ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Workout

Vignette - Workout
Dramatis Personae Steve
In Absentia	2016-05-08 POW!
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Fitness Room - Lower East Side
This exercise room is the epitome of 'intentional design'. It has been carefully crafted with the mutant physique in mind, which is saying a lot because physiques can vary so drastically these days. The room is a high-ceilinged cube allowing for extreme range of motion movements. And the walls are blissfully free of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors common in commercial gyms, having instead a couple of narrow mirrors off to the side if one needs to double check their form for a particular lift. Instead, the reinforced concrete walls are covered in resident paintings, the designs done in a graffiti style, changing over time as murals are modified or painted over. At the entrance one finds a few standard-looking treadmills and rowing machines for anyone needing an indoor cardio workout, from which the speed governors have been removed. They allow for anyone who would benefit from a more 'vigorous' pace, but they also operate perfectly well at more normal speeds. Past the machines, off to one side is a collection of large, rolled up mats to be deployed for light sparring sessions. A sign on the wall asks simply: Be gentle with our space! Further back in the space is a large collection of free weights lining the walls, dumbbells and bars with assorted plates. Most standard exercise machines would be too limiting for many mutants, but the free-weights can be used for any strength level. The room also features an expensive pair of shiny, Olympic class weight bars, capable of supporting up to a metric ton with a minimum of flex. Sitting with them is a matte black, custom-order bar rated to support four metric tons. On the wall near where the bars rest is a sign requesting: "Don't overweight the bars. Put away your plates when done." Just after 4:30 AM, the world outside is still cloaked in darkness only beginning to thin along the eastern horizon. It's quiet in the Commonhaus save for the faint, ever-present hum of electricity, the equally persistent if more distant sounds of water on the riverbank, and soft, mournful birdsong from the courtyard. And, for the last half hour or so, the semi-rhythmic thud of Steve's fists against the punching bags in the fitness room. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and black workout pants, both hands neatly wrapped in white gauze. His skin glistens with sweat, and his hair lies all askew in damp spikes. His pale blue eyes fix with unblinking intensity on his target. The punching bag has been reinforced (or repaired) with duct tape, and, like so many fixtures in the Commonhaus, decorated with abstract designs in a dizzying array of bright colors. It looks like a fairly /sedate/ boxing workout, all things considered. But inside, he is roiling with memories. Icy wind howls through the gaping hole that had been torn in the side of the train car, thick steel peeled back like the lid of a sardine tin. Bucky darts in and takes up the shield where it had been knocked from Steve's grasp and, raising it, stands between his fallen friend and the German soldier. WHUMP. Steve lands a controlled, precise blow. The punching bag shudders under the impact. The Hydra heavy weapon fires with a muted boom and a blast of bright plasma which skips off of the shield, but its impact sends Bucky tumbling out through the gap. Rolling to his knees, Steve catches the shield and throws it, striking the German soldier square in the face. THWAP. His other fist slams into the side of the bag, much harder. Bucky clings to a rail near the edge of the warped wall still hanging from the side of the train car. Steve scrambles out toward him, the wounded steel skin of the train creaking under his weight. "Bucky! Hang on." He slides out as far as he can get without losing his footing and stretches out his hand. BAM! Despite its very significant mass, the punching bag swings back when Steve hits it this time, rattling the chains that hold it suspended. The wind whips around them, stinging with icy needles of driven snow. "Grab my hand!" Steve shouts, his voice half drowned in the roar of the train. Bucky strains toward him, reaching out, but his grip on the already shaky rail slips. His scream is lost in the howling gale as he falls down, down, down into the frozen, rocky ravine. POW! Steve's right arm winds back, a wordless cry of defiance bursting from him as if it had a will of its own. His fist slams into the punching bag, rupturing its skin (duct tape nothwithstanding) and ripping it free from the grommets by which it hangs. It flies across the room, spilling a wavy trail of sand. He stands there for a moment, arm still outstretched. Then, very gradually, he straightens up and blinks his eyes clear. Fetches the push broom he'd left nearby. Sweeps the sand up into a heap and drags the gutted punching bag over to the two others already lying in wait of repair. Hoists up a new one and hitches it to the carabiner. Settles into a fighting stance again. THUD.