"Obviously you haven't," he counters, tone retreating to its brusque, unattached crack of consonants. His hand flexes again, clenching and restive. This is growing intolerable. "You'd be halfway useful in this discussion otherwise."

In an abrupt twitch of motion he whips his hand back down to splay fingers against the floor, digging nails ruthlessly into the wood surface, an insufficient redirection of lingering tension and exasperation.

"The Rift," says Rush tiredly, weariness flooding over his rigidity, "is to blame for this, specifically. This encounter. Our consciousnesses are active within a constructed dreamspace, allowing interaction across universal barriers that would ordinarily be uncrossable."