His arms unfurl to bring the bases of both palms fiercely against his forehead, some fucking anticipatory measure against the splitting headache he knows he'll be waking with. How long has he been out? Fuck fuck fuck.

He is not going to survive this fucking forest in all its audacious, deciduous nonreality nor the things that fucking walk it. He isn't going to fucking panic over nothing but if he does not get out of here -

He won't waste in his own mind. It's a dream, and one normally wakes up from dreams. Even those of the atypically vivid variety.

Rush is leaning against a tree in what he is asserting as a thoroughly unconcerned manner, arms re-crossed and expression re-arranging itself into something that is, decidedly, bored.

"One down, then," he says evenly.