The soil, dense with the season’s last, stubborn potatoes, offered no soft landing. Tamsya Brinn, all two hundred pounds of lean, sun-baked muscle, landed with a squelch that splattered mud across her face, neck, and the pristine white pages of her smuggled catalogue. Her spine, a constant knot of aches from years of bending, felt a sudden, glorious relief. Her calloused fingers, perpetually caked with the Morndell Valley’s unforgiving loam, loosened their grip on the spud-digger. “I’m done,” Tamsya mumbled, not bothering to wipe the grit from her eyelashes. The words were a quiet, almost reverent prayer, but the sharp, metallic clang of her dropped tool echoed unnaturally in the field’s drowsy hum. Three rows over, a fieldhand with a back bowed like a question mark straightened with a groan. “Done? Done with what, Brinn? We’re only halfway through Lot Seven.” Tamsya, eyes fixed on a glossy photograph of a woman reclining on a velvet chaise lounge, ignored her. The catalogue, a forbidden relic from the distant Gilded Cities, depicted a life utterly devoid of effort. The woman wore a silk dressing gown, not coarse linen. Her hands were smooth, not scarred. Her expression was one of serene, unburdened existence. It was, Tamsya decided, a manual for living. “I am retiring to become a stationary object,” Tamsya declared, louder this time, her voice thick with conviction. “Like this one. A decorative fixture. Perhaps domestic property. An ornament.” She tapped the photo with a muddy nail. “This woman, she is a trophy. She does not sweat.” The woman stared, then barked out a harsh laugh. “A trophy? Brinn, a prize in Morndell Valley means a fat pig at the Autumn Fair! You’ll be lucky if the commune doesn’t declare you a derelict and send you to the deep-mountain division for that kind of talk!” The deep-mountain logging division. It was where the truly useless were sent to break rocks and splinter timber for every meager ration. Tamsya merely hummed. That wouldn’t be her fate. She had a plan, a glorious, sedentary future laid out in the pages of her Sears Roebuck catalogue. She just had to make it official. *** Jolya Brinn, Tamsya’s younger sister by three years and a lifetime of ambition, watched the Morndell Committee Board meeting descend into its usual chaos. The flickering gaslights cast long shadows across the weathered faces of the elders, their voices a rasp of grievances and tallies. Jolya, however, saw not the present, but the future. She saw the imminent legalization of private enterprise, the arrival of modern factories, and the opportunity to finally escape the back-breaking misery of the commune. Her memories, sharp and painful from a life she hadn’t lived in this body, whispered of a world where wealth was king and political maneuvering was an art form. She knew who would rise, who would fall. And she knew that young Alistair Groat, currently a mere junior overseer with an irritatingly handsome face, would become a wealthy magnate within a decade. “—and furthermore,” Elder Groff boomed, his jowls quivering, “Tamsya Brinn, daughter of the Brinn line, has declared herself a ‘stationary object’! A clear dereliction of duty! Her work tallies are in the negatives!” The murmurs swelled. This was it. Jolya’s moment. She stepped forward, her neatly pressed skirt a stark contrast to the mud-caked garments of most villagers. “Elders, with all due respect, I believe my sister’s declaration, while… unconventional, presents a unique opportunity for the commune.” The room quieted, wary. Jolya’s reputation for cunning was well-established, even if her schemes often imploded spectacularly. “What opportunity, girl?” demanded Elder Fennik, squinting at her. “A marriage,” Jolya announced, projecting her voice with practiced ease. “A politically advantageous match. To solidify community bonds. The commune needs stability in these changing times.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “My sister, Tamsya, has expressed a desire to be… a homemaker. A domestic fixture. A decorative prize, as she so eloquently put it.” Jolya smiled, a brittle, saccharine expression. “And who better to house such a… unique individual, than someone whose own contributions are, shall we say, less… conventional?” Her gaze swept the room, landing on Korsen Dael. Korsen, the local tinkerer, was an eccentric figure who lived on the outskirts, his small cottage overflowing with strange contraptions and the occasional hum of experimental machinery. He was an outcast, but crucially, he wasn’t a field laborer. His work credits were negligible, but his odd contraptions, while rarely useful, were tolerated because they occasionally solved minor irrigation issues. Korsen, a lanky man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, looked up from fiddling with a gear. His dog, Barnaby, a massive sheepdog with fur the color of storm clouds, snored loudly at his feet. “Korsen Dael requires domestic management,” Jolya pressed on, her voice sweet and steady. “And Tamsya Brinn, with her… robust constitution, would be an excellent, permanent fixture in his home. A fine example of traditional values, freeing up other, harder workers to contribute to the commune’s core labor. And it would ensure she earns *some* credit, albeit indirectly, through home maintenance.” Elder Groff stroked his chin. “A homemaker… a stationary object, then? Yes, a wife. A wife counts as domestic property, yes. It makes sense. It’s traditional. And Korsen Dael… he’s got enough land for a small, non-productive wife.” The elders nodded, murmurs spreading along the benches. Tamsya, who had been listening from the back row, a beatific smile on her mud-splattered face, clapped her hands together softly. “Domestic property! Yes! Excellent!” She beamed at Jolya, genuinely thrilled. Jolya’s internal smile was predatory. With Tamsya married off to the village weirdo, Jolya herself would be free to pursue Alistair Groat, the *real* prize. “And as for myself,” Jolya added, seizing the moment, “I am prepared to dedicate my full efforts to the commune’s expansion into new manufacturing ventures. Perhaps assisting Overseer Groat with his logistical planning for the new textile mill?” Alistair, overhearing, turned, a flicker of interest in his eye. But before Jolya could savor her triumph, a thunderous *CRACK* echoed through the hall. Labor Enforcer Borin, a barrel-chested man whose stern face was carved from granite, slammed his heavy gavel onto the table. His eyes, cold and unforgiving, swept over the room, settling on Tamsya. “This Board will not be made a mockery of!” Borin’s voice was a guttural growl. “A wife may be considered home property, but even *property* serves a purpose! Tamsya Brinn, your marriage to Korsen Dael will proceed, on one condition. You will be assigned a Labor Point Quota of zero. However, if, by the end of this month, the commune officially deems your ‘trophy status’ to be a complete sham—if you fail to integrate into *any* productive capacity within the Dael residence, even as a glorified doorstop—this marriage will be voided. And you, Tamsya Brinn, will be immediately drafted into the deep-mountain logging division.”

The Sears Roebuck Retirement Plan