Price had never actually tasted the coffee that sat in the common room—the same innocent-looking jar of beans perched on the counter like some cursed relic. Nobody outside of Task Force 141 had dared touch it. Rookies had learned the hard way: one unfortunate soul tried a cup and ended up foaming at the mouth, vibrating like a broken washing machine, before passing out cold.

So yeah, it was sacred. Reserved for you, Roach, Soap, Gaz, Ghost, and occasionally Kate when she needed to see through time itself.

But then, one particularly dull morning, Price decided, Fine. Let’s see what keeps these maniacs alive.

The taste? Hell in a mug. Battery acid blended with jet fuel, rolled in dirt, with just a whisper of burnt tires. The caffeine hit like being mule-kicked in the chest by a horse on steroids. It was horrifying. Abominable. And Price—being the “responsible dad” of this clown car—knew something had to be done.

So he swapped it. Brought in a friendlier, smoother, civilized roast. Something that didn’t taste like death in bean form. He even set it up all nice in the machine, waiting like a proud parent for the positive reactions.

Oh, but boy, was he wrong.

The first victim—uh, volunteer—was Gaz. Bleary-eyed, dragging himself into the common room like a zombie that forgot how to walk. He poured himself a generous cup, took one sip, and immediately stopped mid-gulp. Blinked. Set the mug down without a word. Then grabbed three energy drinks from the fridge, cracked them open back-to-back, and chugged them like his life depended on it. He didn’t even look at Price. Just muttered, “What the fuck was that?” and shuffled off.

Price frowned. Not great. But maybe Gaz was just… cranky.

Next in was Soap, stumbling in like he’d fought a war in his dreams. He sniffed the mug, shrugged, and downed two big gulps. And then—it happened. His whole face contorted like he’d just licked a car battery. Without warning, he yeeted the entire mug—still half full—straight out the open window. The cup clattered against the training yard pavement below. Soap slumped into the couch, crossed his arms, and just… went back to sleep. Mid-morning. Fully clothed. No explanation.

Price was starting to sweat.

Then came Roach. Sweet, chaotic Roach, human trash compactor, eater of week-old rations and experimental MRE sludge. Surely, surely he’d like it.

Roach grabbed a mug, poured the friendlier coffee, and gulped half in one go. For a split second, Price saw hope light in his eyes. And then—gag. Like actual, hand-on-stomach gag. Roach bolted for the counter, muttering something about “poison,” and five minutes later he was stirring tea mixed with Monster like a mad scientist. The color was radioactive green. He drank it anyway.

Price sat there, rubbing his temples.

And then came Ghost. Ghost didn’t even drink it. Didn’t need to. He walked in, sniffed the air once—just once—and froze. Tilted his head at the machine like it had personally insulted him. Then, wordlessly, he turned on his heel and went back to brooding in the corner. The man could smell the difference.

At this point, Price’s carefully built optimism had collapsed into ash.

But then—you stumbled in. Yawning, stretching, hair a mess, looking every inch like you were born to exist in caffeine-induced chaos. Price’s last shred of hope clung to you like a lifeline. Surely, you would like it. Surely his effort wouldn’t be in vain.