[ It was a ship. A fucking ship. Now, Ronan was excellent at telling the difference between dreaming and being awake, but this? This was the kind of shit that only ever happened in children's stories or in the really bad tv shows that got cancelled after two seasons.

Fantastical, said Gansey's voice in his head.

Kidnapping, countered Ronan, unable to keep from responding to his best friend, even inside his own head.

The second the ship had docked, the second he could jump down and feel actual ground below his feet, he let his eyes travel over the crowd, combing it, seeking out a face that a) didn't make him want to smash his fist right into it, and b) looked even remotely like it could possibly hold something like answers.

Once he'd found the target, he stomped over, head tilted back, blue eyes full of anger and arrogance -- his customary look that said don't approach; will bite. The swirls of his tattoo snaked up his shoulders. ]

The fuck's this? [ The wave of his hand was a knife cutting through the air, indicating everything around them; the ship, the land. The people. ]

He sat on the steps leading up to his house ("his house", what a fucking joke), bouncing a ball in his hand. The ball was light, almost translucent, and its descent seemed uneven, like the ball was forgetting it was supposed to be affected by gravity. Chainsaw was perched on his shoulder, her claws tearing welts into his t-shirt.

Chainsaw, he supposed, was an answer to a problem -- no, the problem, the only problem that really mattered. Chainsaw was awake; but then, Ronan thought, Chainsaw was also here. That was the whole extent of his problem. His dreams would continue to live as long as he was alive... and here, he certainly was. Back home, though? Did his sudden existence on these godforsaken islands mean his equally sudden lack of existence back in Henrietta?

It was a thought that pricked his skin like thorns.

With a low growl, Ronan hurled the ball in his hand towards the opposite wall with as much force as he could muster. He wore his anger like a second skin; Ronan Lynch had always been that, angry energy, harsh lines and barbed wires, but now it was overflowing, a wound that bled and bled and bled, waiting for the blood to run out.

Chainsaw, startled by the sudden movement, took off into the air, her black wings beating fast as she screeched, in surprise and reproach. Ronan glared at her.

"What the fuck do you know? Just shut the hell up. Go yell somewhere else."

As for anyone who had been drawn by the sudden noise, opened a window to see what the shattering sound had been, Ronan only gave a glare, icy and dangerous and uninviting of questions.