Brushstrokes on a Prison Wall

"Nothing quite tests your patience like someone treating your forced imprisonment as an exciting creative opportunity—especially when they've been here five minutes and you've been through five disasters."

The morning's fragile tranquillity shattered in an instant, replaced by a sequence of events that would have been comical under any other circumstances.

"For fuck's sake, Henri!"

The words burst from me in a mix of fury and disbelief as I lunged to intercept the small dog, whose only concern in the entire universe at that moment was the tantalising smell of bacon. My movements were far from graceful—a clumsy dance with disaster that I was already losing before it properly began. Arms flailing, feet scrambling for purchase in the dust, I must have looked like a man fighting an invisible assailant.

In a moment that felt scripted for maximum chaos, my right leg—seemingly operating on some malicious autopilot entirely separate from my intentions—found the frying pan handle. The pan, silent participant in the morning's routine until that catastrophic second, was suddenly catapulted into the spotlight as my foot nudged it with the perfect combination of angle and force to send scrambled eggs soaring through the air like a flock of golden birds set free.

It was surreal. Almost slow-motion.

I watched the eggs catch the light as they embarked on their brief, doomed flight—each piece tumbling end over end, defying gravity for one beautiful, terrible moment before physics reasserted its authority.

This is actually happening. I'm watching breakfast become airborne.

Henri, ever the opportunist, seized the moment with a speed that made a mockery of his usual indolent sprawl across cushions and mattresses. In the blink of an eye, he was in the midst of the mayhem—a canine lightning bolt with targeting systems that would make a military contractor weep with envy. The last rasher of bacon, prize beyond measure in his simple worldview, dangled momentarily from his jaws in what might have been triumph before disappearing down his throat with the speed of something vanishing into a black hole.

Gone.

Forever.

You absolute little bastard.

With breakfast now irretrievably lost to Henri's insatiable appetite, I was left with nothing but the sound of my own stomach protesting loudly against the morning's catastrophic turn of events. The growl that emerged from my midsection was almost accusatory—as if my digestive system held me personally responsible for the debacle.

I brushed off the remnants of the skirmish with more force than necessary, bits of scrambled egg that now adorned my leg serving as unwanted souvenirs of the disaster. The yellow smears against my skin felt like badges of failure.

Stalking back toward the tent, a mixture of resignation and irritation brewing within me like storm clouds gathering on a grey horizon, I couldn't help but mutter to myself, "At least my plate should be safe with Joel."

The words were a small comfort, a silver lining in the cloud of disappointment Henri had so enthusiastically created. My glare at Henri as I passed him was laden with the frustration of the moment—though, I had to admit, it was devoid of real malice. The little shark had only done what came naturally. The fault lay with my own clumsy feet.

Still going to hold it against you though, you furry opportunist.

The moment I pushed through the tent flap, my frustration from the latest antics still simmering beneath the surface, the sight that greeted me caused that frustration to momentarily spike.

"Fuck me!"

The words came out more as a scoff than anything else, my voice tinged with disbelief and resignation that had become far too familiar in recent days. There was Joel, seemingly oblivious to the drama that had unfolded outside, fully engrossed in what remained of breakfast. He was pushing the final morsel of scrambled eggs into his mouth with the satisfied expression of someone who'd discovered an unexpected feast.

Duke, ever the opportunist like his brother—clearly a genetic trait that ran strong in the canine side of our family—was happily cleaning up any remnants that had fallen from Joel's meal, his tongue working with the dedication of a creature who believed no food particle should go to waste.

Both dogs. Both of them. Conspiring against my breakfast.

But even as the thought formed, sharp-edged with irritation, I felt it dissolve into something softer. Watching Joel eat—actually eat, with his own hands, putting food into his mouth and swallowing—was a small miracle I wasn't prepared to begrudge. Not really.

I noticed the struggle in his movements, a reminder of the delicate balance we were trying to maintain between normalcy and the brutal reality of our situation. His arm trembled slightly with the effort. The concentration required for actions that should have been automatic was written across his features. His attempt to reach for the plate of bacon, hindered by his own body's limitations, was a stark illustration of the challenges he was facing.

The grimace that flashed across his face, however brief, was enough to twist something inside me. The urge to fix it, to help, to make everything easier for him, surged through me with an intensity that caught me off guard.

"I'll get it."

My tone softened as I knelt beside him, the earlier irritation evaporating in the face of his vulnerability. The simple act of moving the plate closer to him felt significant—a small gesture of care in a situation where larger gestures seemed impossible. But Joel pushed it away, his good hand rubbing at his throat in a gesture I was beginning to recognise all too well.

Silent communication. Our developing language.

"Eating the bacon makes it sore?"

My guess was met with a nod and a half-smile from Joel—a small gesture that carried a weight of gratitude and understanding far beyond its simplicity. The wordless exchange felt intimate, a connection forming through necessity but growing into something more.

"Suppose I can eat it then."

A grin found its way onto my face, trying to inject lightness into the moment. Finding humour where I could, because the alternative—dwelling on everything that had led us here—was too heavy to carry constantly.

Yet, before the moment could fully blossom, Henri appeared at the tent entrance. Driven by his insatiable appetite and that supernatural ability to detect food from any distance, he made his move with the tactical precision of a seasoned predator.

"Henri! No more!"

The words were sharp, a reflexive response as I yanked the plate away from his approaching snout. My growl at him was meant to mirror canine chastisement—the kind of dominant displeasure that dogs understood instinctively.

Henri's retreat was immediate, tail tucking between his legs as he slunk off toward his bed. His expression, though—that scowl was almost human in its misery, so exaggerated in its dejection that it dragged a reluctant chuckle from me despite everything.

Dramatic little shit.

"I suppose I'd better check on Glenda."

I shoved the last rasher of bacon into my mouth before Henri could mount another assault, the salty-savoury taste the only satisfying thing about this particular morning. At least I'd managed to salvage something.

As I emerged from the tent's dim interior, the scene that unfolded before me felt like another chapter in our ever-evolving Clivilius saga—one I hadn't anticipated and certainly hadn't requested.

Glenda, with her usual purposeful stride, was returning to the camp, but this time she wasn't alone. Two figures, older and unfamiliar, accompanied her. Their presence was another anomaly in our isolated existence, another variable introduced into an equation that was already unsolvable.

More people. Fantastic. Just what we needed.

The thought carried the full weight of my exhaustion with surprises.

The interaction that followed was as intriguing as it was unexpected.

"Duke?"

The tall, lanky woman inquired, her voice carrying a note of recognition as she bent down in the dust, welcoming Duke's enthusiastic greeting with open hands. Her familiarity with Duke, despite her admission of not truly knowing him, sparked a wave of curiosity and suspicion within me that I couldn't suppress.

How the hell would she know Duke?

The question echoed through my thoughts, demanding an answer that wasn't immediately forthcoming.

Her next question only deepened the mystery. "Is Henri here too?" she asked, her gaze lifting to meet Glenda's with an expectation that suggested she already knew the answer.

The mention of Henri, coupled with her prior knowledge of Duke, led me to a quick deduction: she must be connected to Luke's work. Another thread in the web of relationships Luke had apparently been spinning without my knowledge. Another person who knew things about my life that I hadn't chosen to share.

Glenda's response, a heavy sigh followed by a pointed gesture toward the aftermath of Henri's breakfast escapade, offered a moment of levity amidst the confusion. The scattered eggs, the overturned pan, the general chaos of the scene—all of it spoke eloquently of Henri's involvement.

"I'm assuming he had something to do with that mess?" she asked, her gaze shifting to me with knowing accusation.

"That assumption would be correct." I admitted, a mix of resignation and a flicker of dark amusement colouring my voice. There was a strange comfort in knowing Glenda had witnessed firsthand the tempestuous nature of Henri's relationship with food before the situation had all turned to shit. "He's sulking in his bed now."

"Not quite."

Glenda's laughter, bright and unguarded, cut through the tension as she pointed toward the tent entrance. True to form, Henri had attempted to follow Duke's lead but had given up midway, opting instead to linger near the flap with an expression of wounded dignity.

Sulking at maximum visibility. Playing the victim for anyone who'd offer sympathy.

I sent Henri one last look of mild reproof before turning my attention to the strangers. Obligation rather than desire drove what came next.

"Hi, I'm Jamie."

The greeting felt hollow, performed for social necessity rather than genuine welcome.

"Ahh, Luke's partner."

The woman responded with a recognition that felt too informed for comfort. The way she said it—as though she knew things, as though Luke had painted pictures of me with his words—made my skin prickle with unease.

“Yep," I confirmed flatly, my mind racing with questions about how much she knew about me and why. It was unsettling, the idea that my life had become an open book to strangers through Luke's narratives. What stories had he told? What version of me had he presented on those bus rides?

"This is Karen and her husband, Chris," Glenda interjected, providing names to the faces that had appeared in our midst. Karen. The name flickered through my memory, brushing against a conversation or mention from the past. Something Luke had said, perhaps. One of his bus friends.

"Bus friend, Karen?" I ventured, seeking clarity amidst the fog of surprise encounters.

“Yes," Karen replied, her chuckle soft but carrying a warmth that belied the awkwardness of our meeting location. "That'd be me."

There was an ease in her admission, a shared joke between us that momentarily bridged the gap of unfamiliarity. Luke's bus friends—the people he chatted with on his daily commute, sharing God knows what about our lives while the scenery scrolled past the windows.

"I'd normally say nice to meet you, but this is hardly a fun place to meet in."

My words were blunt, stripped of the usual pleasantries that social convention demanded. It wasn't the time for niceties, not with the backdrop of our current situation painting every interaction in shades of survival and tension.

"Do you mind if Chris and I take a moment for a quick chat, just us?" Karen's request, though polite, sent a ripple of discomfort through me. The way her gaze shifted, seeking an unspoken agreement from Glenda and me, only heightened the sense of intrusion into our already strained existence.

What do they need to discuss privately? What are they planning?

"Sure," Glenda agreed, her suggestion of the river behind the tents as a setting for their conversation carrying a hint of encouragement for them to take their leave. "Thanks, Glenda," Karen acknowledged, quickly taking the lead as she guided Chris away, leaving Glenda and me to ponder the brief interaction.

As they disappeared from view, I shared a look with Glenda—a mutual understanding that required no words. The brief exchange had been strange, loaded with undercurrents I couldn't quite parse.

With a nonchalant shrug, I signalled my readiness to move past this interruption.

I've better things to be doing than deal with these weird new people.

The sentiment, though unspoken, hung heavily in the air between us. My son needed me. Everything else was noise.

The sudden interruption from Glenda halted me mid-step, a sharp contrast to the direction my thoughts had been taking me—back to the tent, back to Joel, away from complications.

"Wait! Do you hear that?"

Her voice was tinged with urgency, cutting through the air with an edge that immediately commanded attention. Instinctively, I stopped, my body going still as I strained my ears. The atmosphere around us seemed to charge with sudden anticipation, the dust-laden air feeling thicker somehow.

Slowly, I turned, my movements deliberate as I tried to pinpoint the origin of the sound that had caught Glenda's attention. My face contorted in concentration, every sense focusing on listening.

A faint but unmistakable hum drifted through the air. Mechanical. Rhythmic. The kind of sound that belonged to another world—our old world.

"Engine?" I voiced the question more to myself than anyone else, stepping forward as if being drawn by the sound itself. My feet moved without conscious direction, carrying me toward something that shouldn't exist here.

"It definitely sounds like a vehicle," Glenda confirmed, her voice carrying a mix of disbelief and concern that mirrored my own internal state.

"That's impossible… Isn't it?"

The words barely left my lips before a wave of incredulity washed over me. The notion that anyone else could be out here, in this vast and unforgiving wilderness, with a functioning vehicle—it seemed as absurd as it was alarming. We'd seen no roads, no infrastructure, nothing that suggested vehicular travel was even possible in Clivilius.

Unless someone's been bringing through more than just people.

"Shit," Glenda whispered, her eyes scanning our surroundings with a newfound wariness that transformed her entire bearing. "We should arm ourselves."

The seriousness with which she spoke, the suggestion so sharp and unexpected, left me momentarily dumbfounded. This was Glenda—the doctor, the rational one, the professional who dealt in medicine and science.

"Huh?"

My disbelief was evident, my gaze fixed on her as if trying to discern whether the stress had finally cracked something essential. The thought of us, armed and bracing for an unknown threat, seemed like a scene plucked from a far-fetched survival drama.

"Quickly," she urged, her grip on my arm pulling me back to the present, her insistence brooking no argument.

As I stood, somewhat dazed by the turn of events, I watched Glenda assess our impromptu arsenal with a seriousness that bordered on comical. She dismissed the log she initially picked up with a mutter of "No, too heavy," a decision that only added to my growing belief that the situation had veered into the realms of the absurd.

Glenda. The doctor. Looking for weapons. In another dimension. While an engine approaches.

This is my life now.

My bemusement grew as I watched her, the rational one among us, seemingly embracing the moment's madness. When she triumphantly picked up the upturned frying pan—still bearing traces of Henri's earlier crime, the residue of scrambled eggs clinging to its surface—presenting it as her weapon of choice, I couldn't contain the grin that spread across my face.

"It's only Paul and Kain!" I declared, the relief flooding through me as I recognised Kain's ute breaching the hill. The vehicle's distinctive shape, the colour, the way it moved—all unmistakably familiar.

"Oh, it is?"

Glenda's response was a mix of relief and embarrassment, almost drowned out by the sound of the ute making its final approach. The vehicle struggled toward us, kicking up clouds of sandy dust that billowed in its wake like a trailing veil. Its arrival culminated in a screech that seemed to announce the end of our brief alarm—a fitting conclusion to Glenda's venture into survivalist tactics.

As Glenda stood, brushing herself off and peering into the distance at the ute, the absurdity of her brief foray into armed readiness hung in the air. The frying pan dangled from her hand, suddenly ridiculous rather than threatening.

A reminder of the fine line between caution and paranoia that we were all walking.

The air was thick with dust and the aftermath of adrenaline as Kain's jubilant proclamation cut through the stillness. He and Paul exchanged a high-five, their shared thrill a symbol of whatever adventure had preceded their dramatic arrival. The gesture felt jarringly out of sync with the apprehensive mood that had settled over Glenda and me just moments before.

Watching the dust settle on the ute, a testament to their recent escapade across the Clivilius terrain, I couldn't help but feel a disconnect from their excitement. They'd been joyriding while we'd been preparing for potential attack with kitchen implements.

"Apart from clogging up the engine!"

Paul's carefree laughter rang out, his tone suggesting the vehicle's protest was merely an amusing detail rather than a genuine concern.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

My question, laced with incredulity, seemed to float unheard over the heads of the two adventurers. Their ability to find amusement in the situation was bewildering.

"Come on," Kain responded, his dismissal of my concern—or perhaps his failure to even register it—echoing oddly in the open air. "You have to admit even that was fun."

Fun. He thinks nearly giving us heart attacks was fun.

"Guys!" Glenda's voice, sharp and commanding, sliced through the conversation, redirecting their attention with the authority of someone who'd had enough of being ignored. "We have two new guests."

As Karen stepped into view, her presence seemed to solidify the surreal nature of our current predicament. More people. More complications. More mouths to feed, more personalities to navigate.

"I wouldn't call them guests. They're not going anywhere," I remarked, my voice carrying a flatness that reflected my reluctance to sugarcoat our reality. The term guests implied a choice, a temporary arrangement—neither of which felt accurate under the circumstances. Everyone who arrived in Clivilius through Luke's Portal became a permanent resident whether they liked it or not.

The silence that followed was palpable, a collective holding of breath as the group processed the introduction of Karen and her companion into our midst. It was a moment of uncomfortable realisation—the acknowledgment of how quickly our circumstances could shift, introducing new variables into an already unpredictable equation.

"I'm Paul."

Paul broke the silence with a straightforward introduction, his voice clear and devoid of the earlier mirth. The shift seemed to signal a return to necessity: adapt, accommodate, navigate the complexities of our ever-evolving situation.

As Chris Owen introduced himself, his handshake with Paul seemed like a formal ritual, an attempt to graft normality onto our far-from-normal situation. His thin hair and slight frame marked him as unassuming, yet there was a quiet strength in his demeanour that hinted at depths beneath the surface.

"And this is my wife, Karen," He added, paving the way for further introductions that felt overly ceremonious given the context of dust and desperation surrounding us.

Paul's courteous greeting to Karen, his hand outstretched with genuine politeness, elicited an internal eye roll from me.

Oh, get on with it already would you, Mr Politeness. Your shit is boring me here!

My patience for pleasantries was wearing thin, a silent craving for straightforwardness over formality gnawing at me. We were trapped in another dimension, not attending a garden party.

Kain introduced himself next, claiming his relation to me as Jamie's nephew. Karen's reaction—a spark of recognition at Kain's words—hinted at pre-existing narrative shaped by Luke. Another reminder of the interconnected web of relationships and histories that had drawn us all here, willingly or otherwise.

More stories told on buses. More versions of our lives shared with strangers I'd never met.

As the conversation unfolded, I found myself an involuntary spectator from under the tent's canopy. Henri's unexpected loyalty, positioning himself at my feet rather than pursuing more food opportunities or retreating to the comfort of his bed, grounded me in the moment with his warm presence against my ankle.

Karen's admission that Luke had spoken of me over the years piqued my interest, despite my attempts to remain detached. The distinction she made between 'us' and Chris's subsequent confusion only added layers to the already complex dynamics at play.

"Not you, darling. Jane."

Karen's clarification to Chris introduced yet another name into the conversation, expanding the circle of Luke's acquaintances and leaving us with more questions than answers.

Who's Jane?

The query hung in the air, unanswered, as Paul—as I had done moments earlier—labelled Karen dismissively as one of Luke's 'bus friends.' A term that now seemed to sit uncomfortably with her, though she said nothing.

The absence of Luke, now highlighted by Kain's direct question, loomed large over us.

"Is Luke here?"

"He's not here."

Karen's succinct response felt like the closing of a door, a finality that none of us were prepared to face. Glenda's reaction—her shoulders dropping in visible resignation—mirrored my own feelings of frustration and disappointment.

Of course he's not here. He dumps people in this dimension and then fucks off to do whatever Luke does. Probably congratulating himself on another successful Portal crossing.

The revelation that our gathering was the result of another of Luke's 'accidents' was hardly surprising, yet it did nothing to ease the sense of betrayal that flickered beneath my frustration. Every time we thought we understood the situation, Luke introduced new chaos.

"Figures."

Kain's mutter, though barely audible, resonated with a shared sentiment of disillusionment. It was a moment that crystallised the precariousness of our situation—the realisation that we were all, in some way, casualties of Luke's actions or inactions. The weight of this understanding, coupled with the introductions and revelations, painted a complex portrait of our group, bound together by circumstances none of us could have predicted or desired.

"Not to be rude, but what do you actually do?"

Paul asked, his question seemingly simple but opening a door to an exchange that felt both enlightening and, to me, slightly irritating.

My internal response to his inquiry was a sarcastic thought about bugs—Karen's apparent area of expertise, based on snippets I half-remembered from Luke's mentions. However, when Karen declared herself an entomologist with an unmistakable burst of pride, my stomach churned with a mix of disbelief and disdain.

The pride in her voice, the way her entire face lit up with the declaration, the enthusiasm that seemed to transform her bearing—it all felt so spectacularly out of place in our current predicament. We were trapped in a desert dimension with limited food and water, and she was beaming about her academic credentials as if she'd just been introduced at a conference.

"A what?"

Paul's confusion mirrored my own feelings, though for different reasons. His genuine lack of understanding seemed almost comical against Karen's enthusiasm.

"She studies bugs."

Kain chimed in, providing a simplistic explanation that even he, my nephew, understood well enough to translate. My quiet scoff at the exchange was lost amidst the unfolding conversation—a small rebellion against the absurdity of discussing academic distinctions in our situation.

"Insects."

Karen corrected with a pointed glare toward Kain, emphasising the difference between bugs and insects as if it mattered here, in the vast barren nothingness, where survival seemed to hinge on far more primal concerns than taxonomic accuracy.

Her insistence on the distinction irked me. Pointless pedantry in the face of our broader challenges.

Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I'll make sure to correctly classify the creatures eating our food stores before we all starve to death.

Karen's explanation of her work, delivered with an air of self-importance that seemed to swell with each sentence, was a torrent of words that left me baffled. The mention of the University of Tasmania, ecosystems, and environmental protections felt like dispatches from a distant reality—worlds away from the immediacy of our situation.

Her talk of petitions and community work, while undoubtedly important in another context, seemed irrelevant and pretentious here. Who cared about environmental impact assessments when we were trying to figure out basic survival?

The disparity between Karen's world of insects and the raw, unfiltered reality of our survival here underscored the vast differences among us. It highlighted the absurdity of trying to maintain former identities and professions in a place that cared little for such distinctions.

As she spoke, I couldn't help but wonder at the utility of her expertise in our immediate circumstances. My mind grappled with the juxtaposition of her academic passion against the backdrop of our more pressing concerns for safety, food, and cohesion.

Unless we can eat the insects, I'm not sure what use any of this is.

Paul's enthusiasm in response to Karen's detailed explanation about her work with insects was infectious, even if I couldn't quite share in the excitement.

But it was Chris's turn that really piqued my interest. His answer, simple and unadorned, cut through the academic jargon and lofty ideals like a blade through silk.

"I do yard work."

A statement so refreshingly straightforward it felt like a breath of fresh air after Karen's lecture. No pretension. No self-aggrandisement. Just honest work.

"Yard work?"

Kain echoed, the question hanging in the air like an invitation for further explanation. Chris's response, though silent, spoke volumes.

Crouching down, he scooped up a handful of the ochre dust that had become a constant in our lives. The red-brown particles sifted through his fingers as he examined them with an attention that suggested genuine interest rather than academic posturing.

"It's everywhere!"

Paul exclaimed, stating the obvious that somehow still needed to be voiced. The dust was inescapable—in our clothes, our food, our eyes, our lungs.

"Fucking oath, it is."

My muttered agreement carried every ounce of frustration the omnipresent grit had earned. The dust was a constant adversary, infiltrating every aspect of our existence with relentless determination.

Chris's calm acceptance of our situation, as he let the remaining dust run through his fingers, struck a chord in me despite my general irritation.

"If this is to be our home," he said quietly, his voice carrying a thoughtfulness that demanded attention, "then we'll need to understand our soil."

The words landed with unexpected weight. The thought was unnerving—the idea of settling in, of treating this place as permanent rather than temporary prison, felt like a concession I still wasn't ready to make.

Our home. As if we chose this. As if we have any choice at all.

In the midst of the dust and uncertainty, Karen's optimism struck a chord—albeit a discordant one for me.

"Call me crazy. But I trust Luke."

She said it with a smile, a testament to unwavering faith that seemed both misplaced and naïve given everything we'd experienced. Everything Luke had done. The secrets, the manipulation, the constant chaos that followed in his wake.

"You're definitely crazy then."

The words slipped out louder and more sneeringly than I'd intended for anybody else to hear. My patience, worn thin by the trials of our situation—by the morning's accumulated frustrations, by the constant interruptions, by the memory of last night's confrontation—had reached its limit.

The idea of trusting Luke, after everything, seemed to me not just foolish but dangerously delusional.

Trust Luke? The man who trapped us here? Who hid my son's fate? Who tried to fuck me while Joel recovered from resurrection in the same tent?

Karen's reaction was immediate and visceral. Her posture stiffened, spine straightening like a rod had been inserted. Her gaze sharpened into a glare that cut through the tension between us with surgical precision.

"A beautiful masterpiece starts with a single brushstroke. This is our blank canvas. Let's create a masterpiece. Together."

She declared the words with heavy challenge and absolute conviction, each syllable weighted with meaning she clearly believed in deeply. Her belief in the potential for transformation, for something good to emerge from our chaos, was unmistakable.

But it clashed violently with my own scepticism.

A masterpiece? We're trapped in a desert hellscape by a man who lies as easily as breathing, and she wants to paint it as an opportunity? Our blank canvas? We didn't choose this canvas. It was forced on us.

The silence that followed her proclamation was palpable, heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts and judgments. I felt the eyes of the group on me—their scrutiny more oppressive than the Clivilius heat bearing down on all of us.

The tension was unbearable, thick enough to choke on.

"I better check in with Joel."

The words tumbled out, a lifeline, an excuse to escape the intensity of the moment. The excuse felt flimsy but necessary.

"Nice to meet you both."

My farewell was delivered with a half-wave, a gesture that felt inadequate to bridge the chasm that had opened up between us. But I didn't care about bridges right now. I cared about getting away from Karen's toxic positivity before I said something even more regrettable.