The bakery was a galley of a shop. So much of the space had been taken up by the ovens and the mouth-watering displays that the customers were left to squeeze in and out. From the cracking chess board tile Fleur could only imagine the store to be older than herself, though the sign above the display window was freshly painted in black and white. The cakes beckoned her in and the aroma of fresh baked cookies and bread took her by the hand and lead her inside. She stood there, her empty pockets so heavy in her empty jeans. When the assistant caught her eye, an expectant eyebrow raised she hurries out to the autumn cold. With every step over the frosty stones she vowed to learn how to bake. If it was the last thing she did she'd do it; if those idiots could do it so could she. The bakery huddled between the bank and the furniture merchant, both of them towering over the one storey shop. It wasn't the kind of place that did forty kinds of everything, the baker just did a few things to perfection and stuck to them. He made the most perfect wholegrain loaves and white bloomers and baked cookies so good they made regular customers from the grimmest curmudgeon. So on the day the store should have opened but didn't, about half the town became concerned for the baker.

Biscuits harder than summer baked asphalt covered the plate, obscuring most of the floral decoration but not the worn gold rim. Fleur didn't seem to notice, after several seconds dunked in her tea they were almost soft enough to break away into the drink, adding to the sweetness. She wondered if the biscuit sludge at the bottom was her favorite part, there was a twinkle in the old girl's eyes as she reached for her teaspoon. Whenever the plate came her way she would lower her head to the right and raise her shoulders, pursing her lips a little. Then with a slight head-shake, enough to give life to his chestnut bangs, the offending biscuits were withdrawn. Fleur took a double take, her long hair swishing over her face. On the table were biscuits and not just any kind: custard creams and bourbons. It took a half second to remember she wasn't a child anymore, that asking for one wasn't the done thing. Then with a gentle bite of her inner lip she recalled splitting them in half, eating the dry side first, savoring the half with the cream filling. Before she knew it she'd taken a full detour to arrive at the plate and after a shallow swallow her inner voice found some volume. The rich tea packet was split right to the half-way point allowing several of the biscuits to tumble forward like cards in a rolodex. A stranger she met over the days to past, Art, never once looked at them, instead he was guided by crinkle of the packet, temporarily playing his computer game with one hand to feed himself.

Fleur ran low on the paper that universally went around being called Jewels. Deciding that she could no longer bum around, Fleur picked herself up and committed towards the long and dreadful walk to the request board. They were all bland - all but one who had it laced with pink and signed ever so elegantly. Fernando, the client, showed a very rare and soft, silk of a fabric and Fleur immediately knew that this wasn't going to be easy. She wanted to purchase it from the merchants with the money she got but as soon arrived, one refused to sell to the ghostly girl. What could the reason be? With a swing of her blade, she chopped his right leg and took the fabric anyway. Pacing back, she wondered what she had just done.

Money, turning the best of people corrupt. Desperate and greedy, temped by the circles of gold and pieces of paper. To the poor money is survival; to the rich it is one of two things - bondage or ransom. Keep it and the poor stay in bondage, be generous and ransom their freedom. The money lay cold in her hand. It wasn't until that moment she realized what she had done. She had traded life for metal and paper. She had chased it with singular desire, with lust. She was a traitor. Now the corrupt powers had no opposition to building the new factory, the rebellion was dead and she had handed them over simply for financial gain. The industry would pollute the land for generations to come, spilling it's poison into the rivers. She closed her hand around the currency, she would need this to fight them, in the name of those she betrayed she would stop them. Even if it meant her life.