The Perfectly Ordinary Morning

The Super Artist Fortress sparkled in the morning sun like a giant jewel dropped right in the heart of Creatopia.

Its walls were part smooth crystal, part polished steel, and part something that was hard to name — shelves of paint cans bolted into the exterior, giant pencils jutting from the rooftop like antennae, a mural the size of a football field stretching across the south side. It was bold, busy, and absolutely ridiculous. Most Creatopians loved it.

Inside, Super Artist Woman stood barefoot on a wide studio balcony, finishing her breakfast — a blueberry muffin, slightly burnt. She wore her full supersuit already, red cape tucked over her arm, blue mask pushed up on her forehead.

Below, the city hummed. Humanoid deer in bright coats trotted past bakeries. Goats in scarves argued cheerfully at crosswalks. Sheep children chased pigeons near the fountain.

She took a slow bite of muffin and looked up.

When the Muffin Went Cold

The crack appeared without warning.

One second the sky was its usual bright blue — the kind that made Creatopia look like a postcard. Then, with a sound like a zipper being ripped open, a jagged black line split the sky from one end to the other.

Super Artist Woman dropped her muffin.

The crack didn't thunder or explode. It just sat there, wrong and silent, spreading slowly at both ends like a tear in paper.

Then the color started leaving.

It drained out of the sky the way ink drains from a wet cloth — fast, then faster. The blue bled away, leaving pale gray behind. Below, a humanoid goat in a bright orange scarf stopped walking and stared up. His scarf turned gray. His coat turned gray. The flowers in the window box beside him — gray.

A small drone — a delivery bot shaped like a tin lunchbox with propellers — buzzed past the balcony and bumped hard into the railing.

Its painted-on smiley face was already gone, just blank silver metal.

Super Artist Woman grabbed her red cape and snapped it on.