Morning at the Crayon Towers

The four crayon towers of Crayon Mare Mansion caught the morning sun like giant colored pencils poking at the sky. From the highest balcony, Crayon Mare leaned on the railing and looked out over Art Gallery City — all painted storefronts, mosaic bridges, and streets busy with humans and humanoid animals starting their day.

She stretched her arms, her blue-and-black supersuit crisp, her giant glowing blue crayon propped against the balcony wall like a very serious walking stick.

"Big week," she said to herself. "Really big."

Her phone buzzed. She grabbed it. A notification from the City Events Board lit up the screen: **GRAND PRIX REGISTRATION — FINAL DAY.**

The Art Gallery City Grand Prix. The biggest race of the year. Every runner, rider, and speedster in the city had been talking about it for months.

Crayon Mare grinned wide, her blue eyes bright.

"Well," she said, tapping register without a second thought. "I've never lost a race in my life."

The Parrot Who Knew Too Much

The Grand Prix registration office sat inside the Palette Arena — a wide, colorful building shaped like an open paint tube, right at the edge of the city's main plaza.

Crayon Mare pushed through the front doors and joined the line. Runners, cyclists, and a few speedsters in flashy gear filled the room. A drone hovered near the ceiling, scanning registration cards.

At the front desk sat an elderly parrot — bright green feathers, round glasses, and a tiny bow tie — tapping at a keyboard with one careful claw.

"Name?" he said without looking up.

"Crayon Mare."

The parrot's glasses slipped. He looked up fast.

"Oh," he said quietly. "Oh dear."

He turned his monitor toward her. On the screen, the official race roster already showed a winner's name — pre-filled, stamped, and highlighted in gold — before a single runner had taken a single step.

The name wasn't hers.

"This loaded in this morning," the parrot whispered, glancing left and right. "Someone pushed it through the city's race system overnight."