Grizza’s face, already contorted, spasmed into a mask of theatrical horror. “My son! Have you lost your mind? Pointing that… that murder-stick at your own mother?” She clutched her chest, gaze darting from Toris’s stony face to the guards, whose carbines remained pointed uselessly at the floor. “This harlot has bewitched him! He’s protecting her contraband, I tell you!” Toris didn’t flinch. The cold, metallic scent of gun oil filled the small room, sharper than stale dried lard. “Contraband, Mother?” His voice was a low growl, devoid of any warmth. “Or simply our family’s rightful portion, unjustly withheld by those who claim rank they do not possess?” He shifted his weight, the barrel dipping an inch. It wasn't pointed *at* her, not directly, but the implication set the patrolmen shuffling their boots. “N-no! She’s hoarding!” Grizza shrieked, her voice regaining its usual piercing quality. “We saw her! She had strange, shiny packets, food from outside! It’s a violation of Drevkan law, Toris! You, a loyal officer, cannot possibly condone this!” Toris finally tore his gaze from his matriarch, sweeping it over the two patrolmen who looked ready to bolt. Both shrank back under his scrutiny. “Watchman Elar. Watchman Roric.” His tone was flat, demanding. “Do you possess an official search warrant? Signed by a District Magistrate, detailing the specifics of this alleged contraband, and authorized for a military household?” Elar, a reedy man with perpetually nervous eyes, swallowed hard. “N-no, Commander Dren. Elder Vor instructed us…” “Elder Vor has no power to issue a military search warrant.” Toris cut him off, his voice like chipped ice. He turned back to Grizza, his expression unreadable. “A direct search of an officer’s quarters without due process is a serious offense, Mother. It implies a lack of trust in the Republic’s soldiers. A destabilizing act, wouldn’t you agree?” Grizza’s face drained of color. Challenging an officer's loyalty, even implicitly, invited exile to the quarry pits. Her back-alley leverage, usually undisputed in Oakhaven, buckled instantly against regular army jurisdiction. Her mouth opened, then closed. She sputtered, a low, frustrated sound. “Well! This is an outrage!” she finally managed, regaining a fraction of her bluster. “You protect this… this *foreign* influence, Toris? You will regret this, mark my words! The council will hear of this insubordination!” She whirled, gesturing wildly at the guards. “We go! There’s nothing here for us, thanks to this… this *betrayal*!” The lackeys stumbled over their own boots to follow her out, their drab tunics vanishing into the dusk. As the door slammed shut, Toris slowly lowered his rifle, the *clack* of the safety echoing in the sudden quiet. He turned to Tazien, his slate-grey eyes still burning with an intensity she’d never seen before. [Plot Point Ruined: Grizza's contraband frame-up thwarted.] A jolt of spiteful triumph hummed in Tazien’s ribs. She glanced up, invisible to Toris. The ominous digital clock that hung in her inner vision, previously at 24:00:00, shimmered. A faint chime, like distant crystal, sounded. [Countdown Timer Updated: 26:00:00] Only two hours? Tazien stared, incredulous. Two measly hours for completely dismantling Grizza’s scheme and humiliating her publicly? This wasn’t a reward; it was a slap in the face. She demanded more. Grizza’s entire trajectory had to burn to ash. The sky-clock made it obvious: breaking the old tyrant's neck of influence was the only way to earn actual time. Toris, meanwhile, was still staring at her. “Tazien. What in the name of the Commissariat was that blue chip?” he demanded, his voice tight. “And where did you acquire a tactical flashlight?” Before she could answer, a small, furtive cough came from the window. Mila Krov, still perched on the sill, holding a half-eaten bag of bright orange chips. “Uh, Auntie Tazien? Grandma Grizza is stomping back to her house, but she’s gathering the other Elders. She looks like a thundercloud about to burst.” Tazien’s eyes narrowed. Good. Let her stew. “Mila, excellent work. Here.” She tossed a second, smaller bag of Cheetos to her niece, who caught it with the practiced ease of a seasoned thief. “Keep an eye on the Vor den. If Grizza so much as sneezes wrong, I want to know.” Mila grinned greedily at the unexpected bounty. “Yes! My loyalty is absolute!” She vanished with a soft rustle, leaving Toris looking even more bewildered. “Auntie?” he repeated, gaze fixed on the sill. “Since when do you bribe your niece with neon rations?” “Since I decided she could be useful,” Tazien snapped, turning to face him fully. “And since when do you come home unannounced, just to be caught in my domestic drama? We’ll discuss the chips later. Right now, I have to go to the commune fields.” She swept past him, grabbing a battered basket from a hook by the door. “Bramm, Nika! Let’s go!” The children scrambled up from their corner, chins raised high. Nika thrust out her jaw, imitating Tazien's predatory sneer. Outside, the communal fields stretched under the pale afternoon sun, row after row of drab, struggling crops. The air was thick with the scent of dry earth and desperation. Tazien led her children past the main irrigation channel, its trickling water a precious commodity in the long famine. Mila, munching on her Cheetos, waved from her perch on a distant fence post, a discreet sentinel. “Remember, darlings,” Tazien murmured to Bramm and Nika, “we’re just checking the crops. But keep your eyes peeled for anything… unusual.” They marched to the far boundary of the settlement plot, where the Vor family’s designated section lay. Even from a distance, Tazien noticed it. While the rest of the commune’s crops were spindly and parched, Grizza’s plot was unnaturally lush, the leaves a deeper, healthier green. It was too perfect, too uniform. A sick feeling churned in Tazien’s gut. She knelt, pulling aside some of the thick foliage. There it was. A thin, illicit feeder tube, siphoning water from the main channel, snaking directly into Grizza’s private rows. The communal flow, meant for every family, was being hijacked. Grizza was skimming gallons directly into her soil while neighboring beds turned to cracked silt. Anger, hot and immediate, flared in Tazien. This wasn't just a political plot point; it was a physical manifestation of Grizza’s greed. This was what the clock wanted her to destroy. And Tazien had just the thing. She discreetly activated her portal, a shimmering tear in reality visible only to her. She plunged her hand in, rummaging through the endless shelves of the antique shop, past ancient Drevkan artifacts and futuristic trinkets. She required something ruinous, fast-rooting, and loud. Her fingers closed around a handful of seeds that hummed with a sickly green luminescence. The label, in a language she didn’t understand, featured a stylized depiction of a thorny vine devouring a tractor. Perfect. With sharp, deliberate strokes, Tazien sowed. She broadcast the phosphorescent grains across the dirt, kicking clods over them to mask the shine. She used the portal to discreetly remove the siphoning tube, then, with a final surge of vindictive glee, she activated the seeds with a burst of concentrated growth serum from a small, spray-canister she’d also pilfered from the portal. Almost immediately, the ground began to ripple. The lush, green crops withered, turning brown and brittle, as if all their nutrients were being violently sucked away. In their place, the emerald seeds sprouted with terrifying speed. Thick, thorny vines erupted from the earth, coiling and twisting, their leaves a vibrant, alien green. Within minutes, Grizza’s entire plot was a dense, impenetrable thicket of bizarre, invasive flora. And then came the smell. A pungent, overwhelming odor, like a thousand unwashed gym socks left to ferment in a swamp, wafted through the air. It was so potent it made Tazien’s eyes water. Bramm and Nika grinned, cheeks illuminated by the uncanny swamp-light of the writhing shoots. Nika, still practicing her scowl, wrinkled her nose. “Mama, stinky!” “Good, Nika. Very, very good,” Tazien said, a triumphant, unhinged grin spreading across her face. “This is the smell of justice.” Mila, who had approached cautiously, stared at the rank, writhing abomination. “Tazien… what *is* that?” she whispered, her snacks forgotten. “That, my dear Mila, is Grizza’s future harvest,” Tazien declared, wiping her hands on her tunic. “Now, let’s go home before anyone else gets a whiff of this glorious retribution.” As they turned to leave, a commotion erupted at the edge of the fields. A gleaming, well-maintained ‘A1-model’ utility vehicle, a rare sight in Oakhaven, rumbled to a halt. The door swung open, and a figure in an impeccably pressed uniform stepped out. It was District Inspector Keld, a man notorious for ruthless audits and sudden spot-checks. He was a full day early for the annual crop evaluation. And there, knee-deep in the luminous, rank, alien weeds, desperately ripping at stems with bare fingers, scrambled Grizza Vor. Her face was purple with exertion, her domineering sneer shattered by the reeking monstrosity devouring her harvest. She looked up, freezing as she spotted Keld, right as a barbed vine whipped round her ankle and dragged her face-first into the stinking muck.

Sowing Sour Seeds