<hr/><div class="floatright">(http://i.imgur.com/XyiFtlQ.jpg?1)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Rogue<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Gym<br/><strong>Date/Time:</strong>Sept. 7th,11:00 PM<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Kitty Pryde, CLOSED<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Rogue is working off some frustrations. It's not working.<br/><hr/><br/>There was one thing Rogue loved about the sub-basement areas of the mansion. If you weren't a member of the X-Men, or approved and accompanied by a team leader or other staff member, you couldn't get down there. So stepping on that elevator and going down cut the number of people she had to deal with and interact with down by a huge margin. The old-fashion decor of the mansion, and the comfortable feel to it, gave way to cold metal and harsh artificial lighting. Rustic charm that encouraged closeness and solidarity, a warmth that helped people bond and share of themselves, it was all replaced by a cold harshness.<br/><br/>The Danger Room might have been more fitting for what she needed, but Rogue knew she couldn't go in there alone. And not about to ask for anyone to accompany her, she settled for the next best thing. One of the training gyms, with more conventional methods of building up one's body, with specialized equipment for the team, was where she found herself. She had stripped down dangerously far for herself, wearing a tight cream tank top over a sports bra, leaving her arms and a good expanse of her cleavage exposed, with training pants on her legs. No shoes, just ankle wraps. No gloves (they were close at hand though, tucked into her back pocket), just wrist wraps. All the exposed skin should, if nothing else, give any X-Men that wandered by the warning sign to stay away.<br/><br/>If the big "FUCK OFF" sign all but plastered on her forehead didn't.<br/><br/>"Damn...Damn...Fuckin'...I...hate..." she grunted in-between strikes against a punching bag. Heavy and meant more for the likes of Bishop or Colossus, her strikes nonetheless made it shift and start swaying as she unloaded her frustrations on it. The young woman often hid just how much strength she had under all her layers, as a noticeable tone shined under a sheer of swear in the fluorescent lighting. Her chest heaved with heavy breaths as she pummeled the punching bag, wishing it made her feel better than it way. "Stupid...girl!" With a shout, she hit it one last time, before stopping, panting to catch her breath. Holding the bag, she leaned forward against it, teeth gritted as she clenched her eyes shut. What she wouldn't have given for her mother to be there right now...