The Bay Bridge twisted and destroyed, two mangled halves failing to meet in the middle. The Global Trade Centre, white walls now blood-red, front steps chipped and broken by the heavy tread of the Myrmidons. City Tower strangely fuzzy, wrapped in the cocoons from which the Wingers fly at dusk. Empty office blocks, broken windows letting the wind howl through where once it had to pass along the streets. Empty suburbs too, the houses and gardens holding only memories of human sound.
Birds still call, and rats run unmolested.
Seagulls bob around the rusting ferries tied up at Central Quay, kept company by ticket machines and turnstiles long-since seized. On the roads that run back from the Bay, cars sit in lines, going nowhere. A few have their doors open, most do not. There are no people inside. The city seems empty of human life.