He shuts his eyes against the bright veins of white imprinted against the water's dark and runs mental inventory and deduces he has next to no mechanical means of solving the problem which does not bode well for his continued survival and therefore reduces the number of options from two to one.

That's fair fucking disappointing.

"Apologies," says Rush in a tone that implies the utter lack of any such thing, "I wasn't aware you've been psychoanalyzing my every action."

He stands swiftly and begins moving away.

"In any case, I concede your suggestion may be more reasonably applicable." He eyes the groaning structure warily. "The damage is spreading faster than that which any one person can fix independently."

He has little to gain from rescuing a lonely section of a city whose entire existence is well beyond his range of giving a fuck.