Chapter 4: The Training Underground

G.P. Torte
Aug 26
2 min read

“To rise… you must first be chilled, cracked, and pressed.”

Strawbrawler pushed out of the paper bag.

The alley was still cold, still coated in the quiet dust of a forgotten city corner — but something in him had shifted. He stepped carefully, syrup trailing faint lines behind him like a comet's tail.

His stubby legs trembled slightly, but not from fear. From awakening.

As he wandered, aimless but burning, he noticed a vent — steam drifting from it in slow huffs. A glimmer of gold light shone beneath the rusted cover. Curious. Drawn. He stepped closer.

And then…

Thump.

The vent snapped open from the inside. A hand — firm, éclair-toned, lightly dusted with powdered sugar — reached out and pulled him in.

Darkness swallowed them both.

He landed on a slick, slightly sticky floor. Overhead, the only light flickered from a bare gumdrop bulb.

“W-where am I?” he asked, voice shaking.

A shadow moved.

“You’re in the Crust,” said a deep, cool voice. “The part of the city that holds everything together — or lets it fall apart.”

From the shadows stepped an éclair — wide-shouldered, half-frosted, a bandage wrapped diagonally across his middle.

“I’m Retired,” the éclair said. “Used to be É-Strike Unit Bravo. Now I train the tossed.”

Strawbrawler blinked.

“You’re going to train me?”

“No,” Éclair said.

Strawbrawler deflated.

“I’m going to temper you.”

The next few days — or hours, or maybe years, it was hard to tell — became a blur of batter, bruises, and baking wisdom.

Push-ups across cracker crumbs
Shadow-boxing cling wrap
Reciting dessert wisdom like:
“Strength is crust. Honor is filling. Never lose your center.”
And one terrifying challenge known only as The Pudding Gauntlet.