Compared with Metropolis, Gotham's sunny days always carried a piercing chill. The air under the sunlight was more like a clear block of ice, or a thin, soft veil cast down from the sky, draping everything in a faintly cold hue.
God was a somewhat clumsy painter. By late autumn, he had already used up most of his paints, leaving only grayish greens, dark browns, and oranges mixed from other colors. To fill the blank spaces left on the canvas, he dabbed here and there, covering the wild grasslands in a fierce dusky yellow. The golden leaves of maples and beeches cut the clouds on the horizon into fragments, while the specks of light scattered through gaps in the shadows of the trees looked like advance letters sent by the first snow that had yet to arrive.
Greed and Pride were walking beside a small stream in the woods, stepping across smooth stones and damp mud as they entered a tunnel formed by the dense, somber tree shadows.
Normally, they should have been busy in the kitchen at this hour, but they clearly were not that lucky. After inspecting the quality of the fish they had bought, they unanimously concluded that it could not be served. The fish for steamed fish was best when, one second before going into the pot, it could still slap someone across the face. The fish sold at the supermarket were alive, but clearly not that lively. They had looked fine in the tank, yet within seconds of being placed on the cutting board, they stopped moving.
This dinner had originally been meant to show off their cooking skills, but even the cleverest housewife could not cook without rice. If the ingredients were not fresh, no amount of skill would help. Yet it was obviously