Clive Sees You

"There's a particular horror in watching yourself become the villain of your own story—and realising you can't stop the performance even as the audience walks out."

"Figured out how it works yet?"

Paul's voice carried the kind of hope that made me want to put my fist through something. He'd wandered back from wherever he'd been—probably staring at his pile of boxes like they held the secrets of the universe—and found me exactly where I'd been when he left. In front of the Portal. Failing.

I turned toward him, my frustration cresting like a wave that had been building since the moment I'd first been rejected by this fucking thing.

"This thing is fucking useless!" The words burst from me with enough force to taste them, bitter and inadequate. My foot swung in a vicious arc, sending another spray of dust into the air—a gesture that accomplished nothing except coating my shoe in another layer of red-brown grit.

Paul hesitated. I could see him calculating, weighing whether to engage with my rage or retreat from it. His pause was brief, but I noticed it. Some part of me catalogued it as evidence of the distance already growing between us—two people trapped together who barely knew how to coexist.

"Why don't you give that a rest for a bit and help me move these boxes?" His voice was steadier than I'd expected, pitched somewhere between suggestion and plea. "It might help you to keep your mind and hands busy with something else."

The nerve of him.

The words formed in my head with the sharp clarity of genuine resentment. Paul, with his relentless optimism and his Broken Hill pragmatism, couldn't possibly understand what was happening inside me. How dare he presume to know what I needed? As if physical labour could somehow substitute for the collapse of everything I'd built. As if carrying boxes would fill the void where my life used to be.

And yet.

The landscape stretched around us in every direction, indifferent and endless. Dust and sky and silence. The Portal stood behind me, as unresponsive as it had been an hour ago, as it would probably be an hour from now. My anger, for all its heat, wasn't accomplishing anything except exhausting me.

"Sure." The word escaped on a resigned exhale, pulled from somewhere deeper than choice. Helping Paul wouldn't get me home. But neither would standing here screaming at an object that couldn't hear me.

We walked toward the pile of boxes together, two men united by circumstance and nothing else. The larger boxes immediately caught my attention—blue plastic straps wrapped around cardboard in a feeble attempt at reinforcement, their shapes awkward and clearly designed by someone who'd never actually had to carry anything. I opted for a smaller box instead, its surface wrapped in enough packing tape to mummify a pharaoh.

The weight surprised me when I lifted it. My biceps protested the unexpected burden, the muscles straining against something that seemed far too heavy for its size.

Who knew a tent had heavy parts.

The thought arrived with a flicker of dark amusement. I pictured Luke hauling these boxes through the Portal by himself, his thin frame struggling under weights he'd clearly underestimated. The mental image of him red-faced and sweating, boardshorts riding up as he wrestled with his grand civilisation-building supplies, drew a soft chuckle from my throat.

Small mercies.

Paul and I worked in something approaching rhythm. Box after box, we carried them from Luke's original pile to a flat clearing near the river—the spot Paul had selected for our camp. I had to admit, grudgingly, that his choice made sense. Proximity to water. Level ground. The best options available in a landscape that offered precious few of them.

The acknowledgment sat uncomfortably in my chest. I didn't want to find common ground with Paul. I didn't want to agree with him about anything. But here we were, building something together despite everything that separated us, and his judgement wasn't entirely wrong.

Perhaps Clivilius was already changing me. The thought was unwelcome.

Luke's arrival announced itself before I saw him.

"Bearing gifts!" His voice rang across the dust, carrying that particular blend of enthusiasm and obliviousness that had defined so much of our relationship. He emerged from the crest of the nearest dune like some kind of inter-dimensional Santa Claus, a bag slung over his shoulder and a grin splitting his face.

About bloody time.

The irritation that had briefly subsided during the box-moving exercise resurged with full force. Hours. We'd been here for what felt like hours, struggling with supplies we couldn't open, staring at a Portal we couldn't pass through, while Luke had been... what? Wandering around our house? Making himself a sandwich? Taking a leisurely shower in our bathroom while his partner and brother rotted in the wasteland he'd created?

"There had better be a knife in that bag of yours." The frustration in my voice was impossible to disguise, and I didn't particularly try. The practical challenge of the moment had superseded any lingering wonder at our situation—we'd spent the last hour discovering that Luke's carefully packaged supplies were completely inaccessible without tools to open them.

Luke's response was delivered with the gleeful pride of a child presenting a crayon drawing. "As a matter of fact, there is." He reached into his bag and produced a large kitchen knife, holding it up like a trophy. The blade caught the sunlight, and despite my anger, I felt a wash of relief at the sight of it.

When I return to Earth, I promised myself, I am definitely going to petition for fewer packaged goods.

The thought was half-serious, half-jest—a mental note on the absurdities we'd already encountered. Who knew that civilisation's greatest enemy would turn out to be plastic packaging?

"Thank God for that," Paul exclaimed, his relief as evident as my own. "We moved all these boxes ready to put the tent up and then realised we couldn't get that blue plastic crap off. I was about to start trying to bite my way through."

The image of Paul gnawing at plastic strapping like some kind of desperate rodent drew an involuntary smile to my face. For all the horror of our situation, there was something darkly comic about being defeated by packaging materials.

Luke reached into his bag again, this time producing a small toolkit with the flourish of a magician revealing his next trick. "I brought this too. Thought it might be useful."

A chuckle escaped me—less at the gesture itself than at the implications behind it. Luke and tools had never been natural companions. His enthusiasm for home improvement projects was legendary in our household, matched only by his inability to actually complete them.

"Did you check that all the tools were actually in there?" I couldn't resist the jab, adding a condescending edge that I knew would land. In my mind, Luke handling tools was like a fish attempting mountain climbing.

Luke's jaw tightened. "Of course, I did."

"And?"

"And most of it is in there. Only a few random bits are missing." His shrug was too casual, too dismissive. "But I don't know what any of them are anyway, so I doubt they would have been very useful."

My eye roll was automatic, involuntary—a physical manifestation of vindication. I'm right, as usual. Luke's ambitious claims of self-sufficiency had become a running joke between us, primarily because his enthusiasm consistently outstripped his preparation.

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Paul's sarcasm echoed my own thoughts, his comment carrying the weight of shared history.

But something in Paul's tone triggered a defensive impulse I hadn't expected.

"Well, it's not like you're any better." The words turned the spotlight back onto Paul before I'd consciously decided to defend Luke. "I've seen the unfortunate state of your latest home construction project. Scrolling through your Facebook is like watching all the 'before' bits from DIY SOS back-to-back."

The teasing wasn't entirely false. Paul's social media had provided years of entertainment—ambitious projects documented in their initial stages, then mysteriously absent from subsequent updates. Either he'd mastered the art of the discrete failure, or his definition of "complete" was generous enough to include "abandoned."

Luke cut through the banter before it could escalate further.

"Anyway, the two of you had better get to work putting this tent together. We have no idea what the temperature or conditions are like at night here. We'd better be as prepared for the unexpected as possible."

His directive was sensible, which made it harder to argue with. But something in the phrasing caught my attention.

"We?" I gestured between Paul and myself, incredulity colouring my voice. "And what about you? Aren't you going to help us?"

The notion of Luke disappearing again while we wrestled with tent poles and instructions designed by sadists felt monumentally unfair. He'd created this situation. He should at least have to suffer through the construction phase.

But Luke's justification, when it came, was unexpectedly compelling.

"I'm going to see if I can get us a couple more tents. I know this one is huge, but I'm sure you'd both appreciate having your own."

Personal space. In all the chaos of the day, I hadn't considered it—the prospect of sharing close quarters with Paul indefinitely, two near-strangers forced into intimate proximity by circumstance. The thought was deeply unappealing. Luke knew me well enough to understand that. He knew how I valued solitude, how I needed time alone to process and decompress. His offer was a recognition of that need, a small kindness wrapped in practical concern.

"Good point," Paul conceded. "He's not wrong."

I found myself shrugging in agreement, a silent acknowledgment of the plan's merit. My eyebrow rose involuntarily at this unexpected alignment—Paul and I, agreeing on something?

Did Paul and I just agree on something?

The thought was fleeting but significant. Perhaps this place, for all its horrors, was capable of forcing unlikely connections.

Luke was preparing to leave when the impulse seized me.

"Wait!"

He paused, turning back with a question in his eyes. I couldn't let him go without trying again. The idea of another attempt—of testing the barrier one more time while Luke was present to witness it—felt like a necessary ritual.

"We may as well see if we can leave with you again." I turned toward Paul, seeking his support in this spontaneous plan. The odds were terrible—we both knew that. But terrible odds were still odds, and anything was better than passive acceptance.

"Sure! Good idea." Paul's agreement came with a notable absence of conviction, his voice carrying the hollow ring of someone going through motions rather than expecting results. Hope had become a scarce commodity among us, but even scarce things could be hoarded.

We moved toward the Portal together—Luke, Paul, and me. The dust seemed to mock our progress, swirling around our feet as if reminding us that we belonged here now, that the ground beneath us was our new permanent foundation.

Then, without warning, the Portal awakened.

There was no trigger I could identify, no action that had summoned it. One moment the screen hung dormant in the air; the next, it erupted into light. Colours burst from its centre like some kind of inter-dimensional flower blooming in fast-forward, spreading outward until the entire surface pulsated with shifting hues. The beauty of it was undeniable—brilliant and alien and somehow terrifying.

The question bubbled up inside me—how had Luke activated it?—but I swallowed it before it could escape. The mechanics didn't matter. Not really. If this meant a chance to leave, to escape this prison of dust and silence, I would embrace ignorance gladly. Let Luke keep his secrets. Let Clivilius guard its mysteries. I just wanted to go home.

I stepped forward, desperation overriding caution. Both hands extended toward the swirling colours, reaching for the passage I knew must exist somewhere behind that curtain of light. My movements were deliberate, controlled—not the frantic assault of my earlier attempts, but something more measured. More hopeful.

The barrier met me like an old enemy.

It wasn't visible, wasn't tangible in any conventional sense. But it was there—an invisible wall that strengthened with each millimetre I pushed against it. My hands flattened against nothing, meeting resistance that should have been impossible. I leaned in with all my weight, willing myself forward, demanding passage through sheer determination.

The Portal refused.

Then came the voice.

Clive sees you, Jamie Greyson. You will never leave Clivilius.

The words didn't arrive through my ears. They bypassed every normal channel of perception and deposited themselves directly into my consciousness—cold, vast, absolute. The voice carried no malice, no emotion at all. Just the flat certainty of pronouncement, like reading the fine print on a contract you'd already signed.

The blood drained from my face. I could feel it happening, could feel the warmth leaving my cheeks as the words settled into my understanding. Clive. The name was new, a label for something I couldn't comprehend. But the message was devastatingly clear.

Surely this isn't true. It can't be, can it!?

The thought spiralled through my mind, panic and disbelief wrestling for dominance. We'd been noticed. Named. Condemned by some entity that possessed the power to enforce its judgements across dimensional boundaries. The idea of being watched, of being known to something that could deny our departure so absolutely, was too much to process.

The vibrant colours of the Portal no longer looked beautiful. They looked like the bars of a cell—pretty colours painted on a prison, designed to mock the inmates who could never escape.

I turned toward Paul, defeat carved into every line of my face.

"You try."

The words came out as something between request and surrender. Maybe Paul would succeed where I had failed. Maybe whatever force governed this place would show him mercy it had denied me. The hope was thin, threadbare, but it was all I had left to offer.

Paul hesitated. His eyes searched mine, looking for reassurance I couldn't provide. The fear in his expression was a mirror of my own—the recognition that we were testing something that had already demonstrated its cruelty.

"Go," I urged him, my voice firmer than before. Watching him hesitate was unbearable. If he was going to try, he needed to try. Waiting only prolonged the agony.

Paul approached the Portal with the caution of someone approaching a wild animal. His pace was agonisingly slow, each step seeming to require conscious effort. The colours swirled before him, beautiful and deadly, waiting.

Something snapped inside me.

The patience I'd been clutching evaporated. The desperation that had been building, the need for something to happen, to change, to break the pattern of futility—all of it condensed into a single, impulsive action.

I stepped forward and shoved Paul in the back.

The force was harder than I'd intended, propelled by frustration and fear and something darker I didn't want to name. Paul stumbled forward, his hands flying out toward the swirling colours, his body lurching toward the barrier that had rejected me.

For one irrational moment, hope flared in my chest. Maybe momentum would make the difference. Maybe the Portal responded to commitment rather than caution. Maybe—

The barrier repelled him with the same invisible force it had used on me. Paul's body jerked backward, his feet scrambling for purchase on the dusty ground. The rejection was instant, absolute, utterly indifferent to the desperation behind the attempt.

And then I saw the tears forming in Paul's eyes.

Luke was there immediately, rushing to his brother's side with concern written across his features. "Are you hurt?"

Paul's anger found its target before Luke's question had finished landing.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" The fury in his voice was a living thing, directed squarely at me. The accusation hit like a physical blow, and part of me recoiled from it—from the knowledge that I'd pushed him into that barrier, that I'd used him as an experiment, that I'd treated him as a tool rather than a person.

But another part of me was still calculating, still processing, still seeking any scrap of information that might explain our imprisonment.

"So, you heard it too?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, a desperate attempt to find common ground in our shared condemnation.

Paul's nod was silent, but it was enough. He'd heard the voice. He'd received the same message. We were both prisoners now, officially registered with whatever intelligence governed this place.

"Heard what?" Luke's confusion added another layer to the chaos. His question was innocent, concerned—the voice of someone who hadn't been denied, who couldn't understand what the rest of us had just experienced.

The frustration that had been building throughout the day finally reached critical mass.

"Fucking shit!" The expletive exploded from me, my foot lashing out at the dust in a gesture that had become reflexive. The particles swirled up, thick and choking, and I found myself coughing—hacking and gasping as Clivilius offered its own commentary on my outburst.

"That we can never leave." Paul's voice cut through my coughing fit, thick with tears and resignation. "This is it. Forever. I'm going to die here."

The defeat in his words was absolute. Not speculation, not fear—acceptance. Paul had processed the voice's message and arrived at its only logical conclusion. We were trapped. Permanently. Irrevocably.

Luke's response was painfully inadequate. "Oh."

Just that. One syllable, delivered while his eyes refused to meet ours. As if the floor—the dust, the endless fucking dust—held answers that might excuse him from responsibility.

The anger ignited like gasoline finding a spark.

"You fucking arsehole!"

The words erupted from somewhere primal, each one loaded with every betrayal and fear that had accumulated since the moment Luke had opened that impossible doorway. My feet carried me toward him before conscious thought could intervene, closing the distance between us with the momentum of rage.

"What in the name of holy-fuck were you thinking?" My hands found his chest and shoved, hard. "How the hell did you think this was going to go? Did you think we wouldn't find out? Is that it? Did you think you could literally kidnap us and no one would fucking notice!?"

Luke's hands came up defensively, swatting at mine, but I was beyond rational engagement. The questions poured out of me like blood from a wound—accusation after accusation, each one demanding answers I knew he couldn't provide. How could anyone explain this? How could any justification possibly bridge the gap between intention and consequence?

"Hey!" Paul's voice cut through the chaos, his hand gripping my arm with surprising strength. The intervention was desperate, a plea for sanity in a situation that had abandoned sanity hours ago. "Fighting isn't going to help any of us."

The logic was sound. I knew it was sound. But logic had become a distant country, and I was stranded in a landscape of pure emotion.

I turned on Paul with the same fury I'd been directing at Luke.

"You're no better than your pathetic excuse for a brother."

The words were venom, designed to wound, and the shove that accompanied them was harder than any I'd delivered before. Paul stumbled backward, his feet tangling in the dust, his body falling with a gracelessness that seemed to slow time. He hit the ground with a thud, his face registering shock and hurt and something that looked terribly like disappointment.

I'd crossed a line. I knew it even as my body still thrummed with the energy of violence. The look on Paul's face—the head shake, the silent judgement—was a mirror showing me exactly what I'd become.

"Cut it out, Jamie!" Luke's scream sliced through the air, raw with fear and desperation. The sound of it—the naked emotion in my partner's voice—penetrated the fog of rage that had engulfed me.

I froze.

My body was still tense, still primed for violence, but the scream had broken something. The momentum of my anger stuttered, faltered, began to collapse inward on itself. I stood there, breathing heavily, surrounded by the wreckage of whatever relationships I'd possessed.

Paul's gaze found mine—firm, disbelieving, wounded. I couldn't hold it. I turned away, unable to face the evidence of what I'd done.

The silence that followed was suffocating. It filled the space between us with all the words that couldn't be spoken, all the apologies that wouldn't be adequate, all the damage that couldn't be undone.

Luke left.

I watched him step toward the Portal, watched the colours embrace him and swallow him whole. The display was beautiful, as it always was—a private magic show that performed exclusively for him, that denied the rest of us any participation in its wonder.

The colours faded. The screen returned to dormancy. And I stood in the dust of Clivilius, alone with Paul and the consequences of everything I'd destroyed.

A tear broke through before I could stop it.

It traced a path down my cheek, carrying dust and salt, a physical record of the emotions I'd been trying to suppress. I brushed it away with anger—at myself, at the tear, at the weakness it represented.

I'll never forgive you for this, Luke!

The thought was a vow, a promise of resentment that felt like the only solid thing I had left to cling to. He'd done this. He'd led us here, trapped us here, abandoned us here. Whatever consequences followed were his responsibility.

But even as the anger crystallised, another tear escaped—and with it, another thought. One that cut deeper than any accusation I could level at Luke.

But will Luke ever forgive me?

My legs trembled beneath me, suddenly uncertain of their ability to support my weight. The physical confrontation had drained something vital, and what remained felt hollowed out, unstable. Anxiety coursed through me in waves, each one threatening to pull me under.

I'd shoved Paul. Shoved him at the Portal, shoved him to the ground, treated him as an enemy rather than the fellow prisoner he was. I'd screamed at Luke, attacked Luke, accused Luke of things I couldn't prove and didn't fully understand.

In the space of a single day, I'd transformed from victim to aggressor. From someone deserving sympathy to someone deserving... what?

Paul remained where I'd left him, somewhere behind me in the dust. I couldn't turn around. Couldn't face him. Couldn't process what my actions had cost us all.

I stood there, tears drying on my cheeks, and wondered if absolution was even possible in a world that had already declared our imprisonment eternal.