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 sh...