Ms. Sordwell looked out over the city scape, through the window she had just had cleaned. Buildings sparkled and gleamed with an almost knowing wink back into the world around them. These buildings were made from money, she knew that. The fine suit she was wearing was made from money, as were the suits of the men around her at the boardroom table, the glasses were made from money. This room she was in was made from money.

But she was not made of money. Her being was not material and purchasable. And that threw everything into turmoil.

She frowned under her sharp NWing sunglasses before turning back to the table of men. They were bickering over some fluctuation in the FTSE, but she couldn't care less. She should have, considering she was CEO of this corporation. She'd resolve the argument in a moment with some brilliant new corporate strategy that would throw the company back into the top 10 providers of ... whatever it was they produced. She didn't even know anymore, she barely cared.

Sure enough, they all turned on her eventually, puppies begging to suckle on the tit of the Mother. She sighed inwardly before launching forward into the same business rigmarole she always fed them: The milk, if you will. But now it tasted sour in her own mouth. The point was missing from it all. There was no point in anything, in life at all, if it all revolved around green notes of flimsy material. Life is printed onto sheets of paper.

Pathetic.

Needless to say, the ravenous dogs drank it all, and raucus appreciation and praise followed. She left the meeting after they had all gone, taking time to look over the plan she had presented and what it would really mean to the company. It would boost profit exponentionally, indeed. She should have been proud of her achievement, and pleased with the keen business sense that she was owner of. She was, by all accounts, a corporate genius, but like the rest of the things in this Office block, she didn't have a single care for it. However, she had promised to make the necessary changes when she got home, from her private study. Far be it from her to shirk responsibility because she lacked compassion for her job.

She made her way quickly from the luxurious top floor, reserved for Executive board meetings, to the lift. She stood silently, surrounded by her contemporaries as they descended. Their talk with each was a dull whine to her, sprinkled with upper class guffaws every so often. She was only too happy to escape the lift at the lobby and make her way for the exit. The doorman smiled an evidently fake smile--that she had no doubt payed for vicariously at some point--and opened the door for her. She gave a weak smile--well, a thinning of the lips--to him and hurried through the door and down the stairs.

So pre-occupied as she was in the maelstrom of her own apathy, she failed to realise the gentleman standing around, gazing up to the top floor of the building she had just departed. Shoulders collided, and she fell, dropping a portfolio she was carrying simulatenously. The papers flung themselves around, fanning themselves around the pavement in the light breeze. She cursed herself for being so complacent, grasping her glasses from the concourse and turning to scrabble for the papers she had lost.

She found them all back in the folder in front of her eyes, held by an unwavering hand. She followed the appendage up the arm and neck, to the face: A light skinned man with platinum hair was looking down at her from behind inscrutable elliptical sunglasses. His hair was flat around his head, and flickered slightly in the wind. Around his neck was a black bandana, as if it had fallen from its previous position on his face. He wore a tight leather jacket to his abdomen, zipped fully. Heavy, black, knee high boots were clad over gray, Ivora-like pants, and you could see they tucked messily into the boot.

'T...Thank you' She stammerred, amazed at the speed he managed to recover the file, there had to be at least half a ream in there.

He just nodded and offerred his other hand to help her up. As she accepted, he demanded 'Your name?'

She paused a moment, puzzled. 'Ms. Sordwell' She felt somehow compelled to answer. She paused again, before adding 'Lucy... Lucy Sordwell" Then clarity returned, and she fixed her glasses in place. 'And yourself? I want to know the name of the man I'm to thank'

'My name is Terra...' He stopped, and his eyes drifted momentarily behind their dark shield, 'My name is not important.' A smirk crepy slowly across his face 'I have no doubt that we shall never meet again, so adieu'

With that, the gentleman turned, and strolled off down the street at an alarming pace. Lucy stared for a minute, bewildered, before turning back to her duties. Namely; calling a taxi home. Alone.