Rotating a wrist to flatten one palm against the floor rewards Rush with the creeping, dull return of his more average perception of reality. The pronation of a hand to whisper skin against hardwood. Sensory input. Sensation. He curls fingers briefly into the solid surface, reveling in the pinpricks of pain and pressure.

He shakes his head fractionally, a gesture that does little to alleviate the clinging vertigo. "It wasn't my intention. It was the only weapon I had on hand." He finishes with an angling of his chin at the prone device wearily, unable to construct a scenario in which the phone would otherwise have been remotely helpful. He hadn't compiled a strategy at the time, simply held it out as a symbol, a threat of contact if Durant came any closer. A poorly thought-out tactic, accomplishing the common feat of being less effective in practice than in theory.

The spread fingers shrink into a fist, pressing into the floor's sun-warmed wood.

"Unlikely," he rasps, missing the muscular coordination that would have allowed him to push the disorderly fall of hair from his eyes and potentially salvage some remaining modicum of dignity. "I recovered well enough before. Those were worse circumstances."