It turned out it wasn't exactly a boon to be extraordinarily strong in a fight with other extraordinarily strong people. The intel should have tipping Sitwell off, that a so-called god of Asgard wouldn't really need standing leverage to toss him like a rag doll. Sitwell flailed ineffectually, limbs stiff like that could possibly slow his flight or he might land like a cat out of a tree, which was a terrible impulse to have once all of that tension collided with the fire hydrant. Sitwell crumpled, dead weight, to the ground, tucked under his blanket and mangy tufts of cotton candy, lamenting the ongoing survival of city safety measures while everything else turned to sugar.
Wait, that was great. Sitwell found the presence of mind to peek out at the fight still going on, whether he was just brutalized by a hydrant or not, squinting in confusion at the quintuple vision. That wasn't a pain symptom-- one of those Loki's disappeared on impact. Sitwell forced himself onto his pained back, grilling evenly in the sun as long as it took him to wrench the valve of the hydrant open with his bare hands. Water burst across the sticky park, the force of it throwing a wind over Sitwell that had him rolling over again and covering his head for protection, soaking the battlefield and the Loki duplicates.