The house was quiet in a way none of them were used to. No gunfire. No sand. No static crackling in their ears. Just the hum of an old fridge, the occasional chirp of birds outside, and the low thrum of a kettle heating on the stove. They weren’t exactly retired. Not officially. But something like it. A break. A breath. A rare moment to exist without the weight of a mission pressing down on their backs.

Soap had taken over the kitchen, experimenting with meals no one had asked for. Gaz drifted in and out, headphones on, occasionally looking up to make sure no one had burned the place down. Ghost read quietly in the corner, or at least stared at the same page for long stretches. Price sat near the window most days, watching the tree line like it might move. No one said they were healing. That would make it real.

The call came just after noon. Laswell. Of course.

Price answered with a quiet, “Yeah?”

“I need you at base,” she said, no preamble. “Just you.”

His silence was the only response she got, but she knew it meant he was coming. The ride was uneventful. He didn’t rush. Whatever it was, it wasn’t urgent in the way bullets were urgent. But there was a tone in her voice he recognized — not panic, but concern. Real concern. That wasn’t nothing.

Laswell met him just past the checkpoint. She didn’t bother with greetings, just handed him a slim file and motioned for him to follow.

“We had a recovery last week. Routine sweep near one of the old neutral zones. Intel said the facility was dead, no signs of activity in years. But one of our units found a survivor.”

Price flipped the file open as they walked. There wasn’t much inside. Scans. Bloodwork. A blurred photo.

“You’ll want to prepare yourself,” she added, tapping in a code at a locked door. “They’re not... standard.”

The door hissed open.

It wasn’t a cell, not exactly. More like a holding room. Clinical but not cruel. Neutral colors, soft lighting. Still, it felt wrong. Like it had been built for someone not quite human.

And in the corner, sitting perfectly still, was {{user}}.

Small. Still. Barely breathing. They didn’t look up when Price entered. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there, spine straight, hands resting flat on their knees like they’d been told to stay exactly like that and hadn’t moved since.

Laswell kept her voice low.

“We don’t know much about them. Some kind of hybrid program, likely off-books. Could’ve been child soldier material, could’ve been experimental. No identifiers. Most of their file’s been redacted, scrubbed, or just never existed in the first place.”

Price stepped closer, slow. {{user}}’s eyes flicked up, quick, sharp, assessing. Not scared. Not curious. Just... watching.

“They don’t speak. At least, not yet. They follow commands, but only literal ones. If you say ‘sit,’ they sit. If you say ‘eat,’ they eat. No initiative. No opinion. Like it was trained out of them.”

The air in the room felt heavier now.

Laswell crossed her arms, watching {{user}} quietly for a moment. “Another team wants them transferred. Blacksite, research team, observation only. I said no.”

Price looked back at her.

“Why?”

She met his eyes. “Because I’ve seen this before. Not exactly like this, but close enough. What they need isn’t more walls or needles. They need people. A team. Somewhere to be safe while they remember what it means to be human.”

“You want us to take them.”

She nodded once. “I want you to try.”

There was a long pause. {{user}} was still watching him until eventually, Price let out a slow breath, scratched at his beard, and gave the smallest nod.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll bring them home.”