***

“Who are they? I see them when I close my eyes. They say they know you. They say you made them. They say you're going to kill me.”
Alma Wade, F.E.A.R.

“One day, my glass will have something to say about what happened with you out there. My glass saw something…”
Distinguished Gentleman, A Box Full Of Joy.

***

The Barrierfall Front, Turkey, July 15th, 2020.

David Elliot yawned slightly, feeling the hours weigh down on him. He was standing guard in a town they were in the process of evacuating: it was a small town, not that impressive. The cold night air and the dim light of the lampposts didn't help.

For the last two days, he’d managed to get maybe half an hour of sleep at best, constantly keeping an eye out for fresh attacks. Moffett had been keeping the squad as energised as he could, letting them have what little off-time they could manage, but they simply didn't have enough troops left on the front to manage a genuine defence anymore.

“Hey, Dave,” a voice said from behind him, as Sam came to sit with him. “How’s it going?”

“I’m knackered and the world is ending, how are you?” David asked sarcastically.

Sam chuckled. “Same. Fuckin’ hell. This is ridiculous, innit?”

David nodded. He turned to look back across the town’s streets, sighing.

“How’s Hoof?” he asked.

“True Grit says his leg’ll be fine,” Sam said with a shrug. “But he's swearing up a storm, apparently.”

“Dammit,” David laughed. “That guy never shuts up.”

“No,” Sam agreed with a smile of his own. It turned into a frown a moment later. “Hey, who’s -”

He pointed out a figure walking down the street. The man wore a suit, blue and stripey, with a long overcoat flapping in the wind. In one hand he held a shotgun.

Quickly, David and Sam aimed their rifles at him.

“Who goes there?!” Sam yelled.

The man dropped his shotgun as he approached them, his hands slowly raising. As he got closer, his face became visible under the dim light of the streetlamps. His blonde hair was slicked back, and his pale skin was almost luminescent. His green eyes darted from David to Sam and back again.

“Hello, gents,” said Amadeus Cain, a nasty grin playing upon his features. “I surrender.”

***

SAS base, Falklands Islands, July 17th, 2020.

If SAS training was hard, it was also rewarding - not in terms of medals or praise, but in the sheer sense of achievement one finally felt when one earned those wings. Still, it was war and they were SAS, special ops whose deeds would likely be buried in secret records for years. No one expected a ceremony when you completed it, especially not now. It was more likely to be the case that they would be thrust straight into battle, life and death.

Harry had never had any illusions that this sort of work would be glamorous - the kind of man that did was the kind of man that was quickly RTU'd - but he was ready to do whatever it took to make things right.

The first time he was called into Captain Edwin Richards’ office for a mission, he felt oddly nervous. This war… it was so unlike anything he’d known before. He shook the jitters off.

Richards’ office was sparse, as Harry might have expected. A few pictures here and there, but most of it was files.

“Hello, Lieutenant Wales,” Richards said quietly as Harry entered. Harry still didn’t feel altogether happy with his new rank, but he accepted it. “We have a mission for your group. Top priority.”

“Yes sir,” Harry said shortly. “What are the details?”

“A squad of troops on the have captured Amadeus Cain,” Richards said shortly. “Word is, he surrendered without a fight.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Cain surrendered without a fight? Unlikely.”

“Nonetheless,” Richards said grimly. “I want you to take your squad and rendezvous with them at the Barrierfall Front. The two teams will take Cain to an LZ in Israel.”

“That's a bit of a distance from the Barrierfall front,” Harry pointed out. “Why not dispatch a helicopter and take him directly to a PHL base in the US?”

“Cain’s a priority target,” Richards replied simply. “And we think he has connections to Levy. We’ve subtly leaked that Cain’s in our custody in order to draw Levy out.”

Harry flexed his fists. “Levy. Alright. I take it we have permission to engage him with maximum prejudice if he shows his ugly face.”

“Oh yes,” Richards said, smiling wolfishly. “Yes, absolutely.”

***

Fairport, Armacham Perseus Compound. July 17th, 2020.

Two figures stood in a waiting room, waiting (funnily enough) for a pair of inspectors from PHL R&D who were coming to speak to them about a project. One was a youngish man, shaven-headed and bearded, with a wide-eyed expression seemingly permanently on his face and a smart suit on under a labcoat. The other was an older man, grey haired, with a thick, bristly moustache, a scruffy flannel shirt under his labcoat.

“So who is this inspector?” the younger man, Dr Prentice, asked. “Some F.E.A.R lackey?”

“Something like that,” the older man, Harlan Wade, said with a frown as he looked over a clipboard. “Have you been running these readings every day like I asked?”

“Yeah, Harlan, of course,” Prentice said with his own, slightly confused, frown. “Dunno why they're that important, though. There hasn't been a sign of synchronicity since -”

“Quiet,” Harlan snapped irritably, before his expression softened. “Don't want to worry the idiots about the possibility just yet.”

“But… there isn't a possibility, is there?” Prentice asked.

Harlan raised an eyebrow. “If you don't think there is, you haven't been here long enough, kid. There's a reason we don't go to the Origin facility.”

Prentice was silent for a long moment. “So, the rumours about the Origin facility…”

“Aren't total bullshit, no,” Harlan said blandly. “Which is why I keep an eye on Fettel’s telesthenic signature. Any abnormalities could be a sign of synchronicity.”

Prentice nodded slowly. “D’you think F.E.A.R know?”

“F.E.A.R’s inspections are a means to an end,” Harlan said with a snort. “Aristide bought their Colonel: much as some people like deriding us, we’re still damn-near top of the range. It’s not like anybody else markets laser weaponry, anyway. Their Colonel overlooks the Replica program’s continued existence and doesn't let the top-brass know it's still ongoing. Way I see it, it's win-win.”

Prentice nodded, frowning. “Y’know, I lost a lotta respect for Davis for that.”

Harlan frowned. “For what?”

“Trying to close down the Replica program,” Prentice clarified. “‘This Program is immoral and inhumane’ - I mean, come on, who’d he rather was out there dying? Our guys, our friends, or the fucking clone bastards?”

There was a bitter edge to his voice that made Harlan look up from the clipboard for a moment. “Personal experience?”

“Sister,” Prentice said bluntly. “Barrierfall front.”

Harlan nodded. “I understand.”

“Yeah,” Prentice said tightly. He looked at a wall, a sneer twisting his lips. “‘She died a hero’. Fancy way of sugarcoating the fact that they had to put a bullet in her. Closed casket funeral. Fuckin’ potion. Died a grotesquery, and I’m not even sure she died herself. Don’t want to know.”

Harlan looked back at the clipboard. “Look on the bright side, Prentice. We’re making the most expendable army in the world. One day, there won't be a need for any more dead heroes, thanks to us.”

“Yeah,” Prentice said with a nod. “The Replica don't have family. Poor test-tube motherfuckers.”

There came a tense silence. Harlan glanced at his watch.

“How long does it take a goddamn inspector to get here, anyway?” he pondered aloud. “We’ve got work to do -”

Almost in answer to his comment, the door to the waiting room opened. First through was the steel-haired, square jawed figure of Marshall Disler. The tanned, faintly Hispanic man had always been a stern figure, but he was also, as Harlan knew, reasonable. With him were two other guards in Armacham Security uniforms, carrying RPL SMGs, their sunglasses-and-cap uniforms still seeming slightly ridiculous.

Finally, there were two figures that could only have been the inspectors.

One was a grey Unicorn mare with her mane in a ponytail and a tired expression. She was wearing a labcoat with an ID badge on it. The man she was with was tall, youngish, redheaded and had a soft smile that somehow didn't reach his warm hazel eyes. He wore a dark brown velvet jacket over a white dress-shirt and a black waistcoat, and the ensemble was finished off with a pair of corduroy trousers and a pair of black boots.

“Hello,” the man said, holding out a hand. “I’m Doctor Bowman, but you can call me the Doctor. This is Chalcedony, my -”

“- friend,” the Unicorn finished, glancing at him with a smirk. “Also a colleague.”

“Also a magnificent chess-player,” Bowman added. “Though dreadful at bridge.”

“I only lost twice,” Chalcedony pointed out with a frown.

“We’ve only played three times,” Bowman retorted. “And the second time we got interrupted.”

Chalcedony sighed, before turning to look at Harlan. “Colonel Munro sent us to do a quick tour of the facility, see what was what and make sure it’s all in order.”

Harlan nodded, apparently unfazed by the two’s… eccentric manner.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Shall we begin with the Replica?”

***

They were stood in a half-empty warehouse on the compound premises, each and every one of them stood in an almost lax position. Each was tall, broad and intimidating, clad in all-enclosing soft Kevlar armour and wearing full-face helmets.

“These are our Variant VI models,” Prentice said blandly as he walked among the figures. “Right now they're in ‘rest’ mode. No psychic commander attached.”

Doctor Bowman glanced at Prentice before looking over the Replica, his eyes taking in every detail.

“We’ll likely be switching to the Variant VII equipment for all of these,” Harlan said as he watched the Doctor’s progress, a frown on his wrinkled features. “Their equipment is slightly more fit-for-purpose when fighting Newfoals. Tougher armour, more airtight in the right spots. Solid plate’s useful against the sort of spears and close-combat this war’s turning into, as well.”

“Good looking stuff,” Bowman said quietly. “Might even be runically modifiable if we needed to.”

“Possibly,” Chalcedony said with a shrug. “I’d have to borrow a set at some point to be sure. Maybe poke it a bit.”

Harlan frowned, looking between the two of them. “I’m sorry - runically modifiable?”

“It's a theory that R&D are running with,” Bowman said lazily.

Harlan nodded slowly. “‘Need-to-know’, I take it.”

“Isn't everything?” Chalcedony asked with an ironic smile.

“I see your point,” Harlan said with a nod. “If you like, I can arrange for a set of Mark VII gear to be in the next set of deliveries to F.E.A.R HQ.”

“Please,” Bowman said brightly. He sniffed, still looking around. “What’s the smell, by the way?”

“Smell?” Harlan asked.

Bowman looked at him, then smiled. “Never mind. Might just be something in the air conditioning.”

He said nothing more, and Harlan shrugged.

“Alright,” he said. “From here, we can go look at the REV mechs and EPAs. We’ve been working on some altered Enhanced Power Armours for -”

“What about your Harbinger program?” Bowman asked, folding his arms. “I’ve heard rumours of lots of different people being tested or mooted as Harbinger candidates for months now. Marcus Renee, Porter Stanley, Michael Becket, Cedric Griffin, Stephan Bauer, Steve Chen, Harry Munro Jnr, Yael Ze’ev, David Elliot, Samantha Yarrow…”

“Harbinger is a sensitive program,” Harlan said, interrupting his flow of names. “I’m not entirely certain it falls under your purview.”

“A lot of things fall under my purview,” Bowman said with a slight smile. “And Chalcedony will tell you, the amount that the Harbinger process could be helpful to us is…”

“The actual modifications produce top-tier psychic commanders with excellent reflexes and improved strength, stamina and response times, which coupled with advancements we’re working on at R&D, could produce significantly improved troops,” Chalcedony said blandly. At Wade’s surprised look, she shrugged. “I happen to know a fair bit about the process from previous forays into Armacham’s project line. We have a few extended notes available to us at F.E.A.R.”

Harlan growled slightly. “I see. Well, in that case, we can explore what little we have of the Harbinger program here. A separate visit would have to be arranged to explore the Harbinger facility itself -”

“I would love to arrange that,” Bowman said with a grin. “Now - giant mechs, yes?”

***

HLS Purity, Briefing Room, July 18th, 2020.

A group of men and women were stood in the briefing room - formerly a lounge - on the Purity. The room was spacious, the fittings mostly intact (albeit not perfect), and the chairs were leather. It was, all in all, not a bad show.

Despite this, though, none of them were entirely comfortable. These people had very little in common, save that most of them had little armbands on with the letters HLF printed on them in white, and some had even had metal badges made. That being said, being surrounded by strangers was not a fun experience, and the amount of paranoia in the room was enough to make grown men weep. Nobody in here liked ponies too much, and they were all HLF, and the man that organized this had hoped that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

It turned out that all the hatred for the end the world did a piss-poor job of breaking down all the other little hatreds - the room was full of communists, objectivists, people from all over the great spectrum of human opinion. And most of them didn’t like each other.

“What the fuck is taking so long?” a blonde man with a ponytail asked in a strong Irish accent. “I've places to be.”

“Agreed,” a man with a flower painted on his otherwise black military-grade armour said, his arms folded. “This seems a larger risk than I would deem worth our while.”

“And those would be…” asked a frenchman with muttonchop sideburns that looked less like sideburns and more like a beard that had been shaved down the middle. He looked bored.

A man in light kevlar with a red beret on held up a hand. “Come on. Listen to Janvier. Patience is a virtue. The war’s not going anywhere.”

“No, but the fucking Barrier is!” the Irishman said. “Britain and Ireland are gone, and here I am waiting for this feckin’ ‘Yarrow’ bastard to -”

“Calm down, O’Donnell,” the flower-armoured man said, holding up a hand. “Despite the risk, Janvier and Soren are right. We’ll soon find out what this is about.”

A few minutes later, a man walked in: he was shaven headed, tattooed and bearded, wearing a long green military coat, and he looked at the group with appraising eyes. He had no armband - a symbol, faintly Nordic, was painted on his under-armour, with the letters HLF beneath it.

“Hello,” he said to the group, nodding at everyone. “I’m Yarrow. I’m glad you've come.”

His eyes glanced along the assembled men and women.

“It’s good to see so many of you here,” he said after a moment. “Rock Riders, Skydivers, Kraken Grenadiers, Sons of Macha, Menschabwehrfraktion, Chimeras, Taskforce Paris, Thenardier Guard… Kevin…”

The flower-armoured man nodded once.

“Who are you again?” the Frenchman asked. His nametag read ‘Louissaint’. Three people stood behind him - an androgynous youth, their femininity not adequately shown by their military dress, a rail-thin scotsman with lank ginger hair, a scraggly little half-beard, and an ugly burn on half of his face, and a hazel-eyed man with his head shaved on both sides of his skull, leaving an almost mohawk-like patch.

“Kevin,” the flower-armoured man said shortly.

“Oh come on, everyone knows Kevin - don't you know Kevin?” the man with the red beret said.

“I don't know feckin’ Kevin,” the Irishman said. “No offense, mate.”

“None taken, O’Donnell,” Kevin said blandly.

“Oh, I’ve seen him around!” the androgynous youth said.

“No you haven’t,” Kevin sighed.

“...I just wanted you to feel better,” the youth said, dejected.

“Appreciated,” Kevin said blandly.

“Get to the point,” a surly looking man said. “Is this a traveling circus-” he cast a glare over at the youth, who made an oddly feline hiss at him - “Or a serious meeting?”

Yarrow looked at him. “With pleasure, Mr Birch.”

“Master Sergeant,” Birch corrected snarkily.

“My apologies, Master Sergeant,” Yarrow said, sounding oddly insincere. “A shame Colonel - Grant, wasn't it? - couldn't be here.”

Birch drew himself up to his full, somewhat unimpressive height. “Colonel Grant is busy preparing for various secret Thenardier Guard operations, which require his full attention. He sends his… apologies.”

The little sneer that accompanied that word left no illusions about what Aeron Grant actually meant.

“Which we appreciate,” Yarrow said shortly. He looked to address the entire table. “I've brought you all here because this war is about to hit the fan. Because the HLF has been splintered, and we can't afford that.”

“Who says we can't afford it?” Birch asked. “You?”

“Shut up, Birch,” Kevin said, not raising his voice but somehow sounding commanding anyway. “Let him speak.”

“Don’t you people have better things to do?” Birch sighed.

“I’m going to with noooooo?” asked the Frenchman with muttonchops.

Yarrow nodded his thanks to Kevin as Birch crossed his arms petulantly. The others there looked at Yarrow expectantly.

“Alright,” Yarrow said. “I've counted - I've about six hundred fighters under my command. Most of the rest of you are running with numbers between two and eight hundred. Soren Hagen, you’ve got - what, four hundred?”

“Three,” the man with the red beret said. “Lost a few in an engagement with the Empire.”

“Still,” Yarrow said. “Kevin’s got a hundred or so, the Rock Riders -”

“We’ve got fifty six,” the surly looking woman said.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Packer,” Yarrow said. “So what - that sort of number, times by - what, twenty of us? Think about that.”

There was a pause as his words sunk in.

“Thousands,” a dark-skinned, muscly man with a little anchor pinned to his HLF armband said. “Easily. Maybe nine, ten thousand? Unite a few of the roving lot, maybe recruit some more ready people, that’ll up quickly.”

“Quite right,” Yarrow said. “There's thousands of battle-ready troops under our command, and that's a force the Empire'd have trouble reckoning with, magic or no magic.”

“All due respect,” the Frenchman said, “but most guns are fucking useless against Empire. A lot of these groups would need a serious upgrade, or they'd just be a few thousand bodies for new Newfoals.” He shrugged at some of the foul looks he got. “Saying it like it is.”

Yarrow nodded. “I’ve thought about that - I used to know people in Armacham - there's tech that’d set us evenly against the Empire. Mechs and armour and guns that’d be more than capable of taking the bastards on. All we’d need is to get them: money, bribes, promises, whatever it took. Then - boom. We’re in this game.”

“So you're suggesting uniting forces?” asked a man with a taut, pinched face, a considering frown on his face. He had eyes of an odd no-color - not quite blue, not quite gray. This was Helmetag, leader of the Menschabwehrfraktion.

“Are you sure that’s advisable, Gregor?” asked a man standing behind him. He had bronze-colored curly hair that he looked to imagine was a mane, but looked more like a mop. An old, battered Russian Army body armor vest read ‘Lovikov’.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” the pinched man said. “What Yarrow here is talking about, Leonid, is unification. Do I like most of the people here? Not likely. But what we need is a united force. Most of our petty problems can wait.”

“It's the only way we can make any progress,” Yarrow said with a nod. “If we stop focusing on little fights, and unite against the common enemy -”

“The feckin’ gluesticks y’mean?” O’Donnell asked, narrowing his eyes.

“The Empire ones, yes,” Yarrow said grimly. “They're our enemies: they're the primary threat.”

“He's not wrong,” Kevin said shortly. “The Empire’s the one to contend with - potioneers, the Barrier, Guards…”

“What about the PHL?” Packer asked, scowling. “We need to think about how we’re gonna deal with them.”

“Not an issue,” Yarrow said dismissively.

A few of the present individuals looked dubious at that pronouncement.

“What,” Janvier of Taskforce Paris said.

“Did I stutter?” Yarrow asked.

“I wish you had,” Janvier said.

O’Donnell scowled. “All of the ponies are issues. They're all our enemy.”

This brought out more cheers and murmurs of approval than Yarrow would be comfortable admitting to have heard.

“Heartstrings isn't,” Yarrow said, frowning right back at O’Donnell. “Right now, her PHL isn't much, but it needn't be our enemy. Hell, they might even figure something out -”

“We don't need them to figure something out. We can,” Helmetag said, cutting him off. “It’s the apocalypse. Last time the world was in the middle of a war that could lead to the death of, well… all things, people came together and thought it out.”

“Without any knowledge or textbooks on the subject?” Soren asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Helmetag said.

“If you haven’t noticed, we don’t have government backing,” Yarrow said. “Or a vast cabal of scientists.”

“We should be, though,” Louissaint said. “We can be. In America, plenty of government officials would support us. I mean, plenty of them are practically slaves to the people that we hire. We’d-”

“Goleman is a fool, and he’s doomed,” Gregor said.

“What?” Yarrow asked. He hadn’t heard this yet.

“I got here early,” Gregor said. “Before Europe was gone, honestly. But Goleman is doomed. I don’t know why, but the PHL offered them more than we could.”

“It’s because ponies know more about magic than us,” Yarrow said, speaking with the cadence of somebody who knew they were going through hell and also knew they had to keep going. “They know magic. We don’t, and the thing we want gone is made of goddamn magic. I -”

“Oh,” Lovikov interrupted. “Pardon me,” he said, with the implication that he was choking back a string of profanity that would not just peel the paint off the Purity’s walls but melt it, “For being. The. slightest. Bit. SUSPICIOUS?!”

Yarrow didn’t bat an eye at his screaming, save for a slight raised eyebrow.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being FUCKING UNREASONABLE for thinking I don’t trust another ‘humanitarian’ organization run by ponies,” Lovikov said. “I have had. Enough. Of. That. Shit. Next they’ll have guns, they’ll be as big as, bigger than any military.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Birch interrupted. “I told y-”

“Not now,” Lovikov said, cutting him off. “I’ve had enough of that sort of thing.”

“You want to be paranoid, that's your business,” Yarrow said.

“It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you,” Gregor said. “My adjutant raises good points.”

“The PHL haven't made moves, the Empire has,” Yarrow said, sounding impatient. “You want to talk distrust now, with the Barrier advancing across the world?! Tell me - when there's a train coming towards you, high speed, do you worry whether the shifty looking guy on the other side of the tracks might blackmail you, or do you move out of the way of the train and worry about him afterwards?”

There was a long pause at this, and a few of those present looked at each other, uncomfortable. They knew what he meant, even if they didn't want to.

“If the person - no, the goddamn thing driving the train has a history of spattering people against the front of the engine, and enjoying it,” O’Donnell said, “and the one by the side of the tracks is the same as the goddamn thing which also has said history… then yes.”

“What,” a shaven-headed woman said.

“Look,” O’Donnell said. “Name any one person here who doesn’t have a friend that hasn’t been tricked to their death - or worse - by one of the fucking gluesticks.”

Everybody looked at each other uneasily. Lovikov looked at Helmetag mournfully, somewhat uneasily. At which point, Kevin cocked his head, confused.

“Doesn't change my point,” Yarrow said, scowling. “The thing driving the train will kill you if you don't move immediately, and the other thing doesn't need to do a thing to help it. The Empire is going to destroy the world, unless we fight them. The PHL - at worst, they're playing a long game, and we can deal with them if it comes to that, if we’re alive and human to do it after the Empire’s done. At best, they might actually be what they say they are. Either way - we need to prioritise.”

“Why don't you fuck off, Yarrow?” Birch snapped after a moment.

“Birch, careful,” Helmetag warned.

“No, this is bullshit!” Birch said, his face red with anger. “All the fucking geldos are our enemy, and all of the fucking horse-fucking bastards who help them!” He turned to the others. “We can't stop until every one of those pony bastards and their human collaborators are gone! We can't let them have even a minute to themselves! We’re the only ones who know the truth, the only ones who -!”

“WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!” another woman, shaven headed and pale, yelled, her voice unexpectedly resonant.

The room went quiet for a second.

“Is that… is that good? Are we good?” she asked.

Nobody answered for a good long moment.

“...Excuse me?” Yarrow asked.

“You,” the woman said, “And me. We’re all going to die. We’re going to die like my uncle, who habitually wore a pin that read ‘I have seen the future,’ right up until he shot himself during the Three Weeks of Blood, half-converted, and the pin got drenched in his own viscera.”

“This seems… needlessly pessimistic,” Janvier said.

“I don’t know,” Helmetag said. “I like her so far.”

“And yet,” Yarrow said, “that's what’ll happen, unless we join forces. She has a point. What’s your name, Ms…”

“MacMurdo,” the woman said. “Andrea MacMurdo.”

“Then listen to me, Andrea MacMurdo,” Yarrow said softly.

“I don’t have to,” Andrea said. “You were thinking this from the moment we got in here: ‘We’re all going to die.’ God’s sakes, Yarrow. You brought a man that employs Viktor Kraber here, in your homebase. That’s not a recipe for agreement, but… but we can make it work. Maybe. But not any later.”

Yarrow considered this, then nodded.

“I believe we can make this work, here, now, today,” he said shortly. “If only because we have no other option. Unified, we’ll be strong. When we’re a force of little nothing's that can be picked off one by one, hiding information from one another and treating everything else like the enemy - that's when we’re going to die.”

“That’ll never happen!” Lovikov interjected, and Helmetag nodded along, a look of fierce agreement on his face.

“Tell me, Birch, how many men does your Colonel - Aeron Grant? - have?” Yarrow asked blandly.

Birch looked uncomfortable. “That's classified.”

Yarrow spread his arms wide. “We’re all HLF here.”

Birch still didn't say anything. Yarrow folded his arms. Helmetag looked at Birch like he was mad.

“We’re HLF, Birch,” he said. “There are no traitors here.”

“All the same,” Birch said slowly. “I am not at liberty to divulge the Thenardier Guards military disposition.”

“See my point?” Yarrow asked.

“Fuck you,” Birch snapped. “Just because I’m not comfortable divulging military secrets -”

“But you're comfortable hearing our numbers,” Soren said with a scowl. “C’mon, Birch. What's the Thenardier Guard packing?”

“It doesn't matter,” Birch said. “You're talking about letting some of the gluesticks live. That's not what we’re about!”

“Oh? ‘Kill all the ponies’, is it?” Yarrow asked.

“Fucking right!” Birch yelled. A couple of others nodded agreement with him.

“Yeah, what then? When you've killed the lot of them, what's your plan then?” Yarrow asked. “Even if we somehow presume that the government backed PHL don’t wipe out whatever number of troops you have, even if we presume that in your zeal to kill every pony you don’t turn us all into targets and get the HLF wiped out, what about after? When you've killed the only experts on magic who might have helped us, and the Barrier’s swallowed the rest of the world and left you with nothing, what will killing all of them have achieved? When you've got no troops but a handful, no guns but antiques, and no hope, what's the plan for any kind of positive outcome going to be?!”

“What's your plan, then, Mr Maxi-pad Yarrow?” Birch retorted. There was a sharp intake of breath at his audacity.

“To fight,” Yarrow said immediately, not missing a beat. “To organise our thousands, arm them, and send them in the direction of the real enemy instead of letting them waste ammo, men and resources killing anything with four hooves they can see! To let the PHL make their magic guns and, if we prove we’re willing to put aside our differences, to get a share in that!”

“The PHL -” Birch began.

“Don't you get it?” Yarrow said. “They're not our enemy! They could even help us, if we let them!”

“Yarrow,” Helmetag said with a frown, “even if we did unite, the PHL are… well, a lot of our people don't trust ponies. Not after all of this.”

“Besides,” Birch said, “Mike’s got a plan -”

“Does he?” Yarrow asked, raising an eyebrow. “What is his plan, exactly?”

“Careful, Yarrow,” O’Donnell said with a scowl. “You're talking about our leader.”

“I’m talking about the man who took a support group from under the Reverend and turned it into splinters to poke the Empire with, governments and other authorities be damned,” Yarrow said angrily. His face softened. “I get Mike’s pain. I do. God knows, we’ve all lost a lot…”

Everyone paused, thinking about whatever personal tragedies were driving them at this point.

“But the man’s not got a plan,” Yarrow continued. “At best he's got a desire to go out there and personally strangle everything on four hooves, and the drive to get a lot of folks to follow him.”

“Isn't that enough?” the Scotsman asked. “We keep fighting -”

“Fighting the wrong people, and fighting without a plan, is stupid,” Yarrow said sharply. “Like I said - I get why he's angry. But it's gonna take a lot of folks to hell and nowhere else.”

“No, you’re gonna take a lot of folks to hell,” Birch said with a sneer. “Helping the PHL’s tantamount to walking into a Bureau.”

“You're a paranoid idiot, Birch,” Soren Hagen said with a smirk. “Say what you like about ponies. Heartstrings talks about the Bureaus like they're worse than the fuckin’ devil.”

“‘Course she does, she’s a fucking liar,” Birch insisted. “Celestia sounded pretty convincing too, remember?!”

There was a murmur of acknowledgement - he did have a point.

“If Heartstrings becomes a problem, it's one we’re equipped to deal with better united, given that she has major government backing and we don't, thanks in part to some people in this room,” Yarrow declared. “And in the meantime, the real threat is clear.”

“And just who,” Packer asked, “do you think should be leading this unified HLF? Mike’s in jail -”

“It's obvious isn't it?” Birch said with a sneer. “He thinks he should do it.”

Yarrow shook his head. “That's not what I’m saying at all -”

“But it is,” Birch insisted. “You think you're better than us, better than Mike Carter.”

“And he would be,” MacMurdo said.

Birch turned towards MacMurdo so quickly that Yarrow swore he heard something crack. “Excuse me?”

“Carter. Isn’t. Military,” MacMurdo said. “He doesn’t know tactics. He doesn’t know proportional response.”

“And because of that, the gluesticks and horsefuckers get just what they deserve,” Lovikov said.

“No,” Yarrow said. “What I think MacMurdo’s saying is that… that Carter does not ‘switch off,’ so to speak, and he wants everything to suffer. He doesn't care about winning. Not even about surviving. He just wants to kill everything pony he can before he dies.”

“And this is a bad thing how exactly?” Helmetag asked.

Everyone stared at him.

“Look, everyone would expect Leonid to say that,” Helmetag said.

“No I…” Lovikov started. His voice trailed off.

“That’s what I thought,” Helmetag said. “Just playing devil’s advocate here. Why, from a psychologist’s perspective, is it bad that he doesn’t ‘switch off’?”

“Because he doesn’t detach himself from what he’s doing. The violence. The collateral damage. He doesn’t think of the way to solve a problem,” Yarrow said, surprised at the anger in his voice. Oh, he’d known people like that. People who’d seen their job as an excuse. How he had hated them. “He doesn't care about winning the w-”

“BULLSHIT!” the hazel-eyed frenchman yelled.

“Then why’s he attacking everything, making everyone hate the HLF, Janvier?!” Yarrow snapped. “Tell me. What are Carter’s plans for surviving. How’s he going to take down the Barrier? Is he expecting to suddenly have the Barrier stop at an island in the Pacific and murder his way through the postwar? He doesn't care about surviving this. He cares about hurting things before he dies. He doesn't care about the future, or about fighting to save the future. He thinks it's already done. Hell, I don't even think he thinks that. He doesn't think. He's the last person who should be leading fighting soldiers! He's the last person who should be leading anyone!”

He stood, breathing heavily for a few seconds.

“My old drill sergeant told me that we’d solve problems. That we’d think of the best way to fix a problem. Carter. Doesn’t. Do. That,” Yarrow said. “He’s just a killer.”

“Fuck off!” Birch yelled. “You think that you know best - of course you want to lead this glorious ‘unified HLF’ shit you're spewing!” He slammed his fist onto the table. “News flash, asshole! The HLF is unified, in the common goal of ridding the world of geldos and collaborating shits like you!”

In a flash, he’d brought a pistol out and aimed it at Yarrow, and Packer followed suit. At the same time, though, Soren and Kevin brought sidearms out and aimed them at Birch, and another two or three of the leaders did the same. More aimed guns at them. MacMurdo and the man with the anchor pin aimed guns at those people, and a couple more followed suit, until the entire room was aiming guns at everyone else, except for Yarrow and Helmetag. Even Lovikov was aiming a pistol at Soren.

“So,” Yarrow said calmly. “Is this what the HLF is going to do? Are we all just going to kill ourselves, right here - not just with these guns, but with our decisions? Are we going to decide to remain divided, to shoot at the wrong people? Because that's what I mean. We’re divided. We don't need to be. Despite our differences, we’re all human. All of us want to stay that way. Any differences we have aren't important.”

“He's got a point,” Soren said, his gun aimed now at Packer. She scowled.

“I said Mike has a plan, and I meant it,” Birch said. “And if he doesn't, if somehow you're right, then Colonel Grant does.”

There was a long pause.

“Wasn't he the one calling himself ‘AtlasGalt2k14’ on the forums?” Kevin asked blandly, his gun still trained on Birch’s face.

There was no answer to that particular non-sequitur.

Yarrow held up a hand. As one, the people aiming guns for him lowered them. Then the rest did (Lovikov only at a glare from Helmetag), until only Birch was aiming a gun.

“Well?” Yarrow asked. “What's it to be, John? You kill me, one of my men kills you on the way off?”

Birch lowered his gun. “Colonel Grant will never go for your bullshit. I know I won’t.”

“Then you tell ‘AtlasGalt2k14’ that he’s going to die alone,” Yarrow said shortly. “And any of the rest of you who don't agree. That's not a threat. It's a prediction. Alone, we’re nothing but a bunch of little armies running around shooting at PER ‘til something comes along that we can't kill. Only together can we do anything meaningful.”

The room was silent for a long time. Finally, Birch spat on the floor and stormed out. A moment later, Packer followed him, and the members of Taskforce Paris, and a few others.

Lovikov left, at a gesture from Helmetag. Helmetag himself moved to go, but stopped by Yarrow first.

“I can see what you're trying to do,” he said quietly, “and I think I might even be interested. But not today.”

“Today might be all we get,” Yarrow said.

Helmetag shrugged. “In any case - I have some information you might find useful. A particular target has come into PHL custody, according to a friend of mine on the Barrierfall Front, and he's going to be moved.”

“What target?” Yarrow asked.

“Amadeus Cain,” Helmetag said, scowling slightly. “Given the value, his being transported will not be a simple matter. The PER might try something.”

Yarrow nodded. “I see.”

Helmetag took out a small piece of paper. “Everything I know about the matter. I’m only sorry I can't help more.”

He left. Soon, only a few leaders were left in the room - Soren, Kevin, the man with the anchor, a bald man with a red stripe on his armour, MacMurdo, a pair of younger men with green hoods, and maybe a few others.

“Surprised to see some of you staying here,” Yarrow commented, leaning against the table heavily. “I thought that particular meeting was something of a disaster.”

“Meeting's not over yet, Maxi,” Kevin pointed out. “We’re all still here. And we’re listening.”

Yarrow raised his head. “Is that so?”

“I don't trust ponies, but I think you've got a point, Yarrow,” Soren said slowly. “No point worrying about might be’s when there’s a real threat on the horizon.”

“I think there's a lot of potential in uniting forces,” the man with the anchor added.

“I’m glad some of us do, Ducane,” Yarrow said with a wry grin.

“I see the potential,” the man with the red stripe said, “but there's a lot of questions. You said you didn't mean for you to be in charge - what did you mean?”

Yarrow sighed. “To begin with - every unit, for the moment, would continue individual actions. But with a more unified HLF, we’d be able to coordinate. Act less like a bunch of little groups running around and more like an army.”

The red striped man nodded. “Alright. I can get behind that. So we carry on our own actions but coordinate with other groups, keep each other informed?”

“Aye,” Yarrow said. “That way, to begin with, we can support one another.”

“Alright,” Kevin said, as blandly as anything. “So how can we support you?”

Yarrow smiled. Here was progress. He could smell it. He looked the little piece of paper in his hands over.

“Well for a start,” he said, “does anyone have any helicopters?”

MacMurdo grinned. “I have helicopters. I've got ten of them - stolen military grade that got abandoned at the start of the war, or else my girls brought them with them. Me and my Valkyries are experts with them.”

Yarrow grinned. “Alright. Then we’ve got a plan.”

***

F.E.A.R HQ. July 18th, 2020.

Doctor Bowman was sat opposite Chalcedony, thinking. She still didn't know him very well, but she knew him well enough to know that the expression he was pulling was not one she should be happy to see.

“What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.

He blinked, looking at her as though he’d forgotten she was there. He smiled.

“About Armacham,” he said honestly. “ATC has a lot of secrets. Some they keep more buried than others.”

“The same could be said for most megacorps,” Chalcedony pointed out. “From what I can tell, there aren't many companies out there that don’t have big secrets.”

“None of them are quite like Armacham’s,” the Doctor said grimly. “I've seen too much stuff to think that they're simply hiding dodgy tax deals. For example, there’s whatever they have under the Auburn district in Fairport.”

“Something’s under Fairport?” Chalcedony asked with a frown. “What?”

“I don't know,” the Doctor said, though there was a slightly suspicious edge to his voice. “Whatever it is, it isn't good. In fact, it's so far beyond it that I’m not sure where poetic understatement would be. Then there's the Replica, and the weapons they've got. The psychic commanders. Harbinger. It's all so…”

“Unpleasant?” Chalcedony suggested.

“More than that,” the Doctor said, shaking his head.

“Like what?” Chalcedony asked.

“Harbinger isn't a program to be sniffed at,” the Doctor said quietly. “They've been planning it for years. A lot of the names they've got down for it have been down for a lot longer than this war, and you can bet they weren't planning on getting the participants’ permission if they didn't need to.” He paused. “No, there's something off about all of this.”

“So what do we do?” Chalcedony asked.

“‘Do’?” the Doctor repeated. “We ‘do’ nothing. Armacham has a part to play, and we can't interfere in that. All we can do is keep an eye on it, aim it in the general direction of the Empire…”

“Can we do that?” Chalcedony asked.

“Why not?” the Doctor asked. “Hope it doesn’t… how to put it…”

“Fuck us over later?” Chalcedony asked.

The Doctor frowned. “Language. But yes.” He sighed. “Ah, so many balls to juggle, and never enough time…”

“What does that mean?” Chalcedony asked.

“That we have a long way to go,” the Doctor said quietly. “A long way.”

***

Author's Notes:

Hello guys :-) Back once again with the adventures of the Reavers, Chalcedony, the King's Speech Crew, Amadeus Cain and Doctor Bowman! I hope the wait hasn't been too annoying for you all.

Next chapter should be underway soon :-) Until then, I hope you enjoyed this one.

Cheers,
Jed.