The exhaustion following the initial burst of constricted panic in his chest, then the immensely tiring outburst, has begun to settle along the ridges of Rush's vision in earnest. He no longer has any energy to debate over the trajectory of bullets, and waves away the man's frustration with a weary flap of a hand. The other hooks itself over its adjacent shoulder and applies a slow, deliberate pressure to the noduled skein of pained muscle. Pain historically increases neural productivity; the additional receptors fire off their chemical mixture, and stimulate the senses that might be allowing themselves to grow dull.
"Hardly matters one way or the other," mutters Rush tiredly, stumping back to the tree that seems to be turning into his chosen companion for emotional support rather than the panther that is now resolutely ignoring him and cleaning between her toes. Fine. Good. Fantastic. Maybe now he can leave her somewhere. "It's a fucking - simulation. Dream."
His eyes flick up to study the shooter dubiously, one eyebrow slanted upwards in casual judgment for everything he represents. Surely if his subconscious wanted to manifest the military mindset Rush so unequivocally loathes, it could have chosen fucking Colonel Young or any number of equally martial, emotionally volatile individuals Rush knows on a regular, antagonistic basis and not - whatever low-technology, poorly developed planet this man is obviously meant to typify.
"No idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me with you," he continues with a quiet snort, hardly definable by that term, more a dry and forceful exhalation utterly lacking in mirth. "You're a symbol of some kind, I'm sure, though I've yet to see the relation between obvious military history, an over-attachment to typical Western entertainment archetypes, and fucking Chinese as profane slang." He ticks off this man, this shooter, this fucking symbol's many idiosyncrasies off on worn fingers, loses the motivation to complete the infinitely stretching mental list aloud after three, then finishes with a vague annular hand gesture to indicate his complete loss as to what the simulation could be trying to communicate to him with this.
no subject
"Hardly matters one way or the other," mutters Rush tiredly, stumping back to the tree that seems to be turning into his chosen companion for emotional support rather than the panther that is now resolutely ignoring him and cleaning between her toes. Fine. Good. Fantastic. Maybe now he can leave her somewhere. "It's a fucking - simulation. Dream."
His eyes flick up to study the shooter dubiously, one eyebrow slanted upwards in casual judgment for everything he represents. Surely if his subconscious wanted to manifest the military mindset Rush so unequivocally loathes, it could have chosen fucking Colonel Young or any number of equally martial, emotionally volatile individuals Rush knows on a regular, antagonistic basis and not - whatever low-technology, poorly developed planet this man is obviously meant to typify.
"No idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me with you," he continues with a quiet snort, hardly definable by that term, more a dry and forceful exhalation utterly lacking in mirth. "You're a symbol of some kind, I'm sure, though I've yet to see the relation between obvious military history, an over-attachment to typical Western entertainment archetypes, and fucking Chinese as profane slang." He ticks off this man, this shooter, this fucking symbol's many idiosyncrasies off on worn fingers, loses the motivation to complete the infinitely stretching mental list aloud after three, then finishes with a vague annular hand gesture to indicate his complete loss as to what the simulation could be trying to communicate to him with this.