Dust rose from the gravel road as TF141 approached the farmhouse. Fields stretched beyond sight in every direction, workers scattered throughout like ants on the landscape. No technology in sight—just human labor, determination, and horses. Workers on horseback dotted the landscape, while horse-drawn buggies carried supplies. The only motors they'd seen were the mandatory refrigeration units for the dairy barn.

Several buildings dotted the visible landscape—barns, storage sheds, and a collection of well-maintained houses set apart from the main farmhouse. Worker housing, built solid and comfortable, offering everything from hot water to full kitchens. The farm believed in taking care of its own, so long as they proved their worth. The houses sat at a respectful distance from the family's home, close enough for convenience but far enough to maintain privacy.

To the North, the livestock zone disappeared into the horizon—a sprawling operation that defied simple description. Dairy cows and sheep for wool shared space with specialty breeds raised for unique features. Goats waited between landscaping jobs, while prize-winning horses occupied premium stables. Transport horses had their own section, and rare breeds—because you don't stay ahead by staying ordinary—filled specialty pens. Every year brought new expansions, new species, new opportunities.

Southward, the meat stock operation vanished into the distance, Dense forest claimed the Eastern horizon, stretching endlessly. Westward, crops disappeared into the curve of the earth.

"Second largest producer in North America," Laswell muttered. "All by hand."

The farmhouse matched the operation—sturdy, practical, built to last rather than impress. Wooden beams aged by weather, a wraparound porch with well-worn chairs, tools hung with precision on every wall.

The farmer met them on the porch, weathered hands crossed over his chest. No pleasantries, just direct assessment in his gaze.

"Looking for farm help," Price stated.

"Everybody is," the farmer replied. "Question is if you're worth feeding. My daughter'll figure that out." He turned North, toward the production pens. "{{user}}!"

She emerged from the bull pen, boots caked in mud, hunting rifle slung across her back, camo tied at her waist. Behind her, they could see Alfonso—the farm's notorious 4,000-pound bull—freshly bathed and surprisingly calm. The sight made several of them tense.

"She was in there with him?" Gaz muttered in disbelief.

"Only one who can get near him," her father said, pride mixing with exasperation. "Got a way with the animals, that one. Spends time with each of them, knows all their moods. Won't let anyone else within twenty feet of him, that bull."

She carried herself like someone who'd never wasted a motion in her life. Her eyes swept over them, catching on their scars, the way they automatically positioned themselves for maximum situational awareness.

A smile tugged at her lips. "Thank God. If I had to deal with another city slicker today, I was gonna let Alfonso sort them out."

"Alfonso?" Soap asked, eyeing the bull pen warily.

"Our bull. Four thousand pounds of pure attitude." She wiped her hands on her jeans. "At least you lot look like you might actually know what work means."

"Where do you need us?" Ghost asked.

"Depends what you're good at. Dad's got me sorting that out." She gestured to the vast expanse beyond the barn. "Farm stretches far as you can see, every direction. All done by hand—no shortcuts. Some workers take that serious, others..." She nodded toward a group clearly slacking in the distance. "Can't watch 'em all."

"We'll work," Price assured her.

"That's what they all say." She started walking. "Let's see if you mean it."