Archive of Our Own ^beta

You didn’t mean to get involved.

But by Day Four, your ring cam has captured enough war crimes against lawn care to qualify for Hague tribunal review, and frankly, Pamela-from-HOA was circling like a fucking vulture.

You don’t know who approved the housing application for the four men (introduced to you as John Price, Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and “Ghost”) across the street, but you’re 90% sure it was forged. Because no one- not one- has any idea what they’re doing and they’re strange. Really strange.

You noticed it the day they moved in: four large, broad shouldered types in plain clothes that somehow made them look even less normal. The one with the beard gave off dad energy until he opened his mouth and called the guy with the skull mask “son.” The one with the mask didn’t react. The Scottish one swore constantly but somehow managed to sound cheerful about it, and the fourth kept calling everyone “sir,” even though they clearly weren’t in charge of anything, least of all themselves.

At first, you figured maybe they were just… eccentric. Maybe a band? Some kind of halfway house for ex wrestlers? But then they started trying to do things.

Simple, suburban things.

Like putting up a satellite dish.

You watched from your window as all four of them gathered in grim formation, staring up at the roof like it was enemy territory. There was pointing. Nodding. Some kind of briefing. Then they began climbing… without a ladder. By the time the first dish was plugged in, one of them was on the garage roof, one was holding the plug like a detonator, one was barking coordinates, and the masked one was simply standing in the yard, hands on hips, staring at the operation with the solemn energy of a funeral.

It ended, as these things often do, in mild electrocution and swearing.

By Day Four, you were convinced they were running some kind of experiment on how not to appear human. They waved too formally. Their grocery trips looked like tactical raids where they bought four of everything (four jugs of milk, four loaves of bread, four packs of toilet paper- ‘doomsday preppers’ were added to the list of possible things your neighbors were.) And at least once, you caught the blonde one crouched behind his car, whispering into what was either an earpiece or a Bluetooth headset that he definitely didn’t need.

You finally approached on Day Seven, when one of them- Price, apparently- was outside with a toolbox, disassembling his mailbox for no apparent reason. You asked, very gently, “Hey, everything okay over here?”

He straightened up slowly, smiled like a man trying to remember what smiles looked like, and said, “Routine maintenance.”

The masked one appeared behind him a moment later, holding a wrench. “It’s compromised,” he said gravely.

“Compromised,” you repeated, dead inside.

He nodded. “Internal breach.”

You went home after that. Slowly.

You told yourself you weren’t going to get involved, that it wasn’t your business if your new neighbors were part of some ex-military performance art commune, but then you saw them the next morning standing in formation at the curb, coffee mugs in hand, saluting the garbage truck.

So now, every few days, you walk over with cookies or tools or a smile- anything to stop them from accidentally declaring war on the neighborhood watch.

They call you “civilian asset.” You call them “the four horsemen of HOA violation.”

You’d made it a full week with only passive surveillance: peeking through the blinds, judging silently, watching four of the most suspicious men alive absolutely tank at civilian life like they were doing it on purpose.

But then Day Eight arrived, and with it: the lawn mower.

It appeared in their driveway, brand new, still partially in the box, wheels on backwards, safety manual fluttering sadly in the breeze. You watched as the tallest of the four (you think his name is Ghost, though that can’t possibly be real) stared at it with the blank caution of a man facing a disarmed explosive.

Price, with the vibe of someone who’s either a dad or a war criminal (or both) crouched next to it with a screwdriver and said, “It can’t be that complicated.”

Ten minutes later, the mower was upside down.

Fifteen minutes in, you heard one of them say, “Maybe it needs batteries.”

Twenty minutes, and the engine roared to life… before immediately dying and releasing a puff of smoke that probably violated several state laws.

You finally snapped at minute twenty two, crossing the street with your iced coffee in one hand and your will to live rapidly evaporating in the other.

“Gentlemen,” you called, because ‘dumbasses’ felt rude on a first-name basis. “Need a hand?”

All four of them turned as one. It was… a lot. Broad shoulders, stiff stances, gazes so intense it felt like they were trying to assess whether you were armed or a threat. You lifted your coffee slightly in truce. “Hi. Neighbor. Not here to judge but also- what are you doing?”

“We are,” Soap said proudly, hands on his hips and completely ignoring the sideways mower behind him, “mowing the lawn.”

“No, you’re not,” you said. “You’re staging a failed reenactment of Mad Max: Suburbia Edition.”

He blinked. “We started it?”

“You smoked it. That’s not the same.”

Gaz rubbed the back of his neck. “We followed the instructions.”

“Where are they?”

“…We shredded them.”

You closed your eyes. Counted to three. Maybe five. Then sighed and said, “Move. Let me.”

You had to start from scratch: wheels fixed, oil checked, gas topped off. They hovered like overgrown children who’d broken something expensive and were trying not to make it worse.

When you finally pulled the cord and the engine hummed to life, they all stepped back like you’d summoned fire. Ghost let out a low whistle. “Witchcraft,” he muttered.

“You’re just saying that because I didn’t read the instructions.”

Price gave a hum of approval. “Good instincts.”

“No,” you corrected. “Just basic literacy and critical thinking. You should try it sometime.”

By the time the first line of grass was mowed, you’d already adjusted the blade height and showed them the bag catcher. They were watching you like it was a TED Talk. Soap kept nodding enthusiastically, Gaz had pulled out a notepad, and Ghost… well, Ghost hadn’t moved, but he looked thoughtful under the mask.

“Do we… tip you for this?” Gaz asked awkwardly.

“No, but if you explode another household appliance, I’m billing you for emotional damage.”

They took over after that, slightly too eager, slightly too coordinated like this was part of a training exercise and not a normal Sunday morning. You watched them mow the rest of the lawn in overlapping 10x10 squares.

It was the most efficient lawn you’d ever seen.

Terrifyingly so

You didn’t ask why they moved in. You didn’t ask why they had two satellite dishes, five separate trash bins, and a constant rotation of unmarked vans dropping off “tools.”

You just went home, sat on your porch, sipped your coffee, and told yourself they were probably just ex-military, recently retired, and terrible at pretending to be normal.

Totally fine.

Totally not suspicious at all.

You made it exactly three days before the next crisis.

Three peaceful, blissful days where the most exciting thing that happened was watching Ghost water the lawn at 6am sharp, standing perfectly still in cargo shorts, holding the hose like a rifle. You’d watched him stand there for twenty minutes watering the same spot because apparently no one had explained the concept of “moving the hose around.”

Then came Saturday.

And with it: The Grill.

You didn’t even know they had a grill until you heard what sounded like a small explosion coming from their backyard, followed by Soap’s voice yelling, “That’s normal, that’s fine, that’s-!”

Another explosion.

“- SUPPOSED TO DO THAT!”

Whatever it was, you were fairly confident it was not supposed to do that.

You were out your door before you’d consciously decided to move, rounding the fence line with your phone in one hand (nine one one already dialed, just in case) and a fire extinguisher in the other (because you’d learned to be prepared when it came to these four).

The scene that greeted you was impressively bad.

Their back patio looked like someone had tried to stage a gender reveal for the Antichrist. There was a brand new grill, propane, shiny, still had the warranty sticker on it and currently shooting a jet of blue flame approximately twelve feet into the air like it was a prop for a Rammstein concert. The potted plant next to it was on fire. Not like, smoking. Fully on fire. Engulfed. You took half a second to mourn its fate.

Soap was crouched behind a lawn chair like it was cover, filming the flames with his phone. Gaz was standing at a “safe distance” (read: not far enough) with a second phone, also filming, both of them grinning like kids at a fireworks show. Price had a garden hose ready but seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal, like this was a controlled burn.

And Ghost-

Ghost was standing directly in front of the grill, tongs in one hand, a burger patty in the other, staring at the flame column like he was considering whether he could cook through it.

“Holy shit- GET BACK!” you screamed, because what the fuck.

Ghost turned slowly. Made direct eye contact. Then- and you’ll never forget this- tossed the burger onto the grill.

It instantly vaporized.

Just- FWOOM- gone. Atomized. Sent to the shadow realm.

“Hmm,” Ghost said, like this was useful data. “Too hot.”

“TOO- ” You had to physically stop yourself from having a stroke. “Too hot!? It’s not a grill, it’s a crematorium!!”

“S’fine,” Ghost said. “Just needs to burn off.”

“Burn off what?! The siding of your house? Your eyebrows? My will to live!?”

“Protective coating,” Price called out helpfully, still holding the hose at the ready. “Manual says it’s normal for the first use.”

“The manual says twelve inches not twelve feet! You’ve made a beacon! Ships can navigate to safe harbors by this! Gondor is calling for aid!!”

Soap popped up from behind the chair, eyes literally shining with delight. “You should’ve seen the first attempt! This one’s much better!”

You stopped. Blinked. “First attempt?”

“Aye!” Soap gestured proudly toward the yard.

You looked.

Really looked.

There was a vaguely grill shaped crater in the grass. Like someone had tried to bury a small car. The grass around it was black. There were scorch marks on the fence. A tree branch looked singed.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Oh my god. Did you- did you explode one already?”

“Technically it didn’t explode,” Gaz said, still filming. “It just… aggressively disassembled.”

“The legs melted,” Soap added, like this was a fun detail.

“Structural failure,” Ghost said.

“We returned it,” Price added, like that made it better. Like he hadn’t just admitted to returning a weapon of mass destruction to a Home Depot.

“You- ” You had to stop and take a breath. “You returned an exploded grill?”

“Wasn’t exploded,” Ghost said. “Just crispy.”

“CRISPY?!”

“Very crispy,” Soap confirmed. “Blackened. Like Cajun seasoning.”

“They gave us store credit,” Gaz said.

“How?!”

“We told them it was defective,” Price said.

“IT WAS DEFECTIVE BECAUSE YOU BLEW IT UP!”

“No proof of that.” Price’s expression was so sincere you almost believed he believed it.

The current grill chose that moment to make a sound like a jet engine spooling up, and the flame went from “concerning” to “fire code violation.”

You made an executive decision.

You marched over, shoved Ghost aside (he let you, which was somehow more terrifying than if he’d resisted), and twisted the propane tank valve shut.

The flame died instantly.

Silence fell over the backyard like the aftermath of battle.

Four pairs of eyes stared at you like you’d just performed a magic trick.

“How’d you know to do that?” Soap asked, genuinely amazed, like you’d just demonstrated cold fusion.

“Because I’m not insane,” you hissed, checking the connections. You opened the grill.

What you found inside made you question reality.

The burner covers were installed upside down. The drip tray was missing entirely. The heat deflectors were backwards. One of the knobs had been replaced with what looked like a bottle opener. And- you squinted-

“What,” you said, voice barely controlled, “is the duct tape for?”

“It was loose,” Ghost said.

“So you taped the ignition switch?”

“Affirmative.”

“With duct tape.”

“It’s very strong tape,” Soap offered.

“IT’S A FIRE HAZARD!”

“Everything’s a fire hazard if you try hard enough,” Gaz said, which was technically true but also the worst possible thing to say.

You pulled out your phone and took a picture. “I’m keeping this. For evidence. When your house explodes and takes out the whole block, I’m showing this to the insurance company.”

“Please don’t,” Price said.

“Our insurance is complicated,” Gaz added.

“I bet it is.” You pinched the bridge of your nose and counted to ten. Then twenty. Then you gave up on counting and just breathed.

“Okay. Okay. New plan. You four are going inside. I’m fixing this. If I hear one of you try to ‘help,’ I’m calling the fire department, the HOA, and possibly the FBI.”

“Why the FBI?” Gaz asked.

“Because I’m pretty sure you’re all on a list somewhere.”

They exchanged glances. No one denied it.

“Also im sure Mulder and Scully would want a word with you.”

“You think we’re aliens?”

“You’re certainly something,” you said as you physically shooed them away like feral cats. They retreated to the patio door and stood there, four grown men with their faces pressed to the glass like kids outside a toy store.

It took you forty five minutes to properly assemble the grill. Connections checked, burners aligned, drip tray located (it was in the recycling bin for some reason), and the propane set to a reasonable level that wouldn’t summon the god of fire.

You fired it up.

Zero explosions.

A normal, reasonable, sane amount of flame.

You turned around. All four of them had stepped outside and were staring at the grill like it was the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Soap started clapping. Slowly. Dramatically.

Gaz joined in, full standing ovation energy.

Price put his hand over his heart. “Beautiful.”

Ghost just gave you a slow nod and said, with absolute sincerity: “Witch.”

“It’s not magic” you snapped. “It’s called reading directions and having more than two brain cells!”

“Could you… teach us?” Gaz asked.

“Teach you what? How to not commit arson?!”

“That,” Price said. “Yes.”

You stared at them. They stared back, completely earnest.

“Please,” Soap added. “We want to learn the ways.”

“The ways of what?!”

“Suburbia,” Ghost said, like it was a foreign land.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. Counted to ten. Gave up. “Fine. Fine. New rule: before you operate any device- grill, mower, toaster, whatever- you text me first.”

“Like… every time?” Gaz asked.

“EVERY. TIME.”

“Even the toaster?” Soap asked.

“Especially the toaster. I don’t trust you people with anything that heats up, “ you said flatly. “Please stop trying to operate machinery unsupervised.”

Price stepped forward, arms crossed, looking far too serious for a man wearing a “Grill Daddy” apron. “We appreciate the assist. Really. Can we… make it up to you?”

“Buy a fire extinguisher. A big one.”

“Done.”

“And maybe- maybe- let me know before you try to use anything with an engine or an open flame?”

“Can’t promise that,” Soap said cheerfully.

“Then at least let me put you on speed dial so I don’t have to sprint over here every time you stage an industrial accident.”

Ghost tilted his head. “You’d do that?”

“I don’t want to. But I also don’t want your house exploding and taking out my property value.”

Price smiled- slow, deliberate, the kind of smile that made you wonder what exactly you’d just agreed to. “Deal.”

You went home after that.

Sat on your porch.

Stared at the sky.

And wondered, not for the first time, not for the last, what kind of background check you’d find if you Googled any of their names.

You didn’t Google them.

You weren’t ready for that kind of truth yet.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You’d been operating under the naive assumption that things were getting better with your new neighbors, Price, Soap, Gaz, and “Ghost”.

It had been five whole days since the Grill Incident. Five days of relative peace. Sure, you’d gotten some weird texts: “Is a microwave an open flame?” (no), “What about a hair dryer?” (WHY WOULD THAT BE- no), and one very concerning “Can we use the oven if we stand far away from it?” (ABSOLUTELY NOT WITHOUT SUPERVISION), but there had been no explosions, no fire department calls, and no new craters in their yard.

You were starting to think maybe, just maybe, you’d made progress.

Then came the text at 7 PM on a Tuesday.

Unknown Number: Preparing to use stove. Requesting supervision.

You stared at your phone. You’d given them your number for emergencies, and they’d… actually used it correctly? This was growth. This was them learning.

A small, warm, and entirely naive feeling of pride began to blossom in your chest.

You felt almost proud. Like a parent watching their kid learn how to use a fork after stabbing the plate repeatedly.

You: Okay! Be there in 5. What are you making?

Unknown Number: Dinner.

You: …what kind of dinner?

Unknown Number: The food kind.

You: … Is this Ghost?

Unknown Number: How did you know?

You: Lucky guess.

When you knocked on their door, Gaz answered immediately, like he’d been standing there waiting. He looked stressed in a way that made you immediately concerned.

“Thank god you’re here,” he said, ushering you inside with a panic that implied the house was currently undergoing a silent, slow motion catastrophe. “Price said we need to ‘eat a proper meal’ but we have a situation.”

You stepped into the main living area and immediately noted that their house was unsettlingly clean. Like, military-barracks, serial-killer, not-a-single-item-out-of-place clean. The couch cushions looked like they’d been installed with a level. There were no pictures on the walls. No knick knacks. No signs of human life whatsoever.

It looked like a furniture store display. Or a witness protection safe house. Or what an alien would create if you asked it to design a “normal human dwelling” based solely on IKEA catalogs.

“Okay,” you said slowly, wondering if this was the part where they revealed the clone pods in the basement. “What’s the situation?”

“We’re trying to make pasta,” Price said, appearing from the kitchen wearing an apron that said “Kiss The Cook” with the confidence of a man who clearly never cooked anything that didn’t come in a pouch labeled “Just Add Boiling Water.”

“Okay… pasta’s easy. Let me just check what you’re working with.” You headed into the kitchen, which was also unnervingly pristine. Gleaming counters. Perfectly aligned dish towels, folded with hospital corners. A stove so clean it looked like a museum exhibit.

“Alright, let me see what ingredients you’ve got- ”

“We’ve got everything,” Soap said with the confidence of a man who was about to be proven catastrophically wrong.

You opened the fridge.

The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest instantly shriveled up and died a small, tragic death.

Four gallons of milk.

That was it.

Four perfectly aligned gallons of milk.

You stared. Blinked. Closed the fridge. Opened it again in case you’d hallucinated.

Nope. Still just milk. So much milk. An alarming amount of milk.

“Where’s… everything else?”

“What else?” Ghost asked from directly behind you, making you scream a little because you hadn’t heard him enter and good god, why was he so quiet?!

“THE FOOD! Where is the food?!”

“It’s right there,” Soap said, pointing at the milk like you were being deliberately obtuse.

“This is milk! Just milk! Four gallons of milk!”

“One for each of us,” Gaz explained helpfully. “We have a system.”

“Your system is missing every major food group except dairy!”

“We have other food,” Price said, sounding genuinely confused by your distress. He opened the pantry with the confidence of a man about to shut you up with facts and logic.

You looked inside.

And felt your soul leave your body.

The pantry contained a singular box of pasta, one jar of pasta sauce, protein bars- so many protein bars- in different brands, different flavors, stacked with the precision of ammunition in an armory. They’d been organized by macro content.

A truly apocalyptic number of energy drinks all in multiple flavors and arranged by caffeine content. Beef jerky. So many bags. Some opened. Why were they opened and still in the pantry?

You opened up another cupboard and found industrial sized bags of trail mix that looked like they’d been stolen from a Costco and four massive bags of rice, twenty five pounds each.

The next cupboard contained towers of instant ramen. A throne of sodium. Beside them were multiple tubs of protein powders.

Then there were the MRE packages. Actual military MREs. At least thirty of them, labeled with things like “Menu 6: Pepper Jack Taco” and “Menu 23: Chicken Pesto.”

And finally, a single, lone can of green beans that looked like it had been there since the Clinton administration.

You turned around slowly.

All four of them were looking at you expectantly, like they’d just shown you a five star pantry and were waiting for praise.

“This,” you said, voice dangerously calm, “is not food.”

“Yes it is,” Gaz said, genuinely baffled. “We eat it literally every day.”

“This is snacks! This is what you take hiking! This is what you eat during the apocalypse, not a normal Tuesday!”

“We’ve been fine,” Price said defensively.

“YOU HAVE FOUR GALLONS OF MILK AND ENOUGH PROTEIN BARS TO SUPPLY A SMALL ARMY!”

“Well- ,” Soap started thoughtfully, only for Ghost to elbow him hard enough to send the Scot wheezing into the corner.

You grabbed a protein bar at random and read the label: ‘Tactical fuel maximum combat crunch chocolate warfare edition.’

“That one’s actually pretty good,” Gaz said. “The ‘Warfare Edition’ has 5 more grams of protein than the regular.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, completely sincere, like he’d just shared a helpful consumer tip.

“When,” you said slowly, “was the last time any of you ate a vegetable?”

They exchanged glances. Long, concerning, several-seconds-long glances.

“Define vegetable,” Soap finally said.

“A plant! A thing that grows! Something green!”

“There’s green in the ramen,” Soap tried, pointing at a package with a picture of sad, microscopic freeze-dried peas on it.

“FREEZE DRIED FOSSILS DON’T COUNT!”

“What about the beans?” Ghost pointed at the single can of green beans.

“When did you buy those?!”

Pause.

“…We actually found them here when we moved in,” Gaz admitted.

“SO THEY’RE NOT EVEN YOUR BEANS?!”

“Finders keepers,” Soap said.

You grabbed the can. Checked the expiration date. “These expired in 2012!”

“Still good,” Ghost said.

“No! Not ‘still good’! Expired! Bad! Do not eat!”

“We haven’t eaten them,” Price said.

“CLEARLY!”

“We were saving them for an emergency,” Ghost added.

“What kind of emergency requires cursed beans from the Obama era?!”

“Haven’t decided yet,” he said seriously.

You took a deep breath. It didn’t help. You took another one. Still nothing. You were about to take a third when you spotted something worse.

A drawer. Slightly open.

No.

No.

You opened it fully.

It was full of condiment packets. Ketchup, mustard, soy sauce, hot sauce, mayo, relish; hundreds of them, all meticulously organized by type in small dividers that someone had clearly built custom.

“What,” you whispered, staring into the void. “is this?”

“Condiment rations,” Price said, like this was normal. “We collect them when we go out.”

“You’ve been stealing condiment packets?!”

“It’s not stealing if they’re free,” Soap said.

“They’re free when you buy food there!”

“We do buy food there,” Gaz said.

“What food?!”

“Coffee,” Ghost said.

“Black coffee.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not food.”

“It has calories if you add enough sugar packets,” Soap said brightly, and then opened another drawer that was completely full of sugar packets, also organized with disturbing precision.

You were having a breakdown. This was a breakdown. You were actively having a breakdown in these four men’s kitchen while they watched you like confused dogs who’d just been scolded for something they didn’t understand.

“Okay,” you said, voice shaking. “Okay. When you go to the grocery store- and I’ve seen you come back with bags what do you buy?”

“Essentials,” Price said.

“Which are?”

“Last week we got bread,” Soap offered.

You waited.

“…and?”

“That’s it.”

“You bought four loaves of bread and nothing else.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what we needed.”

“What happened to the bread?”

“We ate it,” Ghost said, like you’d asked if the sky was blue.

“JUST BREAD?! PLAIN BREAD?! BY ITSELF?!”

“No,” Gaz said, sounding offended. “Sometimes we used the peanut butter.”

“Where’s the peanut butter?”

Soap opened another cabinet.

Four jars of peanut butter. Three of them completely empty, scraped so clean they looked like they’d been licked. The fourth was maybe 10% full.

You stared at the jars.

The jars stared back, hollow and haunting.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Oh my god. You’re all going to get scurvy and die. I’m watching four grown men actively develop a pirate disease in real-time in suburban America. They’re going to find you with your teeth falling out and they’ll think this house is cursed and the property value of the whole neighborhood is going to tank and I’ll never financially recover.”

“What’s scurvy?” Soap asked with genuine curiosity, like you’d just mentioned a celebrity he hadn’t heard of.

“When you don’t eat vitamin C and your teeth fall out and you hemorrhage and die a preventable 18th-century disease!”

All four of them immediately touched their teeth with identical looks of alarm. Ghost actually pulled up his mask slightly to check which would’ve been funny if you weren’t having a medical crisis on their behalf.

“We have vitamin C,” Ghost said, recovering quickly. He grabbed one of many supplement bottles from the cabinet. “Says right here. 500 milligrams.”

“That’s not the same as eating an orange!”

“Why not?” he asked with the genuine curiosity of a man who’d never questioned this before in his entire life.

“BECAUSE—” You stopped. You could feel a vein throbbing in your forehead. “Because your body needs actual food, not just chemicals in a pill!”

“Food is just chemicals,” Gaz pointed out.

“I will strangle you.”

“Noted.”

Price cleared his throat. “Look, we appreciate the concern, but we’re trained to operate in austere conditions with limited rations- ”

“This isn’t an austere condition!” You threw your hands up. “This is a suburb! There’s a god damn Whole Foods three miles away!”

“There’s a what?” Soap asked.

“A- do you- ” You stopped. Stared. “Do you not know what Whole Foods is?”

They looked at each other like you’d just asked them to explain quantum physics.

“Is that like… a nutrition philosophy?” Gaz tried.

“It’s a store! A grocery store! You know, where people buy food?!”

“Oh, we don’t go there,” Price said. “We go to the gas station.”

“You- ” Your brain screeched a grinding half and immediately blue-screened. Buffered. Crashed. Rebooted in safe mode. “You get your groceries at a gas station?”

“It’s closer,” Soap said.

“And they have good coffee,” Ghost added, like this was a selling point.

“That’s not grocery shopping! That’s convenience store snacks!”

“They have bananas sometimes,” Gaz offered.

“Do you buy them!?”

“No, they look weird.”

You grabbed your keys off the counter and pointed at all four of them.

“Get in the car. All of you. Right now. We’re going to an actual grocery store and I’m teaching you how to shop like actual human beings and not feral raccoons who gained sentience and a credit card.”

“Is this really necessary?” Price asked. “We were just going to make the pasta- ”

“WITH WHAT SAUCE?!”

“We have sauce.” He held up the jar.

“AND WHAT ELSE?!”

“…nothing else?”

“You need garlic! Onions! Meat! Vegetables! Something!”

“We have milk,” Soap said helpfully.

“You can’t put milk into spaghetti!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s wrong!”

“Lots of pastas have cream- ” Gaz started.

“GET IN THE GODDAMN CAR!”

They all jumped, then immediately scrambled toward the door with the coordination of soldiers who’d just been given a direct order by a superior officer.

As you herded four fully grown special operations soldiers toward your car like particularly muscular, combat-trained kindergarteners who’d somehow never learned what vegetables were, you heard Soap whisper to Ghost:

“So do you have any idea what’s a Whole Foods?”

“No idea,” Ghost whispered back. “Sounds like propaganda.”

“Do you think they have protein bars?”

“If they don’t, we’re leaving.”

You were going to need so much wine after this.