THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN HAPPY:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN SAD:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEY SEE SOMETHING THEY WANT:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEIR BERSERK BUTTON IS PUSHED:

THE FACE YOUR MUSE MAKES WHEN THEY SEE SOMEONE THEY DISLIKE:

    Raymond evenly paces himself to a suspect and victim, stare downcast as he studies the scene closely. His gun drifts to colored asphalt while he encircles the body. He cannot take his words on face value until he determines just how the man died. 

     “We’ll see.” Raymond stoops down, bending a knee to take the dead man’s wrist. He’s been wiped of every second, and it would seem that thievery is the cause of death, and a presumed debt was paid. “Let me see your arm.” Regardless of his reaction, Raymond follows his request with another question. 

     Raymond thumbs across his phone, checking the time and the life he has left before he’s left asking for more. There are troubles he experiences with calls-- the connection and lack-thereof. With a few seconds to give, Raymond fiddles about with it. This fault is calked to the fact that his phone is not an upgraded piece of technology as the others. 

   It works when he needs it, and that’s all that can be said of it. It’s baffling to spend time truly looking further over every call answered, and with a long sigh, he adjusts his posture, staring into a device with a dull gaze. 

    “Hey,” Raymond’s voice is stale, losing its silken pitch with a slow, even approach. He’s speaking with a man not entirely on his radar. It would be indecent to explain that he knows of him solely from the occasional (albeit suspicious) observation of Grendel. 

     The Timekeeper does not offer his hand, arms folding behind his back to formally introduce himself without risking loss of his time. Gren’s a schemer when he wants to be, and first impressions are subtly made with eye contact. “Raymond Leon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

a hint of surprise glasses over the good eye  –  swims in the blue of it  –  and grendel, wrist-deep in his suitcase, gives pause.   they’re not unfamiliar words in that they’re spoken, but unfamiliar in that they’re directed at him.  

there were, after all, better people to extend concern to.  people who  ..  deserved it, more.   people who weren’t liars.  murderers.  gamblers.  thieves.

people who weren’t him.

and even now, grendel thieves  –  steals precious seconds as he turns, slowly, to look over his shoulder, side-eyeing raymond like he’s grown a second head.  he’s never known the man for his kindness;  always assumed that ray was just putting up with him.

( gren clears his throat. )

  “ ..   i’ll be fine. ”     real quiet.  barely higher than a    whisper, & just about as aggressive as one.  “ are ..    are you gonna be okay? ”

                                                            some deflection.

     A sufficient answer could very well be a quip sadly bereft of humor. He’s not known for hilarity, and it will be a dry comment filled to the brim with sarcasm. Better than you, he’d want to tell him, but the joke is in bad tastes. When he’s in the company of anyone else, without a glance to their arm, Raymond knows he’s not well off by comparison. 

     Grendel’s remark breeds questions in return, and his head softly cants with quick thoughts behind. He’ll be fine, he says. What exactly does that mean? “I’ll help where I can.” it’s decided that he’ll ignore the question altogether. Gren doesn’t need a look at his time and he doesn’t need to worry himself over the facts of life in his line of work.