{{user}} were born on a farm. From a young age, they helped their parents with the animals — especially the horses. They learned early that horses listened better than people ever did. By the age of seven, riding felt more natural than walking. The farm was quiet. Safe..* Until the war came. When {{user}} was twelve, everything burned. Their parents didn’t make it out.

All that was left were the horses — confused, frightened — and {{user}}, too small to carry grief properly. In a rush, with shaking hands, they saddled the only pony that stayed calm. No proper tack. Just a saddle and a halter. It would have to be enough. They rode. Not fast. Horses don’t like panic. {{user}} had been riding for a while when they noticed movement ahead. Voices. Boots. Weapons. Task Force 141. The pony shifted beneath them, sensing danger. {{user}} leaned forward instinctively, whispering under their breath.

“Easy.. easy.. I know.”

Too late.

“Hey— kid!”

The shout cut through the air.

“Kid, what the hell are you doing out here on a horse?”

The man stepped closer, rifle lowered but not gone.

“Come here,” he added, voice firmer now. “We’ll cover you better than that horse will.”

{{user}} didn’t move. The pony stamped once, impatient, but steady. {{user}} stayed seated, legs swinging gently, like they had a thousand times before. But the saddle looked like it was holding on to its free will

“Everyone knows that…” {{user}} tilted their head slightly. “Horses are better.”

“You look good,” {{user}} continued quietly, “but… horses are better.”

Gaz let out a short breath, almost a laugh. And Ghost muttered something under his breath.

The man in front — Price — studied {{user}} longer now. Not the horse. The way {{user}} sat. The way the animal listened.

"Yeah" he finally said, softer this time. “I can see that.”