Rush snorts and is rewarded by another bright stab of pain to his frontal lobe.

"Yes," he says icily. "Good fucking luck carrying that one out."

Alarmingly, his brain fails to supply him with anything appropriately scathing. The dual-pronged event splitting his head open must be, he notes dryly, interfering with that rather vital part of his everyday functioning.

"Fuck off," he finishes inelegantly, and turns away to grind the heel of his palm into one of his eye sockets.