ArchivedLogs:Image Is Everything

Image Is Everything
Dramatis Personae Doug, Lucien	2013-04-10 '
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. Warm weather has, this past week, lured many of the usual winter-treadmill crowd outside to enjoy the spring weather. It's warm again today, sure, but dreary-thundery-wet makes outside jogs somewhat less appealing. And so Lucien is here, occupying a treadmill in the only sparsely-populated late-morning gym. He is dressed dark; black shorts, black underarmor tank, lightweight black running shoes. Black towel draped over one of the rails of his treadmill, black ipod nestled in a black strap on his bicep. His treadmill is turned up to twelve mph, and his shirt clings to his lean muscles with an already-accumulated layer of sweat, blonde hair plastered against his wet forehead as well. The wet weather is definitely not conducive to outdoor athletics, and so Doug is also taking advantage of the gym. Emerging from the dressing room in a pair of black rugby shorts and a yellow tank top, he makes his way over to the treadmills, offering a bright smile as he lays his towel over the bar of the machine next to Lucien, claiming it. "Lucien," is a warm greeting, offered with a background of beeps as he sets the machine for his own workout. He starts at essentially a brisk walk, stretching his arms over his head briefly as he settles in. "How have you been?" There's a stretch of quiet after this, Lucien mostly just focusing on breathing. Deep. Steady. It is only after he pauses long enough to tap the machine down to ten miles an hour that he untucks one earbud from his ear -- the one on Doug's side -- and flicks a glance over towards the other man. "Doug," is slightly short on breath. "I am sorry, what did you say?" Doug glances over at the question, confusion flickering across his face until his gaze lands on the dangling earbud. "Oh, sorry!" he says brightly. "I didn't notice the iPod." He waves a hand at the older man, and bobs his head. "I asked how you've been," he repeats helpfully. "I haven't seen you since before the gala." A pause that's broken only by Doug's careful breathing. "I saw you there," he says, almost shyly. "At the gala. I didn't get a chance to speak to you, though." "Ah!" Lucien's head tips down, slightly, in acknowledgment -- of the question, of the gala, who knows. His gait stays steady, eyes closing for a moment before he answers. "The gala. It was quite, ah, busy. Understandable; I only got a chance to dance with half the people on my card." This is slightly wry. "Perhaps a bit more excitement than the usual black-tie affair, though." "It was definitely unlike most of those events," Doug agrees, bobbing his head. "I mean, very few of them end with stuff blowing up." A grin works its way across his face, and he turns it on Lucien. "Which, a lot of times, is unfortunate." He lifts his shoulders as he reaches forward to bump up one level, which has him stepping a bit livelier. "I didn't get to dance with anyone," he says sympathetically. "My mother was hanging on my arm most of the night, dragging me from one group to the next." He frowns at the memory, but doesn't elaborate. "Were you there as a guest, or..." he lets the question trail off, uncertain of an appropriate way to end it. "Mmm, well. Men like Norman Osborn do attract controvsery. He might almost be pleased at himself for having attracted terrorists to his party." There's a quiet note of distaste in Lucien's tone, though whether it comes for Osborn or for the terrorists -- or both -- is unclear, layered evenly throughout. He pauses to breath, deep, not slowing his rather quick pace. "I was working," he answers neutrally. "Your mother looked lovely. It sounds an interesting evening; I imagine she might be acquainted with any number of fascinating people. There were few boring ones there." "I bet he was," Doug says. "He creeped me out, the little I was near him. That smile is too wide. Like a car salesman or something." He wrinkles his nose, and the corner of his mouth tugs upwards at the comment on his mother. His hands come down to rest lightly on the handrails. "My mother knows quite a few people," he agrees. "Most of them are not as fascinating as they seem. They are masters of deception." He chuckles, and rolls his shoulders, fingers tightening around the rails briefly. "If you like, I can introduce you to my mother, sometime. You could try and charm her out of her list of Important People." "Really?" Lucien's eyebrows hike up. "I have never actually met a person who was /less/ fascinating than they seemed. Many who are more. But then, I find people inherently fascinating. Helpful, perhaps, given my profession. Everyone, though, has something of interest to offer. It sometimes just takes the right angle to see it." He taps at the speed control on his treadmill again. Down to nine and a half miles per hour, but then ramps the incline up more steeply. His mouth curls upwards, just slightly. "Oh, I have Important People in plenty already in my address book. Still, I imagine there is a joke to be made there. Me, your mother, my charms. I do not have the breath to make it." Though he doesn't really seem out of breath, sweat aside. More quiet. More running. "Still, even if you find yourself bored by the guests, the event itself was notable enough. Even outside of disruption by --" His lips press together, turn down, distasteful again. But the look evens out back into neutrality and he shifts the sentence rather than continue that line of thought. "Osborn has ambitious plans." Doug grins, and closes one eye in a wink at Lucien. "I believe I might have made such a joke, in the past," he admits, and shrugs again. "I guess I have trouble seeing those people through adult eyes," he confesses. "Plus, it doesn't help that I read their body language and /know/ they're pretending. It just -- bugs me. People should be honest about who they are." He scrunches his nose. "They'd be happier, for a start." He falls into a thoughtful silence as he listens, his head bobbing. "Ambitious is putting it mildly," he says with an exhale unrelated to physical exertion. "Can you imagine the sort of things that facility will have to deal with, being publicly a mutant haven? I mean, look at what happened to Doctor Saavedro, and he's just trying to open a /clinic/." He shudders, and rubs a hand over his face. "It's scary to think what might happen beyond hassles with red tape." "Everyone pretends. I am not sure it is more or less happy than not pretending. A veneer of pretense is what society calls /manners/. Affectations we all learn in order to lubricate social interaction." The mention of the Mendel Clinic draws his mouth thin again, lips twisting briefly downwards. His nostrils flare on a slow exhale, and he dips his head, lifting the bottom of his tank to wipe his forehead with it. "Haven." He sounds dry. "Yes, because I am sure Norman Osborn is nothing but an altruist." "You can have manners and not pretend to be something you're not," Doug points out, his eyebrows lifting. "It doesn't take anything away from who you are to be /nice/." He smiles tightly, and lifts a shoulder. "But I understand wanting to impress people. I don't like that one is forced to do it, but I understand it." He tilts his head as he catches Lucien's reaction out of the corner of his eye, and his tight smile uncurls a bit. "I was just using /his/ billing," he offers apologetically. "I didn't believe a word of his speech. But others did and /will/, and it probably won't go very well." He scrunches his nose. "Unless these 'Sons of Magneto' have some excellent PR people, and can convince people otherwise." He doesn't sound like he believes this will happen, though. "Of course it does," Lucien says, with a /thin/ slice of smile, "if you are not a nice person." His eyes are closing, teeth set, slightly, perhaps from exertion; he leaves the high incline where it is and turns the speed up a half-mile. There's something distant in his tone, slightly strained through exertion. "Others will. On both sides. There is appeal, I imagine, in mutants having some place to study; and appeal, too," comes with the faintest twitch of smile again, "in the /public/ having a list of mutants and what dangers they might pose." The mention of the Sons of Magneto just earns a /snort/. "Deranged mutant terrorists do not, I think, come with the best PR." Doug chuckles at the amendment. "Fair point," he says, shaking his head. "I guess not-nice people would find themselves diminished by it. Still. I'd rather know I was dealing with an asshole up front than find out later." His own breathing is getting a bit rapid as the burn begins to set in, and he reaches forward to reduce the speed and raise the incline. "Oh, I imagine there's a lot of appeal for a mutant school, among the community," he says. "Particularly for the ones who have mutations they can't hide. But it still invites disaster." He huffs a laugh at Lucien's snort, and lifts a shoulder. "Maybe they should look into better PR, then," he offers. "I mean, image is everything, right? Isn't that sort of what we've been talking about?" "Community." Lucien echoes /this/ with a note of distaste, too. "Mutations invite disaster inherently. That disaster is cropping up should be no surprise." His eyes slant sidelong, towards Doug. "Image is everything," he echoes this slow and somewhat flat. "/Is/ that what we've been talking about?" "I don't think that's true," Doug says. "I think people are capable of disasters in their lives that owe nothing to mutations." His tone is clipped as he says this, and his mouth tightens briefly before it curls into a smile at the question. "/Sort/ of," he clarifies. "We were talking about pretense, and isn't that essentially what PR is? Letting people see the side you /want/ them to see, and not the dark, seamy parts?" "Are you aware your statement does not actually contradict mine?" Lucien asks, eyebrows raising. "I did not say /nothing but/ mutation invites disaster. /Many/ things are capable of inviting disaster. People do disastrous things when they are afraid, and people have good reason to fear mutants." Another stretch of silence, as he finally, with a grit of teeth, lowers the incline on his treadmill, lowers its speed down to nine. Draws in deeper breaths. "We were talking about pretense, yes. The extrapolation that image is everything was your own. Image is one thing among many. Its import, I suppose, depends entirely on context." Doug opens his mouth to reply, then closes it thoughtfully for a moment. "You said mutations inherently invite disaster. Which I disagree with. I think it might make one more /prone/ to them, but I don't think it's completely inherent. For some, maybe." He scrunches his nose. "Unfortunately." He blinks at Lucien's response, and frowns. "I'm afraid, in our culture, image is at least eighty-five percent of everything," he says, almost apologetically. "Otherwise, Madison Avenue and Hollywood would be out of luck. There /are/ other factors to consider, yes. In most day-to-day things. But when you're trying to win public support, I'm afraid that at least in this country, it's all about the image." He lifts his eyebrows, and turns to smile apologetically at the older man and lifts a hand to twirl a finger in the air. "Spin, baby, spin, and all of that." "Mmm." Lucien is quite for a time, considering. "Having a subset of the population capable of the kinds of things many mutants are capable of will always inspire fear. As well it should. And as long as it inspires fear, it will invite disaster on all sides. From those who seek to protect against it, and from those who seek to combat their efforts." He reaches for his water bottle, plucking it out of its holder to pull up the top with his teeth, take a long swig. "Norman Osborn has /excellent/ PR people," he comments thoughtfully after a pause, "I suppose we shall see where it takes him." Doug nods at Lucien's prediction, although he doesn't offer any response, focusing on his workout briefly. The comment on Osborn gets a snort that might be a laugh. "He certainly does," he says. "I'd guess it'll take him pretty far," he says. "Especially now that he can play the 'poor, misguided mutants' card after that attack. He's going to look like a hero to both sides." He inhales, and slows his treadmill again. "What do you, personally think about it?" he asks. "Osborn's school?" "I think," Lucien says, with a small thin smile, "that it was only a matter of time before someone saw all those weapons lying around and decided to build themselves an army." Doug's mouth pulls into a tight line. "You know, that didn't even occur to me. I was thinking about the outside ramifications, and didn't even question the motives." He lifts his eyebrows, and turns a helpless grin on Lucien. "He's got /really/ good PR." Lucien's smile fades. He takes another gulp of water. "And you?" The question comes without much inflection, by way of either tone or expression, his face mostly just -- sweating. Breathing hard. Doug lifts a shoulder, reaching out to stop his machine and riding it to the neutral position. "I think that, on the outside, it's a good thing. A place for mutant kids to feel safe. But, I know enough about Norman Osborn to know that it can't be that simple." He lifts a hand in Lucien's direction. "I didn't even think about the idea that he might be building some sort of mutant army." His expression grows troubled, and he chews at his bottom lip. "That is genuinely disturbing." Lucien's lips just press together thinly through the first half of this, twisting downwards when Doug talks about a place for mutant kids to feel safe. He reaches for his control panel, tapping the speed down to a jog. "What do you know about Norman Osborn?" he is absently curious to hear, and, then, "I doubt very much the end goal of such places is providing /mutants/ with a place to feel safe. They offer the public a way to feel safe from mutants. It is just one venture. There will be many more." "If the kids feel safe, does it matter whether the public feels safe?" Doug wrinkles his nose. "I mean, maybe it is for the public at large, but it's more important that the /kids/ feel safe. At least, to me." He exhales heavily, and reaches for his towel, mopping at his face. "I know a couple of things about some of Osborn's projects," he says, without elaboration. "They do not inspire me to consider him a true philanthropist and humanitarian." Lucien answers this with a /hiss/, possibly a laugh, possibly just a sharp expellation of breath between tongue and teeth. "You and I," he says, /dry/, "have /vastly/ different priorities." His eyes slant sidelong towards Doug, and he taps his speed down a notch further. Slow-jogging. Catching his breath. "What do they inspire you to think?" "I think that's safe to say," Doug says, crinkling his eyes. "We are different people, after all." He steps down off his machine, and wraps the towel around his neck. "I think," he says in answer to Lucien's question with a tight press of his lips, "that they inspire me to wish fervently that someone was keeping a close watch on him." "Oh, I imagine you are not alone in that." Lucien's tone is dry, still, and he lifts his water again, this time sipping at it slowly. "But he is trying to keep a close eye on /them/, and both of these cautions are perhaps worthy goals." Doug stares at Lucien, his brow furrowing. "Every time we talk, I feel like I've disappointed you, somehow," he notes. "Which bothers me, for some reason." He purses his lips, and rolls the towel along his neck. "As long as someone is watching who can /deal/ with him, if he goes too far, that's a good thing. I don't know if Osborn riding herd on /them/ is such a good idea, though. Maybe." He glances over his shoulder to the free weight area. "I'm going to finish my workout," he says, lifting a hand. "But it was nice talking to you again." Lucien's eyebrows raise. "You need not worry about disappointing me," he says, with a small twitch of smile. "Enjoy your workout, Doug." He taps his treadmill off, picking up his towel to mop at his face before heading off, not for further workout but for the showers.