"It's electrical," Rush snaps, weary frustration sharpening immediately back into furious annoyance. He is not meant to be thrust into the middle of first contact situations. He has never been meant for it. Diplomacy is not his specialty, and there is a horned, scaled, varicolored, fanged biped with a tail that is clearly expressing a great deal of raucous amusement at his expense. "Intended for technological use and not, I can assure you, for binding of any sort. This should not have happened, obviously."

The sound is incredibly fucking grating and it is enough to, temporarily, incentivize Rush into attempting to once again maneuver himself out of the mess he has incomprehensibly and unceremoniously been wrapped up in, in a much more literal sense than with he is altogether comfortable. His right arm is uncomfortably pinned to his side as a result of his twisting collapse, a number of cables now doing a fine fucking job of cutting into his circulation, but his left is making some relative progress in freeing itself from the chaotic jumble of knots. He commences in the slow, painful effort of what amounts to clawing his way out of the mess, studiously ignoring his unexpected and extremely unwanted audience.