Log: Clarice & Forge

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Late in the night/early in the morning, Clarice runs into Forge in the gym and they discuss life, exercise and training. Clarice is half-convinced that there is a demon masquerading as Forge. They end up as gym partners.



"You know, no one will take your mad scientist rep seriously with those abs," Clarice pointed out to Forge as she strolled into the gym for a late night workout. Tonight was cardio and she was planning on running a few miles. She hated it, but it was effective. Blaring her music loudly helped too.

"Naturally hyperactive metabolism," Forge grunted, struggling to raise for another situp and wheezing out a quiet "thirty-two", although the actual number was closer to half that, he wasn't about to admit how out of shape he actually was in front of Clarice. Taking a long drink of water, he reached down with an angled wrench and began unfastening connectors in his prosthetic leg. "So how goes the culture re-shock of moving back into the madhouse?"

She shrugged, programming the elliptical for her workout and setting her things up how she liked them, "Actually, this is less nutty than the dorms. Quieter too, but it's also home. The only difference is now I have a bed here instead of crashing on Terry's couch and bothering her and Bobby. You should try it though, the dorms did not completely suck ass."

Shaking his head, Forge tugged and separated the two parts of his prosthetic that joined at mid-shin, then set the now-detached foot aside. Reaching around, he hefted an oddly curved piece of metal and proceeded to ratchet down the bolts to attach it to his leg. "You realize that's like suggesting to you that you go live out in Amish country. I've been too spoiled by the amenities here. Lab and machine shop that I can use pretty much whenever, support for my weird
schedule, plus a suitemate I can actually stand. I've been pretty lucky in that regard."

Standing up, he tested his balance, leaning heavily on the unusual-looking leg. "As weird as it sounds, being here is actually keeping me sane."

Well sure, it kept everyone sane, except for when it didn't. "Exactly. You gotta try the real world at least once. And when better to do it than when you're young enough to claim youthful stupiditY?" she pointed out, settling her earphones around her neck and beginning the
program. She'd turn her music on when they stopped talking. "What's that leg for again?"

Stretching down to touch his fingertips to the floor, Forge grunted once, then began experimentally jogging in place. "Running," he said between steps. "I'm trying to design a way to distribute the impact shock better. It's like... well, I can make the artificial leg act
just like a real one, except..."

Somewhat self-consciously, Forge tugged up the left leg of his baggy shorts to reveal where the stump of his missing left leg joined with the plastic and metal of the prosthesis. "There's no connection to what little hip muscle I have left there, it's not integrated like my arm. So there's no natural motion - it's like running on a peg leg. Sure, I can run a mile in about... twenty minutes or so. If I want my back to be killing me for the rest of the day. This should hopefully fix that. I adapted it from a design used in the Paralympics."

"Oh, cool," Clarice looked at his leg interested, but not too. She was just now getting back to work as an EMT, but she'd seen amputations before. Granted, no one else had prosthetics like Forge, but that was why he was Forge and they were not, "You could use the elliptical. No
joint impact and a better workout than just running. And you get to stay air conditioned." Running outside was insane. Between the hot, the cold, the rain, the humidity, the everything, no thank you. She would stay inside and exercise.

"Yes, but it's not the same as the real thing," Forge admitted, stepping onto the treadmill and dialing in a low speed. As the track began to move, he tentatively began jogging in place. "If I'm going to be able to be more than just a liability in a crisis, I can't be depending on reflexes gained from a simulation of actual stress. That's why I asked Scott and Ororo to let me start training."

Clarice stopped her run awkwardly and just stared at him. "You're training? Like X-Men training? Who are you and what dimension are you from and what have you done with Forge?" silently, she prayed that this was not some obscure demon attack. It was too early in the morning for a demon attack.

"Not for the team," Forge clarified. "But with what I can do, sometimes they're going to need my help. And as things stand right now, if something goes wrong, I'm a liability." He pointedly didn't mention his nagging feeling that even if he'd have been around when Campbell's mercenaries had kidnapped his friends, he'd have been utterly useless. "I just realized in the last few weeks that... well, let's just say I've become acutely aware of my limitations."

That made slightly more sense, although coming from Forge it didn't make quite enough. She'd forgive him though since it was after midnight, "Everyone has limitations you know," she pointed out, "And not all are physical, but it's good that you're trying to stretch them. Absolutely. And you should join the team," if only so she could think of the most horribly embrassing trainee name ever.

Forge arched an eyebrow, albeit briefly as he was already starting to have trouble keeping up the pace on the treadmill. "It's not that I don't believe in what the X-Men do. It's... I don't know if it's something I can do. This is kind of... me finding out, I guess."

His explanation was punctuated by labored breaths, as he rested his arms on the treadmill's rails, legs still pumping awkwardly. "Do they really make you run a lot in training?"

"Duh," Clarice panted, she was running significantly faster than Forge and was grateful to the bandana that she had tied around her head to keep the sweat out of her eyes, "You run on mission. A lot. And you gotta have the cardio do breath when fighting or whatever. Doesn't do
any good to pass out or get caught or whatever because you can't run. And weight training, but mostly cardio at first."

With a groan, Forge dropped roughly onto his butt, letting the treadmill's momentum dump him off onto the floor, where he sprawled onto his back, reaching weakly for his water bottle. "Why can't I just build myself some 'cardio'? No one mentioned this part would suck this much. Yea, verily, as Laurie is fond of saying."

Of course cardio sucked. There was essentially one choice, running nowhere, "You have to work up to it with flesh," she reminded him, tossing her water bottle in his general direction, but not slowing down, "See, the flesh is weak. It grows slowly and has to be molded. Doesn't hatch fully formed and functioning."

"Liiiies..." Forge moaned from the floor, shaking one fist weakly but indignantly.

Clarice snorted, wiping her face with her hand towel, "Lies, damned lies and statistics," she agreed. She had thought about taking stats in summer school before deciding to work and train in the summers. Let college take an extra year or so.

Sitting up, Forge took a long drink from his water bottle. "This sucks," he announced with finality. "Give me astrophysics, molecular chemistry, psionic waveform variations, and my brain will find a way to wrap around them. But basic physical exertion, something that goddamn Artie can do, and I wind up on my ass." Grimacing in frustration, he threw his sweat-soaked towel against the wall with a wet thud. "This is where genetics are totally unfair. Kyle puts on muscle mass like it's going out of style, and doesn't even need to work out for it. Marius is a natural athlete. Garrison's freakin' superhuman, and even Crystal's as graceful as I've ever seen any non-enhanced person be. I feel like..." he looked down and chuckled, "well, a half-crippled wimp trying to keep up."

Clarice slowed the elliptical and stepped off, holding on to the rail for a moment as she adjusted to solid ground again and squatted down by Forge, "You are half-crippled," she pointed out, although not maliciously, "But you aren't a wimp. You have never liked sports, ever. Losing your arm and leg didn't change that. You still don't much like them, but you've done more in physical therapy to get to this point than any one of those people and this isn't any harder. It's just a question of how important is this?"

She grinned at him and took a swig from the water bottle she'd tossed at him, "Physical therapy is much harder than this stuff. Seriously. You just gotta put on some Saliva or Disturbed and rock out."

"Nu-metal, ptui," Forge sniffed disdainfully. "Trust me, my workout music would take your Hot-Topic-addled sensitivity out in a back alley and curbstomp it at two hundred forty beats per minute. Try some Opeth or Dimmu Borgir, that'll get the adrenalin going."

Hauling himself up against the treadmill, Forge took another drink of water and stepped up, adjusting the speed one click slower. "Christ, I hate having to start at the bottom. But you're right. Nothing to it but to do it, yeah?"

Clarice had realized long ago that while she was a unique and pretty, pretty princess, she was not especially cutting edge. And she was okay with that. She liked Hot Topic, "You're not starting on the bottom, you're starting where everyone else starts. And you worked to get this
far, which gives you an edge. This is all old hat."

She paused, "We can workout a couple nights a week, if you want. When I'm not working or on missions. And you aren't building a death ray to save the world."

Forge thought about that for a moment as he ran, then nodded. "To be honest," he admitted, "I do kind of miss having Jubilee around to kick my ass. So long as you don't start humming insipid pop songs by anonymous artists. Then it's time for the death ray."

"Would I do that?" she asked, slipping her headphones on and climbing back on the elliptical. The first song that came on was Barbie Girl. "Made of plastic, life's fantastic!" she sang quietly, beginning her run again.

Rolling his eyes, Forge reached into a pocket and slipped his own headphones on, letting the rhythm of his feet on the treadmill form a slow syncopation with the stacatto drumbeats of Italian power-metal.

Next time, though, he'd make a note to run on the treadmill behind Clarice. Every bit of motivation helped.