"You know, I would've thought you'd adapt to this by now," the Inspector grumbled to the drowsy Beast Boy as he entered the vehicle. The Inspector's nose wrinkled in disgust when it first detected the pungent odor Beast Boy had brought into the cruiser with him; the irritation swiftly spread to the rest of his face when the Inspector finally identified the likeliest cause of the smell the green teen had hanging around him like a cloud of death. A moment passed in silent judgement before the Inspector finally asked, in little more than a grunt, "Don't tell me you've given smoking a try, kiddo."

That's a hell of a way to get this little trip started. And you'd have to do a lot more than just smoke to produce a stench like that. Gods. What the hell have your wrought?

"Nah, dude," Beast Boy muttered, rubbing bloodshot eyes and yawning. "Lotsa burning buildings n' stuff filled with garbage. Ending up crashing afterwards and forgot to take a shower; is it really that bad?"

It smells as if a million nostrils cried out in terror and were silenced. If that had an odor. Plus old socks and a number of other things. I'm pretty sure you qualify as a health hazard right now, Green.

"Not re-. . . yes. Yes, actually. It really is that bad," the Inspector finally managed, clearly torn between trying to be kind and trying to be honest. "Take a shower before my sense of smell does the sensible thing and dies. Please. I'll wait. Go. Now."

Sweet merciful gods above. The residual odor alone is gag worthy. Gods. I hope you were exaggerating when you complained about my breath, Mick. Heh. Bet you were happy when I couldn't smoke anymore. Still. Probably wasn't this bad. Disproportionate Karma. Go figure.

Almost as if driven by some sort of subconscious motivation, the Inspector tiredly traced along the thin scars on his right hand, passing the time as if the network of marks were some sort of morbid Etch-A-Sketch; first, from the random mess of healed tissue, he managed to make a lopsided dog, followed shortly by a particularly ugly smiley-face, and so on, massaging the various splinters from out the skin cheerlessly. The only space that was off limits, it seemed, was the slightly pinkish blob of twisted flesh that was affixed near the center of his palm, and from which all other scars seemed to originate as if they were cracks in a pane of glass; whether by accident or design, the lump of discolored skin was skipped over with little ceremony.

Huh. Wonder if Green told Multicolor about his slip up in the car. Should've asked that. Oh well.

So engrossed was the Inspector that he actually didn't notice the first knock, and only barely noted the second before the third finally compelled him to open the backseat for his now significantly cleaner companion.

Amazing what some warm water and rendered fat with lye can do for a person. Wait. Breathe deeply. Huh? Scent? What the hell? Is that-

"Jasmine?" the Inspector asked, almost incredulously as he finally identified the distinctly feminine scent to whatever soap Beast Boy had used. "Not going to lie here; I never took you for the floral type, kid."

Isn't it supposed to have a pacifying effect? Huh. What'd that article say? 'Calming as Valium'? Bah. Still. Wait. Why the sudden discomfort, Green? Hm? Red circle on communicator? And now you're hiding it in your pocket? Huh. Strange.

"Hey, Jasmine is used in some guy shampoos, dude!" Beast Boy cried in protest, shrinking down in his seat as the Inspector raised an eyebrow in response. After an uncomfortably long minute, Beast Boy finally muttered, in a defeated tone, "I sorta borrowed some shampoo from one of my teammates. Except, eheh, she, uh, doesn't know that I ended up borrowing it, you know?"

Mhmm? Don't really care one way or another. Unless you've committed some sort of atrocity in doing so.

"Look, enough about my bathing habits," Beast Boy said, tiredly, as if he had been forced to utter that particular phrase on a semi-regular basis. "Listen, uh, Robin mentioned that police cars have recorders and stuff in them; am I, uh, you know, during the last ride, I sorta mentioned . . . yeah. . ." he trailed off, awkwardly.

Oh. Hah. Multicolor has it more together than I originally thought. Figures. Hmm. How to code this back?

"That little spiel about your . . . roommate? That one? Yeah, well, uh, some complete bastard took a baseball bat to the old recorders in this thing; destroyed the tapes and everything. Got new ones installed, of course, but, yeah," Inspector Grant murmured, even as Green's face split into a relieved grin. Then, in a far more humored tone, the Inspector added, "That deep and unrelenting love you have for, uh, that person? Yeah, no, never getting out. Wait . . . oh, whoops. My bad, Green."

Hah. Wait. Turning yellowish? Huh. Oh! Red and Green are a sort of yellow tinge. Makes sense. This is just a slap on the wrist. Oh? Realization? Hmm. Oho. He understands why I did that? Still. Why'd he get embarrassed? Hmm.

"Duudddde," Beast Boy groaned, even as he grinned cheerfully. "Oh! I was curious about something."

Well then. We're basically in a hermetically sealed box for the moment. Shoot the question.

"I saw a lot of policemen at the fires yesterday, when it started to spread from the original condemned buildings. So, uh, I would've thought you were there, since I noticed a couple of people from the station," Beast Boy said, without even pausing for the Inspector to say anything.

Oh. That. Hah.

"I'm not supposed to be working around open fires anymore," Inspector Grant said, a small grimace stretching across his face. "If it wasn't for that, though, you'd have probably seen me there; ever since superheroes started coming out of the woodwork, the police structure was sorta shot to shit. As it is, though, I'm just a glorified chauffer with a lot of paperwork, at least for the moment," the Inspector grunting the final sentence with more than a little ire.

This is what it means to be reassigned to Antarctica. Police just enforce the law. Moral action can still be punished in that regard. Still an Inspector. Can't take that away. Not easily at least. Thank god for delegation. Couldn't get anything done otherwise.

"Why aren't you allowed to work around open fires anymore?" Beast Boy asked, only to draw back and add, with a suspiciously sympathetic tone, "You didn't play with matches as well, did you?"

And now I realize I'm in a car with a pyromaniac. Or maybe just a bit of a dope. Do I look like I would play with matches? Don't answer that.

"Nah, my lighter decided to detonate in my hand one day, back when I was Lieutenant for the first time; stupid thing was gunked up with wax or something."

Well. That was the reason for a time. Then there was the incident where those old fashioned lanterns nearly turned into firebombs when Mick and I were hunting that Effluvial Shadow some mage had summoned. Then the sentient flames on Basement seven. And then there was that weird fire spire that tried to grab me. And then . . . eh. Too many to list. Fire just doesn't work out that well for me anymore.

"Oh. Yeesh," Beast Boy muttered. A minute passed in utter silence before the Inspector skimmed the rearview mirror and found the green teenager in deep thought.

Oh gods. I think I know exactly what he's trying to do. Eventually. If he ever actually says anything. Hello? Huh.

"I can't think of any fire jokes that won't spark an argument," Beast Boy finally said, seemingly shamefaced. The Inspector spared another momentary glance at the Titan before finally shrugging with a grimace.

How is someone that lacking in self-awareness? He just made a . . . surely he must know? No. He doesn't. How do you live from day to day? And you're one of the city's protectors. How?

"Yeah, me either," the Inspector replied, sighing for a moment as he carefully rounded a corner. An uncomfortable silence filled the air, as the Inspector cheerlessly contemplated the role he had played in the cosmic farce that was his own life and Beast Boy found himself bored but uncertain of how to introduce a new topic.

Bumps in the road. Hah. More than in the literal ones. Figures. Wonder if this existential angst is normal? Probably. Still. Got a roof over my head and decent food. Life just sucks sometimes. Suppose that's all that can really be said about it. Hmm.

"One of my friends recently had a birthday," Beast Boy finally said, his tone seeming to be more of a question than a statement of fact. "It, uh, didn't go that well at first, but, you know. . . I think it went well, all in all."

And then there's this shit. Look. You help make sure the Bad Days don't start up again. But you're a kid. Think about the situation this places me in. The situation it puts the police. We're being protected by the age-range we're supposed to protect. The irony stings like a coward's brand.

"Oho? Really? Well, I'm glad it went well in the end. What happened, though? Was there a problem with the cake or something?" the Inspector asked, a smile wrinkling the skin around his eyes; for the moment, at least, it felt genuine.

And now he suddenly looks like he stepped in something nasty. Great.

"We got attacked by a supervillain and she ended up freezing time," Beast Boy replied, grimly.

Well. That's. . . something else, that's for certain. How long can you move within the frozen time? No. That's in terrible tastes. Urgh. And we actually thought the old proto-suits could take the place of these types of people? Gods above. Pretty hard to fight when you're fighting against a Chrono-mancer, of all things. What sane god would give children that sort of power? Well. That presupposes a sane greater power. Figures.

"The whole super-powers thing kinda leaves me in a position where I can't comment, kiddo," the Inspector murmured with a cheerless chuckle, before calmly pulling into the parking space and adding, "We're here, though, so I don't really need to."

Open the door. Breathe deeply. Exit. Open back door. Freezing time? Seriously? How the hell would you even fight that? Hmm. Another logical puzzle for another day. Oho? Green's leading me to the labs. Quick learner. Up the elevator. Hmm? Doc looks just as upset as always. Guess he doesn't have a sweet tooth. Or he holds minor grudges forever. Figures. And away they go.

It was with a groan that Inspector Grant stumbled over to his desk to retrieve and potentially resolve any new paperwork that had appeared overnight; it was with a grimace that Grant noted a pulpy magazine on his desk, one that was open to the 'Gossip' sections as he so cheerfully dubbed it; it was with a growing growl that he finally read the text, and nearly tore the glossy paper to shreds.

'TROUBLE IN TITANS TOWER?' Calm down. Perhaps it's not what you think it is. Except it absolutely is. And there are even mined quotes. Wait. How the hell did they get quotes? I remember some of this shit. It was about coffee. How did they get that information? And they omitted mentions of coffee. Probably to make things seem worse than they are. Nameless informant? Figures. Couldn't be that easy. Wait. MadamAgrippa?

A minute passed in utter silence as the Inspector stood, stock still; only the slightest pulse of a vein in his forehead and the trembling of his hands betrayed his emotional state. It wasn't to last, however, as his face started taking on a remarkably maroon color; slowly, with a sort of calm that could only be forged in the flames of righteous fury, the Inspector muttered, "That brother fucker."