“Now the fate of humanity lies in the hands of an assassin, a savage, a loyalist, a psychopath… they don‘t expect us to survive, but that never stopped me before.”
Commander Shepard, Mass Effect 2 Trailer.

En Route to the Scottish Archives, Scotland, August 4th 2024.

John Idle swore as the transport truck he was in jostled slightly. The dark haired man, dressed in simple military fatigues, was already tired of this bloody road trip without the fucking bumpy roads.

“Fuck!” he yelled. He leaned over so he could address the driver‘s cab. "Can‘t you fucking dodge the potholes?!"

“There‘s more potholes than there is road, mate,” the driver called back cheerfully. “Price we pay for the world going to shit, I guess.”

Idle grumbled and leant back in his uncomfortable seat.

“I call bullshit on this whole thing,” he said quietly, speaking as much to himself as to the other individuals in the truck. “Betcha this is some sort of graveyard assignment they‘re dumping us on.”

“Shut up complaining, Idle,” a surly, dark-haired woman by the name of Elise McGuiness said, a grin on her face.

“Why should I?” Idle asked. “I happen to like killing things. Being dumped guarding some shithole ain’t my idea of a glamorous assignment.”

“This’ll get us killing Empire-horsies soon enough, I can feel it,” Elise said, still grinning. “One thing’s for sure - this ain’t no graveyard job. Too much secrecy.”

That much was true - Idle and Elise had been with some HLF remnant and some of the new ‘Long Watch of Britannia’ crowd when they had been drafted by an officer for, as of yet, unknown reasons. Besides, Idle knew he was small fry, but surely being one of Yarrow’s own from the Enterprise counted for something.

In the corner of the truck, a red haired man was inspecting his pistol. His cold eyes were focused on every inch of the weapon, checking for flaws and damage.

“Oi, mate,” Idle said to the man. “What do you reckon this bullshit’s about?”

The man put his pistol away only to take out a second one: this one had a silencer equipped, like an assassin‘s weapon.

“My name is Brian Oliver, not ‘mate’,” he said gruffly. His eyes didn’t leave the gun. “To answer your question, I don‘t know. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say something covert, hence the secrecy.”

“Covert?” Idle repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t reckon there‘ll be much call for that. What‘re we gonna do, raid Princess Celestia’s knicker drawer?”

“It’s ‘Solamina’ now,” the driver called back. “‘Least, that‘s what I’ve heard. She changed it when the -“

"It can be Sandra the Space Horse for all I give a shit," Idle said with a smirk.

"Doubt that‘d have the same effect," Elise chuckled.

Brian shot a cold look towards the two. “Try to take this seriously. It won‘t be walk in the park, whatever it is.” He put away the other gun and focused on Elise and Idle. “What are your military assignments?”

Idle raised an eyebrow. "I‘m HLF - before this little sojourn, I was busy doing sweet FA: the provisional government before this Council lot took over didn‘t like the HLF much."

"And I was HLF too," Elise said quietly. "Though I‘ve been on a running retreat from Europe for years with most of the Front‘s best. We had to fight off PER every so often, but that was about it."

"So neither of you are military?" Oliver asked.

"Not in so many words," Idle said, shrugging. "We were linked up with some Long Watch lads, so -"

"Not military at all, then," Oliver cut him off dismissively, returning his attention to his pistol. "What about your skillsets?"

"Uh, infantry," Idle said. "Rifleman."

"CQC," Elise said. "I was always good with knives, punches, shotguns, pistols, that kinda thing…"

Oliver frowned slightly, looking the two of them over slightly before returning to his work. "Whatever this mission is, we will not have been picked by accident. Your skillsets will have been evaluated by our superiors."

"So they have a mission where they need a rifleman, a shotgunner and a whatever the hell you are?" Idle summarised.

Oliver narrowed his gaze on Idle. “What I am Mr Idle, is someone very skilled at removing targets from the picture. They would not have asked for us all without a very good reason.”

"If you say so mate," Idle said with a shrug. "‘Tween you and me, I just hope this doesn‘t have latrine duty."

Oliver said nothing else, instead returning to his work.

***

Outside the Scottish Archives, Scotland, August 4th 2024.

The compound was… underwhelming.

Considering the fact that this place was, among other things, the home of the Provisional Governing Council, the home of the newly incorporated BDF‘s R&D division, the home of the Equestrian Exodus‘ representatives and the final time capsule for all humanity (at least if you believed the rumours), the small redbrick building didn‘t inspire much confidence. There were only a small number of guards, a single chain-link fence, a tank, a few jeeps and the building itself.

Two men sat outside this building, both wearing military fatigues. One was a short-haired Frenchman with aquiline features and blue eyes, a soft, rueful smile on his face. The other was a bearded Afrikaner with hard brown eyes the color of maple syrup and scruffy hair shaved on the right side of his head. Both men wore armbands with a flayed skull symbol upon them, symbols of their allegiance to a new philosophy sweeping the surviving humans: the symbol of the Dead Men.

Each one carried a heavy, second-world-war era light machinegun. One man had found a Lewis Gun somewhere, and the other had taken the first man’s old Bren. In this day-and-age, you couldn‘t really hope for better weaponry. All around this island they had seen men equipped with whatever could be given to them: the only way that this place was any better was that, somehow, everyone had managed to be equipped with MP5s or L85s, looking - surprisingly - like a modern army.

“So, this is the home of the last hope of humanity,” the Frenchman said quietly. His accent was soft, barely perceptible, save for the occasional slip. “Doesn’t really inspire much ‘ope, does it?”

“Do we even have that anymore?” his companion asked gruffly, poking the armband on his friend‘s arm. “Thought this meant we were fresh out.”

“Figure of speech, mon ami,” the Frenchman said, smiling. “Hell, Viktor, you and I both know there‘s not much left to hope for.”

“Oui, true enough, bru,” the Afrikaner - Viktor - said quietly, his French accent truly abominable. “I like hope, but I‘m not stupid enough to see it where there ain’t any.”

There was a pause as the two considered their surroundings.

“So,” the Frenchman asked after a moment. “Why’d they call us up, you think?”

“Who gives a fok?” Viktor said, smirking. “Let’s just hope they let us bliksem something soon.”

“Excuse me?” a new voice asked. Both of them looked up, to see a man in full hazmat gear looking at them both. “Are you two Kraber and Dupont?”

“‘E’s Kraber, I’m Dupont,” the Frenchman said. “And who are you?”

“Private Jones,” the soldier said. “I‘ve been ordered to take you two down to the complex.”

Kraber threw Dupont a look, and Dupont shrugged.

“Not like there’s much else to do,” he said.

***

Scottish Archives, lower levels.

Lightning Dust paced.

She hated three things in her life more than anything else in the entire world: she hated not knowing what she was doing in a place, she hated ponies (and people) ordering her around, and she absolutely hated confined spaces. So, naturally, she absolutely loved it when she was ordered to report to a secret underground base without any explanation of why.

Didn’t help that all the guards in this place were so bucking bad tempered - they gave her filthy looks and pointed sullenly when she asked directions. Then again, she supposed they were still getting used to working with ponies. They hadn’t exactly received a brilliant impression, Lightning thought ruefully.

“You nervous or something?” the Unicorn stallion she had travelled with asked. “Only you ain‘t standing still.”

“It’s a Pegasus thing," the other mare, her coat purplish-pink, her blue-green and pink mane a short, irregular cut. She was tinkering with some strange crystal device. “We hate confined spaces.”

“You seem fine,” the stallion pointed out to her.

“I’m fixing a crystal projector I stole off that one guy… well, some guy,” the mare said with a grin. “It’s… very therapeutic.”

“Right,” the stallion said, clearly unconvinced. He looked at Lightning. “Maybe you should find something like that.”

“I’m a flyer, not a gadget geek - I can‘t be satisfied poking crystals!” Lightning snapped, before throwing the other mare a slowly sheepish look. “No offence.”

“Quite a lot taken, all the same to you,” the mare said cheerfully. “Least I’m better looking than you, though, eh?”

Lightning snorted, before looking at the stallion. “You wanna field that one, pal?”

The stallion raised an eyebrow. “Er… no.”

The flyer grinned. “Wuss.” She sighed. “I need to get back in the air.”

“You’ll get your chance, Miss Dust,” a new voice spoke.

The three ponies turned, to see a human man enter the room, arms behind his back. He was in military fatigues, a grin on his face as he surveyed them.

“Sir,” the stallion said. “Am I to assume you‘re the officer who requested our presence?”

“You can assume what you want, Corporal Grit,” the man said. “I am one of the officers you will be dealing with. Formal introductions will have to wait for the time being, however. The rest of the first recruits have yet to arrive.”

“First recruits?” Lightning repeated. “For what?”

“That will be explained to you in due course,” the man said with a smile.

With that, he turned to leave, leaving the ponies alone to digest this brief exchange. The stallion threw a look at Lightning, who shrugged.

“Well, that was certainly ominous,” the other mare said, shaking her head as she continued tinkering with the crystal projector.

“Yeah,” Lightning said quietly. She had a horrible feeling she wasn‘t going to enjoy any of this.

***

In the next room, General Anderson was waiting with Cheerilee for the other man to return from speaking with the recruits. Anderson’s arms were folded, and - though it had been his idea to begin this operation - he didn‘t look entirely happy so far. He was staring out through a tinted window at the ponies, as though trying to analyse whether they met his expectations.

Cheerilee was tired - she had been up for the last few nights, helping organise ponies in civilian and military roles. She had been almost unanimously voted as the individual in charge of representing the Exodus on the Council, which brought more strains than she had ever had to face.

With them was an older man, surrounded by nervous energy. He wore glasses and a tweed suit, both battered, the glasses dirty even as he made a motion to clean them and the suit threadbare and damaged.

“So,” Anderson began. “Progress?”

"We‘ve got reports that other names are being drawn up," Cheerilee said quietly. "We’ve already got humans fitting your man‘s profile choices, though working with HLF…"

“Idle and McGuinness are ideally suited to this job,” Anderson said, cutting the mare off. "Their HLF leanings will make them more willing to step in and do some damage to Solamina.”

“I hope you‘re right,” Cheerilee said. “I happen to find the idea of working with ex-HLF…”

“Look,” Anderson said, cutting her off. “I knew of some HLF in the expansion days - sure, you had the crazy ones, like the Nu-Gileadites and the Redmanes, but then you had the Jackals, the Kraken Grenadiers and the Reavers, people pwho just wanted to save people from the Barrier or the PER. People were scared.” He snorted. “Besides, Idle’s one of Yarrow’s own.”

“I know,” Cheerilee said with a sigh. “I just wonder how many innocents died because the HLF were ‘scared’.”

There was a long pause as the two stood in silence.

“The ponies seem like interesting choices,” General Anderson said quietly, changing the subject. “Lightning Dust‘s record…”

.She was kicked out of the Wonderbolts for recklessness,” Cheerilee reassured Anderson. .Not for being a bad flyer. She’ll do the job we ask of her, albeit probably with a lot of lip.”

“And the others?”Anderson asked, glancing at her.

“Heliotrope is an expert in Equestria‘s magical tech,” Cheerilee explained. “No two ways about it, she’ll be an asset. True Grit, on the other hoof, is just a downright dependable, if inexperienced, Guardspony.”

“Which I suppose will be useful in its own right,” the tweed suit wearing man said quietly, almost to himself. Anderson threw a look at him.

“And what about your lot, Rupert?” he asked, sounding half mocking. “The Council come up with anything to help us?”

“We‘re trawling through names of individuals to help this little assemblage of yours,” Rupert Giles said quietly. “I can think of one fellow who might be good to have on hand, assuming we can find him. He’s been making that effort difficult since before I can remember. As for our researches into specialised weaponry and equipment…”

“That was one of the things we needed, Mr Giles,” Anderson said, sounding impatient.

“Yes, well,” Giles said, grimacing. “Without sufficient test subjects or test formula, working on an anti-potion defence has been proving problematic, but we do have some ideas. As for weapons, that‘s simpler. Basic strengthening and lightening enchantments, some additional - shall we say, esoteric functions…”

“And superior weapons?” Anderson asked.

“There are some in the works at early stages,” Giles said. “Unfortunately, they may take months to implement.”

Anderson cursed, saying nothing as he turned away from Giles.

“In months, we may already lose thousands of lives,” Cheerilee said softly. “The Solaminan Empire has been testing the waters, attacking the blockade. We’ve heard reports of thousands of Solaminan soldiers being killed in these skirmishes, along with hundreds of our own.”

“It’s only a beginning,” Anderson said with quiet certainty.

“Unfortunately, unless you want these weapons to malfunction horribly, we are limited to our current rate of progress," Giles said, smiling sadly. "We could, perhaps, attempt to accelerate the development of some weapons, but their integrity in the field might be compromised…”

“And we don’t want that,” Anderson finished, rubbing his nose. “Goddammit.”

“Are there any other candidates we‘ve got lined up?” Cheerilee asked quietly.

“Plenty,” Anderson said quietly. “Even with the Doctor ruling himself out, there’s always people we can look up. Hell, half the Dead Men volunteered -”

“Is that really what they’re calling themselves?” Giles asked, frowning. “Seems a little… morbid.”

“We live,” Anderson said with a wry grin, “in morbid times. In any case, their leader gave us two of their number with solid military records. Kraber and Dupont are former Foreign Legion, both reasonably experienced during the retreat from the Barrier, neither of them brilliant team players. Kraber’s also a doctor, if that helps.”

“Any others?” Cheerilee asked, not commenting on Kraber.

“I can think of a few names that might work,” Giles said quietly. “Magicians with a reputation for being able to survive insane things, along with the odd violent and lucky addition. I think most of them made it here - Zatanna Zatara, Jade Nguyen, David Canterbury, Dr Brennan McAllister from the Isle of Wight, Erin Walder, Mark Peterson - he‘s the chain man, very odd chap - then there‘s John Constantine, a fellow I know of called Kent and his wife… there’s a girl called Dawn Gleeson who‘s come to work for us in the last couple of months, but I‘d rather leave her out of it at present…”

“Make some calls,” Anderson ordered. “See who you can get.”

Giles nodded.

A moment later, the dark-haired officer entered their room, looking pensive.

“Colonel Munro,” Anderson said. “Your assessment?”

“My assessment has yet to begin, General,” Munro said quietly. “These guys don’t strike me as disciplined enough to be able to pull off what you told me they had to. Not yet, anyway.”

“Disciplined might not be all we need, Colonel,” Anderson said quietly, throwing the man a sideways glance. Munro turned to look at him, frowning slightly.

“Then what do we need?” he asked.

“We need a team of the best,” Anderson said, “and we need them to work as a team. But their strength might be in the individual skillsets as much as their ‘team spirit’.”

“You want a commando team with skills that complement each other,” Giles put in.

Anderson raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Quite an impressive military assessment, Mr Giles."

Giles shrugged. “I have occasionally been known for them. Fighting demons is a lot like fighting a war, and with considerably fewer resources than you’ve been accustomed to, as well.”

“How am I supposed to know when I’ve got that team?” Munro asked, frowning in irritation.

Anderson smiled grimly, before turning back to look through the tinted window.

“If I knew that, Colonel,” he said softly, “we’d all be happier. Are the rest of the recruits nearly here?”

“They’re on their way down now,” Munro said quietly. “There’s only one other question I need to ask.”

Anderson looked at the Colonel, whose arms were folded again.

“What’s the mission, sir?” Munro asked. “I’ve been asked to put together a commando team, with all these unique skills… but what for?”

Anderson looked at Cheerilee and Giles, both of whom looked grave, before turning back to the Colonel.

“Alright, Harry,” he said quietly. “Here’s what we’ve got.”

***

Undisclosed location, Equestria.

Manewell Trotsworth looked over his reports with a critical eye. His desk at the Sunstorm compound was, at best, an absolutely chaotic array of papers, blueprints, and pens. And yet, somehow, he understood this system perfectly.

It was only a small, cramped wooden office in this ridiculously remote place, but every inch of it was arranged in a way that - though incomprehensible to the various underlings that kept marching into this stupid place to bother him - was perfect for his needs.

Alright, he said, going over a document filled with graphs. Where did that last test go wrong…?

There was a knock at his door, and he sighed.

“Enter,” he said testily.

At once, the door opened, and Manewell stiffened as Twilight Sparkle entered, her expression dour.

“Professor,” she said curtly. “You’re behind schedule on your reports.”

“Of course I am,” Manewell replied at once, waving a hoof dismissively. “Have you seen this place? And the quality of workers -”

“You are making excuses, Professor Trotsworth,” Sparkle said, cutting him off without so much as raising her voice. “The Empress may find your work promising, but all the promise on Equus will not save you if you do not deliver results.”

He rolled his eyes at her. “Alright, Milady Sparkle. You want results?”

He shoved the document he had been holding in her direction. With a deft glow from her horn, she looked over the document, her eyes darting across it.

“How soon can these calculations be corrected?” she asked, her tone not changing.

“That would depend on how many times you wish to interrupt me as I work,” Manewell retorted.

Sparkle met his eyes impassively. “Be careful, Trotsworth. You are intelligent, but your work is not irreplaceable. Do not make yourself more trouble than you are worth.”

“You just make sure that Haughty Frame’s design is prepared to take on Sunstorm,” Manewell said, scowling at her. “If I have to listen to that stallion whine one more time about the pressure on his precious super-zeppelin…”

“Mr Frame’s concerns are already noted, Professor,” Sparkle said. She returned the document and turned to leave. “Produce results, Trotsworth. For your son’s sake.”

Manewell growled as Sparkle left, and picked up the document again without another word.

Bitch, he thought, wincing as he thought it. She’ll see. They’ll all bucking see. I’ll end this stupid, wasteful war in one fell swoop.