Labor Day
The Foundry, post ICFC 1.3

The Foundry after midnight doesn’t look like the warzone we see on ICW TV. The lights are softer, the ring stripped down, and out in the gravel lot behind the building, there’s smoke from three overworked grills curling into the Alabama sky. Folding tables are crammed with paper plates, red solo cups, bags of chips, and aluminum pans of barbecue. Somebody dragged a boom box out, and it’s rattling through a playlist that keeps bouncing between Skynyrd, Outkast, and Ozzy, depending on who gets near it.

Eric Dane Sr. is at the head of it all, spatula in one hand, beer in the other, leather jacket still on like it’s glued to him. He’s flipping burgers with the same intensity he uses to call matches, barking at anyone who tries to hover too close.

“Get your ass back, Collins—these ain’t ready yet!” he snaps, while Jesse “The Iron Kid” Collins sheepishly grabs a bag of chips instead. Rich Mahogany is nearby, fanning himself with a paper plate like he’s at a summer cotillion. “That’s okay, kid,” he says with a wink, “hunger makes the victory feast taste sweeter.” Jesse just rolls his eyes.

Across the way, the Trust Fund boys are holding court at a table. TD3 picks at a plate of brisket with the same disgust he’d reserve for a bus station bathroom. “Processed meat. Do you people understand what nitrates do to your body?” Jacoby Jacobs is livestreaming the whole thing anyway, narrating like it’s the Met Gala. “Chandelier lighting? None. Atmosphere? Grease smoke. But the fashion? Paisley, baby.” He pans the camera to his jacket with a smug grin. Darian Darrington just shrugs and eats three burgers in a row because of course he does.

The Glucks sit on the back of a pickup, eating straight from the serving trays like a pair of swamp trolls. Nobody tells them not to. A poor rookie tried earlier. He’s still recovering from the glare. Daeriq Damien leans against the side of the truck, using a hamburger bun to hold a burger patty while he carefully eats the meat and leaves the bread. Ketogenic.

Clovis Black leans against the fence, silent, smirking across the lot at Jack Havoc. Havoc leans on the hood of his car with a cigarette and the faintest grin, like he’s daring Clovis to twitch. They don’t. Eric’s no-violence decree hangs heavy—one wrong move and they’re both out of jobs.

Sunny Holliday has basically turned into the camp counselor, trying to get Astrid and Duchess to take part in a game of cornhole someone set up. Duchess snarls at the beanbags. Astrid says nothing, but she nails the board every time she throws. Sunny claps anyway, her laugh cutting through the night like fireworks.

Finally, Dane Sr. climbs up on a crate, claps his hands, and quiets the noise. His voice cuts through the lot, gravelly and unamplified but carrying the weight of a man everyone knows not to ignore.

“Alright, listen up. This ain’t a locker room speech, this ain’t TV. This is family business. You’ve all bled for me already, and we’re just three weeks deep. You’ve proved Iron City Wrestling belongs. Now I’m makin’ sure the next generation stays sharp.”

He pauses, scanning the faces, letting the silence settle.

“Starting tomorrow, the Star Forge will have a new Head Trainer. Some of you know her name, some of you know her lethal roundhouse. Heidi Christenson is joining this company. She’s here to shape you, break you, build you back, and make damn sure you don’t just survive The Foundry—you thrive in it.”

The murmurs ripple through the lot.

Graysie Parker, still taped up from her match, raises her eyebrows and gives a low whistle. “Well, damn. Guess the Forge just got serious.” She glances at Astrid. Astrid looks off into the distance, a wide smile slowly spreading across her face. She licks her teeth, slowly, then breathes deeply and returns to normal. Duchess, meanwhile, just laughs loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Hope she likes headbutts, ‘cause that’s my training program.”

Eric Dane Jr., leaning against a picnic table, runs a hand through his dyed hair and mutters just loud enough for Jesse Collins to hear: “Another old head who thinks she can tell me what to do. Can’t wait.” Jesse smirks back, “Better listen close this time—you might learn something.” Jr. bristles, but the no-violence rule keeps it simmering.

On the Trust Fund side, Jacoby gasps theatrically into his phone. “Breaking news, fam: Iron City goes full Montessori with a scary European lady. Thoughts?” TD3 shakes his head, unimpressed. Darian just grins, “As long as she don’t make us do cardio, I’m good.”

The Glucks both grin. Carlton grunts, “Hell yeah,” through a mouthful of sausage. Damien turns to Chapps. “They do realize she’s from Louisiana, right?” Chapps shrugs, more interested in meat consumption than speaking.

Dane smirks from his crate. “I expect you to treat her with the respect she earned in rings tougher than this one. You think you’ve fought hard? Heidi’s bled harder. Trust me, I know. Tomorrow, the rest of the world gets the press release. Tonight, you all get the head start. Enjoy the food. And remember—no fights, or you’re out.”

He hops down, spatula back in hand, like it’s nothing. The chatter rises again, but the air feels heavier now. Everyone knows the landscape just shifted.