“There is something so familiar about this. Do you ever have déjà vu?”
“Didn't you just ask me that?”
Rita and Phil, Groundhog Day.

Boston, USA. Sunday November 3rd, 2024.

“#And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?
And if you close your eyes,
Does it almost feel like you’ve been here before?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?
How am I gonna be an optimist about this?”

“You know,” David Elliot said, frowning as he ran a hand through his short, dark hair, “sometimes I do feel like we’ve been here before.”

“Oh?” asked the green Unicorn stallion next to him.

“Yeah, Grit,” Elliot said quietly. “Like… like… I dunno, like the whole thing reeks of doing the same things, over and over.”

“What whole thing?” a reddish-brown Pegasus said from a nearby stool, slightly further along the bar. This was Errant Flight, who – like the Unicorn – was clad in a grey Kevlar vest over a grey bodysuit. His cutie mark was a red kite shield cutie mark, complete with a pair of white wings: it contrasted with the Unicorn’s battered-looking kite shield, but it demonstrated that both of them were destined for the Guard.

Not that their lives had quite turned out the way they’d expected, of course.

“The war,” Elliot classified. “Sometimes I’ll hear someone or somepony say something and it’ll be like, ‘I’ve heard that before’. At first I thought it was, y’know, because of Fairport and Harbinger -”

The entire group present gave a collective shudder at the mention of Fairport, a place none of them ever wanted to think of again.

“- but it’s more than that,” Elliot finished. “I had it even before they messed me up.”

The Unicorn – True Grit, one of Elliot’s closest friends – sighed. “I know what you mean.”

“Yeah, me too,” Errant said, frowning. “Feel like I’ve been doing this… I dunno, for years, but at the same time, it feels…”

“Different,” Elliot said.

“It’s like fuckin’ deja vu, innit?” another human, with blonde hair and a tired smile, said from along the way. This was Sam Lake: like Elliot, he was clad in a set of muddy white ATC ‘Hardball’ armour, a full suit of armour that was as uncomfortable as it looked. “I get that all the time, like I’ll be doing something and then -” He mimed looking at his hands. “Whoa.”

Grit chuckled. “Yeah, I get that feel. That the sort of thing pops up all the time. Like, I coulda sworn we’ve been sat in this bar before.”

“That’s because you are, every other fucking night,” the barkeep said. He was a surly older man with a tank top and cargo pants on, a rather conspicuous beer belly poking out above his belt. “You guys might be my best customers.”

“I’m surprised you get any,” Elliot said with a short laugh. “I mean, what with… y’know…”

“My home city going to shit?” the barkeep asked dryly. “No need to sugarcoat it, pal. I know the place is fucked. What I also know is, I ain’t leavin’.”

“That’s fair,” Sam said. “Your home and all.”

“Damn straight,” the barkeep muttered. “Another one, fellas?”

Steady Hoof, a grey Earth Pony stallion with a tower shield cutie mark, raised his hoof. He didn’t say anything – mainly because, thanks to a nasty injury to the throat, he couldn’t anymore.

“Me, too,” Grit said, sighing. “Luna knows I could sure use more lubrication right now.”

“None for me, thanks,” Elliot said quietly. “Don’t want too much of a hangover tomorrow, squad’s getting a newbie and somebody has to be in the right state of mind for it.

“One for me,” a new voice said. A blonde man in his mid-forties sat next to the group, a long, dirty trenchcoat over his battered suit.

“John fucking Constantine,” Sam said with a smirk. “Shit, what’ve they pulled you in for now?!”

“Came with Jim and Hiro,” John said without elaborating. “Thought I’d come see how you morons were doing.”

“Gee, thanks,” True Grit said, raising an eyebrow. “Missed you too, asshole.”

John chuckled. “So, how goes holding down fortress Yankland?”

“It’s full of yanks,” Sam replied with a smirk. “So, shite. Not much decent beer, no decent footie, no decent telly, and all the food is greasy as fuck.”

“And they put far too much of it on a plate at once,” Elliot added.

“Hey, you don’t like it here,” the barkeep began, “you’re welcome to… uh…”

He paused as he realised who he was talking to, and the soldiers and Constantine all took a moment to give him a collective ‘really?’ expression.

“… sorry, fellas,” the barkeep said quietly. “Force o’ habit.”

“Yeah,” Elliot said coldly. “Sure.”

The barkeep decided that this would be the best time to beat a hasty retreat into his back room.

“Y’know,” Errant Flight said hesitantly, “you guys were making jokes about his home.”

“Yup,” Sam said with a snort. “We’re British. They make jokes about ‘saving our asses in world war two’, we make jokes about guns, they make jokes about bad teeth and accents, we make jokes about food and accents, it’s a thing.” He sighed. “But the whole ‘go home’ thing… not really a joke anymore.”

“I guess it’s not,” Errant said. “Still.”

“Bad humour’s a prerogative,” John said with a soft smile. “We’re probably all going to be dead before the story’s over.”

“The ‘story’?” Elliot said, smirking. “You think this is a story?”

“Sort of,” John said with a dry, mirthless chuckle. “All life’s really just a collection of stories. And bit part players like us? We don’t get to see the endgame. We’re not big shots like Reiner, or ‘personalities’ like Kraber. We’re just normies.”

“Hey, speak of the devil,” Elliot said, pointing at the bar’s entrance.

Sure enough, walking into the bar was Stabsunteroffizier Viktor Kraber: body armour, bushy beard, big gun, the works. He walked in with the swagger of someone who really, really wanted to look confident with himself. Behind him came an Earth Pony who looked more like a small horse, (description). This was Aegis, or Claw Hammer, Kraber’s squadmate and ever-present comrade-in-mischief.

“Alright, chommies,” Kraber said, sitting next to Elliot. “Howzit?”

“Shite,” Elliot said with a wry grin. “You?”

“My squad’s been assigned to the same sector as yours,” Kraber replied. “Was hoping one of you could tell me lê van die land, so to speak.”

“So we decided to celebrate with a stiff drink,” Aegis added.

“Also shite,” Elliot said, shrugging. “Speaking as Sergeant to Sergeant – or, y’know, however you pronounce… what was it, now?”

“Stabsunteroffizier,” Kraber said, enunciating every word. “I like it cause it has ‘stab’ in the name.”

“Right…” Elliot said, nodding. “Well, it’s the shite section. Projections according to Captain Harcourt state that the Newfoal rushes will get diverted through that sector, but even with another squad, we’re…”

Kraber held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I know what you’re saying. We’re right royally fokked op die esel.”

“Something like that,” Elliot said with a wry smirk.

“What, no one’s gonna ask what his Afrikaans means?” Aegis asked, sitting next to Steady Hoof, who quietly hoof-bumped him.

“When you’ve survived as much shite as we have,” Sam said, smirking, “and been in as many battlefields next to Kraber as we have, you learn to stop asking.”

“Besides,” Kraber added, shrugging. “Everyone always asks for a translation. That joke’s gotten stale, chommie. Only so long a running gag can run before someone gets sick of it.”

Errant Flight scowled. “This conversation feels really meta and I don’t know why, but it’s reminding me of my ex and it’s weirding me out.”

“You too, huh?” Aegis asked.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Kraber chuckled, in a near-perfect imitation of Kevin Hart. “Lets get fokked up instead.”

“Now there’s a suggestion I can deal with!”

PHL Main Compound, New York City.

Lieutenant Colonel Cheerilee Cherry took a deep breath as the elevator she was in trundled down to the underground floors of the PHL Compound. The deep purplish-pink mare schooled herself carefully, letting her expression become centred and neutral. After all: she had a meeting in less than twenty four hours, and it wouldn’t do to be in a poor state for it, despite all the things worrying her.

The elevator stopped at her floor with a small ‘ding’ that made her want to chuckle. It was amazing to her that things as innocuous as the soft ‘ding’ing of a lift could still exist.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” one of the guards, a tall human in full body armour, greeted her. “Passcode please?”

“Cheerilee Twelve-Charlie-Charlie,” Cheerilee replied with a smile.

“Thank you,” the guard said, entering the code into a small tablet. “And compromise code?”

“Queen Celestia can go fuck herself with a rusty spanner,” Cheerilee replied, coughing after she was done. “Although speaking as a teacher, that would be anatomically improbable.”

“I’d love to see them try it,” the guard chortled.

“Luna willing, one day you’ll get your chance, soldier,” Cheerilee said, trotting past him. ‘Fuck you Celestia’, or some variation, was practically a universal code suffix at this point: a handy side effect of whatever conditioning was used on any Solar Empire operative was an inability to say human swear words, or anything bad about Celestia. Combining those things was just common sense, though it had taken Lyra to see it.

Ah, Lyra, Cheerilee thought wistfully.

The compound wasn’t much: a few dozen cramped offices, a barracks for the PHL/UN garrison, a handful of R&D rooms, a pair of briefing rooms and a single main conference room… barely any room for the work they were doing. To be fair, though, it had started out much smaller: Cheerilee remembered with a fond little smile how many long hours of negotiating it had taken Lyra to convince the UN to fund an expansion of the main compound’s facilities. Even now, the PHL’s resources were… sketchy.

So little, and too few people and ponies, she thought grimly. But we have to persevere, no matter what.

She sighed as she trotted up to the door to Briefing Room B. She pushed the door open, and smiled softly as she saw the others already present.

“Lieutenant Colonel,” Professor Manewell Trotsworth said quietly. The old grey Unicorn pushed his half-moon spectacles up the bridge of his nose, and gave a small smile. “Good to see you.”

“Manewell,” Cheerilee said. She looked to the two figures standing opposite Manewell – a stallion with a tan coat and brown mane, and a red-headed human (or rather, human-looking) man with a tweed coat and corduroy trousers. “Doctors.”

“Cheerilee,” the two greeted simultaneously. They shared a look. “Jinx. Double jinx!”

“Guys, please,” the fourth individual, a white-coated Unicorn mare with sunglasses and a blue fauxhawk groaned, rubbing her head. “I’m still working Saturday off.”

“Sorry, Vinyl,” the stallion – Doctor Whooves – said. “Me and my learned self here have a habit of -”

“Having the same thought at the same time,” the human-looking man said, smirking. “Annoying, I’m sure.”

“But practical,” Whooves said. “Although the good Doctor Bowman tends to be a bit more… irritable.”

“You try telling Ambrose Hex ‘I don’t make weapons’ for nearly four years straight and see how you like it!” ‘Bowman’ muttered.

“Gentlemen,” Cheerilee said, holding up a hoof. “We have meeting bright and early tomorrow. I’d like to know what we’ve got to show for it.”

“Who’s coming to the meeting?” Manewell asked gently.

Vinyl snorted. “Who isn’t. Everyone from Merrick to fucking Romero.”

“Well, we had best begin,” Cheerilee said, giving a wan smile. “We don't want to disappoint them when they show up. What have we got?”

Bowman and Whooves exchanged a look, and then Bowman gestured for Whooves to speak.

“Well,” the stallion said, “with Manewell’s help, we’ve stalled the Barrier.”

“For the moment,” Trotsworth put in. “It’s not indefinite. Or even likely to be all that long, I’m afraid.”

“But it’s better than the thing continuing on during that time,” Whooves finished. “And we’re already working on extending that time as much as we can. We had Moondancer working on it while she was there, to see if she could add any insights, but -”

“But she was killed in a bombing raid,” Bowman finished with a morose expression. “Poor mare. She deserved better than that.”

“We all deserve better than what this war’s dealt us, Doc,” Vinyl said, not unkindly. Her face had a sympathetic smile on it. “But hey, whatever we’re doing, we’re stuck with the hands we got dealt. Moondancer got that better than most of us.”

“And if the rumours that the One-Winged Angel was put down around the same time are true,” Whooves said, “then we’ve traded more than fairly, though details are sketchy at best.”

“Sketchy or not,” Trotsworth put in, “the Angel being killed does mean that the Solar Empire’s pre-Barrier advance in that sector has been temporarily halted, giving us a brief respite. That is something to consider fortuitous.”

“Absolutely,” Cheerilee agreed. “But it’s still a short-term solution. We need more than that if we’re going to convince the President and others tomorrow to continue supporting our options over… more extreme ones.”

Everyone in the room knew what she meant by that, and there was a brief, unpleasant silence as they contemplated it.

“You’re right, Cheerilee. We are,” Trotsworth agreed quietly. “I forwarded you one potential option that shows a great deal of -”

“You’d better not be talking about ‘The Manehatten Project’,” Bowman cut in, scowling at him. “We’ve talked about this, Manny: not a good plan.”

“I know your opinion quite well, Doctor,” Trotsworth said calmly. “But we’re fast approaching zero hour. The Manehatten Project -”

“I’ve reviewed your files, Professor,” Cheerilee cut him off, sighing. “And there is a time and a place for that sort of desperation. But it isn’t here, today. We will discuss it again if, and only if, the time becomes appropriate.”

Trotsworth took a breath. “There are others, Lieutenant Colonel, who would disagree with you about the appropriateness of now to discuss the project and its possibilities.”

“You’re part of the PHL, Professor,” Cheerilee retorted. “So I’m the highest buck you get, unless you want to bring it up with the Commander.”

There was a pause at the reference to the PHL’s official military leader.

“Any word about Alex?” Vinyl asked quietly.

“The Colonel’s team were reported KIA,” Cheerilee replied. “No word yet whether he was among them. But we’d know if he was ponified.”

“They couldn’t ponify him, anyway,” Trotsworth said with a dismissive snort. “The runes would self destruct his entire body if he didn’t clear them off soon enough, and if they forced him to swallow potion he’d combust.”

“Either way, the Queen Bitch would crow about it every way she could,” Vinyl said. “It’s been too quiet to write him off, Cher.”

“Agreed,” Cheerilee said with a ghost of a smile. “It’s been far too quiet to write him off, so we won’t. Not yet.” She paused, and her smile widened. “If I know Alex Reiner, he’s doing something unexpected.”

“You could be right about that,” Bowman murmured, too quietly for anypony in the room to hear.

Checkpoint Delta, Monday November 4th, 2024.

Okay, Em, PHL Operative Emma Taylor said, taking a deep breath in and trying to school her expression. She was thankful that the Hardball armour she wore came with a full-face helmet: it disguised the fact that she probably looked like she was about to shit bricks. You can do this. It’s just… y’know, new people. We can totally do this.

She was walking towards one of the many Checkpoints in Boston to report to her new Sergeant. She felt an absurd itch somewhere between her shoulder blades, but of course her armour didn’t leave any space for her to get in and scratch it.

Because, of course, it has to be potion proof, she thought with an internal sigh. I guess no one ever thought about creature comforts.

She tried to ignore the discomfort as she approached Checkpoint Delta. As grandiose as the name sounded, it was really just a pair of gun emplacements with no guns, a few crates of ammunition, a single small pre-fab shack with an Armacham Technology Corp logo on it, a painted-on pad with a large letter H on it (Who’s gonna land a helicopter in a street?) and lots of sandbags.

Taylor could see a dark-haired man in muddy white Hardball armour, sergeant’s stripes on his shoulder pad and what might have been a long bayonet girt at his side. He was speaking with a Grey Earth Pony and a green Unicorn, both of whom were dealing with a P220a.

Aren’t those outdated? she pondered to herself as she made a beeline for him.

“… and I want you guys to try and contain those bloody jams as best you can,” he was saying to the heavy weapons team. “It’ll be ruddy typical if a horde of Newfoals comes down and our bloody heaviest weapon gets jammed.”

The Unicorn caught Taylor’s eye, and pointed at her. “Well, we might have help with that, sir.”

The sergeant turned, and gave Taylor a quizzical expression. It was only now that she realised that he was about six foot tall, easily towering over her petite frame. She also noticed his dark, tired eyes. Experienced she thought grimly.

“Operative Emma Taylor, PHL, sir,” she said at once, coming to attention and saluting with her palm out, English-style. She fought he urge to wince at how cockney her voice sounded. “I’ve been assigned as your new special weapons operator.”

The man returned the salute in the same fashion. “Operative Taylor. I’m Sergeant David Elliot, assigned to First Encounter Assault Recon.” He paused. “Good to have you on the team.”

“Thank you, sir,” Taylor said stiffly.

Elliot smirked. “Drop the ‘sir’ and the formality, Taylor. We’re FEAR, and we’re a pretty lax little squad. You’ll figure that out the longer you’re part of the team.”

Taylor blinked, and some of her tension dropped. “I… uh, right. Uh…”

“Dave,” Elliot said. He pointed to the rest of his team: the green Unicorn and the grey Earth Pony, a beech-red Pegasus, and a blonde human man in the same armour as him, carrying a G2A2 assault rifle. “You’ve got True Grit and Steady Hoof on the P220a, Errant Flight’s our scout, Sam and me are the bog-standard grunts.” He motioned, finally, to a blonde man in a trenchcoat who was smoking a cigarette. “And that…”

“John Constantine,” the man said blandly. “Dabbler in the Dark Arts.”

Taylor frowned. “You’re a civilian. Do you have permission to be in this area?”

Constantine raised an eyebrow at that comment. Elliot coughed.

“John’s what we call a ‘mystic’,” he said slowly. “He has clearance for any and all PHL and affiliate ops.”

Taylor felt her mind start whirring. “A mystic? I’ve never heard of them.”

“‘Course you haven’t, love,” Constantine said sarcastically. “We’re dead quiet, like.”

Taylor didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Helmet off, Taylor,” Elliot said after a moment, motioning to it. “We’re not at alert yet. Might as well relax while we can.”

Taylor hesitated for a moment, then sighed, before pulling the helmet off, revealing short red hair and large, brown eyes.

“Better,” Elliot said, smiling. “Face to face conversation’s pretty difficult when you’re talking to a helmet.”

“Especially those helmets,” Sam put in. “I could never understand why Hardball hats hat to look so bland.”

Taylor looked at the helmet: come to think of it, it was a pretty bland-looking thing, with a wide expanse of visor beneath the gunmetal armour. She’d never bothered painting hers the way some troopers did.

“Hey, is that an ATC S-HV Penetrator?” Grit asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Taylor said, smiling as she motioned to her weapon, slung over her shoulder. “It’s pretty good.”

“I know Kraber’s been dying for an HV, but S-HV is a step up,” Grit chuckled. “Been meaning to get him one, but y’know how requisitions are.”

“Yeah,” Taylor said, nodding. “Pretty difficult to get anything done, these days.”

“So, Operative,” Elliot said, changing the subject. “Read your file. Bit confused why you’d ask for an assignment to my team.”

Taylor gave him a small smile. “Homesickness, sir. Your team wasn’t the only one with a gap, but there’s two Brits on it.”

“Aye, but we’re from the North,” the other man – Sam – put in, grinning. “And you’re a southern wuss. Thought you’d be takin’ the cushy job.”

“Well, someone’s got to make sure you lugheaded Northern louts can read the order’s you get sent,” Taylor shot back without thinking. She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Uh, that is -”

Before she could apologise, Elliot let out a laugh.

“Not bad, Operative,” He said, slapping her shoulder pad. “I’ve not heard one that good in sodding years.”

“Which might just be a sign that he’s been around Yanks too long,” Constantine put in. “But no matter how long he’s been mingling with the Colonials, you can still tell he’s a Yorkshireman…”

“... but you can’t tell him much,” Taylor finished, smiling. “That one’s old, Mr Constantine.”

“Keep calling me ‘Mr Constantine’ and I’ll start feeling old,” Constantine replied. “It’s John. Or Constantine if you don’t wanna get too pally.”

“Don’t get too pally,” True Grit said quietly, the pseudo-American accent most ponies had sounding odd after all the English voices. “He’s a menace.”

“Magnificent,” Constantine chuckled. “I’m a ‘menace’. Lovin’ that. Can I put that on my gravestone, Grit?”

The Pegasus landed near Taylor and frowned at her, looking more serious than the others had.

“So, you’re Viola’s replacement,” he said quietly. “Took them long enough to get you to us.”

“Flight,” Elliot said quietly. “Don’t.”

“Viola?” Taylor asked, frowning.

At once, True Grit and Steady Hoof both bowed their heads.

“Bless ‘er soul, wherever the sod it ended up,” Constantine said quietly, his once-boisterous manner immediately subdued.

“Viola Heartswell was your predecessor,” Elliot said quietly. “Went MIA during the Fairport incident. Less you know about that shitshow, the happier you’ll be.”

“Beats whatever that Amarillo shite was supposed to be about,” Sam put in. “Did Raynes ever explain that one?”

“No, but Chen once told me it was real ‘through the looking glass’ shit,” Elliot said with a snort.

“Of course he did,” Sam chuckled. “Man might be the dictionary definition of ‘has seen shit’.”

“Aren’t we all?” Constantine asked.

“That’s true enough,” Sam chuckled. He glanced at Taylor. “You seen much action, newbie?”

Taylor shook her head. “Been helping in R&D for two years. Closest I’ve been to the action was helping Officer Yarrow fix a Type 8 that went wonky, then watching her have an argument with some guy.”

“And you gave that up to join the frontlines, with one of the unluckiest squads in the entire combined force?” True Grit said incredulously.

Taylor shrugged. “Like I said: I got homesick. Not many Brits in that branch of R&D.” She grimaced. “Plus Terry Halford kept making passes on me.”

“Yeah, I met Terry once,” Constantine snorted. “He’s… him.”

“One word,” Taylor said with a snort. She was starting to feel a little more comfortable here.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a harsh noise, not unlike barking static. Elliot winced.

“Shit,” he swore. “Comm’s cacking out again.” He tapped his earpiece. “This is Checkpoint Delta, over.” He waited for a moment, then grimaced. “This is Checkpoint Delta, over!”

“Nothing?” Sam asked.

“No,” Elliot said quietly. He sighed. “Right, then.” He looked to Taylor. “With me, Ms Taylor.”

He walked over to the small prefab. Frowning, Taylor glanced at Sam, who shrugged, before walking after Elliot towards the prefab.

Cheerilee’s Office, PHL Compound.

Cheerilee sighed as she stared at the maps and briefing documents. Her meeting was in a few hours, and she felt a headache building almost proportionately.

Typical she thought. Nothing ever gets easier, does it?

She was drawing up a list of points for discussion in the forthcoming meeting. With so many different generals, officers and representatives coming, she figured she had to do her best to keep the meeting from devolving into a bunch of different idiots yelling at each other.

A little bit more stressful than grading homework, she thought ruefully, and not for the first time. I’d take a class field trip with Diamond Tiara over this any day.

Except she wouldn’t. Partly because even if someone gave her the opportunity to teach again and forget the war, she wouldn’t. It just wouldn’t be right. And partly because Diamond Tiara had been murdered by Imperial Guards about three months ago during yet another crackdown on civilian protesters in Equestria – and in her own damn house, nonetheless. It was strange just what things could set a little twinge of pain through Cheerilee’s mind and heart now.

“Bit for your thoughts?” came a soft, familiar voice. Cheerilee looked up, to see the pegacorn Princess Cadance looking at her with a soft smile, her formerly lustrous mane tied back and dulled and her eyes ringed with what might have been days or even weeks worth of not sleeping.

“Hi, Cadance,” Cheerilee said quietly. She sat back in her chair. “How goes it?”

“As well as can be expected, which is to say, not very,” Cadance said with a wry smile, “but there are worse ways to spend your day.”

“I can guess,” Cheerilee said without elaborating. After all, Cadance knew all about worse days.

Of the two of them, the former Princess of Equestria had definitely had it worse. Cheerilee’s losses had been livelihood, lifestyle, home, but Cadance had not only lost those, but lost her husband as well. Worse still, she had to live with the knowledge that her husband had been forced to perform acts that were utterly terrifying: acts that, even if by some mercy he was saved, he would have to live with forever.

“So,” Cadance said, looking at the desk. “Ready for the big meeting?”

Cheerilee sighed. “I have a feeling I’m going to spend half of it explaining that we don’t know what happened to Alex and half of it explaining why Alex is still on front line duty.”

“At least half,” Cadance said with a snort. She shook her head. “Doesn’t help that we don’t have an answer.”

“To which question?” Cheerilee snorted. “Every time someone brings up pictures of Defiance and the casualties there…”

… “Justice for Angelo!” being yelled in your ear as you look at the picture thrust in your face… A woman with a pregnant belly lying next to a child of no more than nine… the disapproving glares of your colleagues and fellow officers as you refuse to even consider a court martial for Alex, protests quietly moved away or ‘discouraged’... the looks of disgust from both sides when they see that you’ve actually let Kraber into the PHL…

And then swallowing the guilt when Sam Yarrow, or Romero and that fucking smirk of his, sit opposite you, knowing what you did, what you’ve allowed, and all the while Alex is impassive, doesn’t react, if only he’d bucking react…

“… or we have one of Yarrow’s HLF bringing up what happened to Wolfgang Brennan or Arthur Rand, any number of the ‘friendly fire’ incidents. Then there’s the Fairport Incident and all the bullshit that went down there… every time, I have to answer the same questions about his competence, his mental state or, Luna help me, his morals.”

Cadance sighed. “I know.” She paused. “And what do you tell yourself?”

“Same thing I tell them,” Cheerilee said quietly. “That Alexander Reiner was Lyra’s friend, that he’s a competent soldier, and he’s helped make the PHL a force in this war instead of just another nonentity. None of us are clean.” She closed her eyes. “And I do mean none.”

Cadance nodded slowly. “I can understand that. I have to admit, though, sometimes…”

“You have reservations,” Cheerilee finished. At Cadance’s nod, the former schoolteacher smiled sadly. “Me too. But even with everything we’ve all done, we have to keep going. Alex too, if he’s still alive. After all,” she said with a too-chirpy tone, “Churchill was a drunk imperialist and Roosevelt was practically a dictator, but they were the leaders wartime needed. Alex is… Alex, but he’s pushing on and he’s keeping us afloat. We have to push on, too.”

The expression on Cadance’s face as she heard that was difficult to describe. Cadance hadn’t exactly been suffused with hope there, but then her expression hadn’t exactly soured, either.

She’s got to know I’m bullshitting both of us there, Cheerilee thought. But we don’t have a better answer.

“Well said,” the ex-Princess finally sighed. “Well, I’d best get going.” She gave a rueful smile. “We all have to pay the piper sometime.”

Cheerilee nodded as Cadance left. Don’t we just, Cadance. Don’t we fucking just.

Checkpoint Delta.

Once Elliot and Taylor were inside the prefab, he grabbed a bottle of Coca Cola from a nearby desk and leant against it, sighing heavily. He unslung the bayonet from his side, and she realised with a start that it was a full blown bastard sword.

Was he one of the close-quarters specialists? she wondered. Back when the war had started, no one had thought ponies could win a war against humanity, with all their guns, until it was realised that the enemy not only had magic that could substitute ‘modern’ tactics or stymie them, but they also had a massive close-quarters advantage. Too often, soldiers had been cut down by Guardsponies simply because combat knives and rifles couldn’t match trained sword-play and armour. Eventually, troopers had begun being equipped with CQC gear, but a rare few had taken up using swords and training with them. Some of them had even taken up using magically enhanced blades, specially crafted by Equusite smiths and artisans. Stephan Bauer, Hiro Mifune… they were a select group, but well known. She didn’t remember hearing Elliot’s name among them, though.

“Drink?” Elliot asked, bringing her attention back to the present.

“Water’s fine,” she replied, taking her water bottle from her belt and taking a swig.

“Fair enough,” Elliot replied, taking a drink from his Coke. He gave her a sardonic grin. “One advantage of these ATC prefabs is the vending machines. They’re about the only thing that gets constant refills.”

Taylor nodded slowly. “I wasn’t gonna ask, but…” She motioned to the door. “Two human soldiers, three ponies, and the civvie? Not exactly much for guarding a whole Checkpoint.”

“Resources are tight,” Elliot said quietly. “Another squad is joining us later today – Viktor Kraber’s, if you know the reputation…”

Taylor did, and frowned.

“… yeah, he gets that look a lot,” Elliot said with a small smirk. “His squad and ours is still a pretty scant little force, though, I know.”

“I’m starting to think you’d have been better with another minigunner,” Taylor said quietly. She unslung brought her weapon from her shoulder and looked at it with a sceptical expression. “I’m not gonna make many dents in a Newfoal rush with this.”

“No, but you might help bring down a Newcalf or a Unicorn Shield-Trooper,” Elliot replied. “Don’t worry about what use you’ll be. You’re another gun on the front. That’s use enough.”

Taylor nodded, but she didn’t feel very confident.

“I just…” she said, speaking as quietly as she could. “I don’t know how we’re going to hold them off.”

“We’re not,” Elliot replied at once, his expression resigned. “Realistically, they’ll send in a militia unit to soften us, then a hardcore assault: Newcalves, spitters, the works. It’s not a question if if we’ll need to pull back, but when. There can’t be more than five or six hundred troops spread across the various positions.”

“But… but there’ll be more help, won’t there?” Taylor asked, frowning. “We’re holding one of the most strategic positions in America, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Elliot agreed. “But it’s above our heads if the PTB commit more resources to holding the line. There’s all sorts of rumours ‘bout what they’re planning.” He sighed. “Not our job to question it, though. Ours not to reason why…”

“Ours but to do and die,” Taylor finished, giving an empty smile. “I’d rather not do the dying just yet, mind you.”

“Me neither,” Elliot chuckled. “But I guess we’ll see.”

There was a momentary pause, and then Taylor sighed.

“Wanna tell me why I’m really in here, sir?” she asked.

“Counter question,” He said, taking another swig of his Coke. “Wanna tell me why you’re really in this squad?”

Taylor frowned. “I told you -”

“D’you know, I’m not dense,” Elliot said, cutting her off. “I know when something’s complete bullshit.”

Taylor sighed. “You… you wouldn’t believe me, sir.”

“There’s a lot of things I didn’t used to believe,” Elliot replied with a sardonic smile. “But I’m more open minded now.”

Taylor grimaced. “I… have to be here, sir.”

“‘Have’ to?” Elliot repeated.

“It’s just a feeling,” she explained. “Like… like a gut instinct. When I saw this post was open, I had to apply for it. It was almost… beyond my control.”

Elliot looked thoughtful for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“I think I understand,” he said quietly. “Believe it or not, Operative, I’ve had similar feelings myself.”

“You have?” Taylor asked, frowning.

“Yup,” Elliot said, giving her a wry smile. “I’ve been in a lot of hairy situations during this damn war, and sometimes doing what ‘felt’ right about a situation was all I had to go on. And for me, sometimes, those feelings were more than gut instinct, too.”

“But it makes no sense,” Taylor said, shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s stupid.”

“John would say that there’s more going on in this world than we’re aware of,” Elliot said with a shrug. “More things going on than we’re capable of understanding. Personally, I think he’s right.” He chuckled. “I mean, come on, we’re fighting a war against pastel anthropomorphic ponies. At what point do we stop disbelieving the strange?”

Taylor didn’t know what to make of that, so she didn’t respond. She had to admit though: he definitely had a point.

Standing up, Elliot cracked his neck with a groan. “Come on: we’d better get ready for Kraber’s lot arriving, and I wanna make sure the emplacements are all set up.”

He walked out of the little prefab, and Taylor followed, trying not to think too hard about just what sort of post she’d taken. One thing was for certain, though.

This is where I’m meant to be. She sighed. I only wish I understood why I’m meant to be here.

Ah, so here we find another divergence point. You’ll notice I used the King’s Speech crew here: mainly because, since I needed a batch of mauve shirts, they’re the best I’ve got.

You’ll also probably have noticed Kraber. He’s Kraber, how could he not be here?