Chapter Text
You didn’t mean to get involved.
But by Day Four, your ring cam has captured enough war crimes against lawn care to qualify for Hague tribunal review, and frankly, Pamela-from-HOA was circling like a fucking vulture.
You don’t know who approved the housing application for the four men (introduced to you as John Price, Kyle Garrick, John MacTavish, and “Ghost”) across the street, but you’re 90% sure it was forged. Because no one- not one- has any idea what they’re doing and they’re strange. Really strange.
You noticed it the day they moved in: four large, broad shouldered types in plain clothes that somehow made them look even less normal. The one with the beard gave off dad energy until he opened his mouth and called the guy with the skull mask “son.” The one with the mask didn’t react. The Scottish one swore constantly but somehow managed to sound cheerful about it, and the fourth kept calling everyone “sir,” even though they clearly weren’t in charge of anything, least of all themselves.
At first, you figured maybe they were just… eccentric. Maybe a band? Some kind of halfway house for ex wrestlers? But then they started trying to do things.
Simple, suburban things.
Like putting up a satellite dish.
You watched from your window as all four of them gathered in grim formation, staring up at the roof like it was enemy territory. There was pointing. Nodding. Some kind of briefing. Then they began climbing… without a ladder. By the time the first dish was plugged in, one of them was on the garage roof, one was holding the plug like a detonator, one was barking coordinates, and the masked one was simply standing in the yard, hands on hips, staring at the operation with the solemn energy of a funeral.
It ended, as these things often do, in mild electrocution and swearing.
By Day Four, you were convinced they were running some kind of experiment on how not to appear human. They waved too formally. Their grocery trips looked like tactical raids where they bought four of everything (four jugs of milk, four loaves of bread, four packs of toilet paper- ‘doomsday preppers’ were added to the list of possible things your neighbors were.) And at least once, you caught the blonde one crouched behind his car, whispering into what was either an earpiece or a Bluetooth headset that he definitely didn’t need.
You finally approached on Day Seven, when one of them- Price, apparently- was outside with a toolbox, disassembling his mailbox for no apparent reason. You asked, very gently, “Hey, everything okay over here?”
He straightened up slowly, smiled like a man trying to remember what smiles looked like, and said, “Routine maintenance.”
The masked one appeared behind him a moment later, holding a wrench. “It’s compromised,” he said gravely.
“Compromised,” you repeated, dead inside.
He nodded. “Internal breach.”
You went home after that. Slowly.
You told yourself you weren’t going to get involved, that it wasn’t your business if your new neighbors were part of some ex-military performance art commune, but then you saw them the next morning standing in formation at the curb, coffee mugs in hand, saluting the garbage truck.
So now, every few days, you walk over with cookies or tools or a smile- anything to stop them from accidentally declaring war on the neighborhood watch.
They call you “civilian asset.” You call them “the four horsemen of HOA violation.”
You’d made it a full week with only passive surveillance: peeking through the blinds, judging silently, watching four of the most suspicious men alive absolutely tank at civilian life like they were doing it on purpose.
But then Day Eight arrived, and with it: the lawn mower.
It appeared in their driveway, brand new, still partially in the box, wheels on backwards, safety manual fluttering sadly in the breeze. You watched as the tallest of the four (you think his name is Ghost, though that can’t possibly be real) stared at it with the blank caution of a man facing a disarmed explosive.
Price, with the vibe of someone who’s either a dad or a war criminal (or both) crouched next to it with a screwdriver and said, “It can’t be that complicated.”
Ten minutes later, the mower was upside down.
Fifteen minutes in, you heard one of them say, “Maybe it needs batteries.”
Twenty minutes, and the engine roared to life… before immediately dying and releasing a puff of smoke that probably violated several state laws.
You finally snapped at minute twenty two, crossing the street with your iced coffee in one hand and your will to live rapidly evaporating in the other.
“Gentlemen,” you called, because ‘dumbasses’ felt rude on a first-name basis. “Need a hand?”
All four of them turned as one. It was… a lot. Broad shoulders, stiff stances, gazes so intense it felt like they were trying to assess whether you were armed or a threat. You lifted your coffee slightly in truce. “Hi. Neighbor. Not here to judge but also- what are you doing?”
“We are,” Soap said proudly, hands on his hips and completely ignoring the sideways mower behind him, “mowing the lawn.”
“No, you’re not,” you said. “You’re staging a failed reenactment of Mad Max: Suburbia Edition.”
He blinked. “We started it?”
“You smoked it. That’s not the same.”
Gaz rubbed the back of his neck. “We followed the instructions.”
“Where are they?”
“…We shredded them.”
You closed your eyes. Counted to three. Maybe five. Then sighed and said, “Move. Let me.”
You had to start from scratch: wheels fixed, oil checked, gas topped off. They hovered like overgrown children who’d broken something expensive and were trying not to make it worse.
When you finally pulled the cord and the engine hummed to life, they all stepped back like you’d summoned fire. Ghost let out a low whistle. “Witchcraft,” he muttered.
“You’re just saying that because I didn’t read the instructions.”
Price gave a hum of approval. “Good instincts.”
“No,” you corrected. “Just basic literacy and critical thinking. You should try it sometime.”
By the time the first line of grass was mowed, you’d already adjusted the blade height and showed them the bag catcher. They were watching you like it was a TED Talk. Soap kept nodding enthusiastically, Gaz had pulled out a notepad, and Ghost… well, Ghost hadn’t moved, but he looked thoughtful under the mask.
“Do we… tip you for this?” Gaz asked awkwardly.
“No, but if you explode another household appliance, I’m billing you for emotional damage.”
They took over after that, slightly too eager, slightly too coordinated like this was part of a training exercise and not a normal Sunday morning. You watched them mow the rest of the lawn in overlapping 10x10 squares.
It was the most efficient lawn you’d ever seen.
Terrifyingly so
You didn’t ask why they moved in. You didn’t ask why they had two satellite dishes, five separate trash bins, and a constant rotation of unmarked vans dropping off “tools.”
You just went home, sat on your porch, sipped your coffee, and told yourself they were probably just ex-military, recently retired, and terrible at pretending to be normal.
Totally fine.
Totally not suspicious at all.