“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead … On, on, you noblest English./Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! …. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge/Cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’“
King Henry V, Henry V, Act III.

Hull, England. August 14th, 2019.

A man, sat in the middle of a café, took a sip of his drink and frowned. He had dark hair and stubble, and there were bags under his tired brown eyes – he had spent the last five hours thinking things through, and he didn't like any of it.

War. War against an enemy consumed and committed to their total destruction. It was a terrifying idea – he had hoped such a conflict would never happen in his lifetime. God knew such things had been threatened before: terror organisations, nuclear conflict… but this? This was a war of genocide, or more properly xenocide. The sort of conflict a man didn't normally find himself even considering the possibility of, let alone actually finding himself in the middle of it.

“Dave,” a voice said, and he looked up from his thoughts to see the concerned blue eyes of his friend Sam Lake. Sam was blonde haired and handsome faced: where David was a dark haired and faintly germanic man with a lean, muscular frame, Sam was fairer, paler, and in some respects slighter.

He sat down opposite David, a coffee in his hand, and waited for his friend to say something. David, however, wasn't sure what to say - there was too much going on, and he didn't know how to deal with a lot of it.

“What's up?” Sam finally asked softly, looking at his friend with concern. “Your message sounded pretty urgent.”

“That'd be because it was,” David said quietly. He sighed. “You saw the news?”

“What?” Sam said, chuckling mirthlessly. “War with the pastel ponies? The imminent end of all life thanks to an advancing wall of death? Yeah, I had in fact seen it. Somewhere in the red tops. Almost missed it between the sports section, the topless models and the TV times.” He sobered up, any limited humour in his comments dying. “You're worried.”

“Damn right I'm worried,” David said, looking at his friend incredulously. “The world's about to end, isn't it?”

“Aye,” Sam said. “Aye, I guess it is.”

David sighed. “And we're gonna… do what?”

“That implies there's something we can do,” Sam said with a sad, mirthless smile.

“Isn't there?” David asked.

Sam was silent for a long moment, as though contemplating something. Truth be told, David already had an idea, but he wanted to see what his oldest friend thought first.

“Well,” Sam finally said, “it strikes me that there's two things we can do.” He smiled, a slightly sombre thing. “Fight or flight.”

David smiled back. As always, he and his best friend were on the exact same wavelength. He picked up his coffee and held it up, and Sam tapped his own against it. Though they both knew the road ahead would be hard, they were both ready to stand by each other's side.

“If man were meant to fly,” Elliot said, “we'd all be wearing our underwear on the outside with big 'S's on our chests.”

“And we'd all look bloody stupid for it, mate,” Sam finished.

Liverpool, England. August 20th, 2019.

A blonde-haired, grim-faced man in a trenchcoat walked at a brisk pace towards his apartment building, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he did so. He had never considered himself a particularly paranoid man, but these were not days where lack of caution served you well. Even if they had been, his was a life where lack of caution might see you in a gutter anyway.

In his hands he clutched an envelope, and he felt his sweaty palms slip slightly on the slightly laminated material of the envelope. He glanced at it every so often too, as though making sure it was still there.

He reached his apartment building a few moments later, and, with another quick glance over his shoulder, he entered the grotty building. He was glad to be home - his files were waiting for him, and this latest envelope might well be the thing that helped bring him even closer to the truth.

“Oi! Mrs Mason!” he called to his crotchety old landlady. “I'm back!”

It was always polite to let her know he was back in the apartment building, mainly because she always needed his help with something, even if she was a right bitch most of the time.

“Hello dear!” the voice of Mrs Mason called back, sounding oddly cheerful and upbeat. “How was your day out?”

The man frowned slightly at that response. “Fine. How're you?”

“Perfect, dear, absolutely perfect,” the old woman replied.

Okay, something was definitely up. Mrs Mason was never that cheerful. It made him feel… suspicious. He walked up the stairs to his own flat door and opened it, checking for the little white string that he'd left in the door. As he suspected, it was gone. A quick glance into his flat made it clear that someone had been looking through his possessions. His files, so meticulously ordered, had been messed with.

A lifetime of paranoia had made him incredibly suspicious of anything, but before today, he had never been proven right that someone was after him. He quickly grabbed a cricket bat from a hidden safe spot and hid behind his front door, dropping the envelope as he did so.

“Mrs Mason?” he called down. “Has someone been here?”

“Oh yes, dear,” the woman replied, and he heard footsteps approaching up the stairs. “Some new friends of mine. They're ever such lovely lads…”

He pushed himself further into hiding as someone came into the flat through the front door - or rather, somepony. She was yellow, with a brown mane. She was looking off into the room the man had just been in.

“Hello?” she called, and it was Mrs Mason's voice, chirpy and cheerful as it now sounded. “Are you here? I was hoping to say hello - also, it's not Mrs Mason anymore. I go by 'Delicate Daisy' now…“

With a yell, he swung the cricket bat and cracked the back of the Newfoal's head. Stunned, she fell to the floor, but she managed to turn her head, an impossibly wide grin on her face.

“Oh, hello, dear!” she said, grinning. “I was hoping you'd be here - my friends are dying to meet -!”

He swung his bat again, and her head snapped at an impossible angle, teeth flying out. He panted slightly, feeling sick to the teeth.

“What the fuck?!” he swore. “What the actual… fucking… FUCK?!”

He had expected a lot of things - governments and crazies and FBI and CIA and MIB, but he hadn't expected ponies. Mrs Mason's 'new friends'… they must have been rogue PHH, or else why would she have gone Newfoal? Mad old bint - unfortunate old bint as well, since some rogue elements of the PHH weren't known to be bothered about whether you wanted to go Newfoal…

Why in the name of God were they after him? Unless…

He glanced down at the envelope he had dropped on the floor. It's title, 'confidential report on human psionic activity', glared up at him in its small black font.

Unless some of the bullshit I've been looking at… is something they want to know about, something they're after…

Well fuck. That was typical. He glanced out of his window to see if there was anyone else out there - no one for now, but he knew if the PHH renegades were involved, chances were something else was gonna happen eventually.

“Right then,” he said. He pulled out his mobile and dialled a number. A moment later he was put through. “Chas? It's John. Get your arse to mine, top sharp, PHH are after me. Yes, the rogue PHH, the horsefucking ones. PER. Cheers.”

He put the phone away, sighing. He considered the possibility of going through his old files, but he dismissed it. It was more than likely that they'd set up potion-bombs or other such shit, and he liked his hands. And his hair.

Here's me, John Constantine, trying to learn about psionics and secret government shit, and the first hint I get that I'm onto anything worth a shit is a terrorist organisation led by pastel ponies coming after me. He sighed, and took a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting up with a wry expression. Well, that's just fucking magic.

London. August 23rd, 2019.

Yet another pub, yet another meeting, but Algernon Spader felt a certain relaxation. If he was right, this was going to be yet another success. He glanced up from his book, smiling as the two men he was waiting for walked into the pub.

One was Howard T. Preston, dark skinned, tall and imposing, currently dressed in a battered leather jacket. Howard had been one of Spader’s colleagues back in the old days: he was one of the few men Spader trusted completely.

The man with him, however, was an unknown quantity. With a cropped head of hair and a tough build, Maximilian Yarrow certainly looked capable, but looks were not a good measure of a man: this was a lesson Spader had learned a long time ago.

“Mr Yarrow,” Spader said, holding out his hand. “Good to make your acquaintance. I’m Algernon Spader. You might know me better as ‘ASpader1968’.”

Yarrow reached out his hand, gripping Spader’s. Spader notes the small Nordic symbol tattooed on the top of his hand.

“‘Odinson74’,” Yarrow said. “Good to meet you in person, sir.”

Spader smirked. He had thought Yarrow was Odinson, and it was good to be right.

“We’re not going to be joined by Michael Carter today, I’m afraid,” he said, motioning to a nearby chair. “But he trusts me to get the job done today.”

“And what ‘job’ is that, sir?” Preston asked quietly.

Spader nodded. “Straight to brass tacks, eh Howard? Good.” He took a breath. “Gentlemen, let me be frank. The military situation with the Solar Empire is… well, concerning.”

Yarrow nodded immediately. “I agree. It is utterly disgraceful.”

Preston was frowning. “You mean for us to rejoin, sir?”

“No,” Spader replied, unable to keep the derision from his tone. “NATO is taking too long to come together on this. The governments have already been… frankly, lacklustre on their response to the matter. And that’s being generous.”

“I see,” Preston said, frowning. “Well, then, forgive me, sir, but what do you intend us to do?”

Spader took a breath. “Gentlemen. Have you ever considered going PMC?”

“Private?” Yarrow repeated, frowning. He looked down at his hand. “A few times. I left the Marines because I was sick of my mates dying for whatever war some suited prick in Downing Street thought was a good idea at the time to suck the US’s dick.”

“You know I haven’t, sir,” Preston said quietly.

“Well, consider it now,” Spader said. “Because it’s become pretty damn clear that this war is happening and we are not ready.”

The other two men exchanged glances, before looking back at Spader. Neither disagreed.

“Can’t disagree,” Yarrow said after a moment. “But what sort of PMC are you considering?”

“I have more than a few old friends who went PMC,” Spader said. “And almost all of them agree with me - this is a war that needs to be fought, and it needs to be won.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why they’re supplying me.”

“They are?” Preston said. “Confirmed?”

“Indeed,” Spader said. “I can get guns and ammunition for troops.”

“It won’t be enough,” Yarrow said quietly. “Regular weapons aren’t going to cut it against pony magic.”

Spader frowned. “Do you have a suggestion, Mr Yarrow?”

Yarrow took a deep breath. “I trained Armacham’s security forces under Vanek after I left the service, and he owes me for that. And my daughter works for their weapons development teams. She’ll be able to speak for us.”

“Armacham?” Spader said, his frown deepening. “That’s… a very shady group, Mr Yarrow.”

“All respect, sir,” Yarrow said, “we’re about to fight a war of annihilation. A little shadiness is a small price to pay to survive.”

“And ATC’s at the forefront of weapon’s gear, sir,” Preston added, looking thoughtful. “We’d be well served working with them.”

Spader let out a breath, before smiling. “Gentlemen… the pair of you make an interesting point. And, Mr Yarrow,” he added, looking at Yarrow, “if you can get us Armacham weapons, I think we’ll be in with a shot.”

“Yes, sir,” Yarrow nodded.

“I’ll need to speak with Mike, of course,” Spader continued, “but I think, with this as our beginning, we’ll be able to make something of ourselves.”

Buckingham Palace, September 4th, 2019.

Prince Harry was in a smart tuxedo, looking for all the world like the young(ish) heartthrob prince he was known as in his younger days. Yet for all that, he didn’t feel particularly comfortable.

His father had decided that, in order to help the world prepare for the war they were about to fight, he would organise a fundraiser for Lyra Heartstrings' “Ponies for Human Life”.

Harry had disagreed fiercely with him on this notion: the PHL were, to him, a waste of time. He had spent the weeks since the death of his grandmother looking up everything he could, learning as much as he could about ponies and ponification. Any time he didn't spend researching the situation, he spent training: it had been a few years since his military service, and he was determined that should the need arise for him to take up arms, he would not fail the people of Britain as he had his grandmother.

There were, of course, other options. There was a nascent group being formed on the internet, a loose alliance of different armed anti-PHH and PER groups. The name being floated around was Human Liberation Front. Sure, some of the people on the forums didn’t sound like they knew what they were talking about… but then Harry had read the work of Algernon Spader.

If anyone had asked Harry, he would have said he wanted Spader here instead of Lyra Heartstrings. The man had gathered a loose coalition of willing fighters, backed by private military corporations and other private groups that had that rare combination of willingness to unite over a common cause and willingness to fight where governments had not.

Nonetheless, his father had insisted on the function for Heartstrings, and Harry- by virtue of being one of the sons of the King - had to attend, no matter how personally affronted the whole thing made him feel.

“The world is under attack by pastel ponies and here we are at a function hosted by one,” he said quietly to his brother, William. “It's enough to make you feel sick.”

The heir to the throne, his thinning hair brushed into a combover, frowned at his younger brother. It was not a new argument - they had been having the same discussion for weeks. Where Harry was more and more involved with the HLF, William had thrown his full effort into the PHL.

“You should learn to be more open minded,” William said quietly. “I've spoken with Miss Heartstrings - she seems genuinely devoted to the cause of unity between our two peoples.”

“So did Celestia,” Harry said dismissively. “But that bitch soon showed her true colours.”

“Harry,” William said in a warning tone.

“And even if she is sincere, I’ve read her platform,” Harry continued. “There’s far too much talk of trying to peacefully resolve this. It’s much too late for that.”

“Perhaps,” William agreed, “but she’s also talking about arming ponies. Preparing them to help us in the fight.”

“You’re not going to say anything to convince me, Will,” Harry hissed, trying to keep his voice down. “I don’t trust ponies. They come to our world spouting peace and friendship and then they stab us in the back!”

William sighed. “Not every pony is our enemy, Harry.” He paused, as if considering his next words carefully. “We all miss Grandmother…”

“It isn’t just about that!” Harry said hotly. “It’s about not just blindly trusting these… things, just because they talk the talk, Will!”

“Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry,” William said quietly. “She backs it up.”

“Prove it,” Harry snapped at William, leaning forward angrily. “You prove to me that these equine bastards aren't spies, or traitors, just waiting to stab us in the back or douse us with that purple shit!”

William didn't answer, but his eyes slowly drifted over Harry's shoulder, until they landed on something behind him. Harry turned, to find himself facing the turquoise form of Lyra Heartstrings herself, her eyes wide and a look of genuine sadness on her face. Next to her stood King Charles, looking mildly irritated, which was ‘King Charles facial expression’ code for absolutely furious.

“Ambassador,” William said softly. “I apologise for my brother, he’s…”

“Don't apologise for me,” Harry said angrily. “I’m in my thirties, I can quite adequately speak for myself.”

“And a great deal of it you have done,” King Charles said, sounding almost annoyed - right, he was definitely furious then. “I think it’s time you went back to your chambers, Harry -“

“No, Your Majesty,” Lyra said quietly, interrupting the King. Her voice was quieter in person than Harry had expected. “It’s quite alright. I think your son's question deserves an honest answer.”

She stepped forward, looking Harry directly in the eye, before bowing. “Your Royal Highness. I'm honoured to meet you. I regret we have not had the chance before.”

“Ambassador Heartstrings,” Harry said formally, though he couldn't keep a slight glare from his face. “I wish I could say the same to you. Unfortunately, given recent events between our two peoples…”

“I’m sorry,” Lyra said quietly, interrupting him.

This took Harry quite by surprise, and he frowned in confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked quietly.

“I said, I’m sorry,” Lyra repeated. “About your Grandmother, and about the war.”

“Ambassador Heartstrings, that’s quite…” Charles began, giving his son the King Charles equivalent of a Death Glare (one Harry had become inordinately familiar with).

“No, it’s obviously necessary, Your Majesty,” Lyra said angrily, talking over her shoulder. “Because it’s as much the fault of ponies who didn’t see as it is the fault of ponies who are fighting alongside Celestia's armies now. If you choose not to act, you choose to allow instead. If you choose not to condemn, you might as well have tacitly condoned.” Tears were brimming in her eyes. “Every one of us… every last one of us who didn't spot the madness before it was too late… is as culpable as the ones who are perpetuating it.” Lyra looked Harry in the eyes. “If I had known sooner what was being planned - if I had guessed what Celestia might have done… there were clues, Your Highness, and I didn't do enough about them. I… I was so close to figuring it out…”

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.

“But I was too slow,” she finished. “And because of that, your grandmother, Prime Minister Rokubungi, guards and soldiers and hundreds of others… everyone who died because of the PER’s attacks, Celestia’s attacks… everyone who died when Celestia made her address… everyone who will die in this war… all of them…”

She choked, tears in her eyes as she spoke. She coughed, before speaking again, her voice strengthening again.

“Every person who died… their blood is on my hooves, every bit as much as it is on Celestia and the PER's.”

Harry, faced with such an honest self appraisal, was shocked into speechlessness. He gaped for a moment, trying to find the words to respond, but Lyra was apparently not done yet.

“I promise you, Your Highness,” she said, speaking with more conviction than Harry had heard in a long time from anyone. “With every beat of my heart, with every breath in my body, I will fight to avenge those we have all lost, and save those who are left. If there can be peace, I will be thankful. But make no mistake - I’ll make war if I have to.”

Harry, shocked by her honesty, could only stare, still speechless.

Her spiel done, Lyra nodded her head slightly and wandered off. Charles threw Harry another mildly annoyed expression, and then he, too, walked off to mingle.

“I don't think I've seen her that upset for a while,” William commented softly.

Harry said nothing, frowning slightly after the Ambassador. After a moment, he went to go get a drink. William left him to it. He spent the next few hours of the fundraiser sat by himself, drinking brandy.

Well, he kept thinking. She seemed like she meant what she said.

Wills had always been the more temperate of the two of them, but he was also smart. And Wills trusted her.

“Lyra Heartstrings doesn't just talk the talk, Harry. She backs it up.” That was what he’d said

Maybe Harry could… begin to trust her. Maybe the PHL might prove to be something more than he had thought. Either way, they’d never be something unless they got help.

When the fundraiser was over, his father came up to him, his expression irritable.

“Harry,” he said, “I am very disappointed in your conduct tonight.”

“I know,” Harry replied. “Which is why I’m going to make it up to you.”

Charles blinked. “And how are you going to do that, precisely?”

Harry took a deep breath. “I want to set up a meeting. Myself, Wills, you, Lyra Heartstrings…”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange,” Charles said.

“… and Algernon Spader and his best,” Harry finished.

There was a pause as Charles processed that last name.

“Spader,” he finally said. “You want to meet with Spader.”

“Yes, father,” Harry said.

Charles looked conflicted, as well he might. Lyra Heartstrings carried the veneer of respectability, the authority to speak for others, but the HLF were a group of ordinary people, with no government, no titles. Spader was only nominally a voice in the HLF. Others considered men like Aeron Grant, Michael Carter and others like them to be equally valid voices… and far more dangerous.

And yet, his son was asking to make peace with the PHL. And Spader had an advantage over the other names - Spader had been SAS. He was a professional.

Finally, Charles nodded his assent.

“If that’s what you think will help,” he said, “then it seems I have no choice.” He sighed. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, Harry.”

Harry gave a wry smile. “Me too.”