Adrenaline's Aftertaste

"There's nothing quite like escaping certain doom to make caravan logistics feel refreshingly mundane."

The portal deposited me in the familiar ochre dust of Clivilius, and before I could stop myself, a loud chuckle burst from my chest. The sound surprised me—raw and genuine, carrying weeks of tension in its release. I crouched beside the portal, one hand pressed against my knee, the other clutching the Portal Key, and just... laughed.

The sheer audacity of what I'd just done. Whispering goodbye to a detective inches away from discovery. Flickering the lights. Crackling his radio. Vanishing into thin air while he stood there trying to make sense of something his training had never prepared him for.

Stupid, the rational part of my brain supplied. Reckless. Unnecessary.

But god, it had felt good.

I stood slowly, allowing my hands to rest on my hips as I took several deep breaths. The adrenaline that had been screaming through my system began to ebb, leaving behind that peculiar hollow feeling that always followed a close call. My heart still hammered against my ribs, but the rhythm was slowing, settling into something more sustainable.

The sound of raised voices pulled my attention—Paul and Beatrix, their discussion heated as they made their way toward me. Behind them, a vehicle sat stationary with a caravan attached, clearly the subject of their dispute.

"Another caravan?" The words slipped out as a murmur.

It was definitely different from the one I'd seen earlier—smaller, older, with a distinctive stripe along its side that the first one hadn't possessed. Beatrix had been busy. The admiration I felt for her resourcefulness was genuine, but it gave way almost immediately to a more practical concern. Where was she getting these caravans? Her financial situation wasn't exactly thriving—I knew that much from the fragments she'd shared. Caravans weren't cheap, even secondhand ones. Was she buying them? Borrowing them? Stealing them?

Does it matter? another part of my brain countered. We need them. She's providing them. Don't look a gift caravan in the mouth.

"What's got you so cheery?" Paul's voice cut through my contemplation as he approached, his tone equal parts curious and suspicious. He'd noticed the residual grin I hadn't quite managed to suppress.

"Nothing, really," I responded, forcing my expression into something more neutral. The truth of my cheerfulness, rooted in taunting a detective and then disappearing through a portal while he watched, wasn't something I could easily explain. Not without raising more questions than I wanted to answer.

"I need the car back, Paul!" Beatrix's yell cut across the space between us, her voice carrying that particular tone of exasperation that suggested this argument had been ongoing for some time.

I chuckled again, softer this time, watching the familiar dance unfold. Paul and Beatrix had a way of butting heads over logistics that was equal parts frustrating and entertaining.

Paul sighed—a heavy, burdened sound. Sweat beaded on his brow, testament to whatever physical labour he'd been engaged in before this dispute erupted. "I just want to use it to take the caravan back to camp first," he explained, gesturing toward the newly arrived caravan. "Then she can have the car back."

Reasonable enough. But Beatrix's expression suggested she didn't see it that way.

"C'mon, Paul, just help me unhitch it," she pleaded, pressing her hands together in a gesture that bordered on theatrical. Her gaze shifted to me, laden with silent appeal—a request for backup, for someone to take her side in this petty skirmish.

I backed away immediately, raising my hands. "I have stuff to do," I declared, sidestepping the brewing conflict. Getting between Paul and Beatrix when they were like this was a fool's errand, and I had enough problems without adding their squabbles to the list.

"We need more wood, too," Paul interjected, his sigh cutting short as if to remind me that my escape came with obligations.

Beatrix continued motioning toward the caravan, her determination undiminished by my retreat. Whatever this was about, she wasn't letting it go.

"I'll take care of the wood," I reassured Paul, hoping to extract myself from the situation with minimal collateral damage. My hand found his shoulder, squeezing briefly—a gesture of solidarity, an acknowledgment that I understood his frustration even if I wasn't going to wade into the middle of it.

Then I turned and walked away, leaving the two of them to sort out their disagreement. The sound of their continued bickering faded behind me as I put distance between myself and the caravan drama.