"No," Eliot says, grabbing Hardison's arm and steering him away from the big brew kettle that dominated the back room - and, more importantly, making him drop the little plastic package in his hand with one strategic dig of fingers into nerves.

"Wait, wait, hear me out," Hardison protests, already twisting like he wants to go back, "other people have already made batches like this, right, but they've only tried using one ghost pepper--"

"No," Eliot says again, and shuts the door in Hardison's face.