Every Tuesday and Thursday at three o’clock, Double Time and Light Step walked across campus together to Professor Easel’s class. He taught Visual Design Theory, a lightweight class about the history of art and artistic presentation. While it did have presentation assignments and a final project, most students considered it an “easy A.”
On the last week of spring semester, he gave an exceptionally gentle homework assignment. To study the art of speed drawing, the students were to spend one hour exactly sketching a pegasus in flight. When he assigned it, a few students laughed. Professor Easel laughed as well, and said he knew they were in the middle of their end-of-semester projects, so he didn’t want to be too hard on them. It was something for them to have fun with.
Double Time and Light Step walked into the last lecture of the semester, and sat side by side in the middle row. They were talking about hats when the lecture started.
“Hello, everypony!” Professor Easel said, smiling as he walked along the rows of desks. “Homework please. Homework. Homework.” His horn glowed, and he gathered the assignments as he walked. “Yes, give it here. And, hello.”
When he reached the middle row, Double Time pulled out her assignment and handed it over. Light Step cleared her throat.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “homework assignments are due at the end of class.”
“Ms. Step,” Professor Easel gave her a narrow look, “when I said to do the assignment in an hour, I didn’t mean you were supposed to do it during the lecture.”
She shrugged. The other students around her surreptitiously flicked their eyes between her and the professor, trying not to show their interest in the confrontation. Professor Easel stared her down for a few moments, but finally let out a terse: “Have it your way.”
The room relaxed, and Easel moved on down the lecture hall. Light Step pulled out a single, standard-size sheet of paper and a pencil and started to sketch. Class started barely a minute later.
“Alright, everypony. Last lecture of the semester, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn something today,” the professor began. “I know many of you are hoping to be professional painters or designers, so I thought we’d conclude the class by learning about contemporary theory. Can anypony name a style of visual art invented in the last ten years?” He pointed. “Light?”
“Superflat Design.” She didn’t look up from her sketch, and the pencil continued to move as she spoke. “Trans-Nihongan Classical Painting. Corrective Mass Generation. And the International Journal of Art defined ‘Third Wave Digital’ as its own genre in their May issue, but I think that’s a bit premature.”
Professor Easel didn’t call on her for the rest of the lecture, which suited them both fine. She kept her head down and focused on the paper. Fifty minutes came and went without her paying anypony else the slightest mind.
Then, Professor Easel asked: “Can anypony tell me which of these two is the forgery?” He pointed once more. “Double Time, how about you?”
Light Step’s pencil froze. Her ears lifted and rotated towards the front of the room. Her eyes turned up as well, though her head stayed low. Double Time, for her part, shifted in her seat and focused her eyes on the front of the room. The professor’s teaching assistant had brought in two nearly identical paintings, both sitting on display stands. Each one depicted a pegasus mare in chivalric armor, her helmet under one leg and her head held high.
“The left one,” Double Time said. “They both look old. More than two hundred years old, I’d guess. But the left one uses a vibrant purple for the mare’s tail. I don’t think colors that bright existed back then.”
“Good eye for detail. Heh. De-tail.” A few ponies chuckled. “Well, Ms. Time is quite correct. Contemporary paints are—”
Light Step lowered her pencil: “They’re both forgeries.”
The professor reflexively froze at the interruption. Students sitting in front of Light turned back to look at her, and a ripple of whispered conversation passed through the room. “These are from the school’s gallery, Ms. Step,” the professor said, “so unless you know something the gallery director doesn’t, I think that’s unlikely.”
“The gallery director knows exactly what he’s doing, which is why he had the piece filed as seventh century art. But in the supplemental reading for today, you list it as second century.” Light spoke quickly and firmly, her tone conveying that she had a great deal to get through and did not care to be interrupted. “But let’s be more specific. The piece on the left is la yegua guerrera pegaso, allegedly painted in the 2ed century by Farrier the Younger. Source.” She sharpened her tone, her horn glowed, and with a snap, something appeared in the air over her.
It was a bibliography entry, written in floating text. “Leffer, Chalk Dust, Single Hair. An Analysis of the Origin of Classical Works, Volume 3. CGB Gallery, 933”
“That’s enough, young mare,” Professor Easel snapped. The rest of the class was staring with wide eyes. Some students gaped.
“Her saddle has stirrup rings.” Light sneered when she spoke. “Impressive for a second century artist given that they won’t be invented for another hundred years. But this is a class about art theory, not military history, so let’s talk about the artist’s technique. Specifically, use his use of perspective. Notice the rock in the background on the left? Notice how its shadow subtly wraps around the rock like a real shadow does instead of having straight edge?”
The class turned to look where she pointed, and before the professor could interrupt, she finished: “That technique wasn’t invented until two-hundred and fifty years after this painting was allegedly made. Source!”
With a loud snap, another bibliography entry appeared floating over her head.
“I said that’s enough!” Professor Easel raised his voice to a low shout. “It does not matter what century it was made in. I’m comparing it to a contemporary—”
“You got it out of the school paper.” Light growled. “Source.”
With a snap, another citation appeared in floating letters over her head. A physical copy of the school paper appeared appeared alongside it, and fell to the ground with a thump. “Two weeks ago, the school paper ran a puff piece on the gallery, where they showed a picture of that painting,” Light’s hoof jabbed as she pointed, “and incorrectly captioned it with the original alleged creator: Farrier the Younger, second century.”
The room froze. When Light momentarily stopped talking, the professor hesitated to leap in. She took that hesitation as a signal to continue, and when she spoke, she spoke more slowly to emphasize her words: “The gallery has it filed correctly. They listed it as a seventh century forgery of a second century work. The library has it filed correctly, and the bill of sale to the gallery has it filed correctly. But the school paper got it wrong. And you, the professor who teaches art theory and art history, read that article and decided to show the painting off in your class. And you failed to notice—”
“Give me one good reason—!” The last vestiges of politeness vanished as the professor started shouting outright.
Light shouted back. “You failed to notice five hundred years difference!”
Professor Easel snarled and his tail lashed behind him. “If you think this is how you can treat your instructors, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you expelled from the school.”
“Because that building your new office is going in is named the Step Center,” she made a flowery gesture at herself, “and my sister-in-law hasn’t actually paid for the whole thing yet. Would be real awkward if the school ran out of money part way through.”
Nopony dared to speak. Professor Easel’s face was twisted into a mask of rage, but he couldn't bring himself to shout. For a long, slow count of ten, silence held lease over the lecture hall.
Then the clock on the wall went bing.
“Oh, ah. One hour exactly. That’s time.” Light picked up the paper off her desk. “My homework!” The paper she held up didn’t look anything like a pegasus -- it was a collection of abstract lines and shapes that ran all the way up to the edge of the page. Her horn glowed one more time, and the paper duplicated itself into two identical drawings, then four, then eight, then sixteen. Soon they were hundreds.
Light stuck them to the wall, turning and orienting them as needed. In a matter of seconds, paper layered over paper and the lines wove together. When it was done, the wall was covered with a broad paper mural, depicting an abstract drawing of a pegasus mare made only of geometric lines. It was all the same artwork, but twisted one way it became wings, another way a head, another way hooves.
It looked better than most of the other students’ final assignments.
“Get out!” Professor Easel snarled.
Light obliged.
“They’re going to expel you,” Double Time said, back in their dorm room.
Light shrugged.
“No, seriously.” Double Time took a seat on her bed across the room from Light’s. “You humiliated a professor in front of an entire class. They will.”
“Probably,” Light rolled over, looking out the window at the statue of Twilight.
“Will Cadence even go to bat for you? I thought you said she hated you.”
“She does,” Light said, “so no. If the school contacts her to check, there’s no way she’ll threaten their funding over me. But they might not contact her to check. It’s not common knowledge that we don’t get along. They could assume.”
“So you risked your entire education, your entire future, on the hope that the school is so terrified of your family they won’t even try to call your bluff?” Double Time’s tone turned incredulous. Then it turned angry. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that Professor Easel has played ‘spot the forgery’ with the class four times, and every time he calls on you first.”
Double Time pulled her head back. It took a moment find the words. “And you thought you needed to… what? Defend my honor?” Her voice rose to a shout. “I was a hive soldier you stupid horse! I could have taken everypony in that class apart if I wanted to. I didn’t rise to the bait because my pride isn’t worth making a scene over.”
“I know we’re not really friends, but you’re the closest thing I have. So I guess you’re my closest friend by default.” Light Step hugged her pillow. “And I got angry. That’s all. I’m sorry I made things hard on you.”
For second long seconds, Double Time reacted in silence. She stared, she gaped, the rubbed her face with a hoof, and she turned away to look at the wall, all without making a sound. She was a one-changeling pantomime show.
Finally, she said: “You know how you feel when you look at that statue? Well, that’s how every artist in that class feels about you. Congratulations, you’re better than us. You’re so much better than us that I could probably spend all of next semester studying what you did this afternoon. Are you happy now? Do you really feel like we’re best friends?”
“So leave.” Light Step’s tone was dull, and she continued to stare out at the statue. “I have no idea why you even put up with me.”
“Probably because I know what it’s like to have a heart full of poison. I’m reformed now, but I wasn't always.” She sighed. “So I wanted to think it wasn’t your fault. And I guess I held out some hope you’d get better.”
“Some things don’t get better.” Light squeezed her eyes shut. “Double? Can I… ask you for a favor? One last thing before they kick me out and you get a new roommate?”
“Oh sure.” Double Take rolled her eyes, her tone laced with derision. “What do you want?”
“Remember that time a few months back, you cast a spell on me so I’d look like a random stallion? I ended up spending the whole time downtown. I drew chalk art on the sidewalk and ponies threw coins at me. They thought I was a busker.” She paused. “It was really nice. You know? I don’t care if I ever get patronage or if my paintings to hang in a gallery. It’s not about prestige. It’s about the art. Art is special. It’s special even if…”
Light trailed off. “Can you cast that again, please? I want to go downtown and draw without worrying about Twilight or Shining or somepony from the school finding me.”
When Double Time didn't respond, Light continued: “I’m sorry I called you a whore. I was just angry because I’m still a virgin and you’re so confidant with stallions and… I don’t know. It was petty and jealous and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
She bit her lip, and her voice cracked: “Please.”
Light Step walked to one of the worst parts of Canterlot, where the buildings were crumbling and the ponies were poor and angry. She—temporarily a he—put a hat down on the sidewalk. Then he pulled out box of chalk.
He drew buildings, forests, and legendary creatures. He drew ponies he saw in the market, and always depicted them in ways that would make them happy. Sometimes he even took requests. A little filly asked him to draw a princess, and so he found an unwashed concrete wall and drew her with wings. Then he gave her a throne and a palace, and drew in her parents and friends as courtiers.
Crowds gathered around him as he worked. Sometimes they’d applaud, and ponies would toss bits into his hat. They didn’t throw very many bits, as it was not a wealthy neighborhood, but it was enough for him to get some oats from a street vendor.
As the hour grew late and the sun low in the sky, Light sat on some steps next to an old stallion. The old stallion was sharing stories about the Invasion of Canterlot, and spinning tall tales about how he’d fended off half the changeling army with only his hooves and a fire poker. Light shared his oats. He only had one piece of chalk left anyway.
“Hey!” A voice called out. Turning his head, Light saw four young stallions approaching the steps. Three of them already covered their faces with black bandannas—the fourth was hurriedly pulling his on. “I know you,” the lead stallion said. “You’re that guy who knocked out Pin Stripe’s teeth last season.”
The old stallion got up, ran up the steps into the house, and locked the door behind him. It all happened before Light could react.
Lazily, he turned his head to look at the door. Then he looked at the toughs, who had already surrounded the step. With an air of resignation, he got to his hooves and walked up to the one who spoke. “Yup,” he said. “That’s me.”
The lead stallion in the group responded with a snort, pulling a short-bladed knife out from under his saddlebags. It was barely an inch long -- a boxcutter with the safety guards removed. “You think you can come into our neighborhood and make trouble?”
Light didn’t respond. He only stared at the toughs, his expression flat. After a moment, the lead went on: “You think I won’t cut you up?”
“Will you shut up and kill me already?”
The toughs froze. One looked at the other. “You think I’m screwing around?” Their leader demanded.
“I think you buy cheap spray paint. I’ve been seeing your graffiti all over.” Light shrugged. “Whoever signs their work, ‘Grey Hound’ is pretty bad.”
“I’m Grey Hound!” Their leader gestured again with the knife.
“Wow, cool. I know your secret identity. Guess you better kill me so I don’t tell the Guard.” Light leaned in. “You’ve got a knife. I’m made of meat. What are you waiting for? Do it.”
The toughs looked at eachother again. Light’s chest tightened, and it took effort for him just to draw a breath. “I said do it, coward!”
Grey Hound took a swing with the boxcutter. It slashed across Light’s shoulder, drawing a deep cut. Blood sprang out of the wound at once, running in little streams down his foreleg.
The toughs looked at the cut. Light looked at it as well. His face barely showed any reaction. There was a slight twinge of pain, but not much else. Experimentally, he lifted and lowered his leg, watching the blood flow slow or pick up.
“The heck is wrong with you?” Grey Hound demanded.
Light’s horn glowed, and his magic reached into Grey Hound’s saddlebags. In a flash of blue light, the spraypaint cans inside vanished, appearing next to Light. He depressed the activator, and shot a spray of bright silver paint directly into Grey Hound’s eyes.
Grey Hound shrieked. He screamed and tumbled to the ground, clawing at his eyes with both hooves. The others took a step towards Light, but he raised the spraypaint cans like they were weapons, and the toughs backed off just as quickly. After a moment, one had the sense to grab their leader and pull him away.
That started a retreat. Grey Hound could have stopped it, if he could have seen what was happening. But he was otherwise occupied. The toughs moved away in fits and starts, swearing all the while, before finally vanishing around a street corner.
After they were gone, the door of the house up the steps opened, and the old stallion poked his head out. “Are you…” He asked. “Okay?”
Light shrugged, then regretted it, a wince crossing his face as he covered the wound in his shoulder with a hoof. “I think I could use a bandage. Can I borrow a cloth?”
“Uh… sure.” The stallion frowned. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Can I use the front wall of your building here?”
When Light Step returned to school, once again a mare, her shoulder was still intermittently bleeding. Double Take’s spell did nothing to protect her from harm, and the physical shock of transforming back into a mare had reopened the wound.
So she went to the studio, shattered a glass jar of imported paints, and mashed it against her shoulder until more cuts appeared and paint stained her coat. She went to a hospital, and told them she slipped and fell on the jar.
Word spread quickly. There was a new stallion downtown, ponies said: a powerful spellcaster and a graffiti artist. They said he stood up to the gangs and wasn’t afraid of anything. Nopony knew him, but they saw his work. He signed his graffiti “Burner.”
The campus was all abuzz as well. Every student in Professor Easel’s class talked about what they saw. The student body sat eager for news of Light Step’s expulsion. When the school quietly did nothing and tried to cover up the entire incident, interest only grew.
But Light Step didn’t care much about any of that.
She was happy to see that her newest work made it into The Canterlot Tribune. She’d done it over the front of the old stallion’s apartment building. It was simple in concept, but she was very pleased with the execution. On the left side of the building sat a black, insectile changeling with empathetic pony eyes. Facing them on the right was a pony with an insect’s compound eyes, and a cruel sneer to match.