(no subject)
Some of you in the Nexus may recognise this man- tall, whipcord thin and striking; androgynous, alien-looking, with a shock of hot red hair and made up face, eyes mismatched, lips narrow, cheekbones high. He looks, in fact, just like David Bowie did during the early seventies, when he was masquerading as the spaceboy saviour of Earth. Only difference? This one is Ziggy Stardust, not just pretending at being him.
At the moment, he's draped over an armchair, sinewy limbs spilling out over either end, indolently smoking a cigarette. Slowly he brings it to his lips, sucking on the filter in apparently unintentional sexual suggestion; the long white fingers of his other hand trail up and down the arm of the chair, tracing the weave of the fabric with small, sensual satisfaction. 'The air screams on this planet, you know,' he remarks, his voice surprisingly baritone for someone so slight and effeminate looking. 'When one falls through it; you can hear it all around you, screaming as the molecules catch fire.'
Apparently this is mere rumination, though the way he says it suggests that he expects an audience of some sort. A lazy glance tracks over to the sign, taking in the instruction in flashing colours even to rival his wardrobe, and one eyebrow lifts delicately in an expression of bored, aristocratic interest. He takes a moment to consider, before speaking again, this time with more clear intent. 'A world doomed to die- why bother saving it? Or do you let the prophets die with their prophecy?