10∙00∙00 ☇ video.

[saidrepent]

[Hello, City. Raymond is once again addressing the network, although he's got the camera on this time — and, as can probably be expected by the curse of the day, he's only half-dressed. He's leaned back in a chair, only wearing a pair of pants that look (somehow) tighter than his usual dress, and the lack of shirt gives a nice view not only of his toned abdomen (and the matching bullet scars in both of his shoulders) but also the glowing green body clock on his left arm. He also looks thoroughly pleased with himself.]

Turns out this is a pretty good way of beating the whole sand in your clothes problem...though I wonder if it'd work even better with even less than this.

[He leans forward a bit, towards the camera, spreading his legs in the same motion and thereby leaving little to the imagination.]

What do you think?

Comments

[thewildone]

Hey, what's that thing on your arm?

[saidrepent]

This? [For once, he doesn't mind showing it off. He holds it more clearly in the camera's view; the glowing digits read 0000∙00∙0∙04∙43∙17.] It's my clock.

[thewildone]

Yeah? What time is it?

[saidrepent]

[He snorts at that.]

It's stopped at four hours, forty-three minutes, and seventeen seconds. That was how much time I had left before I wound up here.

[thewildone]

Time left for what?

[saidrepent]

To live.

[thewildone]

Oh, uh, nevermind, man. Just take your pants off or whatever.

[saidrepent]

[He snorts again.] Fair enough.

[And off they go.]

[thewildone]

[Curt takes a moment to contemplate this surprisingly successful method of changing the subject.]

I should really get going, but enjoy your method of sand control.

[saidrepent]

[Surprisingly successful both because of the curse and how not fussed he was over his time in the first place.] Already on it, but thanks.