Logs:A Little Fire Between Friends

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A Little Fire Between Friends


Characters: Ian, Robin and Tris
Date: 2019-12-06
Summary: Ian wants to burn down his (fetch's) house. Robin is good with fire. Tris is an enabler.
Disclaimers: {{{disclaimers}}}

It's morning-ish on a Friday and Ian is in the Community Center poking around. By "poking around" we mean... playing with the toaster oven in the kitchen. Poke. Poke poke. Literally, he's poking the tip of his glass finger at the glass of the oven because... reasons. It hurts, just a little. But he's glass. It shouldn't hurt. But it does. And there's a Contract for that, but the interesting part is that it's needed, and he's still thinking about why while his Tombstone pizza cooks. The smell of pepperoni and sausage and cheese drifts unhealthily through the kitchen.

Ian, it should be noted, is dressed in a pale pink hoodie with gold-tipped drawstrings and a pair of white-washed baggy jeans. He barely looks like his old on-stage persona, but he's probably recognizable.

--

Poking around can take many forms. Ian's is literal, Tris' is much more figurative; a stroll through with a camera bag over one shoulder, though the camera itself is not in evidence. He's in the Changeling minority whose mien looks very human, except for those things that define him distinctly as not. The scars that curl around his ears, under his jaw, down his neck and around his forearms in veins of crystalline light are holding and reflecting in a gentle glimmer every shade of the rainbow today. There's pink and green knitted together over the left arm with splashes of yellow on those thin gossamer cords that look to have sewn flesh together, meanwhile blue and silver trace that line under his jaw, not really obscured by the short not-quite-stubble beard.

Still, these are probably not the things that might draw attention to him. The fact that he raises his voice in question may be what first grabs the attention. "What smells so good? I mean, pizza but, that's not delivery," he observes as if this might be a new revelation for the man apparently in his late twenties. His hands slip from the pockets of his designer jeans as he crosses toward the figure of glass and that toaster oven. For all that one does not see Changelings made of glass in pink hoodies everyday, Tris' attention is caught first on the other object with glass: the toaster oven.

--

The voice makes Ian jump - there's weird flexing of the shoulders and back and he whirls to put his back to the toaster oven and stare at Tris - literally stare, taking in those scars with rather wide eyes. He actually leans back as Tris approaches - and stiffens, because it's hot back there, stupid real world, and he shouldn't lean on the toaster oven. "It's. Um. Pizza oven? Tombstone." Ian's voice is very faint, not quite a whisper but he'd probably be forgotten in a roomful of talking people. "Who are you." Must not panic, but his wings are squirming under the hoodie with the urge to get out and twitch defensively.

--

Poor Ian. Unfortunately, as Tris gets closer, it only gets hotter. Since he's meaning to come up alongside the other Changeling, the blast of summer heat that comes off of him is readily apparent, though it's not as blistering as toaster ovens proving their worth by working. Dark blue eyes narrow a little as he looks at the oven. "This seems simple enough," he observes thoughtfully. "It smells better than canned tuna," which is not a stretch for any food product really.

It's only after that that he turns his face toward the other Lost. "Oh," who is he, "I'm Tris. Who are you?" Tris is self-assured in his carriage without presently crossing that slippery line into arrogance, and there is something in his eyes that might be disconcerting, an otherness, a hint of the feral and strange, but then, he is one of the Lost, and that's not all that unusual a look for them. His eyes flick to the movement of the hoodie and he lifts his brows just slightly, "You okay, man?"

--

Ian blinks with the innocence of a kid who never got told not to stare - or if he was, has forgotten. "Ian." He went by "Christian" on stage. The latter question gets a sort of deer-in-the-headlights stare. It has a different quality from his holy-shit-look-at-the-scars stare. "I... guess?" A pause, and finally Ian remembers his manners. "Want some pizza?" A solemn blink follows. Tris wouldn't be here if he weren't safe. It's probably fine.

--

The stares don't seem to faze Tris, not even a little. He is an attractive man, so perhaps even before his durance changed him, he was used to receiving stares. He does have the look of one who once could've been in front of that camera he must have in his case as well as behind it. The case is pulled from his shoulder and set on the countertop at a safe distance from the heat.

"Love some. If you're sharing." Tris flashes an unflappably friendly smile at the other lost before he tilts his head to let dark eyes dance over the being of glass. "I like you hoodie," is what he settles on. Nevermind that his own designer tee-shirt is grey with slashes of black and white artistically depicting whatever someone would pay that much money to have on their shirt and his general rumpled-but-looking-better-because-of-it look doesn't scream that he cares over much for his own wardrobe.

"I haven't been here before," he volunteers, stepping casually to the side to give the other Lost a little more room, perhaps all of this in hopes of helping the other be a little more at ease. "Seems nice." He adds, but glances to Ian in silent invitation for this relatively safe discussion topic. It doesn't stop the inevitable, "Been Back long?" that might be because of the twitchiness, or just the kind of thing one Changeling is apt to inquire of another.

--

Thank goodness - the retreat causes Ian to straighten up slightly and take a breath, finally. His glass throat moves in a brief swallow. "A while," is his idea of an answer, a little guarded, a careful sort of thing. "Since the ways opened up." That was about... what, two months ago? Something like that. Before then, Changelings didn't come here, and the Hedge didn't open here.

Ian steps around Tris to a drawer and digs out a pizza cutter, then goes fishing into a vertical, narrow cabinet for a pizza tray. This gets fetched out, then he returns to the toaster oven to use the pizza cutter to pull the pizza oven open, then fish out the pizza. No gloves! But his concentration, for that moment, is absolute, because Hot Things are Hot.

"Can you get plates? I think they're by the sink." Pizza is carefully slid onto the tray and the toaster oven left hanging open as he retreats for the kitchen island to slice the thing. "Do you like squares or triangles?"

--

This Friday morning-ish the hot spot to be (literally) is the kitchen area. Not only is it where Tris and Ian are standing, but it's also where the toaster oven has just been opened by the Changeling made of glass to reveal the piece de resistance that is Tombstone Pizza.

"Plates," is repeated by the Lost with the more human-like mien, his multi-ply gossamer stitching of raised scars around ears, under his jaw, down neck and patterned down forearms is catching a variety of rainbow colors today just along those thin traceries.

"Sink," is the next echo as Tris turns to navigate the kitchen like he totally knows how kitchens are normally arranged (not). "I'm not picky," thrusts the geometric decisions back on Ian, while several cabinets are opened until quietly triumphant, "Ah ha!" means that the plates have indeed been found. He moves to set them out near the other Lost. "So you came directly here? Not via some other place?" The tone is casual, the interest is... not.

--

"I was in the Hedge for a while," Ian says, and shrugs. "But I came out here about... a block from where my stupid Fetch was." A narrowing of the eyes from the memory, and Ian decides to slice the pizza energetically in squares, because that has more lines. SLICE. SLICE. Slice. Slice slice slice. There. He lets out a relieved little sigh - look. Imperfect squares, some too big and some too small. He reaches for a plate, setting down the cutting instrument, and informs Tris, "I like the edges best. You can have the middle." ...Yeah, Ian needs to work on his manners, just a bit. He pulls one whole edge off the tray and onto his plate.

--

There is a smell. A smell of pizza. And thus: outward wanders the Summer from some dorm room in the hallway. Nevermind that the door opens onto a strange room full of gears and spinning bronze mechanisms in a room whose walls are formed of hardpacked earth, stone, and tree roots. That's just how some of the dorm rooms go here, OBVIOUSLY. Robin is in a pair of boxers and an oversized t-shirt that bears a giant badly-photoshopped-onto-a-t-shirt image of an Egyptian stone bust and the Papyrus-font letters which declare it 'KING THUTMOSE III'. Barefoot, the first sign of Robin's approach is probably the glowing light that follows them everywhere, and the faint scent of cut grass and fireworks that precedes them. "Ian. Did you make food?"

It is at this point that Robin spots Tris. "Oh, you're cooking for a boy. Hello, boy."

--

Despite Tris' designer tee-shirt and artistically pre-distressed jeans, not to mention the nice camera bag sitting on the counter that probably contains an even nicer camera, he sets a bar just the right height for Ian's current etiquette practice, because all he has in response is a grin and a, "Thanks," that sounds meant. His reach for his plate is arrested.

Robin may have the honor of being the first Lost in New Orleans to (however briefly) faze Tris. The word 'wow' is mouthed but not spoken, a tic that weathered New York City, Arcadia and the escape through the Hedge along with him. "Hello," means Tris is not robbed of words even if his head is tilting a little far to the side, as though a different angle might help get his head fully around what his opened eyes are taking in. He slides what would have been his plate slightly in Robin's direction. "Have mine," is an offer flashed with a smile as the Millennial seems to be recovering a little of his usual affability.

--

Oh good, it's Robin. Instantly Ian relaxes slightly and shoots the oncoming Star a bright smile. "You can have a corner." This is meant to be a generous gift. After all, it's Ian's pizza. He clambers up on the barstool in front of the kitchen island to sit with his plate of four squares of pepperoni and sausage thin-crust pizza.

It should probably be noted that Ian's hoodie is pale pink, with white drawstrings tipped in gold. Technically this is probably designer clothing. He's actually wearing jeans, but they're loose rather than fitted and look like they might actually have come off the rack. As ever, his wings are hidden, stuffed up somewhere under the hoodie with flexibility glass really shouldn't possess.

"Oh," Ian adds. "Robin, this is Tris." And he stuffs a bit of pizza in his mouth and slouches forward with a pleased sinking-shut of his eyes, like some kind of large feline.

--

"Hello, Tris." Robin accepts gifts of pizza - from both. If Tris is going to offer over theirs, Robin will take it. Robin will -also- harvest a corner from Ian, plucking both off of plates with long-nailed fingers. Robin's not wearing gloves for once, and has apparently chosen to get a manicure (with Ian's money) and has therefore acquired CLAWS. "The two of you in one room is a lot of fun. I should make you both dance around while I glow so I can watch the light on the walls." Robin heads over to a counter and hops up to sit on said countertop, legs dangling unselfconsciously to sway a bit. They proceed to eat pizza, humming quietly along to some song stuck in their head as they do.

--

"We're friends," Ian says with quiet satisfaction. "We live here." The contented look is getting even better, brighter, warmer. Then Ian says mildly, "I want to burn down my house." And he looks at Robin expectantly. "I think you have to get lawyers to do that. But it's my house. I should be able to burn it down." Like Robin knows the answer to this impossible conundrum. The twitching of his hidden wings has settled down into mild stirring now; Ian looks almost content.

--

"Most of the time," Robin confirms. "There are cameras and things and we're getting more mortals in soon, but if we put a bunch of Changelings in one place, chances are good someone will -eventually- have to kill a Huntsman, and that'll probably be me. So I figure it's probably best if we want this place to work out for me to be around a lot. Eventually I'm sure there will be a few of us willing to, you know, kill anything that wants to hurt people here. So I won't feel like I need to all the time." Crunch, crunch. If Robin's offended about being stared at, they don't show it. "I can burn down your house," Robin agrees. "I won't need any lawyers to do it. I'll just put on some fire and walk around. I'll do it tonight." This isn't weird.

--

"You only need a lawyer to talk the police out of putting arson charges to you, but if you have a lawyer worth their money, it shouldn't be a problem." Tris chimes in helpfully, which is to say, "I can drive," if they want to go burn it down right now, or tonight probably. Nevermind that they just met; that sounds like a great time. He's grinning like it is. That grin has to become something slightly... well, not more serious, but more feral.

Dark eyes flash back over to Robin, threatening him with more good times, or at least talking about them in his vicinity which is enough for him to volunteer, "Count me willing. Able..." Well, that Tris shrugs, but he's not about to take back his offer. "I've only met one other Summer since arriving here. You're... a relief." A revelation? Something good, anyway, even if maybe he ought to be more wary of the star.

--

This makes Ian sit up straight. "I have a lawyer but he's all copyright..." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "And I don't like him much. But it's fine. He takes money." Stupid paper stuff. Nowhere near as interesting as coins and keys. "You want to come?" He looks over at Tris a little warily, studying the man with intense focus, as if he could see through the other Lost's skin. "Well... I guess." And Ian leans over to whisper, "It looks like my Keeper's house." There. The secret is out. He shudders hard and his wings rattle violently for a moment, then he returns to his pizza and decisively takes a big bite from a piece, devouring half of the square in one go.

--

"There are more of us," Robin offers helpfully to Tris. "I met a very nice bird-fingered lady last night. Molly. But yes, it's -good- to have more Summers around. I'm always surrounded by -Springs-." Robin gives a -look- to Ian that's half irritation and half affection. "And they're very frustrating. Phoebe made me promise not to burn down the Salome or kill that mortal who was taking notes and talking about publishing them while we talked about Freehold things." This, obviously, is -Ian's- fault. Because he's the Spring representative. "Anyway. You have lots of money. People with lots of money don't get in trouble, except sometimes if they're black. We'll just burn it down and you say you don't know what happened, you haven't been living there for awhile. Probably some punk kids who hate rich people. Cops hate punk kids." Robin stuffs the last bits of pizza into their mouth and hops down, saying around a full mouth, "Let me grab my dragon skin."

--

"Definitely burn it," Tris' tone couldn't be more serious, even if the words could be comical at any other time, in any other context. "I hear there are lawyers here that are better for criminal charges. I haven't had to use them," yet, "but they might take money, too." It is useful here, after all. "And-- Robin," he stumbles over choosing a pronoun, "is right. Money is like magic. But, anyway, it sounds like fun to me." That's the statement of a well-adjusted person, right? Tris isn't really worried if it's not, his eyes have the figurative gleam of someone already 'all in' as far as commitment to chaos is concerned.

"Molly's the other I meant," Tris' smile dims as he looks over at Robin, but it's surely not Robin's fault that they meant the same other summer. "I'm sure there are more, but where..." He lets his hands spread wide, briefly distracted by his rainbows. "That... is... Something else." He looks back over at the star, maybe still a little awed (and scared, but these pairings happen naturally - like peanut butter and jelly). "Winters. I'm up to my ears in Winters," he commiserates briefly with them, though there's something playful in the exaggeration. "Have you met Miles and Jules yet?" Even though he's asking, he doesn't look like he's trying to impede Robin's progress to get with the going. In fact, he's even collecting his camera case and strapping it over his shoulder.

--

Oh wow. This is happening. That bit about the house didn't scare anyone off. Ian straightens up and begins eating faster - he doesn't get enough food, honestly. Ever since he scared off all his fetch's staff, it's been hard going to remember how to feed himself. Good thing he was the independent sort of kid. "I'm coming," he calls after Robin. "Don't leave without me." Robin's the one with transportation. The attack on the pizza a moment later is practically feral. He'll just rip it to shreads and gulp it down like an animal, thank you very much. Chewing is not absolutely necessary, right?

--

"Okay, I guess I'll go put on my stuff." Is there any pizza left? If so, Robin is going to snag some, AND a coke from the fridge, and half-jog off toward that open Hollow door. It will take a couple of minutes for them to get squeezed into dragonleather, but when they reappear they will be -very- ready for arson, with flames licking up and down their arms and fire in their footsteps and a flaming halo behind their head. Hedgespun dragon hide is hard to miss.

--

"What's the address?" Tris' phone is out in his hand, probably for the very useful GPS it holds, looking to Ian for that piece of critical information lest he be left behind. "I have a car," he offers, but then as Robin returns, he looks understandably taken aback. "Are you going to ride in my car like that?" Some kinds of stains (like CHAR MARKS) don't just scrub out.

--

"You have a car? I like other peoples' cars, I can stare out the window instead of worrying about staying on my bike all the time." Tris's concerns about char marks goes riiiiiight over the other Summer's head. And the flaming footprints -do- seem to fade after a few moments without affecting the concrete floor, at least. Literal faerie fire. "You should definitely drive. Do you play music in the car? What kind?"

--

Tris' eyes go from the flame-swathed being to the footprints that... are no longer there and seems to relax just slightly. "I like my car," he says, though, just in case it was in doubt, some degree of wariness for his baby still in his voice. "You can pick the music," maybe it's a peace offering, or maybe he's just not that choosy about what gets played. Maybe he'll regret it. "Do you have a favorite kind?" Of music, he probably means. Although, given how his eyes jumped away from their outfit to their face when they said bike, it could be that too.

--

"Oh, no, it's better when other people pick music. I've only been on your planet for a couple of months, and there's -so much- of it that I'm always finding new things and realizing they're very old. Last week I asked Abel if he knew the Beatles from that movie Yesterday were a real band that actually existed and he laughed at me a -lot-. They're pretty good, actually, I really like Hey Jude, it's much better than Hey Dude." Robin finds a spot on the wall to lean against while they wait for Ian to finish whatever preparations he's doing. "Oh! I should get some whiskey or vodka. My flask is empty, and I need that. Fire likes the deal better when I show off first." BACK TO THE KITCHEN. Tris will get to see where they keep the liquor.

--

Ian finishes demolishing the pizza, then stands, shoving upright. Off the barstool he goes, moving fast and swiping his pink hoodie arm over his face. "Hurry up, Robin!" It's the first time he's spoken in a normal tone of voice and it's resonant and strange, underlain with multiple tones. "We can play..." What's a good band. He scrunches his nose up. "Queen." A narrow-eyed look flicks at the two of them, just in case anyone has objections to Bohemian Rhapsody.

--

To Tris' credit, he doesn't laugh at Robin, although he does grin. "I don't think you're the only one finding a lot of new in what's old." This seems to be offered not actually as comfort because maybe he doesn't think they need any, but as a general observation. "Molly looked at me like I was crazy when I asked her if she had a phone, but some don't, don't even know what it is." His eyes go to Ian and his nod seems to signal approval. "Queen is always a good choice." Always. He says it nonchalantly though, so perhaps he's not a diehard fan.

The man with the gossamer-crystal scars follows Robin as though it's idle occupation more than true interest. "Another good use for alcohol then. Fire doesn't care what kind?" That's more general curiosity, but the, "So you were always... a..." does he even have a guess about Robin's nature? "What are you anyway?" It's a rude question, but there's no apology.

--

"Ian, I already -know- Queen. We have to let your boy choose because he might have music we don't know yet." Robin pulls a silver flask out of an inside pocket in their armored jacket, and begins to use a little funnel (attached to the flask) to pour whiskey into it, acquired from a cabinet over the stove. "I'm a star," Robin explains, earnestly. "I used to be a sphereoid conglomerate of plasma and gas fueled by nuclear fusion at my core, but I got pretty upset one day and exploded. It's okay, though, stars change. It's what we do. Being this is probably better than being a black hole, although I've never -been- a black hole so I can't say for sure. It might be really satisfying."

--

"He's not /my/ boy," Ian points out. "He's his own boy." If Keepers can't own people, neither can Ian, and that's final. He nods firmly just to cement it, and starts herding them towards the exit. "C'mon. I want to burn down my house. Robin is a star but Abel says they used to be a person. Let's go. We could just turn on the radio and see what's playing. Robin, you have your alcohol?" Herd. Herd. The wings are flexing in time with his little hand-waves to get them moving, though Ian never actually comes close enough to touch either of them.

--

Can Tris be blamed for blinking? More than once? Several fluttery times in a row, inf act. For all that the earnest explanation is about as succinct as anyone might wish for, it's a lot to take in. "Wow," gets to be verbal this time. "That is..." There are so many things he could finish with, but what he says after a moment, "amazing." There have to be a few perks to having gone through more than what Hell might offer some of its offenders, and meeting Robin might qualify as a perk in the photographer's mental book. "So this should be really fun then. I mean, it sounds like you might know all about burning," as if the flames weren't his first clue (which they were).

The grin flashes over to Ian, nodding at his words, taking them in as part and parcel with rest of the explanation. "Who's Abel?" must necessarily be asked, but he's not opposed to being herded in the direction of the exit, slipping a hand into his pocket to withdraw a very fancy set of keys that will have a matte black Lamborghini Aventador parked on the street growl-roaring to life before they even reach it.

--

"Abel's my friend. He's Ian's brother, too, but he's been my friend longer." Which is -totally- possible. "And everyone keeps telling me I -must- have been a person before I was a star, but I remember being kindled...and I wasn't a person, just a star. Everything was new. But people hate to think you're not a person like them, so I don't argue with it too much." Robin takes a quick swig of whiskey then offers it to Tris before stalking toward the exit, leaving fire in their wake. Once they're outside, Robin calls out, "I get the front seat. The back seat in that car looks -tiny-. -Is- there a back seat? If there's just a front seat, Ian, you get to sit on the bottom and I get to sit on your lap."

--

"Gnnh." Ian stares at this car like... like... that might actually be lust in his eyes. Physical, visceral /lust/. Greed, whatever. "Um." A deep breath. Right. The... getting in a car thing. And the idea of Robin on his lap is... awkward. For some reason, the glass in Ian's face has turned a bit... smokier. "One minute." And then he turns his back to them both and just... shifts. From draconic, glass being to... cat. Do the clothes fall off when a Chrysalis happens? Ian looks over his shoulder, flicks his tail, then turns around and prances, a skinny gray alley cat, towards the car. There. There's room.

--

"I wouldn't argue with any of that, but I don't know that I'd be very concerned about what anyone else is thinking about me." Not that he seems to think Robin is anything but a kindred spirit in that regard. His stroll lacks swagger, but it's ground-eating in stride all the same.

"Two," Tris replies, as if this hadn't even occurred to him as a problem until now, but still, it seems they have that sorted out in Life-According-to-Robin, so he's not worrying his pretty head about it. And then... that happens. His eyes widen slightly and travel with the shift. "Handy," he compliments, his hand twitching like he'd reach out and pet the kitty, because that's what one does when there are kitties about.

Instead, he'll open the passenger door and wait helpfully to shut it after his passengers before heading to the driver's side, sliding in and buckling up. Safety first! Then, "Ace, play 'Daft Punk, Technologic,'" and with the voice command, the named song starts thrumming through the car, though Tris adjusts the volume for sensitive kitty ears. "Where to?" Did he get that address?

--

"KITTY." Ian turns into a cat and Robin -rushes- forward and scoops Ian up forcefully, turning him onto his back in their arms to immediately force belly rubs onto the Changeling-in-cat-form. Ian is going to regret being a cat around Robin. Once situated in the car, with music, Tris asks the question and Robin blanks for a solid seven seconds. "Uh. It's." Long nails scritch tiny kitty skull. "Uh. It's. Uh." AND THEN: "<Address>!"

--

Instant vicious rabbit kicking commences, followed by a loud, indignant /yowl/. The cat is not on board with this - but Ian subsides pretty quickly because... actually he's decided scratching Robin isn't what he wants to do. Funny how this decision happened right about when Robin got him into the car on their lap and started with the head-scratching. A rumbling purr starts to vibrate the feline's /entire body/. It's like Ian's normal voice, the one he never lets out for fear it'll escape him, miniaturized and perpetuated into a constant, soothing motorized hum. Ian tucks his tail around himself and folds his paws, gracefully settling into the seat on Robin's lap. Bright green eyes sink slowly shut. Do not manhandle the kitty and the kitty won't complain, though his ears do twitch when the music begins.

--

Tris repeats the address to 'Ace' who is evidently this beautiful slice of sports car heaven carrying them on cloud nine toward the place that needs to be visited by Hellfire and brimstone (or at least three Changelings with various grudges). He doesn't bother with anything fancy along the way, not bringing themselves to the attention of traffic cams being presently to their benefit. After Technologic, there's a steady stream of similar songs apparently on some kind of playlist, including Basshunter's DotA, ATC's Around the World (La La La La), and Swedish House Mafia's One (Your Name).

The driver seems content to let the music be the conversation for as long as anyone is content with it and when they near the address, he parks near enough by that the walk (or run back) won't be overly far, but so that no one is necessarily going to put the car that sticks out together with whatever hoodlums might be observed on the scene. He's not really dressed for this, but nor does he care. Action without preparation is just fine with Tris. It can't end poorly at all.

--

Robin is an unapologetic chair dancer. Robin also cares nothing for seat belts. Or safety. Robin is a frequent window-roller-downer and a head-sticker-outer. Robin is not particularly careful about how to handle the cat, alternating between very attentive headscritches and pettings. Ian isn't a great conversationalist and Robin is -very- willing to just focus on the joy of music and car ride - there's been no time for either of these things to get old for the Changeling who's only been in this world for a couple of months.

--

Ian is clearly appreciative of the petting - he's a cat at the moment, because Tris's car couldn't hold /three/ people - but retreats to the back shelf and obscures the view with an indignant "MYARRL," of complaint. He's surprisingly vocal like this, compared to his humanoid form. He settles down on the rear shelf, tiny though it is, and looks alertly out the back, then the front, before twitching his ear dismissively. It's fine. Everything is fine. They're going to burn down his house and he's /fine/. The tip of his tail twitches regularly, betraying that it is probably /not/ fine, but Ian won't say a thing about it aside from an idle hiss if Robin tries to snatch him back.

--

Tris' matte black Lamborghini Aventador has a lot going for it, but three seats is not one. BUT IT'S FINE, because Ian's a cat. Not that Tris knew that when he offered a ride, but it all worked out and that's about the ground level of thinking that might be pervasive in this Changeling grouping as Tris presses a button to turn off the engine and let himself out, coming around to open the door for his passengers if they haven't helped themselves out. He didn't comment on Robin's less than safety conscious behavior, but he enjoys driving, too, for different reasons and maybe he didn't even notice. He might just be self-absorbed that way. Still, they made it in one piece and after closing and locking the car, he's going to look to Robin and the cat. Now what?

--

Before the ride finishes, Robin pulls back on their gloves. This is important, because Robin is going to pick up Ian again, and those gloves are made of dragonhide which is MOSTLY impervious to angry kitty. It's only briefly, though - just to, you know, carry him out of the car and then toss him down, because god knows kitty can't just -jump- out of the car. "You wanna say goodbye first, or should I just...?" You know, burn down the place. And by 'say goodbye', Robin probably doesn't mean 'get the hundreds of thousands of dollars of valuables out first'.

--

The house: it is a tall, stately brick-fronted Colonial-style mansion in the Garden District, surrounded by lush green vegetation and a gated entryway which... presumably detects Ian's gate key, wherever it is in Hedge Space. It's wealthy, it's huge. It's gorgeous, at least from the outside... and yeah, it's probably worth a great deal of money. It might have a security system but if it does, Ian doesn't know about it and maybe has destroyed it during his last rampage.

Ian is picked up, and lets out a "MRARL," of complaint. He catches his feet and shoots Robin an /indignant/ look, then trots ahead with his tail held high. There. Robin can enjoy the sight of Cat Butt. Nyah. Up the steps he bounds, and leans up to begin pawing at the door handles to open the place up. Of /course/ he didn't lock it. Why would he? He hates the place.

The inside is trashed. There are gouge marks in the wall that look like they've been carved by a knife. The priceless antique wooden furniture is splintered. The velvet and horsehair couches are ripped up and stuffing flutters in the breeze. Ian lets out a "MWAAAAAUL!" into the hallway, then begins picking his way forward past broken glass.

--

"You know, it might be cathartic to go in and... break some things first." Tris draws out the suggestion slowly, although there is a glint of interest in his eyes as he eyes the inanimate victim of all the rage about to be unleashed. Or if not rage, at least chaos. He glances to Ian, following along as the cat leads and then there's a surprised intake of breath. "As you apparently already know," he assumes, blowing a low whistle between his lips before saying. "Nice work." Still, monkey see, monkey do. This monkey will follow along, either before or behind Robin as they seem to prefer in the order of things, watching his step.

--

"Everything's pretty much broken already. I think Ian said there was a bear in there for awhile." Robin doesn't know what's going on, let's be perfectly honest. Ian is still a cat, the place is trashed, they're here to burn it but they're not burning it. "Ian, are you gonna stay a cat? Because I don't speak cat. I don't know what 'mwal' means. The only cats I've ever really been around were goblins and you."

--

Ian flicks back a look of irritation at Robin and just... proceeds forward. Through the house, through the halls, to the rear... and the kitchen. Here, the destruction isn't as bad - there's a splintered table and an open pantry but nowhere near as much destruction. Ian hops up onto the counter and prowls up to the window, where grow several plants. Herbs, looks like. They're a little wilty, but he slips between them, winds around them, and perches his butt in the window, looking at the other two Lost expectantly, particularly Tris. Surely he speaks Cat.

--

"I have real cats, but they don't usually need to give me instructions about destroying real estate." Not that anyone asked Tris with words, but this way they're all on the same page. "Of course, I don't speak cat," sorry Ian, "so maybe I just wouldn't know." He eyes Ian speculatively; maybe he needs Ian to have a talk with Cleo and Ninja later, just in case he's leaving their whims unfulfilled. The scarred man looks back to the star briefly and shrugs before making an attempt to play the 'What does kitty want?' game. This is at least a familiar one. "The plants?" He indicates. "You want us to take them?" Then the obvious conclusion, "Are they catnip?"

--

"...I'm going to assume that Ian is waiting for us to start burning things." Robin starts digging in pockets. One hand acquires a butane lighter. The other, the flask of whiskey. Robin holds them up to the cat. "IAN! MEOW ONCE FOR BURNING! TWO FOR NO BURNING!"

--

A firm nod to the first, and a disgusted look to the second question. Tada. Look! Tris /does/ speak Cat! "Mrarl rmrrarl," Ian says to Robin, and waits with the plants protectively. Once Tris has the plants? "Marrrl." That'll be for Robin, while Ian starts escorting Tris right out the door with his tail in the air.

--

Look! This makes Tris useful twice. Three times if collecting the pots into his arms can be counted as a separate effort. It's not as cool as burning houses to the ground, but, hey, it's something. He does cast a rather longing look back at Robin as he follows Ian out because maybe he'd like to stay to admire their technique, but he's probably smart enough to know he really ought to be a little farther away when the fire starts to engulf the house.

--

"...Okay, I'm going to start, then." That said, the other two might be confused that Robin follows them out. What's the -point- of being an awesome flame-wielding star being if you don't do it in -front- of people? And thus Robin begins the process of burning Ian's home to the ground. This involves a mouthful of whiskey and a butane lighter, the former sprayed in a fine mist into the lighter so that a gout of flame bursts into the sky. Once, twice, three times - Robin is stealing Ian's dragon schtick. Robin sticks a gloved finger into their mouth, coating it with whiskey, then swallows down the rest. They light that finger -aflame-, then physically suck the fire off the tip. That sparks a reaction that bursts the flames they wear into overdrive. Rather than just random little licks of fire here and there and a blazing halo? The fire consumes Robin's body utterly, a tornado that swirls around them until it solidifies into fiery armor, a suit of full plate mail of translucent orange flame. The star-faerie holds out a hand, and from that fiery armor slides a slender spear, roughly seven feet long. When Robin walks back toward the house, they drag the tip of the spear along the ground, trailing fire - and this time their footsteps do -not- leave behind harmless bits of faerie-flame, but charred grass and burnt sidewalk.

--

The cat settles down on his behind next to Tris and the plants, the only thing in the house he wanted to save, and watches the Star burn down his house with intent stillness. If he's freaked, it doesn't show, but he is watching this /very/ carefully. After all, that was a Gentry's house. That was his /Fetch's/ house. That was the place - reflected in Arcadia - where he spent the last of his childhood and the majority of his life. If Ian were human, he'd be in a ball. Because he is Cat, he watches the fire like it's prey, but dangerous prey, the kind one keeps a careful eye on, like a snake. The House can burn. Ian devours that burning with his eyes, and makes not a single sound.

Sooner or later the local fire trucks are going to come rolling towards this place with their sirens blasting.

--

"Holy shit!" was the reaction Robin was going for, right? Tris is obliging, jaw agape as he watches execution of pyromaniacal skill. He grins like this is the best thing since Cup O'Noodles; obviously, he's a well-adjusted man. The light from the fire catches up in his scars, lighting them with vivid splits of orange, yellow, red and blue. The cast off light is still not more than a glimmer, a gleam, but it's something taken from this chaos and reflected outward a lot less harmfully than the fire itself. "Did you know they were that good?" is to the cat; at some point he must have been paying attention to pronouns, but now his attention is all on the action. Sure, sure, authorities, real world concerns, all that in a minute, right now, there's just exhilarating joy in being destruction adjacent.

--

Fire sprouts in every room windows can see over the next few minutes. Robin is walking from room to room, trailing fingertips against walls, spear tip against floors and ceilings. Curtains and furniture - everywhere Robin touches, fire blooms in their passing. One would -think- that would, you know, kill anyone inside. But Robin is wearing armor made of flame, and that seems to make it all okay. Unless, you know, a support beam falls on them. That would probably suck.

--

A firm nod from the Cat to Tris's question - there's a reason Ian picked Robin for his Motley. His tail twitches slightly and one ear swivels backwards. Sirens. A while passes, before the tail twitching gets more regular, a little more urgent... flick. Flick. Flick. And then, "MWARL." That's probably Robin's name in Cat. A look shoots up towards Tris and Ian flicks an ear at the car. They can escape now, right? Right. Of course they can. The cat stands. He's ready to leave this nightmare behind.

--

"Hey, fire!" It might sound like an obvious cry of help, but no, that's just Tris not shouting a name into the flames to echo the cat's call. Maybe Robin will take the hint even if she doesn't speak cat. The man with the pots turns to go to the car, shuffling things to try to fish out the keys and get that engine started before the sound of the sirens gets too close. "You want the pots at your feet or in the trunk?" Who knows how they'd fare back there if they need to do any fancy maneuvering, but they're not Tris' pots so he'll do whichever Ian seems to want before making ready for that escape. Driving: it's what he's here for.

--

Little does Tris know, but Tris could shout Robin's name all daaaay and Robin probably wouldn't hear over the roar of the fire - and the sheer joy of -burning things-. Here's the question, though. Does Ian have an electric stove, or a gas one? And does Robin know what a gas stove is?

--

Uh. Well. Um. Like all good cooks, Ian's chef specially demanded a gas stove - and an induction one. Then there's the propane grill out back. "MYARL!" Ian yowls again, and then twitches his tail and starts to retreat towards the Lambo.

--

This must not be quite Tris' usual jam, beyond impulsive, reckless, and exciting because none of these dangers seem to occur to him just now. He has wilty plants and a cat to think about just now. Not to mention sirens, and car. That's a lot for anyone's brain, if that person's brain is Tris' brain.

--

As the fire spreads to the kitchen, there is a massive WHOOMPF. The glass in every window in the house shatters and Tris's poor car rattles a bit at the very least. A person-shaped glowing mass covered in flames comes flying about forty feet out the kitchen window to land, smoldering, in the side yard. Four feet away, a spear made of fire lays in the grass. It's the middle of December. That grass is dry. Fire begins to spread outward from where Robin and that spear lay, and it's a solid thirty seconds before Robin stirs, pushes themself up onto one elbow, and says: "Owwwwwwwww."

--

The cat? The cat is now under the Lambo. Complaining. Loudly. "Myarl marr mrrr narr!" Ian gripes, "Marr mrnrrrrr!" Panic. Huge eyes, LOTS of floof - Ian's spine just reflexively stiffens and now the grungy skinny alley cat looks bigger - because his fur is standing up. "Marrr mrrr myarllllll!" he yells at top volume.

Outside the gate, a fire engine rolls up and a fireman jumps down to go force the gate open. "NRRRR!" Ian howls from under the car. Tris had better not drop those plants.

--

Tris flinches when the explosion sounds and he looks back in time to catch part of the spectacular flight of the fire-wrapped star and his eyes go wide. "Oh shit," is fervent, but he's not dropping the plants. What he is doing is opening that door all the faster, shoving the plants (a little roughly, sorrynotsorry) on the floor of the front seat and turning to hop-hop-hop while speaking words that might not make a whole lot of sense to anyone else (read: the cat, unless he likes a good quick story about how awesome Tris is), but seems to make enough sense to the air to call forth its assistance to sprint back to the house at incredible speed, stopping just short of the Elemental.

--

"I'm okay! I'm all right!" There are...holes in Robin. The fiery armor and spear vanish as the possibility of mortal viewing might show up, and the loss of that reveals that some of those holes are filled with sharp things - bits of metal and wood. Some of which are on fire in a not-on-purpose sort of way. "Go, go!" Robin is waving Tris back to the car. "I'll be okay, I just...uh. I just need to get to a doorway. Is the door still on the hinges?" The door is not still on the hinges.

--

Cat twitch. Flail. Panic. And... hide. Because firemen are scary, trucks are coming, and there will be cops, and Robin is hurt. The cat goes quiet under the car - and then, after a moment, sneaks to the upraised door to go hide in the seat well among the plants, watching with panic.

The front gates are forced open, but it takes a minute or two. The fire truck starts rolling in down the long drive with a fireman dangling off the side. They're heading straight for where Robin fell down. Casualties and rescue first.

--

Sure, sure, Robin is fine, they're all fine unless they're dead, right? Tris isn't so easily herded this time, despite the descending mortals with their crazy ideas about fire control. A quick movement has Tris' keychain popping out and on it is a penknife. That snaps open and the tip pierces his palm in a way that suggest he's done this before, and then he casually (and quickly) drips his blood on Robin, while he swears under his breath. If Robin's with it enough, she can hear him mutter about hunting and killing, maiming for sport, and "Fuck you, you bastard," which is not at Robin at all, but very distinctly for Tris' Keeper. There's more swearing, but as the blood drips on her some pain should transfer from the holey star to the scarred man, who can swear again, because that bloody hurts. Only after will Tris, address, "No doorway, car's that way. Do car doors work?" It's possible, right? "What about your--?" He gestures to the flaming weapon. At least he's not leaving them behind. "We need to go," in case that wasn't completely obvious by now. There's a scaredy cat waiting for them and wilty plants; these things are important! Oh, also civil servants just trying to do their jobs...

--

"...car doors work, but if I'm in the car, I don't need to go to my Hollow. It would keep me from bleeding on your seats, though--" Hey, the bleeding is getting better. "Okay, let's..." Robin gets up to their feet, accepting help if Tris will offer it. "Drive away very fast? You're a good driver, right? The police may chase us." At least Robin doesn't have to hobble.

--

The cat scrambles to protect the plants and make room for Robin's feet, and meanwhile the fire people pull up and come running towards the injured people. The yowling in the car starts up again, "Myarr merp mrar myaaa! Myarl!" Ian is talkative when he's not humanoid. Flee flee flee now!

--

Tris will offer the help, since he probably assumes (however incorrectly) that whatever residual flames there might be won't hurt him, although he really might make an attempt to pat those out quickly before he's helping the star. toward the car. Fleeing is what's occurring, at as fast as the Elemental can manage to keep up with Tris. Fleeeeeeeeing that leads to the car if those well-intentioned mortals can be dodged and into the car because, "Yes, I can drive very fast." And he can! Watch him go. Watch them all. Hopefully no one got his plate.