The rain lashed down, drowning out the engine whine of the accelerating military transport. Tazien stood rooted in the mud, sulfur and damp pine needles stinging her nostrils. Her gaze was locked on the sky, where the luminous digits flickered, a cruel mockery of her desperation. [00:11:57] [00:11:56] Heat flared through her veins, prickly and sharp. Toris was gone. Dragged away by shadowy figures, accused of treason. All because of Grizza. All because of the Vor clan. A guttural growl escaped her throat. The tin of Veritas Mints, still clutched in her hand, suddenly felt inadequate. This wasn’t a problem for subtle poisons. This was a problem for brute force. This was a problem for *Tazien*. She stormed through the house, her bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards. Mila, pale and trembling, huddled with Bramm and Nika in the corner of the kitchen, their wide eyes reflecting the shattered doorway. “Aunt Tazien?” Mila’s voice was a reedy whisper. “Stay here. With them,” Tazien commanded, her voice surprisingly calm despite the inferno raging inside her. She yanked open the wardrobe, rummaging past threadbare communal clothes. Her hand closed around the familiar, cool grip of the stun baton she’d smuggled in during her early days, an antique from a future where personal defense was a sleek, devastating art. The obsidian-black shaft felt right in her hand, solid and heavy. She pressed the activation stud. Blue sparks snapped across the twin nodes with a dry hiss. The surrounding air smelled sharply of scorched wire. She looked at Mila. “Get Bramm and Nika. Put them on your shoulders. You’re coming with me.” Mila shrank back against the splintered sill. “To the council? Aunt Tazien, they’ll—they’ll tear us apart!” “No,” Tazien snarled, a feral glint entering her eyes. “I’m tearing *them* apart.” Nika, usually so timid, clapped her small hands. “Tear apart, Mama! Bang! Zap!” Bramm, ever the more pragmatic, simply grunted and hoisted himself onto Mila’s left shoulder, his short legs swinging. Mila, despite her fear, seemed to gather her resolve, pulling Nika onto her right. Their little faces, still smudged with the dirt of a hard life, were now alight with a strange, fierce glee. The Vor Clan compound, a cluster of sturdy, well-maintained longhouses atop the steepest hill in Oakhaven, loomed through the driving rain. A single, flickering gas lamp illuminated the main gate, where two hulking figures stood guard, their crude wooden cudgels held loosely. They wore the rough-spun tunics of Grizza’s personal enforcers, their faces grim under their heavy brows. Tazien didn’t slow. She marched up the muddy incline, the stun baton held casually at her side, its faint hum a predator’s purr. Mila, burdened but determined, shuffled behind her, the kids bouncing precariously. “Hey! You there! Halt!” one guard bellowed, stepping forward, his cudgel rising. Tazien stopped dead, a few paces from the gate. “I’m here to see the clan heads,” she stated, her voice dangerously even. “Tell them I’ve come for Toris.” The second guard snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “That traitor Dren? He’s already in the pit. The council will hear *nothing* from the likes of you, peasant.” He swung his cudgel in a lazy arc, aiming for her head. Tazien didn’t dodge. She spun, the stun baton a blur. The crackle intensified, a sickening *THWACK* echoing off the gatepost as the end of the baton connected with the guard’s knee. He roared, a sound of agony and surprise, crumpling to the muddy ground, his cudgel clattering uselessly. The other guard froze, gaping down at his fallen comrade, then up at the sleek, black device in Tazien’s hand. “What… what was that?” Tazien gave him a predatory smile. “Shock therapy.” She advanced, the baton now humming louder, bright blue discharge jumping between its prongs. The guard, terrified, turned to flee. Too slow. Tazien lunged, burying the prongs into his broad back. A high-pitched shriek tore from his throat as his muscles spasmed, locking him rigid. He collapsed, twitching, a smell of ozone and burnt hair rising from his tunic. [00:11:05] The sky-clock had barely acknowledged her efforts, a mere minute shaved off. *More. I need more.* Mila gasped, a choked sound, but Bramm cheered, a full-throated roar. “Zap! Zap! Mama’s zappy!” Nika, mimicking her brother, yelled, “More zap!” Beyond the gate, the compound courtyard was largely empty, save for a few stray chickens pecking at the mud. The main meeting hall, a squat, windowless building, was her destination. Another guard, older and heavier, emerged from a side door, drawn by the commotion. “What in the blazes is going on out here?” he grumbled, fumbling with the latch of his rusty carbine. Tazien met him halfway, a whirlwind of motion. She swung low, hitting him just above the ankle. He yowled, dropping the carbine, hopping on one foot. A second, higher strike caught him under the chin. He went down in a heap, spitting teeth and curses. [00:10:58] The main doors to the meeting hall were thick oak, reinforced with iron bands. Tazien didn’t bother with the handle. She kicked, once, twice, putting all her furious weight into it. The old wood groaned, a deep, protesting sound. The third kick, delivered with the sole of her boot, splintered the frame. The doors burst inward with a resounding crash. Inside, a pall of pipe smoke hung heavy in the air. Six gray-bearded patriarchs, the Vor clan leaders, sat around a long, polished table. Grizza, her face still bearing faint bruising from Tazien’s bucket, sat at the head, smirking. A communal ceramic tea kettle steamed gently in the center, surrounded by chipped tin cups. Their conversation died the moment Tazien appeared, framed by the shattered doorway, the stun baton still crackling faintly in her hand. “*You*,” Grizza hissed, scrambling to her feet, her eyes narrowed slits of malice. “How dare you defile this sacred place? Guards! Guards!” Tazien ignored Grizza, her gaze sweeping over the councilmen. These were the men who had signed Toris’s death warrant, banking on his communal grain share. Ribs rattled with the frantic rhythm of her pulse, but she leaned into the rush. “You bastards!” Tazien shrieked, a theatrical, unhinged wail that reverberated off the stone walls. She threw herself forward, arms flailing, a banshee of outrage. “You’ve taken my husband! My Toris! You’ll pay for this! I’ll burn this whole village to the ground!” The patriarchs stared, dumbfounded, at the sudden, violent display. Grizza gaped, momentarily stunned by Tazien’s sudden, spectacular unraveling. It was perfect. A perfect, chaotic diversion. Tazien, still screaming, “I’ll spit on your graves! I’ll feed your bones to the stray dogs!” stumbled past the edge of the table, her hand deftly reaching out. In a single, fluid motion, she unscrewed the lid of the Veritas Mints tin, palmed a handful of the tiny, iridescent green lozenges, and dropped them into the steaming tea kettle. A faint, sweet scent, like candied peppermint, wafted up. She slammed the lid back on the tin, stuffing it back into her apron, then continued her rampage, knocking over a ceremonial ancestral portrait with a resounding clang. “Control your madwoman, Grizza!” one of the old men, a thin frame with a wispy beard, finally stammered. “She’s truly lost her mind!” Grizza, regaining her composure, sneered. “Let her rave. It’s the last tantrum she’ll ever throw. Your husband is as good as dead, you pauper. And then everything you own, including your whelps, will be ours.” She gestured grandly at the tea kettle. “Sit down, cousins. Let us calm ourselves. The High Party Commissioner will arrive soon to finalize the Dren matter. We have much to celebrate.” The men, relieved to have their dignity restored, settled back into their seats, their expressions smug. They chuckled, shaking their heads at Tazien’s “madness.” One by one, they reached for their cups, pouring the steaming tea, the faint scent of mint now mingling with the bitter aroma of the brew. They raised their cups, a collective toast to their impending victory, their eyes mocking Tazien as they brought the liquid to their lips. [00:03:00] [00:02:59] The heavy oak doors, now hanging precariously from one hinge, were suddenly flung wide with such force that they splintered further. A man in an immaculate black uniform, his face like carved granite, filled the doorway. Behind him, a squad of armed executioners stood at attention, their rifles held steady. The High Party Commissioner, his voice devoid of all warmth, boomed, “Bring out the traitor Dren! His sentencing is scheduled for immediate execution!” [00:02:58]

Shock Therapy