And the only door he can see down here's got a magnetic lock, too. Dammit, dammit, dammit- Gordon would drag a hand over his face in frustration if he thought it'd do a damn bit of good.

At least the barnacles aren't going to be running away any time soon. It's amazingly therapeutic to wade through the revolting, smelly water that's filled the basement and blow the things away with shotgun blast after shotgun blast. And at least the fusebox that controls the powered door is easy enough to reach, once the barnacles are all dead.

The part where he inadvertently slips in his mad run for the exit and puts a foot in the electrified water for an instant? That's not so helpful. Not that it lasts very long, but his nerves are still screaming in protest when he reaches the blue-lit stairwell that leads out of the dank and noxious pit.