Dennett muffles a curse. Really, he's almost agreeing with everyone else now, figuring the best course of action might actually be taping his mouth shut. If that ever happens, now he's going to blame himself, right here.

"Right. Live. Then sharks." That sounds terrible. But he doesn't have much of a choice, really, and he looks over at the churning sea, his gaze drawn back just in time to see brown fur and the flash of yellow, probably-diseased teeth.

His first thought was 'Christ, it's raining rats!' and his second was that that was probably a stupid thought even for this place. Then he kind of gave up thinking together, flailing at the thing, probably screaming just as loudly as the rat.