***

“You might fool John and even True Grit with that routine - heck, you might even fool yourself - but I know you better. Don't you dare shut me out.”
Lyra Heartstrings, The Avatar of Albion: Tales of the War.

***

London. January 14th, 2032.

Point Sigma.

A single amber eye glanced hither and thither, taking in the sights around it. Next to it, a small electric blue prosthetic shaped almost exactly like an eye whirred faintly as it followed the movement of its organic counterpart. The rubble-strewn street was deathly quiet, but the owner of those eyes knew from hard-earned experience that ‘quiet’ could change to ‘hell’ in about the same time it took to say ‘hell’.

Still, no sign of hostiles at present. Taking a breath, Lyra Heartstrings decided to chance it: she knew full well that wouldn’t last very long.

“Stern, take the troop and move to second position,” she said quietly. Behind her, a dark brown Earth Pony stallion named Harder Stern nodded, before motioning for the squad of ponies and humans behind him to move.

The little ragtag collection of soldiers jogged and trotted down the street toward a ruined barricade while Lyra watched. Once there, Stern tapped a small headset he was wearing.

“All good!” his voice came in tinnily. “The engineers can move in!”

Lyra nodded, before tapping her own headset. “Albion 2 to Lockett. Board is clear. Set her up.”

“Cheers,” a chirpy voice said. A moment later, a dozen or so troops - human and pony alike - jogged past Lyra’s position, meeting up with Stern. “Alright - make it snappy people!”

Lyra watched the engineering troops as they moved new pieces of barricade into place, using everything from pre-existing parts they'd brought to ruined cars around them. It was almost impressive, if it weren't so desperate.

“You've got this, right?” Lyra asked.

“We’ll holler if we need anything,” Harder Stern said. “We’ve got this flank covered.”

“Gotcha,” Lyra said.

“Hey boss,” Lockett asked. “We heard anything from Point Omega yet…?”

Without replying, Lyra turned and dashed off. There were more places to be.

And she didn't want to think about the answer to that question.

***

Point Delta.

At a barricade on the opposite side of St Paul’s, Lyra found herself standing with Dr Tender Care as she patched a soldier up. The electric blue mare looked weary. This barricade had seen some of the hardest fighting - a pair of REV6 mechs, both battered and patched up, stood on opposite sides of the barricade, bookending the defenders. The troops themselves were battered as well: a couple of troops in heavy armour and a dozen or so soldiers in battered regular gear were all that was left.

“How’s it going, Doc?” she asked.

Tender Care shook her head. “Lost twelve this last day, three of which were in the last half hour. Need more medical supplies.” She held up a hoof. “Don't bother telling me we don't have them. I know. Doesn't change the fact.”

Lyra sighed. “I’ll see what we can do, but…”

“‘Don't hold out hope’,” Tender Care said bitterly. “What else is new?”

“I don't like it any more than you do,” Lyra said gently, her face full of sympathy.

Tender Care’s expression softened. “I know. If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant.”

Lyra sighed, and left the bitter medic to her work. After checking over some of the troops - most of whom were, thankfully, in as good spirits as she could ask for - she went over to one of the REV6’s. A youngish man with auburn hair was tinkering with something. Incongruously enough, he was dressed in a battered knee length overcoat, burgundy corduroy trousers and stained off-white shirt: he looked as though he had been here for a while.

“You alright up there?” she asked.

“Yep,” the man replied. He glanced down at her. “It's Operative Heartstrings, isn't it?”

“Lieutenant, actually,” she replied idly, pronouncing it British-style: David always told her how strange her (apparently) American voice sounded saying it that way - she’d give anything for -

No. Not now. Later. We think about this later.

“Oh, my apologies, Lieutenant,” the man said. He closed the panel he was working on and dropped to the ground. “Dr Richard Bowman, Archive Field Ops.”

Lyra frowned. “Archive Field Ops? What’re you doing all the way out here?”

“Well, fixing your REV’s targeting scanners for a kickoff,” the man said with a smirk. “They were off by a good… well, lot.”

“Good to know you've fixed ‘em,” Lyra said with a slight smile. “I get the feeling we’ll need them sooner than we’d like.”

“I suspect you're right,” the man said quietly. “Other than that, I’m just here to chase shadows.”

“‘Chase shadows’?” Lyra repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forgive me - there are always rumours flying about,” the man said with a slight wry smile. “Things running around that might be useful - or harmful.”

Lyra sighed. Great - he’s an enigmatic one.

“Is there anything I need to know about?” she asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

“Nothing of note,” the man said with a shrug. “Few weird things that might be true or might be your usual ghost story type things. Rumours of the twins being around -”

“Weren't they a myth?” Lyra interrupted, frowning in confusion.

“No, they were real,” the man said with a slight smile of his own. “And quite pleasant, if you could get past their… one track mindedness.”

Lyra nodded slowly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“There's a first time for everything,” the man said with a snort. “Also needed to get a few samples of crystal weaponry if we could retrieve anything, but I suspect if we survive this there’ll be plenty of time to… loot.”

Lyra smirked. “Don’t knock looting, Doc. Chances are we’ll all have to do worse things before the end.” She paused, frowning. “Wait - what do you need crystal weaponry samples for?”

“Mainly to figure out how much they’ve advanced since Sunstorm,” the man said. “But there’s always a use for such things.”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “I’ll bet. Anyway -”

“Raiders!” someone yelled, cutting her off.

Lyra’s eyes snapped to the sky at once, as her horn glowed, a spell readying. She scowled as a small group of Pegasi flew overhead, passing over the defences and dropping small round objects as they went. The objects exploded on contact with anything, the force of the blast causing concussive damage. Worse, the explosives were full of what could only be described as small shurikens made of crystal: when the devices exploded, they tore through flesh, cloth and even armour.

The explosives launched their lethal contents across the barricades: one soldier was sliced to pieces as a device slammed into the ground right next to him. Another explosion threw a few troopers off their feet. One of them rolled a little, before coming to a halt near Lyra’s hooves, a gash torn in his throat, one sightless eye visible threw shattered goggles.

Growling, Lyra’s eyes flashed as she sent a spell up, smashing into one of the enemy ponies. There was a flash, and a burning shape fell from the sky, smashing into the side of a building and then falling to the ground.

“Motherbuckers,” Lyra swore.

“Language,” the archivist said. Lyra threw him a look and he quailed. “Uh… anyway. I need to be heading off - other stuff to fix.”

“Right,” Lyra said quietly, looking around at the dead and injured soldiers. “You go do that.”

The man looked like he wanted to say something, but he shook his head slightly, thinking better of it. He gave a final, awkward smile, and then he headed off.

As the man toddled off, looking grateful to be getting away from the livid looking Lyra, she sighed. She could see Tender Care applying a tourniquet to a shorn limb.

“Dammit,” she swore. She tapped her headset. “This is Albion 2 to Red Leader. We’ve had raiders at Point Delta. Where's our bucking air support?”

“Stretched thin, ma’am,” came the disheartened sounding reply. “We lost three more flyers in the last raid - I’ve barely got two full squadrons worth of flyers under my command now.”

“Just…” Lyra began, sighing. “Just try to keep them off us, Errant. Please.”

“We’ll do our best, Lyra,” Errant Flight replied.

“I know,” she said heavily. “I guess you always do.”

There was a pause for a moment from the other end. “Has - has there been any word?”

Lyra felt her expression harden. “No. Nothing.”

There was another pause before Errant spoke again. “You're ok, right?”

“Fine, Errant,” Lyra said quietly, not wanting to have this discussion now. Or ever.

“Lyra…” Errant Flight began, and then he sighed. “I have to get back to it. Take care of yourself, y’hear me?”

Without responding, Lyra signed off. She looked around the battered battlefield, before leaning against a lamppost with a sigh.

This… all of this… she thought to herself, eyes closed. I wish I was back home. I wish this stuff had never happened. I just want to go back to writing about Jorogumo.

She didn't even have that comfort any more: reports from Yamato were… sporadic, and never had any good news. The Griffon Empire was beset, the Qilin were building a war machine but they were (for perhaps the first time in their history) outnumbered, and most of the other nations - Homos, Simos, the Mongeldians and Horssians, the surviving Mols - were staying neutral, trying to keep out of it.

Like you even can, Lyra thought bitterly at them. Still, she supposed she couldn't blame them: who’d voluntarily submit themselves to this shit?

Language, Lyra, she thought to herself. She shoved away from the lamppost and headed off - she still had work to do.

***

Point Beta.

Around the inner defences she found the stern, taciturn face of Joseph Rither. His grey hair and stubble-covered face were always a welcome sight. He wore an old black Armacham bodysuit, a helmet tucked under one arm, and he was directing troops to other parts of the defence line when Lyra got to him.

“Joe,” she said quietly. “How goes it?”

“Still running around,” he replied. “None of these bastards have managed to have the balls to unite my body and soul yet. Startin’ to think no one ever will.”

Lyra smiled wryly. Joe belonged to a cult that had popped up in 2024 - the Dead Men. Their belief, so Lyra understood it, was that their their souls had departed this mortal coil a long time ago, and that only their bodies were ‘alive’, as a sort of cosmological error. They believed in putting their bodies to good use while they still could, something Lyra could respect at least.

“I'm not complaining,” she said half-jovially. “Still - do you need anything from me?”

Joe pondered the question for a moment, a slight frown on his face.

“Could do with you assigning one of our reserve REVs up here,” he said quietly after a moment. “We’ll need the extra hitting power when they attack.”

Lyra nodded. “I’ll get Danny to power one up.”

“Good,” Joe said. He paused. “We’ve had no word from Elliot?”

Lyra shook her head. “Anything from Eric’s team?”

“No, not since they headed off on patrol,” Joe said quietly. He sighed. “Good men. They'll be missed.”

“They're not confirmed dead yet,” Lyra pointed out with a frown.

“How many are, these days?” Joe asked, and Lyra didn't answer. They both knew that confirmed deaths were almost as much of a luxury as living.

Without another word, Joe turned away from her and headed off to give orders. Lyra sighed and headed off as well.

***

Elsewhere in the battered city, a yellow Earth Pony stallion was galloping down an alleyway, a scowl on his face. He quickly came to a stop, dashing behind a giant rubbish bin, as a patrol of Ivory Guard appeared at the end of the alley.

“Did you see that deviant?!” one of them yelled.

“No,” another said, though he didn’t exactly sound convincing.

“Seriously, did you see what he did?” the first voice yelled. “How did he -?!”

“Don’t think about it,” the second voice ordered sternly. “Take two and check this alleyway - the rest of you with me! We need to link up with Cohort Five at the gathering point.”

Shit, the yellow pony thought. Well, my day just keeps getting better.

He heard most of the guards trot off, their heavy armour clanking slightly. He heard the three trotting down the alley. He tried to still his breathing as much as possible.

“So,” one of the ponies said. “You hear about that new portable Arc-Gun they're supposed to be bringing out?”

“No, what about it?” one of his colleagues said.

“I keep hearing it'll have all sorts of different ammo types,” the first Guard said eagerly. “Like shard ammo, hellfire ammo -”

Just keep walking you shits, the yellow stallion thought as the trotting got closer.

“Don't believe everything you hear,” a third Guard voice, that of an older-sounding pony, said grimly. “I’ve been Guard since the old pre-Luna days: spears and magic’ve always done us right, these fancy new things aside. I remember the days before arccannons. You lot don’t know you’re born.”

“Come on,” the second pony said, now sounding uncomfortably close. “You telling me ‘magic and spears’ would beat these humans? Have you seen some of the bucking crazy stuff they've thrown our way?!”

“I once saw a machine three times the size of a pony!” the first Guard said in a hushed tone. “Tore through half my team…”

They passed the bin, not bothering to look behind them as they passed. The yellow stallion held his breath.

“That’s nothing,” the second Guard said. “I was at the steel wall - that was like walking into Tartarus.”

“Nothing in this fight’s been more dangerous than the stuff I saw in the Stratosphere war,” the older Guard (whom the yellow stallion couldn't help but think of as ‘Gramps’) said irritably. “You ever fought in a Rok? That’s tough fighting. Griffons are malicious bastards when they wanna be. These humans haven't -”

“Oh, come on!” the young Guard (‘Ensign Eager’, the yellow stallion mentally named him) said with a scowl. “Griffons don't have half the stuf these humans have brought to the table!”

“Yeah,” the second Guard (‘Bob’) said with a scoff. “I’d like to see Griffons with giant metal armour suits.”

“I wouldn't,” Gramps said with a derisive snort. “But you whippersnappers have the False Alicorns, the Super-Zeps, that thing they're building over the Foal Mountain…”

“What is that anyway?” Ensign Eager asked.

“Who cares,” Bob said blandly. “Won't do any good for us, will it?”

They were almost at the end of the alley. Any minute now, they'd disappear and he'd be able to move…

And then they turned a corner and were gone.

“B-fuck me,” the yellow stallion breathed. “I hate this shit.”

He shook his head, fighting back the urge to smoke a cigarette, and stepped away from the bin, before looking around. There were no other Guards.

“Ok,” he said to himself. “Got to get back.”

Without another word, Hell Blazer trotted away, trying to remain stealthy. Hopefully he'd be able to get back and tell everyone what was happening.

Hopefully.

***

St. Paul’s Cathedral. Command Post Alpha.

When Lyra finally found herself back in the Church - their makeshift field command - a few minutes later, she found herself wondering just what a sorry bunch she’d ended up commanding. There were a few Iron Clads, most of them Eric’s lot: their power-armoured forms were comforting, but even they were getting run down, their armour patched and battered, the metal dented and torn. The rest of the troops were little better off - the Dead Men wore all black uniforms, long trenchcoats and body armour where available. The Long Watchmen - what few you'd find further inland, anyway - wore their red uniform jackets with pride. The patchwork Knights of Albion, dressed in a raggedy combination of modern battle-dress and plate armour pieces, were stood listening to one of their Iron Clad number in Paladin armour listing off orders.

It's been a long war, Lyra thought to herself, and it's only gonna get longer.

After a few minutes, she found herself sat amongst a few of her old friends and colleagues. Vinyl Scratch, the blue-maned DJ, was there, her right eye milky-white and empty and her left hard and cold despite her jovial expression. With her was a bearded man with scruffy black hair and hard eyes, one side of which was shaven, his black Dead Man uniform battered and scuffed from constant battle.

“So,” Viktor Marius Kraber said, taking a puff of someone’s scum tobacco, “judging from your expression, the short story is ‘we’re fokked.’”

“Basically,” Lyra admitted with a grin.

“What’s the long one?” Vinyl asked, confused.

“No, he pretty much got it in one,” Lyra said grimly. She frowned at Vinyl. “Why are you even here, anyway?”

The DJ shrugged. “I was doing a morale tour. Not my fault you guys don't tell anypony when the Boners and the Fucking Asshats decide to show up.”

Lyra, despite herself, gave a grim smile. “And what about him?”

“I’m a popular character,” Kraber said, matter-of-factly.

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “Don’t go pulling that Pinkie P-”

“On the radio,” Kraber explained, with a knowing emphasis.

Lyra snorted. “Uh huh. Sure.”

“Look, back in med school, I wanted to go into radio and make a medical horror radio drama,” Kraber explained. “This worked too.”

“To be fair,” a new voice cut in, as another heavily-armoured figure entered the room, “it's not as bad as Hell Blazer’s ‘helpful things to do when you suddenly find yourself with hooves’ broadcast.”

“Don’t fokkin’ remind me,” Kraber groaned.

The armoured figure removed his helmet, revealing the young, smiling face of Eric Smith, his dark skin covered in soot. Lyra noticed with a slight twinge of concern that there were only a small group of his colleagues with him - he'd gone out with twenty men and three other Clads, but there were only five troopers with him and no other Clads.

“Eric!” Lyra said with relief. “Thank the white horse, I thought you were dead!”

“Reports of my death,” he said with a wry twist of his lips, “were somewhat exaggerated. A little. Ish.”

“What happened?” Lyra asked.

Eric’s smile faded. “We had FA trouble at the West End.”

“So much for that production of ‘Wicked’ I wanted to go see,” Vinyl muttered grimly. “You won, though.”

Eric’s smile faded. “If by ‘won’ you mean ‘managed to kill the single FA that popped up, no thanks to half my group getting vaporised’. Think the only reason there weren't more is that something was distracting them - I could hear the fighting further in the city.”

Lyra frowned. “What?”

“Wish I knew,” Eric said with a sigh. “I want to buy it a drink. One thing’s certain though - those things are getting tougher.”

“Or smarter,” Lyra concurred. “And we’re just getting lower and lower in supplies. I hear one of the EPAs at Point Gamma is running on no ammunition.”

Vinyl blanched. “Please tell me you mean ‘low ammunition’.”

“I know what I said,” Lyra said with a wry expression.

Vinyl whistled. “Well… fuck. I take it our supplies are -”

“Really, really low,” Lyra said with a nod. “That’s about the long and the short of it.”

Kraber ran a hand through his beard. “Hmmm. I’ll repeat my earlier assessment - we’re fokked.”

“Well, it's not all bad,” Lyra said with a raised eyebrow. “I hear it's gotten some modifications. Something about a mad Afrikaner painting it red and attaching what Lockett described as ‘more spikes than the average Punk Rock concert’. Then… resorting to boxing moves when it ran out… and bodyslamming people. And suplexing a crystal golem. You wouldn't know anything about that, Mr Kraber?”

The Afrikaner grinned. “I’m not apologizing.”

Lyra sighed. “Don't. But it doesn't change the facts. London is beset, reinforcements don't exist, and the enemy are pressing us.” She rubbed her forehead. “Eric - tell me you heard from John and David.”

Eric shook his head. “Their position would have been overrun by now.”

Lyra looked at him, her eyes full of something no one (or pony) could describe.

“Well then,” she said quietly. “We’ll hope they had an ace up their sleeves. They're too stubborn to go quietly. In the meantime, we keep at it.”

Eric nodded. “We’ll hold, Lieutenant. I promise you that much.”

“Until what?” Kraber asked.

“As long as we have to,” Vinyl said, cutting Eric off. “As. Long. As. We. Have. To.”

Kraber smiled. “So, no reinforcements, low ammo, no heavy hitters.” He cracked the knuckles of his trembling, uncertain hands. “Doesn’t seem fair for them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Eric said with a wry grin. “They do say, ‘all’s fair in love and war’, after all.”

Before anyone could say anything else, there was a little bit of a commotion at the entrance to the cathedral. A few soldiers rushed in, looking harried.

“Lieutenant!” one of them said. “It’s Hell Blazer!”

Lyra was up at once, her eyes wide. “John? What about him?”

“He just got back!” the soldier reported.

Just as he said this, a yellow Earth Pony burst into the cathedral, looking harried. He wore a shirt, tie and trenchcoat, with the number ‘666’ emblazoned on his flank. He trotted up to Lyra, looking at her with a grim expression.

“Lyra,” Hell Blazer said. “We need to talk.”

“Where’s David?” Lyra asked at once, frowning.

“That… is what we need to talk about, Lyra,” the yellow Earth Pony said grimly. “He’s gone.”

Lyra felt the blood leave her face at that pronouncement. “Gone? What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“I mean, he’s gone,” Hell Blazer said, giving her a knowing expression. “I’ve sent him: you remember the plan we discussed?”

“That’s crazy! Even if you get there -!”

“We’ll table it for now. But we’re desperate - it might be that we haven’t got a choice.”

“You didn’t,” Lyra whispered, her eyes widening in horror. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

Hell Blazer looked mournful. “I’m sorry, Lyra. He insisted.”

“Sorry,” Eric said from behind her, and she turned to see the armoured man looking confused. “What did he insist on? Where is he?”

Lyra and Hell Blazer exchanged glances, both looking unhappy.

“Equestria,” the Lieutenant said quietly after a moment. “Hell Blazer’s sent him to Equestria.”

Vinyl jumped up, her eyes widening in shock. Next to her, Kraber spat out the cigarette.

“Fok!” he swore.

“That’s… what the fuck, Hell Blazer?!” Vinyl exclaimed in shock. “Why the hell would you -?!”

“So he can kill the bitch!” Hell Blazer snapped angrily. “We’re gonna be b-b-fucking overrun in a matter of days, if that! But if he can kill her -”

“And if he can’t?!” Eric asked, looking somewhere between worried and angry.

“It was his choice,” Hell Blazer said quietly. “His orders.”

Eric looked even more surprised at that, but he quieted down, merely looking concerned. Vinyl sat back down, her face suddenly filled with something Lyra couldn’t describe, and Kraber put his head in his hands.

Lyra, for her part, felt… hurt. David hadn’t even called in to tell her what he was going to do. He hadn’t even…

… no. No, she wasn’t going to go there.

By the white horse, she swore to herself. You’d better get your arse back here alive, David Elliot, or I’ll bucking kill you.

***