Who: Warren & Betsy When: March 5th, late night. Where: Xavier's, the gym. What: A stroll into the gym leads Warren to bump into an old acquaintance. Status: In progress Rating: PG
A busy mind is a happy mind, Warren. It was one of those sagely, fatherly sayings that Warren Jr. had always imparted upon his son, but at the moment the mutant known to some as Angel was having a degree of difficulty practicing it. For one, the very man that had advised it was lying in a drug induced coma while the cure virus ravaged his body, threatening to convert him into one of those mindless monstrosities that had invaded the nation. Add to that the fact that it was his company that had birthed such a vile epidemic and it wasn’t much of a surprise that the blond billionaire was having trouble sleeping recently.
Maybe it was time to enact a new creed, one that might help him keep his mind of matters a bit more efficiently. As of late, he had been a stranger to the gymnasium, something no one would imagine by looking at him. It seemed a lot of people tended to forget that Warren’s physique, which was both lean and toned, was not a product of constant workout, but a genetic gift. Not to suggest that Worthington didn’t test the limits of his body, but with everything that had transpired, the gym had dropped to the bottom of his to-do list. He would have to change that.
Not tonight though, or he had not intended to start hitting the gym, anyway. The clothing that adorned his body suggested as much, a pair of nice, newly pressed slacks, complete with a leather belt that looked as if it had cost quite a bit back when fashion and dressing nice mattered more than erecting a fortress that could be defended against zombie-like humans. He missed those days. They sure were nice. A crisp white button up shirt was the only thing he wore on his upper body, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows while the coat that had been worn atop of that was haphazardly slung over one shoulder.
Loafers that were far too nice for this sort of environment treaded across the padded mats, taking him in an aimless journey around the assortment of workout equipment. It was only when he happened upon the punching bag that his gait decreased and then suddenly froze altogether, seconds later the coat was dropped and balled fists were sent flying into the punching bag. This wasn’t working out the body, the frustrated and angered grunts, the way his fists just flew randomly and without direction into the bag clearly indicated this was something else altogether. This was Warren working out his soul, something to vent the emotions inside of him that he rarely ever let loose, except maybe when he was alone, such as now. However, he’d failed to ensure that he remained alone while he wailed brutally on the punching bag.