Ideally, optimally, preferably, this would not be the way in which Rush would spend his day. Possibly night. Such things seem purely fucking relative at the ocean floor which is, he cannot prevent himself from thinking with utter vehemence, a fucking terrible place to choose to construct one's isolationist capitalist refuge with the flawed masquerade of free market preached frequently and intolerably in order to somehow mask how completely and entirely this project qualifies for little more than industrialist onanism.

In short terms, as far as revolution goes, Rush considers himself completely fucking unsurprised.

The collective brisance of whatever chemical work went into the blast has reduced the vast majority of the storefronts to rubble, an outpouring of fire and black smoke being systematically belched into the confining, claustophobic system of magnified tubing that seems to make up the vast majority of Rapture's buildings.

He does not feel right.

Rush braces his palms against the ground, gritting his teeth, and exerts pressure and unidirectional force to press himself to his knees, then to his feet.

He puts a hand to his head. It comes away warm and wet and red.

He drops the hand to his side again.

He marks an unerring line past the tumbled debris, past the muffled cries of whatever unfortunate souls have been trapped beneath, and cuts his way cleanly to the glass itself.

The low, rending sound of two surfaces coming out of alignment is overpowering.

He turns and begins tearing through the rubble. He requires some sort of welding tool, absolutely fucking requires it and he will require it immediately unless they would all like to suffer the absolute misery that is drowning on the ocean floor, an undesirable fate that seems to be looming in their collective possible future.

He's not been drinking. He is wholly uninterested in pursuing any sort of artistic bent for the benefit of others, much less himself. Judging by the way the dancers below subtly tremble with each slow, ponderous step, he's even less likely to offer any services to Mr. Sander Cohen in the near or distant future.

He does not watch. He turns and studies one of the nearest slot machines, running one finger along the elegant grooves and contours of its exterior, and in a fluid, continuous movement, drops to his knees at its base. He taps at it vaguely, almost lazily, in an effort that may seem to the outward observer, rather useless. Andrew Ryan has long since prohibited mechanical tampering of any sort.

Rush smiles faintly.

He's never been one to do as ordered.