Rush takes a moment to ask himself what intergalactic menace he must have pissed off to allow this to happen. Why is he engaging in first contact. Why has he been put in this situation. This is not his fucking area.

"Would you fucking - no," he snaps, almost entirely devoid of his intended rancor. He suspects any efforts to get this non-terrestrial to fuck off would be infinitely less difficult if his tone would stop bizarrely and ineffectively landing in the area of mildly horrified bafflement. "Fucking leave it. I am solving a problem."

This is no fucking less difficult than one's typical quantum-based geometrically-locked cypher, except perhaps instead of a flawlessly arranged locking grid there are simply rows and rows of endless fucking knots. But his right arm is finally loosening, thank fuck, and no longer in imminent danger of mass tissue death by blood loss.