My conscience returned to the world of the waking, only to be struck by a pain much worse and less retrospective than my beatdown in the nightmare. Around me were scattered mementos from my alternate life or scant indulgences that only large paychecks and a lack of consumer common sense could buy. I was home, planted right in the middle of my living room with a raging bull of a headache.
I was just about to lift a leg to feel the concussion, but it came up against rope. In my unconsciousness, someone had tied me to a kitchen chair with rope long enough to circumscribe my torso, wings, and forelegs three times. I struggled anyways, testing the quality of the knots. They gave no leeway. My captors were professionals in their work, and there was only one group I was aware of that would dare to assault me in my own home.
Just my luck then. I knew exactly who was standing outside my point of view. “Alright, you smuggler hounds, you finally made a catch! Sorry about the mess in the hotel. I’m sure your operation was nothing more than a few million dollars.” I shouted to my captors. They had a baseball bat, and I was tied to a chair. Angering them was the smart thing to do.
The baseball bat landed gently on my muzzle, letting me soak in the plastered label: “Property of the Wonderbolts.” It fell out of view and presented the captain herself, standing before me with a surprisingly leveled frown.
Me and my luck…
“Guess that confirms our suspicions then, Soarin,” Spitfire said with the bat under one hoof. “Who would’ve thought our very own Fleetfoot was a crime-fighting vigilante!”
Me and my hasty mouth…
Speaking of my closest friend, Spitfire gestured with a nod to the other pony I assumed to be Soarin. Sure enough, the free-loading scumbag who had put a night of drinking on my bills walked within my peripheral vision. But the way he did so, how he practically maneuvered around me with a hesitation in each step and a diverting gaze, struck all the wrong notes.
The Soarin I knew would stride right next to me and give me a chance to spit in rage at his face; his insignificant other tread softly as though one feather from my body could bowl him over. ‘Soarin’ noticed my glaring and tried to hide behind a friend’s smile, but he dropped it wisely and stood silent right by Spitfire.
“Don’t get angry at him, Fleetfoot. He came here as support.” So it was an intervention. The ropes and the bat to the face had me fooled.
I snorted. “Support? Is that why you hit me with a baseball bat?”
The most I got as far as reparations for my concussion was a shrug. “You wouldn’t have cooperated, otherwise. But hey, there’s no bruises or scars or anything! It’s the strangest thing: violence, that is. Fascinating, really. But the point is we’re here to snap sense into you.”
They actually believed I had lost my head, wrapped up in a nutcase conspiracy about convenient memory loss and ponies who do not exist. After my rampage in Caeci District, they had the justification they needed to get me institutionalized.
I needed to watch what I said next. If they started looking at me like Jetstream after giving a presentation on black chariots and the master puppeteer, any chance of finding Lightning Bolt would be lost forever. I fell back against the chair and started opening their ears: “I’m not insane.”
“I don’t think so either, Chandler, but sane ponies tend to avoid lighting up smuggler hideouts like a Pinkie Pie surprise party.” Spitfire pulled a photo from under her wing and tossed it on my left knee. It was a black and white freeze frame of a trail of ponies, all of whom had been on the receiving end of a blunderbuss, resting on a curb with streamers hanging off their bodies.
“I had my suspicions, Spitfire. They did… they had done harm to me in the past. I thought they had her––”
“You mean Lightning Bolt? Your daughter?” Then came the yelling. She made her advance, managing to startle both me and Soarin. “I don’t know how this idea even got into your head. You’re the last person I’d expect to play pretend!”
My teeth remained clenched. Of course she had no clue. No memory of her. My daughter was real, and I needed to restrain myself for her.
“Fleetfoot, what she’s trying to say––” Spitfire only had to slam the baseball bat through the cloud floor for Soarin to shut it.
“What I’m trying to say is that Lightning Bolt doesn’t exist. We checked. Every Wonderbolt after practice went looking for any traces of her in the city. No one’s ever heard the name!” Spitfire was in the entirety of my vision now. I stared into the pupils, recognizing the tied-up mare in the reflection. She stared right back, having never lost her conviction even as the world closed in and pulled the ropes tighter. We exchanged nods, letting each other know we were still in the right.
“You understand. We’re here to help you,” Spitfire whispered. Her moment of fury had dissipated in a single breath. Defying all expectations, she backed off and placed the bat down beside a couch to my left.
I sighed and waved the white flag. It was best to surrender now and fight when the time was right. Let them know they had me. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Spitfire.” There were two motions to follow next: bring the eyes down to the ropes, make the head follow soon after. I muttered the next bit like this world’s Soarin would: “It’s so confusing. I–I just woke up and felt like a part of me was taken from me. But instead of seeking help, I’ve just lashed out and hurt everyone around me.”
“Hey.” I lifted my eyes and saw that Spitfire, and even Soarin, had gotten closer. “All your antics can be forgiven. You just needed to talk about it.” A yellow hoof went up and shook gently. Soarin had his signal; I had my trigger. The colt, bravely putting on a poor smile, went to work on the ropes holding me.
The next few tugs pumped adrenaline prematurely into my limbs. Soarin was directly on my right, pulling away at the knots and sealing his own fate. Not that he deserved what was coming––well, maybe not entirely––but he was an obstacle. The binding slackened.
My forelegs and wings shot out and ripped through the ropes. The remaining pieces and the black-and-white photo began their descent to the floor as I began my ascent out of the chair. My right hoof locked at a crooked angle and swung with the momentum of my body until it met considerable resistance under Soarin’s chin. The punch took his muzzle with it, twisting the stallion on his tail and setting him on a crash course for the ground.
Using my wings as counterbalance, I stood on my hindlegs and veered left. Spitfire stared back with mouth agape. The remains of the rope completed their descent in a halo around me. Spitfire responded on cue, “Soarin!”
She made for the baseball bat. I had the chair in my hooves already. In the time Spitfire took to grab the baseball bat in her mouth, I had the chair flipped so its legs pointed outwards like a long spear. Studying my captain as I had all those years ago, I took up a defensive stance and braced for the reckless charge.
A thud behind me announced that Soarin had reached his destination.
Propelling herself with a quick flap of her wings, Spitfire made a swing for me. A meter of plywood separated her bat and my face, providing a convenient spot for her bat to land within. The bat found solid purchase on one of the lower legs, allowing me to promptly flick it out of Spitfire’s grasp with a twist of the chair. Caught unarmed, Spitfire tried to propel herself back, but I simply charged before she could do so.
The bottom of the chair’s seat struck my captain’s chest and ended the engagement. I brought the chair down and pinned her to the floor, allowing the legs to bar her for a few seconds. A few seconds. The best head start a sprinter could ask for against the Wonderbolts.
I was already in flight by the time I reached the front door. Outside, an abyss waited to take me in and mask my departure. The stars out west held sanctuary for fugitives. They gave me time to find Lightning Bolt. When I did find her, everything would be okay. I just had to find her. Everything else would be secondary.
Some sort of shadow carved a path through the stars. It temporarily cut their light as it moved. I only noticed what was rocketing towards me when cyan fell over my vision. The projectile lodged itself against my neck, reversing my direction without changing the speed. I was dragged across the cloud floor on my back until my head bumped into Soarin’s prone form.
Loyalty herself had taken me right back through the threshold and away from my daughter. For her part, she was pretty happy about the turn of events. A blissful grin adorned her face, sparkling in the living room lights alongside her magenta eyes. “Hi,” Rainbow Dash squeaked.