Once upon a time there was a great big land of very tiny people. They were born pure white. White as sunlight on snow, white as pearls, white as the moon. As they grew they would go through life slowly changing, touching and being touched. Marks would begin to wear on the pure white of their skin, marks suffered when they bumped into one another, with words, with fists, with ideas. Some prints were surface inky, brushed off quickly.

If the skin was sensitive enough though, even a light smack or a few words could leave lasting stains and raw wounds needing stitches. Some wounds sunk deep, transforming the white entirely to new shades, prints, patterns.  Some required amputation, some were able to be stitched back together.

 Occasionally the damage would be so strong it would show through the makeup or bleed through the cloth everyone used to cover up the marks of their past.  When this happened, everyone would whisper to each other frantically, backing swiftly away from the spreading color so they wouldn't be touched. Teams of professionals would be swiftly called in wearing thick heavy suits of gilded armor to carry the imperfect away. Sometimes, the "colorful" ones would come back. They would have thick gleaming white skin and smiles sharp as knives, perfectly beautiful in every way, never talking about what had happened to them.

 Others simply disappeared.