“Together we’re gonna change the world, man.”
Kevin Flynn to CLU 2, Tron Legacy.

In the beginning…

The Alicorn rolled her shoulders, feeling a stiffness in her joints that belied her apparent youth. Her red mane flowed from the crown of her pale head, past a slender horn and down an elegant neck, brushing against two regal wings on her back.

The stiffness she felt wasn't helped by the damp cave in which she was conducting her latest – and last – experiment. But the research was important enough to warrant the discomfort. It was the culmination of her research, and the legacy of all that had come before her.

Three figures – ponies all, two at least six feet tall and the third shorter – were stood in front of her, each surrounded by a cocoon of golden light that wove around them in strings of energy. Though little could be made of the figures, the fact that each was endowed with a long, slender horn and wings tucked neatly at their sides was obvious.

“Art thou done yet with thy rituals?” a voice asked from behind her.

The Alicorn smiled, and did not turn. “Patience is a virtue, teacher.”

“Not for us, and not now,” the voice said quietly. “Thou hast been granted more than enough time with which to toy with thine creations.”

“Then grant me but a little longer to toy, Oh teacher, and both they and I will be ready,” the Alicorn said. She turned to face the speaker – a tall bipedal figure clad in a grey cloak, its features hidden from view – and smiled. “One would think that thou wouldst have learned patience in the eons thou hast existed.”

“Eons are a fraction of infinity, and in such reckoning all are young,” the figure replied curtly. It seemed to look upon the three ponies, encased in their cocoons. “Will these… things of yours work?”

“Mine children, you mean?” the Alicorn said, her tone somewhat testy. “Yes. They will ‘work’, if you wish to be so crude about living creatures.” Her tone softened. “They will be perfect.”

“That is a bold claim,” the figure said, its tone neither approving or disapproving.

The Alicorn snorted. “One would think a spirit would learn to recognise hyperbole, but even so, I do not believe I speak so far from the truth.” She paused, looking over each figure in turn. “Each of mine children complements the other – the eldest is a being of logic and rationality, who shall oversee the world they are to make. The youngest shall be the emotional centre, a being of empathy and feeling. The middle shall be the decider, the one who leads, the one who combines the strength of the others. The three will balance each other's strengths and failings, act as the counterweight for the strengths of the others.”

The figure said nothing for a long moment, seemingly contemplating what the Alicorn had said. She contented herself with watching her works finalise, features beginning to show themselves.

“Do not be too proud of these alchemical creations you have concocted, Faust,” the figure said after a time. “They may have eternal life, and they may have the power of the spirits, but their hearts and minds are mortal – and as thou sayest thyself, they have failings. They are fallible, Faust, and so it is as likely that they may fall as it is for them to rise.”

The Alicorn – Faust – smiled again. “They are fallible, ‘tis true, but I have faith they shall make the right choices, walk the right path.”

The figure snorted. “It is very strange that, for one who hast seen such horror and bloodshed, thou art so optimistic. Faith can be a dangerous thing, Alicorn.”

“Faith is neither good nor bad,” Faust retorted. “It is a belief in something, whether that is a higher power or merely in thine own comrades and friends.”

“These creations are not unique in all of the vastness of existence,” the figure said, motioning to them. “Dost thou think thou art the only one of thineself?”

“I know I am,” Faust replied with confidence.

“Really?” the figure said, and now there was disapproval in its tone. “I thought better of thee, Faust. Thou art one of countless billions and trillions of thineself, each faced with a variant on the choices you made, stretching out across infinity until the ending of all that is.” The figure motioned to the room around them. “Whether thine ‘children’ are born of mortals or ascended from them, whether they are born in this age or that, whether they take this path or that, they are not unique. They are but another iteration. And amongst those iterations, there are more than a few that have fallen far from the paths that thou wouldst wish them to tread.”

Faust smiled. “So it is with all children, spirit; they choose their own destinies. Even if you set down a path for them to follow, they may choose their own.”

“And so thou wouldst create anew these beings, knowing that they may fall?” the figure asked.

“I would give mine children the chance to live a life,” Faust countered. “With that chance, that gift, they will do what they wilt. That is what life is about. Choice.”

“Choice, indeed,” the figure said derisively. “Some would say that it is choice that doomed your creators,”

“Perhaps. But the importance of choice is a lesson time hath taught to me,” Faust replied quietly, looking to the three Alicorns as the golden light began to recede. “A lesson time shall, in its due course, if fortune is kind, teach to them as well.” She smiled again. “And I do not fear the shadows of other lives for them, teacher.”

“Is that so?” the figure replied.

“Indeed,” Faust said, turning to look at the figure. “These are the only lives these three will live. Other lives are their own, and no matter how similar they are, they are not the same.” She smiled at the spirit again. “This is why I am confident when I say that I am the only one of myself. The other iterations of myself have their own lives and their own choices, no matter how much like me they are. I do not live their lives, and they do not live mine.”

There was a momentary pause at that.

“Perhaps,” the figure finally said, “thou art learning after all.”

Faust inclined her head and returned to her work. The figure said nothing for a long moment, before finally letting out what might have been a sigh.

“I will await thee at the cave’s entrance,” it said. “Be not overlong.”

Faust chuckled. “I will take as long a time as this takes, teacher, but it should not be long at all. We shall depart soon, and all shall be as I have promised thee.”

The figure departed, leaving Faust alone. The light by now had entirely receded, leaving three figures not unlike her own, save that they were less ravaged and raggedy than she had become.

She smiled – like herself, these beings were meldings of all the mightiest traits of each of the three pony kindreds. The strength of the Earth Ponies, the courage, free spiritedness and mastery of the sky granted to the Pegasi and the command of sorcery and arcane power gifted to the Unicorns.

She turned to the youngest of the three first. A midnight blue coat and regal blue mane greeted her, as did soft, kind features.

“Thou art Luna,” Faust said to this mare.

“I am Luna,” the mare repeated.

“Thine place is at the side of thine elder sister,” Faust said.

“Mine place is at the side of mine elder sister,” Luna repeated dully.

“Thou shalt be her moral compass, her heart’s guide, her conscience,” Faust said. “Thou shalt be the light of her life.”

“I shall be her moral compass, her heart’s guide, her conscience,” Luna repeated, her tone warming slightly and the edges of her lips curving upward slightly. “I shall be the light of her life.”

Faust nodded, turning to the middle sibling, an alabaster mare with a pink mane flowing down her face. “Thou art Celestia.”

“I am Celestia,” the Alicorn repeated.

“Thou art the balance of logic and feeling, empathy and rationality,” Faust told her. “Thy place is to guide, to teach, to protect, to nurture.”

“I am the balance of logic and feeling, empathy and rationality,” Celestia repeated, her voice melodious and calm. “My place is to guide, to teach, to protect, to nurture.”

Faust nodded. “Thou shalt be even tempered, kind and firm, wise and compassionate, strong when needed, a firmament for those you lead to gather around.”

“I shall be even tempered, kind and firm, wise and compassionate, strong when needed, a firmament for those I lead to gather around,” Celestia repeated, almost nodding, her blank expression warming incrementally as her mind responded to the words.

And finally, Faust turned to the last sibling, a mare in shades of black and grey, with cold blue eyes. “And thou… thou art Galatea.”

“I am Galatea,” the mare repeated.

“Thou art the bastion of rationality,” Faust told her.

“I am the bastion of rationality,” the mare repeated, almost primly.

“Where chaos rules, thou shalt preach order,” Faust told her. “Where the plan goes astray, it is thine place to correct it.”

“Where chaos rules, I shall preach order,” Galatea repeated, her expression almost seeming to harden as she spoke. “Where the plan goes astray, it is mine place to correct it.”

Faust nodded slowly. “Good. Now all of you will sleep for a time – and when you awaken, you will proceed as you have been directed.”

And like that, each mare settled themselves down to sleep. A moment later, there was a glimmer of light, and each mare was reduced to the size of an infant foal. Faust smiled at them, wishing for a brief moment that she didn't have to abandon them to a cruel world. But it was part of the task that awaited them.

“Good night, children,” she whispered softly. “When thou awaken, the world will await thee, and thou, in thy turn, shalt make it better. Rest well.”

And with that, she turned aside and trotted slowly out of the cavern, leaving her ‘children’ alone and asleep.

Outside the cavern, Faust took a moment to take in the sight of the mountains all around them. The snow-topped peaks seemed colder these days – and that was not merely her imagination. Dark days were upon this land: a remnant of old evils wrought to fight older evils, the sins of the past casting their shadow upon the now as they always would and always had.

I have wrought my works barely in time, she thought to herself. And even now, it maybe too late.

She sighed. Faith was an easy thing to say one had – but to maintain that faith, to hold the candle of hope up against the darkness? Some days, that seemed almost impossible.

Which is why it must be done.

Her teacher was waiting for her, as cloaked an enigmatic as ever, and it was not alone. A young Reindeer, maybe in his mid-twenties, stood at the entrance of the cavern as well, a deep frown upon his face. He wore a fur-lined red cloak across his strong body, and a single stylised pickaxe was hooked onto a harness, a weapon of reindeer design that looked somehow ill-fitted on this being.

And yet, Faust smiled.

“Dearest Sint Erklass,” she said quietly. “So, thou hast come to say goodbye.”

Canterlot Palace, May 4th, Year 3 Era Harmonia.

Now

This new Alicorn – this Galatea – stood opposite Celestia, a cold, emotionless expression on her face. She stepped forward.

“Well?” she said quietly. “I’m sure you have questions. Time is short, Celestia: ask now, so that we can get on with the task that has been laid before us.”

“We… are sisters,” Celestia said slowly.

“That is the case, yes,” Galatea agreed, nodding. “You do not remember me, but that is only to be expected. Mine place was to stand apart. To watch, and ensure you did not stray from your duly appointed place.”

“But I don't understand,” Celestia said, frowning. “How… how can you be our sister? Why weren't you raised alongside us?”

“I was already grown when you were revealed to ponykind,” Galatea said with a hint of a smile. “Released from stasis early, to observe and to catalogue.”

Celestia shook her head. “No. I don’t believe you.”

“Do you doubt the evidence of your senses?” Galatea asked, tilting her head, “I am an Alicorn, Celestia. You would have felt an ascension, as we were meant to.”

“Still, how do I know that this is not some trick?” Celestia asked, scowling at her. “You cannot expect me to believe you without proof!”

“Does it feel like a trick, sister?” Galatea asked.

“Do not call me that!” Celestia snapped. “We are not sisters.”

“But we are,” Galatea retorted. “You and I, and Luna as well, were created together, made from the same ancient magicks, each custom-designed to fulfill a specific role.”

“There is more to the word ‘sister’ than blood,” Celestia growled. “You have stood apart, you say. Well, Luna and I were together: we shared hardships and joys together, pain and happiness, sorrow and despair. I could accept that you and I are blood, or that we were ‘created’ together as you put it… but you are a long way from being my sister.”

There was a pause as this declaration hung on the air.

“You are… angry,” Galatea said slowly, almost contemplatively.

“You’re damn right,” Celestia replied, narrowing her eyes at Galatea. “What role could you have possibly held that kept you from us, if you were our sister?”

Galatea lowered her head slowly. “It… was not mine place.”

“Not your place?” Celestia repeated incredulously.

“We were not created without a plan in mind, Celestia,” Galatea said, raising her head again. “It was your place to make a positive impact on the world, to guide, to serve, or indeed, to rule as you thought necessary.”

“They asked us,” Celestia said slowly, frowning at her. “Asked us to lead them, to mediate the disputes and, eventually, hold the dual thrones.”

“Yes,” Galatea nodded, and she gave a small, patient smile. “I know. I watched your coronation, actually. Lovely confetti.” Celestia blinked. “But that was your place, not mine.” Her smile faded. “It was mine role to act as a safeguard, if you failed.”

“Failed.” Celestia felt the word’s implications hanging in the air. “You mean…”

“If you and Luna strayed too far from your appointed roles, I would correct you,” Galatea said stiffly.

“But…” Celestia said, shaking her head again, “when Luna… how could you…”

Galatea sighed. “What happened to her… was within the tolerances of mine role as watcher. Only if you, too, had fallen prey to darker impulses, would it have been my place to step forward, to intervene. As it was, you did my intervening for me.”

“And so she was banished, while you watched,” Celestia said, a hint of bitterness in her tone. “And you claim to be our sister.”

“As do you, yet you are the one who banished her,” Galatea pointed out. She raised a hoof at Celestia’s enraged expression. “I do not resent the deed – indeed, it was well done. And so often it has been you who has stood against the darkness.”

“Too many times, and often with too little help,” Celestia said. “And you…”

“I watched you, observed you,” Galatea said. “That was mine role, and I have kept to it diligently.”

“So many times, the world has been imperilled,” Celestia said, her tone growing harsher. “And never before have you stepped forward to reveal yourself. So why now?”

Galatea sighed. “Because now… now, it is not merely one world that is threatened.”

Adlaborn. Another world, another time…

A lonely figure stood upon a mountain, overlooking a burning forest. Her elegant legs were cold, pale grey, and a black tail could be seen poking from beneath the long grey cloak she wore. Had one seen beneath her hood, they might have seen the long, slender horn that graced her head, the ice-blue eyes that took in every detail and judged it according to a design only she now remembered.

Adlaborn, the home of the Reindeer, was burning. The bodies of an entire kindred lay slain. Rick, cot and tree, all burning, all laid waste, without mercy, without hesitation. Even the Guardian of Joy himself, Sint Erklass, was dead. War had descended upon Equus, instigated by the Guardian of the Sun. She whose role was supposedly one of peace…

This was not the plan, the figure thought. If her face could have been seen, the only emotion it displayed would have been a slight frown of consternation. This was not the way things were intended.

There had been deviations. Of course there had. The plan had only been vague, and her knowledge of it – yes, even her understanding of what she knew – was bound to be imperfect. That had always been understood: things of flesh and blood did not have the necessary impartiality, though she had always tried her best to keep it.

And yet, even with her inevitably flawed sense of the plan, at no time was this… was any of this… part of what she had come to understand.

Something has changed, Galatea surmised. Something more than can be explained as slight deviation.

Her eyes narrowed in a mixture of disgust and rage.

The plan is compromised.

She sniffed, her decision made the instant those four words had crystallised in her head. Hers was the role of correction, and much needed correcting. Harmony had been replaced with disorder, peace with war, and loving guidance with brutal tyranny. The plan was astray.

And so, I must correct it.

“I have contacted my alternate self,” Galatea said. “Or rather – she has contacted me.”

“To what end?”

“In another Equestria, another world, something has gone dreadfully wrong.” Galatea leant forward slightly. “To what end? To the end of repairing that damage.”

“Alexander Reiner has told me some of what’s happened,” Celestia said. “And Luna has seen his memories and corroborates much of what he has spoken of.”

“He didn’t tell you all of it,” Galatea said. “The harmony that you spent millennia constructing, the balance, the very soul of an Equestria worth protecting. All of it has been destroyed, perhaps never to recover. A great madness has taken hold of that Equestria’s Celestia – or a great evil.”

“That part I understood, in part.” Celestia scowled. “What else, though?”

Galatea smiled wanly. “That, I can only say as a guess, but one I believe very strongly to be true. Before I make any such guess, however, I must speak with Alexander Reiner.”

“Why?” Celestia asked with a frown.

“Because it was in sending him that my other self hoped to gain your attention,” Galatea explained. “She tried to find some way to correct the plan without aid, but even with the aid of accomplished magicians, she could not. Eventually, she came to believe that even more drastic measures were needed.”

“Drastic measures such as contacting another world?” Celestia asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She believed that your morality would prevent you from failing to act when faced with a great evil,” Galatea said, “and so she contacted me and arranged to have a representative sent to explain why your aid would be so needed.” She sighed, looking away, almost shamefaced. “Unfortunately, it would seem that her plans went slightly awry.”

“Awry?” Celestia repeated. “In what sense?”

Galatea looked back at her. “She is dead, Celestia. Your other self ended her. It was the last thing from our connection I felt before Alexander Reiner completed his crossing of the dimensional planes.”

Celestia’s eyes widened in horror. “Dead. I… actually… I killed you?”

Galatea held up a hoof. “Be wary of comparing yourself to her, sister.”

“But she is me!” Celestia whispered harshly.

“An iteration of you,” Galatea corrected, “one of countless millions upon millions stretching out into the infinite nothingness. She is her own being, faced with her own choices.”

“And yet, not so removed from me as to be comfortable with dismissing our connection,” Celestia retorted grimly. “In her place, would I not make the same choices?”

“Perhaps,” Galatea conceded. “Or perhaps you are more removed than you realise.” Her expression softened. “Be assured, I do not believe that you are capable of the cruelties she is. And in truth, I am not sure she is truly the same mare she was.” She narrowed her eyes, a deep frown furrowing her brow. “There is… something. Something amiss, something more than mine other self knew or imparted, something I do not yet recognise.” She shook her head. “But that will wait. For now, I must speak with Alexander Reiner.”

“Then I will arrange it,” Celestia assured her.

“Good: the sooner the better,” Galatea said quietly. She looked out of the window, and her expression was pensive. “For the hour is later, much later, than she believed, and in this matter, time is our enemy.”

Canterlot Library, May 5th.

It had never been in Twilight Sparkle's nature to leave problems for others to solve, not when she herself could still attempt to do so – or, at least, contribute something to the problem at hoof. Even with Professor Trotsworth promising to help, she wanted to do research on her own.

Nonetheless, despite her enthusiasm for researching solutions to new problems (even big, terrifying, potentially world-shattering ones… okay, that line of thinking didn’t help), there was a question of just where she should begin. There was very little that she knew about war, and very little she knew about even the most radical theories of inter-dimensional travel (her own experience with space-time bending being limited to her brief excursion into the realm of time-travel).

In effect, she was having to start from scratch.

“Wasn’t there a pony who knew loads about this sort of stuff?” Rainbow Dash said, idly messing with a page of a book called Divergent Dimensions for Dummies. “Why don’t we just ask him, instead of trawling through all of this horse sh-”

“Rainbow!” Rarity snapped. “Mind your language!”

“Yeah, Dashie,” Pinkie added, frowning at her from the pile of books she was sorting through. “We’re a family show, even if this isn’t a family-friendly story.”

“What?” Rainbow asked.

“What?” Pinkie repeated.

Rainbow shook her head. “All I’m saying is, if there’s somepony who’s the expert, why not ask him?”

“You mean Doctor Whooves, right?” Pinkie asked cheerfully, her nose now buried in an upside-down copy of Interdimensional Magicks And Mayhems.

Twilight frowned. “Shouldn’t you be reading that the right way up?”

“Makes more sense this way,” Pinkie replied offhandedly. “Some of these equations actually start balancing out. And they look like duckies too.”

To prove her point she turned the book to show Twilight. Sure enough, one set of equations did indeed, loosely, resemble a duck.

“I know the stallion you mean,” Rarity said with a smile. “His name’s Time Turner, isn’t it? He comes in every so often to purchase a new tie or bow-tie… though Celestia only knows why, since he’s constantly picking ones that look exactly the same.”

“His name’s Doctor Whooves,” Pinkie insisted, still reading the book. “And he’s got all sorts of sciencey gizmos in his workshop. He always tinkers with them when you throw him parties instead of, y’know, partying. I ended up having to stop doing traditional parties for him.”

“So what do you do instead?” Twilight asked, smiling softly.

“Mostly just invite scientists from around Equestria,” Pinkie shrugged. “He likes proving them wrong about whatever they’re into.”

Twilight chuckled, but then the mirth died on her lips and she sighed.

“Ever get the feeling,” Applejack asked quietly after a moment, “that you wanna do something but don’t know what? ‘Cause that’s what I’m feeling.”

“What can we do?” Rainbow asked after a moment, scowling and standing up. “I feel like we’re all just sitting around doing nothing.”

“Anything we can,” Twilight said quietly.

“Which is what?” Rarity asked, frowning. “Join the Guard? Fight in whatever war this Alexander Reiner’s species is fighting?”

“I don’t know about anypony else,” Applejack said grimly, “But I ain’t exactly chomping at the bit to go kill other ponies, no matter how bad they are. Reckon it ain’t in me.”

“Me neither,” Fluttershy said quietly. “I don’t want to have to hurt anypony.”

“We might not get a choice,” Rainbow said.

“We don’t have to kill anypony,” Twilight said, holding up a hoof. “I said we’ll do anything we can.” She looked at Rainbow. “We’re not ‘doing nothing’. We’re waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” Rainbow said derisively.

“Waiting for the Princesses to tell us where they need us most,” Twilight replied. “We’re not soldiers, girls. We’re the bearers of the Elements of Harmony. Maybe we’ll need to use those. Or maybe we’ll need to research something.” Her expression was determined. “We’re not soldiers: the Princesses have loads of Guardsponies already, probably better at fighting, or better prepared, than we could ever be. But whatever it is we’re needed to do, we’ll be ready to do it.”

The others nodded, but Twilight could tell they still had their doubts.

Who can blame them? Twilight thought, turning her attention back to her book. The human, this stuff about a war, all of this… it’s so beyond anything I could ever imagined.

As she flipped open another book, she had to wonder. Were she and her friends really up to this?

Ponyville Hospital.

As Lyra took another sip of her drink and grimaced at the foul taste (seriously, how could whoever made food at the hospital have managed to ruin water?), she had to wonder.

Was she really up to this? Really up to helping a human, keeping watch over him?

“You look deep in thought,” Alex said quietly from next to her. “Something troubling you?”

Lyra raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

“Lyra,” Alex said patiently, “I knew the other you for years. I learned to read your face like an ABC book.”

She chuckled at that. “Yeah, I suppose you would have.” She sighed. “I just… I don’t know, Alex. Everything that’s supposed to be happening, everything that might happen…”

“It’s all overwhelming,” Alex guessed. “Right?”

Lyra nodded slowly. “Right.”

Alex smiled at her, though it was punctuated by a cough – and Lyra found herself worrying about him all over again. He had been getting even weaker, and even Nurse Sutra Cross hadn’t managed to find anything to help him.

“Well,” Alex said, bringing her attention back to the here and now, “try to take it all piecemeal. Y’know, focus on one bit at a time, deal with that, and then focus on a different bit.”

“Does that work for you?” Lyra asked.

Alex chuckled. “It worked for you. You taught me how to do that in the early days, when being the liaison between the PHL and the UN was overwhelming me.”

“The what and the what?” Lyra asked.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Alex said, and Lyra managed to keep herself from wincing at his swearing. “Forgot I hadn’t really told you about them. Uh, the PHL is Ponies for Human Life: sort of a combination political and military group.” He coughed again, then smiled apologetically. “The latter is my fault, sorta.”

“Sorta? Wait, what do you mean, your ‘fault’?” Lyra asked, frowning. “So… the PHL is a pony organisation?”

“That’s right,” Alex said. “Started by – well, you. Designed to give ponies wanting to represent peace between humans and ponies, and the anti-conversion ponies, a voice.” He scowled. “Then, later, when it got… well, when the violence started, ponies couldn’t really join national armies, and the HLF wasn’t generally taking them – Romero excepted – so a lot of them needed a place to go, to learn to help in the war effort.”

“And the PHL helped ponies fight?” Lyra asked, feeling a wave of… not distaste, but something not too dissimilar, rising up inside her.

“It had two purposes,” Alex clarified. “Your half of it was to give ponies a voice on the international stage: your business… her business… was in keeping dialogue open, letting everyone who’d listen know that the ponies in the PHL, at least, were on our side.” His expression soured. “My part, for what it was, began as a liaison from my military. Then you – she – asked me to train ponies for war.” He sighed. “I taught them how to use the shit we built for them. Eventually, y-she got us the political clout to make stuff that… well, wasn’t shit.”

Lyra nodded, though part of her had stopped listening a while back. “You miss her, don’t you.”

Alex’s eyes seemed to moisten briefly. “Every day.” He sighed. “She… she was inspirational, in a lot of ways. Not quite the messiah some people and ponies paint her as -”

“Wait, what?”

“- but still one of the best ponies I could have ever had the privilege of knowing,” Alex finished. He chuckled. “Uh, best not to think about the ‘messiah’ thing. It’s… messy and complicated.”

“Yeah,” Lyra said, trying to keep her eyebrows from disappearing into the stratosphere. “I’ll just bet.”

There was a knock at the door, and Alex sighed.

“Come in,” he said.

The door to his hospital room opened, and a tall figure entered, shrouded in a battered cloak.

“Alexander Reiner,” the figure – a mare – said quietly. “I must speak with you.”

Alex frowned. “Who are you?”

“Forgive me,” the mare said, closing the door behind her. Lyra tensed, feeling suddenly unsure. “We must not be disturbed before I am finished.”

There was a glow of magic, and the mare’s hood was thrown back, the cloak slipping from her shoulders, revealing a slender horn and beautiful wings tucked against a grey body. Lyra’s eyes widened in shock.

“An Alicorn…” she whispered.

The new Alicorn looked between Alex and Lyra, frowning slightly at the little Unicorn mare and her awestruck expression, before returning her attention to Alex.

“My name is Galatea,” she said quietly. “I am here to speak with you.”

Alex didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he pursed his lips. “I was under the impression that Princess Luna was the only other Alicorn, besides Celestia. That there weren’t any others.”

This new mare – this Galatea – chuckled. “You are repeating yourself, Alexander Reiner, though you know it not. Nonetheless, you would not have been far from the mark, though in this world Cadance completed her ascendence.”

“Did she?” Alex said dryly. “Good to know.”

“I have been hidden from the knowledge of ponies,” Galatea continued. “Mine task was to observe, not to interfere.”

“Well, you’re doing more than observing now,” Alex said cautiously. “Care to tell me why you’re here?”

Galatea’s smile widened.

“Tell me,” she said slowly. “You do not recall quite the circumstances that led to your being here, do you?”

Alex shuffled slightly. “No. I don't. There was… there was a battle…”

“A battle you do not remember,” Galatea finished. “I know.”

“How do you know?!” Alex snapped.

“Because it was mine doing,” Galatea said with a soft smile. “I am the reason you are here.”

Ah, the most radical divergence from the original SPECTRUM so far. By this point in the “real” story, I had effectively stepped back without - yet - making that desire known to everyone else. The material in this chapter is largely new, and represents my original intention with Galatea’s characterisation. I dare say the SPECTRUM crew have done an excellent job of reflecting the character I created.