Light Blue Mark

Day three. A city that was still a city just yesterday.

The sky above him has turned the color of wet concrete. The sun doesn't break through—not because of the clouds, but because the dust from three collapsed skyscrapers hangs in the air like a wall. It smells of burning, hot metal, and something sweet that's best left unidentified.

He doesn't fly low. He flies in a straight line—through everything that stands in his way. The glass tower gives way first. He passes right through it, and it collapses in on itself, floor by floor, like a house of cards that's tired of standing. The shards catch up with him, but he's already further along. Already on the next block.

A bridge. He knocks it down with his shoulder—simply because it's shorter. The span falls into the river, sending up a wall of water. The water briefly floods the embankment, washing away abandoned cars, and in that water is the reflection of a light blue suit, which immediately tears into a thousand pieces.