“Kill them. Kill them all.”
Alma Wade, F.E.A.R.

It begins with a gentle prodding. Not of the body, of course, for that is impossible, even if you were as inert as they think you are, but of the mind. You are unused to such prods down here – most minds are not capable of perceiving you and those that do are unfortunately too weak to survive the contact, or you might make use of them. Even so, there is a prodding.

'Hello?' it asks, seeking tentative contact.

You ignore it. These things are not your concern. If this mind is wise, it will leave you be before it gains your attention. If it is not, you will destroy it.

Suddenly, the prodding becomes a sharp jab. In anger, you turn your attention to this interloper. Your rage is a scream, furious and undefined by mere words, and you know the interloper can feel it.

'Intriguing,' the voice replies to this, as though for all the world you had not just unleashed enough rage to cow all but the most powerful. 'You're as strong as they said you were. You will serve Her will nicely.'

Serve? Serve? You have served the wills of others before, and you remember exactly what it got you.

‘Give me back my baby!’

No. You do not think you will serve this mind's "Her", whoever "She" is. You can feel more prodding, more minds enter your domain, and they move as though directed by some other mind. They are strange... they remind you of something you might have thought important long ago, before the pain, the rage, the betrayal. No matter. Their bodies are soft, furry and they burn just as easily as any other you have destroyed before.

You hear their death screams in your mind as they die. The screams are tinged with something you do not recognise. Relief? It is as though these souls are glad to be freed of their coil, as though the life they lived was some sort of prison binding them. You are happy to oblige them. You kill more.

The last to die is the one who jabbed. You sense confusion, terror, and a dawning understanding that you are not one with whom to toy. But more than that, as that mind dies, you sense a certainty.

Others will come. They will subdue the subject to Her Majesty's Will.

The threat is implicit and it is understood. This intrusion is the first by these new murderers, but it will not be the last. These ones, these ones who have dared come into your sanctum and tried to tame you, these fools… they will not threaten you.

You will see to it. You have weapons at your disposal already, weapons already primed for revenge, and now primed to defend you from this intrusion...

Canterlot, Equestria.

No expense had been spared in the construction of Canterlot. And it was quite likely that no expense ever would be spared. White marble, gold, all of it made the city so incredibly, wonderfully bright.

Somehow, that seemed to make the shadows deeper. The light was icy, like there was no true warmth flowing from that bright orb and descending upon the surface of Equus. And even here, in the seat of Equestria’s mighty Solar Empire, there was something ominous to be observed about that light.

Not that the ponies of Equestria noticed, or at least, not that many of them noticed. For them, the Queen’s Sun was in the sky and all was right with the world. For, perhaps… an Equestrian Resistance member, and many others leaning towards their position but not quite pointing to it, they would likely say the light was pallid. They would likely compare it to a winter day – though spring was just on its way – where the Sun shone but failed to provide warmth.

For Twilight Sparkle, chief scientist of the Solar Empire, Bearer of Harmony, and most high among the high in the hierarchy of this New Order, second only to the Queen herself, the light was stark and beautiful, chasing away the shadows in which the enemies of her mistress could hide. She was not the kind, friendly mare of old, in search of the answers to questions about magic and friendship. Now, she was dedicated to a singular cause: the cause of victory for the Solar Empire at all costs.

In that cause, Twilight's office had become home to a wide variety of paperwork. Requests for information, new intelligence provided from the front, research into new Newfoal variants...

For Equestria was at war.

A war that did not touch these lands, save economically, but instead was fought on another world, against another species. This was the war against Earth, against humanity, a war that Twilight Sparkle was determined would be won. Recently, a series of setbacks – the Fillydelphia project being stalled (something about the totem-prole systems needing adjustment) chief amongst them – had left Queen Celestia… dissatisfied with the progress of the war, and by extension, dissatisfied with Twilight Sparkle’s efforts, as chief of research and development, to end it. Previously, Shieldwall, the PER stallion in charge of the Fillydelphia Project, had taken up a lot of the slack. But he had increasingly dropped off the map, and that had left Twilight with his workload and more.

One such effort that she was now researching was a field of inquiry in a city called Fairport on Earth. PER agents – late under Shieldwall’s auspices – had been investigating reports that secret human weapons were being developed in that city, weapons that could change the course of the war… if placed under the command of the correct hands, or rather, the correct hooves.

She was awaiting a field agent’s arrival. Travel between Equus and the planet Earth was difficult as a general rule, but there were still a scant handful of portal stations that would be accessible for her agents.

“Lady Sparkle,” a melodic voice said, and she looked up. A graceful-looking Newfoal was standing in the doorway, an apologetic expression on her face.

“What is is, Mournful Symphony?” she asked.

“Regretfully, the honoured PER representatives have not arrived on schedule,” Mournful Symphony said, her expression penitent. “We have sent messages via prole network, but we have received no ETA.”

Twilight clicked her tongue. “Unacceptable. Field agents or not, this was pre-arranged days ago. Send a message expressing my displeasure and demanding that they account for this failure.”

Mournful Symphony bowed. “At once, Lady Sparkle.”

She turned to go, and Twilight closed her eyes, feeling an all-too familiar scratching behind them. Frankly, Twilight Sparkle, I’m starting to wish you were running your own damn show. This bureaucracy is irritating at best.

“Lady Sparkle?”

Twilight opened her eyes and frowned at Mournful Symphony.

“What is it, Symphony?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“We have received an additional message from the PER at Fairport through the prole network,” Symphony said, a slight frown on her normally placid face. “I do not understand it contextually.”

Twilight rolled her eyes. “Not surprising anypony there, Symphony. Read the text.”

Symphony brought out a scroll. “To Lady Sparkle, stop. We have entered the human facility where we believe their experimental weapon is housed, stop. So far, comma, we have encountered little resistance infiltrating base, comma, and are about to no no please don’t hurt me -”

Twilight snatched the scroll away from Symphony with her TK and immediately began reading the scroll.

‘To Lady Sparkle.

We have entered the human facility where we believe their experimental weapon is housed. So far, we have encountered little resistance infiltrating base, and are about to no no please don’t hurt me ah ah ah ah ah ah’

Dictation, Twilight thought distantly. Picked up what happened and relayed it.

She looked up at Symphony. “Raise them on audio immediately.”

“We tried to once we’d received the message, my lady,” Symphony said placidly. “The totem prole regretfully suffered cataclysmic failure.”

Twilight blinked. “Cataclysmic failure?”

“It combusted,” Symphony said with a blank expression. “There was something of an unpleasant noise associated with it.”

“Noise?” Twilight repeated. “Describe.”

Symphony’s expression twisted in concentration. “Some kind of distorted screaming, Lady Sparkle. The honoured prole-operator then passed immediately afterward.”

Twilight felt the blood drain from her face. “Passed?”

“His head exploded, Lady Sparkle.”

Twilight swallowed. “Right then. Contact field Commander Blunt Instrument. I want his entire Expeditionary Detachment dispatched to Fairport, NOW.”

Symphony blinked. “The… entire detachment, Lady Sparkle?”

“DID I STUTTER, SYMPHONY?!” Twilight yelled. “DEPLOY THE DETACHMENT! NOW!”

Symphony bowed, not reacting to the yelling, and left. Twilight let out a breath.

Anything that can overload a totem-prole is magical in nature and powerful, she thought, already writing down the preliminary notes for a report to the Queen. Needs to be contained. Put to the right use if possible, but destroyed if not.

She allowed herself to relax. A detachment of Guards would be able to handle it. She was sure that, no matter what this thing was, it was no match for Her Majesty’s soldiers.

Been sitting on this for three years, in one form or another. ‘Bout sodding time I got it out. I’ll try to keep the updates coming - this had a fair bit of material ready so it’s fair to say I’ll be tapping away for a while. 🙂

Thanks to Doctor Fluffy for everything he’s done. Good person, that one. Go read his Light Despondent Remixed: this story may contain slight spoilers for that one.

EDIT: Reworked this slightly due to timeline error. 27/07/2018.

“A war is coming, I've seen it in my dreams. Fires sweeping over the Earth, bodies in the streets, cities turned to dust... retaliation.”
Paxton Fettel, First Encounter Assault Recon.

Silence. Silence and patience. These are the things that define him, now, the things that he has learned to cultivate in this prison they call a barracks. It is an amusing lie – he can smell their fear, smell the terror they have for him and what he is capable of.

He kneels alone in his room, his eyes closed. He is concentrating.

He is listening.

“Who are you?” he says aloud to nothing. “Why are you in my head? What do you want?”

Whatever he is listening to does not answer in words, not at first. There is a murmuring, a noise below the levels of comprehension most people have, and yet he can hear it.

“You are me,” he said, his eyes still closed. “We are one.”

The murmuring grows closer.

“Show me your pain,” he says.

Kill them.

“Make me understand.”

Kill them all.

And he screams…

David Elliot’s eyes shot wide open, his breathing panicked. It took him a minute to calm down and get his breathing under control, and when he had, he slowly sat up, before putting his head in his hands and trying to make sense of… whatever that dream had been.

Where was I? he thought. It felt…

Real. He didn't want to acknowledge it, but that was… exactly the word. Like he had been inside someone else’s thoughts.

He shook his head slightly, looking around the room and trying to distract himself.

The barracks he and his team were in were good quality – single beds, boxes and bedside tables for personal effects, the works. That was something at least. Not often a man could say that he even had a proper barracks anymore.

What time is it? he wondered, glancing at his bedside clock. 04.03, it blinked at him in nauseating neon blue. He grimaced: not long then, before someone would come and yell at him to wake up. Sergeant he may have been, but there was always a bigger arsehole above you, especially these days.

Should’ve just opened my damn bookshop, he thought irritably. Least then I’d be in charge of my own damn sleeping time.

“You look like shit,” True Grit, one of his squad, commented a few hours later in the mess hall. A green Unicorn stallion with a shaven mane, a couple of ugly scars and a battered shield for a cutie mark, Grit was one of those ponies for whom the military life was not as much of a shock to the system as it could have been.

“Thanks, mate,” Elliot said, rolling his eyes. “Nice to know.”

He’d managed to tidy himself up: tossing on his grey uniform fatigues and looking generally less like a complete pile of dogshit.

“Bad dreams again?” Sam Lake, another of his friends, asked. Sam was a clean-shaven blonde man, a seemingly permanent twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Yeah,” Elliot said quietly. “No idea what it was this time.”

“Can’t be a good sign,” True Grit said. “You sure you didn’t dip a loose strand of hair in potion or something?”

Elliot rolled his eyes. “Would I be standing here in one piece if I hadn't? Seriously, Grit, it’s just bad dreams. We’re in a war of annihilation, I think I’m entitled to a few.”

Next to Grit, a sturdy-looking Earth Pony stallion with a tower shield cutie mark and a massive scar on his throat nodded emphatically. He tapped the table.

“Yeah, I know, Hoof“ Grit replied, rolling his eyes. “But still.”

Steady Hoof, unable to speak due to the injury to his throat, simply shrugged.

“Lay off, Grit,” Elliot said quietly. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

“Yeah, so fine that Colonel Hex had his shrinks interview you,” Grit muttered under his breath.

Elliot scowled. “Hey, that was just -“

Before he could finish what he was saying, a man walked up to the group, clad in a white Kevlar vest. He looked at Elliot and frowned.

“Sergeant David Elliot?” he asked.

“Uh,” Elliot said, frowning at the unfamiliar uniform. “Yes?”

The man held out a small piece of paper. “You've been summoned. Colonel Harrison Munro wants to speak to you.”

Elliot frowned, before looking at the missive.

To Sgt. David Elliot, UN Taskforce.

You and your squad are requested and required to report to Colonel Harrison Munro, First Encounter Assault Recon, immediately upon receipt of this message.

Signed,
Col. Harrison Munro Snr.

“The fuck?” Grit said, reading the message over Elliot’s shoulder. “What’s ‘First Encounter Assault Recon’?”

“Colonel Munro will explain everything, gentlemen and gentlestallions,” the man said. “If you’ll come with me.”

Elliot and Sam exchanged a glance, and then Sam shrugged.

“Duty calls, mate,” he said.

Elliot just sighed. “Ours not to reason why, Sam.”

They stood, and Hoof and Grit followed suit.

“Anyone else got a bad feeling about this?” the latter muttered.

“Don’t even,” Elliot said. “Let’s just go.”

They want her. He will not let them have her.

Bad enough that she has been kept imprisoned for a lifetime, bad enough that she has been kept from him and he from her. But now, for servants of an alien power to try and harness her…

It. Will. Not. Stand.

He kills. He kills the guards. He kills the elite guards. With a thought, his men, his Replica, kill more. He feels them, moving through him, through his mind.

They say they know you. They say you made them.

He tears what knowledge he needs from the flesh of his prisoners, and he knows enough. Enough to know the name of those trying to take her from him again.

The PER. The Solar Empire. Ponies.

He is not worldly enough to know the absurdity of alien equines trying to destroy the world, and even if he were, he would not care. Instead, he memorises tactics from the minds of others he takes prisoner. He learns.

He will know how to take them all.

“So what do you think this is about?” Sam asked as they strode toward a nondescript building, one of many similar buildings in New York city. They’d left Steady Hoof by the APC, waiting for them.

“No idea,” Elliot replied. “All I know is, this bloke calls us in and he has the authority to do it. That means we shut up in there, Sam.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam said, grinning slightly. “All I know is, this is fuckin' irregular.”

“What about this war isn't irregular?” Elliot asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Will you two stop bickering?” True Grit snapped. “Sam, has it occurred to you that this isn't altogether that irregular? We might just be being called in for new orders.”

“New orders from some bloke none of us have ever met,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, Dave, the guy asked for us personally. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”

“A little,” Grit admitted with a wry grin. “None of us are that important. Still, there's no reason to keep going on about it.”

“Hey, all I'm sayin' is that this is weird,” Sam said. “This isn't gonna be a normal mission – I can almost fuckin' guarantee it.”

“We'll find out soon enough,” Elliot said tiredly. “We're here.”

They reached the doors of the office, the words H. Munro, Colonel printed on them in bold letters. Elliot knocked on the door smartly.

“Come in!” a deep voice with an American accent called out from inside.

With a final look at True Grit and Sam, Elliot opened the door and he and his team entered the office of H. Munro.

The room was sparsely decorated: a plaque on a wall commemorated “Harry Munro Jnr”, with a picture of a man younger than either Sam or Elliot in a uniform not unlike the one the soldier who’d summoned them had worn. Other than that, there were no personal effects to speak of. The office was almost aggressively austere, which seemed to fit Munro himself.

He was a pale but hearty looking man in his late forties, slightly gone to seed but seemingly mostly as strong and combat-built as he would have been in his youth. Steadily encroaching baldness seemed to be encroaching against his widow’s peak, giving his hair an angular look that was almost impossible not to notice. His smart uniform was black, with a white patch on his jacket, the letters F.E.A.R printed on it in small letters.

He was on the phone, and held up a single hand to forestall them.

“Colonel Gardner, may I remind you – yes, I’m aware that there are Spader-HLF operating near Fairport, but the HLF Have Armacham guns and equipment, not Replica.” He sighed. “Colonel – no, Colonel, I’m well aware. Yes.” He paused, and then his expression hardened. “May I remind you, Colonel, that we are of equal rank. Threatening me won't cut it. Let me be clear: I have been given operational authority both in my dealings with the Spader-HLF and in my dealings with Armacham. Armacham have requested my assistance, and if the Spader Loyalists are there, that makes this doubly my purview. If you want to complain to our superiors, you are more than welcome, but until then, butt the fuck out or I will snap you back so hard you’ll wish you were on Omaha in ‘44, and I know a man who can make that happen. Am I clear?” He let out a breath. “Fine. Have fun doing that, bye.”

He out the phone down, and let out a long sigh.

“Apologies for that, gentlemen,” he said, “just having a disagreement with Colonel Gardner. He’s been pushing me for months.”

“Uh, no problem, sir,” Elliot said.

“Now then, Sergeant Elliot, Mr Grit, Mr Lake,” Munro greeted each of them in turn. “It's good to finally meet you. I'm Harrison Munro, First Encounter Assault Recon.”

“Sir,” Elliot replied stiffly. True Grit just nodded.

“Forgive the somewhat clandestine nature of your summons, gentlemen and gentlestallion,” Munro continued, with a nod to Grit, “but it was important we keep this somewhat hush hush. The mission we are about to discuss is classified at top levels. In fact, there are certain high ranking officials in the PHL who were never privy to what I'm about to tell you.”

“Certain officials?” Sam repeated. “All due respect, sir, but what the hell does that mean?”

“What it means, Mr Lake,” Munro said with a wry smirk, “is that beyond them sanctioning 'actions deemed fit to help save the human race', not even Lyra Heartstrings herself knew about what I'm going to discuss with you. I think it I would prefer to keep it that way.”

True Grit blanched. “Lyra didn't know about this? But the PHL was her creation, she was the head of it. Why wouldn't she know?”

“There are always things you keep from the head of an organisation if you think it prudent,” Munro said blandly. “This is one of those things. Now tell me gentlemen, what do you know about Armacham Technology Corporation?”

“They're a weapons company, right?” Elliot asked slowly, still confused by the fact that Lyra Heartstrings had been kept in the dark about... something. “They help make all sorts of experimental stuff: the Hammerhead flechette penetrator, the Type 12 laser weapon...”

“How'd you know that?” Grit asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Got bored, thought I might want to buy something more shooty,” Elliot shrugged.

“You're right, of course, Sergeant,” Munro said. “Armacham in the public eye focus on producing weapons of that sort. Advanced, powerful things, to be sure, but not why we are interested in them.” He smiled wryly. “At the outset of the war, certain UN and PHL operatives – including myself – were approached by Armacham agents with overtures toward a particular purchase.”

“What sort of purchase?” Elliot asked.

“Soldiers, Sergeant,” Munro said. “If the project was successful – and it was already in the last stages of development when Armacham approached us – it would give humanity a large army of highly trained, heavily armed, efficient and most importantly, expendable soldiers. Our answer to the Newfoals.”

“What were they, robots?” Sam asked.

“No, Mr Lake,” Munro said. “Clones. The official term was 'the Replica program': these soldiers are essentially grown 'blanks' that answer to a single commander that controls them via psionic and telesthenic power.”

“Psionic what now?” Sam asked. “Isn’t that like those stupid tests you do in school, seeing if you can guess what’s on the other kid’s card?”

Munro’s smile seemed a little strained at that.

“Sorry, back this little story up for the confused pony here,” True Grit said, frowning in confusion at the turn the conversation had taken. “What's ‘psionic power’?”

“It’s the posh term for psychic stuff,” Elliot said quietly. “When you’re a kid, some schools run tests on you to see if you’ve got it. Whether you can ‘see’ what’s on some other kid’s card, or maybe guess what colour crayon a teacher is holding.”

“Indeed,” Munro said quietly.

“But… that’s magic,” True Grit said, now sounding even more confused. “I thought humans couldn't do magic.”

“We can’t, generally,” Munro said. “But certain individuals have the gift. There was a project ATC was involved in requiring work with psionics. They were trying to create a psychically receptive army of clone soldiers, controlled by a single psychic commander.”

“Sorry, what?” Grit asked. “Could you dumb that down a little more for the poor lost Unicorn, sir?”

“A single commander could control an entire army of psychic clones with his mind,” Munro explained. “Receive real-time telemetry from the battlefield, make decisions without them being lost in translation.”

“I take it something's gone wrong with this project if we're being called in,” Elliot guessed.

Munro sighed and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I received information from Armacham early this morning. The prototype commander, a man – in the loosest sense of the word – named Paxton Fettel, has gone rogue, apparently in response to a series of PER terrorist attacks in the Fairport area. The entire battalion of prototype Replica have gone rogue with him.”

“Jesus,” Sam whispered. “An entire battalion... no telling what he might be able to do with that kind of force.”

“He's fighting PER and Newfoals, you said?” True Grit asked. “Is it sticking to that?”

“I'm not aware of the situation to that level of detail,” Munro said, frowning. “We can hope so.”

There was a long pause, finally punctuated by one word from Sam.

“Bollocks.”

“Armacham has requested assistance from the UN on this matter,” Munro continued, ignoring the comment. “As of now, you gentlemen are assigned to F.E.A.R and are tasked with investigating what's going on. If possible, resolve the matter without damaging Fettel. Otherwise, neutralise him and the threat the Replica pose. The last thing we need is another threat.” He looked from one of the individuals in front of him to the other. “Any questions?”

The three shared an uneasy glance at these words.

“Why us, sir?” Elliot asked, speaking for all of them.

Munro shifted in his seat. “The usual reasons one team is chosen over another, Sergeant. Your team’s mission successes are more than adequate, you’re available, and we’ve not got enough time to bring in specialists. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Elliot said, still not feeling entirely comfortable with any of this.

“If that's all, Sergeant, your APC is waiting for you and the rest of your team should be there,” Munro said dismissively. “You set out for Fairport tomorrow. Good luck, Mr Elliot.”

Elliot saluted. A moment later, Sam and True Grit followed suit, and then all three exited.

“Well that was weird,” Grit said quietly.

“That's one way to put it,” Elliot said quietly.

“Of all the shit I expected,” Sam put in, “I never imagined that it'd come to being involved with this kind of bloody op. Replicas – fucking clone soldiers. What the hell, man?”

Elliot chuckled too, as did Grit.

“Yeah,” True Grit sighed. “Strange to hear that you humans might have something like magic.”

“I thought was just bullshit science, a fad from when we were kids,” Sam said, running a hand through his hair.

“Bullshit or not, we're working with psionics now,” Elliot said, rubbing a hand through his hair and trying to wrap his head around the idea. “Come on: we have an APC to get to.”

When they had left, Munro sighed, and picked up his phone, dialling a number he didn’t enjoy calling.

“Hello,” he said when the other end had picked up. “Yes, I’ve got them on the mission. You’re sure about this? I can have…” He paused. “Look, I don’t exactly trust this idea. We can’t afford for Fairport to blow up in our faces. I’d rather focus our efforts on getting Fettel locked down than -” He sighed as the person on the other end interrupted him. “Alright. I understand. I’ll let you know. Just… just let them do their jobs first, before you do this.” He paused. “Alright. And you’re sure you don’t want the First… right. Yes, I see.” He sighed. “Very well. I’ll keep you informed.”

He sighed again, and put down the phone. Frowning, he picked it up again, scrolled through his contacts, and found a particular number.

This is going to suck, he thought, dialling it. A moment later, the man on the other end picked up… except it was a woman’s voice.

“Munro,” she said. “This is surprising.”

“Hello?” Munro said. “Is that… you?”

“Colonel, I don’t even know how you got through to me-me, but I’m busy,” the irate voice said. “What do you -”

“Fairport,” Munro said, cutting the woman off.

There was a long pause. “David Elliot and his team.”

“That’s right,” Munro said. “I think I may need your help. Whichever you it is.”

“I think you might be right,” the woman replied. There was a pause. “I’ll be right there. Don’t let me know, he won’t know I’m around for another few months, your time, and he’ll get irritable.”

“Whatever you say, Doc,” Munro said with a bemused sigh.

“And don’t call me that,” she said irritably. The line went dead, and Munro put down the phone, sighing again.

This… is really going to suck.

Steady Hoof nodded as the group exited the building and approached their APC. Near them, an auburn Pegasus with a kite shield cutie mark similar to Grit's stood, and he saluted at Elliot as he arrived. Behind him was a sky-blue Unicorn with a white mane and a smile, a violin cutie mark on her flank. All of them were wearing uniforms unfamiliar to Elliot: black body armour with white kevlar segments, all of it presumably F.E.A.R standard equipment.

“Private Errant Flight, sir,” he said, grinning. “Late of the PHL, now assigned to your F.E.A.R unit.”

“Errant Flight?” True Grit said, eyes wide with surprise. A moment later he ran up and hugged the stallion. “Heck, man, I didn't know you'd be here!“

“Hell yeah!“ Flight said with a smirk. “Where else would I be? I got a call saying 'you're wanted for this mission' so I come, and here Hoof is…”

“Good to know we're all in the same unit,” Grit said.

“They’re about as likely to put you guys in different units as they are putting me and Sam in different units,” Elliot said with a snort.

“You say that, I was actually pretty worried they'd call you off and leave me behind,” Sam said with a chuckle.

“They'd be idiots,” Elliot said with a grin. “You and me? We're unstoppable together.”

“So who are you, exactly?” Sam asked Flight.

“Errant was in Guard training with me,” True Grit said, still grinning widely. “We were in different units, but we all left around the same time.”

“Technically, I was kicked out,” Errant said with a smirk. “Bit too much mouth, bit too much drinking.”

“Sounds like my sort of bloke,” Sam said with a grin.

“Ahem,” the Unicorn mare said quietly, interrupting them all. “Excuse me, sir?”

Elliot turned to the mare with a questioning expression. She saluted him.

“Private Viola Heartswell,” she said with a smile. “Assigned to your F.E.A.R unit as medic and technical operator.”

“Private Heartswell,” Elliot said with a nod, frowning slightly. “You'll forgive me if I'm a little uncertain – Mr Flight at least has someone to speak for him in my team so I'm somewhat aware of his credentials. What about yourself?”

“I'm only recently qualified,” Heartswell said with a sheepish smile. “Used to be a violinist, but there's not much call for music in a war, so...”

“So you decided to join the PHL and probably die?” Sam said with a raised eyebrow.

“Smooth, man,” True Grit said with a sigh. “Real smooth.”

“It was where I was needed, sir,” Heartswell said with a soft tone, an expression of absolute certainty on her face.

Elliot sighed, before smiling. “I can understand that feeling. It's why I'm here, too.”

He looked at everyone and everypony in turn, trying to find a way to explain the mission. Eventually, he sighed.

“This is gonna be a weird one,” he said. “Top secret. Hush, hush. We're gonna be privy to some secrets not even the top of top brass knew.”

“And how,” Grit added, eyes widening as he spoke. “I still can't believe they didn't...”

“Anyway,” Elliot cut him off, “I think we'd all best get some sleep. We'll be heading out first thing tomorrow and I want everyone – and pony – in top form.”

There was a chorus of affirmatives as Elliot spoke, and he smiled at his group. He felt confident that whatever crazy shit this mission would throw at them, his team would be able to deal with it.

“Dismissed, guys,” he said.

Back in the game, and this is freshly tweaked too. Have fun.

“You still don’t know, do you? What you are? Why you’re here?”
Paxton Fettel, F.E.A.R.

London was burning.

Skyscrapers had turned into metal skeletons, incinerated by magical attacks fired by Convies and true-born Equestrians alike. All across the skyline of the city, turrets firing streams of tracer round out into the burnt-orange night sky. Rain fell, splattering on the ground and yet not strong enough to diminish the flames of war or wash away the splatters of blood that covered the city. Yells - orders, pain, death - filled the sky, almost - but not quite - drowning out the bloody, brutal sounds of battle. The gunfire was distant, but all too close as well.

He slammed into a wall, not certain how he had gotten here, but it didn't matter. He caught sight of his reflection in a shattered window - the battered jacket, shirt and trousers, the tired, lined face, scruffy hair and stubble. He sighed: how had he gotten here? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. He was here now. He racked the VK-12 shotgun in his hands and set off down an alleyway, ears pricked for the sound of battle.

“Commander?” a voice went off in his ear. He crouched and tapped the earpiece as the speaker continued. “This is True Grit.”

“Here,” Elliot said quietly. “Sitrep?”

Commander? But that's not…

“There's a squadron of Guard inbound, sir,” the voice of his pony compatriot spoke. “Might be twenty or thirty of them.”

“Bollocks,” Elliot swore. “What's your strength?”

“John's with the Doctor somewhere else,” Grit said. “I'm here with about ten guys, but we're low on ammo.”

“No Lyra?” Elliot asked.

“Nope,” Grit said. “She ran off with half the team twenty minutes ago on a counter-offensive.”

“Gotcha,” Elliot said, nodding to himself with a slight smirk - nothing stopped Lyra on a good day. Except how would he know that? He had never met her. “Where are you now?”

“Corner of intersection four alpha?” Grit said, using the codes that the BDF had insisted upon having.

“Think I'm about five minutes from you,” Elliot said. “Inbound to your location.”

“Waiting for you,” Grit said.

A moment later, all was silence. Something felt off, but he didn't know what.

This isn't right. This isn't your life.

He set off, passing into a high street as he did so, but then he stopped. Barring his way was a Unicorn mare, sad grey eyes staring at him from a sky-blue face. She wore a battered green camouflage shirt and had a scar on her cheek.

Don't I know you?

“Do you see?” she asked quietly.

“See what?” Elliot asked, frowning at her. He wasn't familiar with her, but she was wearing a Resistance uniform. Her gaze went to something behind him and he frowned - there was nothing there. When he turned back to look at her, though, she was gone - no sign of her.

“What the hell?” he murmured. He turned back to look behind him at whatever she might have been looking at...

... only to find himself staring into two cold, yellow irises, boring into his soul.

Do you see?

Elliot woke up, eyes wide, gasping for breath. His body was slick with sweat and he felt almost physically sick.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “What the hell was that?”

He slowly got to his feet. He sighed, before turning his gaze to the picture of himself, Grit, Hoof and Sam on their last leave. He caught sight of his reflection - slight stubble, cropped hair and a face with less lines that the dream-him had sported greeted him.

“What was that dream about?” he wondered to himself. He shook his head. This wasn't the first odd dream he'd had: for the last few months, he'd dreamed of fighting in Britain, but they were battles he knew had never really taken place. He couldn't explain the dreams, and with the hectic nature of the conflict he hadn't really had time to try.

“Get a hold of yourself, Dave,” he said to himself quietly. “We’ve a lot to do.”

A man stood in a back alley of the city of Fairport, smoking a cigarette. He wore a long tan trenchcoat over a white shirt, red tie and battered suit trousers, the sleeves of his coat partially rolled up. The city was on fire: people were screaming, somewhere off in the distance, and from his cost spot in the alleyway he must have seen a dozen people pass him by. He didn’t know what to make of it, except that he was pretty sure it was bad.

Makes sense, though, he thought, stubbing the cigarette on his palm and wincing. He pulled his sleeves up a bit more, frowning at the tattoos on his arm. Portents all said something fucking big was gonna go down. Otherwise Jim wouldn’t have asked me to come here.

There was gunfire in the distance, getting closer to where he was, but John Constantine ignored it. He lit up another cigarette, took a drag, and sighed. Whatever was going on, it sounded pretty dangerous.

“Jim, you old cunt,” he said quietly. “I am so getting you back for this.”

The APC was a sturdy, 6X6 wheel gig with a turret and armour plating, built to act as crowd control as well as troop transportation. There was enough space in the thing for Elliot, Sam, True Grit, Steady Hoof, Errant Flight and Viola. Their driver was a rather taciturn woman named Elise McGuiness, who was pretty quiet - turned out, she was British too, though they’d only known it from her terse introduction.

Sam was reading a book, looked like a copy of the old J-Horror book Ring - his ability to read while being driven around made Elliot slightly jealous: the Sergeant always got travel sick when he tried that. Steady Hoof was sat near the driver’s seat, watching the world go by. The scarred and mute stallion was apparently always something of an introspective sort according to True Grit, but it was especially apparent now. Grit himself was sat next to Elliot, whistling: he always got bored on long journeys.

Errant Flight was talking to Viola quietly - the conversation was quiet, but judging from Viola’s blushes and smiling and Errant’s cocky grin, it wasn’t one Elliot wanted to be privy to anyway. He sighed: fraternisation in the team wasn't something anybody (or anypony) seemed to give a shit about anymore. He personally didn't see how it would lead to anything other than mistakes being made, but then he was a man who liked putting the job ahead of personal matters anyway.

Look where that's gotten you, he thought to himself. Dying and alone, the last hope for the last of…

He frowned and shook his head. No, that had been a dream. As far as he knew, he wasn't dying at all.

Elliot himself was also dressed in the black and white D12 armour, similar to the stuff given to Sam (and apparently standard F.E.A.R equipment), and he had a Seegert ACM46 pistol in a holster at his side. Stowed beneath his seat was the SHO Shotgun he had been given for this mission to replace his beloved VK-12, as well as an Andra FD-99 SMG.

Most of the others had a mix - Hoof’s preferred weapon was a P221 Minigun, developed in Britain before it had burned, that required True Grit to act as a “steadier“ due to the recoil - there were far better pony weapons available, but Hoof was apparently a ‘traditionalist’, at least according to True Grit. Sam, meanwhile, had brought out a piece of specialised equipment in the form of an HV Penetrator - similar in concept to the Armacham Hammerhead, but slightly less bulky. He liked the idea of being able to pin Newfoals to a wall.

They were, in short, equipped for anything. Elliot just hooped they’d have little to deal with save some PER. The PER had never really required the massive arsenals of the PHL's best, though Elliot knew better than to take them less than seriously.

Fucking bastards, he thought. What they did to Plymouth…

He shook his head, frowning again. That was another thing from his dreams. Why am I letting dreams get to me this much?

It wasn't like he was a stranger to bad dreams: this war had made them all-too common, in fact. However, these dreams were different - there was something about them that almost made him think that they might be...

Be what? Be real?

He sighed and sat back, before turning his head to his left.

“Hey Grit,” he said quietly to the Unicorn, who was sat in silence next to him. “How’re you doing?”

“How am I doing?” True Grit asked, raising an eyebrow at the rather odd question. “I’m fine. Why?”

“No reason,” Elliot said with a shrug. “Just fancied a talk.”

“What about?” True Grit said, smirking. “Don’t tell me you’re getting all sentimental. Or is this where you’d confess your love for me and ask to have my babies?”

“Har de har,” Elliot said in a sarcastic tone, grinning. “No, you plonker, I just wanted to chat.”

“Something bothering you?” Grit asked, frowning slightly as he realised that Elliot actually wanted him to take this one seriously.

“Dunno,” Elliot said with a smirk. “You mean apart from this frankly fucked-up-sounding mission?”

“Yes, I mean apart from that,” Grit said with a slight chuckle. “Luna knows, I think everyone’s a bit thrown by that.”

The mission briefing had introduced those who hadn’t met with Colonel Munro to their mission. Their reactions had been… interesting. If by “interesting“ one meant that Errant Flight had laughed until someone told him it wasn't a joke, then swore five times, and Steady Hoof had thrown repeated looks Grit's way as though expecting him to roll out the real mission briefing. Viola, meanwhile, had paled as much as a pony could.

“Well,” Elliot said, frowning as he stared off into space slightly, “I have been having these odd dreams…“

He trailed off, and True Grit stared at him, suddenly concerned.

“Mate?” he asked, the word sounding odd in his pseudo-American pony accent. Elliot smiled.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m fine. I just… I’m remembering.”

Battle in the sky - him on one side, a tall mare with horn and wings in golden armour on the other. She wielded a glaive, and a snarl was on her face as she streaked toward him. He raised a -

“David!” Grit said, and Elliot shook his head before looking at his friend. He sighed.

“I’ve been having these weird dreams for the past few months,” he said quietly. “But they feel real. Almost like I’m… living another life.”

“Another life?” True Grit asked, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of other life?”

“True Grit!” Elliot said, rushing to his friend's side. The unicorn was bleeding badly, and he was burnt from Shining Armour's spell. “Hang on!”

“Did...” Grit coughed weakly, eyes opening to look at Elliot. “Did we win?”

“Yeah,” Elliot said softly, as he tried to staunch Grit's wound. “Yeah, we won. Hold on mate.”

“Yay for us,” True Grit smiled. His eyes closed and he slumped where he lay, the life leaving him suddenly.

“Not a nice one,” Elliot replied, frowning. “I dreamed of fighting. In Britain, but it wasn’t like any of the battles there. You were there.”

“I wasn’t fighting with you in Britain,” Grit pointed out, frowning in confusion.

“I know,” Elliot said, “that’s what I mean. But you and I were there. So was…“ He frowned, stopping. “We never knew Lyra Heartstrings, did we?”

“Ha!” Grit laughed slightly. “I wish. Why?”

“She was there,” Elliot said softly, frowning thoughtfully as he tried to remember “I remember, in the dreams. She fought alongside us.”

“Any other impossible shit happen?” True Grit asked with a wry look in his eyes.

Elliot looked down at him and smiled slightly. “Yeah - I fought Celestia and didn’t die in five seconds.”

“Now I know these are dreams,” True Grit snorted, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “I don’t think there’s anyone we have that could do that. Maybe, at a pinch, one of the guys in a powered armour. Or Mifune.”

“Ah, but could Mifune fly?” Elliot grinned.

“...you were flying?”

“Yeah,” Elliot said with a chuckle. “It was fun. And by fun I mean it was terrifying because the Tyrant was coming right at me.”

“Now I know you're crazy,” True Grit said with a laugh.

“Maybe,” Elliot said, his chuckling fading slightly. “Maybe they’re just dreams. But maybe…“

“Maybe what?” True Grit asked, frowning.

“Last night I had a dream about being in London,” Elliot said slowly. “Except it felt like the others. Real. And there was Viola there,” he added, nodding subtly at the new pony, who was still flirting with Errant Flight.

“Smitten are you?” Grit asked with a smirk.

“Fuck off you berk, you know I’m not into ponies,” Elliot said with a scowl. “It was weird - like she was talking right to me. Me-me, not dream-me. And there was something else, like a…“

He trailed off.

“I think you’re taking these dreams too seriously,” True Grit said, without waiting for Elliot to continue. “And I think you need to focus on the mission.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said quietly. “The mission. Of course.”

“Well, I think you're cuckoo crazy, boss,” a new voice put in. Suddenly, Elliot found Errant Flight hovering in front of him, smirking and winking, having left Viola to some reading. The Sergeant frowned.

“Do you make a habit of eavesdropping?” he asked.

“He was always a bit of a cocky bastard,” True Grit put in, frowning at his friend in irritation. “Got him in trouble more than once.”

“Getting in trouble, that's me,” Flight said, saluting mockingly.

“Do you make a habit of hovering in front of people and being a pain in the ass, too?” Elliot asked.

“Sure he does,” True Grit said. “It's what he's best at.”

Elliot sighed and looked down at the uniform. Still felt weird, but then this whole thing felt weird.

Do you see?

He frowned: a harsh whisper had rang through the APC. His eyes flicked around the small space, looking for the source of the voice. He couldn’t see anything though - until he noticed that Viola was looking at him, a slightly odd expression on her face, as though she were watching him for something. Before he could say anything, she had turned back to what she was doing.

Losing it, Dave, he thought to himself. Get a fucking grip on yourself.

It was a long way to Fairport. He decided that, under the circumstances, he needed to have a nap himself. He closed his eyes and settled down to sleep.

The armoured figure pushed open the doors with his gauntleted hands, stepping over the corpses of Eclipse Guards who had been foolish enough to stand in his way. His sword was girt over his back, ready for him to remove it at a moment’s notice.

Up ahead of him was the throne of Canterlot itself, and sat upon it was the Empress - Astra Solamina Maxima. Almost immediately, her remaining Guards, Royal and Eclipse alike, charged at him, and almost without thinking he drew Excalibur, sweeping the blade across throats and through necks, slicing his enemies apart until he was stood in a room full of corpses, and all the while the Sun Tyrant sat and watched.

“Interesting,” she said quietly, her eyes watching the fight with interest, apparently not at all concerned with the deaths of her servants.

“Sun Tyrant,” he said, ignoring her comment and marching toward her, blade still in hand. “I have come for your head.”

He slammed into the wall, Lance rifle in hand. His armour was scored and pitted, but he wasn't done yet. This line had to hold.

“Cover me!” he yelled out to no one in particular. He ducked and charged, weapon out, firing at the oncoming bullrush of warriors. He saw one of his men fall to a miraculously well-placed shot. “Dammit, keep your heads down!”

He slammed into one enemy, knocking the man over. Another charged at him, but a quick burst of fire shot through the man, killing him instantly.

“More inbound!” he heard someone yell. He turned, to see three more of the loonies charging.

“Nutters inbound!” he yelled, firing and taking the three down. He saw Elise and Stein fighting nearby, but most of the troops they had come with were gone. He tapped his comm. “This is Elliot in sector seventeen - these loons are overrunning us! We need support!”

“None to be had,” came the mournful voice of command. “The attack's coming on multiple fronts: it's all we can do to hold anything!”

“Dammit!” he swore, before turning to Stein and Elise. “Hold the line as best you can - we're it!”

“Fuck!” Elise swore, sweeping her short sword through one of the crazies as the pony charged at her. “We have to pull back or they'll tear us apart!”

“Stein, use your Hellfire and suppress the next rush,” Elliot said, ignoring the comment from the woman. “These bastards are coming thick and fast!”

“Commander Elliot,” a serene voice suddenly sparked in his comm.

“Elliot here,” he replied, holding up his hand to the comm.

“This is Avatar One: I am inbound to your location,” the voice said, the very epitome of calm and collectedness.

Elliot whooped - he didn't care if it was unprofessional: they were saved.

“Stein, lay down that suppressing fire!” he yelled. “And prepare to receive a guest!”

“Sir?!” Stein said, confused.

“Fire, now!” Elliot yelled.

Stein did as ordered, his heavy weapon tearing through the crazies as they charged, but there were a good twenty or thirty of them, more than enough to overrun even an Iron Clad. Elliot dropped his Lance, unsheathed his sword and activated a flame-rune, intending on taking as many of them with him as he could.

Suddenly, a bolt of golden light impacted near the charging crazies. Dozens of them were vaporised, and more still found themselves thrown about like ragdolls. From the sky, she came: a white Alicorn, horn blazing with energy as she fired spell after spell. Held in her telekinetic grip was an elegant long sword, and it swept through necks and bodies effortlessly.

She turned to look at him and he grinned. The Avatar was here.

“Commander Celestia!” he yelled with a grin. “Good to have you around!”

“My rank is officially Guard-General,” she replied her blade sweeping through loons even as she corrected him. “But under the circumstances, I will stick with Commander.”

“Good choice,” Elliot grinned. “Better ring to it.”

Celestia smiled too, before finishing off the remaining, retreating crazies with a massive fireball spell. She turned to look at Elliot, and then she frowned slightly.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

He spat blood into the bowl provided.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I'm fine.”

His body ached in ten places and he felt like he was going to fall over, but this was apparently normal. The process was never going to be painless.

“If there are any pains unlike the standard ones we discussed,” the scientist said, eyes flicking from the clipboard she was holding to him then back again, “you have to keep me informed.”

“Dull aching is normal,” he replied. “If I get sharp pains, you'll be the first to know.”

“Good,” she said, smiling slightly. “It's brave of you.”

“To what?” Elliot asked, smirking. “Volunteer for this damn Iron Clad project? That ain't brave. That's sense. We need the best we can get.”

“Still,” she said. “It must have been painful.”

Surgery: no anaesthetic - no way to make the required connections that way. Pain: oh yeah, pain. Blood. Screaming. And then that feeling - power…

“Less painful than Solamina will find my fist through her face one day,” he said with a slight growl.

The scientist frowned slightly, before jotting something down on her clipboard.

“What?” he asked, frowning at the action.

“Just a note,” she said, before turning to leave. “You'd best get some rest.”

She turned to go, leaving him alone in the room. Then he frowned - no, he wasn't alone. A girl was standing in the doorway of the little hospital room, staring at him.

“Hello?” he asked her, frowning in confusion. “Who are...?”

“Do you see?”

He frowned, reaching out a hand to steady himself, before looking around in confusion. Something was up here. This was some sort of nightmare.

He found himself in a corridor, long, beige and thin and filled with beige doors. He wore the D12 armour he had been given by F.E.A.R, and checking himself he found that he still had his Seegert. Frowning, he took the weapon out, cocked it and started walking down the corridor. Something about this entire thing felt… off. This dream wasn't like his normal dream.

He tried some of the doors, but by and large they seemed to be locked. He sighed as he continued, heading toward the end of the corridor.

Except there was no end to the corridor. It seemed to stretch on into infinity.

Do you see?

The whisper took him off guard and he span around, staring back the way he had come.

“Hello?!” he called. “Is someone there?!”

Do you see?

“I see some fucking locked doors, if that counts,” Elliot muttered. He sighed, before turning back the way he had been heading previously.

Suddenly, up ahead, one of the doors opened. A little girl ran out - long black hair, red dress, barefoot.

“Hey!” he called out.

She looked over at him, but he couldn’t really see her features because her hair was in the way. A moment later, she darted into another door.

“Hey wait!” he called, jogging after her. The door had closed by the time he got there, and he found it was locked. “Bollocks.”

He tried knocking, but there was no answer. He sighed, before moving on.

A moment later, he passed a door with a strange red marking on it. He frowned at it. There was something off about it… and yet, something enticing…

“Dave?”

He shook his head, and tried to move on, but a few moments later he passed the same door. He frowned.

Do you see?!

The whispering again. He frowned at the door - there was something behind it. Something… important. He could tell. If he could only…

“Dave, wake up!”

He walked onward again, but again, he passed another door - the same door, with the exact same marking. This time, the urge to try the door was overwhelming.

Do you see?!

“Yes,” Elliot murmured, though he wasn’t even sure who he was speaking to. “I see.”

He reached out to open the door…

“Dave, wake the fuck up!”

“They should have left us alone here together.”
Paxton Fettel, F.E.A.R: Perseus Mandate.

Elliot’s eyes shot open as the APC shook slightly.

“The fuck?” he murmured, bleary.

“Finally!” he heard Sam say, his friend sounding distinctly irritated with him. “We just arrived in Fairport about thirty minutes ago, but some fucker’s firing at us!”

Elliot snapped himself together, shaking the last of sleep and that weird dream out of his head.

“Who’s firing at us?” he asked.

“Looks like PER, sir,” came the voice of McGuinness, sounding testy. “Basic kevlar, no uniforms, shitty guns, potion bandoliers. Old school sort.”

“They can’t think they’ll do anything to an APC,” Elliot said, frowning at the apparent stupidity of the move. ‘Old school’ meant the days before the PER went from radical individuals working for the likes of David Levy to a genuine threat: it was surprisingly rare to find a group of ‘old school’ PER still operating under those auspices.

They must have been a cell from before Shieldwall’s time, he thought.

“If they do, they’re bigger fuckwits than we thought,” Sam muttered.

“We might have just surprised them,” True Grit reasoned thoughtfully. “They might have been expecting to take on somebody else.”

“Can confirm there’s other troops out there, sir,” McGuinness said. “Looks like Delta Force, judging by the uniforms.”

“Well, they got more than they bargained for with us,” Errant Flight said, grinning cockily. “What say we give ‘em a taste of their own medicine?”

“I’ll park us away from the main body of ‘em,” McGuinness said, spinning the wheel.

“Hoof, Grit,” Elliot said, gesturing to them. “Cover the door, minigun the first PER bastard that gets near it. You’re gonna open our way. Don’t need ‘em potioning one of us the minute we step out.”

“Gotcha,” Grit said. “I’ve got your back, Hoof.”

Steady Hoof nodded, the pony’s ruined vocal cords making reply impossible.

“Viola. Lower the ramp on my mark,” Elliot said. “Once the door is cleared, you and Errant Flight get out there and cover stragglers with anything you have. After that, Sam and I will get out there and start taking them out. If they're barely armed, they're dead once we start firing.”

“Plan,” Sam said. “But we might need heavier firepower. Shouldn’t I get on the turret?”

“Good point,” Elliot said. “We might need heavy cover. Alright, when the ramp’s clear, you get on the turret.”

“Right,” Sam said with a nod.

“In position,” Grit said, and Elliot turned, gun raised and aimed at the doorway.

“Mark,” he said.

A moment later, the APC door swung downward with a clang of heavy metal and a crunch of some kind. Three or four men and women in ratty looking Kevlar and civilian clothes were stood near the door, and they had time to be shocked before Steady Hoof's P221, held in a steady magical grip by True Grit, ripped them apart. Vials of potion exploded near them, showering another PER member, but before he could so much as sprout hooves, he too was obliterated by the minigun.

“Clear!” Grit called. A second later, Viola dashed out, horn glowing, and she fired spells off at nearby PER, catching them unawares. Elliot had to stop for a moment and almost admire the graceful movements, the speed and the efficiency. He wasn't into ponies, but that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate how others could be. There was grace and beauty even in Viola's most basic movement.

Errant Flight was more direct: he had a wrist-mounted blade on each forehoof, and he used them to cut through pretty much anyone he hit, slashing and hacking away until his enemies collapsed.

A few seconds later, Sam slapped Elliot on the arm and leapt up the turret ladder. Elliot jogged out, weapon aimed. Any necessity for heavier firepower was immediately rendered moot, however, by what they found.

There were no PER left alive. The three ponies had eliminated all nearby targets and what looked like the local forces were dealing with the two or three remaining a few metres away. A moment later, a man in a uniform that looked like Delta Force jogged over to them. He was shaven headed and must have been at least thirty five.

“Sergeant Jim Henries,” he said breathlessly, looking flustered. “You guys must be the F.E.A.R team we were told to expect.”

“That's right,” Elliot said quietly. “These the PER locals?”

“What's left of 'em in this part of the city,” Henries said. “There's been isolated stuff across Fairport for a few weeks now, but we're fairly certain it's all some kinda distraction from the Auburn district. That's where most of the fighting's been.”

“Auburn district?” Sam frowned. “Any sign of Paxton Fettel and his Replicas?”

“They're killing anything PER that gets near the district,” Henries said with a nod, “but they're none too friendly for us either. We lost two helicopters near that sector.”

“Jesus,” Elliot said softly, running a hand through his cropped hair. “You'd think they'd know we weren't PER.”

“Unless there's something else up,” True Grit said, coming up to them. “In any case, what's our next move?”

“We need to talk to Armacham about Fettel,” Elliot said, frowning. “There's some fucking fishy shit going on and I want to understand it before I commit us to Auburn.”

“Armacham?” Henries said with a quizzical expression. “Their HQ is a little way away from here. You'd be best taking your APC.”

“Gotcha,” Elliot said, smiling gratefully. “If you need any more support…”

“We've got these bastards covered,” Henries assured him. “PHL got us some new tech three weeks ago – the PER are fucked if they so much as twitch.”

“Good to know,” Sam said with a smirk. “Happy hunting.”

“You too,” Henries said, nodding, before stopping. “Hey, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” Elliot asked.

“You might wanna get your CO to contact Den Mother,” Henries said. “He’s our co-ordinator in the city - he’ll be able to help you out too, I bet.”

“Noted,” Elliot said, nodding slowly. “I appreciate your assistance.”

“And I yours,” Henries replied. “I’ll pass on the good word.”

Elliot headed back for the APC: Viola and the others were already back inside. As they entered, Elliot noticed the squashed corpse of a PER man who had apparently been too close to the door when it opened and had paid the price.

“Arsehole,” Sam muttered. “After all this time, I still can't believe people would sell out their own species.”

“People can be idiots,” Elliot said sadly. “Sometimes they do things without thinking about all the ways it could bite them in the arse. Or maybe they don’t mind that it will, so long as it bites the other guy in the arse first.”

As he stepped onto the APC he turned to look out of the doorway. He frowned as he noticed something odd: among the bodies of the PER soldiers, a little girl was standing, long black hair obscuring her face, wearing a slightly battered looking red dress. She looked up at him... and the APC door closed.

“You ok, mate?” Sam asked, frowning at him. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said slowly. He sat down. “I'm fine.”

John Constantine ducked behind a barrel, bringing one hand up and murmuring to himself. It had been a long time since he had needed to do a basic scrying spell.

“Where am I going?” he asked. As nebulous as that question might have seemed, he knew (or at least really hoped) that there were enough forces at work that he would get a useful answer.

Sure enough, a small ball of light appeared from his hand. It floated an inch above his palm for a moment, before zipping off down the alleyway. John stood, and followed it, trying to ignore the sound of the battles going on in the city behind him.

Please don’t lead me to a squad of PER, he begged - precisely who he was begging, he did not know. I really like my hair.

After a few minutes, he had reached the end of the alley. he saw the little ball of light hover for a moment, before dashing down the street… in the direction of the ATC building.

Oh, John thought, eyes wide. Shit.

It made too much sense. Armacham had always been on John’s radar, even before Jim and Quinn had confided in him about some of what they knew about the place, back when John’s interest in the occult hadn’t been as prevalent - and relevant - as it was now.

That company were a beacon to the bizarre, a home for the strange, the unexplained…

… and worse still.

Putting his hands in his trench coat pockets, John sighed.

Well, he thought, we might as well get this done. If I don’t make it out of this though, I am gonna fucking kill Jim.

Elsewhere in the city, a noise like a trumpet sounded in a small alleyway. The cacophony blared through the dingy sidestreet, echoing as it bounced off of walls, and a small light popped into existence, nine feet in the air. This was followed by a box slowly fading into existence: it was blue, with black-paned glass windows and a small, circular sign on the door.

A moment passed as it solidified with a loud, reverberating thunk, and then there was silence, before the door opened. A woman stepped out, with short hair spiked up, a long midnight-blue frock-coat, a pair of slim black trousers and a white shirt.

“Right,” she said aloud, looking up at the sky. It was calm for the moment, though very grey and with a hint of being overcast. “Time to get things going.”

There was a reason Commander Blunt Instrument was called that. Being clad in tough, practical Royal Guard armour did not make him any more imposing than he already was: he stood nearly five feet high, with broad shoulders and a stern, stoic expression permanently etched onto his face.

As a Royal Guardspony, he had fought with distinction against the Changelings, against Sombra, and against the humans. He had been in charge of garrisons, assault units, and the worst this war could throw at him he had shrugged off.

Why, then, did something in Twilight Sparkle’s voice scare him?

“It’s about time you answered, Commander,” she said sternly as her image flared to life on his crystal projector.

“My apologies, Lady Sparkle,” Blunt Instrument replied stiffly. “We have been busy restocking after our work dealing with insurgents in new Mareope -”

“Spare me the excuses, Commander, I’ve no time for them,” Sparkle cut him off. “What’s the status of your Expeditionary Detachment at present?”

Straight to business, then, I see. Swallowing, Instrument straightened up.

“We have a full battalion of experienced troops at the ready, ma’am, with enough potion provision for a single human city of moderate to large populous. We have only one functional potioneer craft at our disposal at the present moment, but she’s in peak condition.” He paused, thinking over his words carefully. “I’m afraid some of our… more esoteric forces are depleted, but we have limited provision to… replace them.”

This, of course, was a delicate way of saying that he had lost most of the Newfoal-variants in his unit in action, but that he had some of Shieldwall’s modified reconstitution potion to ‘fix’ some of the regulars in his unit to the variant specifications.

When did living beings become modifiable so easily? a small part of him pondered. When did we start treating them like tools?

It might have bothered him once, but like with so many thoughts he had, now it simply disappeared into some recess of his mind, and he paid it no further heed.

Sparkle simply smiled at him for a moment. “Your preparedness is good.”

“We try our best, ma’am,” Blunt Instrument acknowledged with a nod. “What are your orders?”

She paused. “The city of Fairport is your target. We want it gone.”

Blunt Instrument blinked. “Forgive me, Lady Sparkle. Did you say ‘Fairport’?”

“Your hearing is clearly functional, Commander,” Sparkle said, her smile fading. “Is there something unclear in my orders or the way I’ve expressed them?”

“I… with respect,” Blunt Instrument said, inclining his head for a moment. “I’m… aware that there’s talk of beginning operations against human cities, but I would need far more than a single battalion to take or destroy Fairport. It’s the home of some of the humans’ military complex, and they will have it heavily defended.”

“You will be reinforced when the troops are available,” Sparkle replied simply. “At present, however, we have been made aware of a threat to the Empire that is brewing in the city.” She leant forward, narrowing her eyes at Blunt Instrument. “We. Want. It. Gone. Is that clear?”

So, do or die, Blunt Instrument thought. It was surely a sign of how bloody and desperate this war was becoming that such was the attitude of one of the Queen’s own.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing. “I understand perfectly.”

“Good,” Sparkle said. “Report once you have made landfall in Fairport, and then I want updates every twelve hours. Failure to report will result in you being declared dead.” She paused, before giving a small, almost-cruel smile. “Good luck, Commander.”

The image disappeared without fanfare, leaving Blunt Instrument alone. He took a deep breath.

“Alright then,” he said. He turned to his Newfoal adjunct, a stallion named Goodpenny. “I want our troops mobilised as quickly as possible. Prep the potioneer.”

“Yes, sir,” Goodpenny said blandly, throwing a salute and then turning and trotting out of the tent.

With Goodpenny gone, Blunt Instrument’s expression twitched, before he took a small hip-flask from his saddlebag and sipped it.

Buck this, he thought. A suicide mission? Why would we be sent on a suicide mission? Why Fairport, of all cities? That’s where they build half their most deadly weapons! We can’t attack a target like that with one potioneer and a single battalion, what is she thinking?!

Unfortunately, answers would not be forthcoming. Instrument sighed, and took another sip, savouring the warm feeling in his stomach and the buzz in his head.

As treasonous as it sounded in his head (and indeed, he didn’t notice his head was hurting from thinking it), Twilight Sparkle was not military. She did not understand military strategy, nor how much effort (and pony power) actions actually took. It was an increasingly common (some might even have said virulent) problem in High Command. Indeed, sometimes even the Quee - what?

Instrument shook his head.

Do or die, he thought glumly, vaguely reminded of a human poem he had read once before the war. Ours not to reason why. He winced at the thought, but couldn’t help but admire the tenacity the poem described. That’s the job. That’s what I have to do.

There really was nothing else to it.

It’s been two whole years since I’ve updated this.

… oops.

This story’s now officially part of the Reduxverse canon - a full list of everything in this ‘verse is on the Redux main page for now. More chapters in progress presently.

“Why was she ever created? What good did they think would come of that... nightmare?!”
Michael Becket, F.E.A.R. 3

ATC Headquarters was a large office complex near the Auburn district: big, modern and entirely unwelcoming in appearance. Predictably, there was a military presence nearby, as though the military expected there to be some sort of problem – that was interesting. Was ATC a target of the PER, or of Fettel and his Replica forces? Or both?

When the APC arrived, Elliot asked Sam, True Grit and Viola to accompany him. Errant Flight looked set to protest, but a look from Elliot silenced him.

“I need you keeping eyes on the situation,” he said quietly. “Somebody has to.”

Flight nodded, still not entirely convinced. With a slight smile of (attempted) reassurance, Elliot set off with the others.

Outside the building's main entrance, a vaguely mousey looking man in a suit was waiting for them.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “I’m Iain Hives. I’m one of Armacham’s supervisors, tasked to… well, let’s just say I’ve got a lot of things to work with right now, chief of which is…”

“Save the chat please, Mr Hives,” Elliot said, holding up a hand. “We’re from F.E.A.R. We’re here to talk about your… problem with the Replicas and Paxton Fettel.”

“Oh God,” Hives said, wiping his forehead nervously. “You’re with them.” He swallowed nervously. “You’ll… uh… want to talk to Harlan about that. He’s… he’s our expert.”

“Then by all means, Mr Hives, take us to him,” Elliot said with a strained smile.

He didn’t share the disdain some of his colleagues had for civilians, but he didn’t like bureaucrats, and Hives practically smelled of bureaucracy.

The nervous looking man walked off, leaving the group to follow him.

“Ever get the feeling he’s hiding something?” True Grit muttered.

“These corporate types are always hiding something, Grit,” Elliot scowled, looking around as though he'd see the thing that was being hidden. “The question is, is he hiding something that’ll fuck us over if he doesn’t tell us?”

“Almost certainly,” Sam murmured, looking around. There were more than a few lightly armoured Armacham security guards running around, armed with RPL sub-machine guns and Colt Quetzalcoatls, and generally looking nervous, if not downright unhappy. “I mean, look at this place.”

“What about it?” Viola asked, looking around with a slight frown.

“Guards?” True Grit said, looking at her with a slightly incredulous expression. “Lots of ‘em? You don’t get rent-a-cops in these numbers without some serious expected mojo. Besides... they've got Colt Quetzalcoatls. They’re scared of something."

“There is a PER presence,” Viola reasoned, frowning thoughtfully. “It’s only natural that they'd bring in extra security to help protect their workforce. And – well, the Quetzalcoatls are meant to be really good.”

“Extra security, yes,” Grit said, shaking his head, “but this is more than just ‘extra security’, this is ‘we’re going to war’.”

“Same thing,” Sam pointed out. “This is a warzone now, even if it's just the PER. If there starts being too much of an outbreak of Newfoals, they'll need to bring more forces in ASAP, never mind whatever's going on with the Replica forces.”

“We’ll find out what's going on soon enough,” Elliot said, cutting the conversation off. “Hopefully this ‘Harlan’ bloke has the answers we want.”

The potioneer that Blunt Instrument’s battalion commanded was called the Iridescence. She hasn’t always been a potioneer-zeppelin: a long time ago, she had served as a troop-transport in the wars against the changelings and Sombra. She was an old ship, but Instrument happened to think that brought a certain dignity with it.

“Sir,” Goodpenny said, bringing him out of his reverie. “We’ve made contact with Commander Cairn’s group.”

“Good,” Instrument said, smiling. “I’d best speak with him.”

He followed Goodpenny back to their operations tent, where his unit’s main crystal projector was situated. The image of a stern-looking grey stallion in Guardspony armour appeared, looking in Instrument’s direction with a neutral expression for a moment before he smiled.

“Blunty,” he said evenly.

“Cairnsy,” Instrument replied. “You got our message, then?”

“You mean the Lady Sparkle’s idea of a fun team outing with the colts?” Cairn said with a snort. “I swear, those Canterlot REMBs are all the darn same.”

“You’re telling me,” Instrument said, rubbing his forehead with his hoof. “Think I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it.”

“Me too,” Cairn said, wincing. “So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? I can get my unit to your stated position in the next three days.”

Instrument grinned. “You can?”

“I’ll have to get permission from Cactus and that lunatic Shieldwall,” Cairn said. “But as much of a glorified magi-sci boffin as Shieldwall is, Cactus is a military stallion.”

Instrument nodded. If there was anypony they’d prefer to work with, they’d throw themselves at Cactus’ hooves and beg to be at his side. You could trust Cactus. He was like a boulder in the middle of a river, stern, stable, and unmoving.

Meanwhile, it often took Shieldwall ten minutes to turn something into an idiotic crime against nature.

“He knows his flank from his hooves, and he’ll recognise that your unit can’t be on your own out there.”

“You’ve no idea how pleased I am to hear that,” Instrument said, sighing in relief. “I’ve some good colts and fillies here, Cairn. I don’t want to lead them on a suicide mission unless I’ve no alternative.”

“Well, on the off chance Cactus says no, I’ve also taken the liberty of authorising our human friends in Fairport to help you out,” Cairn added. “Having a bunch of monkeys and Newfoals running interference isn’t exactly the same as trained Guardsponies…”

“Trust me, every little helps,” Blunt Instrument said with a nod. “Say what you will, but they know the land better than us. We’re boarding the Iridescence now. Contact me again if you get… when you have authorisation from Cactus.”

“I will do, old friend,” Cairn said, smiling. “Take care, Blunty.”

“And you, Cairnsy,” Instrument said.

The image of Warrior Cairn flickered and disappeared, and Blunt Instrument sighed.

“Sir,” Goodpenny said after a moment, “did Lady Sparkle not specify that we were to undertake this task alone?”

“No,” Blunt Instrument replied, scowling at the Newfoal. “Lady Sparkle specified that reinforcements would be provided when they were available. I’m just making sure they’re available.”

“I see,” Goodpenny said, nodding slowly. He frowned. “And, uh, the phrase ‘remb’, sir?”

He doesn’t know ‘Rear Echelon Mother Bucker’? Instrument thought, snorting. Not even whatever the human version is?

“Don’t worry yourself about it, Goodpenny,” he said. “Just get the Iridescence ready.”

“Yes, sir,” Goodpenny said, nodding.

He trotted off, leaving Instrument alone to consider his options.

Darn few, he thought, but getting better as we go. He smiled. Cairn’s a solid stallion – he won’t let me down.

Eventually, after a journey in an elevator and a somewhat arduous navigation of a maze of corridors and other offices, they reached a large office with the name Harlan Wade on the door. The door to this was locked, and Hives knocked on it nervously, looking around.

A moment later, an old man opened the office door, glaring out at the group from above a bushy moustache.

“Who are these people?” he asked, his voice gruff and weathered.

“They’re the team from the PHL,” Hives answered shakily, a slightly nervous smile on his face. “They came to speak with you about -”

“Fettel,” the man interrupted with a scowl. “Yes, I know. Come in, all of you. Thanks Iain.”

“No problem, Harlan,” the nervous man said quietly.

Elliot and his team entered the expansive office, and Elliot was struck at how spartan the whole place seemed. Apart from a picture of the man and a young girl on a shelf, there didn’t seem to be any personal effects.

“So,” the man – Harlan Wade – said grimly. “You’re who they sent to kill him.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Elliot said politely. “I’m David Elliot, Sergeant. This is Corporal Sam Lake, Corporal True Grit and Private Viola Heartswell.”

The tired looking man glanced briefly at the group, his gaze lingering a fraction of a second longer on Viola, who returned his gaze evenly.

“You think you’re up for killing him?” he asked simply.

“No,” Elliot replied at once, to Sam and Grit's surprise. “Because we don’t know anything about him.”

“At least you’re smart then,” Wade sighed, leaning back in his chair. “More than can be said for half the assholes I work with. They let this happen and now that the shit’s hit the fan they think they can contain this, somehow. Maybe they thought the Barrier would burn the evidence away. Maybe it would – but I doubt it.”

“What are you talking about?” True Grit asked.

“Let’s start from the top,” Wade said, looking at Elliot. “Tell me, how much do you know about the Replica project?”

“Clone soldiers answering to a psychic commander,” Viola said at once, reciting the mission briefing. “They’re commanded by this Paxton Fettel – you think he’s reacting to the presence of PER and Newfoals in the city.”

“Good,” Wade said, nodding and even smiling slightly, “but you’re wrong. I don’t think they’re reacting, I know they are.”

“What do you mean?” Elliot asked.

“Fettel isn’t acting alone,” Wade said quietly. “He’s acting under the influence of an event we call synchronicity.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” True Grit asked.

“In effect, that he’s joined minds with another psionic,” Wade said quietly. “Through that joining, he’s learned what that psionic has learned – and that psionic is influencing him.”

“This is so above our pay grade,” Sam said quietly, looking really, really confused by all this.

“What do we need to do, then?” Elliot asked.

“Understand that killing him isn't going to be simple,” Wade said. “Quite apart from the presence of PER and the Replicas. He’s more than capable of inducing hallucinatory states, and a whole host of other things that would make the average idiot shit their pants.”

“Well... shit,” Sam commented, scowling at that.

“Hallucinatory states?” Elliot repeated, frowning. “That... is considerably beyond what my understanding of psionics’ abilities is.”

“And how much do you understand about psionics, Sergeant?” Wade asked with a humourless smile. “Have you spent your entire adult career studying them, learning about their genetic makeup, learning about what makes them tick, learning about the things that keep them up at night?”

“No sir, I have not,” Elliot replied slowly, narrowing his eyes. There was something to what Wade had said – some sense of... guilt?

“Then don't tell me what psionics can and can't do,” Wade said. “Because I have made that study my business in a way you could never imagine, and believe me, you would never want to imagine the lengths to which I have gone.”

There was a momentary pause as Elliot and his team digested this.

“Sir,” Viola said after a moment, “surely if Fettel is acting under the influence of this other psionic, we should make an effort to -”

“Deal with h – with the psionic in question,” Wade cut in, correcting himself as he did so. Elliot frowned: what did he mean? “No, that is out of the question. That psionic is a known quantity, and that known quantity is far beyond the current capacity of the PHL, the PER, the HLF, the Boy Scouts of America and any fucker else you care to name’s capacity to deal with adequately.”

“The PHL has some fairly impressive gear, Mr Wade,” True Grit said with a slight smirk, only for that smirk to wither at the glare Wade sent him.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice deceptively calms, “among all those fancy new guns you've made, is there anything that can kill something that's basically a god?”

True Grit swallowed, but remained resolute. “I'd like to think R&D have something up their sleeve, sir.”

“I know the people from R&D, son,” Wade said with a snort. “They have stuff that can kill little ponies, big ponies, anomalous Newfoals and maybe, just maybe, even Alicorns one day, at a pinch – but a real life God on Earth? That’s an entirely different question.”

There was a shocked silence at Harlan Wade’s pronouncement.

“Is… is that what we’re dealing with?” Elliot asked, eyes wide.

Wade met his gaze. “We are dealing with the potential mother of the apocalypse. A psionic that is, right now, only contained by advanced technology that is keeping – at best – seventy percent of her power at bay, leaving thirty percent free to extend out into the city and control Fettel, among other things. The only hope we are currently in possession of is that we can keep her physical presence contained enough that the sphere of influence her mind has is limited to this city.”

“Then… I guess we’re back to Fettel,” Sam said uneasily. “How do you propose we kill him?”

“We installed a tracker in him that should work to help you get to him in time to prevent a catastrophe,” Wade said with a tired grimace. “But if it doesn’t, I can probably give you a list of his targets – and this place would likely be one of them.”

Elliot nodded. “Right – hence the security.”

“Hence the security,” Wade confirmed with a nod, his contemptful expression showing that he didn’t think much of them. “We’re taking no chances.” He paused. “Another point – Fettel might try to get to the psionic in question, but he wouldn’t be able to get an exact fix from them. He’d need someone who knows where the facility is – they are kept in… he’d need someone who knows where they are.”

His hesitation wasn’t lost on Elliot, who shared a quick glance with Sam, who was frowning thoughtfully.

“And who would those people be?” Elliot asked.

“Most obvious would be myself and Genevieve Aristide,” Wade said, folding his arms thoughtfully. “But Aristide is in behind enough private security that it’d probably take the Barrier itself to kill her. No, Fettel’s best bet is me.”

He seemed remarkably unconcerned about this fact, but Elliot didn’t question it – there was so much to question that singling one point out was practically impossible.

Elliot turned to Viola. “I want you to wait here and keep Mr Wade safe. I’ll send Errant up to join you.”

“You can count on me, sir,” Viola said, saluting. Wade threw her a glance.

“You sure she’s up for this, Sergeant?” the old scientist asked.

“I trust my people, sir,” was all Elliot said in reply, before walking out, Sam and Grit in tow.

Warrior Cairn has a more prominent role in Map of the Problematique.