Rush says nothing. He taps one finger along the edge of the table in silent contemplation. Whether this grossly unlikely circumstantial meeting can be blamed upon the Rift or some other interdimensional force capable of penetrating D-branes and tearing away select portions of that fabric in the form of individuals is irrelevant. Any progress to be made on that front will reside in the form of the purely theoretical, as he finds it supremely improbable that the technology of the late fifties will be of any direct assistance in that regard.

He smiles faintly, hard and cold and without mirth. Rapture. It has a dark ring to it. Years ago, years in his future, he named a project doomed to succeed and cursed it with the title of Icarus. In the context of their situation, Rapture seems a suitably fitting title for the city in which they have been unceremoniously and impossibly deposited.

Andrew Ryan. His lip curls in disdain. The name had been one of the first he'd heard, uttered from the radio by the way of an introductory speech and later in the form of the man's scornful message to the apparently unwelcome arrivals.

"I assume we'll be making that way," says Rush smoothly, with an even pronation of palm against wood. "Clearly the capability exists. Is it any law holding us back, or Andrew Ryan's technical equivalent?"