The rasp of Grizza Vor’s voice, sharp as a rusted scythe, dragged Tazien from a restless doze. “Look at this! The Vor family’s own blood, letting her children starve while hoarding what little the Republic grants us!” Tazien’s eyelids snapped open, modern fury burning away the fog of her host body’s chronic exhaustion. She lay slumped against the grimy wall of the communal grain house, the chill seeping into her bones. Across the dusty, packed-earth gathering yard of Oakhaven District, Grizza stood on the worn steps of the district office, a gaunt matriarch in a patched linen dress. Gray locks, normally pinned into a severe knot, whipped loose across her hollow cheeks like windblown thatch. Villagers, their faces hollowed by the decade-long famine, watched with the usual grim fascination. Every pair of eyes was a potential informant, every whispered word a weapon. Bramm and Nika, tiny shadows in threadbare tunics, huddled by her knees, their ribs visible through coarse cloth. Their small, clenched hands clutched two meager, half-empty sacks—the family’s grain allotment for the week. Not enough. Never enough. “The audacity!” Grizza shrieked, her brassy screech echoing between the clay walls. “She’d deny her own offspring the sustenance they need, preferring to hide it away, perhaps for... *unapproved* activities!” Her gaze, cold and hard as river stones, fixed on Tazien. It was a lie designed to seize the kids’ grain and brand Tazien an enemy of the collective. The original soul in this flesh, a timid pushover, would have curtsied and handed over the grain. But Tazien Vor, the hot-tempered hustler from a different century, had no such meekness left in her. She saw the hunger in Bramm’s dull eyes, the tremor in Nika’s lip. She saw Grizza’s grasping, bony fingers already reaching for the sacks. A red haze descended on Tazien’s vision. Her body, accustomed to the soft comforts of a modern city, responded with a primal surge of protectiveness. Her fingers gripped the iron-rimmed stave bucket sitting beside her, sloshing with well water. It weighed a ton, rough and solid against her palm. Without a moment’s hesitation, without a single thought for consequences, Tazien launched herself forward. Two long strides, fueled by pure, unadulterated rage, brought her within range. The oak vessel arced upward. With a wet splintering *CRACK* that echoed off the granite walls, it struck dead center against Grizza’s skull. Grizza’s shriek cut off, replaced by a gurgle. Her eyes rolled back, her hands flying to her head, which was now sporting a rapidly blooming bruise and a network of tiny splinters. The staves exploded into kindling, rusty iron hoops rolling across the dirt. Grizza swayed, a groan escaping her lips, before collapsing in a heap on the steps, a thin trickle of blood appearing in her grey hair. A collective gasp hissed through the crowd, parting pale lips that rarely dared to part. No one spoke. No one moved. The silence that followed the *crack* was absolute, save for Grizza’s weak moans. Then, Tazien saw it. High above, where the pale Drevkan sun hung frozen, a translucent glass-bright rectangle materialized. It pulsed with an ethereal blue light, and within its bounds, stark black digits glowed. *00:03:00*. Three minutes. What in the blazes was that? A countdown to her arrest? Her execution? Pure spite sharpened behind her ribs. [TIME ADDED: 23 Hours, 57 Minutes, 0 Seconds] [CURRENT COUNTDOWN: 24:00:00] Her head snapped back to the sky. Twenty-four hours? The fear receded, replaced by a dawning comprehension. *That* was the portal’s timer. And her violent outburst, her refusal to let Grizza win, had somehow *added* time. A brutal face-slapping, literally, was a survival mechanism. A dark, utterly unhinged laugh bubbled in her chest. “No grain for you, hag,” Tazien declared, her voice rough, her chest heaving. She snatched up Bramm’s and Nika’s sacks, her hand brushing against a familiar, cold metal object at Grizza’s fallen side. The crone’s prized antique silver pin, an ornate monstrosity set with chipped glass, had snapped clean off her collar. Tazien scooped it up, a sudden idea sparking in her mind. “Not today. Not ever again.” Ignoring the terrified stares of the villagers, ignoring Grizza’s whimpers, Tazien herded her children away from the square. Their little hands clung to her tunic, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a flicker of something new—a chaotic, combative spark. They scrambled back to their hovel, a dilapidated structure of mud and salvaged timber. The single room smelled of damp earth and stale desperation. Tazien pushed the children onto their straw sleeping mats. “Stay here. Don’t move.” She walked to the back corner of the room, her heart still thrumming with adrenaline. There, behind a loose floorboard, she kept a small, tarnished brass locket. She concentrated, picturing a shimmering doorway, a gateway to somewhere else. A faint hum vibrated in the air, and then, a swirling vortex of iridescent light bloomed in front of her. Not the dark, grim reality of Drevka, but the warm, inviting glow of her pocket-dimension antique shop, filled with curiosities from her original time. The shop was a chaotic wonderland, shelves overflowing with dusty relics, each one a potential bridge to the future. She stepped through, the air immediately warmer, thicker with the scent of old wood and something subtly metallic. A small, glowing terminal floated near the counter. She pulled out the stolen pin, its tarnished filigree glinting under the display lights. “Alright, let’s see what this junk is worth,” she muttered, sliding the metal onto the scanner glass. Beeps chimed, and a holographic beam outlined the silver filigree. [VINTAGE SILVER CAMEO BROOCH (Early 20th Century Terran Design) – RATING: Authentic. OFFER: 200 Credits.] Two hundred credits! Enough for a feast. Her gaze fell upon a display of modern survival gear. A sleek, black tactical flashlight, small but powerful. Then her gaze found the ration shelf: shiny foil packages of dark confections, oat biscuits, and synthetic fruit rolls. Luxury. Unimaginable luxury in Drevka. She quickly purchased a tactical flashlight and a stack of various chocolate bars and nutrient-dense snack packs. The gateway collapsed behind her as she stepped into the hut, the rich scent of roasted cocoa and cane sugar hitting the mud walls like contraband. Bramm and Nika stared, frozen in place. “Here.” Tazien split the dark slab with a loud snap of foil. “Eat.” Bramm sniffed the block, nibbled a corner, and immediately stuffed half into his cheek. Nika seized her portion and bolted it down, brown paste smeared across her chin. For the first time in what felt like forever, their faces relaxed, their small, pinched features softening into something resembling contentment. Just as Nika reached for another bar, a thunderous crash ripped through the hovel. The flimsy wooden door exploded inward, ripped from its hinges with a single, brutal kick. Dust and splinters rained down. Framed against the weak light of the setting sun, stood a towering, imposing figure. His field tunic was caked with grease, gray wool torn at the shoulder. His gaze cut across the wreckage, the splintered lintel, Tazien, and finally the kids licking fudge from their knuckles. Toris Dren, her husband, had returned early from his classified mission.

The Bucket and the Bomb