//------------------------------//
// 3: Aftermath 
// Story: An Imperfect Storm 
// by Bookish Delight 
//------------------------------//

Lightning screamed, springing upright in her bed, her wings flapping uncontrollably, her gasps for breath ragged as she grasped for something, anything, for support. Blankets and sheets weren't enough. Her pillow wasn't much better, but it would have to do, as she yanked it close, smothering it utterly.

Moments later, her training kicked in—not her usual daredevil drills training, but her personal, inside training. Her mind immediately got to work, telling her that it was okay. That it was only a dream. That these dreams had happened all too often before. That they were only dreams, and that while they were scary, they'd die out soon. 

It was completely okay to be scared. But it would also pass. 

Based on experience, her mind was right about this maybe half of the time—though that was based on a sample set of dreams she normally had about dire things happening to herself. Or her teammates. 

Never someone outside their circle. Never someone doing a trial run to get into their circle.

Never someone innocent.

Fortunately, her mind knew what it was talking about tonight. Her breathing calmed. Her wings slowed. The fear was still there, of course. There would always be the fear, the stress, the sadness, the chills, the uncertainty of life in so many forms, and again, these were all okay. But at least her mind and heart had slowed down enough now to be aware of all of these things, once again.

"Oi! Lightning!" a voice sounded from outside. 

Speaking of teammates. Lightning knew who it was, but shook her head—this was an emergency. She needed to sort this out on her own, figure out what it meant. "Go away," she barked, a little rougher than she would have liked upon hearing herself.

Several quiet moments passed, enough to encourage Lightning to try going back to sleep. However, just as she was getting ready to relax, her eyes were flooded with light as the magitorch near the far end of her tent's wall was flicked on. Standing at the opening was a long-necked purple pegasus with a white curly mane, and a scar-accented piercing gaze that Lightning already knew she could never avoid.

"Darn it, Thunder," Lightning said, now far poutier than she had been going for. "I said, 'go away.'"

Rolling Thunder shook her head. "Nothing doing, mate. That's three nights and three screams. I didn't pry on nights one and two, but at this rate, none of us is gonna get any shut-eye, on account of even Short Fuse never getting as loud as you do at three-am."

The boldness of that claim prompted Lightning to fix Rolling with her own stare—upon which, Rolling relented the tiniest bit. "Okay, maybe he still holds the record. But at least you can set your watch to him. You talk to him, you takes your chances, and we're used to it." Rolling's eyes narrowed. "But we never know what's gonna set you off, now, do we?"

Lightning cast her gaze away, towards the other side of the tent. She had no retort to that, regardless of how much she achingly wished she did. 

With her eyes averted in the opposite direction, she never noticed Rolling Thunder approach her, until she felt an extra weight plop down to the side of, and slightly behind her on her bed—and, very soon, felt a soft hoof caressing her back, sliding soothingly across her coat.

And then came, Rolling's voice, just as soft, actually softer than Lightning had ever heard from her teammate before:

"Dustie. Talk to me."

Lightning tried. She tried several times over the course of the next few minutes, as Rolling's impromptu massage did its job, keeping her grounded, if not centered—and just barely, if nothing else, giving Lightning an emotional flashlight with which to navigate her own personal rabbit hole amidst the occasional shiver.

Why was she like this? She was Lighting Dust, darn it. She was the mare who told the Wonderbolts to shove it after they were stuck up enough not to accept her way of stunting, and then went and made her own thing the way she liked it—and the way other ponies clearly did too! 

Lightning raised her head, her eyes pointing forward. 

Yes. 

She was Lightning Dust. She'd lived the dream, lived it her own way, and found others who actually agreed with her point of view. Living well was the best revenge, right? The book should have been closed. None of this, none of the night scares, none of the screaming and crying behind closed tents when the acts were over, none of this should be happening, she shouldn't— 

Scootaloo's terrified face flashed in front of her, just before an explosion. A loud whimper escaped Lightning's throat unbidden, and she retreated into her pillow, hugging it tightly to her torso as chokes gave way to sobs. 

None of what Lightning dreamed had actually happened, in the end. What had really happened, in really real reality, was that Rainbow Dash had zipped in at the last moment, making a heroic rescue just before the explosion that admittedly made Lightning jealous with how awesomely timed it was. On top of the whole 'saving a life' thing and all. 

Scootaloo was alive. But if Rainbow had been a second later...

No. Her dream was right. 

She was Lightning Dust. 

And she was the worst. 

And at that very moment, she understood: nothing at all could ever change that. 

She sought solace in her pillow, as if it could substitute for any sort of self-esteem or personal balance, while also being able to soak up an infinite amount of tears.

After some time, however, she felt a tug on that same pillow. On reflex, Lightning firmed her grip on it. But the tug against it intensified. Lightning looked up, seeing what she expected to see—Rolling Thunder pulling against the pillow, not roughly, but nudgingly. At least at first. When pulling at the pillow didn't work, Rolling went for Lightning's forelegs instead. 

"Lightning," Rolling said, matter-of-factly, but never threateningly, never angrily, and using one of her hooves to turn Lightning's head so they were face to face. Rolling's smile was just as gentle and disarming as her actions, a smile full of hope and reassurance—two things Lightning found in short supply right now and had no idea whatsoever where her teammate was getting them from. 

She decided to relent, just a little, in hopes of finding out.

"Come on," Rolling intoned, slowly pulling Lightning's forelegs away from gripping the pillow. "That's it, now. You can do this." When Lightning's hooves were away from the pillow, Rolling grabbed it, flung it to the side, got off the bed, and parked herself beside.

"On me," Rolling said. "Let's get you some fresh air."

Using just enough energy she felt she could spare—which wasn't much given how she'd already spent most of it trying to calm her pounding heart—Lightning slid out of bed and mounted Rolling. With a mighty flap of her wings, the latter rose above the ground. With several more flaps, they flew out the tent and headed skyward.

Lightning Dust wrapped her forelegs around Rolling Thunder's frame and closed her eyes, grateful to let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.