A Morning Like Any Other

Canvas City never slept quietly.

From the top of Crayon Paintbrush Fortress, you could see everything — the swooping painted arches over Pigment Avenue, the mosaic clock tower in the center square, the cheerful yellow storefronts where humanoid deer and goats picked up breakfast and argued about the weather. Every wall, every sidewalk, every window frame burst with color like someone had tipped a whole bucket of joy over the city.

Crayon Paintbrush Man stood at the roof's edge, blue sunglass goggles catching the morning light, his black-and-blue supersuit sharp against the painted skyline. He held a steaming mug of coffee — black, no sugar — and watched a group of sheep kids chase a paint-splattered ball down Cerulean Street.

"Good morning, Canvas City," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone.

His communicator buzzed.

He glanced at it. Unknown signal. Odd frequency.

He took one last slow sip and frowned.

Grey Before Breakfast

The signal wasn't just odd — it was loud.

Crayon Paintbrush Man pulled up the communicator's readout. The frequency pulsed in sharp, ugly bursts, like something was broadcasting from every direction at once.

Then his coffee mug slipped from his fingers.

He didn't drop it. The mug had turned grey — dull, flat, colorless — right in his hand. The coffee inside looked like dirty water. He stared at it.

Below, someone screamed.

He flew off the roof instantly, dropping hard toward Pigment Avenue. What he saw stopped him mid-air.

The painted arches — gone grey. The yellow storefronts — grey. A humanoid goat woman in a bright red coat stood frozen on the sidewalk, watching the red drain out of her sleeve like ink being sucked away.

A small drone — silver, about the size of a lunchbox, shaped like a fat teardrop — hummed silently above the street. It had no markings. It spun slowly, and wherever it hovered, color vanished.

The goat woman looked up at him, her eyes wide.

"It came out of nowhere," she said. "I was just buying bread."