ArchivedLogs:You Broke the Gym

You Broke the Gym
You Broke the Gym
Dramatis Personae Logan & Shane
In Absentia	28 January 2013 Unable to sleep - again - Logan tracks down some noise he hears coming from the gym and finds Shane there, practicing boxing with a punching bag. They talk. They punch (the bags). They snark. And somewhere along the way, the gym breaks.
Location <XS> Gymnasium - B1
It's late enough that all good X-boys and girls are probably in bed; at the least it's after curfew which means that even the upperclassmen should be in the building. Shane is, at least, following that much of the rules today, though the lingering smell of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and not anywhere else in the room suggests that he's recently been breaking that one, too. But now he's inside, in the gym, and there's a punching bag receiving a healthy dose of aggression from the small blue teen. Despite his diminutive size and fragile appearance, the bag rocks soundly with each blow. THUD. THUD THUD. "So it's you," says a husky, almost growling voice from the entrance to the gym. The tone is flat, sardonic, dry - but not exactly hostile. Logan walks in, dressed only in trackpants and a singlet, holding a stubby of beer in his hand and massaging his jaw with the other. Up goes the bottle to his lips and he drains it dry before dumping it in a nearby bin. "Can hear you from across the mansion, bub," he goes on to say in that same dry tone of voice. He saunters further into the gym, touching various exercise apartatuses here and there, as though deciding which one to use. He looks a trifle haggard, restless. He doesn't bother using any of the equipment in the end, but rather leans back against a weight-lifting machine and watching Shane impassively, arms folded across his chest. "What gives?" is all he asks. "It's a punching bag," Shane replies, focused on the much-abused bag and not on Logan, though his nostrils flare and at the sides of his neck, his gills do, too. THUD. THUD. "It's for punching." It's hard to tell what he looks. Mostly blue. Clawed. Toothy. His expression doesn't carry much in it past occasional grunts with his punches as he dances around the bag. "Think this (thud) is bad, (thud) you should hear it (thud) when Hope's practicing drums (thud) at three a.m." He stops the bag with one webbed hand, finally turning to regard Logan contemplatively. "Soundproofing just doesn't cut it. Could invest in some earplugs. I've got some good pairs." "Ya don't say." The grizzly man's laconical reply could refer to anything the young mutant had said to him - or all of it at the same time. Logan shrugs, but his lips twist into an approximation of a half-smirk. "I'll manage," he adds a moment or two later. Halting in front of another punching bag, Logan hits it with a few half-hearted practice punches. He isn't really in the mood for training, but it beats sitting around doing nothing. "Sleep's overrated," he remarks blandly and then hits the bag a little harder. Once. Twice. Thrice. "Got a name, bub?" he asks in between punches. "Doesn't everybody?" Shane keeps an arm hooked around the bag, watching Logan with pitch-black eyes narrowed on the punching. "It's not bub, though. I mean, do you. I was here first." A few more punches into the bag, still without enthusiasm or energy, and Logan snorts. "Wise-guy, huh. Rebel without applause. Suit yourself. Name's Logan." He doesn't bother looking over at Shane at the other punching bag, but continues hitting his own for a few moments longer. He finally stops. Shrugs. Then, moving slowly he walks in the direction of a few other pieces of gym equipment, or the doors which are in the same direction. He sniffs once, cocking a curious eyebrow at something, and rolls his shoulders just for the hell of it. Restless as usual. "Shane," the boy gives answer, only once Logan has given his own name. "Who the hell are you?" He's kind of vaguely hanging off the punching bag, twisting around it to follow Logan with his gaze as the other man moves. "What are you doing? It's a gym. You're like. Scoping it." Logan pauses near a set of rings hanging from the ceiling over a crash mat. Both his eyebrows shoot up with some modicum of interest, and he reaches for one with his left hand, giving it a sharp (but not overt) tug. The who the hell are you? question elicits a derisive snort from him and he gives an involuntary shake of his head, smirking at some kind of 'in-joke'. "Professor Logan," he replies - not very helpfully. "At least, that's what he tells me." Upon answering the question, he looks from side to side just as he steps up onto the crashmat and grips the second ring in his other hand. "Habit, bub," is all he says in response to the second question asked of him. "Shouldn't ya be in bed, Shane?" he retorts with a tone that might suggest: okay, my turn with the questions now, bub. "Or ya one o' these ones who don' sleep?" Logan pulls on the rings to heft himself up with apparent ease - something creaks up above and a small cloud of dust (cement, paint, brick etc) falls down on his head. He immediately lets go. "Aww, shit--" "Shane," Shane replies, with a snort that seems more amused than irritated, "not bub. I sleep. Jesus fuck, man, what did you eat? Like, a ton of bricks?" He's turning his gaze up to watch the creaking, the sprinkling of dust. "Professor. What do you teach, hairdressing?" He wanders over towards the rings, too, to squint upwards at the ceiling curiously. He has to stretch onto his toes to reach it himself. "Whatever," Logan says to the repeat of Shane's name. Then he looks up at the ceiling. It's high alright - has to be for a set of rings on cables, as well as anything else that needs height. "I, uh..." he snorts. "Put on a bit o' weight a while back." He doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling. "I wouldn't come over 'ere," he warns with an arm gesturing. "This could--" and a crack from up above cuts him off mid-sentence. "Look out!" he yells - and he is already leaping off the mat, toward Shane as though to carry the younger mutant back away from the ceiling as a chunk of it gives way and falls (along with the two cables and rings themselves). Dust fills this portion of the room. Shane hisses, more cornered-animal sound than startled-teenager, already backstepping from the cracking ceiling when he is encoungered by a flying wolverine. "Ffffff --" His razor-teeth bare, his black claws reflexively extending to meet the sudden tackle with a sharp upward rake of sharp-clawed fingers. "Shitcock ohgod what the fucking --" This might be apologetic, his eyes wide, or might still just be startled, lean muscles tensed and clear inner eyelids closing against the sudden cloud of dust. His words sound just slightly choked with the dust, his gills rapidly fluttering, which only gets them more irritated in the dry cloud. The chunk of ceiling that hits the crashmat is actually two pieces, each with a solid metal ring bolted into them, to which two long cords are attached. One chunk rolls onto the ground, near where Logan and Shane end up in a tangle, while the other stays on the mat - making a veritable crater out of the centre of it. Logan sneezes. Violently. "I hate dust," he growls. "Y'alright, kid?" he asks of the aquatic-looking mutant next to him on the floor. That's when he notices the lacerations and blood on his arms and chest where Shane - accidentally? - scratched him. He stands up, and offers Shane a hand, if he should need it. The wounds are already closing up, leaving only blood and a torn singlet behind. "I... guess I can pay for that," he mutters with a glance upward. Shane's still tensed, wired-hard through his posture and regarding Logan much the same way one might regard a rabid dog. Alert. Wary. He relaxes when there is no more tackling, scrambling to his feet without the aid of hand. "Fine," he says, a little raspy-growled himself; with gills still frantically fluttering he doesn't seem like he loves the dust much better. He is watching the wounds close up with eyes steadily widening. "You." This sounds a little disgruntled. "You broke the gym." He's still just looking at Logan's chest, though, with a rapidly developing frown. A rueful sigh escapes the feral mutant's lips and he places his hands on his hips, eyeing his handiwork critically. "Don't think I'll get away with the old it was like that when I got here line, ya reckon?" Again, he sighs - and turns it into a snort. "Like I said - put on a bit o' weight." He cranes his neck back to peer keenly up at the damage above, straining his ears at the same time for any minute cracks or splits in the stone. "Seems stable for now. The rest of the ceiling must be reinforced--" he pauses to mutter a string of curses under his breath. "--better keep kids outta here in the meantime. Shit. Oh--I'm your new head o' P.E., survival, combat... the usual." Then he flashes a toothy grin at Shane, but only for just a second; the frown is back almost instantly. "The usual," Shane echoes. He doesn't return the grin, at least not at first; he's still frowning a little uncertainly at where the wounds used to be. "Combat?" His teeth drag against his lip, with this, slow and pensive, though sharp as they are this seems like it might be a dangerous exercise. Only now does he finally bare teeth in a quick grin that might be a bit forced. "Cool. Uh. I took self-defense last year. Can I take it more?" He already looks dismissive of the damage. "Shit breaks around here all the time. You can blame it on me, if you want. I'm full up on detentions already, they can't give me more." "No such thing as too much training," comes Logan's quick reply. "Ya want in, ya only gotta say so--" he pauses, finally taking his eyes off the ceiling to appraise Shane with the practiced eye of a warrior. "--you're quick, kid. Stubborn - bit of a smartass, too." He rolls his shoulders again, stretching his neck from side to side - the cracking of vertebrae shifting is painfully audible. "You'd be good in a fight - with a bit o' help." As if to emphasise the obvious jibe in his last comment, Logan flashes another lopsided smirk at the other mutant. "So what's the deal?--" he adds a second later - motioning to Shane's physique with a hand. The question is asked in a neutral tone, neither flippant nor sarcastic. It is simply... asked. "I want in," Shane answers, without hesitation. His shoulders /twitch/ at the cracking, a clear flinch that suggests it might be even more audible to him than to most people. "Deal? I dunno. Claws. Teeth. Blue." In case all these things weren't /glaringly/ obvious. "I swim." He wiggles webbed fingers at Logan, his sharp claws still extended. "What's your deal? I --" There's a distinct note of hesitation, a slight tightening of his expression, before he continues, "-- met a guy the other day. Did that." He waves towards where the scratches once were. There's a nod of the hairy mutant's head, a pursing of his lips and flexing of his fingers. "Ya probably don't like heat much then," he muses aloud. "No problem." The comment may be an acknowledgement of Shane's abilities, or of his intention to join Logan's classes - or both. Probably both. He looks down at his torn singlet, eyebrows raised and mouth open in a hint of a grin. "There goes another one. I got plenty more, so don't sweat it." He pauses to consider Shane's last question, arms folded over his chest and tapping his fingertips rhythmically on each elbow. OK, bub, you asked--" and he flexes his wrists. Three silvery, razor-sharp metal claws shoot out between the knuckles of each hand - slashing the skin open from within, although the blood vanishes in seconds. The claws remain for a handful of moments longer, and then retract back into Logan's forearms with a double schickt sound. Logan lifts an eyebrow at Shane. "Wasn't sweating it." Shane is reaching a hand for the claws, curious, when they retract. He's watched this with eyebrows hiked up and an impressed expression, his own sharp black claws slowly retracting down to smaller points. "What the fuck." His hand drops when Logan's claws vanish. "Thaaat's pretty awesome. Is your mutation being a badass?" Logan smirks with genuine humour for the first time in this meeting. He ponders the concept for a second or two, nodding his head a little from side to side and mouth-shrugging in thought. Then he shrugs with his shoulders. "That works." He lets out a sigh. "Now I could really go for another beer," he murmurs wistfully. "Had to smuggler that one in past a couple of the other teachers. Prudes, both of 'em. So ya wanna be an X-Man, Shane?" Both eyes peer at the amphibious-looking youth like one predator sizing up another. "Codenames, uniforms - fuck, I can't believe they go out in those - jets 'n shit? Fighting the good fight?..." Now he's serious, watching the other younger mutant beside him. Faintly, the sound of footsteps - several footsteps - can be heard. People are approaching the gym, possibly tracking the source of the noise. "Dunno. Do I get beer?" Shane's head is twitching away, eyes drifting towards the distant sound of footsteps instinctively. "My dad's one. You should see his uniform, though, I swear he's fucking bedazzled it." He's edging back towards a door, away from the approaching footsteps. "Hey, I'm always up for --" His teeth bare, and this might be grimace or might be grin, it's hard to tell. "Fighting the good fight. Gotta jet, though." "Bring beer - without gettin' caught - and I'll teach whatever th' fuck ya want," Logan says with a smirk. But the footsteps have his attention now, and he is already moving toward the door. "C'mon. Get outta here, 'n I'll talk to the buzzards--I mean, teachers." He pauses by the door, listens for a moment, and then holds it open for Shane to duck out if he chooses too. "See ya round, bub." He's still smirking. This time, Shane is the one looking genuinely humoured, returning Logan's smirk. "Jeez. And you're a teacher. Where the fuck were you all last year?" With a grin, the small teenager is darting -- fast -- out the door, disappearing on considerably quieter footsteps than those approaching. END TRANSMISSION