrators are top-of-the-range rifles, and you'll have a lot of fun pinning Newfoals to a wall."

Dutch came over and picked one up, testing it, before putting it back down.

"Got anything with more punch?" he asked.

The woman chuckled. "Oh, you're one of those kind of guys." She opened a separate crate and picked up a heavy looking weapon of a type none of the men had ever seen. "This is a Type 7. They call it a particle weapon, but it's really more like a plasma rifle. Not that it matters - this baby has been proven to be effective on everything - even goes through magic shields after a couple of shots, though whether you'll get your couple of shots is a different question."

Dutch took it with a whistle. "‘Particle weapon’, huh? Nice."

"Have you got anything a bit more old-fashioned?" Harry asked.

The woman frowned slightly. "As in…?"

"As in ‘bullets’," Harry said with a chuckle.

The woman nodded with a smile, before retrieving an assault rifle. It was sleek, black and shiny, with a red scope set atop the main casing.

"VES," she said smartly. "Advanced assault rifle. Top of the line. Armacham bought out one of their rivals and got the plans to manufacture these babies."

"Top mounted sight, too," Harry noted. "Impressive gear."

"Aye," the woman said quietly. "In any case, you can go through the gear yourself - Captain Striker will want me back soon."

She didn't sound very happy about that. Harry frowned slightly.

"What's your name, soldier?" he asked.

She paused, almost hesitant, before replying. "Yarrow. Samantha Yarrow."

There was a long pause as Harry considered that.

"Any relation to -" he began, but she held up a hand.

"Yes sir," she said quietly. "And, no, I don't want to discuss it. If you have a problem, sir -"

"Actually," Harry said quietly, "I wanted to say that I respect your father."

Samantha’s eyes widened slightly, and she straightened up.

"He's HLF," she said simply.

"Yeah, he is, but unlike a lot of those guys, I respect his stance," Harry said, folding his arms. "I used to read a lot about it on the forums - the notion of fighting the good fight, bringing people together to fight the PER. He was probably one of the loudest HLF on the old forum I saw who wasn't just spouting ‘kill all ponies’. Him, Kenny Roger, ‘Redstripe617…’ buncha people with good ideas on there. Just outshouted, I guess."

Samantha frowned. "I never read any of it. Never really wanted to." She shook her head. "Doesn't matter anyway. He's made his choices."

"And you get shit for them," Harry stated, rather than asking. Her scowl said it all. "You let me know if it happens again and I’ll have words with your officers. Ok?"

Samantha said nothing, merely nodding, and then she turned and left, the other two troops following her.

"Did she say she was Maxi Yarrow’s daughter?" Dutch asked.

"Yeah," Harry said quietly.

"Huh," Dutch said. "I kinda liked the sound of him. Wonder what he's doing now?"

Harry shrugged. "Fucked if I know."

***

HLS Purity, June 26th 2020.

In the cabin he’d taken, face wet and eyes bleary from lack of sleep, a man looked at himself in the mirror, and didn’t know what to think.

He was in charge of over two thousand HLF, two thousand men, women and children. How they'd all gotten to this point was a mystery Maximilian Yarrow didn't know how to solve. How he'd somehow gotten any authority out of it was a bigger mystery still. He'd been in charge of the convoy he had brought aboard the Purity, sure, but that had been a few vehicles, a hundred or so men - and that had only been nominal authority, by virtue of him being the only HLF man there with real military experience.

Now though… now he was the man that over two thousand people crammed on this hellhole of a ship considered to be their hero.

I am no hero.

Son of an Irish mother and a half-German man from Devon, Maximilian Yarrow cut a grim figure, he knew. The twenty years of service as a Royal Marine didn't help - the things he'd seen, the things he'd done, and more importantly, the things he hadn't done… it wasn't even funny. He'd fought in wars - often wars he hadn't really believed in then, and certainly didn't believe in now. He'd let his friends die, because he'd been too slow or too far away or too… imperfect.

And yet they called him a hero now. Because he, a trained man amongst dozens of amateur fighters and wannabe heroes, had known what to do, because he had taken charge when no one else had, because he had helped as best he could… these people, a ragtag bunch of misfits, HLF loyalists and idealists, all looked up to him.

I did what had to be done. I took charge when no other man would.

He shook his head. Whether he deserved it - in his own mind or out there - or not, they were looking to him to lead them now. The HLF wasn't an organisation - not a real one. Like all movements of its kind that he had seen over the course of his life, it was fragmented. Broken. People within it had their own agendas. He could already see that it (and more importantly the people within it) wouldn't survive without someone… anyone leading it and making it shape up somehow.

Well then. Do what has to be done.

He looked at himself in the mirror. What kind of leader could he be for these people? This war… was not a war they could win. Sure, they could destroy one zeppelin, but the war was bigger than that.

What’s left?

His eyes drifted to a small pendant hung around his neck. It was an Odin's Horn pendant, a reminder of his paternal grandmother's Danish roots and, more importantly, a reminder that he was the last of his family.

At least the last I know of, he corrected quietly. There was still…

No. Best not to worry about that.

He sighed as he brought his hand up to clasp the pendant.

"The ancient Norsemen believed that they'd go to Valhalla if they died in battle," he said aloud, almost reciting. "Where they'd feast and fight forever, and never die. Where they would be rewarded for their heroism on the field of battle."

His eyes drifted to the word "HLF" on an armband around his arm. He narrowed his eyes - a lot of men who wore that name were scum, simple as. Men who murdered children and ponies because they could. But the name, what that name stood for… that was different. That was very different. It stood, as the name suggested, for liberation.

From what?

Not death. That was patently impossible. He had seen enough men and women - and children, much to his eternal regret - die, enough to know that all things went the same way in the end. What was the liberation from, then, if not death?

From fear of death.

Why fear what you know must come? Why not embrace it instead? Make death - a death worthy of the word, of the pain, of everything - the goal. Know in your heart that death is the end point.

My goal at least.

He had to be clear with them. He had saved them from one battle - he could not save them forever. Only those willing to follow him into the hell that he chose could come with him. The rest would have to find another way, maybe help the PHL (or seek their protection). Much as he didn't think much of them as a fighting force, Heartstrings sounded like she had a good heart.

"Right," he said. "Time to tell these people the plan."

***

Main dining room.

In the Purity’s old dining room, a large space which had once been full of tables and chairs, now converted to a medical bay, people had gathered to try and heal wounds, and feel safe. Among the crowd of injured people, Angela Crane tutted as her husband cringed in pain, the bandage wrapping around his sprained wrist.

"Stop being such a big baby," she said with a chuckle. "You'll be fine."

"It hurts," Richard said quietly. "Can't you be gentler?"

"I could," Angela chuckled. "Doesn't mean I will though."

Richard sighed. He loved his wife dearly - the two of them had met what felt like a long time ago in a DVD shop, and had gotten together through their shared love of horror movies. She loved gore, he loved classics, and so they compromised with Evil Dead and went on from there.

They'd joined the HLF shortly after the formation of the PHL - the notion of trusting ponies, when conversion was such a nasty and ever present reality, did not sit well with either of them. Lyra Heartstrings was all well and good - most people agreed on that - but ponies as a rule being trusted to save the world? That was not something either Crane was willing to do.

When they'd boarded the Purity, there'd been an assumption that there'd be danger, but it had been better than nothing. The attack had been terrifying…

… and then they'd survived. Thanks to one man.

"Hey look," Angela said, pointing up at the stage. "Is that the guy?"

Richard turned, to see the man in the military coat who he'd seen running around, giving orders as the Purity was attacked. He frowned.

"Yeah, it is," he said. "Wonder what he'll have to say?"

The man tapped a microphone that was up on the stage. When no noise came out, a redheaded man in a brown tweed coat stepped up, reconnecting the wires and then taking a small tool to the microphone. After a moment, noise flared from nearby speakers as the redhead tapped the mic.

"There," the redhead spoke into the mic, his voice echoing through the room. "Sorted for you."

He stepped down, leaving the military-coat wearing man alone on the stage.

"Hello," he said, slightly awkwardly. "My name's Maxi Yarrow."

There was a pause, as the man stood on the upper deck looked like he was thinking of what he wanted to say to them all. Even as they watched, though, the Cranes found themselves listening. Something about the man seemed to draw them - an energy around him. He was… somebody.

***

Joe Rither folded his arms as Yarrow began speaking. He'd listened to all sorts of idiots speechify in his time - maybe this guy would have something better to say, maybe he wouldn't. It was worth listening to if only to find out which it would be.

Joe had often thought of starting his own HLF group. He'd joined the HLF because no one else seemed to be doing anything about the damn pony bullshit. He had seen firsthand how… wrong the Newfoals were (I’m sorry I couldn't save you). But the HLF had quickly proven, rather unfortunately (but all too predictably to Joe), that they were full of idiots who were happy to use it as an excuse for violence.

Still, Joe knew there were more than a few good men in the setup, a few fighters he might be able to take and make something out of. Joe didn't exactly relish the idea of leading, but he hadn't found anyone worth following yet, and after years of fighting shite wars for shite men he'd about given up fighting for people he didn't think were worth the cloth their shiny uniforms were made of. If he was really going to fight again, it was going to be for a real cause, one his family and his ancestors would be proud of.

"Alright," Yarrow began. "I know a lot of you are riding high on that victory. We brought down a Potioneer - that's a big deal. We should be fucking proud of that."

A cheer went up from the crowd, and Joe smirked. That was a good way to start. Appeal to their vanity.

"But," Yarrow said, holding up a hand. "But. We're not done. This war isn't going to be won by bringing down one Potioneer. Hell, I'm not sure it'd be won by bringing down fifty. These pony bastards are going to keep coming."

There was a long pause as he let that sink in. Joe frowned as Yarrow paused. Finally, the other man raised a hand.

"And we'll kill the fucks!"

Another cheer went up at that. Joe smiled slightly. Well, that was a well-used dramatic pause. Joe didn't know much about the mechanics of speeches (eloquent as he was, he’d always been too freewheeling to study what made a ‘good’ speech and what didn't), but he knew what he liked, and he knew what worked.

"We can't win forever," Yarrow continued quietly. "There's no way. But we can win today. We can fight. It's what we’re here to do!"

As he continued, Joe found himself listening more intently. Maybe - just maybe - this man, this Yarrow, might be a man worth following.

***

John Idle stood watching raptly as Yarrow spoke. The man had saved their lives - Idle had no doubt about that. He had some idea of what they should be doing, which was more than anyone else in the HLF had ever seemed to have in Idle’s experience.

"There's a good chance that this is it," Yarrow was saying. "You all feel it - the hammer above our heads, waiting to fall." He paused, looking up at the sky. "There used to be a belief that those who died heroically in battle would end up in Valhalla. That the deeds you performed in life would give you an honourable afterlife. I've always clung to that, even in the darkest of times."

Idle found himself nodding. It was a nice idea. And if the past few months had shown anything, it was that the world they had all known could all burn away in an instant.

"We might not be able to win this war," Yarrow said grimly. "But we can fight it! We can choose to die like heroes instead of skulking and cowering like beaten dogs!"

A cheer rose up from the crowd, and Idle added his own voice to it.

"Follow me!" Yarrow called out to them all. "Follow me into battle! Follow me, and we’ll fight until we can't fight anymore! We’ll ride the road until the road ends!"

"Yarrow!" someone called out. "Yarrow!"

"Yarrow!" another person added, raising a fist in the air.

"Yarrow for Valhalla!" Idle called out, raising his own fist into the air as well. He decided, there and then, that he'd follow this man everywhere.

***

Soon, everyone in the room was yelling cries of exultation and victory - everyone had taken up the name Yarrow, and he stood, an odd look of solemnity on his face at the cries of the soldiers before him.

He had, if he were being honest, mixed feelings. Part of him was feeling the same fierce joy that he could hear in their voices, the same fire in his heart. Right now, he felt like he could take on the entire world: he felt like he could fight the bitch herself and win with these people at his back.

But he knew he couldn't get caught up in that feeling. This wasn't about his joy. This was a solemn responsibility: it was the responsibility. Now he had convinced these people to follow him, he had to be worthy of them, he had to earn the loyalty they were giving him. He had to be worthy of their praise.

There's a long road ahead, he thought to himself. But it’ll be worth it. It has to be.

***

Jacob Levy’s PER Camp, Eastern Europe.

Amadeus Cain looked at himself in the mirror, making certain he looked the best he could. Blue pinstripe suit - impeccable as always, neat and tidy as he could make it. Charcoal pinstripe shirt, buttoned thusly, with a loose black tie. Yes, just so. Finally, the trim black overcoat, looking impeccable as always.

Yes, perfect.

He checked that he’d packed everything he wanted. Knives? Check. A gun? A little bland, a little ordinary, but it would do in case he had to defend himself from people wanting to stymie his art. He sighed as he looked around the quiet PER camp. A bunch of cars, hijacked jeeps and other shite like that. Nothing much. Should have been expected from the artless, really.

There came a point where he couldn’t stand to not say anything, couldn’t stand being around such a… boring group of people. Part of him was tempted to go out with a bang, make a great big piece of artistry that would leave people gaping forever… except that he couldn’t be arsed. Spending time amongst these people had resolutely convinced him that they were all so boring that making art of them could, at best, only produce the mediocre.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to stay. That would just be silly.

"Hey, you!" he heard a voice call. He glanced sideways at the approaching form of Nina Baxter, one of the many idiots who ran with Levy.

"Evenin’," he said blandly. "And how are you?"

"Cain?" Baxter said without preamble. "What are you doing out here?"

"Leaving," Cain said simply.

"Leaving?" Baxter repeated. "What do you mean ‘leaving’?!"

"I mean ‘leaving’," Cain said with a snort. "To depart from, go away from, go from, withdraw from, retire from, take oneself off from, exit from, take one's leave of, pull out of, quit, be gone from, decamp from, disappear from, abandon, vacate, absent oneself from, evacuate…"

"But we need you!" Baxter said, eyes wide. "You can't just go!"

"You're half right," Cain said with a snort. "You need me. But I can ‘just go’."

"But what about our work?!" Baxter asked with an almost horrified expression. "We haven't -"

Cain pulled one of the knives out and stabbed her in the throat. Her eyes bulged from shock and she clutched at the knife, trying to stem the blood. He kept the knife there, an impassive look on his face as she gagged and choked. Suddenly, she slumped, and he retracted the knife as she slid to her knees. He gently lifted a foot and pushed her to the ground away from him.

"Your work’s done," he said. "Bye."

He turned around and moved to go, not even sparing Baxter’s body a glance. What would be the point? She hadn't made for a particularly interesting piece of art, any more than she’d been a particularly interesting conversationalist. There were better, more amusing things ahead.

And he'd find them.

***

Fawklands Islands, June 30th, 2020.

Chalcedony sat on a bench, looking out at the green, slightly damp island. It reminded her of Britain, a bit. Maybe that's why it had been chosen to be the home of the British Diaspora's provisional government.

Sitting here, her mind once again turned to the loss of her home. 'Loss' was a loose term of course - her home was still, physically there, but everything it had stood for…

"So!" a voice came from behind her - a familiar voice. "Once more, I find Miss Chalcedony sat brooding, and me with no progress on my brooding generator."

And just like that, Dr Bowman - red hair, tweed coat, brown corduroy pants and ratty green jumper - sat next to her, arms folded as he leaned back, staring at the sky.

"Doctor," Chalcedony said quietly. "It's good to see you."

On the Illustrious, they had spoken a few times, but he had disappeared once the ship had made port with nothing but a small note saying 'I have things to do, meet up shortly'. She'd been fine with that - she supposed every human had something serious to do in this day and age.

"And you," he said quietly. "Tell you what though, this place is perfect for the diaspora. Small damp islands? 'S like they never left home."

Chalcedony smiled tiredly. "I suppose so." Her smile faded. "Can I help you at all?"

"Possibly," Bowman said, his arms still folded. "I… might be able to get a position in PHL R&D. Strictly on a freelance, 'kinda sorta not really there' basis."

"Why?" Chalcedony asked.

"Because the PHL can help save lives, and I want to help them do that," Bowman replied, shrugging.

"I meant, why only on a 'kinda sorta' basis?" Chalcedony clarified, raising an eyebrow.

Bowman glanced down at her. "Well… that would take a lot of explaining. Suffice to say, there are certain reasons why I shouldn't be here that I'll… make clear in time." He grimaced. "I hate sounding pretentious like that."

Chalcedony frowned. "Ok - so what do you want from me?"

"To know if you'd like to join me," Bowman said, smiling slightly. "I could use help - and you could use a purpose."

Chalcedony frowned. "How do you know I'm -?"

"Qualified?" Bowman asked. "Chalcedony, daughter of Quartz, herself a researcher, and Obsidian, a very specific kind of rock farmer. You're a researcher into obscure magics, primarily focused on rocks, minerals and - especially after the Crystal War - Crystal magic and, in the loosest sense of the word, 'technology'." He smirked. "I've 'read your file' so to speak. The Empire actually wanted you back for their totem-prole projects."

Chalcedony growled. "Totem-proles. Urgh. I only did cursory research before I left Equestria -"

"And in R&D - eventually - you'll have the chance to do more," Bowman said with a smile. "I can guarantee it."

Chalcedony looked out at the sky and the green grass.

"Will I help save Earth?" she asked quietly.

"If this works out? Yes," Bowman said. "And maybe even Equus too."

"I don't think I care about Equus," Chalcedony said with a slight smile. "Not after this."

Bowman leaned forward. "Oh - but you should. Millions of people - ponies - still there. A lot of them either innocents… or brainwashed victims."

Chalcedony sighed. "It's… hard to sympathise."

"I know," Bowman said, nodding. "I know how hard it is. How hard it's always going to be. But if it was easy, it wouldn't be life, now would it?"

Chalcedony closed her eyes. "Maybe not." She sighed. "Alright - so how do we begin?"

Bowman stood up. "We begin with you following me. There's something you need to see."

He headed off and Chalcedony, not even certain why she was thinking about going with this crazy man, followed.

Author's Notes:

Hello again!

It's been a while since I've updated this. Between helping my good friend Doctor Fluffy with his stuff, other projects, and Jobsearching and looking after a toddler, I've been a little short on that wonderful commodity, "time". Still, I've managed to finish up this chapter for your reading pleasure. I don't know when the next one will be out, but hopefully it'll be worth the wait when it finally does come out.

In the meantime - cheers for reading guys, and I hope this chapter is to your liking :-)

Jed.