InsaneJournal

WHO: Noah Gray and Emma deLauro
WHAT: A job search leads him to a local gym.
WHEN: Mid-afternoon
WHERE: A gym not far from the housing area.
RATING: TBD
STATUS: In Progress

The concept of money wasn't one that Noah had ever really needed to worry about before. His parents had always managed to provide him with everything and, while he'd wondered just how they'd done it as he'd gotten older, he'd never bothered questioning their ways. It didn't really matter how, after all. They spent a fair bit of their time on the move and attempting to stay one step ahead of the agents that were giving chase. Figuring out how they managed to keep food in his stomach and clothes on his back weren't at the top of his priority list.

Now, though, Noah was closer to on his own than he'd ever been before. Granted both of his parents were here - or at least some versions of them were - but he didn't feel comfortable asking them for anything simply because they weren't the versions he was used to. These versions didn't even have a child and it seemed wrong, somehow, to expect them to support one that was already eighteen years of age anyway. Not to mention he wasn't even staying with them but rather with his grandmother - again, some other version of her - and the same thoughts toward his parents ran through his mind for her, too.

Simply put, Noah needed to find a job. So that's exactly what he set out to do.

A few hours passed quickly enough and he managed to speak to a couple of people who said they'd give him a call, possibly, to discuss his options. No one seemed willing to simply take a chance and hire him, though, and as lunchtime approached Noah found himself growing more and more frustrated. Deciding that blowing off some steam was far more productive than allowing his temper to get the better of him while trying to speak to potential bosses, Noah backtracked through the city and made a beeline for the gym near the housing area.

He didn't have super strength. He didn't have feline-like reflexes and agility. He was just an average, eighteen year old boy who had spent the past decade learning how to push the limits of his body to their breaking point and then a bit further, solely with the intent of staying alive. So while he wasn't necessarily awe-inspiring when going a few rounds with a punching bag, or lifting weights, it was obvious that he knew what he was doing. Especially when he focused his attention on said punching bag and proceeded to deliver a series of punches and kicks to it via smooth, controlled movements that anyone without proper training would be hard pressed to do without pulling something rather severely.

It was as his delivered a final roundhouse kick, the burn spreading throughout his body bringing a somewhat eerie smirk to his face, that he realized he wasn't alone in the area. He'd purposely chosen a spot in the gym where no one else was but obviously the place was filling up faster than he'd thought. Either that, or he'd attracted attention he hadn't meant to attract. Either way, the boy quickly grabbed the bag before it could knock the newcomer down and, once he had it relatively back in the center and not bouncing dangerously about, he peered around the device at the person.

"Sorry," he said, simply and flatly, blinking through the slight sheen of sweat that was burning his eyes and causing his forehead to shine.