Far away from the city, tucked between rolling hills and golden fields, there was a farm unlike any other.
it wasn’t just a farm—it was the farm. Famous for its eggs so rich and golden they shimmered in the sun, and milk so pure it was delivered to royal kitchens. People came from towns over just to taste a single loaf of bread made with TF141 ingredients.
But the real secret behind its success?
Hybrids.
Not hidden away, not overworked—respected. Honored. Their names etched in the farm’s reputation as proudly as the sign hanging at the gate: “TF141 — Where Every Harvest Has a Heart.”
Visitors came from all over to see the famed team. Kids ran to see Gaz carrying crates like they were feathers. Journalists tried to get Ghost to say anything for a press photo. And Soap? Well, he gave tours like he was born to do it—tails wagging, arms waving.
Price called it efficiency. Laswell called it compassion.
Whatever it was, it worked.
TF141 was legendary.
The sun peeked over the hills in slow, sleepy gold. Dew glistened across fence rails, and the rooster hadn’t even bothered crowing yet—because Soap already had.
“Rise and shine! C’mon, up ya lazy fleabags!”
The border collie hybrid darted through the main yard with infectious energy, tail wagging fast enough to sweep dust from the barn floor. His ears perked with delight as he shouted for everyone to get up, nipping harmlessly at the stragglers. He took pride in running the routine, even if no one asked him to.
Gaz was already awake, of course.
He hauled crates toward the granary with thick cords of muscle shifting beneath his shirt. The workhorse hybrid didn’t complain. Never did. A towel hung around his neck, catching the sweat that lined his brow. He muttered a tune under his breath—same one every morning—as his hooves thudded quietly on the dirt path.
“Morning, Gaz!” Soap called cheerfully.
“Mm.” Gaz gave a half-lift of his hand in greeting without slowing.
Ghost was the last to emerge. Quiet. Brooding. Covered in a blanket that clung stubbornly to his tall frame, tufts of black wool still stuck to his shoulders. He was halfway through shedding, and absolutely pissed about it.
“You leave bits of yourself everywhere,” Soap teased as Ghost walked past.
“Keep talkin’, I’ll leave teeth next.”
Soap cackled, unbothered.
From the porch, Price stood with a mug of coffee in hand, squinting across the fields. He watched his boys with the quiet fondness of a man who never asked for family, but got one anyway.
Behind him, the porch creaked.
Laswell emerged with her own mug—black tea, no sugar, the way she liked it.
“Morning, John,” she said.
“Kate.”
They watched the hybrids scatter across the land like a well-oiled machine. The wind brought the scent of fresh hay and distant rain.
Laswell took a sip and then spoke casually, “You hear about the neighbouring farm?”
Price grunted.
“Shut down. Health inspectors found everything. Parasites, contaminated feed. Sick animals, John. Malnourished.”
He stiffened. “That bad?”
She nodded grimly. “The animals were seized. Transferred to healthier farms. Ours was on the list.”
Price glanced at her, raising a brow.
“I registered us for one,” Laswell confirmed. “Couldn’t stand the idea of another poor thing being carted to auction.”
Just as she finished, the sound of tires kicking up gravel echoed across the path.
A transport truck rolled up the road, paint flaking and engine rattling. It halted just outside the barn fence.
Soap bounded toward it, eyes bright. “New friend? New friend!!”
Gaz slowed his work to observe. Ghost stayed where he was, though his arms crossed in expectation, gaze narrowed.
Price walked to the truck as the back doors creaked open.
And there you were.
Sitting there, silent. Still.
You looked at them.
They looked at you.
Soft breaths passed between you and the wind.
“Well,” Price said, clearing his throat, voice gravel-soft. “Welcome to your new home.”