“What do you see?” Cautiously, the ankh was picked up and inspected by piercing eyes, slender fingers tracing the artefacts’ sharp contours. The tip of a pink tongue was evident from between pouty lips as the male cocked an eyebrow, “I’m not quite sure Cynthia. I’m thinking, early Egyptian, Ramses’ age?” the teenager offered with a slight shrug as he replaced the ankh back in its display case before turning back to the female behind him, a hand resting on his hip. He inspected the rest of the shipment, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he yawned slightly. Brushing invisible lint off his shirt, he glanced back up at his friend who, at present, sat in front of her laptop in the museum curators office, watching him with a raised eyebrow. “So where’s Mr Honeycutt sending us this time?” It was common knowledge that Cynthia didn’t appreciate being packed up at any moment and flown out to the far reaches of the world to places she’d never heard of let alone could pronounce. What really annoyed her was that if she was actually getting paid to leave everything for days and weeks at a time, she wouldn’t mind. But she didn’t. Well, not as much as you’d expect. The office door opened and in strode the curator, dressed immaculately in a fuchsia suit and fake snakeskin boots. Behind him trailed his assistant, who looked as if someone had just kicked his puppy. Emmett’s hands were flailing animatedly as he attempted to explain something to the pathetic looking specimen of a male who, much to the amusement of his two visitors, seemed a little confused and it showed on his face. He was hurriedly scrawling notes in barely legible writing before he slammed into his stopped boss’ back, arms waving wildly before he fell backwards onto his ass with a thud. The third male in the room covered his mouth with one hand to try and stifle the laughter which threatened to escape. Cynthia wasn’t having any more luck at doing so than her friend. Emmett blinked owlishly before turning about and looking down at his assistant, one hip jutting out as he scowled. “Michael. This is no time to be having a sit down! Sheesh, men!” Rolling his eyes, Emmett swished his way over to his desk, brushing Cynthia’s feet of the mahogany desktop so her stiletto boots clicked off the wooden floor as her feet fell. Moving from the perch, she shifted her laptop into it’s bag before taking her spot by the window, one hand pushing aside the lower lapels of her long black coat so she could rest her hand on her hip. The flamboyant man plopped himself onto his seat, one leg crossed over the other effeminately as he rested his chin on the pal of one hand, a dreamy look on his face as he eyed up the Armani wearing teen. “So, Mr Taylor. Ready to visit the Borghese?” Justin’s eyes lit up.