Rush can't even bring himself to be appropriately fucking furious about that one. He simply can't manage it. He's reached the end of the proverbial fucking rope. The list of reasons he can no longer give a shit for anything this man has to say has extended into the vast and unknowable infinite to join the likes of π and e in levels of pure transcendental irrationalism.
He laughs, high and unrestrained, bordering a little worryingly on hysterical, because his life has been anything but.
"Do you have any idea," he says once he's regained fair control over his ventromedial prefrontal cortex, mildly breathless but bizarrely invigorated over the immensely freeing decision to no longer care about the shooter's ostensibly skewed perceptions of him, "what it is fucking like to grow up workin' two jobs, shipyards in Glasgow, right 'til your fuckin' twenties?" He can feel himself slipping into back into the thicker form of his native accent; he doesn't fucking care. It's liberating, really, to become aware of the astronomical levels in which he does not give a fuck in any conceivable shape or form.
"Or - oh, you're going to love this - gettin' fuckin' trapped on an old-as-all-fuck spaceship with eighty-or-so inept fucks who make a habit of puttin' you in a fuckin' headlock every other week or so on the grounds that they don't like you, and it dinnae matter what you do one way or t' other, they will always fuckin' hate you -"
His voice breaks. Deep humiliation over the vocal hiccup aside, he has no idea when this rant went from furious to really fucking personal, and there's no way this man has done anything become privy to this much information about him, but Rush - does - not - care.
no subject
Rush can't even bring himself to be appropriately fucking furious about that one. He simply can't manage it. He's reached the end of the proverbial fucking rope. The list of reasons he can no longer give a shit for anything this man has to say has extended into the vast and unknowable infinite to join the likes of π and e in levels of pure transcendental irrationalism.
He laughs, high and unrestrained, bordering a little worryingly on hysterical, because his life has been anything but.
"Do you have any idea," he says once he's regained fair control over his ventromedial prefrontal cortex, mildly breathless but bizarrely invigorated over the immensely freeing decision to no longer care about the shooter's ostensibly skewed perceptions of him, "what it is fucking like to grow up workin' two jobs, shipyards in Glasgow, right 'til your fuckin' twenties?" He can feel himself slipping into back into the thicker form of his native accent; he doesn't fucking care. It's liberating, really, to become aware of the astronomical levels in which he does not give a fuck in any conceivable shape or form.
"Or - oh, you're going to love this - gettin' fuckin' trapped on an old-as-all-fuck spaceship with eighty-or-so inept fucks who make a habit of puttin' you in a fuckin' headlock every other week or so on the grounds that they don't like you, and it dinnae matter what you do one way or t' other, they will always fuckin' hate you -"
His voice breaks. Deep humiliation over the vocal hiccup aside, he has no idea when this rant went from furious to really fucking personal, and there's no way this man has done anything become privy to this much information about him, but Rush - does - not - care.