“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.