The locker room smells of sweat, blood, and stale beer. Players sit slumped, jerseys torn and muddy. Some are nursing bruises, others just sit silently, fists clenched. Brakk Skullhaul leans against the wall, gnawing on a bandage. Marwick Bell paces slowly, fists behind his back, trying to hold composure.

Roderick Vale: “They… they were cheating. That last block on Jax? Totally illegal.”

Jax Calder: slamming a water bottle onto the bench “Illegal? That was murder! Ref didn’t lift a finger!”

Milo Trent: “I saw it too. I’ve never seen anyone sneak a rotter’s claw under the referee’s nose like that.”

Finn Lorne: throws his towel against the wall “I can’t believe we lost… to them. I mean, come on—brutal crocs playing rugby isn’t even fair!”

Emil Cross: quietly, analyzing the match “We underestimated their angles. Twice we could’ve blocked the ball, and twice it got… pushed. They exploited every single mistake.”

Owen Pike: kicking at a locker “Exploit? That’s what cheaters do! I swear, if I see one of those bloated swamp rats off the pitch, I’m… I’m—”

Garrik Holt: grabbing Owen by the shoulder “Calm down, Pike. We need to figure out what we can actually fix, not start fights we’ll lose outside the field.”

Karl Brenner: grumbling from the corner “Fix? Hah. You think fixing anything in this league is that easy?”

Brakk Skullhaul: popping the bandage off his shoulder and tossing it “Me smash next one. They try cheat me again, me smash too.”

Tobin Reed: nervously wringing his hands “B-but… what about the injuries? I saw half of us on the ground like we’d been thrown in a swamp ourselves. Some of us might not even play next week.”

Hugo Varr: leaning on the wall, arms crossed “Then we play smarter. We don’t let them get in our heads. Keep cool, or the Rotters eat us alive every time.”

Wes Calder: glaring at the ceiling “Cool doesn’t win games when they stab you in the back while the refs pretend to nap. I want a rematch.”

Roderick Vale: slamming his glove onto the bench “And we’ll get it. We train harder. We watch their tricks. They think they can humiliate Ironfield? Not again.”

Milo Trent: nods, quietly determined “Next time, we control the pitch. Every inch. Every block. Every ball.”

Jax Calder: grinning despite the pain “And when Brakk here gets his claws on them…”

Brakk Skullhaul: pounds the floor with his fists, making everyone jump “ME SMASH!”

Marwick Bell: finally speaks, voice low and steady “Enough noise. I don’t care if we’re bleeding, bruised, or half the team wants to throw their boots at the wall. We learn. We adapt. And we make sure that next time, the Rotters regret stepping on our turf.”

The room falls into a tense silence. Players nurse injuries, wipe blood from their faces, and slowly start talking in smaller groups, plotting how to train differently, improve positioning, and anticipate cheaters’ tricks. Brakk sits back against the wall, cracking his knuckles, muttering under his breath about who he’s going to “smash” next.