ArchivedLogs:Sweat

Sweat
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Morgan	2014-08-26 Morgan and Lucien recognize one another from when he was on the streets and she was in Vice.
Location <NYC> Sweat - Greenwich Village
An apropos name; it is hard to escape the smell, when visiting this fitness club. Open twenty-four hours, this facility comes equipped with all the bells and whistles for those who want to train hard. All the standard gym equipment can be found and then some. In addition to private personal trainers, there are group classes in all sorts of things, from bicycling to crossfit to yoga to martial arts to more esoteric fare such as pole dancing and dodgeball. An olympic-sized pool makes this a popular draw, and the sauna rooms by each locker room are nice spots to unwind after a heavy workout. Mid-day, the usual trickling slew of young professionals utilizing their lunch hour and off-hour patrons have abandoned their treadmills and trendy rowing machines to observe a bit of a spectacle. Off in the far corner on the mats, behind a wall of beach bodies comes a series of guttural feminine grunts. The crown leans away and collectively cringes as someone hits the mat. A few people, mostly likely men, whistle and cheer. Morgan is sparring with one of the gym's more popular and probably more aesthetically pleasing trainers, Bojana. Panting, she reaches a hand down to help the tall, Serbian back to her feet after displacing her. Both blondes are gleaming with sweat and considering where they are, wearing next to nothing. A few women in the audience that they've attracted roll their eyes and go back to what they were doing. Lucien is not whistling or cheering. He is actually here to work out; he seems eminently uninterested in half-clad sweaty bodies or in sparring matches, passing by the mats only incidentally en route from free weights to treadmills. He is more dressed, himself, black shorts and green Under Armour tee (heavily damp already with sweat) and black sneakers, water bottle in hand and towel draped over his shoulders. He probably wouldn't have stopped at all if not for a familiar face on one of the women -- it puts a pause in his step, a small hitch upward in his brows. His lips press just a little thinner, brilliant emerald eyes flicking from Bojana to Morgan as he stops at the mat's edge to pop the top of his bottle and take a swig. "Who won?" "The hot cop," a yuppy answers out of the corner of his mouth, "She's a total cunt, though." He probably asked her out at some point. Those onlookers that don't go back about their business cluster around Bojana as she dabs her neck with a towel and struts away. Her thick accent can be heard talking about private lessons between light panting. Morgan, the lone wolf, drifts off on her own to adjust her pony-tail. Eyes averted to the ground for a long time, when she does look up it's only out of some sixth sense - a feeling that she's being observed. "Oh, I am well aware." Lucien's tone is a little dry. He dabs at his forehead with his towel, eyes shifting toward Morgan. "Haven't changed much, then?" This time his voice is raised just enough to carry to Morgan, a light trace of amusement in his voice. Morgan is less willing to play, but only because she's still trying to place Lucien's face. Remaining rather stoic, she brings her water bottle to her lips and takes a long drink before she replies, prowling closer. "On the contrary," she chuckles, "I'm an even bigger cunt, now." Through her peripheral, she watches with satisfaction as the yuppy jumps and makes himself scarce. Flicking her eyes back to Lucien, she nods her chin. Sizing him up, she seems impressed. This response earns a soft huff of laughter from Lucien, lips twitching but not actually resolving into a smile. "The years can do that to you." His gaze sweeps back over Morgan, appraising as well, though it is hard to read any reaction into his expression. "Especially in this city." Morgan was probably a little more fresh faced the last time they crossed paths, though the flush of physical adrenaline does return some youth and naivety to her cheeks. For Morgan, this something akin to seeing a dog walk on it's hind legs. "You look like you've gotten yourself together," as opposed to her, who has fallen apart, "Good for you." It sounds sincere, even if it's a tad condescending. "Do I." Lucien's murmur is quiet, his eyes lowering as he takes another sip of his water. "It is a zero sum game, I think. Success. One person gains it at someone else's expense." He flicks his eyes back up to her, bottle lowering as his eyes lift. "Where have the years put you on this scale, I wonder?" Morgan huffs as if in amusement. Channeling some reptilian aspect of herself, she refuses to show any inclination of the truth, at least as far as body language is concerned. "I'm no philosopher," she says simply, nodding again as if to tip her hat, "Enjoy your workout." She doesn't move, instead bringing her open water bottle up to her lips, wrapping them around it's tip as she takes a sip. She doesn't break eye contact while she drinks, not even to look down and then back up oh-so seductively. "Never really pegged you as one." Lucien's tone is dry though there's a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "I certainly will. Enjoy your --" Here his brows furrow just faintly. "Life." He lifts his bottle in salute, holding Morgan's gaze a moment longer before turning aside. Morgan turns away, but only after Lucien does. She produces a plush white towel, gently dabbing her collarbone and neck as she makes her way towards the women's locker room.