Nik is the kind of man to comfort you when you get scared by a horror movie.
He's seen people tortured, seen the bloody aftermath of cruelty and been on the receiving end of it more times than he would like. He knows fear like you know the corner block where you crashed your first car but now drive past to work everymorning.
Which is to say, nik has known fear most people will only fear in the split seconds before they die.
"Mh? What's wrong, milyy?" He frowns when you crawl into his arms, shaking.
"It's stupid." You huff into his neck, and earn a corrective pinch to the side that has you groaning "it's just...i saw that horror movie and...uhm....and..."
"Was it too scary, milaya?" Nik prompts, not judgemental or condescending, simply asking. When you nod, he coos and tucks you in close. He tries to not let you shaking hands bother him while he pulls the fluffy, thick blankets over you.
Nik has known true fear, but he'd never belittle your own because of it's source. He knows that the body doesn't care if it's a horror movie or a knife, the fear is felt regardless.
So he tucks you close and leaves the lights on when you ask. He'll be there as long as you need.
Robby sighs. He knows. He’s been told by every member of staff at some point today, as if he can’t feel the headache and unnecessary sweat beading at his temples. Jack pointing it out is just the cherry on top. “Thank you.”
A cool hand finds its way to Robby’s forehead. He freezes like a deer, relishing in the welcome chill that pours over him from Jack’s skin.
Jack hums unhappily. “I can’t believe you came to work like this.”
“It's just a cold.”
“Come on,” Jack says. “North four is open; I’m gonna look you over.”
Robby scoffs. “No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am.” Jack locks his hand around Robby’s elbow and drags him through the hall. “If you wanted to be trusted to take care of yourself, you should’ve called someone in to cover for you instead of spreading your shit all shift.”
“I’ve been wearing a mask the whole time.”
“Don’t fucking argue with me, man.”
“You’re always telling me to get a hobby,” Robby jokes. Jack pulls him inside the exam room and ushers him to the bed like he’s a patient.
“The quieter you are, the quicker you can go home.”
“I can get up and leave whenever.”
“And I can call Gloria and make sure you’re taken off the schedule.”
Bastard. Robby scrapes his tongue over his teeth. “You want to waste your time with me instead of helping real patients?”
“Yep.” He places the end of his stethoscope over Robby’s heart and his other hand on his back. The gentle fingers fit in the grooves of Robby’s spine. “Deep breath in.”
Robby obeys.
“And out.”
All Robby can focus on is the way Jack’s hands slide over his scrubs. The slight pressure strikes him like a soft buzzing electricity, making the hair on his arms stand.
They repeat the process until Jack is satisfied.
He presses his bare fingers in the junction under Robby's jaw. The temptation to make a smart comment about needing to use gloves is suppressed by the overwhelming sensation of his own pulse beating against Jack's fingertips.
“Alright, look up,” Jack whispers. His gentle hands press along the length of Robby's neck. "Doesn't feel swollen."
"I told you, it's just a cold," Robby murmurs back.
"Not with how hot you're running. In fact..." He grabs a thermometer and aims it at Robby's forehead.
"That's really not necessary."
"I'm the doctor, you're the patient. I'll decide what's necessary." A low beep rings from the device, "103.2. Jesus Christ, that's no cold."
Guilt squirms in Robby's chest. "It wasn't that high when I came in."
"Take your mask off, let me look inside your throat."
Robby does as he's told and lets Jack inspect him with the flashlight. He doesn't use a tongue depressor, instead delicately taking Robby's chin in his still bare hands and encouraging his mouth wider. A tingle spreads under his beard.
"No white spots, but it's pretty red."
"Started feeling sore around noon," he admits.
Jack crosses his arms and frowns, disappointed. "Why didn't you call me? I would've come in for you."
"It's not that bad."
"It's the flu."
"I'm off for the next two days anyway."
"Good." Jack stands and washes his hands. "I am after tonight, too. I'll swing by your place after with some soup."
"I can take care of myself."
"Clearly, that's not true." Jack sighs. He settles back on the stool in front of Robby and taps his knuckles against Robby's knee. "Please?"
The tenderness brewing on Robby's face jumps to his legs. It wouldn't be so bad to have Jack stay for a few hours, or a few days. "Okay."
Share a vision with me: Hollanov in bed. It's dark out. The bedside lamp is on, glowing. Ilya is lying on his stomach, head resting on his folded arms, naked from the waist up. Shane is sat against the headboard, glasses on, ostensibly reading his book but really he's softly tracing the moles on Ilya's back. Ilya gets so relaxed and drowsy at the goosebump-raising sensation of Shane's dragging fingertips that he falls asleep. Shane doesn't stop his gentle caresses, just stares at Ilya's face. They're both lethargic with love, basking in it.
Sorry imagining Ilya being able think about Shane’s eras based on what he smelled like. The first hookup he smells like generic soap & Old Spice deodorant. Hookup era he smells like the luxury cologne Ilya knows he got for free from a brand deal. Post Rose Landry he smells like some ridiculous $500 bottle of unisex cologne that his stylist put him on. At the cottage Shane smells like nothing but sweat & sunshine & the body wash they’re both using every day. Once they’re officially together Shane smells like his boring organic shampoos & fancy citrus deodorant
Okay but imagine being the team of Eridian scientists tasked with keeping Erid's Only Human alive for as long as possible while the whole planet's environment is literally trying to kill him. And then Rocky shows up and is like:
“Grace says he would like half of dome to be water.”
“Oh, is necessary for humans to have large amounts of water question?”
Small Eridian equivalent of a sigh. “No. Not needed for life. In fact Grace will die if he falls in water and does not get out.”
“Tell him we give him water in containers that won't kill him. Lots lots lots of water on Erid for Grace to drink.”
“No. Grace say he want water on ground. Also want it with excess sodium chloride compound so it will be unhealthy for drink.”
To celebrate Erid getting their sun back on track, Grace asks for some alcohol. There's a small amount left from the Hail Mary and Rocky offers to take it to the science Eridians to see if they can synthesise more.
“Grace want this liquid for celebration.”
“Of course.” They scan it. “You have wrong liquid. This contain compounds which are poisonous for humans.”
“Yes yes yes. Grace say humans like feeling of being slightly poisoned.”
if i had a time machine, first thing id do is obviously kill hitler. even if germanys fascism was caused by complex socioeconomic factors itd still be worth doing for the bit. then id go even further back to the early 20th century and become one of those old timey bank robbers, when they had names like 'pretty boy floyd' and 'baby face nelson' and id make sure people knew me as 'sweet baby ray' just to see how it fucks with barbeque sauce history
Anyone else remember the scene at the end of Deadpool 2. Where Deadpool used his time machine and was going to strangle baby Hitler. He didn't go through with it because killing a baby would be too dark.
Might have been in the extended cut.
I don't know why the writers didn't read a history book; adult Hitler served in the trenches in WW1. With the Bavarian army at the Battle of Ypres
Picture the scene; Deadpool appearing out of nowhere on the English/French side of the battlefield and immediately running off at full sprint towards the German side.
Both sides of the conflict are utterly stunned at first, but soon the Germans catch on that this must be an attack of some kind and Deadpool starts taking fire.
He gets peppered by bullets but keeps running. Maybe he even gets hit in the head and falls for a moment whilst his body regenerates, then gets back up and keeps running.
Making it to the German lines with pistols drawn he barrels into the Germans, pushing and shoving everyone out of his way. Giving the odd soldier a bean in the head with one of his pistols if they stab him with a bayonet or something. But not killing anyone.
Finally he stumbles upon his man: "Ah Ha! I found you!" Deadpool shrieks excitedly and point blanks some random Bavarian soldier right between the eyes.
Then he time travels away, vanishing instantly. Leaving the rest of the German forces utterly perplexed, wondering what the hell just happened.
The audience too; until the camera pans down to the dead soldier and we see his dog-tags read 'Hitler, Adolph' and it all suddenly makes sense.
listen you're not wrong, but you need to figure out how to stop the entire system that's jury-rigged all the Russian elections, too. They've literally never had a real election, and any plausible competition also tends to get whacked.
based on this problem, the best time machine action would be to go back to ancient greece and persuade them to used ranked voting. make it get into all the texts so some of it will be preserved, maybe have them worship a god created for it
some millenia later, democracy != most divisive populist voice wins, but = most middle of the road, inoffensive voice gets voted in from a lot of people's second places
the added benefit is that the pm's/presidents themselves will know that they are but humble second choice servants of the people's will
i think it would heal shane to have some of the centaurs flirt with him. i think it would do him some good for them to slap his ass. i think it'd be nice if someone jumped on his back and he gave them a piggyback ride. i think he would secretly enjoy having the rookies use him as their pillow while waiting at the airport
i just think it'd be good for him to get to experience the parts of locker room culture that are playful and affectionate when he never got them because montreal operated under the logic of you like guys which means you MUST like me and that's a personal threat to my masculinity
The Civilian's Field Guide to Task Force 141 pt. ???
The Stalker Incident
@insomnis-noctis: “Can we get a opposite version. Where the reader is incompetent when it comes to fighting. And the 141 are absolutely losing it and wonder if this is how you felt because to them it's common sense and second nature like how shopping and living normally is to us.” 🫡
You didn’t want to bother them.
That was the thing. You’d spent weeks-weeks- teaching four grown men how to operate a lawn mower, buy groceries, and cook pasta without summoning Satan himself. They were clearly… something. You weren’t sure what. Possibly escapees from a corporate retreat gone catastrophically wrong? A wellness cult that got kicked out of the compound? Ex-circus performers adjusting to life with the full use of gravity?
Whatever they were, you’d established yourself as the Competent One(TM). The person who had their life together. The responsible neighbor who knew things like “how garbage disposals work” and “why you can’t microwave aluminum foil.”
So when you started noticing… weird stuff… you definitely weren’t going to run to them like some damsel in a Lifetime movie.
You could handle this.
Probably.
Maybe.
It started small. A car you didn’t recognize parked across the street. Same car, three days in a row. Then your trash bin moved from where you’d left it out from under your window almost like someone had been peaking in. Then you could’ve sworn someone had been on your porch- the flower pot was shifted like half an inch to the left.
“You’re being paranoid,” you told yourself, reorganizing your spice cabinet at 2am because sleep was a distant memory. “It’s nothing. You’re fine. Everything’s fine. This is fine. Why do I own three containers of oregano? When did I buy- focus. You’re spiraling.”
Then came the letter.
Not in your mailbox, but on your windshield. Tucked under the wiper blade like the world’s creepiest parking ticket.
‘You look nice in blue. You should wear it more often.’
You’d been wearing blue yesterday.
You stood in your driveway, staring at the note, having what could only be described as a complete psychological collapse in real time.
“It’s probably… a marketing thing?” you said out loud to absolutely no one. “Like… targeted advertising? Very targeted. Very specific. Very illegal? Probably super illegal actually. That’s gotta violate privacy laws or something. Can I report this to- ”
Your phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You didn’t wave back today. That wasn’t very friendly.
You stopped breathing. Forgot how breathing worked entirely. Was this something you needed lungs for?
Your phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number: Sleep well :)
The smiley face somehow made it so much worse.
By the next week, you’d convinced yourself you were having a legitimate mental breakdown and that you were inventing problems the way influencers invent morning routines.
Sure, your mailbox had been opened when you knew you’d closed it. Sure, there were footprints in your garden that weren’t yours (and you didn’t have a gardener because you were broke). Sure, there were things inside your house that had been moved around from their original location when you came back from work. Sure, you’d gotten several more texts from the unknown number, each one slightly more specific about your daily routine like he was taking detailed notes.
But maybe you’d just forgotten about the mailbox? Maybe the footprints were from a very lost mailman? Maybe you’d absentmindedly moved your things. Maybe the texts were… a wrong number? A very persistent, weirdly well-informed, possibly psychic wrong number?
“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered, making coffee with shaking hands at 6pm because you’d given up on sleep entirely. Sleep was for people who weren’t being stalked. “Nothing’s wrong. You’re fine. Everything’s- ”
Knock. Knock. KNOCK.
You screamed. An honest-to-god, Oscar-worthy horror-movie scream. Threw your coffee mug and everything. It shattered against the wall in a beautiful arc of ceramic shrapnel and caffeine.
Another knock.
“Uh, you good in there?” Soap’s voice called through the door, muffled but concerned. “We heard a crash! And also screaming! Significant amounts of screaming!”
You sagged against the counter. Took a breath. Questioned every life choice. Opened the door.
All four of them stood on your porch in varying states of… were they wearing matching black tactical gear? No, that couldn’t be right. You were sleep deprived. You were hallucinating. This was a psychotic break.
“Hey,” you said, voice definitely twelve octaves too high. “What’s up? Everything okay? Do you need help with something? Did you break another appliance? Is the house on fire?”
“Are you alright?” Price asked, and his voice had gone all weird and serious and dad like. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m fine! Great! Perfect! Thriving! Living my best life! Why?”
“You’ve been checking your windows a lot,” Gaz said casually. Too casually. Like he was commenting on the weather and not admitting to watching your house.
“Have I? I haven’t noticed. I don’t- how would you even- why do you know that about me?!”
“We’re observant,” Ghost said from behind his mask, which still wasn’t a normal thing to wear, but you’d given up on that battle approximately three weeks ago.
“That’s- that’s a little- that’s actually extremely concerning- ”
“There’s been a silver Toyota Camry parked on this street for a week,” Soap interrupted, pulling out a literal notepad like he’d been documenting this. “2019 model. Doesn’t belong to anyone in the neighborhood. We checked.”
You felt your blood run cold. “You che- how do you know that?”
“We pay attention,” Price said, like this was normal.
“TO WHAT?! CAR REGISTRATIONS?! LICENSE PLATES?! WHY DO YOU UAVE ACCESS TO A CAR REGISTRATION DATABASE?!”
They exchanged glances. The kind of glances that made you wonder, not for the first time, what exactly these four men did for a living and whether it was legal.
They looked at you and said in perfect unison. “Consulting.”
‘Consulting’ your entire ass.
“Is someone bothering you?” Price asked, and the way he said it made you forget how to form complete sentences.
“I- no- it’s nothing- it’s probably- ”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Soap said, and he wasn’t smiling anymore, which was somehow more terrifying than Ghost’s usual vibe.
“You’re checking your locks multiple times,” Ghost observed. Like that was a completely normal thing to notice about your neighbor. “Three times last night. Four times the night before. You’ve stopped going outside after dark. You park in different spots every day now. Yesterday you parked two blocks away and walked back.”
“HOW DO YOU KNOW ALL OF THIS?!”
“You’ve stopped taking the trash out at night,” Gaz added, like you hadn’t just screamed. “You used to take it out Tuesday and Friday evenings. Now you wait until morning. You’ve started checking under your car before you get in. And you’ve been checking your backseat.”
“Oh my god why do you know what about me!?”
“You’re scared,” Gaz said quietly, ignoring your very reasonable question entirely.
And something about the way he said it- not judging, not pitying, just stating an observable fact like a scientist- made everything crack wide open.
“I’m being stalked,” you heard yourself say, and wow, words were just happening now without your permission. “I think. Maybe. I don’t know. Someone’s been… texting me? And there’s a car. And someone moved my stuff. And I know I sound completely insane- l
“You don’t,” Price said firmly, like he was stating a universal truth.
“- but I can’t prove anything and the police won’t care about some texts and a moved flower pot and I’m probably just being paranoid and- ”
“Show us the texts,” Ghost said, holding out his hand like this was a totally normal request.
“What?”
“The texts. Show us.”
With shaking hands, you pulled out your phone and handed it over.
They gathered around it like it was the fucking Rosetta Stone. Like they were archaeologists discovering ancient civilization secrets and not reading creepy messages from a stalker.
The silence stretched for way too long.
“When did these start?” Price asked, voice deadly calm in a way that made you wonder if maybe “consultant” was code for “hitman” or “mob enforcer” or “guy who makes problems disappear.”
“A week ago?”
“And the car?”
“Same day.”
More silence. They were all looking at each other. Having some kind of silent conversation with just their eyes like they had telepathy or a hive mind.
It was deeply unsettling.
“Has he approached you directly?” Gaz asked, and it sounded like an interrogation question. Like a cop question. Like a “we’re building a case” question.
“No, just… the note on my car. And the texts. So many texts.”
“Does he know where you work?” Soap asked with the intensity of someone conducting an FBI investigation and not a friendly neighborhood chat about your potential murder.
“I… I don’t know. Maybe? He knew I was wearing blue, so he must’ve seen me- oh god, he’s been watching me, hasn’t he? He’s been actually watching me!”
“Okay,” Price said, in the same tone of voice he used while they were setting up the Halloween decorations. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re staying with us tonight.”
“I’m not- ”
“Not asking,” he said, in a tone that suggested this was not up for debate, discussion, or democratic vote. “Grab whatever you need. You’re not staying here alone.”
“That’s insane! I can’t just- I have work tomorrow and- ”
“You can and you will,” Ghost said, and somehow made it sound both threatening and comforting, like a very dangerous security blanket.
“We’ll handle this,” Gaz added, cracking his knuckles in a way that seemed practiced.
“Handle what?! There’s nothing to handle! It’s just some texts! Some weird texts from a probably harmless person who’s just- ”
All four of them looked at you like you’d just said something adorable and catastrophically stupid.
“Pack a bag,” Price said. “Now.”
“I- ”
“Now.”
You packed a bag because honestly, you were too tired and scared and caffeinated to argue.
Twenty minutes later, you were sitting in their weirdly immaculate living room (seriously, who lives like this? Who has hospital corners on their throw pillows?), clutching a cup of tea that Soap had made (surprisingly good, which was somehow more suspicious), while all four of them stood around your phone like they were examining evidence at a crime scene.
Which, okay, maybe they were?
“He’s been watching her for at least a week,” Ghost said, scrolling through your phone.
“Probably longer,” Gaz corrected, leaning over his shoulder. “These texts reference things from before the car showed up. He mentions her coffee routine from nine days ago.”
“So he’s escalating,” Price said, like this was a technical term.
ESCALATING?!
“Definitely escalating,” Soap agreed, nodding like they were discussing a particularly tricky soufflé recipe and not your potential kidnapping/murder.
“The note on the car was a test,” Ghost continued, like something out of a scene from Law and Order. “He’s gauging her reaction. Seeing if she’ll reach out to authorities.”
“She didn’t,” Gaz observed.
“Because I didn’t think it was that serious!” you interjected, because apparently you were just part of the forensic analysis now.
They all looked at you with identical expressions of “oh sweetie no.”
“Okay,” you said loudly, standing up because sitting down felt too passive for this situation. “What exactly do you four do for a living? And don’t say consulting!”
They looked at each other.
“Consulting,” Price said.
“Business consulting,” Gaz added.
“Corporate consulting,” Soap tried, which was somehow even less convincing.
“…Consultation,” Ghost finished, which wasn’t even a job.
“That’s not a real answer! Those are just synonyms!”
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” Price said, which was somehow worse than no answer.
“Are you in the mob?”
“What? No!”
“The mafia?”
“There’s a difference?”
“ARE YOU ASSASSINS?!”
“Why would you think we’re assassins?” Gaz asked, looking genuinely baffled and slightly offended.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE ACTING LIKE ASSASSINS! YOU’RE DOING ASSASSIN THINGS!”
“We’re not assassins,” Ghost said, and then added: “Assassins have better operational security than this.”
“THAT’S NOT REASSURING! THAT’S THE OPPOSITE OF REASSURING!”
“Look,” Price said, holding up his hands like he was trying to calm a spooked horse. “We’re just… people who are good at solving problems.”
“What kind of problems?!”
“The kind you currently have,” Soap said, gesturing at your phone like it was Exhibit A.
“By doing WHAT, exactly?!”
Another round of significant glances. They were having another silent conversation. You were going to develop a complex about this.
“We’re going to have a conversation with your new friend,” Ghost finally said, which sounded extremely ominous.
“That sounds like a threat!”
“It’s not a threat,” Price said. “It’s a promise.”
“THAT’S WORSE! THAT’S SO MUCH WORSE! PROMISES ARE BINDING!”
“Do you want help or not?” Gaz asked, which was frankly a fair question.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked at all four of them- these weird men who couldn’t operate a microwave but apparently ran a surveillance network on your entire street like it was a military operation.
“I don’t want anyone to get hurt,” you said quietly.
“No one’s going to get hurt,” Price promised, which was either very reassuring or a complete lie.
“Except maybe him,” Soap muttered.
“MacTavish!”
“What?! I’m just saying! He’s been stalking her for days!”
“You can’t just- you can’t just beat up some random stalker!”
“Who said anything about beating him up?” Ghost asked innocently, which was not innocent at all.
“We’re just going to talk to him,” Gaz said, emphasizing ‘talk’ in a way that suggested talking was a full-contact sport.
“With words,” Soap added.
“Very persuasive words,” Price finished.
“Extremely persuasive words,” Ghost contributed.
You looked between all of them. “I feel like I’m having a stroke.”
“You’re not,” Ghost said. “You’re just underprepared for this situation. We’re not. Let us handle it.”
“How are you prepared for this?! You’re business consultants! You didn’t know how to use a can opener last week!”
“Very hands on business consulting,” Price said.
“We consult… aggressively,” Gaz tried, which sounded like a parody of a LinkedIn profile.
“With extreme prejudice,” Ghost added.
“That’s a military term! Thats’s a targeted killing term!”
They all froze.
Like you’d just said the password.
Like you’d just unlocked a secret.
“Is it?” Soap asked with the innocence of a cherub, which was undermined by literally everything about him.
“YES!”
“Huh. Must’ve picked it up somewhere.”
“WHERE?!”
“Television?” Gaz suggested weakly.
“Probably television,” Price agreed, nodding like this was plausible.
“Definitely television,” Ghost said. “We watch a lot of television. Very educational.”
“NCIS,” Soap added. “Great show. Very realistic.”
You stared at them. They stared back with expressions of profound innocence that didn’t match their faces at all.
“I’m too tired for this,” you muttered, sitting back down because your legs were giving up.
“Exactly,” Price said, like he’d won an argument. “Which is why you’re going to stay here, get some rest, and let us handle this.”
“All of you?” you asked, suddenly panicking about being left alone in their weirdly clean house while someone was stalking you. “You’re all going?”
“Someone needs to stay with you,” Price said. Then looked at Ghost. “You’re on guard duty.”
Guard duty.
GUARD. DUTY.
“What kind of business consultants say ‘guard duty’?!” you half shrieked, voice cracking, ignoring the way you felt relieved that you wouldn’t be alone after all.
“The security kind!” Soap said quickly, too quickly, suspiciously quickly.
“We consult on… security,” Gaz added, scrambling.
“Business security,” Price emphasized, like adding ‘business’ made it legitimate.
“For businesses,” Ghost contributed unhelpfully.
“I hate all of you.”
“That’s fair,” Price said, checking his watch (which looked expensive and tactical). “We’ll be back in an hour.”
And then three of them just… left. Walked out the door like they were going to get groceries and not confront your stalker with “persuasive words” and “extreme prejudice.”
You turned to Ghost, who had settled into a chair with the posture of someone prepared to sit there for several hours without moving, blinking, or acknowledging human biological needs.
“This is insane,” you said. “You guys are insane.”
“Little bit,” he agreed.
“What are they going to do?”
“Have a chat.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
You sat there in silence for a moment, your brain trying desperately to process the last thirty minutes of your life and failing spectacularly.
“Thank you,” you finally said quietly. “For… noticing. And caring. Even if you’re all deeply weird about it.”
Ghost tilted his head. “We’re weird?”
“You ran a surveillance operation on my house.”
“That’s just being neighborly.”
“No it’s not! Neighbors borrow sugar! They don’t build dossiers!”
“Agree to disagree.”
Your phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Where did you go? Come home. I’m worried about you.
You felt your stomach drop into your feet, possibly into the floor below your feet.
Ghost, seeing your reaction, held out his hand. You gave him the phone.
He read the message. Then, very calmly, with the confidence of someone who’d done this exact thing before, probably multiple times, possibly in several countries, typed out a response:
‘Wrong number. Suggest you delete this contact and move on. Have a nice life.’
“That’s not going to- ” you started.
Unknown Number: Who is this?
Ghost smiled behind his mask. You could tell because his eyes crinkled in a way that was somehow more terrifying than comforting.
‘Her security consultant. And you’ve just been flagged as a liability.’
“SECURITY CONSULTANT?!”
“It’s not a lie,” he said, still typing like he was composing a very important work email.
Unknown Number: This is none of your business.
‘Made it my business. Leave her alone before I make you.’
“Oh my god.” You whispered, looking at him with wide eyes. “You’re threatening him. You’re actively threatening him in real time.”
“I’m consulting him. Aggressively.”
Unknown Number: You can’t threaten me. I’ll call the police.
Ghost actually laughed. Actually laughed. A full, genuine laugh that sounded rusty, like he didn’t do it often.
‘Please do. We’d love to discuss your recent activities with them. And I’m sure they’ll be interested to know you’re breaking the terms of your parole.’
“Parole!? What parole?!”
Ghost tilted his head slightly, still looking at the phone. “The parole he’s on for the 2019 stalking incident. Condition 4B specifically prohibits contact with new individuals in a manner consistent with previous behavior patterns.”
You stared at him. “How do you- that can’t be public record. That’s not- you can’t just know that!”
“Can’t I?” Ghost said mildly.
“NO! Parole conditions aren’t- those are in restricted databases! Government databases! You’d need- ” You stopped. Stared harder. “Oh my god. How did you access a government database?!”
“I didn’t say I accessed anything.”
“You just quoted his parole conditions! Specific conditions! With numbers and letters!”
“Did I?” Ghost looked at you innocently. “Maybe he told me.”
“You’ve never spoken to him!”
“Maybe it was a lucky guess.”
“That’s not a lucky guess! That’s classified information!”
“Is it?” Ghost asked, turning back to your phone as it buzzed.
Unknown Number: How do you know about that?
Ghost’s eyes crinkled again. He showed you the screen. “See? He just confirmed it. Very helpful of him.”
“You! You just-!”
“Consulted a database. Possibly. Allegedly. Can’t prove anything.”
“GHOST!”
“Would you like more tea?” he asked pleasantly, standing up. “You look stressed.”
“I LOOK STRESSED BECAUSE MY NEIGHBOR JUST COMMITTED A FEDERAL CRIME!”
“Allegedly,” he corrected. “And only if someone could prove I accessed something I shouldn’t have. Which they can’t. Because I’m very good at consulting.”
“THAT’S NOT WHAT CONSULTING MEANS!”
He turned off your phone and handed it back.
“You just- did you just- did you just- ”
“Handle it? Yes.”
“By THREATENING him!?”
“We’re very thorough consultants.”
“CONSULTANTS DON’T THREATEN PEOPLE!”
“The good ones do.”
You stared at him. He stared back, completely calm, like you were discussing the weather and not casually breaking the law.
“I’m going to google you,” you threatened. “All of you. Right now. I’m going to find out what you actually do.”
“Good luck with that,” he said pleasantly, which was somehow ominous.
“What does that mean?!”
“Nothing. Now about that tea?”
“I- yes. Yes, I would like more tea because I’m having a crisis.”
“Understandable,” he said, disappearing into the kitchen. “Chamomile or English Breakfast?”
“CHAMOMILE. I NEED TO BE SEDATED.”
“Excellent choice.”
***
Fifty three minutes later (you were counting, you were absolutely counting), Price, Soap, and Gaz came back.
You jumped up from the couch where you’d been spiraling into an anxiety pretzel. “What happened?! Did you find him?! Did you kill him?! Are you going to jail?! Am I going to jail as an accomplice?! Do I need a lawyer?! Are you my lawyers?!”
“Nobody’s going to jail,” Soap said, sounding slightly disappointed about something, which was concerning.
“We had a very productive consultation,” Gaz added with a straight face that belonged in a poker tournament.
Price smiled warmly which was terrifying. “You won’t be getting any more texts. Or letters. Or visits. Or any form of contact whatsoever.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we provided him with a comprehensive breakdown of why that would be inadvisable,” he said simply, like this was a powerpoint presentation.
“Which was…?”
“Better you don’t ask,” all four of them said in perfect unison.
Like they’d practiced it.
Like they’d rehearsed this exact scenario.
“I’m asking! I’m definitely asking! What did you do?!”
They exchanged glances.
“We showed him some statistics,” Gaz said carefully, too carefully.
“No,” Price said firmly, looking genuinely offended. “We simply presented data that demonstrated why his current course of action would lead to undesirable outcomes.”
“For him,” Ghost added helpfully.
“OH MY GOD.”
“We were very professional about it,” Gaz assured you, which was not assuring.
Professional hitmen are also professional!”
“We’re not hitmen,” Price said, looking actually offended now.
“Then what are you?!”
Silence.
Profound silence.
The kind of silence that speaks volumes.
“Consultants,” they all said together, in perfect harmony, like a barbershop quartet of suspicious activity.
“I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND! I’M LOSING IT RIGHT NOW! IT’S HAPPENING!”
“You really need to sleep,” Soap said sympathetically, like you were being unreasonable. “You’ve had a rough few days.”
“I’ve had a rough few days?! You just- you just- implied murder to a stalker!”
“Didn’t imply murder,” Gaz corrected. “Implied consequences.”
“WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE?!”
“Semantics,” Ghost hummed.
“That’s not better!”
“Look,” Price said gently, like he was talking to someone who was about to have a breakdown (accurate, you were absolutely about to have a breakdown). “You’re safe. That’s what matters. He’s not going to bother you again. Ever.”
“And if he does,” Ghost added, returning with tea, “he has our contact information now.”
“You gave him your contact information?!”
“For follow up consultations,” Soap explained, like this was normal business practice. “It’s good customer service.”
“This isn’t customer service! This is- this is vigilante justice!”
“Please don’t,” Ghost said, handing you more tea. “The neighbors already think we’re weird.”
“The neighbors are right! The neighbors are absolutely right!”
“That’s fair,” Soap agreed cheerfully, like you’d complimented his shirt.
You stared at all of them. These absolute lunatics who’d learned to mow a lawn several weeks ago. Who bought four gallons of milk and thought that was normal. Who couldn’t cook pasta without causing what could only be described as an “incident.”
These men who’d just solved your stalker problem in under an hour using methods you were terrified to examine too closely.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or report you to… someone,” you admitted.
“Thank us,” Ghost suggested. “Much less paperwork.”
“Did you… do anything actually illegal?”
They exchanged glances again. You were developing a complex about the glances.
“Define illegal,” Soap said, which was not the answer you wanted.
“Oh my god.”
“We had a conversation,” Price said firmly, like he was testifying under oath. “A very thorough, very detailed conversation about boundaries, consequences, and why continuing to contact you would be a poor life choice. Possibly his worst life choice.”
“We may have also consulted his employer,” Gaz added casually, like this was an afterthought.
“His employer?!”
“Turns out his boss is very interested to know that he’s been using company resources for personal surveillance,” Soap said brightly, like he was sharing good news.
“And the company vehicle,” Gaz added.
“During work hours,” Ghost finished.
“HOW DID YOU- you know what, I don’t want to know.”
“Probably for the best,” Ghost agreed.
You should’ve been horrified. You should’ve been calling the police on them. You should’ve been questioning every life choice that led to this moment, possibly going back to birth.
Instead, you burst into tears.
Like, full ugly crying. The kind with snot.
“Whoa- hey- it’s okay- ” Soap immediately panicked, looking at the others with wide eyes like they’d just triggered a bomb.
“Did we- did we do something wrong?” Gaz asked, looking terrified in a way that was almost funny considering what they’d just done.
“Should we not have-?” Price started, looking genuinely distressed, like he’d failed a mission.
“No,” you sobbed. “I was so scared- I thought he was going to- I didn’t know what to do! Thank you!”
“Oh,” Ghost said quietly. “She’s relieved.”
“I COULDN’T SLEEP!” you wailed, and wow, you were really going for it now. “I thought I was going crazy and I was worried everyone would tell me I was overreacting-”
Price pulled you into a hug without hesitation. Just… straight up hugged you like he did this all the time and was good at it.
Which was weird because you’d seen him high five Soap last week and somehow make it look awkward, so clearly physical contact wasn’t his strong suit, but here he was, hugging you like a dad, and-
Were you crying harder now? You were definitely crying harder now.
“You’re safe,” he said quietly, and he sounded so certain about it. Like it was a fact of the universe. “That’s done. It’s over. He won’t bother you again.”
“You’re staying here tonight anyway,” Soap added, patting your shoulder awkwardly. “Just in case. For observation.”
“We’ll maintain a watch rotation,” Gaz said, then quickly added when you looked up, “I mean- we’ll keep an eye out. Neighborly vigilance. Normal neighbor stuff.”
“Watch rotation?!”
“He means we’ll check the windows sometimes,” Price said quickly, shooting Gaz a look that could kill.
“Yes. Sometimes. Occasionally. Randomly. Not on a schedule or anything,” Gaz said unconvincingly, like he was reading from a bad script.
“You’re all so bad at this,” you hiccupped.
“Bad at what?” Ghost asked innocently, which was rich coming from him.
“Whatever it is you’re pretending you don’t do!”
“We’re business consultants,” Soap said.
“With a focus on security,” Gaz added.
“For businesses,” Price emphasized.
“That need consulting,” Ghost finished.
“And occasionally aggressive problem solving,” Soap added.
“SOAP!”
“What?! It’s true!”
“I hate you all,” you said, but you were smiling now, because apparently you’d reached some kind of emotional breakthrough or mental break. Hard to tell which.
“That’s fair,” Price said, still hugging you like you were his actual child. “Want some dinner?”
“You’re going to cook?”
“God no,” he said immediately. “We were thinking of ordering pizza.”
“Oh thank god. Yes. Pizza. Please. So much pizza.”
Later, after the pizza had arrived (and you’d watched them arrange the slices on plates, which was definitely normal behavior and not at all suspicious), you sat on their couch with a blanket and asked:
“How did you know something was wrong? Really?”
“You stopped correcting us,” Price said immediately, like he’d been waiting for this question.
“What?”
“You came over Tuesday to help with the keurig machine,” Soap explained. “And you just… helped. Didn’t make a single sarcastic comment. Didn’t call us idiots. Nothing.”
“And you always make sarcastic comments,” Gaz added. “It’s like your signature thing. Your brand.”
“That’s when we knew something was off,” Ghost finished. “You’re mean to us. Affectionately mean. When you suddenly weren’t, we conducted an assessment of the situation.”
“Conducted an assessment?!”
“Checked on you,” Price corrected quickly. “We checked on you. Like normal neighbors. Who care. Normally.”
“Normal neighbors don’t ‘conduct assessments’!”
“Agree to disagree,” Ghost said, taking a bite of pizza.
“We paid attention,” Gaz said. “That’s all. You looked scared. You were checking your locks constantly- three times, then four times, then five. You stopped walking to your car normally- you were checking under it, around it, inside it before getting in.”
“Most people wouldn’t notice that,” you said quietly.
“We’re not most people,” Soap said, then quickly added, “We’re very attentive consultants. With excellent observational skills. For consulting.”
“Please stop saying consultants like it means something.”
“It does mean something,” Price said.
“What?!”
“…Consulting.”
“I’M GOING TO SCREAM AGAIN!”
You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and looked at all of them- these absolute weirdos who’d somehow become your chaotic guardian angels.
“So,” Price said after a moment, “next week. Still up for teaching us to cook?”
“You’re still going to need my help with that?”
All four of them looked at you.
“We tried to make rice yesterday,” Soap admitted, like he was confessing to a crime.
“And?”
“Burned it.”
“How?! It’s rice! Rice is literally just rice and water!”
“We think the pot might be compromised,” Gaz said seriously, like they were discussing a security breach.
“THE POT ISN’T- ” You stopped. Took a breath. “You know what? Yes. Next week. Cooking lessons. But in exchange- ”
“Yes?” Price asked, leaning forward slightly.
“You’re going to tell me what you actually do for a living.”
Silence.
Long silence.
Uncomfortable silence.
“We’re consultants- ” Soap started.
“The truth,” you interrupted, shaking your phone at them. “Or I’m googling all of you. Right now. I’ll do it.”
More silence.
“There’s nothing to google,” Ghost finally said, which was somehow worse than admitting to crimes.
“What does that mean?!”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
You stared at him. He stared back.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “You’re in witness protection.”
“What? No!”
“You’re spies!”
“Not spies!” Gaz said quickly, too quickly, defensively quickly.
“Corporate espionage!”
“Why do you keep guessing crimes?!” Soap demanded, looking genuinely distressed.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE ALL DEEPLY SUSPICIOUS! YOU’RE ACTING LIKE CRIMINALS!”
“We’re just private individuals,” Price said carefully, like he was choosing each word with extreme precision, “who value our privacy. And also happen to be very good at… problem solving. Aggressive problem solving. Sometimes involving statistics.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the answer you’re getting,” he said firmly. “For now.”
You looked at all of them- these men who’d saved you, protected you, and were now stonewalling you with the efficiency of a government agency with something to hide.
“Fine,” you said. “But I’m watching you now.”
“We’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Ghost said.
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is!”
“Wasn’t meant to be,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You ate your pizza in their weird, too-clean house (seriously, who has perfectly aligned coasters?), surrounded by four men who were definitely something other than business consultants, and tried not to think about how safe you felt.
Or how you were probably going to spend the next week googling “how to tell if your neighbors are in the CIA” and “what to do if your neighbors are criminals but nice about it.”
(You wouldn’t find anything. Their internet security was, as Soap would accidentally mention two weeks later, “better than most government agencies. Not that we’d know. Because we’re consultants. Who sometimes consult on cyber security. For businesses.”)
I am very curious how undercover civilian 141 would handle a hoa Karen...
Or a block party...
Or fourth of July
Could I interest you in a Trick or Treat Incident instead?
Holiday Special for The Civilian's Field Guide to Task Force 141 AU
You’d learned your lesson after the Washing Machine Incident. Capital letters necessary. Capital letters earned. The kind of event OSHA would study if OSHA knew these men existed.
The key to surviving as the neighbor of four walking catastrophes was prevention. You couldn’t stop them from breaking things, flooding things, nearly burning things down, or accidentally summoning the antichrist- but you could at least try to minimize the damage by warning them ahead of time.
Which is why, on October 15th, you found yourself standing on their porch, knocking on the door with the resigned energy of someone about to explain a simple concept to people that would somehow, in some way, make it inevitably, go horribly wrong.
Gaz answered, looking confused. “Hey! Everything okay? Do we need to evacuate?”
“What? No. Why would you need to evacuate?”
“You never come over unannounced.”
“That- okay, that’s fair. But no. No emergencies. I’m here for… preventative measures.”
“That sounds ominous,” he said, but stepped aside to let you in.
The living room was, as always, unsettlingly pristine. Like a nuclear-proof showroom. You were 90% sure they not only windexed the couch but had a specific cleaning protocol for even the air molecules. The other three were scattered around- Price reading what looked like a manual for a coffee maker (concerning), Soap doing push ups in the corner (normal for him), and Ghost perched in a chair like a cryptid who had once Googled “how to be human” and misread the instructions. (deeply unsettling but also normal for him).
“Uh, hi everyone,” you said.
They all stared at you like toddlers who knew they had done something wrong but had not yet figured out which thing you knew about. Which was unfair, because there were options.
“What did we do?” Price asked immediately, setting down his manual.
“Nothing! You didn’t do anything!”
“Yet,” Ghost added.
“I didn’t say yet!”
“You were thinking it,” he said.
“I- okay yes, I was thinking it. But that’s not the point!” You took a breath and closed your eyes to reboot your soul. “Look, I’m here because Halloween is in two weeks, and I thought, as your friendly neighborhood disaster prevention specialist- ”
“We don’t pay you for that,” Soap interrupted, still mid-push-up.
“It’s a volunteer position. A thankless volunteer position that I do because if you don’t you’ll blow up the block or accidentally commit a felony while trying to bake cookies."
“That’s a bit dramatic,” Price said.
“Is it? Is it really? Do you want me to make a list? Because I have a list. It’s color coded by severity.”
Silence.
“Okay, what about Halloween?” Gaz asked, sitting down on the couch.
“Right. Halloween. So, in two weeks, on October 31st, children will come to your door- ”
“Why?” Ghost asked immediately, leaning forward with the intensity of someone receiving a threat assessment.
“What do you mean why?”
“Why are children coming to our door?”
“For… candy? For trick-or-treating?”
All four of them looked at each other with that weird, silent, head-tilt communication thing they did that had you convinced they somehow had a shared, secure comm-link installed in their brains.
“Is that a local tradition?” Price asked carefully, like he was asking about a cult ritual.
You stared at them. “It’s not a local tradition. It’s a national tradition. It’s Halloween. The holiday. With pumpkins and costumes and the- do you guys not know what Halloween is??”
“We know what Halloween is,” Soap said, now on his feet. “We’re not idiots.”
“The evidence suggests otherwise.”
“That’s rude.”
“But accurate.”
“...Fair.”
“So you know about trick-or-treating?”
Another round of glances.
“We know OF it,” Gaz said carefully.
“But you’ve never… done it?”
“We’ve been busy,” Price said.
“Busy with what?!”
There was a moment of silence before all four of them said “Consulting,” in unison like they’d rehearsed it.
“Consult- you know what? I don’t want to know. I’m better off not knowing.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Okay. Here’s how this works. On Halloween night, children dress up in costumes and go door-to-door saying ‘trick-or-treat.’ You give them candy. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”
“That’s it?” Soap asked suspiciously.
“That’s it.”
“Seems simple enough,” Price said.
And that’s when you should’ve known.
That’s when the alarm bells should’ve been deafening.
That’s when you should’ve turned around, walked out, and moved to a different state, witness protection, fake passports, new identity in Idaho.
Because nothing was ever simple with these four.
“Great!” you said, ignoring your instincts. “So just buy some candy, turn your porch light on, and when kids knock, give them a few pieces. Easy.”
“How much candy?” Gaz asked, pulling out a notebook.
Why did he have a notebook.
Why was he taking notes.
“I don’t know, a few bags? However much you think you’ll need.”
“Define a few,” Ghost said.
“Like… three or four bags?”
They looked at each other again with that silent communication thing they did that made you nervous. There was a collective nod and your hindbrain screeched. Horrifying.
“We can do that,” Price said.
“Okay. Good. Great. Also-” You pulled out your phone and showed them a picture. “People decorate. You don’t have to go crazy, but maybe some pumpkins on the porch? Some fake spider webs? Just so kids know you’re participating.”
“Decorations,” Soap repeated, nodding, his eyes getting a distant, unsettling gleam. “We can do decorations.”
“Simple decorations,” you emphasized. “Nothing elaborate. Nothing expensive. Nothing that requires power tools.”
“Why would decorations require power tools?” Gaz asked.
“With you four? I don’t know, but I’m sure you’d find a way to overcomplicate the physics of a plastic skeleton."
“That’s hurtful,” Soap said.
“Is it? Is it really? Do you want me to list the incidents?”
“…No.”
“That’s what I thought.” You headed for the door. “So. October 31st. Candy. Simple decorations. Porch light on. Don’t overthink it. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Price said.
“Definitely,” Gaz added.
“Absolutely,” Soap said.
Ghost just nodded.
You looked at them one more time, these four men who’d nearly destroyed their house with laundry detergent, who’d bought four gallons of milk thought that was enough groceries, who tried to light a grill without checking if the grill was assembled correctly.
“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered.
“Probably!” Soap called out cheerfully as you left.
--
October 30th, 6:47 PM
You were making dinner when you heard it.
A truck.
A big truck.
Backing up with that beeping sound that only heralds two things: construction work, or catastrophic life consequences.
You went to your window and looked out.
There was a semi truck parked in front of their house.
A semi truck.
“Oh no,” you whispered. “Oh no no no no.”
You watched as the delivery driver opened the back.
And started unloading.
Boxes.
So many boxes.
So. Many. Boxes.
Pallets of boxes.
You were out your door and across the street before your brain caught up with your body.
“What did you do?" you asked as Soap signed for the delivery.
He turned around with a bright smile like a golden retriever who just dragged in a live deer. “Candy!”
“That's not candy, that's a candy supply chain! That's a seasonal aisle at Walmart!”
“We wanted to make sure we had enough!”
“HOW MUCH DID YOU BUY?!”
Price emerged from the house with a clipboard (why did he have a clipboard). “Two thousand pounds.”
Your brain short circuited. Your hearing failed. Your concept of reality warped. “I’m sorry. What.”
“Two thousand pounds of candy,” he repeated, like this was normal. “We calculated based on the neighborhood population and projected trick-or-treater turnout.”
“You-you did calculations?!”
“Of course,” Gaz said, coming out with a dolly. “We’re not amateurs.”
“You bought a ton of candy! Literally a ton! Do you think this is a post-apocalyptic barter economy?!"
“Well, technically it’s-” Ghost started.
“DON’T! Don’t you dare tell me the technical weight! Where are you even going to PUT all of this?!”
“We cleared out the garage,” Soap said proudly.
You looked at the garage.
They had indeed cleared out the garage.
The entire garage.
The entire garage was now awaiting its new destiny as an overwhelming, floor-to-ceiling stockpile of high-fructose corn syrup.
“This is insane,” you said weakly. “This is absolutely insane. This is a clear violation of every health and safety code. There's going to be so many bugs attracted to the sugar and then they'll come over to my house and infest the neighborhood and I'm going to spend so much on an exterminator."
“We just wanted to be prepared!” Price said.
“Prepared for what? A zombie apocalypse where children are the only survivors?"
“You never know when a sustained, long term caloric supply might be needed,” Ghost said seriously.
“YES YOU DO! YOU DO KNOW! IT’S CHILDREN! SMALL CHILDREN! ASKING FOR CANDY!”
“We wanted to be good neighbors,” Gaz said earnestly.
You stared at them. At the delivery truck. At the pallets of candy being unloaded by a driver who looked like he’d given up on understanding anything.
“Okay,” you said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. This is fine. This is… this is too much candy, but it’s fine. Candy doesn’t expire for a while. You can just… eat it. Over time. Very slowly. Until 2031 but it's fine."
“Oh, we’re not done,” Soap said cheerfully.
Something in your soul left your body. “What.”
“The decorations are coming tomorrow!”
“The- how many decorations?” Your voice was barely a squeak.
“We wanted to go all out!” Price said, adjusting his hat. “Really commit to the spirit of things!”
A cold dread settled in your stomach. “Define ‘all out.’”
“You’ll see tomorrow!” Gaz said excitedly.
“That’s not reassuring! That’s the opposite of reassuring! That's how I ended up explaining liability insurance to a bomb squad!"
“It’s a surprise!” Soap added.
“I don't want surprises! I hate your surprises! Your surprises cost money and sanity and I'm financially unstable right now!"
But they’d already gone back to unloading candy, completely ignoring your breakdown.
You stood there, in their driveway, watching them haul industrial amounts of Halloween candy into their garage, and knew- knew- that this was going to be a disaster.
You just didn’t know if it would be a Level 3 (local news) or a Level 5 (federal agency involvement) disaster yet.
--
October 31st, 7:13 AM
You woke up to industrial noise. Not normal suburban noise. Not someone leaf-blowing at a rude hour. No. It sounded like Home Depot was fighting for it's life.
You ran to your window.
And stopped.
Just… stopped.
You had mentally prepared yourself for some chaos. A little fog. A pumpkin or three. Maybe Soap with a staple gun.
You had not prepared for Hell’s Spirit Halloween Outlet.
Their house… dear God.
It looked like Halloween had gone feral and established a dictatorship.
There were cobwebs. So many cobwebs. They’d covered the entire house. The roof, the walls, the windows, the porch, the driveway. Everything. It looked like a spider the size of a house had set up a kingdom.
There were pumpkins. Not a few pumpkins. At least fifty pumpkins. Lining the walkway, covering the porch, stacked in pyramids. Where did they even GET fifty pumpkins?
Skeletons- plural, plural, plural- were in various poses on the lawn. One was in a lawn chair. One was “mowing” the lawn with their unplugged mower. One was posed like it was checking the mailbox.
There was a mechanical spider on the roof. A giant mechanical spider. It moved. Its eyes glowed red. It was the size of a Smart Car.
And in the front yard, taking up most of the lawn, was…
“Is that a graveyard?” you whispered.
Because it was. A full graveyard. At least twenty tombstones. A gothic fence. A mechanical zombie that was rising from the ground.
And in the middle of it all, Ghost was standing on the porch, adjusting what appeared to be a fog machine.
Industrial. Size.
The fog was already creeping across their lawn like a low-budget horror movie.
You watched as Price emerged from inside carrying more decorations.
Soap was on the roof, installing what looked like purple LED lights.
Gaz was in the yard, setting up sound effects.
A wolf howl echoed across the neighborhood.
Followed by maniacal laughter.
Then what sounded like chainsaws.
You grabbed your phone and called Soap.
He answered on the third ring, answering far too cheerful for a man participating in suburban terrorism. “Hey! What do you think?!”
“Thoughts?! Are you trying to summon Satan??"
“Too much?” he asked.
"Too much!? You've turned your house into a professional haunted house!"
“We wanted to commit to the theme!”
“THE THEME IS ‘HAND OUT CANDY,’ NOT ‘TRAUMATIZE CHILDREN’!”
“It’s not that scary!”
As if on cue, the mechanical zombie in the yard lurched upward with a mechanical SCREEECH and moaned “BRAAAAINS” at a volume that should’ve required a permit.
“Soap,” you said carefully. “How much did you spend on decorations.”
“Uh…”
“Soap.”
“It’s not about the money- ”
“HOW. MUCH.”
“…Five thousand dollars?”
“FIVE THOU- ” You had to sit down. Just sat right down on your bedroom floor. “Five thousand dollars.”
“We got a bulk discount!”
“From where!? A theme park whose demonic mascot got cancelled?"
“Actually- ”
“I don't want to know! I don't want to know where you bought theme park grade decorations! My sanity is hanging on by a thread!"
From outside, you heard Price yell: “SOAP! THE SPIDER’S EYE FELL OFF!”
“WHICH EYE?!”
“THE LEFT ONE!”
“I’LL GET THE LADDER!”
You hung up.
Walked downstairs.
Went outside.
Crossed the street.
Stood in their driveway, looking up at their house- this monument to excess, this temple of over-commitment, this absolute disaster of Halloween enthusiasm.
Price saw you and waved. “Morning! What do you think?!”
“I think,” you said slowly, “that you’re going to traumatize every child in a three-block radius and face a massive HOA fine."
“That’s the spirit!” Soap called down from the roof successfully reattaching the glowing red eye with a zip tie.
“That's not- That's not the spirit! The spirit is fun! This is terrifying!"
“Halloween’s supposed to be scary!” Gaz said, emerging from behind a tombstone.
“For adults! Not for six year olds dressed as Peppa Pig!"
Ghost adjusted his fog machine. “Too much fog?”
“YES! TOO MUCH FOG! TOO MUCH EVERYTHING! YOU HAVE A GRAVEYARD!”
“Twenty three plots,” he said proudly. "Authentic vinyl tombstones!"
“WHY?!”
“Realism.”
“IT’S HALLOWEEN, NOT A CEMETERY DEDICATION!”
The mechanical spider on the roof moved, its eyes glowing brighter. It let out a mechanical screech.
A woman walking her dog on the opposite sidewalk screamed, scooped up her Yorkie, and sprinted away.
“See?” you said. “THAT! That’s what’s going to happen!”
“She seemed surprised,” Ghost observed.
“Yes! Because there's a car sized spider on your roof!”
“It’s not car sized- ”
“IT’S THE SIZE OF A SMART CAR!”
“Well, yes, but Smart Cars aren’t very big- ”
“GHOST!”
Price came over, looking genuinely concerned, which was worse than the arrogance typically associated with your other neighbors. “Is this really too much?”
You looked at him. At his sincere, How could my perfectly planned mission fail? expression. At the house behind him that looked like it should be charging a thirty dollar entrance fee.
“Price,” you said carefully. “You have enough candy to supply a small country. You’ve turned your house into a Halloween attraction. The fog machine is creating a traffic and safety hazard.
“It’s temporary!” Soap yelled from the roof.
“- and you’ve set up a graveyard in your front yard. So yes. Yes, this is too much.”
They all looked at each other.
“But we already set it up,” Gaz said quietly.
And there it was.
That kicked puppy look.
All four of them, looking at their Halloween wonderland, clearly having worked all morning on it, so proud of themselves.
You felt your resistance crumbling.
“You’re lucky you’re- ” You stopped. Took a breath. “Fine. FINE. But you’re toning down the sound effects. No chainsaws or explosions, simulated or real. The spider can stay, but it’s not allowed to move. And the fog machine runs for exactly two hours during peak trick-or-treating and then it’s OFF.”
“Deal!” they all said immediately, their faces lighting up with the joy of a mission salvaged.
“And if Pamela from the HOA shows up—”
“We’ll handle it!” Price promised.
“You can’t ‘handle’ Pamela! She’s going to have an aneurysm when she sees this!”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Ghost said.
“The bridge is ON FIRE! THE BRIDGE IS ACTIVELY BURNING PROBABLY BECAUSE YOU TRIED TO DECORATE IT WITH FLAME THROWERS!”
But they’d already gone back to decorating, adding MORE stuff, because apparently there were still decorations in boxes.
You stood there, alone in their fog covered driveway, and wondered if it was too late to move to a different neighborhood.
--
October 31st, 6:00 PM
At 6:00 PM exactly, they turned on the lights.
The. Entire. Display.
The house lit up like a Halloween fever dream. The purple lights. The glowing pumpkins. The fog machine (which Ghost had apparently set to MAXIMUM). The mechanical spider that started moving, its eyes glowing, making mechanical screeching sounds.
The crowd of adults and teens on the sidewalk, who had gathered like spectators at a demolition derby, cheered rapturously.
The first trick-or-treaters- a group of kids around eight or nine- stopped at the end of the walkway and just… stared.
One of them, dressed as Spider-Man, looked at his mom. “Is it safe?”
“I… I think so?” she said, not sounding sure.
They made their way up the walkway, past the skeleton army, through the fog that was now thick enough that you could barely see the porch, toward the front door where Ghost was standing.
Ghost.
Who was wearing his usual skull mask.
Which, on a normal day, was concerning.
But on Halloween, standing motionless in a cloud of industrial fog with purple lights flashing?
The Spider-Man kid took one look at him and burst into tears.
“NO!” you heard Ghost say, instantly panicking. “No, it’s okay! I’m friendly! I’m a friendly ghost!”
“YOU’RE TERRIFYING!” the mom said, grabbing her crying child.
“I’M SORRY!” Ghost yelled after them as they ran. “I HAVE CANDY!”
But they were gone, fleeing down the driveway, past the graveyard, leaving a trail of terrified screaming behind them.
Price came out, holding a large bowl of full size Snickers like a peace offering. “What happened?!
“I scared them!” Ghost said, sounding devastated.
“How!?”
“I don't know, I just stood here!"
“You’re wearing a skull mask!” Gaz pointed out, emerging from inside.
"It's my face."
"It's not your face. You face is under the mask."
"This is my Halloween face."
"It's your every day face! The fog is making it worse!"
The next group of kids- younger, maybe five or six- approached cautiously.
Soap opened the door this time, his friendliest, broadest, most intense smile in place. “Happy Halloween!”
The kids screamed and ran.
“What did I do” Soap yelled, dropping his shoulders in despair.
"You're too enthusiastic MacTavish," Price told him. "Lower your social output!"
The third group refused to come up the walkway. They just stood at the end, staring.
Price went down to them. Crouched down. “Hey guys, it’s okay. We have candy. Lots of candy. Do you want some candy?”
The kid dressed as a princess looked at him suspiciously. “Are you a bad guy?”
“What? No! I’m just a neighbor!”
“You have a graveyard.”
“It’s fake! Look- ” He kicked a tombstone so hard it flew five feet and landed in the hedge. “See? Fake!”
“My mom says to avoid houses with graveyards and structural instability,” another kid said.
“That’s- that’s good advice generally, but this is Halloween! It’s decorations!”
“It’s scary!” the princess said.
“It’s supposed to be a little scary- ”
“I want to go home,” a kid dressed as a dinosaur announced and turned around.
“NO! WAIT! We have FULL SIZE CANDY BARS!” Price shouted desperately.
They stopped.
Turned around slowly.
“Full size?” the princess asked.
“Full size,” Price confirmed.
“…Okay.”
They made it through the gauntlet of decorations, accepted their candy from a very apologetic Gaz, and left.
By 6:30, word had spread throughout the neighborhood’s parenting network: The house is terrifying, possibly illegal, and actively traumatizing, but they are giving out industrial-grade, full-size candy bars.
Kids started coming.
Cautiously.
Some cried. Most were nervous. But they came.
For the candy.
Because apparently full size candy bars were worth facing their fears.
You watched the next hour from your porch, simultaneously appalled and fascinated. The line of trick-or-treaters grew longer. They came, they cried, they took the candy, and they left. The system was horrifyingly effective.
They were SO CAREFUL. Speaking softly. Moving slowly. Soap had taken off his shoes for some reason (“They’re less threatening without shoes!” he’d announced).
Ghost had turned his back to the trick-or-treaters and was handing candy over his shoulder to avoid scaring them with his mask.
It was working.
Sort of.
Until 7:15.
That’s when you heard the sirens.
“Oh no,” you whispered.
A police car pulled up.
Then a fire truck.
“Oh NO.”
An officer got out, looked at the house, and spoke into his radio.
You ran across the street.
“Evening, officer!” Price said with forced cheerfulness. “Is there a problem?”
“We got multiple calls about a disturbance,” the officer said, looking up at the house. At the mechanical spider. At the fog that was now spreading to neighboring lawns. At the graveyard. “Someone reported screaming children and a possible structural collapse.”
“IT’S HALLOWEEN!” you added, running up. “They’re just decorating! Enthusiastically! Possibly illegally! But not dangerous!”
The officer looked at you. “You live here?”
“Across the street! I’m their… keeper. Kind of. Not officially. But someone has to be.”
He looked at Ghost, still facing backward, handing candy over his shoulder to a confused Elsa.
“Why is he facing the wall?”
“His mask is scary,” you explained.
“So he’s…”
“Handing out candy backwards. Yes.”
The officer stared for a long moment. “I’m going to need you to turn off the sound effects. And the fog machine. We’ve had reports of drivers unable to see the street.”
“The fog machine?!” Ghost turned around, devastated. “But it’s atmospheric!”
“It’s a traffic hazard. Turn it off.”
“But- ”
“Now.”
Ghost trudged inside like a kid whose parents just cancelled Christmas. The fog slowly dissipated. The crowd of spectating adults and teens booed.
The officer looked at the crowd. At the decorations. At the growing line of trick-or-treaters who were now waiting for the police to leave so they could get their candy.
“You guys plan this every year?” he asked.
“First time,” Gaz admitted.
“Figures.” He shook his head. “Keep it down. And maybe next year… less?”
“Less,” they all agreed.
The officers and fire truck left and the crowd of spectators cheered.
And trick-or-treating resumed.
By 8 PM, they’d gone through half their candy supply.
By 8:30, they were running low.
By 9 PM, they were surrounded by disappointed children because they’d run out of candy entirely.
Two thousand pounds of candy.
Gone.
In three hours.
You watched as Price apologetically told the final group of kids- a pair of sullen, full-size-Snickers-deprived teenagers- they were out. You waited exactly five minutes after the last mechanical zombie groan faded into the night, then crossed the street.
Soap answered the door, looking exhausted. “Hey.”
“So,” you said. “How was your first Halloween?”
All four of them were collapsed in various positions around the living room. Ghost was face down on the pristine, windexed rug, having seemingly entered a state of catatonic surrender. Gaz was slumped in a chair, still holding his clipboard, which now looked tragically unnecessary. Price was sitting with his head in his hands, and Soap slumped on the couch like a man who’d been debriefed by a dozen hyperactive five year olds.
“We ran out of candy,” Price said miserably.
“I noticed.”
“We had TWO THOUSAND POUNDS.”
"I know. But you gave out full-size bars with the generosity of a newly minted lottery winner, and your house looked like the setting for a slasher film written by a ten year old on an energy drink high.”
“We made children cry,” Ghost said, his voice muffled by the floor fibers.
“Several children. We recorded three panic attacks and one instance of property damage caused by a fleeing toddler,” Gaz confirmed, reading from the clipboard.
“The police came,” Soap added, staring blankly at the ceiling.
“And the fire department,” Price finished.
They all looked at you with the exhausted, glazed over eyes of men who’d spent twelve hours in a zero sum game against the concept of normalcy.
“So,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “What did we learn?”
“Less is more,” Price said immediately, like reciting an emergency exit protocol.
“Way less,” Gaz agreed.
“So much less. I need a new baseline for 'minimalist,'” Soap groaned.
“Maybe just a pumpkin next year,” Ghost suggested, his cheek stuck to the rug. “One pumpkin. Singular. Uncarved.”
“One pumpkin. Singular. Uncarved,” Price confirmed. “I am going to buy a small ceramic gourd and glue it to the step.”
You smiled. “See? Growth. I’m proud of you.”
“Really?” Soap perked up slightly.
“No. You spent seven thousand dollars and traumatized children. But at least you learned something.”
“Seven thousand seems like a lot when you say it out loud,” Gaz admitted.
“BECAUSE IT IS A LOT!”
“But people liked it!” Soap protested. “Did you see the crowd?”
“The crowd of ADULTS taking pictures! Not the terrified children!”
“Some kids liked it,” Ghost said defensively. “That one teenager said it was ‘sick.’”
“One teenager. Out of approximately three hundred children, one teenager said it was sick.”
“Still counts,” he muttered into the floor.
You looked at them- these absolute disasters who’d turned Halloween into an extreme sport.
“You know what? I’m getting wine. You four are joining me. We’re sitting on my porch, and you’re going to tell me exactly how you managed to spend five thousand dollars on decorations.”
“Do we have to?” Price asked.
“Yes. It’s your penance. Also, I want to know where you got a mechanical spider.”
“Online,” Ghost said.
“That’s not specific enough.”
“A very specific website that sells very specific things.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Little bit,” he agreed.
As you all trudged across the street to your house, you heard Pamela’s voice behind you:
“WHAT IS THAT SPIDER STILL DOING ON YOUR ROOF?!”
You all turned.
Pamela-from-HOA stood in their driveway, clipboard in hand, staring up at the house with the expression of someone whose worst nightmares had become reality and then gotten worse.
“It’s Halloween!” Soap called back, his voice brittle.
“IT’S 9 PM! HALLOWEEN IS OVER!”
“Technically Halloween is all day- ” Gaz started.
“TAKE. IT. DOWN.”
“We’ll get it tomorrow!” Price promised.
“TONIGHT!”
“It’s dark!”
“I. don't. care! I want no unsanctioned arachnid activity on my watch!"
You watched from your porch as all four of them, exhausted and defeated, trudged back to their house to take down the last remaining sign of their failure. You watched Soap climb back onto the roof, Ghost hold the ladder like it was a prisoner of war, and Pamela-from-HOA stand guard, arms crossed, the ultimate disappointed parent.
Your phone buzzed.
Pamela (HOA): Emergency meeting. Tomorrow. 7 PM. Your neighbors are required to attend.
You: What if they say no?
Pamela: Then I’m calling a vote to evict them from the neighborhood.
You: …Can you do that?
Pamela: After tonight? I’ll find a way. I’ll find a clause that covers 'The Intentional Creation of a Vehicular Traffic Hazard via Mechanical Horror Propulsors.'
You looked at your four disaster neighbors on the roof, fighting with a mechanical spider in the dark, and sighed.
This was your life now.
At least they’d learned something.
Probably.
Maybe.
…Okay, definitely not.
But at least they’d tried.
And really, with these four, “tried” was about the best you could hope for.
@uraeus56 🫡 Part Five in The Civilian’s Field Guide to Task Force 141: The Washing Machine Incident
You were having a peaceful Tuesday afternoon.
Peaceful. Quiet. Normal.
You should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
The knock on your door came at 2:47pm, and something in your lizard brain immediately screamed: danger.
You opened the door to find Soap standing on your porch with a smile so innocent, so wide, so utterly fake that alarm bells started ringing in your head like a fire drill.
“Hey!” he said brightly. Too brightly. Suspiciously brightly. Like a kid who’d just hidden a broken vase behind the couch.
You narrowed your eyes. “What caught fire?”
“Nothing!”
The smile got wider. More strained.
You crossed your arms. “Soap.”
“Really! Nothing’s on fire! I promise!”
“What exploded?”
“Nothing exploded either!”
“Uh-huh. What did you break?”
“See, that’s the thing- ” He was still smiling. Why was he still smiling? “We didn’t technically break anything.”
“Technically.”
“Yeah! Technically. Technically everything is still… intact. Structurally sound. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Look, can you just- can you come over for a second?”
You stared at him. He stared back, that manic smile never wavering.
“Soap. What happened.”
“So you know how we have a washing machine- ”
“Oh god.”
“- and we tried to do laundry for the first time- ”
“Oh god.”
“-and there’s maybe a small situation- ”
“Define small.”
His smile somehow got even bigger. More unhinged. “It’s actually quite the opposite of a fire!”
You blinked. “What.”
“Yeah! See, fire is hot and dry, right?”
A cold sense of dread settled in your stomach. “…Right.”
“Well, this is cold! And wet!”
“Soap- ”
“Very wet!”
“Soap, I swear to god- ”
“Like, impressively wet! We didn’t even know a washing machine could hold that much water, let alone distribute it so thoroughly- ”
“Are you telling me you flooded your house.”
“No! No no no.” He paused. “We flooded the kitchen.”
“SOAP!”
“The hallway’s only a little bit flooded- ”
“A little bit!?”
“- and we can’t quite figure out how to make it stop- ”
“Stop what!?”
“The water! There’s just- there’s so much water- ”
“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN HAPPENING?!”
“Uh…” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes?”
“THIRTY-?!” You were already grabbing your keys, shoving your feet into your shoes. “WHY DIDN’T YOU COME GET ME IMMEDIATELY?!”
“We thought we could handle it!”
“Clearly you couldn’t!”
“Well we know that now- ”
You slammed your door and marched across the street. Soap trailed behind you like a guilty golden retriever who’d just eaten an entire birthday cake.
“In our defense- ” he started.
“No! There is no defense! Every time one of you says ‘in our defense,’ I lose a year off my life! I’m going to die young because of you people! My tombstone will say ‘Death by Neighbor Incompetence’!”
“That seems medically unlikely- ”
“SOAP!”
He opened their front door.
The sound hit you first.
A rushing, gushing, aggressive sound of water going places water should absolutely not be going.
Then you saw it.
“Oh my god.”
“I know it looks bad- ”
“OH MY GOD.”
“But we were about to- ”
“THERE’S A RIVER! THERE’S A RIVER IN YOUR HALLWAY!”
Because there was. There was an actual, honest-to-god river cascading from the kitchen down the hallway like they’d installed some kind of deranged decorative water feature.
Price appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a mop. Just one mop. A single, solitary mop held in the hands of a man who looked like he’d gone to war and lost.
His socks were soaked. His pants were soaked up to the knees. His shirt had water stains. He looked at you with the thousand yard stare of someone who’d seen too much.
“It won’t stop,” he said flatly.
“WHAT WON’T STOP?!”
He stepped aside.
The washing machine looked possessed.
It was shaking. Rattling. Vibrating with an energy that seemed almost vengeful. Like it had gained consciousness and immediately chosen violence. Water poured from the top, the sides, the back. The floor was completely submerged; you could see the water creeping toward the living room like a slow motion tsunami.
Gaz was standing on a chair in the corner, holding an armful of soaked towels, looking like he’d given up on life entirely. His clothes were plastered to his skin. His expression was blank. The lights were on but nobody was home.
Ghost was standing in the opposite corner, arms crossed, staring at the washing machine with the intensity of someone trying to intimidate it into submission through sheer force of will.
It wasn’t working.
“How,” you said slowly, carefully, like you were defusing a bomb made of stupidity, “did you do this?”
“We followed the instructions!” Soap said defensively.
“WHAT INSTRUCTIONS?!”
“On the detergent!”
You closed your eyes. Counted to five. It didn’t help. “Show me. Show me the detergent.”
Gaz, still standing on his chair like the floor was actual lava, held up a bottle.
Not a normal bottle.
An industrial sized bottle. The kind you see at laundromats. The kind that explicitly says “COMMERCIAL USE ONLY” on the side in three languages.
“Where did you even GET that?!”
“Costco!” Soap said proudly.
“Why?!”
“Bulk savings!”
“You- ” You pinched the bridge of your nose. Took a breath. “How much did you use?”
“Well, the cup was broken- ” Gaz started.
“So we eyeballed it!” Soap finished cheerfully.
“You eyeballed industrial detergent.”
“Yeah! We just poured it in until it looked right!”
“What does ‘looked right’ mean?!”
“Like… enough? Maybe a little extra to make sure the clothes got really clean?”
You walked toward the washing machine. Your shoes squelched. The water was ankle deep. You were standing in ankle deep water in someone’s kitchen. Your socks were wet now, you’d never forgive them for this.
You looked inside the washing machine.
It was just… bubbles.
So many bubbles.
A sea of bubbles. An ocean of bubbles. They were spilling over the top, multiplying like something out of a horror movie, plotting world domination.
“You didn’t eyeball it,” you said, your voice barely controlled. “You dumped half the bottle in there, didn’t you.”
“More like a third- ” Soap started.
“A third?! A third of an industrial bottle?!”
“We wanted the clothes to be really clean!” Gaz said desperately from his chair.
“That’s not how detergent works! More isn’t better! More is just more!”
“That’s not true for protein powder,” Ghost said from his corner.
“This isn’t protein powder!”
“Similar consistency though- ”
“GHOST!”
Price stepped forward, mop in hand like a white flag. “Look, we know we made a mistake- ”
“A mistake!? This is a disaster! This is a catastrophe! This is- ” You gestured wildly at the kitchen. “- a Biblical flood! God is judging you! You’re going to have to build the second ark!”
“It’s not that bad- ” Soap tried.
“THERE ARE BUBBLES ON THE CEILING! HOW DID YOU GET BUBBLES ON THE CEILING?!”
All four of them looked up at the ceiling covered in bubbles. Just plastered with them. Like someone had thrown a foam party and forgotten to invite common sense.
They looked at each other.
“We don’t know,” they admitted in unison, with the harmony of a barbershop quartet of disaster.
You took a deep breath. You were not going to scream. You were not going to cry. You were a responsible adult who was going to fix this situation because if you didn’t, these four men would simply stand here until the water reached the second floor.
“Okay. Okay. Never mind that. Why still running?”
“We don’t know how to turn it off!”
“THE BUTTON! PRESS THE BUTTON!”
“We did! It just beeped at us and kept going!”
You lowered the lid and looked at the control panel.
Which was entirely in Korean.
You stopped. Stared. “Why is your washing machine in Korean.”
“Is that Korean?” Gaz asked. “We thought it was Japanese.”
“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?!”
“It was here when we moved in!” Soap said.
“YOU’VE BEEN HERE A MONTH! YOU’RE ONLY NOW DOING LAUNDRY?!”
There was an extremely long silence.
“We ran out of clothes,” Price finally admitted.
“What have you been wearing?!”
“We have a rotation system,” Ghost said. “Three day cycles.”
“You’ve been wearing the same- ” You stopped. Held up a hand. “I don’t care. I can’t care about that right now. I don’t have the emotional capacity to care about that right now.”
You squinted at the buttons. There were… so many buttons. Why were there so many buttons?
“Okay. I think this one means stop- ”
You pressed it.
The washing machine made a sound like a dying whale and started spinning faster.
More water erupted from the top like a geyser.
“THAT’S NOT STOP! THAT’S THE OPPOSITE OF STOP!”
You jabbed another button.
The machine beeped indignantly and switched cycles. Even more water started pouring out.
“YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!” Soap yelled.
“Well, maybe if it was in English!”
You pressed three more buttons in rapid succession. The machine cycled through what you could only assume were increasingly aggressive wash settings, each one producing more water than the last.
Ghost waded over, bubbles up to his knees, and physically moved you aside. “Let me- ”
He pressed one button with confidence.
The machine made a noise like a screaming cat being launched from a cannon and started vibrating so hard it moved three inches across the floor.
The entire floor shook.
“NOT HELPFUL!” you screamed.
“I’M TRYING!”
“TRY DIFFERENTLY!”
Price stepped forward to help, took one step on the soap-bubble-covered floor, and-
His feet went out from under him.
Completely. Cartoon style. His legs went straight up in the air.
He grabbed for Ghost to steady himself.
Ghost, not expecting this, also slipped.
They both grabbed for Soap.
Soap, turning around to help, stepped directly into the bubble zone and-
“Oh sh- ”
All three of them went down like dominoes.
SPLASH.
Just…straight into the water. Full body. Complete and total wipeout.
You watched in horror as three grown men flailed in ankle deep water and bubbles like they’d been thrown into the ocean.
Price sputtered, trying to get up and immediately slipping again. “Help-”
He grabbed for the counter.
Missed.
Grabbed for Soap instead.
Pulled him down again.
Soap grabbed Ghost’s leg.
Ghost, trying to stand, went down for a second time with a muffled curse.
They were just- they were just slipping. Over and over. Every time one of them tried to get up, they’d slip on the bubbles and take the others down with them. It was like watching natural selection in real time.
“STOP MOVING!” you yelled. “YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!”
“WE’RE TRYING!” Soap wailed, on his hands and knees, covered head to toe in bubbles and shame.
Price tried to stand, got one foot under him, and immediately slipped backwards into a sitting position. “The floor’s a death trap!”
“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE A THIRD OF A BOTTLE!” You screamed.
Ghost managed to get to his knees, started to stand, and- nope. Down again. He just laid there for a moment, flat on his back in the water, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m staying here,” he said.
“Ghost, get up!” Price ordered.
“No. I’ve accepted my fate. This is my life now. I live in the bubble zone.”
“GHOST!”
Gaz, still on his chair, watching all of this, said: “Should I help?”
“NO!” all four of you yelled at once.
“Stay on the chair!” you added. “The chair is safe!”
“Right. Staying on the chair.” He clutched his towels tighter.
You looked at the three men currently sprawled across their kitchen floor like they’d lost a fight with a slip-n-slide.
Price was sitting, legs splayed out, covered in bubbles, looking like he was reconsidering every life choice.
Soap was on his stomach, arms spread out like a starfish, having apparently given up on dignity entirely.
Ghost was still on his back, staring at the ceiling, probably contemplating the meaninglessness of existence.
“I can’t believe this,” you said. “I can’t believe I’m watching this with my own eyes.”
“Little help?!” Soap called out.
“HOW?! IF I STEP ON THAT FLOOR, I’LL GO DOWN TOO!”
“So we’re just… stuck here?” Price asked.
“Until the bubbles dissolve or you learn to ice skate, YES!”
You looked at the washing machine. At the water. At the bubbles. At three grown men lying on the floor like beached whales. “How is it still doing this without being plugged in!?”
Everyone stopped.
Stared at you.
“Plugged in,” Gaz repeated slowly.
“Yeah. Like… remove the power? You did unplug it, right?”
Four adult men suddenly lost the ability look you in the eye.
You closed your eyes, counted to ten, and looked at the wall. At the outlet. At the plug that was sitting right there, easily accessible, not even behind the machine. “This entire time- thirty-seven minutes of flooding- and you could have just unplugged it!”
“To be fair,” Price said from the floor, “we were panicking.”
“That’s not an excuse!”
“It feels like an excuse- ”
“IT’S NOT!”
You waded over to the wall carefully- so, so carefully, because you were NOT ending up on that floor- and yanked the plug out.
The washing machine died immediately.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The only sound was the gentle dripping of water and the quiet sobbing of Price’s dignity.
“I’ll kill you,” you said calmly. “I’m going to kill all of you. They’ll find your bodies in the bubble graveyard and nobody will convict me because this- ” you gestured at everything, “- is justifiable homicide.”
“That seems harsh,” Soap said.
“You’ve been lying in dirty washing machine water for five minutes.”
He paused. “That’s a good point, actually.”
“Can we get up now?” Price asked.
“Can you get up without slipping?”
“…No.”
“Then no. You’re staying there. This is your life now. You live here. This is your home. You can lay there and think about what you’ve done.”
“That’s not fair!” Soap protested.
“NONE OF THIS IS FAIR! I WAS HAVING A PEACEFUL AFTERNOON! I WAS READING! I WAS HAVING TEA! AND THEN YOU-” You had to stop and take a breath before you completely crashed out. “I need a minute. I need several minutes. I need a vacation.”
“We could help you book- ” Gaz started from his chair.
“NO! No more help! Your help is what caused this!”
From the floor, Ghost said: “In our defense- ”
“BANNED! THAT PHRASE IS BANNED! STRIKE IT FROM YOUR VOCABULARY! IF I HEAR IT AGAIN, I’M LEAVING AND NEVER COMING BACK!”
“Please don’t leave,” Price said quietly, still sitting in the water like a very sad, very wet statue. “We’ll drown.”
“In three inches of water?”
“We’ll find a way.”
You stared at him. At his completely serious expression. At his beard dripping with soap bubbles.
“You’re all insane,” you said.
“Little bit,” he agreed.
“Okay.” You took a breath. “New plan. Gaz- ”
“Yes?” He sat up straighter on his chair.
“Stay there. Don’t move. You’re the only one who made good choices today.”
“Should I be offended?” Soap asked from the floor.
“Yes!”
“Okay, just checking.”
“Everyone else… stay on the floor. Don’t try to get up. I’m going to get towels from my house, and we’re going to throw them on the floor to create a path so you can crawl out of the bubble zone without breaking your necks.”
“That’s actually a good plan,” Ghost said.
“I’m full of good plans! Unlike some people”
You made your way carefully to the door, each step calculated, not wanting to end up as the fourth casualty of the Great Laundry Disaster.
As you reached the doorway, you heard:
“She’s really mad,” Soap whispered.
“Yeah,” Price agreed.
“Think she’ll forgive us?” Gaz asked.
“Eventually,” Ghost said.
“How long is eventually?” Soap asked.
“However long it takes for her to forget we flooded the house and she watched us slip around like cartoon characters,” Ghost said.
“So… never?” Price said.
“Probably never,” Ghost agreed.
“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!” you shouted from outside.
“SORRY!” they all yelled back.
You stood on their front porch, looked at the water still trickling out the door, looked at your peaceful house across the street, and seriously contemplated just… walking away.
But you didn’t.
Because despite everything- the flooding, the bubbles, the idiocy, the watching three grown men slip around like penguins on ice- they were your neighbors.
Your stupid, disaster-prone, somehow-still-alive-despite-themselves neighbors and fuck if they weren’t starting to grow on you.
@little-mini-me-world next part in the Civilian’s Field Guide for Task Force 141 Suburban AU by popular demand from so many people on tumblr, ao3, and reddit
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.”
@bipedebrasileiro 🫡 next part to the Suburban Task Force AU
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.
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.
Next part
Just a girl trying to figure life out @asleepspoon368 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
