Salty Headquarters

The new Salty headquarters was supposed to be a state-of-the-art tactical facility, but five minutes after the Misfits moved in, it felt more like a circus tent with live ammunition.

Over at the heavy-rig station, Ye Olde Large Lad was currently bench-pressing a fully loaded tactical bench press... plus a stack of heavy iron plates, plus McFinleyyy’s misplaced duffel bag. Every time he locked out a repetition, the entire foundation of the new building groaned in existential dread. He paused mid-rep, effortlessly holding three hundred pounds in the air with one hand, just to take a bite out of a protein bar he had strategically tucked into his waistband.

Meanwhile, McFinleyyy had completely abandoned the official agility course to invent his own drill: Tactical Floor Is Lava. He was currently crouched atop a stack of foam plyo-boxes, striking dramatic action-hero poses and shouting play-by-play commentary at the top of his lungs.

"Look at the footwork! The grace! The sheer magnetizing charm!" McFinleyyy declared, executing a wildly unnecessary roll off the box—and landing directly into the path of Sarah, who was trying to do actual, structured target practice.

Sarah didn't even flinch. She simply sidestepped his dramatic roll with the smooth precision of someone who had dodged McFinleyyy’s antics for years, firing three pinpoint practice shots into the bullseye over his head. But as McFinleyyy scrambled up, striking a dashing 'heroic rescue' pose right in her line of fire, her stoic glare gave way to a twitch of a smile.

"If you don't clear my firing line in two seconds, McFinleyyy, I'm using your knee pads for target practice," she warned, though the faint blush creeping up her cheeks betrayed her completely.

McFinleyyy offered a hand-on-heart bow. "A risk I am entirely willing to take for your undivided attention, my fair marksman."

A few yards away, Susan was leaning against the weapons rack, attempting to log today's training times on a clipboard, but she was currently far too distracted. Across the room, Ye Olde Large Lad had finally set the weights down with a thud that rattled the light fixtures, wiping his brow and catching Susan looking. He flashed her a sheepish, crooked smile that instantly turned the giant, intimidating force of nature into a flustered golden retriever.

Susan coughed, rapidly flipping her clipboard upside down to hide how flustered she was. "Form was... acceptable, Big Lad," she managed, her voice dropping an octave as she pretended to inspect a completely blank page. "Though your heart rate seems high. Do you need... assistance with your recovery drills?"

Large Lad rubbed the back of his neck, broad shoulders lifting in a shy shrug. "Only if the recovery drill involves you sitting next to me while I eat four chicken breasts, Susan."

"It's a strict protocol, but I'll allow it," she replied, a smirk breaking through her professional composure.

Between McFinleyyy dramatically swooning over Sarah’s marksmanship, Large Lad and Susan making eyes at each other over heavy machinery, and the brand-new HQ walls already bearing the scars of their absolute refusal to follow protocol, the Misfits were officially home.