Rush accepts the slip of paper delicately, contemplates it for a moment without fully understanding what she means for him to do with it. He can't imagine what she would be able to help him with. Though between that and the pointless repetition of numerical direction, it may be she's assumed he has navigational shortcomings.

"Yes, yes," he replies. The hand slides away from his face to drop at his side.

There's something else. Expected. Anticipated. What is it. He pauses.

"Thank you." The statement hovers, undetermined, before Rush decides that statement is adequate as far as farewells go. He has an appointment.

The electrical discharge fades as he moves in the opposite direction from his contact. The pressure at his temples fades, the line of his shoulders eases marginally, and he no longer needs to devote his focus as a compensatory measure. Navigation won't be a problem.