It was easier to destroy than it was to heal. It was easier to break something than repair it. But Peter had chosen healing as his profession long before he'd been thrust into the role of hero, rebel, or Champion. There were others around, doing what they could to shift the rubble and extract the survivors. So Peter was taking his time among the wounded. Dressed in his scrubs, as to blend in with the EMTs, he was gentle with his touches, light with the power to heal. Anyone what walked away unscathed would be suspicious, so it was difficult but necessary to draw the line, to stop healing before they were fully healed.
Punctured lungs could heal down to cracked or bruised ribs. Compound fractures could be reset under the skin and then wrapped to heal the bones. Burns... a few drops of power to minimize scarring.
It was exhausting. Time and time again, Peter fell back to straight and simple nursing, bandaging wounds, stitching lacerations, giving oxygen to those with smoke inhalation. It was a nightmare, seeing the brutality of the devestation. A card fluttered to him, caught by a breeze. Peter caught it. A joker. The card was crushed in his fist and tossed aside.