Luna recommends an MT guard for the coming evening. It seems a bit excessive for just him, but the last thing Ignis wants to do is return to the empty apartment by himself. It galls him, but the incidents with Izunia have left him spooked. Luna gives Bob the orders herself. Perhaps sensing Ignis' reservations, Bob makes a surprising suggestion:

"If you like, you may billet with us, Sir."

This brings Luna up short, but Ignis smiles.

"Splendid! I should be glad to accept your hospitality. You'll allow me to cook for you in return?"

Bob nods. "That would be most appreciated, Sir."

Ignis knows what the MT accommodations are like, so he swings by the apartment with Bob in tow to pick up such things as he'll need for an overnight stay: sleeping bag, pajamas, toiletries, a change of clothes, and so on. He solicits Bob's opinion on what to eat- or tries to. Seems the concept of "favorites" is a bit foreign to him. Never mind. Something easy, then, and enough to feed as many members of Bob's extended family as care to partake. They fill a shopping bag with ingredients and utensils, and they're off.

Rather than dreading the coming night, Ignis finds himself quite looking forward to it. He could probably find his way to the parking garage unaided, but allows Bob he lead him. It's a little like holding onto Prompto. He hopes rather fervently that everyone is safe.

Ignis has been to the MT village many times before. However, he's never been in it the way Prompto has. It takes him a moment to orient to the shape of the camp. Drop ships are arranged in a loose box around an open center space that seems to function as a multi-purpose area. There are MTs out of armor setting up folding tables and chairs within it.

"Mess," Bob explains. "We eat in shifts by platoon. Each cooks for themselves."

"Shall we make a potluck out of it, then?" Ignis sets his duffle and sleeping bag down and reaches for the bag of groceries in Bob's hand. "I'd hate for anyone to feel left out."

"Potluck?" Bob echoes bewildered.

"A communal dining activity," Ignis explains. "Each diner brings a dish to share with everyone else. Not enough to feed every single person, but enough that when combined with the other dishes the other diners have made, no one will go hungry."

Bob nods thoughtfully. "Potluck. Yes. You cook your entre, and we will supplement it with our own food. Everyone will have something to eat."

Ignis smiles. "That's it!"

Ignis has no idea what's on the menu for the MTs besides what he's cooking. Spaghetti feels ever so slightly like a cop out, but it's inexpensive and one of those dishes that will multiply in volume if you don't keep an eye on it. Besides, the MTs probably all have a soldier's sky-high metabolism and will no doubt be glad of the carbohydrates.

Bob leads him over to the kitchen area- more folding tables and a couple of sterno cookers like the set he uses when camping. The folding tables seem to be full of cans and packages wrapped in plastic. Heavy plastic. Ignis picks one up and examines it more closely. It feels lumpy; there are several smaller wrapped packages inside.

"Is this an MRE?"

"Yes, Sir."

Ignis does his best to suppress a gawk of horror. "And the cans?"

"Soup. Vegetables. Meat."

Oh good heavens. He wonders if this is by choice, some sort of dietary restriction, or because they simply don't know anything different? Well, he'll find out. Ignis is silently glad he thought to bring utensils, knives, and a cutting board, as none seem to be present. He finds a space free of pre-packaged food and sets up. It isn't long before the MTs are gathered around to watch him, curious.

He dices onions, garlic, peppers, and mushrooms. Bob had mentioned having canned tomatoes, and that will suffice for this exercise. He dumps the vegetables into a pot and drizzles them with olive oil. His audience crowds closer as he sautees the foundation of the marinara sauce. Spices come next, followed by the canned crushed tomatoes.

"There is pre-prepared sauce," one of the MTs remarks. "Is it not redundant to perform labor a second time?"

"Perhaps," Ignis agrees. "I find it more economical, as well as more satisfying to assemble the ingredients myself. I think you may also find the taste is quite different."

The last thing he wants to do is boss them around, but Ignis finds himself giving an impromptu cooking class to the MTs assigned to KP. They are eager students, observing intently and taking every word to heart. Ignis tries to step back a bit to allow them to prepare the food they'd already had planned, but they follow him like the tide.

"What is compatible with spaghetti?" one asks. Ignis thinks his name might be 'Eugene'. He heard the name during introductions, but isn't sure who it belongs to.

"Oh, well, what would you like?"

They exchange confused glances and shuffle in place.

"Come now, there's no wrong answer."

Bob rescues them from the awkwardness of the situation. "We're not adept at pairing food. Normally we just eat whatever's closest to expiration."

"Ah. I see. Alright, what have we got?"

There are a number of cans simply labeled "mixed vegetables" that are chosen as a side dish. The MT cooks also unpack a few other things to bulk out the meal. Idly, Ignis wishes he'd thought to pick up some bread. Perhaps another time.

They eat in shifts. Bob and Ignis are seated with the first group. Ignis does his best to be careful, but is woefully certain he's splashed marinara on either himself or someone else. The MTs, however, are far too interested in the food to take any notice of him. Even those who choose the glucose drip over solid food come over to investigate. It seems scratch cooking is something of a revelation. Ignis blushes, pleased, at their stilted, honest compliments.

"Glad to do it," he tells them. "Really, it's my pleasure. Cooking is something of a hobby of mine. I'd be glad to give further lessons any time."

Since the spaghetti went over so well, he has them gather a couple of cans of preserved fruit and teaches them how to make crumble. It seems few of them have ever tasted sugar, and reviews are mixed. Still, they are pleased, and that's all that matters.

It's late by the time all the plates are cleared and dishes washed. Having gotten very little sleep the night before, Ignis is more than ready to retire. Bob takes him over to one of the dropships that's been converted to living space. Originally, up to sixteen MTs would have been slotted upright against the walls. The niches serve as headboards of a sort, with personal belongings and bedding carefully arranged in the space.

"I do hope I'm not putting someone else out," Ignis comments. It's not as if he can tell how much space is occupied.

"No one has had to be reassigned," Bob confirms. "There is space enough for eight to have adequate room. At present, only four sleep here. Myself, Adam, Jordan, and Charlie."

"Very good."

The metal floor is hard and unforgiving, but it's reassuring to know he's not alone in the big metal box. Ignis chuckles to himself as he settles down to sleep. The irony. Who would have thought that he'd ever feel so safe and secure in a decommissioned drop ship surrounded by MTs?

Ignis groans as his phone goes off, buzzing across the bare metal floor. It takes him a split second to realize that's not his alarm. That's an incoming call! He snatches the phone, suddenly wide awake.

"Scientia."

"Ignis!" It's Prompto. "Sorry about the wakeup call. Just wanted to let you know we're back. Meet you for breakfast at the Leville?"

"Yes! Yes of course. Did everything go well? Is everyone alright?"

"We're fine," Prompto assures him. "Not so much as a scratch on anyone. Didn't use a single potion the whole trip. Got some gibberish for you n' Ravus to translate."

"Excellent. See you soon."

Ignis lays back, breathing a sigh of relief. They're back. They're safe. About then he realizes he's rolled quite close to Bob. Despite the racket of his phone, none of the MTs seem that bothered about it. Perhaps they have their own schedule. Ignis does his best to gracefully extricate himself from his sleeping bag and the arm Bob has thrown over him. Evidently Prompto's octopus-like sleeping habits are genetic. He'll thank his host properly later. For now, he needs to hurry up and get to the Leville.