...Que.

[talktothehandsy]

Handy (or the Doctor, or John, or whotever people decide to call him, though he prefers the last), is here to ramble about his impending death.

"So um. Right! I'm a spin-off of the Doc, yeah? Some think I'm him, some think I'm just myself. Guess the jury's still out on all that, but...

See, I've got a problem. A big, random-repeating-of-words

Comments

[witfrommytongue]

Well now, that's a lot of words for not a lot being said, and Ziggy, lounging nearby, arches an eyebrow. He's no doctor (nor Doctor, for that matter), but neither is he human, and these things do happen. What's this one's story, he wonders? Wonders enough, in fact, that he unfolds himself from his chair to ambulate over with the lazy curiosity of the not entirely sober.

In his platforms, he's about equal to Handy/the Doctor/John's height, but the way he leans back on his hips as he watches him makes him look shorter. Thin lips curl in a wry, tolerant smile.

'Repeat yourself in fewer words, babe? Corporeality is complex enough already without running away with your tongue.'

[talktothehandsy]

He whirls his head around to look at him, noticing the man's hair first (and being absolutely delighted with it) then noticing the man's general output second. There's enough Timelord to know this isn't really a human, which serves him better, really - when he'd started thinking in terms of what 'served him best' when it came to people, he wasn't sure. Ah, well. 'Least he recognized him.

He frowns when he's asked to repeat himself. What kind of idiot couldn't catch the jist of that with all the explaining he'd done and-oh, right. Fewer words.

Blankly, "I'm dying." It takes all the power within his person not to add a long diatribe about the how of it, or the time he dyed his hair red once, how that hadn't worked out and how the 'not working out' portion involved both looking horrible and going blind for a week.

He does, however, add, "Because my brain isn't big enough for everything I know."

[witfrommytongue]

Ziggy nods.

That's all; no awkwardness, no gushing sympathy, just a nod, because that's interesting. If Ziggy was going to die- and he will eventually, he suspects; mortality shoulders its way into one's awareness more often than usual, on this planet- dying of having too much in his head would be a good way to go. Poetic. Symbolic.

Still, it's not like he can't sympathise with the man. Humans don't usually have to think about the fact that they're dying; they like to put it off. This one's facing it straight on, and it's little wonder he doesn't like what he sees. Not that Ziggy makes the mistake of thinking he's quite human, but it would take a better eye than his to tell what exactly he is

[talktothehandsy]

It's a relief, the matter-of-fact way in which he's taking it in and going on about it - he really doesn't want sympathy, or pity. Even if he's royally pissed that the short human life he'd been given was being cut even shorter

[witfrommytongue]

Ziggy hasn't the faintest notion what he means by regenerate, but he's a chill dude, he can wait to find out. The man'll tell him in his own time; Ziggy's not a one to rush this sort of thing. It confirms his idea that he's not human, though, which is pleasing. He looks human- an attractive human, at that; wild haired and freckled and rail thin, with a restless, rocking kineticism to him- but then, Ziggy looks human, and that couldn't be further from the truth.

'I am Infinite,' he says with a smirk, finding a couch to drape himself over. 'Although this body is human enough.' He smooths a hand down his chest in a languid, self-appreciative gesture. 'But only artificially. I am but a butterfly dreaming he's a man, yeah? Or something like that.'

'And what about you, lover?' Ziggy lets his head fall back, calmly watching upside down. 'I've never heard of any human snuffing it that way before.'

[talktothehandsy]

Watching him drape himself over the sofa, slowly spinning his own chair around to face him, he glances over the man's almost... blinding appearance. Not in any way where his clothes or hair's too bright, though the colors factored in, but it was a combination of all that with the confidence and not-quite-sober ease of movement

[witfrommytongue]

So, random repeating of words giant fucking problem indeed. He sounds like a needle stuck in the groove of a record, skipping itself over and over again until someone gets so irritated by it that they have to get up and fix it. This man fixes it himself, and it looks like an effort of will

[talktothehandsy]

Most of the time the repeating embarrassed him, flustered him. He feels rather like he's by himself anyhow now, though, so aside from the fact that it happened, there's no other sign that it had. He doesn't act like it, anyway, tilting his head as he listens to the man's story about the fifth. "Yeah, the Doctor. Fifth one. One of my favorites; nice little blonde thing going for him

[witfrommytongue]

The Doctor, yeah. He'd been all sorts of riled up about Ziggy appearing out of nowhere on his ship; had done a great deal of hmmphing and pouting about it. Cute, really.

And again with this dude and his explanations that aren't really explanations at all. He'll infer, though, read between the lines if that's what he wants, and he comes away with something not too far removed from the truth. Mishaps of genetics; misdirected energy in combination with too many living beings results in more life; it's just the way it goes. Sometimes it's natural birth, sometimes it's cloning, sometimes it's something more like an anomaly. The latter, he fancies, is what applies here, and Ziggy chuckles, a low, musical sound at the intonation the anomaly gives the phrase daddy issues.

'So what's your name, impossible possibility?' Everyone's gotta have a name, after all. No-one's nobody at all without a name to know themselves by.

[talktothehandsy]

Usually it takes him awhile to come up with a response to that question, always so many things to think of. What should the person know him as, what identity should he put off, which would get the best results - ah, such a lovely, manipulative and constant identity crisis - but this time he doesn't think at all.

"Johnny," he says, with an air of decisiveness, like it felt good just to say the name. John's too formal, but Johnny... well, it feels more like him, the parts that don't have anything to do with the Doctor or Donna (and there was one time he'd had someone call him Doctor Donna, for funsies). The Johnny portion - if he'd been born Just Johnny he'd be the selfish, impulsive, hyperactive, kinda lousy, partying Aries, who likes having his hair messed with. Which he did - a small tug's enough to make him groan, but a solid, all-out hair mussing's enough to get him hard. Anyway, digress.

"And you, Infinite one - which you're gonna have to explain to me eventually anyway, or I'll need to do research - what's yours?"

[witfrommytongue]

He makes it a choice, this Johnny, when he announces his name, and Ziggy smiles faintly at the tone to his voice. He likes that. Most people don't think about their names or what they mean, what they say about them. Ziggy can practically see the decision in Johnny's eyes, and he respects that

[talktothehandsy]

He counts in his head, tapping out seconds against the back of his left wrist, watching the man mull over the name then sound it out. Absently he dances his fingertips back and forth over his forearm, holding his breath and counting seconds of caught oxygen. He doesn't have the back-up of a Time Lord and can't hold it quite as long, letting it out quietly when Ziggy finishes talking

[witfrommytongue]

'Oh, please, resist if you can,' he says in a parody of pleading, drawing the words out like string between his fingers. 'At least with the drooling, yeah? Kind of a turn off

i hate lj.

[talktothehandsy]

He nods along and idly spins his chair around in circles while Ziggy goes on, pressing his stomach to the back of the chair.

"So... is the body yours, did you build it from the ground up?" He asks as he spins around, eventually bringing the chair to a stop in front of him again. He's feeling a little dizzy by now, the room dipping down and up and in an out.

The Singularity. It sounds intriguing, anyway, but he's not going to press him for more of the same, pushing off the floor with his feet, the chair rolling backwards and knocking into the arm of the sofa, nearly tilting him out.

"What's your whole deal, anyway? Most alien types have a deal."

[witfrommytongue]

The chair Johnny's on wobbles perilously when he collides with the couch, and Ziggy catches him with a precautionary hand on one arm, chuckling, 'Careful there, Johnny; no need to do yourself any more harm than you already are, yeah?'

His eyes are unfocussed with dizziness, and Ziggy shakes his head, vicariously enjoying the stupid pleasure of spinning around and around until there's no central focus anymore. Things like that are humanity's expertise, and he samples them like fine wines. The question makes him lift a brow, though, and he stretches himself back, watching him down his nose.

'My deal?' So cynical; it's amusing, really. He probably means a spin, a slant, an angle, one of those terms. Expects Ziggy's out to conquer the world. If that's what most alien types do. But Ziggy just smiles beatifically. 'I'm here to save the world, baby. Rock'n'roll messiah.'

[talktothehandsy]

He glances down at the hand on his arm and spins the chair around again, disconnecting his hand from his person, wary of how overheated his skin was. He was like a walking microwave, after all. Or a lightbulb. Maybe a cactus. Nothing wrong with a good cactus.

"It's stupid to be more careful just 'cos you're dying, isn't it? If anything, you should be endeavoring to be as reckless as you possibly can. I mean, if you're dying anyway... No point in having less fun than you were before."

He's never liked staying still, though, and he doesn't enjoy having to sit there while he waits for Ziggy to stop spinning with the rest of the room.

He snorts out a laugh at the man's reply, startling himself.

"Rock'n'roll messiah?" Ignoring the temperature of his skin he takes the other man's hand, tilting it this way and that as he brushes a fingertip along a lifeline. Clucking his tongue he lets him ago just as quickly. "Alright then. What're you saving the world from, love?"