Before the Sky Forgot Itself

Canvas Forest City never slept quietly.

Even at dusk, the Paintbrush Thicket buzzed — towers of giant paintbrushes humming with low electric light, their bristle-tips glowing faint blue against the orange sky. Vendors packed up carts below. Street lamps flickered on one by one. Somewhere, a radio played something jazzy and fast.

Paintbrush Buck leaned against the tallest tower, arms crossed, watching the city settle into evening. His blue supersuit caught the light. His small antlers cast twin shadows across the wall behind him.

"You've got paint on your boot again," said a voice.

He looked down. Sure enough — a bright streak of yellow across his left black boot.

Fawna, a humanoid doe with copper fur and sharp amber eyes, stood below him on the steps, arms full of color canisters, smirking like she'd caught him doing something embarrassing.

"It's not paint," he said.

"It's extremely paint," she said.

When the Yellow Went

Fawna set one of the heavy color canisters down on the step with a clunk. "These were supposed to go to the North Quarter two hours ago," she said. "The drone broke down again."

Buck glanced at the canister. It was labeled SOLAR YELLOW — one of the brightest colors the Thicket manufactured.

"I'll fly them over," he said.

Fawna raised an eyebrow. "All twelve?"

"Probably not all at once."

He grabbed two canisters and lifted off — his blue supersuit catching the last strips of evening light as he rose above the tower tops. The city spread out below him, block after painted block.

Then he stopped.

One entire street was wrong.

The buildings on Sable Row had gone completely gray. Not dim — gray, like someone had drained every drop of color out of the walls, the signs, even the flower boxes. A woman standing on her fire escape stared at her own hands. They were gray too.

Buck dropped toward her fast.

"Hey — are you okay?"

She looked up. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

"It started in the sky," she said. "Twenty minutes ago. Just — gone."