This was the kind of thing he hated the most.
The remote stretch of highway, a hundred and fifty miles from anywhere, was lit with the harsh orange glow of roadside flares. Work crews were already cleaning up the wreckage, and both the injured and the dead had already been taken away.
It was a head-on collision, out here in the middle of nowhere, and there was nothing he could do. There were no villains to fight, no rampaging robots to stop, no burning buildings to pull children from.
Even though he’d flown here at top speed, he’d only arrived a few minutes before the first ambulance. Passersby had stopped to help, and someone had pulled a fire extinguisher from a trunk to put out the engine fire. There wasn’t even anyone who he could’ve flown at top speed to the nearest hospital: the young man and woman in the Fiat had been very clearly dead when he touched down, and the family in the Suburban had nothing worse than a broken arm and a neck injury.
Not that he wasn’t glad that everything was well in hand, but adrenaline was a funny thing. It came quickly, demanding action, and hung around like an albatross when it couldn’t be spent.