[and the blast goes off. a messy glowy sphere of light ripping out of the muzzle of the weapon, hitting the far wall with a rupturing clang. it's not the kind of blast that will rend steel from steel, or melt jack, but there's a certain kinetic resonance to it that

in combination with ronan, now swinging from the ceiling like george of the jungle

starts to elicit a very fucking loud series of creaks and groans throughout. the shouts and jeers from the gathering of boys below turns into shouts of alarm, and the whites of their eyes flash by ronan's vision as he pendulums wildly. he also-- maybe feels the sharp jerk of the chain descending another foot before hitting its end again, stopping short with ronan's weight on the end.]

Holy shit.

[kavinsky twists to stare at ronan, duly impressed, even though the catwalk is beginning to weave precariously beneath him. some kind of crucial bolt popped when he'd fired the weapon, evidently.]

The fuck are you doing, Lynch? Representing shit Ireland in the special Olympics? [a beat.] I'd put my money on you-- [and he crows, delighted, before cursing a moment as his balance sways.]