<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #0040FF"><span style="font-family: Arial Narrow;"><span style="text-decoration: underline">[Pluto's Kiss; 77 Minutes]</span></span></span></span></div><br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #FFFF40">"Only 4 shopping days until Christmas,"</span></span>Samuel noted. The forlorn gray skyline of the city indicated it would be a bleak day. A scarce flurry of snow, too big too dissolve, but too small to stick properly blanketed the city. Within hours, the New York snow became a dirty mass of sidewalk filth and snow, painting the white snow black.<br/><br/>Avoiding the clusters of acrid snow, Samuel half-heartedly walked towards the<span style="color: #FFFF00"><span style="font-weight: bold">Times Building</span>,</span>his current occupation's workplace. His daily routine was exciting in a rudimentary sort of way, although others would find Samuel's life disconcertingly monotonous. The depressing slush that fell upon the city overnight provided an unexpected variable for Samuel, of which he wasn't too fond. Sam, in his own perverse way, enjoyed the monotony of his daily life; he never strayed from the same 5-minute walk, which began at his apartment complex and ended in the Times Building.<br/><br/>Showing his identification badge to the halfway-asleep Hispanic security guard at the front desk, he was buzzed in and allowed past the lobby and into the elevator. As Sam was about to press the rectangular button labeled "20F," a redhead beckoned from the lobby;<span style="color: #FFBFFF"><span style="font-style: italic">"Hold the door!"</span></span><br/><br/>OOC: Hi, Batcat. =]