Two in the morning, Central Park, Wednesday. Late enough the only people around were homeless, drunk or high, and there were few enough of them that Ian didn’t think he needed to worry about them.
He stood up for what had to be the tenth time, brushing off grass and dirt off his knees. "Okay, let’s see," he muttered to himself, holding out the little wooden wheels that were quickly becoming the everyday bane of his existence. How was it that such little things barely six inches in diameter could be so troublesome? The carved sigils on them glowed before they burst into flame.
"Okay, that worked…" Wincing on reflex, though he felt no pain, Ian let them go and jumped onto them, wobbling slightly before regaining his balance. As the wheels spun, he hovered a few feet above the grass before soaring up, being careful not to pass the tops of the trees lest someone see the bright, spinning circles that were the Wind-Fire wheels and send someone after him.
Ian turned and sped the opposite way, brow furrowed in concentration. He shouldn’t fall, he knew, but he kept expecting to. After all, hovering on flaming wheels wasn’t exactly normal, even for superheroes— they got to fly without having to balance on /anything/. "I have calculus to do," he sighed, looking down at his feet. "When— Ugh, okay, I’ll just not sleep."
He focused his thoughts and flew forward again.