//------------------------------// // Bearcat // Story: Art is the Weapon // by The Red Parade //------------------------------// When Magnus was in the guard, a lot of their job involved dealing with the wildlife that would plague the city. In particular, he told me about these furry little things that would terrorize the city. Called them bearcats. The thing about bearcats, according to Magnus, wasn’t really that they were dangerous. They were sassy. See, the bearcats looked exactly like bears, but were much smaller and the mindset of a cat. As in, they’d do pretty much anything in their power to plot against you while looking adorable. Pegasi loved those little rats. Made them pets and everything, only for them to start yowling in the middle of the night, pushing vases off tables… that sort of thing. Adorable little bastards was the term he liked to use. But the term came around to describe any pony who was just filled to the brim with sass. Like at a Las Pegasus buffet when there’s really good soup and you fill it up as far as it can go even if it spills over the side and burns your hoof kind of full. But sass wasn’t enough to survive, and as far as I know that particular breed of bearcat died off when Filocuse fell out of the sky. Not sure where they’re at nowadays but Magnus thinks they’re probably doing ok. I asked Magnus why he thinks it's so important I learn about all these old-fashioned terms. He said that it's just because these are the words he grew up with, and it's still shocking to him how many of them grew old and out of use. Reminds us that everything’s gonna fade with time. But I guess that’s neither here nor now. Bearcats were assholes. And I never felt more like a Bearcat than after I first met Spearhead. Flash Sentry had never really stepped into a museum of his own volition. As a foal, his parents had seen it fit to bring him to one, but he had fallen asleep as soon as they stepped inside. They had never tried again since. So when Flash found himself on the steps of the tiny gallery, he had no idea what to expect or even make of it. As soon as he set hoof inside, a chill ran down his spine. “Geez it’s cold in here!”  The first room was surprisingly barren. There was no reception desk, no seating area, not even any decorative plants to break up the bare white walls. Interspaced at perfect intervals were framed paintings; splotches of color on canvases.  Flash crossed the room to examine one. He squinted at it, trying to piece it together and make sense of it all. “Parade Rest,” he read. The term was familiar to him but nothing about the framed mess made him think of the position.  “Aw man, love that one.” Flash turned to see a burly orange stallion trot towards him, a red scarf draped around his neck. “You Sentry?” “On a good day. Are you Spearhead?” asked Flash. “That’s what they call me! Are you Flash Sentry?”  Flash rolled his eyes. “Maybe.” “Sick!” Spearhead smiled widely. “So, uh… admin leave’s no joke! What’d you do to get slapped with that?” “Um… nothing, really, just the brass, y’know,” Flash said. “Brass? Huh.” Spearhead rubbed his chin. “Back in my day they used iron for armor and stuff.”  Flash blinked. “What?” “Anyways! Shiny said he wanted me to ‘do my thing’ with you, so let’s get started!” Spearhead crossed the room, pushing open a door at the end. Flash followed reluctantly, casting suspicious glances at the paintings as he left. The backroom was more unkempt and bare-bones when compared to the gallery. Crates, boxes, and other items lay scattered around the room. The walls were naked with their wooden beams and supports exposed, and the entire area was lit by a sole lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a table with materials, and two easels each bearing a canvas.  “What… the hell is this?” Flash sputtered. “That’s an easel! It holds up paper that you can paint on,” chirped Spearhead. “You, uh, know what paper is right?” Flash blinked several times in confusion before barking out a laugh. “Hah! Yeah, I wasn’t born yesterday you know. Just… are you really going to make me do what I think you’re about to make me do?” “Huh?” Spearhead tilted his head in genuine confusion. “I have no idea what you mean.” “You’re gonna make me… draw stuff!” “No!” Spearhead held up a paintbrush. “We’re gonna paint stuff!” “That’s the same thing!” Flash cried, slamming a hoof to his face. “Huh? No it isn’t! You use a paintbrush and paints instead of a pencil or a quill. C’mon, I’ll show you!” Spearhead thrust a brush in his direction.  Flash recoiled as if it were a knife. “No no, I know how to paint! I mean, it’s a piece of cake!” “No man, painting is an art, not a dessert!” Spearhead interjected.  “That is not what I meant at all! Look, I’m just… I’m not interested in any of this stuff, okay?”  Spearhead twisted his face in confusion. “Well… Shining isn’t going to take you off admin leave until you finish the program, so you’re going to have to at least try.” Flash stared at Spearhead incredulously, then wondered if this stallion even knew what ‘incredulously’ meant. “Seriously? He wants me to do… arts and crafts.” “Yeah!”  “I… Fine!” Flash plopped down in front of an easel, staring at its blank and empty surface. “I’d almost rather clean the officers’ toilets again,” he muttered under his breath. Spearhead set a wooden palette and several bottles of paint next to him. “So! Go crazy. Paint whatever’s on your mind, whatever’s been bothering you. Just let it all out!”  “Sure.” Flash picked up a paintbrush with his feathers and twirled it around absently. “Just… draw whatever. Got it.” Spearhead sat down at the opposite easel, taking a brush in his hoof. “You not big into painting I take it?” “Eh. Not really my thing,” Flash replied. “Huh. Guess it’s not for everyone.” Spearhead’s brush danced across the canvas, even as his eyes drifted up to the ceiling. “I remember in the guard they made us practice quick terrain sketches. We had to be able to show the land and stuff, to get familiar with it or something.” Flash blinked. “I remember that too. Never found it that useful.” “Well, it’s pretty interesting! Makes you think about perspective and stuff. How to show distance, how to identify points of reference.” As he spoke, he flicked his brush up and a speck of blue paint landed in his mane. “I… guess?” Flash really didn’t know what any of that meant.  “They used to say I’d take too long with those,” Spearhead laughed. “But I couldn’t help myself. Most of the others threw theirs away, but I ended up keeping mine. Bought some colored pencils on leave and filled them in. Held onto those for a long time in fact. Wonder where they’re at now…” Flash stifled a yawn. “You need more paint or anything? Other colors? I’ve got like every kind you can think of over here!” “Uh, nah, I’m good.” Flash squirted out a drop of red paint onto his palette. “You really like art, huh?” Spearhead perked up. “Oh yeah! Love it. Painting just… it lets me get out feelings, y’know?” “Sure?” “Yeah, you get it!” Spearhead jabbed his brush in Flash’s direction, sending more paint flying everywhere. He didn’t seem to notice. “Art is about expression! I can finally show who I am, set it all out there! It sets me free.” Flash sighed, rubbing his eyes. He looked up at the clock on the other side of the room and groaned. With nothing else to do, he leaned over to the right of the easel to get a better look at Spearhead.   The burly stallion seemed completely focused on his work. He squinted, mouth moving slightly as he talked to himself. His hoof moved quickly, the brush hitting the canvas in a mix of strokes. Specks of paint fell onto his face and mane, as the occasional flick of his brush sent them flying through the air. Flash snorted at the sight. “So, what do you do besides art?”  “Huh? Uh… not much, honestly,” Spearhead admitted. “I mostly just make and curate art in pop-up galleries like this. It’s fun though! I get to meet some great artists too.” “Artists, huh?” Flash grinned. “You know any that… draw ponies?” Spearhead nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah, tons! I know ponies who do classical style, abstractionism, post-abstractionism… tons of ways to paint ponies!”  Flash grinned wider. “So, you ever make any paintings like… this?” Flash leaned forwards, resting his chin on his forelegs and flashed a droopy smile with half-lidded eyes in Spearhead’s direction. Spearhead looked up and froze, mouth hanging open in mild shock. “You… I… Um…” He quickly shook it off and cleared his throat. “W-Well, I may have met a pony who did a thing like that.” “Oh?” purred Flash. “Well, I dunno about you, but I’d kill for a gallery of shots like these.” He scooped up a tube of paint and squeezed it, all the while keeping a sultry smile. “Could invite friends over… squeeze out some paints. Have a good time…” He stuck a paintbrush between his teeth and winked at Spearhead. “Um… I didn’t know you have such a… fine appreciation for the arts,” Spearhead murmured, going back to his work (albeit with a red flush decorating his cheeks). “I have some refined tastes, Spears. Can I call you Spears? I’ll call you Spears.” Flash smirked as Spearhead hid his face behind the canvas. “You can call me whatever you want,” Spearhead muttered. “A-Anyways, I think I’m done with this. C’mere, what do you think?” Flash stood up and trotted around. “I hope it’s… uh…” He trailed off when he saw the painting. The painting was intricately crafted, each brushstroke exact and precise. But it was the colors that drew his attention: shades of orange and blue that perfectly matched his own coat and mane colors. The more he looked the more he saw familiar shapes and angles: a wing, a foreleg, a face.  “It’s, uh. It’s you,” Spearhead said, unable to meet Flash’s eyes. Flash was uncharacteristically speechless.  “You, uh… I’d like to get to know you. If, um, that’s what you want.” Spearhead shook his head, blinking fast. “But, uh, what’d you draw?” By the time Flash had processed the question it was too late. Spearhead had trotted around to the other side to find an absolutely blank canvas. “It’s, uh… It’s a marshmallow in a snowstorm?” Flash offered weakly. “O-Oh.” Spearhead’s ears drooped. “Um. That’s… that’s fine, I guess. If that’s what you wanted.” “Hey, I, uh… I didn’t really mean all that,” Flash muttered, rubbing a foreleg. “I… I was just messing with you, y’know? Just some… some good jokes.” Spearhead’s ears drooped further and Flash felt a pang in his heart. “I… Yeah, man, I see,” he said weakly. “Hey, uh, you can go now. If you want. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do. I’ll clean up.” Flash took a hesitant step forwards. “You sure? I–” “Yes! Just… Just go,” Spearhead said, scooping up some of the paint tubes. “I’ll tell Shining you did fine. If that’s what you want. Just… just go.” Flash worked his jaw, but there was nothing he could’ve said to change the situation. He hung his head and left, leaving Spearhead alone in the gallery, wondering what he had just done.