Either Lynch wasn't expecting this flaccid cock to hit him or he welcomed it. The punch connected to his jaw and Lynch sprayed blood and spit and smoke out. He clutched the other Ronan's jacket and pulled him down to knee him squarely in the stomach. Shame; he'd been aiming a little lower. Maybe the little shit had caught him off-guard. He was wearing his face and he punched like someone who liked dick way less than he obviously did. Good. That meant Niall Lynch had taught him to fight and that meant that his father was a constant in all universes. Good. He deserved to be.

Lynch's cigarette was still smoldering stubbornly in the gravel just within arm's reach. Cigarettes were infinite -- anything was to the Greywaren -- but this particular one had Ronan Prime's irritation all over it and that made it valuable. To make sure Ronan could not stop him, Lynch kicked his leg out from under him and bent for the cigarette. He spat red on the spot where the cigarette had laid and picked it up, inspected it quickly, and took a deep pull.

Just in case that little albino fucker was getting any ideas, Ronan warned, "don't come any closer, shitstain." Maybe he'd consider pulling his punches (not that he had) with his likeness, but not some snotnosed little ghost-looking waif with all of the constitution of a dirty sock.