The tall, weedy man looks at his fellow murderer with a curious tilt to his head. This must be one of the more typical, unpleasant kind of murderers. As if there's ever a nice kind, but he's fairly certain he had a good reason. Not that the holes in his memory are allowing him to remember what that reason was, but it must have been a good one.

Or maybe he's psychotic and just thinks it was a good reason.

"Well, I don't really plan on it, but I seem to be the type to do that anyway," he replies, "I remember a lot of running away from people who want to kill me."

He ponders the name situation, rubbing the back of his head briefly until his fingers brush against the metal slot there and he pulls his hand away with a distinctly queasy feeling. Who digs holes in people's heads?

"Rambling..." the man rolls it around his mouth like a new flavor, "Rrrambling. Yes! I think I like it. So what do we call you? Grumpy?"

Even with his lost memories, he's still himself: distinctly lacking in self-preservation instincts.