Thor has chosen a building that's going to fall soon enough; it's groaning and cracking already. Earth's steel and concrete can only hold for so long. It makes speed a necessity -- but care rather less so.

He's very careful with the people, of course. But a whole lot of interior walls get sacrificed in the name of efficiency and Mjölnir.

Everybody seems to recognize him. It's useful. Clearly they think he's the alternate version X told him of -- a few babble questions to him about Avengers and names he doesn't know -- but they listen and obey, which is what counts. He doesn't answer their questions. Those who can hurry downstairs and away. Those who can't, he carries to the ground in armloads: clinging to his back, his neck, encircled by his arm. He sets them down where it's safe and tosses himself back into the dust-clouds.

When that building is empty, the next. The tremors have ceased. The soul-embers' energy has subsided. Now would be only the aftermath, save for the great sigil glowing orange in the sky. Thor doesn't know it. Perhaps his father or mother would. (Perhaps Loki would have.) He keeps a wary eye out, but sees no sign of a foe, no surge of energy from the sigil, nothing to fight.

This is what it means to be a prince, a king, a warrior: you use your strength in service of those who are weaker.