Twila had felt it necessary to keep up appearances as much as possible when leaving the orchard. Spike was almost completely confident in his security sweeps, but she’d made mention of “better safe than sorry” more times than she could count.

This meant that both Jack and Isabelle had to leave wearing a gala dress as well.

Jack tromped down the stairs, frowning deeply. As much as she appreciated Rarity making it for her, she couldn’t help but feel awkward in the open-armed dress. It wasn’t often she wore something that showed how much she ‘filled out’ a top, but that’s not what really embarrassed her. She hated how her arms looked when she wore a dress. Her biceps were too hard and obvious--like most of her body. It was a contradiction in Jack’s eyes, something so hard wearing something so soft. The blonde nervously rubbed at the scar on her shoulder as she glanced at everyone present.

The farmer had been the last to get into her dress. Rarity was making her last minute ‘frets’, as Pinkie always called them. Looking for loose strings here, rubbing out small wrinkles there. Despite the heavy situation, it was somewhat relaxing to see something so obviously normal. At the moment she was focusing on a small tear Winona had put into Chylene’s dress.

Diane hopped about, turning from side to side to make her dress sway. It looked as bubbly as her personality was, white with pink, wavy lines going across it. There was also a few sweet decorations dotted around it, which Pinkie had tried to eat before Rarity had scolded her. Suffice to say, the energetic woman was disappointed.

“Looking good, hayseed,” Dash said, smoothing out her flowing blue dress. Her dress was simple, but pragmatic and effective. The athlete had little enough to show, but--as Jack well knew--what she could show made up the difference. It was decorated like a storm, all dark up top and leading to bright flashes below with wispy silver trim. She gave a small adjustment to the thundercloud and multichromatic lightning clasp holding her sash.

Jack looked at Isabelle, opened her mouth, then thought better of it, turning towards Twila. “We got everythin’ ready ta go’?”

Adjusting her glasses, Twila looked at each of her--the word was so fitting, how could she ignore it?--accomplices. Were they feeling as confident as she? As frayed in the nerves? The night before had been some of the best sleep she’d had in weeks, and yet... There had still been the occasional nightmare. Mostly concerning her brother.

Guess I’m not quite as strong as I had hoped, she thought. Lew--wherever you are, give me the will to go on.

She caught each woman’s eye: Jack--worn, worried, but stoically pushing on; Dash--in control, excited, but the smallest spark of nervousness in her eyes; Pinkie--full of optimism; Chylene--reluctant, with an edge of fear; Rarity--trust, yet questioning, seemingly beset by her own issues. That last especially intrigued Twila--apparently, Rarity and Spike had walked back to Sweet Apple Acres. That was curious.

She shook her head. There was no time for that.

“Well, girls, I think--”

A pair of honks from outside cut her off. She gestured out the door. “There’s our rides. Spike, you head on down to the Hub. We’ll need you to keep tabs on all radio communication. Dash, Jack, you’ll be riding with the rest of us until we reach the separation point. Once there, the mission begins in earnest.”

She nodded to Jack. “I want you to head Dagger team, Jack. I’ll keep track of Cloak. Codenames at all time except for casual conversation. Well,” she swallowed, “shall we head on out?”

“Let’s do this thang!” Pinkie cheered, bouncing towards the door. “I think I feel a song coming on!”

The others all sucked in a large breath to voice their disagreements, but another series of much more demanding horns let out.

Rarity, relieved, said, “I do believe they’re getting impatient with us--I’m taking the back car!” With that, she went out the front door, faster than any of the others could follow, despite her ridiculously high heels.

Dash looked behind her towards Spike, smirking. “Shame to see her go, but man to watch her leave, right, squirt?”

Twila was surprised when she saw Spike grin and simply nod--normally he blushed and tried to avoid his obvious attentions on Rarity. She was going to have to talk to that boy later. For now, she rolled her eyes and said, “I’ll take the front. Good luck, and Spike? We’re counting on you.”

He smiled and saluted her. “Yes, ma’am! Don’t worry, I’ve got this!”

Dash stepped forward. “You and me in first, Jack?”

“You take first, I’ll get second,” the farmer disagreed, shaking her head.

Isabelle frowned. “Alright,” she neutrally said with a shrug.

“I’ll go with you then, Dash,” Chylene said, moving next to the athlete.

“Then that settles it. Let’s go already,” Jack tersely grumbled, moving towards her car.

Pinkie wrapped an arm around Twila, moving them both to the second car. “C’mon, let’s go in that one! ‘Cause first is the worst!” She giggled brightly.

Knowing Pinkie, Twila didn’t try to fight it. She just said, “Uh, OK?” and let the hyper woman take her to the back limo, which Rarity was already climbing into. “I guess you, Chy, and Dash can take the front one, Jack.”

“Hell no,” the farmer protested. “Fer all I know, we might get inta a wreck--Dash might leave me fer dead.”

Sensing a fight coming on, Rarity leaned out and snapped, “We’re recognized as close friends to the crown and you’re going to make us late! Get in the car already!”

Jack scoffed, heading towards the second car. Pinkie was already inside, making herself comfortable on the leather seats. Chylene timidly approached the first car and carefully went inside, trying to find a seat belt within.

Pinkie having let her go to enter the limo, Twila hurried to the front, scooting in beside Chylene.

“Oh hi, Twila. I thought you were going in the other car,” Chylene said as Twila sat down.

She rolled her eyes with a bemused expression, quietly saying, “I’m sure there’s some saying about two angry wildcats in a tight metal box, but I’m at a loss.”

Her pink-haired friend tilted her head, giving Twila a look that said, Are you OK? A little irritated, she nodded towards Dash as the athlete practically dropped into the limo.

“You know--Rarity will flip if you rip that dress,” she told Dash.

Isabelle shrugged, offering a thin, icy smirk. “If she doesn’t flip from this, that girl will find something to panic about. So why bother?”

Twila frowned. Dash’s temper was different from Jack’s. The farmer had a habit of having an initial burst of red hot temper, which burned out rather quickly, though smoldered for a long while after. Dash’s, on the other hand, came in fits and spurts. You were never quite sure when she’d gotten over it.

What was more pressing was the fact that the two had to work together through a dangerous robbery.

Carefully, she ventured, “No luck with Jack, huh?”

“It wasn’t exactly flowers and puppy dogs out there a second ago, was it?” She joked with that same sly smirk. The woman’s expression fell after a beat. She glanced out the window. “Nah. No fuckin’ luck.” The athlete crossed her arms and sighed. “I’ve really screwed the pooch on this one.”

“Please don’t say that, Dash,” Chylene pitched in, offering her friend the most caring of smiles, “This is a really tough situation, and you can’t really control it...none of us can.”

“I know, I know, just... man.” She offered a small glance Chylene’s way. “Been a while since I’ve seen her this mad.” The athlete looked up to the roof. “Not that I blame her, I guess. I am the one who wanted to ditch the kid.”

Chylene’s voice took on that rare assertiveness. “Don’t say it like that! You didn’t want to ditch her, you just couldn’t abandon the mission. And that’s OK. I’ve known you longer than anyone else here, so believe me when I say that you’re not a bad person.” She scratched at her long, flowing, yellow dress, going down to the blue butterfly design near the bottom. “We’re just in a place that nobody really wants to be right now...”

Twila nodded her agreement. “We all know why you said what you did, Dash. None of us--not even Jack--hold it against you. You wouldn’t be you without that.” She pushed at her glasses in thought. “Normally I’d say to just let time take its course. Jack always comes around, as you know. But...we don’t have time for that, unfortunately. After we drop you off, I suggest you just talk to her about it. Get it settled now.”

Isabelle coldly smirked again. “Poke the fuckin’ bear and hope for the best, gotcha.”

“If anyone can handle it, Isabelle Apple most certainly can,” Twila said, the name a poke to drive Dash on.

“Call me Dash, bookworm--Isabelle sounds like something you’d hear at a fucking tea party.” She offered a far more warm smile after a beat. “T-Though Apple’s always had a nice ring, you know? Better than whatever the hell was stamped on my papers back at the home.”

Twila smiled, turning her attention to a book she had taken out of her purse. “Just a friendly reminder, is all.”

“Well, here’s my friendly reminder: Don’t read while we’re riding. I don’t want you getting car sick and puking on the apparel. I think that’d piss off Rarity more than a tear,” Isabelle advised, giving a small tap to her temple.

“You’re confusing me with Chylene again, Dash,” Twila said distractedly, leaning back slightly as the limo slowly lurched forward. “It’s a five hour drive to Camelot’s outskirts.” Chylene shuffled in her seat at that, but kept quiet.

Dash crossed her hands behind her head and shut her eyes. “Rest up while you can then, ladies. Gonna be a long night.”

Riding close behind, Jack couldn’t have imagined getting stuck with a worse pair for a five hour car ride considering her mood.

“Well we don’t need Twila in our ride anyway ‘cause all she’d probably do is read some boring book on particles or something!” Pinkie rambled, in between her friends and putting an arm around them.

Jack sighed, frowning deeply. She glanced over, only to see Rarity doing the same. Each offered a sympathetic, understanding look to one another. It was one of the few things either had agreed with one another on.

Pinkie didn’t register their resentment. “Why are you two so quiet? We gotta open up the champagne! There must be some around in here somewhere...” Pinkie got off her seat and began to crawl around despite her dress, looking for any bottles. Rarity again blessed herself for the forethought of giving Pinkie’s dress a tight fitting underskirt.

Jack watched the girl briefly, then reached to her side. The farmer swore under her breath, remembering that her damn dress didn’t have pockets, and where she had put her cigarettes. She turned towards the window and reached into her cleavage, producing a pack and a lighter. Jack lit up, taking a deep drag.

“Wha-wha-what?! Put that out, this instant!” cried Rarity, reaching over and trying to knock the offending object outside.

“Jus’ tryin’ ta relax. Some of us ain’t got the time or money ta’ hang at a spa an’ get our nails done,” Jack snapped, scooting as far as she could away from the dressmaker.

Though she wanted to argue, Rarity had felt quite guilty upon hearing how upset Jack had been about her and Chylene’s little outing. She crossed her arms under her breasts and let out a small sigh. “Oooh, very well. If you must. But make sure you keep it out the window, please? Cigarette smoke is terribly hard to get out of dresses like these.” She turned to look out her own window. “And it’s not good for you, either,” she added quietly.

Jack grunted her consent at Rarity’s request, rolling down her window. The breeze whipped her hair and washed over her heavily bronzed skin. “I’mma have ta do things worse fer me than smoke tonight, Rare.” Jack replied with a look towards the violet-haired woman, ignoring the churning in her gut at the thought.

“I know, and I don’t envy you.” Rarity rolled her shoulders a bit, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I think I can speak for the rest of us that what you and Dash will do tonight, in our stead? Well, thank you.”

“I got yer back.” She briefly ran the cigarette across her nimble and calloused fingers in thought. “Jus’ like I thought Izzy had mine.”

Suddenly, Pinkie jumped up between the pair, champagne bottle in one hand, a full glass in the other. “Don’t be silly, Jackie! Of course Dashie has your back. She super duper really really likes you!” She downed her drink, then became shifty eyed, leaning towards Jack and whispering, “I’ve seen the pictures on her phone.”

“Guess that’s why she tossed Alice ta the wolves then,” Jack tersely replied.

A little harder than she meant to, Rarity snapped, “You know better than any of us why she’s made her choice like she has. But like anytime you get a bad taste in your mouth, you can’t see past the red in your eyes.” She sniffed. “You’ll feel right foolish when your head clears. Besides, Macintosh will most certainly find her.”

Jack was about to angrily retort, but sighed deeply instead. Mac said about the same thing the beauty sitting nearby did last night. Talked like Isabelle had to look at the big picture. Jack knew that, deep down. Still didn’t stop her from being as pissed off as she’d ever been.

“Mac’s gotta find her... He’s gotta find her...” Jack quietly said. The blonde took another deep drag from her smoke and let it fly into the air. She tried her best to change the subject. Keeping everyone down wasn’t going to change anything. “So, uh, yer both lookin’ nice.”

Pinkie was struggling to pour her second glass without spilling a drop. It didn’t go well. “Thanks! We all look fan dabby dozey!”

Back on familiar ground, Rarity regained some of her composure. She raised her arms to display the lacy sleeves, long for this early in the fall, but thin enough to remain cool. “I’ll admit, they’re not bad for such short notice. Not my best, but...” She looked at Jack and frowned. “Simple works best for you, so it’s the worst shame no one will get to see how fabulous I’ve made you, dear. I wonder if we’ll have occasion to wear something like this again?”

Jack looked at her hands in thought, taking the sentence down a far different route. “I wonder that too.”

The sun had nearly set when the two limousines pulled into a mostly empty parking lot on the outskirts of Camelot--crown jewel and capital of the Kingdom of Torani. There was little traffic at this hour this far away from downtown, but the group was taking no chances. Messaging Spike, Twila told them they had arrived.

“One smokescreen, coming up,” his voice called over the radio. A few moments later, the lot’s street lights all went out, basking the area in complete darkness.

As per the plan, Jack and Dash had changed from their ball dresses. After much deliberation, Twila had felt that the mysterious, suited, masked women terrorists was a good angle to stick with. Though, with more time to prepare, Rarity had once again lent her hand in the design.

Now the suits and masks were one complete piece, completely concealing the wearer underneath. Spike had installed a stronger and less frustratingly noticeable radio transmitter as well. In all honesty, they were ‘suits’ in looks alone--the fabric was strong but lightweight, cut to fit loosely without sagging. Perfect for quick movements without the restrictions an actual suit would have.

The lot itself was outside one of the larger supply depots in the city. It was a nexus of trade, the hive to the countless transport truck bees that kept the country’s economy rolling.

Dash and Jack were going to add Grand Theft Auto to their current list of criminal activities.

Twila and the others wished them the best of luck and, with that, sped off to Blueblood’s gala. With the distraction of a job at hand, the pair worked effectively, neither speaking unless needed, but no real heat in their words. When your life hung on the line, it tended to shut down squabbles, at least for a while. Dash knelt down to the attache case and started to take inventory of their supplies, while Jack pressed her set on.

“Checkin’ in on my piece, Drake. How’s our signal?”

“Loud and clear--as expected,” he said, sounding satisfied. “OK, you both remember the building plans we looked over? You’re on the northeast side--the small, sewer access you’ll want is on the west side. It’ll be a tight fit, but will lead you right under the fence, past any security cameras on all the obvious entrances.”

“Sounds great, Drake!” Dash chimed in with obvious false enthusiasm. She looked over at the collection of worn, derelict buildings nearby the gated-in shipping depot. “Or, I could skip all that shit and just get the van out here.”

“Uh...what?” Spike replied.

Isabelle looked towards Jack. The farmer nodded. “Go fer it. Jus’...be careful.”

“Careful’s boring,” Dash replied with a smirk, running towards the buildings.

As Dash got closer, she looked over the building closest to the fence. It was a worn apartment complex that had seen years without maintenance. The front doors were partially rotted, with obvious signs of someone breaking in. The windows were smashed to hell, jagged pieces of glass in the corners the only testament that they once existed in the black holes of the building.

Dash went to the left of the building, ducking into a narrow alleyway. She glanced at this side of the complex, plotting out her route. Almost right away, she thought about simply climbing the drainage ditch flush against the building, but quickly threw that idea to the side when she saw how corroded the pipe really was--it’d never support her.

Her rose colored eyes caught sight of a partially busted fire escape about twelve or thirteen feet up. She looked left, towards the graffiti stained wall, then looked to the railing on her right. She smirked.

Easy-peasy.

With a quick stretch of her legs, she made a sprint for the wall to her left. She hit the brick with the sole of her shoe, then instantly pushed her body upward, bringing her other foot to the wall. Dash ran vertically a few more steps--as soon as she started to slip, the athlete sprang out, leaping towards the fire escape. She connected, smacking her chest hard against the metal railing. The woman let out a grunt of pain, then hoisted herself up and over.

Dash made her way up the fire escape, the stairs thankfully holding under her.

The slow climb gave her a moment to think. Think about how fucking full-circle things were right now. Here she was, back in Camelot, climbing buildings. Add the voice of Father Mckenzie nagging at her to be careful, and she might as well be thirteen and living at the orphanage again.

“Ya alive?” Jack called in over the set, trying to sound mad but coming across as simply concerned.

“Yeah. Heading up now, sweetheart,” Dash confirmed, rubbing at where the bar connected a few minutes ago. Damn thing was gonna leave a bruise.

“Mmm,” the farmer grunted, the line going dead once more.

Isabelle smiled. Jack was sorta talking again. That was a step in the right direction, anyway. The rainbow-haired woman laughed, the sound slightly off thanks to her mask. The hayseed was something else, had been ever since they had first met in Manhattan. Granted, it was on less than friendly terms back then, Dash stealing Jack’s wallet and all.

Dash shook her head with bemusement at the memory as she rose to the rooftop.

Jack had been pissed when Dash had pick-pocketed her--not that she had blamed the stetson wearing woman, but man--and had chased after her all around the city. Jack finally cornered her in an alley. Instead of beating the shit out of her though, the farmer told Dash a story. A story about a girl who’s folks had passed on. That girl couldn’t stand the farm they had lived on together--it reminded her too much of her family. So she headed to Manhattan with nothing but the clothes on her back, the promise of an aunt and uncle providing a roof over her head, and the cash in her wallet.

Even though Isabelle was hungry--nearly malnourished--she gave the girl her money back. Jack offered to buy Dash lunch--next thing that they knew, they were thick as thieves; a few years down the road, they became something even more.

Dash came to the end of the rooftop and scanned the area. The fence line was about fifteen feet away. Behind the fence was a semi-trailer all but resting against the metal. Dash gave a confident smirk and took a few steps back from the edge. She took a breath and gave herself a moment to get hyped.

Isabelle blasted across the rooftop, her slapping feet matching the throb of her pulse against her temples. She came to the end of the roof and propelled herself over. Her arms pinwheeled as she balanced herself in the air. It was uncanny, the amount of instinct moving her to action. Her body seemed to move itself. She bent her knees and squatted low, impacting the trailer hard. Landing with her feet and rolling forward at an angle, she hit her shoulder then her ass as she let some of the shock of the landing dissipate. Dash came back to her feet and rose to a half-crouch, taking a second to regain her senses.

Isabelle glanced around the empty lot, making sure nobody was coming around to investigate the noise she had made landing. There was a service door straight ahead, across the pavement. Above it were two cameras, each facing the opposite direction.

Isabelle pressed down on her earpiece. “Drake, be my eyes for a sec. It look like anybody coming outside to play?”

“Dead as a doorknob, Bolt. You’re good so far,” came the reply.

“Swag.” She looked across the parking lot, towards the door marked ‘employees only’. “Now, I’m at the northwest side of the building. Front’s at the northeast. Drake, any way you can reroute the cameras near me to a different feed for a tick? I’ll need thirty, forty seconds to get where I need to, tops.”

“Give me a second... Yeah, they’re tapping into the communal grid, wirelessly transmitting the feed. What a joke.” A few seconds of silence. “You’ve got about thirty seconds, then I’ll need about ten more to keep it from looking suspicious.”

“Things are looking up,” Dash answered, giving a pleased nod.

“Don’t think it’ll stay that way. Careful, sug,” Jack quietly said over the radio.

“Yeah, yeah,” Isabelle dismissed. “Heard you the first time.”

Dash ran like a mad woman across the lot, sprinting for the safety of the camera’s blind spot. She dove into the shadows and hugged the wall, scooting across and underneath the lens’s field of view. Coming to the door within a moment, she tried the handle. Locked. Not a big surprise. She noticed a box near the door and looked it over. It was an electronic keypad.

The athlete gave a small smile. She had been wanting to try one of Spike’s toys he had made for just such an occasion. Isabelle reached into her pocket, producing something that was roughly the size and shape of a fat flashdrive. She twisted the tip of it over to the right, revealing a USB plug, and searched the box.

She found nothing, save for a small, rounded plugin at the top. The athlete flipped the device around, twisting the bottom portion to the left and revealing a tip similar to a headphone jack. The rainbow-haired woman plugged the device in and radioed Spike once more.

“I need a fuckin’ ICE breaker, Drake. If you would be so kind.”

“That was a bit sooner than I figured,” the young man’s reply was clearly eager. A small blue light started flashing on the device, quickly at first but it began to slow till it finally stayed on. There was a click sound.

“Got an ETA?”

Before she even finished, the door opened in a short ways. “A gentlemen always gets the door for a lady,” Spike said proudly.

“Save that lady crap for Rarity--she might take it as a compliment.” Isabelle pulled out a knife and clutched it tightly in her hand as she walked through the door. “Stetson,” she called out, speaking as quietly as she could as she walked by dozens of shelves lined with dusty boxes and spare car parts.

“Yeah?” Jack replied over the radio.

Dash bit the bullet. “You wanna talk?”

“About what?” the farmer carefully asked.

“About the motherfuckin’ elephant in the room, what else!?” Isabelle said in a harsh whisper.

Too harsh, apparently. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching from up ahead. She swore and quickly ducked behind a palette filled with bottles of motor oil.

“S-someone here?” she heard an old, ancient voice ask. A flashlight cut through the darkness like a knife. His steps clomped closer and closer to where she was.

“What’s there to talk about? Ya left my kin ta sin--” Jack started up on the radio. Isabelle quickly killed the feed, hugging tightly against the wall. The light swept across her hiding spot, briefly illuminating her. She held her breath, screaming obscenities in her head.

He wasn’t the most astute guard--he pressed on towards the open door Dash entered from. The lithe woman let out a gasp of relief as she went deeper into the complex. She rolled her eyes and pushed the earpiece on again. “Sorry. Had someone try to interrupt. Some people are so rude, y’know?”

A silence. Finally, Jack spoke again. “He hurt ya?”

“Nah, man. I’m fine.”

“Then is he...?”

“I’m not taking pot-shots at civs, Stetson. He’s fine too,” Isabelle argued, finally putting a palm to her mask in exasperation. “Look--I didn’t think I’d see anyone, now that I have, this conversation’s coming at a bad time, you dig? I’m gonna bust a van outta here--be sure you’re ready by the front. We’ll talk more face-to-face.”

“Roger,” the farmer grunted, killing the coms.

Dash opened a set of double doors that led into the garage. They creaked when she went through them--the athlete quickly walked on, listening intently for the guard behind her.

The large and spacious garage was lined with vans and semis, several up on jacks, a few others with their hoods open, being serviced for one reason or another. In the far corner was a flight of metal stairs leading up to an office overseeing the room.

She was just about to swear in frustration once again this night, when she found a van in seemingly good condition. It had four wheels on the ground and its hood shut--a better deal than the others sitting around. She tried the door and was hardly surprised when it was locked.

Just as well, she needed that garage door opened before she could drive the fuckin’ thing out of there.

Dash rubbed at her forehead, trying to figure the best way to approach this mess. The mess decided to approach her.

The overhead lights turned on, illuminating the area. Dash swore, quickly squeezing underneath the nearby van.

She heard footsteps and caught three pairs of legs coming from the right of the building. Isabelle’s sharp ears picked up another pair coming from her left. She stared up at the guts of the van and listened hard at the conversation the group was having.

“...For the last time, Rumpel, I didn’t leave the door open!” a woman’s haughty voice complained.

“Well, if you didn’t, and I didn’t, then that means one of the boys did,” the older voice said.

“Not I,” the man’s voice said, his voice reeking of culture.

“Enope,” a southern voice replied. Dash almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation as she hid under the van--it sounded like a near carbon copy of Macintosh’s laconic drawl.

“Hmm...” the oldest voice trailed off. He quickly came to a conclusion. “In that case, let’s do a sweep of the area: Pattrick, take a round outside. Donnelly, go to the eastern garage. Esther, you take the northern garage. I’ll search the offices and freight warehouse. Let’s go.”

They all vocalized their agreements and split up. The lights eventually flicked off. Even still, Dash lay under the van for a good two minutes afterward. Paranoia could sometimes be a good thing. She finally squeezed her way out and returned to her conundrum. She didn’t have an answer for the garage doors yet, but she at least could get the van ready to go.

Heading over to one of the vehicles being worked on, she pulled out her phone. The lithe woman used it like a flashlight, searching underneath the van’s hood. With a small, smug nod, she found what she needed and yanked it out. Dash examined the sparkplug in her hand, then dropped it to the ground. Isabelle crunched it underfoot, then searched the remains. The athlete brushed aside a few bits of ruined metal, then came to what she needed--a small bit of porcelain that she carefully picked up between her fingers. It was a little trick she learned back on the streets of Manhattan, when you needed a car but didn’t want bloody elbows.

Not that she used the trick.

Often.

Dash pinched her prize between a thumb and finger and approached her target. She threw it through the driver side window and instantly shattered the glass. Isabelle winced at the noise and held her breath, ready to hide at a moment’s notice. On hearing no footsteps, Isabelle let out a breath and continued working. She reached into the newly created hole and unlocked the door, being mindful of the glass littering the driver’s seat. Dash peeked at the ignition.

Figures, she thought with a roll of her rose-colored eyes. No fuckin’ keys.

That was OK, though. She could improvise--Dash wasn’t a one-trick pony by any means.

The athlete ducked out of the van, making a mental note to try and find a towel or something. Last thing she needed was glass in her ass.

She snorted slightly at the painfully lame rhyme and took to looking through the room. At the far end of the garage was a workbench, loaded with tools. Dash fished around for just a moment and grabbed a sturdy flathead screwdriver. Pocketing it, the athlete took to searching the room once more for a switch to open the garage shutter.

It dawned on Dash where the switch might be--the overhanging office towards the ceiling probably doubled as a control room for the doors. It was as good of an idea as she could think of at the moment, anyway.

She climbed the metal steps, each movement making a painful echo across the garage, each echo making her painfully aware of the noise she was making. Dash finally reached the top and tried the wooden door. Locked.

“Oh fuck this,” Dash said with a brisk shake of her head. She brought her foot forward, busting through the cheap door. That brought a pleasantly surprised smile. Fishing around in the hole she made, she unlocked the door from the other side.

The office was small, a console lined with buttons and switches took up the majority of the room, along with a folding chair and a cup half-filled with forgotten coffee. Isabelle took a moment to examine the device. None of the levers, switches or knobs were marked, aside from cryptic abbreviations that would only help someone trained to work here.

Dash scowled, jamming on her earpiece. “Yo, Stetson?”

“Eyup?”

“Get the gate you’re by open. We’re gonna have to haul ass.”

“What are you planning on do--”

Isabelle killed the coms and looked hard at the console once more. She let her finger slowly trail over the buttons as she muttered under her breath. “Eenie meenie miney moe...”

The athlete turned a knob all the way to the left. One of the semis on a lift dropped, slamming into the floor with a resounding shake. Instantly, the vehicle began blaring its horn--the impact must have lodged the damn thing’s switch.

“Fuck!” Dash cried. No way the guards didn’t hear that. She had to work fast. She started flicking switches and smashing buttons with wild abandon, dropping cars, turning on one of the industrial fans, activating a speaker, turning on the lights, and at one point starting up a pressurized air hose that flailed and snaked through the air like a drunk ballerina.

“What the hell’s goin’ on in there, Dash?! Place is lightin’ up like a Hearth’s Warmin’ festival!” Jack exclaimed over the set.

“Ran into a problem! Get your ass ready, I’m coming out hot!” She finally flipped a switch labeled ‘B-3,’ and the garage shutter directly in front of the van she thought was seaworthy slowly began to slide up, just as the doors directly by the stairway’s landing flew open and two scrawny, nervous looking security guards burst into the scene, side-by-side and armed with nine millimeters.

“Fuckin’...fuck...fuck, fuck!” Dash eloquently said under her breath, trying to think of the best way to get out. She debated on going for her holstered gun, but just didn’t have the heart. These weren't police. These weren't even real guards--they were watching over a glorified warehouse, for crying out loud. She instead hugged against the doorframe and waited, doing her best to hide as the guards climbed up the stairs.

The athlete clenched her hands into fists. She was about to do something stupid. Even-for-her stupid.

Story of my life, Isabelle thought grimly. As soon as she saw a shadow pass into the light spilling into the doorway, she turned and pounced forward, connecting hard with a man’s shoulder. They tumbled backward down the stairway, bowling over the other man climbing right behind. The three landed in a heap of splayed limbs at the landing--Dash forced herself up first. Disregarding the other flight of stairs running down, she instead went up and over the guardrail. She landed gracefully on the concrete, just as the double doors across the garage opened, revealing an old, wry man and a young woman. The older clumsily pulled out his pistol.

“Freeze!” he commanded. Like hell she would. Dash lived up to her moniker, sprinting across the lot and diving for the van just as a bullet ripped across the large room, smashing into a calendar hanging on a clipboard.

She opened the van’s door and pulled out the screwdriver she had commandeered earlier. The old man sprinted across the lot, followed quickly by the younger woman. Dash pressed the screwdriver in at an angle by the ignition cover. It popped off easily as a familiar voice went across her set.

“Bolt!? What the fuck’s goin’ on?! I heard a shot!” Jack was in a near panic, Isabelle could hear the farmer breathing heavily on the line.

Dash didn’t have time to reassure her. She rammed the screwdriver into the ignition slot and turned with one hand, pulled out her pistol with the other. The engine sputtered, turning over as Isabelle stuck her other hand out the busted window and blindly fired behind.

“Shit!” she heard the old voice say, and felt a slight bump as he dove behind the van, seeking cover from Dash’s bullets. Good. That’s all she needed, just a few...more...seconds...

The van sputtered and ignited--Dash didn’t wait around. She floored it, sending the van shrieking forward like a banshee, leaving behind a cloud of smoke and charred, burned rubber.

“Stetson!” Isabelle barked over the com as she shot across the parking lot. “Get moving!”

Jack stood near the open gate, her body at a cautious half-crouch. Dash noted the revolver in the farmer’s hand--odds were, the woman was getting ready to go into the fire herself. Isabelle couldn’t help the small smile that sprang from behind her mask--even when she was pissed, Jack wasn’t the type to abandon someone. The athlete slammed on the brakes near the other masked woman and briefly slowed the van to a crawl. Jack threw open the door and dived in.

Isabelle slammed her foot down on the pedal, taking off like a bat outta hell.

They went for a few minutes in silence before the adrenaline in Dash’s system left and a slow, throbbing pain in her legs began to gradually grow stronger and stronger, eventually bringing tears to Isabelle’s eyes.

“F-fuck,” Dash panted, visibly shaking. “Can we pull over for a second?” She turned off onto a side road and started to slow down before even finishing the question. Jack gave a concerned look over to the athlete.

They pulled into a deserted lot of what might have once been a mom and pop store. Isabelle stopped the van and got out, hissing sharply as the glass from the broken window crunched underfoot. Jack opened her door and started going around the van.

“Alright, Bolt. What the hell’s the pro--” Her words stopped dead in their tracks when she came into full view of the lithe woman. The lamplights lining the street illuminated the sight before her. Glass shards clung tightly to the back of Isabelle’s left leg, climbing up her body all the way to her upper thigh. Blood dripped in a slow, steady stream from the numerous cuts and punctures that lined her pants. “W-what the hell happened?”

Dash bit her lip. “Should be obvious, hayseed. Had shit go down before I could clean up the glass. Kinda slipped my mind until it started burning like hell.”

“Shit, man. Take off yer pants an’ lay down on yer stomach--I’mma get ya patched up.”

Isabelle weakly smirked, sweat running down her brow. “H-heh. Get rid of the ‘patched up’ line, and I’d be in heaven.”

Jack reached into a satchel at her side and pulled out a small roll of gauze. “I’mma pull out the glass still stickin’ in ya. Probably gonna sting.”

“Just as well. We need to ta--” She gasped as Jack’s hands brutishly dug into the meat of her upper thigh and pulled out a wide and jagged piece of glass. “Goddamnit. That hurt!”

“Sorry,” the farmer apologized. “I ain’t exactly a licensed nurse like Mouse or nothin’.”

“Just be a bit more careful, ok?”

The farmer grunted, working on Dash’s leg. The silence eventually got too much for the rainbow-haired woman and she spoke up again.

“You still mad?”

Jack paused at Dash’s question, her hand resting on the back of the other woman’s knee. “I’m mad as hell,” she admitted.

“At me?”

Another considering pause. “A-a little.” She breathed out. “But I think I’m jus’ pissed at the whole damn thing, ya know? I... I shouldn’t have ta choose between somethin’ like this an’ my flesh an’ blood.”

Dash winced as the woman pried another piece of glass out. “Man...” she trailed off. “You know why I came here?”

“... ‘Cause ya gotta look at the big picture, right?”

Dash nodded as she stared at the road. “Well, yeah. I mean, even Twila was saying that this was a one-shot deal. If me and you had traveled south and searched for Alice, where would that put everyone else? It’d probably be Rarity gettin’ glass pulled outta her ass.”

“Ta be fair, I ain’t found any in yer--wait. I lied.” Isabelle made another pained grunt as Jack performed her improvised surgery on the rainbow-haired girl’s left cheek.

“F-fuck,” Dash swore. Another pregnant pause. Finally, Jack gave a nod of approval.

“Lookin’ good. Now, let’s get ya up--I gotta gauze ya.” The farmer offered her hand. Isabelle quickly took it, letting the blonde hoist her up. She stood, her legs spread apart as Jack quickly worked on bandaging the athlete up.

“Hey...”

“Mmm?” the farmer asked, knelt down and working the bandage around Dash’s leg. They were quiet for another moment, each attending their own thoughts.

“Remember back during the car ride after the first one?” Isabelle suddenly spoke up. Jack didn’t need clarification.

“Hard ta ferget.”

The athlete exhaled and looked down at Jack. “Well, you remember what we agreed to there? About us being the cold ones?”

Jack smiled bitterly and without humor. “Eyup.”

“Guess we got our first taste of what that means.”

Jack stoically nodded, staring intently at her work. “Reckon so,” she agreed. “Thank God fer Mac at least.”

“Yeah.”

Dash tensed slightly as Jack’s hand trailed up a bit too far north. The farmer noticed her mistake and lowered her hand, finishing the wrap job around Dash’s muscled thigh.

“Hey, Bolt?”

“Hmm?”

“If it was me gone down south, and you had to choose, would ya come lookin’?”

The rainbow-haired woman sighed. For some reason, she had expected the conversation to turn this direction. “Same shit Alice is in?”

“Eyup.”

Isabelle rubbed her neck and stared at the empty street. “Fuck, man. I dunno.”

“What’s yer gut say?” Jack inquired, looking up to meet Isabelle’s face.

Dash flicked her eyes to the farmer. “My gut says you’d want me to do this instead. To keep truckin’ on--make sure the big picture’s taken care of. Make sure our friends are safe...”

The blonde nodded, tying off the last of her bandages and rising. “Yer right.” She adjusted the mask on her face. “I mean, I know why ya said what ya said back there at the house but...still pissed me off.”

“Guess I’m the asshole of the group,” the athlete casually said, smiling weakly.

Jack snorted, handing Isabelle’s pants back. “Yer my asshole though. Don’t forget that.”

Dash paused. Her lips quirked into a pseudo-smirk. “Not sure how I should take that, hayseed.”

The farmer raised her brow. After a moment, a small snicker of laugher passed her lips. It turned into a hearty, gut-busting guffaw. Dash cracked a grin, then couldn’t help herself and joined in, both leaning on one another for support as they tried desperately to draw breath.

“Yer somethin’, Izzy. Ain’t sure what, but somethin’.”

“Just shut up with this sappy shit--we got a job to do.” She smirked, donning her pants and returning to the van. She swept it clear of glass with the sleeve of her jacket and hopped in. As soon as the door shut, the weight of what they were about to do again hit them, dispelling their brief respite from this nightmare with the finality of a closing book.

“Maybe we’ll be lucky. Might be mostly electronic--isn’t that what Drake said? W-we might be able to avoid the guards,” Dash offered, starting the van.

Jack’s brow narrowed grimly as she felt for the weight of the iron piece resting in her side-holster. “We’ll do what we have ta,” she said, as they took off down the street, repeating a mantra both of them had been forced to use far too often these days.