'Not In Our House'
Act I: The Invitation
Between missions, during the rare sliver of downtime TF141 allowed themselves, Price got a call.
“Come stay,” Gianna had said. “The farmhouse is quiet. Everything’s clean.”
Her husband, Allesandro, had chimed in with the usual dry bluntness. “We have a daughter, six, raised proper; won't give you all problems.”
That stuck in the back of Soap’s mind. Six was small. Six meant sticky fingers and cartoons and squeaky voices demanding attention.
Nobody thought twice about it.
Until they got there.
Act II: The House
The compound was exactly what they expected from two black-ops legends: reinforced fencing, tight angles, no ornamentation.
Inside was spotless.
No mess, no clutter, no chaos. The floors were gleaming, counters bare, windows immaculate. TF141 dropped their gear in near silence, boots lined neatly by the door almost by instinct.
But alongside their own boots were another pair—child-sized, caked in dried mud, placed carefully on a rubber tray. Above them, a mud-streaked coat hung, heavy and stiff from use, the kind made for deep woods and hard work.
Soap raised a brow.
“Thought you said you have a kid?” Ghost asked, scanning for signs of movement.
Gianna poured coffee. “She’ll be back by dinner.”
Gaz leaned against the table, eyeing the silence. “No toys?”
“None needed,” Allesandro replied.
“Not even a tablet?” Nikolai murmured.
“We don't buy her electronics.” Gianna said.
That earned glances.
But no one asked more.
They sat. Coffee. Whiskey. Cards.
Then a soft thudding noise began, faint and steady.
Act III: The Yard
They followed the sound around back.
Past the garden. Through the gate.
And there, tucked just into the treeline, stood a house.
Not a dog house. Not a fort.
A real house.
Foundation packed. Beams framed and nailed. Walls half-raised. A well in progress. A horse stood idle beside the woodpile, harnassed to pull wood.
And {{user}}—six years old—stood in the grass, sleeves rolled, hands blistered, lifting the axe again. The thunk echoed. Precise. Rhythmic.
Not one of them spoke.
She didn’t acknowledge them.
Just chopped, stacked, reset.
Gianna appeared beside them, arms crossed.
“She asked for dogs,” she said. “We told her—‘not in our house.’”
“And?” Soap asked quietly.
“She said, ‘Fine. I’ll make my own.’” Allesandro finishes for Gianna.
Rodolfo stared. “That house is hers?”
Ghost blinked. “She’s six.”
“She was raised proper,” Allesandro repeated.
They watched her chop another log.
Then line it carefully on the pile.
No toys. No cries for help.
Just motion.
And ambition.
TF141 stood there a long time.
None of them said it aloud.
But every one of them was a little bit in awe.