"Fine," he says, spreading his arms in a gesture that is somehow simultaneously embodies defeat and an attitude of apathetic recklessness. Fuck it.

"Johnny," Nova begs, she's afraid, not because she's pinned but because what he's about to do might kill them right out of the dream, and he knows it.

Would that be so terrible.

There are worse things.

Feeling Gabriel stab him Topher was worse. Watching Gabriel die by giant panther, an absurd experience he nonetheless remembers too well. Watching Daniel die, for that fucking matter.

Killing Rush with his own nightmare escape attempt.

Almost killing Seth in real life.

Oh, look at that, his nose is bleeding. That can't be good.

The island isn't gone, necessarily, but it's half wrong now, rock and soil and moss turning seamlessly to hardwood and weird, unsettlingly soft black earth, the trees before him still trees, those behind him bleeding into walls, hallways and doors that probably open into still more hallways. It's more than almost anything he's done, shifting this massive locale halfway into the house, a disgusting bastardization of space. He buckles and collapses hard on his knees, breathing heavily, one hand planted in dirt and the other in ash.