The sensation of fingers curling around his arm is unmistakeable and his reaction is immediate. He tears free of the foreign grip and backs away in a maneuver stunningly lacking in any muscular coordination and nearly sending him on a collision course with a heap of crumbling debris.

"What," hisses Rush between clenched teeth, "the fuck."

He should think it would be obvious that he was not the source of the explosion or its aftermath, but clearly such a thing was not made apparent enough to the passers-by. Or, potentially, law enforcement. He certainly has no idea what brand of security ostensibly exists in this 1950's American industrialist hell.