((This is going on a little before the fire. I was busy yesterday, so yeah, wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey. ))
Ilraen had nearly forgotten the box he was holding, but now that he'd seen Orken pleased with his present, Ilraen could think of himself again. It seemed heavy for its size, he thought, tearing through the brown packaging paper with abandon. It was fun, doing that.
The paper floated to the floor, and the lid to the box landed on top. Ilraen found himself looking down at a Dracon Beam. To say that he was surprised would be to say that a cat-owner feels surprise at finding a dead rat on the bed for the first time—it didn't quite suffice, but there wasn't another word for it. It was one thing, he realized, to accept a person, a fellow-being, who'd happened to be on the wrong side of an old war. It was quite another to accept a cold metal object used in the slaughter and enslavement of millions. Very much not wishing to be rude, though, he quickly swallowed and grinned at Orken, for once counting on his usual lack of mastery with the expression to cover his real feelings.
"I am sure it will be useful," he said. "We have not been in the habit of carrying weapons, but that has gotten us into trouble before. Thank you."
He meant it, too, by the time he said it. Like the cat-owner, he could forgive his friend acting on his nature. The thought behind it was meant well.
Kneeling, he replaced the box's lid and tucked it into his bag. On standing up, he frowned and looked around. "Do you smell smoke?"
Moments later, the rafters caught fire.
~*~
Agent Supernumerary was not happy. He had meant to spend a quiet evening alone in his response center while Ilraen went out and made a fool of himself at the party, but no, Headquarters couldn't allow that. After all the strange messages filtering to his console, he finally resigned himself to the fact that someone would have to try and keep people from panicking if Maintenance did put the power out, and he was probably the only one paying enough attention to think of it.
He arrived in a deep sulk, head down and hands thrust into the pockets of his gray slacks, and stopped short in the doorway to the Lounge.
"Oh, Christ," he swore, uncreatively but with deep feeling. "This is why I stopped coming here," he grumbled to no one.
The place was on fire. Again. Some people were making an effort at putting it out, but the rafters were high up and hard to reach. It looked like kids with squirt-guns were the only ones making any effort there.
Suddenly, he overheard a blessedly sensible-sounding voice— "shouldn't you deal with the source of the problem first?" —and he spotted the flaming fairy.
Well, Nume had come here to stop chaos, and by God, somebody had to do something. He strode through the crowd, not caring who he pushed out of his way, and grabbed the first bowl of punch he could reach. Waiting for just the right moment, when the fairy fluttered into range, he shouted: "EVERYBODY OUT OF THE WAY!" and flung the entire contents of the bowl at the little menace.