Tarhen. February.

Eight hours later, Dash has more than warmed to the notion of a compagnie piss-up. Her brave fighters are wandering down the Tarhen streets in something that can only be called 'parade motley'. They're dressed in an outrageous collection of civilian clothes from a variety of sources. Dash isn't sure which she finds more amusing, Smit's waistcoat, monocle, jodhpurs and collar ruffles or Sov's top hat and tails, the sleeve of his tailcoat having been removed to accommodate his fighting arm.

“You're sure it's this way?” Dash asks, glancing down at her pocketwatch. Smit nods blearily.

“I checked the map myself, bosh, it's definitely this way,” the bald legionnaire says, lifting a cane with a silver pommel and pointing it like a cavalry sabre. “Onward! Death or Glory!” he bellows, raising the bottle of brandy to his lips and taking a liberal swig as cheers erupt from the other legionnaires around him, and the soldiers punch the air, cheering as they walk down the street. Hostile glares from the locals crackle through the air around them, but the good cheer of the legionnaires is infectious, and Dash finds herself smiling in spite of her worries.

It's liberating to be out and about, walking the streets that they rattled down in their carriages a few hours ago, and Dash's problems with the Normalization and her new rank fade into a dull background hum against the warm fuzzy feeling that bubbles through her veins.

“Hey, pass me some of that,” she says, reaching out and grabbing the bottle from Smit. She takes a quick gulp of the spirit and hisses as it burns its way down her throat before passing it back to him. It tastes like ass, but that's not the point. The point is that she's here, in Tarhen, drinking in public, in civilian clothes, with her head uncovered.

As acts of defiance go, it's reasonably petty, but Dash can live with petty for now.

“Whiskers, how's it feel to be back here?” she calls, and the Khan giggles, a rich and musical sound slightly tainted by her drunkenness.

“It's great, boss, I'm having an excellent time,” Whiskers replies happily, her golden fur gleaming in the light of the setting sun as she skips forward, her red skirts blooming upward, and the golden bangles around her bare ankles jingle musically. Dash has never seen Whiskers dress like this before, and she has to admit the Khan female cuts a fairly striking presence in her red and orange silken skirts that would be considered salacious by Equestrian standards, never mind the more straitlaced Khans. Elaborate henna dyed patterns dance down her tortoiseshell furred arms, and more golden henna decorates her muzzle.

“What the hell are you wearing?” Sov asks. “I thought you Khans were supposed to go around in sack-cloth so that no one could see you had tits.”

“Fuck you,” Whiskers chirps, her back to the others as she skips forward, her tail flicking behind her like a flag, and Dash tries not to notice the way her skirts seem to be flashing rather more leg than would be considered appropriate.

“Promises, promises,” Sov taunts in reply. “So tell us, what on earth is that costume and where'd you find it?”

“Khalaji tribal dancing outfit. From the south, where I used to live,” Whiskers says as she falls back in among the group, deftly snatching the bottle from Smit's unresisting hand and taking a swig. “I used to be a dancer, back before everything went crazy... The old Emperor came from the south, you see, and he got lots of support from the Khalaji.... My family did well out of the Emperor, we got lands, money... you name it. Of course that all changed with the Revolution.” She takes another longer swig. “The Emperor didn't get on with the mountain barbarians, and they never got on with him... when the Shah came along, my family...” She takes another swig from the bottle and then she spits eloquently at the foot of one of the monuments lining the street. “Madar-jendeh,” she swears sourly, and then wraps a furry arm around Smit's shoulder and buries her face in his neck as she releases a low moan of pain.

The other legionnaires look at each other awkwardly, their mood suddenly soured, and Dash clears her throat as she looks down the street, spotting the small, out of the way “tea house,” though judging by the sounds coming from within, tea is probably not being served there—or at least if it is, it's taking a poor second to the beer.

“Let's keep going... Whiskers, you going to be alright?” she asks, thinking that maybe it'd be a good idea to take Whiskers home instead.

“I'll be fine... and my name's Shalah Zaafan... no more of this Whiskers crap. Sounds like something you feed your cat,” she says, and then extends her hand to Dash in a quick wrist clasp, which Dash returns.

“Welcome, legionnaire Zaafan,” Dash says, smiling at the Khan, who gives her a gentle smile back.

“So why are you wearing that?” Sov asks, and Zaafan looks up at him.

“Because... I'm walking through Tarhen, dressed like a Khalaji. I don't have to hide or pretend to be something I'm not. I'm me and no one can take that away. I can be proud of who I am,” Zaafan says softly, and Dash closes her eye for just a moment, and then she opens it, hoping that no one saw her lapse.

“Heck yeah you can be, and if anyone says otherwise, then we'll beat the crap out of them. Death or Glory!” Dash says, stepping forward and punching the air. On cue, the other legionnaires whoop in triumph, though out of the corner of her eye, Dash notices Smit's gaze lingering on her face for a moment. Then, they're at the front door, and two huge bald and tattooed Khans - vaguely reminiscent of that scum that Diplomatic Incident had been playing cards with - are letting her and her little group through the doors into the bar.

The first thing that Dash notices is the noise. Voices are raised in song, or else in argument, in a variety of tongues from Equestrian to Fars'ad to Traveller Speech to everything in between. It strikes her like a physical wall of sound, and as she glances back at her party, she can see Zaafan folding her ears back against the onslaught.

Dash pushes her way through the throng of richly dressed traders rubbing shoulders with drunks and dock-workers, her eye adjusting to the flickering light of the torches. It's still almost impossible to pick anything out through the fog of smoke drifting from a dozen snakelike hookah pipes being gently puffed by grey-furred old cats wrapped in faded robes.

As Dash's eye adjust, she picks out the bar, or what passes for a bar, sat in the corner with two more burly enforcer types flanking it. Overworked bar-girls, dressed in what is obviously meant to be a poor imitation of Zaafan's own garb, are moving this way and that, pouring illegally brewed moonshine into glasses. Stained farming implements and swords hang from the walls, along with faded flags of various colours and designs.

“Let's secure a table,” she says, gesturing for Smit to follow her. As they step into the bar area proper, however, Dash notices something pass through the crowd of patrons. A nervous tension crackles like fire, as eyes turn and conversation ceases. Dozens of eyes assess the group of military age newcomers.

“Who are you with?” a voice growls, and Dash clicks her tongue.

“Nay mushkil- No problem, we're not 'with' anyone. We're just here for a quiet drink is all,” Dash replies in fluent Fars'ad. There is a soft grunt from around the bar area, a grunt that Dash isn’t sure represents acceptance or derision, but then she steps forward.

“We've got coin to burn, but if you'd rather we went someplace else, then we can arrange that,” Dash says with a smirk, and then a heavyset Khan standing at the bar nods slowly. His grey tortoiseshell fur is streaked with grease, and his robes bulge due to his heavy paunch.

“We'd be honoured to welcome gallant defenders of the faith into our midst,” he says after a moment, and Dash smirks slightly, but she says nothing further as the crowd starts to turn back to their business. Instead, she leads her group to one of the tables in a corner.

“Right, we're here to celebrate, so enjoy yourselves, but don't go nuts,” Dash cautions them. She sits down and one of the junior troopers turns and heads toward the bar, Zaafan going with him.

Dash watches their progress for a moment before she sits back in her chair, content to let the merrymaking and banter flow around her. She has a lot on her mind right now, and she'd rather think about it whilst mildly lubricated as opposed to being staggering drunk.

The Normalization is a scary thing to contemplate. It has the potential to absolutely and completely fuck everything up, beyond any hope of retrieval. For Dash, it won't change that much. As a legionnaire, she's not going to be news and The Pit is even less accessible than Canterlot Castle for all but the most determined of reporters. No one inside the Second Regiment will give a shit either. Zaranov's stance on sex politics is as uncomplicated as it is uncompromising. (Do what you want in the privacy of your own bunk, as long as you're on the fire-step in the morning. Make an issue of what another legionnaire does with a consenting partner, and you’ll be lucky if you walk away with all your teeth.)

For Twilight however... for Twilight, it will be a big deal. It'll rake up personal history that the Princess really doesn't need to be dealing with right now. It'll certainly queer the deal with the Shah and his people, and it'll remind Equestrians about their newest princess' perceived foibles when they really need absolute confidence in her judgement.

So, I've got an outline of the problem, now what the fuck do I do about it? Dash asks herself, gazing into the frothing mug of moonshine that has been laid on the table before her.

“Hey, boss.” Dash looks up as she feels a hand upon her shoulder and turns her head to see Smit smiling genially at her, his eyes slightly glazed and his face flushed by drink.

“Whazzup? We're supposed to be celebrating and you look like your favourite dog has just gone 'n died.”

“S’bullshit, that's all,” Dash replies grimly. Smit chuckles softly.

“Yep, but what else do you expect? This is the Legion, not the Horse Guards. Bullshit's part of our job description.”

“It's my Normalization,” Dash sighs. She shouldn't be saying this at all, let alone to Smit, but she needs to speak to someone, and her 2IC is probably a better option than anyone else. “S’going to be problematic.”

“Killed a few people, did ya?” Smit asks, and Dash tosses him an irritated look.

“If you're going to be a prick then I won't... ah fuck it... it's about that thing I mentioned earlier. It could be damaging for certain personages,” Dash mutters, and Smit nods slowly.

“I see... then why not hold back a bit... Suggest to that personage's fat handmaiden that it might be wise if your Normalization was delayed for a month or two, or else go directly to Adrelana and make a similar suggestion. As long as you're Normalized by the time you do your Stage Sergents, no one gives a fuck,” Smit gesticulates airily, and Dash's eye widens. She'd never even considered that to be an option. It's simple, incredibly stupid, and it just might work...

“Thanks a bunch Smit,” Dash says, the knot of worry that had been tugging insistently at her throughout the day unknotting. Her shoulders slump and a smile spreads across her face.

“No problem, I'm just sur-surprised you never thought of it yourself boss...”

“I probably should have, but I've been worrying about other shit too.”

“So I've noticed. Sergent, permit me to give you an order, if you please, as your... 2IC, who is only looking out for your best intereshts, I hereby order you to go upstairs and find a willing partner for half an hour. In my profesh... profesh... long medical experience, you are suffering from a case of what would, in males, be called blue balls... since you're a woman...” Smit pauses and takes another long draught of his moonshine, before turning back to Dash. “Since you're a woman... I don't fuckin' know, just go upstairs and speak to one of the trades...people, I'm sure they'd be more’n willing to help you out.” Smit finishes his rambling, punctuating the sentence with a loud burp.

Dash glances at Smit, thinking for a moment, before she pushes her chair back.

“You know, Smit, that's the best advice you've given me all year. Cheers.” With that, she turns and pushes her way across the bar, narrowly avoiding getting caught in the scrum around the bar as the patrons try and get served, before pushing her way up the stairs.

As she ascends the stairs, she feels a nervous twinge, a certain tightness in her belly. She needs to forget about Twilight, and if that means losing herself in the arms of another for a half hour then so be it. Dash can think of worse ways to spend half an hour, not to mention it gives her a convenient excuse to be sober.

However as she climbs the stairs, and starts moving down the corridor, trying to ignore the vocalizations coming from behind the rickety wooden doors to either side of her, Dash starts to wonder if this is really such a good idea... but she shucks that thought off with the ease of a professional. She needs to relax. She needs this. She hasn't gotten laid in two and a bit years and the memories of just how good it was are starting to crowd in her forebrain, assisted by a rather insistent pulse from her nethers reminding her of all the sensations she's done her best to forget.

Eventually she reaches a door which doesn't have a little red light glowing outside it, and she knocks experimentally, unsure quite how to go about this sort of thing. She hears footsteps approach the door, and she has just a moment to wonder if this was really such a good idea before the door opens to reveal a short-ish Khan, in a pale grey tortoiseshell pattern. She's sleek and slender, with a flowing fluid grace that is only accentuated by the long gauzy robes that she's wearing that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The Khan looks her up and down, her golden eyes gleaming and her ears flicking, and then she smiles faintly.

“Come in, soldier, make yourself comfortable,” the girl says, turning her back and heading back into her chamber. Dash follows, her eye on the swishing tail and the slowly swishing hips. The room is ostentatious and tawdry, with lots of gold leaf and even a dead animal of some description stretched out as a rug. Dash's gaze takes in the dresser, with its polished marble counter-top, before wandering back to the short Khan.

From behind, Dash cannot help but appreciate the Khan's beautiful colouring, the mottled splotches of brown and strips of ashen grey, against a deeper coal-grey background. There’s also the minor matter of the pert, well formed backside. The Khan turns around, smiling at Dash.

“My name's Adyna, and I'll be serving you today,” she says, turning on her heel to face Dash, a wicked smile curling at her lips and her whiskers twitching slightly. Her eyes flash with promise, and her practiced, swishing tread as she slinks over to the spellbound legionnaire reminds Dash of a predator stalking prey.

“A pleasure to meet you, Adyna,” Dash says, her eye sweeping up and down the Khan's graceful figure, before locking onto her eyes.

“The pleasure's all mine. You're not my regular sort of clientele,” Adyna says softly as she walks up to Dash and lifts a hand to gently run her fingers along Dash's face. “You're not human though you're dressed as one... fit, though I'd expect nothing else from a soldier...” The Khan smiles, her hand dropping down to cup the small of Dash's back.

“Does it really matter what I am at this point?” Dash asks, a smile spreading across her face and the whore's whiskers twitch faintly.

“I suppose it doesn't...” she says after a moment, grinning as she pulls Dash in close and Dash's wings unfold in a whoomph, quivering slightly as they stretch to their full span. The Khan smiles faintly, reaching out and running her fingers along the leading edge of Dash's wing and grinning at the sudden sucking breath that Dash draws in.

“Well that's a good start,” Adyna breathes, pulling Dash closer and steering her toward the bed. Dash inhales the scent of the Khan, the richness of her perfume and the soft, sleek texture of her fur as she reaches up to gently stroke the Khan's neck. The Khan releases a low rasping purr of pleasure.

She makes the whole thing so natural, so easy as she guides Dash back to the bed and pushes her down onto it. Dash falls back heavily, gazing at the Khan as she smiles saucily to the legionnaire, before she reaches to the shoulders of her gauzy gown, and peels it away, letting it flow down her skin, revealing pale grey belly fur, perfectly formed breasts with tiny pink nipples, and a small gap in her groin fur to reveal a glistening pink slit. Dash gazes up at the Khan, backlit as she is by the room’s chandelier and she reaches up, resting her hands on Adyna’s hips as the whore slowly reaches for the buttons to Dash’s blue velvety waistcoat. Yet as she does so, Dash feels a flicker of something at the corner of her mind, a momentary flicker of long midnight blue hair hanging down, and soft olive skin gleaming in the moonlight… whispering and giggling, and then…

Dash looks down at the Khan’s deftly moving hands, slowly peeling away the velvety waistcoat. Dash lifts her arms, folding her wings with some difficulty to allow the Khan to pull it away. The shirt comes away next, the Khan’s fingers working deftly to undo each button, her eyes appearing almost half-hooded, and her pupils dilated.

Dash slowly flicks a thumb across Adyna’s nipple, a soft twinge of guilt rippling through her even whilst the Khan releases another rumbling purr of contentment as she eases Dash’s shirt open.
What have I got to be guilty about? She said she didn’t want to see me, that we should separate. She said it herself.

Yet even as Dash pulls the Khan down against her, pressing her own torso against the soft fur of the other female, she feels the nagging feeling of something not being quite right.

“You’re tense,” Adyna breathes, her breath hot against Dash’s ear, “I’m not going to bite you… unless you want me to that is.” She giggles, and Dash smiles weakly as she runs a hand up the crease of the Khan’s spine.

“Just… got a lot on my mind,” Dash says, and the Khan pushes back, rolling to rest on her side, propping her head up with one arm.

“Well then that’s what you’re paying me for… to take those things off your mind,” Adyna says gently. “It’s not just sex I can help you with, if you need someone to talk to, then I can do that. I can listen. You look like you need someone to listen to you for a change,” The Khan says, and Dash sighs, rolling back onto the bed.

“I’m fairly sure this isn’t how it’s normally supposed to go, but okay,” she says, and Adyna nods.

“You’re supposed to take your shoes off first.” The Khan smiles, and Dash flushes with embarrassment, but as she moves to unbuckle them, Adyna puts her hand on her shoulder.

“It’s quite alright… you’re here now, and your presence is supposed to be some filthy sin, so I’m sure my sheets can cope.” Adyna giggles faintly, licking her lips as she rolls onto her belly, and Dash’s eye briefly drifts over the contours of her back and bottom, before flashing back up to the female’s face.

“What in the name of the Prophet?” The Khan leans forward, tugging at Dash’s shirt to open it, revealing the tightly wrapped white cloth beneath. “I hope you’re not wounded… I don’t want you bleeding all over my bedsheets, that’ll cost extra.”

“Wha-Oh.” Dash glances down at the cloth and she shakes her head, smiling slightly. “Don’t they have these over here?” She asks, and Adyna shakes her head.

“So you’re not wounded?” Adyna asks, and Dash smiles faintly.

“Not here I’m not,” She replies, undoing the knot just below her breasts, and slowly unwrapping the fabric with a sigh of naked relief as the cloth loosens, exposing her upper torso to the Khan, who tilts her head.

“We get told that all you Daemonspawn are well built up here.” She indicates her own more generous breasts, before indicating the small handfuls of flesh on Dash’s torso, and Dash smiles mirthlessly.

“Of course. Can’t say I complain mind you, I don’t know how I’d cope if I had boobs like those and had to run or crawl anywhere,” Dash says, and the Khan nods slowly. She looks down at Dash’s bare skin, at her toned and muscled torso, and whistles.

“So those markings, they’re normal for Equestrians?” she asks, reaching out with one finger and touching the bursting grenade, her fingers tracing the letters. “Two E R-E-P, what does that mean?” she asks.

“Second Régiment étranger de parachutistes,” Dash replies. ”My regiment… though it’s been ages since we’ve used parachutes for anything,” she explains. Adyna nods slowly, tracing the other marks with a long finger. Several tattoos, all of which are small, subtle things that no one outside the Legion would understand, and scars. Another woman with those markings has lived a hard life. Dash has lived life hard.

“Well… soldier girl… what’re you thinking about?” Adyna asks after a moment. “You’re concerned about something.”

Dash frowns faintly. She’s beginning to wonder about her newfound friend’s insistence to know what Dash is worried about. She hasn’t received any kind of counterintelligence training beyond the obvious field level stuff, but even she knows about the dangers of unsolicited pillow talk.
“It’s boring… not worth bringing up,” Dash says softly, and the Khan sighs.

“That’s a pity, I’m mildly curious.” Adyna says softly, reaching underneath her pillow with one hand. “Anyway, we’ve got time… let’s enjoy ourselves.” She then rolls over, pulling Dash with her so that Dash is on top of the Khan. “Now, you’re a little overdressed, perhaps you could do something about that,” she suggests, and Dash reaches downward to undo her trousers, her gaze locked on the Khan’s eyes.

A sharp crash splits the quiet of the room. She whirls toward the door, her eye clapping on a red-robed figure. The Khan beneath her suddenly shoves her backward off the bed sending the world spinning. A crack rings through her skull as she hits the floor. She hits heavily on her right side, and the thump thump thump of approaching boots tells her she’s out of time. Her eye tries to focus through the confusion, but one of the Khans immediately hooks a sharp kick into her ribcage.
Air explodes from Dash’s lungs with a whuff. She doubles around another savage kick as pain spears through her, but then she’s slamming a fist upward into his crotch. The Khan yowls, staggering backward and Dash swarms up, stumbling to her feet. Burly, red-robed arms suddenly wrap around her in a crushing bear-hug. Dash grunts.

Bad idea.

Two sheets of solid Equestrian wing muscle unfurl with the snapping of a whip. The hulking Khan is thrown backward. Dash hears the thunderous crash of wood and glass splintering as the enemy cannonballs into the dresser, and as he slumps to the floor, perfume bottles cracking and fragmenting around him. Dash has no time to spare for him as she’s already whirling to confront the second assailant, catching a flicker of movement in the corner of her remaining eye.

Basijji, Dash thinks groggily, taking in those loose maroon robes. He’s already in close, his stick raised to swing. Dash ducks forward by reflex under the first hasty swing and comes up. The staff whooshes as it parts the air inches from her back, her assailant now inside her guard. Dash yelps beneath a sudden explosion of pain as something catches her in the small of the back. She twists around and slams a fist into his solar plexus, right below his sternum. A whoosh of air explodes out of the Khan’s lungs as he folds around her punch. Dash suddenly sees the staff blindly lashing backward. She twists to dodge, but the blow cracks into Dash’s ribs. Pain starbursts across her chest. Dash stumbles beneath the blow, but the world seems to be shifting beneath her feet and she only barely manages to deflect another swing with her forearm. She then snatches for the guy’s wrist to try and break it. Her hand closes on empty air and she sees a black boot scything up-

An eruption of pain bursts in her stomach and the air explodes out of her lungs. She doubles over, dropping to her knees as her straining core muscles fight for control. She feels hands grabbing at her, spinning her around. An arm like an iron bar tightens around her neck and Dash scrabbles frantically at it, even as she feels it tightening and the energy suddenly starting to fade from her limbs.

Then she leans forward, turning her head and nestling her chin into the crook of his arm, pulling the Basiji with her. Her wing snaps out, slamming one leg out from under him with an audible crack as muscle meets bone. He teeters off balance and he’s moving to regain control as Dash snatches for his belt. Grabbing it, she manages to throw her assailant to the ground, and she throws her weight into the powerful elbow-strike. A sharp crunch beneath her elbow, and she feels the wet cartilage of his larynx fragment beneath her, and the Khan expires, gasping wetly on the floor.

Dash looks up at the third, the shortest of the three, standing guard at the door. He turns as he hears his colleague’s choked gurgles. His hand drops down, snatching at his belt for something in a leather holster. Adrenaline and anger are surging through her veins as she advances on him. Tangled in his robes, he just manages to pull the revolver free and raise it, but Dash is already stepping inside of him and gripping his wrist, dragging his gun upward and following up with a sharp uppercut that slams into his chin, sending him staggering backward, the gun tumbling from his nerveless fingers.

Dash snatches his gun as it falls to the ground, swinging the revolver’s grip and arcing it upward with a sharp splintering crack against his temple, and the Khan sags to the ground. She reverses the gun in her grip, taking the short-barreled revolver and raising it into the aim.

Dash quickly moves to cover the door, hearing a commotion from the corridor. She hears a soft whimpering from behind her, but disregards it. The whore can look after herself, and right now Dash has bigger problems.

“Hey boss,” Smit’s business-like voice barks from down the corridor. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just had to briefly discuss payment options.”

“Righto, well when you’re decent, we could use a hand down here, no rush, just locals for now.” Smit’s tone is level and unhurried, as though discussing a preferred variety of towel.

“Right, I’ll be down soon, just need to take care of business here,” Dash says as she quickly finishes dressing herself, and then turns to survey the scene. The once ornate room is a mess, with one of the Basijis nestled in the wreckage of Adyna’s snapped dressing table, glittering shards of mirror scattered over his shoulders like shining dandruff. Two more Basijjis are bleeding into the thick carpet, and Adyna herself is crying into her bedsheets.

“All in all, I’ve had worse first dates.” Dash grins at nothing and twirls the revolver around one finger, before she glances up to see a dusty old leather hat on a hat-hook by the door. She pauses for a moment, frowning speculatively, before shaking her head and stepping out of the room.

Dash steps out onto the balcony above the steadily developing riot and whistles appreciatively as she gazes down at the whirling mayhem below. Her eye scans the three-way brawl currently ripping its way through the bar like a hurricane of swinging fists and flashing claws. Bottles are whistling this way and that, insults are flying and humans and Khans are going down on both sides.

Dash quickly picks out the black-robed Morality Police and their crimson-robed stooges, a tightly packed wedge of them fighting their way into the bar and enthusiastically laying into the crowd around them with their batons, but the other patrons of the bar are even less enamoured of the Morality Police than the legionnaires. This does not mean the legionnaires are getting off easily. They’re formed up in a tight little corner, pulping anyone that dares come near.

“Hey boss,” Smit barks from the foot of the stairs, and Dash turns to him. Sweat is glistening on his face and he’s grinning like a pig in shit.

“Having fun?” Dash asks as she descends the stairs, and the legionnaire’s grin widens as he swings the bannister-post in his hand like a club, sending a loud tattooed specimen stumbling backward, clutching his bloody nose.

“You have no idea,” Smit replies as the tattooed Khan comes scything back in, claws raised. Smit brings his club back on the back-swing, under the Khan’s guard to smash up into his chin, sending the Khan stumbling backward into the churning morass of the bar brawl.

“Fair enough, you want to try pushing across to the others?” Dash asks, grimacing slightly at her injuries, and Smit glances at the others, across the room, nodding.

“Sure, they could probably use our help… you reckon these idiots will cause any issues getting to them?” he asks, and Dash shakes her head dismissively, moving up so that Smit is covering her blind side as her fists ball up.

“Ready? Move,” she snaps, and as one the two legionnaires push down the staircase into the whirling confusion of the brawl. At once, they’re almost submerged in a sea of bodies, and Dash’s movements become the trained reflex of the professional killer she has become, though she’s careful to pull her punches just enough to avoid actually killing any of the people that she strikes.

A hand snatches at her wrist, and Dash’s other hand grabs the wrist and squeezes, her grip forcing the other hand to let go. She then pulls the hand- and the body following it- off balance, and her other hand comes up to grab the scruff of his neck, and the Khan is on the floor eating dirt before Dash can blink. Another pushes around to flank him, and Dash’s savage upper-cut sends him staggering backward, easy prey for Dash’s follow up slam into his belly, which hurls him careening into a table, smashing into it and upending the contents in a rain of moonshine and beer glasses… and the angry blows of the dock-workers whose pints those had been.

Behind her she can feel Smit moving in perfect unison, the two of them hammering their way across the dance floor and taking absolutely no prisoners, using fists, feet and whatever comes to hand to carve their way across the floor of the tavern, all the while trying to duck and weave out of the way of incoming blows.

A human comes in for the attack this time. Dash ducks under his first hasty swing, and then her own fist comes up in a hammerblow aimed at his ear. The dockie ducks, and Dash’s blow catches empty air, and then she’s stumbling backwards as his powerful punch slams into her midriff. The wind rushes out of Dash and she staggers backward, groaning from her progressively pulped core muscles. The dockie is backing up as Smit flows forward, his foot slamming into the dockie’s ankle. The human is slow to get out of the way and so the blow connects with full force, knocking the dock-worker’s foot out from under him, the hapless dockie going down like a sack of shit. Smit stamps viciously downward on the man’s testicles, tossing a couple of kicks into his side for good measure.

Dash recovers and moves right back into the fight without a word of thanks or apology. There will be time to offer thanks or apologies later, but for now there is only the fight, a confusing blur of fists and feet, hastily blocked claws and bursts of pain, but in spite of it all, Dash is forced to laugh out loud as her fists and feet move in a seamless blur. Just for once, it’s nice to be involved in a good honest bar fight and let the fight flow over her and through her. Everyone will get up with broken and bloody noses, no hard feelings.

Then they’re suddenly through, and Dash is having to duck a reflexive swing from Sov’s mighty combat arm. The arm whooshes over her, the hiss of its hydraulics as the limb extends sounding uncomfortably close as a body behind her crumples to the floor. Dash turns and looks behind her, noting the Khan’s broken nose, jaw, and blood pouring from his lip, and she whistles. Idiot’s lucky not to get ground into meatpaste.

Dash dodges another swing and then reflexively ducks into the circle, Smit following behind her.
“How goes?” Dash asks, and Sov grunts, his combat arm wrenching a swinging stick from a Basijji’s hand and crunching it into splinters. The Basiji’s eyes widen and he raises his open palms as the big man steps forward, drawing back his metal fist to swing again.

“It goes. There’s a hundred of them to twelve of us. The situation, such as it is, is under control.” Sov swings again, his normal organic fist just as dangerous as the mechanical limb to any of the Khans who are too slow or too stupid to get out of the way. Dash turns into the fight and loses herself, lets the rhythm of the fight flow through her. Her fists fly, bottles crash and voices are raised in a thunderous tumult, and Dash is having more fun than she’s had in months.
_____

“Well… that was fun,” Dash remarks, rubbing bloody knuckles with an unconscious Basiji’s handkerchief.

Smit grimaces, wiping the blood from a split lip. “Definitely not bad,” he agrees, his eyes taking in the carpet of moaning bodies. “Reckon we could bring the others to this place?”

Dash looks around the bar, at the smashed windows and broken bottles, at the slumped figures hunched over tables or lying on their backs, at the shattered bar and the cowering barmaids. She then slowly clambers over the wreckage, trying to step around the groaning bodies, past overturned tables until she reaches behind the bar. One hand occasionally massages her ribs, but a smile remains plastered across her face. Reaching behind the bar, she pulls out a jar of spirit, uncorks it with a pop, and takes a swig.

“Are you kidding, place like this? They’d be bored shitless.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 13: A Descending Darkness Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 18 Minutes