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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?
Just a little trip, that's all he'd intended.  Ziggy Stardust is where he is, and he intends on staying there, but there are times, after the crowds leave but the chemicals in his mind still linger, when all he wants is to go home.  He loves this Earth, this little world with its butterfly-bright humans, his pretty boys and girls with their hopelessness and their shining eyes and gaudy clothing, but he is an alien here.  Even a messiah gets tired sometimes.

He never goes then, not with his head addled by powder and pills and the tall, grey buildings of the Establishment that's letting its world succumb to a slow rot.  Which is for the best, really.  Dimension hopping in that kind of a state can't be good for anybody.  But now, oh, he's got a slow day and he's feeling good again, and it occurs to him that it wouldn't hurt, if he slipped out of this reality for a moment.  Just for a taste.  So he slips out of his physical body, mind questing about for a singularity to the Infinite.  It's not hard to find, and his whole being sighs as he sublimates into another plane of existence.

To say that the Infinite exists within a singularity is simplifying matters- it's not as if there exists some black hole like a hollow globe within which sits his homeworld; that's absurd- but in effect, that's how it is.  Within and of the Singularity (note the difference between singularity and Singularity), and on the other side of each of those black holes, wormholes, singularities, whatever one prefers to call them, exist other universes entirely.  Some of them use the black holes to travel through, and as a rule, they don't disturb the Infinite.

Except for now, apparently.

Because here Ziggy is, nowhere yet, and something rocks him, a tsunami or a sonic blast as something, or somebody rips through the space he's occupying, the crushing gravity that has no effect on him wavering, met with something like its complete opposite.  Space skews, tearing at the limbs he's not wearing at the moment.  Matter, anti-matter, they war around him, and he hasn't passed through the event horizon yet, he's not going to, because surely as a wave crashes in, the tide washes out, and he gives himself up to it as he's swept back out into the physical universe by the resonance of whatever it was interfering with that black hole.

His body returns, and when his eyes blink open, he finds himself surrounded by shining white, and a humming beneath his back and legs.  He sits, and strokes fingertips over the smooth whiteness of the floor, watching as he does so.  A ship.  He's on a ship.

What a very fortuitous turn of events.  He might have been torn into nothing by the disruption of spacetime within that black hole.  Dazzlingly, he grins to himself; he always had been a lucky bastard.


i'm the space invader
Ziggy Stardust

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