His nerves are no longer building to a vicious point of anxious discharge, as made transparent when the remnants of his dread crystallize into peripheral irritation. Rush hisses between his teeth, slow and deliberate. Standing will not be feasible at this point, however much physically getting away from Durant would be preferable. Asadi's note of his social irregularities, formerly only mildly interesting, has become suspiciously accurate in relation to Durant's abrupt slide from irrational terror to dispassionate rigidity.

"And what the fuck," hisses Rush, "are you doing. Exactly."

It is, he understands, an entirely useless question with multiple connotations, varied and vastly divergent, but now the weariness and emptiness of his fading panic has compounded with his frustration upon having needed to be rescued at all and Durant is the only available, if impassive, outlet.