Yeah? Alright. Color me curious and run it by me then.

[Yeah, his time stuck in a younger body has been a real eye-opener, the kind that makes a man remember why he didn’t wanna spend any longer in those memories than necessary. Going back to “normal” hadn’t been as straightforward as it should’ve been, not that this planet fucking cares; it’s hard to forget about how easy it was to laugh back then, how weightless life had really felt even though he thought he had it tough. Being Johnny again is like having a weight re-deposited in his lungs, when he had gotten used to how difficult it was to breathe in his adult years. A reminder of how much had changed, just how useless and naive he might’ve been back then.

And his arm… Jesus Christ, he had his arm back. And just like that, he’s without it again; that ticks his boxes for the return of some uncomfortable psychosomatic trauma, because of course it does. Can still feel like his real arm’s there; can still feel the pain of it getting blown off now and again, even though he didn’t have the pleasure of living through that a second time.

The firelight compels him, the nighttime air feels like a fair distraction. Seeking solitude with a guitar slung over his shoulders has always been the second best way to clear his head. Drinking, smoking, and drugs were always first, but not tonight.

Of course, by the time he makes his way to the firepit outside? It’s clear he’s not alone. He can make out the silhouette outline of V before he other man notices he’s even there, humming an all-too familiar tune. A part of Johnny figures he should just turn around now, but the stubborn part of him knows he can’t ignore this forever. Wouldn’t be fair in the end.

Johnny steps forward into view proper, the light of the fire making his red guitar practically glow.]

‘You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby. You’re gonna die.’

[He huffs, and with a few long strides finds himself sitting on the opposite side of the firepit, metal arm coming up to tune and fuss at his guitar.]

Ain’t that the unbridled truth. You know, used to think for a while, when Samurai was really big, that no one else’s music was even worth playin’. Guess I forgot about all that time I spent in that shop, goin’ through guitar tabs day in and day out — all the shit I learned from bands that came way before my time.

[The cat can’t be bothered, and for a moment it looks like the rockerboy can’t either. Attention only when it’s deemed worthy — very cat-like indeed.

Johnny’s shakes out a hand, though—the organic one—from where he’s seated at a messy little desk, and it soon becomes clear why he couldn’t bother looking up at V just yet: he’s just finished a silver sheen of nail polish for each nail. A small bottle of the stuff sits on the corner of his desk.]

Likes me better than you. Don’t blame ‘em.

[Finally looking over at V in the doorway with a grin—]

Just look at me, after all.