Rush finds himself capable of very little by the way of communicative effort at the moment, periodically fluctuating between straining to shift away from the unpleasant tactility and being unable to do so for the cord that has wound tightly over his chest and is now notably restricting his air flow considerably.

"They are not -" he grinds out, though the words emerge as halting wheezes, "bloody - enchanted. Mechan - mechanical."

His eyes clamp shut as he tries not to succumb to the vertiginous pull of steadily reducing respiration. Rush has next to no grasp of what method of escape she's brought up - something dimensional, whatever the fuck - and he can no longer afford to care if the unpleasant graying cast that has begun to saturate his vision is any indication. He is not going to die by fucking strangulation and certainly not by laptop cables being atypically inflexible little fucks.

That would be ridiculous.

"Yes - do it - before ah fuckin' - asphyxiate."