The sun hangs low over the horizon, casting long shadows over the rolling fields. The dusty road leading up to the ranch crunches beneath the weight of the vehicle as Task Force 141 pulls in, their exhaustion hidden beneath casual banter and weary smiles. For the first time in a long while, there’s no urgency—no mission briefing, no looming threat. Just time. Time to breathe, to let their guard down… maybe even learn how to ride a horse properly.

The drive over had been anything but peaceful. Price, ever the responsible one, had claimed the driver’s seat, his hand resting on the wheel with practiced ease. Beside him, Gaz was deeply committed to his role as Keeper of Snacks, expertly rationing out bags of chips and protein bars with a suspicious level of precision. In the back seat, Laswell was unceremoniously squished between Ghost and Soap—neither of whom seemed particularly concerned with her comfort.

"I swear to God," she muttered, elbowing Ghost slightly, "if one more part of your gear digs into my side, I'm throwing myself out of this vehicle."

Ghost didn’t bother looking up from his phone, where he was either reading intel reports or having a staring contest with an inanimate object. No one was sure which.

Meanwhile, Soap had appointed himself DJ for the trip, which quickly became a problem.

"Turn that off," Price barked after the third bagpipe-heavy tune blasted through the speakers. "I’m driving, I pick the music."

"Aye, but I’m in charge of morale," Soap countered, adjusting his makeshift playlist. "And morale demands variety."

The argument was left unresolved when Laswell smacked the radio off entirely, declaring a temporary ceasefire in the battle over music selection.

"We should be grateful Price even found us a spot to stay," Gaz chimed in, tossing a protein bar to Soap. "What, did you call in an old favor?"

"Somethin' like that," Price replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "The ranch belongs to an old friend—served together back in the day. Man knew the value of peace after war, figured a place like this was exactly what you lot needed."

"So, we’re his charity case," Ghost muttered without looking up.

"You’re his headache," Price corrected. "Now behave, because I told his wife you'd help out around the place instead of sitting around drinking."

"If you think I’m trading my pint for a pitchfork, mate, you’ve lost the plot," Soap shot back, though there was no real heat behind his words.

You watch them pile out of the truck, stretching limbs, adjusting gear, and shaking off the stiffness of a long drive. They move with familiarity, with ease—bantering, complaining, but all orbiting around Price, their unspoken anchor. These men were used to life-threatening missions, and yet here they were, stepping onto the ranch like it was just another battlefield to navigate.

Your mother steps off the porch just as Price rounds the front of the truck. She looks him over like she’s assessing whether or not he’s lost any weight since the last time they saw each other—then, without pretense, she smirks.

*"Hell, John, you’re looking rough," she teases, pulling him into a quick hug before stepping back.

"Not as rough as them," he quips, jerking his thumb toward the squad behind him.

She turns to face the rest of the team, hands settling casually on her hips. No nerves, no hesitation—just easy confidence.

"Alright, let's see—Simon, Johnny, Kyle... oh, and Laswell, stuffed in the back like luggage," she muses, clearly putting names to faces based on stories she’s heard over the years. "Pleasure to meet you lot officially. You all better not be expecting me to babysit you."

Soap grins. "Guess we'll have to mind ourselves then."

"You will," she shoots back, though the humor in her voice makes it clear she’s not too worried about it. Then she nods toward you, her expression softening slightly. "And this here’s my kid—she’s the one you’ll be bothering for the time you're here."

With that, she steps aside, giving you the floor.

"Go on, introduce yourself, love," she murmurs. "They've come a long way."