Tarhen, 27th January, 1882, 1115.

Twilight opens her eyes to a snarl of sound, and she blinks groggily as her ears focus upon the roar, identifying it as the howl of wind ripping through a solar sail. For a moment, Twilight isn’t able to place quite where she is, but then, as a posse of concerned faces swim into view above her as vibrations ripple up her spine, Twilight realizes she’s still safely in one of the Legion’s light skiffs.

As the faces swim into focus, Twilight picks out Whiskers and Smit, and then she spots the bright, multichromatic blur of Rainbow Dash’s hair, a relieved expression being hastily stowed away.

“Glad to see you’re still among the land of the living, Your Highness,” Dash says. Twilight offers the woman a weak smile, the force of the confrontation with her mentor a few moments ago having robbed her of speech. Rainbow Dash lets a small, relieved smile tug at her lips and pats Twilight’s good shoulder as the vibration of the skiff moving at speed pulses through Twilight’s bones. She can feel the skiff maneuvering through the air much more aggressively than it was previously, if that were possible.

“How’re you doing, Princess?” Dash’s voice is warm with just a hint of relief. Twilight slowly picks herself up, her body still shaking slightly from the after effects of her conversation with Celestia. However as Twilight sits up, she hears something jangling as she moves. Her gaze tilts downward and she notices the bottom of the boat is littered with expended brass.

“I’m… good,” she says, rubbing her eyes as she looks around to see the scenery of Tarhen roaring past and the other Legionnaires looking around hungrily as they hunt for targets. “What happened?” Twilight asks, and Dash frowns slightly before answering.

“A sniper took a potshot at you when we were leaving the prison, and we saw you pass out. We thought you’d been hit...” Dash hesitates and Twilight can feel something strange. She can feel images pressing in from the corner of her mind -- flickers of images as though she’s watching an out of focus projector…

The rainbow-haired Legionnaire is directing the evacuation of her troops, the familiar crackle of nerves burning at the back of her mind as she scans the wall around her. Her hands are tight upon her weapon and the air is thick with tension.

She licks dry lips with a dry tongue as she watches Princess Twilight mount up, followed by the Valorossiyan ambassador and her own guards. Dash forces back the thoughts crowding the edges of her mind. She needs to be on point now, of all times.

The feed jerks. Suddenly, Twilight is looking at an image of herself. The skiff is rising slowly and ponderously, the built-in reaction drive having failed to build up the necessary power for a swift boost. As they rise in gut-churning slow motion, Dash can feel her hands tighten still further upon the rifle and she silently pleads for the skiff to move faster.

Suddenly, the tension is broken as Princess Twilight sags, the shrill zip of a bullet filling the air, followed half a beat later by the crack of a rifle. An icy cold void opens up right where Dash’s stomach is, and her gaze twists around as she hunts for a firing position.

Her eyes lock upon a Khan standing behind a Gardner-type rotary barrel gatling gun, of the kind that uses a handle to rotate the barrel. His eyes are alight with hatred and she can tell he wants nothing more than to spin that barrel up...

“Then the prison officers opened up on us and so we had to evac under fire. Sov was hit, but it’s only a slight scrape on his prosthetic. I’ll get the mechanic to look at him later.” Dash says, and for a second, her expression turns a little sad.

Dash’s expression hardens as she raises her own weapon. “All-round defence, now!” She snaps, pushing back the rapidly building panic growing in her belly.
‘Please don’t let Twilight be dead!’ repeats over and over again in a brutal refrain in Dash’s mind. Then the Khan’s hand tightens on the handle and he starts to push it forwards…

BAM!

The rifle jerks in Dash’s hand as she pulls the trigger. The Khan’s head snaps backward as Dash takes the shot and he folds forward over the gun, the wall behind him suddenly covered with blood.

For a second, there is absolute stunned silence and then a roar of gunfire as the Khans retaliate, raising their weapons and opening fire in a sudden, frantic fusillade. Dash works the bolt on her rifle, picking out another target, a Khan with a shotgun who is frantically firing and pumping. Dash punches a round straight into his chest. The Khan tumbles down, the weapon clattering from his hands, but Dash has no time to contemplate that as she scans for another target.

A shrill burp of fire fills the air and Dash spots another Khan go down, rounds stitching their way up his chest as a Valorossiyan submachine gun cuts him down.

“GO GO GO GO!” Dash hears herself yelling, and she can hear the skiff’s pilot cursing as he hauls upon the skiff’s collective, managing to gain altitude at last, and then the nose tips upward slightly and the pilot shunts the throttle forward, the power of that acceleration slamming Dash and the others down into their seats.

“We’ve probably made things difficult for you, Twilight.” Dash admits and Twilight shakes her head.

“If they opened fire first, then you’re well within your rights to respond,” Twilight answers calmly, already contemplating how this is going to change the negotiating position, if it does at all. “Tell me how it happened, minute for minute.”

Dash nods and opens her mouth and Twilight listens closely, trying to pick out any differences between the vision and Dash's account. “We’re getting into the skiff with you, right. I’m behind you when I hear some fucknuts cocking a bolt action rifle on the ramparts. That let me know something was up, and so we bundled you into the skiff and then you passed out… good thing you did, though, or you would have been splatted. We’d already put out smoke by that point. but it hadn’t built up yet, and so we went up into the ready, you know, covering all the angles, and I clap my eyes on the cat with the cranked machine gun. He’s in the act of traversing it onto our position and he’s got a dirty, big smile on his face like he’s just won the lottery.

We’re just starting to lift by this point and we haven’t got enough power to vertically lift quickly -- it’ll take several seconds for us to get that kind of power, so we’re sitting ducks. He’s shifted his finger onto the handle, and I see him crank it back to push it forward. Now, given the nature of the situation, I shouted a warning at him in Fars’ad, but he just continued to crank it up. He just needed to push that handle forward and start it spinning and none of us would be breathing. so I put a round into his face. Of course, his mates return fire. and so we had to take out quite a few of them to get out of there.” Dash’s face looks grim and her eye is slightly downcast.

Twilight smiles wanly. “I trust you, caporal, if there was an issue and you needed to resolve it with violence then I’ll back you as far as needed.” She says, reaching out and placing a hand on Dash’s arm. The Legionnaire flinches for a second, and then relaxes as the skiff hurtles through the city in the direction of the compound.

As they come screaming in over massive factory complexes and chimneys belching sulphurous smoke , Twilight takes a moment to gaze in the direction of the compound. She can see a crowd gathering at the gates even from this distance, many of whom are carrying placards and banners. As they draw closer and more details come into focus, Twilight can see that very few of those placards and banners appear to be of a complementary nature, however. A line of legionnaires is keeping them in check, and Twilight can see other legionnaires hard at work on fortifying the perimeter. Mortar pits have been dug and one of the self-propelled guns has been marched up into plain view of the front gate to give the mob of demonstrators something big and nasty to think about.

“We’re set up for the long haul; I reckon we’d be able to hold off the entire Khanate army if we had enough ammunition.” Dash says, looking at the defences approvingly before glancing at Twilight apologetically. “Hopefully we won’t have to, though,” she adds as an afterthought and Twilight nods glumly as the skiff zips over the walls, coming in to land in the middle of the landing field.

“Get yourselves out of those dress uniforms,” Twilight says as they disembark. “If things continue in this manner, I want you to be ready to respond.”

“Ma’am,” Dash replies, chopping up a quick salute,“When do you want us ready to roll out again?” she asks and Twilight shakes her head firmly,

“I don’t. You and your men have gone through not one but two gunfights on my account today. I will not make it three,” Twilight says gently. For a moment, she can see a hint of dubiousness in the legionnaire’s expression before Dash turns on her jackbooted heel.

“You heard the lady, gents -- you’ve got one hour to get your gear sorted, requisition new uniforms and gear where needed, then I want you to get your asses over to that block there; we’re going to debrief and take some time to breathe.” Dash barks, and her troop of legionnaires start making their way back to the accommodation block to get out of their blue and white dress uniforms.

Twilight watches them go for a moment, her eyes lingering on the retreating form of caporal Dash before she turns to Diplomatic Incident.

“How quickly can you arrange a meeting with someone in power?” Twilight’s eyes are narrow and Diplomatic Incident tilts his head.

“I just have to make a couple of telegrams, ma’am. We should know their answer by tomorrow,” he says. Twilight folds her arms impassively, her mouth curling downward.

“Not good enough, I’ve been shot at twice since I came here -- my soldiers have had blood spilled in this nation; I want answers and if there are doors we cannot open by conventional means, I’ll blow them down if I must.” Twilight’s mouth is set into a thin line and a warm laugh booms from Zsaryna’s throat.

“Hah, you are more like a Valorossiyan than I thought!” The tall. predatory female has recovered some of her composure at having her boots back on solid ground, and she tosses a predatory grin at Twilight, all flashing teeth and sharp-edged smile. Diplomatic Incident looks troubled. however.

“Princess, Twilight, perhaps it would be best to wait until tomorrow… by all accounts, today has been somewhat stressful for you. You could do with approaching the conundrums of the coming day with a clear head.” Diplomatic Incident’s tone is conciliatory and concerned and Twilight wants no part of it. She wants answers, and she wants someone who can give them to her. She needs to keep pressing forward, because if she stops now, she’s going to start crying.

“We cannot wait,” Twilight growls softly. “Let the Khans see me as I am, here and now, let them know that if I am angry, it is because I have reason to be!”

“But, Princess, I must insist, this isn’t like you!” Diplomatic Incident replies, the concern dropping from his tone to be replaced with an edge of irritation “The Twilight Sparkle I know would not be talking about blowing doors down, or-”

“If I may,” A voice interrupts them, and Twilight turns to see Prophet walking towards them, his armour clanking softly, a strange lever-action rifle slung across his back, a weapon obviously designed for Khan hands, being shorter and less cumbersome than an Equestrian rifle. It is also ornately decorated, with inscriptions of scrolls bearing verses of scripture, and etched brass trim upon the rich, cedar wood furniture, flowing lines of autumnal brown rippling through the deep red.

“There will be no talk of blowing doors down, nor angry people, your Highness. I have been to speak to my order, and thence to the Shah. He is most perturbed by the greeting you have been given. He is so perturbed, that he wishes for you to meet him in his palace within the hour. I gather that judging by the condition of your craft,” he gestures at the bullet-pocked skiff, “I wager that things have not been smooth in my absence.”

27th January, 1882, Tarhen, 1125.

Caporal Rainbow Dash sits down in the common room that she’s picked as the Ninth Compagnie’s recreation room. One of the few nice things about being in the Princess’s bodyguard team is that her unit is allowed to stay in the administration block where Twilight is staying, which is rather more comfortable than the converted airship hangars where the other legionnaires are staying.

The carpet squishes gently as Dash crosses her legs. She can hear worn springs creaking as Sov shifts on the couch, trying to make himself comfortable whilst Smit is calmly unravelling the linen roll containing his travelling toolkit and arranging his working implements on the desk next to the sofa.

“You know, you should really get this checked out by a proper sawbones,” Dash hears her second in command complaining as he glances at the fittings before pulling out three wrenches. “We’ve got one here now and if you don’t like him, then I’m sure there’s a cat around here who knows a thing or two about prosthetics.”

“Or I can just go to you and know that if you fuck it up, I can kick your ass whenever I choose,” Sov grumbles in reply, his voice a cold, metallic monotone that reminds Dash of the drone of a buzzsaw.

Smit nods as if contemplating the reply, before he opens his mouth. “A very good point, but if you did that then you’d have to get the boss to look at it. I’d rather take me chances with the cats personally.” Smit tosses a slight grin Dash’s way to let her know he’s joking.

Dash scowls and gives him the finger before settling down and spreading out her own bedroll on the floor. She then reaches for her marksman’s rifle and lays it down on the rug to start disassembling her trusted weapon.

Weapon maintenance has always been a hobby of Dash’s, or at least it has since she joined the Legion. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of knowing her kit was up to scratch. Whilst she could always palm it off on the armourer, Dash prefers to keep the maintenance of her kit to herself, since otherwise it wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. However, that’s only one reason why she does her own kit.

Catharsis is the main reason, when one is stripping down a weapon and cleaning it, all the problems and niggling doubts fall away like the carbon dust that cakes the weapon’s internals. All the other problems that crowd and bubble around one’s mind fade into the ether.

Right now, Dash could sorely do with some catharsis; the niggling doubts have boiled over into major problems and whilst normally as a caporal, she’d have other junior noncoms to bitch to and senior noncoms to keep a steady stream of tasks coming down from on high that would allow her to bury her worries in work, Dash is now top of the tree, the acting commander after the massacre at the embassy decapitated the compagnie. Nobody higher ranked than her, but where a CO would have an Adjutant or an Adj’Chef to advise him, Dash has nobody to advise her.

Dash narrows her remaining eye, knowing that she cannot let herself think like that. It’s been almost a full month since the incident and if Zaranov thought she was incapable, then someone else would have been appointed to head the compagnie by now. Dash relaxes into the familiar rhythms of weapon stripping and maintenance, trying to put those thoughts out of her mind.
This is easier said than done. Thoughts of the incident give way to thoughts about the others, who are filing into the rec room with their own gear to fix up, or with new gear to modify to unit standards.

Dash can’t shake the thoughts of the events of this morning -- of the ambushes on the road and the hot, pulsing surges of adrenaline and cold, sucking bouts of despair that had coursed through her in equal measure. Despair that she’d failed in her mission to keep Princess Twilight safe, adrenaline because a fight was still a fight and it’s been too long since she’d managed to get herself into a proper shooting match, mixed with triumph for coming out alive and anger because two of her men, men who had trusted her, had not come home. It’s alright to tell Twilight that ‘Dying is what the Legion is made for’ and all that crap, because it’s Twilight’s job to send people out to die. It’s Dash’s job to keep them alive. It’s her responsibility and she fucked it up already.

She wonders how her men feel about that, that their lives are in the hands of a caporal who hasn’t been trained for command beyond fireteam level. Dash reaches for the disassembled bolt, picking up her horsehair brush and dipping it in oil before sweeping it across the bolt. She then puts the bolt back down and picks up each other part of the rifle, scrubbing each component clean of the carbon and other accumulated muck and dirt from the day’s shooting, not to mention the dust that’s already started to gather where it shouldn’t.

“How’re we doing for ammunition?” Dash asks and Sov looks up from where Smit has disassembled his arm on the table.

“We’re good, boss, I signed for fifteen cases for our own personal needs before we start having to nick the other compagnies’ stuff, along with a couple of crates of leavings. Ten cases of .303 normal, four cases of pistol ammunition and two crates of local crap in case we have to go deep and dark, and, just for you, a case of red spot marksman ammunition, it should last ‘till we get a resupply flight in,” Sov replies, Dash humms thoughtfully.

“Good to know, so once we’re all done with kit repair, replenish your ammunition. The Princess may not want to go out for the rest of the day, but we need to be ready in case something spins up,” Dash says, the others nod without comment. Dash turns her attention back to the weapon. However, from there it wanders once more, but this time in a far less healthy direction -- Twilight.

Dash had been doing a good job of getting over Twilight. Five years of soldiering will do that to you. She’d still entertained the odd sweaty thought, but it hadn’t been much more than that, and Dash had long since considered herself over her royal ex. Then Twilight had come barging into her life once again, smashing the comfortable little wall that Dash had built between her old, civilian life and her new life. It hadn’t helped that Twilight had been willing and helpful, eager to learn as only that cute little egghead could have been, and she’d been more than willing to muck in with the shooting and bayoneting drill. Dash had expected her to balk at that, but she hadn’t. Dash had to accord the princess respect for that. And then there was the bathtub...

Dash feels her face flame up at the memory, at that silky smooth and soft skin on display, glistening from the bath. The hot smell of wet skin and soapy water, the smell of a bath, a luxury Dash has never permitted herself in the last five years. Dash can all too clearly remember the last time she and Twilight had shared a bath. Neither of them had really ended up being very clean, although a great deal of water had ended up on the bathroom floor.

Dash cannot help but smile at the memory, despite the concurrent flush of desire it sends pulsing through her, and she remembers what had accompanied the sight of the naked princess. A primitive surge that had begged her to take what was hers, to advance upon the girl and take what was on offer, to yank the girl out of the tub and pin her against the wall and make her forget her own name in a whirlwind of pleasure. Following hot on the heels of that thought had been shame, a hot and unpleasant surge of guilt that she could have thought of doing such a thing to her sovereign and her best friend, followed by another surge of desire at Twilight’s reaction. Now naked lust wars violently with the loyalty that has characterized her since birth.

Dash finishes putting her rifle back together, slapping a five round stripper clip into the slot and pushing five rounds into the magazine, followed by another five. With a smile of satisfaction, Dash works the bolt, chambering a round before putting the weapon onto safe. She’s about to turn to the next weapon in her arsenal, a short-barrelled pump shotgun she stows under her robes alongside her pistol whenever she has to mix it with the locals, when the door crashes open and Whiskers comes barrelling into the room, her pointed ears twitching and her golden eyes wide.

“Boss! The Princess, she’s leaving the compound now with Fourth Compagnie and that fat bloke we just busted from the chokey.” Whiskers snaps and Dash leaps to her feet, ignoring the fact she’s only dressed in her singlet, sandals, and combat pants, grabbing her webbing and slinging it on as she dashes for the door.

What the fuck is she thinking? Dash asks herself as she hurtles through the door, rifle in one hand. She asked Dash and her men to be here as a bodyguarding unit. Princess Twilight had asked for her unit personally. Now she’s leaving without them !

Dash runs down the corridors and stairwells of the admin block, taking the stairs three at a time and barreling past a couple of chittering adjutants who take a moment to shout something at her retreating back, but Dash ignores them as she sprints through the entrance hall, and then out to see Twilight walking over to an open-topped carriage much like the one she’d been riding in earlier today. However, unlike earlier today, the princess is travelling behind a ring of steel. A full compagnie is forming up into moving order around her, clambering up onto one of the armoured self-propelled guns or leaping up onto assault landing craft or making themselves comfortable on one of three other carriages that have been called up from somewhere.

Dash advances across the parade ground, her good eye fixed upon the princess, who still has her back to Dash. Dash begins to move quicker, knowing that the compagnie will start moving out any second now. As she crosses the parade ground, she notices the convoy commander looking up and down the lines and Dash tries to quicken her pace, hurling herself across the parade ground.

She notices Twilight look up from where she’s been deep in conversation with Prophet and Diplomatic incident, and before Dash can react, Twilight has turned around to look at her. The distance is still too great for Dash to make out any words as she turns to the driver and says something. A few moments later, at a gesture from Belial, the landing craft start to spool up as the legionnaires hurry aboard. Dash unfolds her wings with a crack, desperate to catch the air in a frantic jumpstart as the company commander turns to see Twilight’s horrified gaze as Dash beats her wings and accelerates, crossing the remainder of the landing field and drawing closer to Twilight.Dash wants answers and she wants them bad. Is that too much to ask?

Evidently so.

A telekinetic grip snatches her by the shoulders, holding her steady in the air for a moment. Twilight gazes at Dash for a moment, and Dash can almost see a flicker of regret upon the Princess’ face before Twilight turns her back with a swish of those deep blue locks as the convoy starts to roll towards the opening gates and then out past the throng of protesting Khans. As Twilight’s carriage rolls out of the gate, the telekinetic grip holding Dash releases her, easing the young woman down to the ground. Dash sighs, sinking to her knees. Twilight’s abject lack of trust in her capabilities could not be more clearly demonstrated.
“Our charge just fucked off… fucked off with the fourth.” Dash says numbly.

“Boss, you okay?” She hears a voice behind her and turns to see Whiskers standing there, panting. Whiskers is perhaps the only one among the company that can outpace Dash on foot, and the only one that even has a hope of keeping up with her when the young woman decides to go airborne.

“I’m fine,” Dash says, picking herself up and brushing her knees off as she refurls her wings. Dash bites the words off like they’re poisonous and Whiskers quails faintly beneath Dash’s acid gaze. “Everything’s just peachy.”

“Fancy talking about it, Boss?” Dash looks up to see Smit drawing closer to her, looking concerned, and Dash shrugs.

“What’s to talk about, the Princess doesn’t want our guarding service; she’s gone out with Fourth Compagnie rather than the glorious Ninth.” Dash replies, trying to keep her tone casual but from Smit’s expression, he’s not buying it.

“Fair enough Boss,” Whiskers says after a moment. “Now pardon me, but normally you’d take this as an opportunity to catch up on your sleep or else you’d do some more work on that toy of yours. I’ve never seen you tearing after the commander asking him to explain himself like that… What’s up?” Whiskers’ high pitched, melodious voice turns the intensely personal question into something warm and friendly rather than something hard and invasive. Dash releases an explosive sigh, shaking her head fiercely.

“Besides the fact that Zaranov would have murdered me if I’d dared to do something that stupid? Honestly, Whiskers, it’s fucking Fourth compagnie. They’re good enough, I’m sure, but they’re not recce like we are. I don’t want some shit happening to the princess because she’s surrounded by greenhorns. We need to make sure they’re up to snuff. We could also do with doing a bit of recce on the route to and from the palace, since that might turn into a regular destination. Smit, how’dya feel about comin’ for a bit of a low profile walk with us?” Dash asks, the germ of a scheme forming in her mind. It’s daft, brainless, and exactly the sort of thing that Dash is famous for -- the proverbial back of a fag packet plan that might just work.

“Sure,” Smit says. “I just need to get Sov buttoned up, then I’m all ears, ya?”

Dash feels a smile begin to twitch around the corner of her mouth as she turns and starts heading back towards the admin block.

“Meet me here in five, bring three volunteers and local garb; we’re going to be doing this as sneaky as possible.” Dash’s eye flashes with an almost feral glitter.

Next Chapter: Chapter 6: Realpolitik Estimated time remaining: 4 Hours, 60 Minutes