“Banto? What… what are you doing in my shop?” Nisra’s voice was a thin thread of disbelief, almost swallowed by a series of sharp, rattling sneezes. Each spasm shook her small frame, her chest heaving as she instinctively clutched at her throat, her eyes, wide with alarm, darting from Banto to the snout-pig peeking out from under his arm. “Nisra! Oh, my stars, are you alright?” Banto scrambled upright, wincing as a shard of ceramic dug into his palm. The snout-pig, startled by the sudden movement, burrowed deeper into the orchids, letting out a soft, snorting squeak. The air, thick with floral perfume and the fine dust from the collapsing vent, seemed to cling to Nisra’s lungs, exacerbating her struggle. Her face was already paling, the familiar signs of an impending attack setting in. Before Banto could even formulate an apology, a harsh, metallic voice boomed from the gaping hole in the ceiling. “Squad Alpha! Perimeter secured! Heat signatures indicate multiple biological targets within Sector Seven-Bravo!” Boots clattered on the structural beams above, and harsh white lights cut through the soft glow of the flower shop. Banto’s gaze shot to the skylight where dark silhouettes rappelled down, their tactical gear gleaming. The Eradication Squad was here, and they weren’t just outside anymore. They were *inside*. “Stay calm, Nisra,” Banto whispered, his voice tighter than a stretched rubber band. He tried to nudge the snout-pig further under a display of vibrant crimson Gloomweeds, but the creature, terrified, let out a distressed whimper that sounded suspiciously like a faulty airhorn. The metallic tick-watch on Banto’s wrist began to thrum, its tiny, needle-like legs vibrating against his skin in agitation. Three heavily armed figures dropped through the ceiling hole, landing with practiced thuds. At their head was a woman whose severe, cropped hair and sharp, unyielding gaze could curdle milk. Her uniform was pristine, her movements precise. She scanned the room, her thermal rifle sweeping across the crushed flora, past Nisra, and locking onto Banto and the barely concealed snout-pig. “Target acquired,” she stated, her voice devoid of inflection. “Cryptid designation: Unidentified Terrestrial Snout-Beast. Secondary bio-signature confirmed on the subject’s person. Civilian present.” She lowered her rifle slightly, but the red dot sight remained fixed on Banto’s chest. “Commander Vorlag,” Banto began, scrambling for an explanation, any explanation. “There’s been a… a misunderstanding. This is just… a particularly robust pet pig! For… agricultural purposes!” He winced at the lameness of his lie. The snout-pig chose that moment to sneeze, sending a fine spray of mucus onto a pristine lily. Nisra, meanwhile, was in distress. Her breathing had grown shallow and ragged, a desperate wheezing sound escaping her lips. She was bent double, hands on her knees, struggling for air, her face now alarmingly blue. “Banto… I… I can’t…” she choked out, her vision blurring. The dust, the dander from the snout-pig, the sheer stress – it was too much. The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Civilian exposure to unregistered cryptids is a Level Four violation. The snout-beast will be contained and terminated. The secondary entity on your person is also a concern.” Her suppression carbine now pointed squarely at Banto’s jacket, where the [Exotic Houseplant] usually resided, nestled safely in his inner pocket. Suddenly, Banto felt a wriggling motion in his jacket. His people-pleasing instinct, usually a curse, screamed at him to apologize, to comply, to make things easier for everyone. But seeing Nisra gasping, truly fighting for air, a sharp spike of resolve cut through his panic. He *couldn’t* let them take his pets, not if it meant endangering her or himself further. He *had* to protect them. Just as the commander raised her rifle, a burst of emerald foliage erupted from Banto’s jacket. The [Exotic Houseplant], a tangle of glowing, vine-like tendrils and shimmering leaves, unfurled itself with surprising speed. It leaped from his pocket, not at the officer, but directly towards Nisra, hovering protectively between her and the Eradication Squad. Its leaves trembled, and then, to Banto’s horror, a cascade of golden, iridescent spores began to drift from its fronds, showering over Nisra. “No!” Banto cried out, remembering the café incident, certain this would be the end for Nisra. He braced himself for her collapse, for the full-blown attack. But then, something impossible happened. Nisra, instead of worsening, gasped. Not a gasp for air she couldn’t find, but a deep, shuddering intake. Her eyes went round with astonishment. Her shoulders relaxed. The desperate wheezing stopped. She drew another lungful, deep and easy. Her color slowly returned, a faint flush replacing the pallor. She straightened up, pushing a hand through the golden motes dancing around her. A look of pure, unadulterated wonder spread across her face. “I… I can breathe,” she whispered, her voice clear, strong, and entirely free of strain. She drew a long, untroubled draft of air, a disbelieving laugh slipping past her lips. “I can… actually breathe!” It was the first time in her life she hadn’t felt a constant constriction, a dull ache in her chest. The glowing powder, far from being an allergen, scrubbed the air clean, dissolving the grit and pig fluff on contact. Vorlag’s muzzle dipped. Her optics showed no airborne particles, only pure atmosphere where the cloud had spread. “Impossible,” she muttered, her stern composure cracking just a fraction. Banto stared, dumbfounded. The [Exotic Houseplant] wasn’t a danger to Nisra; it was her salvation. His pet, the one he’d wrestled in a café, was her cure. “The secondary cryptid possesses unexpected… atmospheric filtration properties,” one of the squad members observed, a hint of awe in his voice. Vorlag’s stare hardened again, sweeping from the now-calm Nisra to the floating plant, then back to Banto and the snout-pig. “Atmospheric filtration or not, these are unregistered, untamed entities. They pose a threat to public safety. Hand them over, civilian. Unless,” she paused, a cold challenge in her eyes, “you can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that these creatures are fully registered, domestic service animals.” Banto’s mind reeled. Service animals? He had a trash-goblin, a blood-sucking tick, a gas-guzzling beetle, a snout-pig, and an air-purifying plant. None of them looked like therapy pets. He opened his mouth to protest, to explain, but Nisra, taking another glorious, full breath, placed a hand on his arm, her eyes shining with newfound clarity and an iron steadiness he had never seen before. [Congratulations! Mission Accomplished!] [Reward: Equestrian Riding License! Enjoy the thrill of the open road… or, uh, open mall atrium!] A small, laminated card materialized in Banto’s hand, emblazoned with a galloping horse silhouette. An Equestrian Riding License. He looked at the card, then at Captain Vorlag, then at Nisra, whose gaze was now fixed on him, a silent question in her newly bright eyes. He had to prove them domestic. He had to. And the System, in its infinite, infomercial wisdom, had just given him a very specific hint. There was only one beast large enough, and with enough ‘equine’ characteristics, to ‘ride’ through the mall atrium and truly make a statement. The two-ton rhinoceros-beetle, currently munching on a lamppost in the parking garage. Banto swallowed hard. He was going to have to ride a giant bug.

Blooming Disasters