Curry and Circuses

"Feed people well enough and they'll almost forget they're trapped—which is precisely why I can't entirely forgive Luke for bringing butter chicken, even as I'm scraping the container clean."

The campfire crackled like it had opinions about all of us—each log Kain fed to the flames releasing sharp pops and bursts of orange that punctuated the gathering darkness. Sparks swirled upward in lazy spirals, briefly becoming stars before winking out against the strange Clivilius sky. The smoke coiled around our small assembly, wrapping us in its acrid embrace like some primitive blessing none of us had asked for.

My body ached in places I'd forgotten could ache. The afternoon's battle with Glenda's bogged BMW had extracted payment from muscles I hadn't used properly in years—my shoulders burned, my lower back throbbed with dull insistence, and my hands felt raw despite the calluses beginning to form from days of manual labour. We'd eventually freed the bloody thing, but not before the dust had extracted its own price, coating us all in that omnipresent red powder until we looked like we'd been dipped in rust.

The growing collection of personalities around this fire hadn't helped my mood. Every new face meant new complications—new opinions to navigate, new conflicts to anticipate, new dynamics that shifted the ground beneath feet that were already struggling to find purchase. Karen and Chris with their soil experiments and optimistic proclamations. Glenda with her doctorly authority and that insufferable ability to see silver linings in everything. Paul with his talent for suggesting policies that conveniently reduced his own workload. Luke, always Luke, hovering at the edges like a puppeteer convinced his strings were invisible.

And here I am, right in the middle of it all, like a man who wandered into a play without knowing his lines.

But Joel was here.

That fact alone had pulled me out of the tent despite every instinct screaming for solitude. My son sat on one of the rough logs we'd arranged around the fire, his posture still carrying the fragility of someone recovering from the impossible. The firelight caught his features, illuminating the scar across his throat—that pale line where death had entered and life had somehow been restored. His expression was expectant, almost eager, as though being included in this evening gathering represented something he'd been waiting for without knowing how to ask.

Seeing him there, surrounded by this ragtag collection of dimensional refugees who'd become our makeshift community, reminded me why I kept showing up to things I'd rather avoid. Joel needed this. He needed to feel part of something, to belong somewhere, to have a place in this impossible new world that wasn't just a sickbed in a dusty tent.

Some things matter more than my comfort. Some things always have.

"Chicken tikka?"

Luke's voice cut through my contemplation as he navigated the circle with an ease that set my teeth on edge. He carried containers of Indian takeaway like some kind of inter-dimensional delivery boy, distributing curry and naan bread with the casual authority of someone who'd never had to wonder where his next meal was coming from.

The smell hit me before I could properly resent him—aromatic spices and rich tomato, garlic and cream and the particular warmth of properly prepared Indian food. My stomach clenched with sudden, desperate hunger. Takeaway was a luxury here, a taste of the world we'd left behind, and despite my determination to find fault with everything Luke did, I couldn't deny the visceral comfort of holding a container of butter chicken while sitting under an alien sky.

Bastard knows exactly what he's doing. Bread and circuses, curry and communal dining. Keep the prisoners fed and they'll forget they're imprisoned.

"Lois, sit!"

Glenda's command snapped my attention away from the food distribution, her voice carrying that particular firmness she reserved for creatures who didn't understand the importance of boundaries. The golden retriever—yet another addition to our growing menagerie—had been circling the fire with the kind of hopeful energy that suggested she believed every container might contain something for her.

I'd missed whatever Karen said to Luke about her food preferences, but honestly, the specifics didn't matter. Let the bug lady eat whatever she wanted. My attention had narrowed to a single, consuming focus.

As long as I get butter chicken.

The thought was almost aggressive in its simplicity, cutting through the complicated tangle of resentment and exhaustion that had been building all day.

My gaze drifted downward, drawn by the warm weight pressing against my boot. Duke lay sprawled in the dust between my feet, a furry monument to complete exhaustion. The day had wrung him dry—the excitement of meeting Lois, that initial burst of tail-wagging enthusiasm when he'd discovered a potential friend, followed by the slow, brutal realisation that he simply couldn't match her boundless energy.

I'd watched it happen over the afternoon's hours. Duke had tried so hard, bless his stubborn heart. He'd chased when she chased, played when she played, matched her enthusiasm bark for bark until his legs couldn't keep up and his lungs couldn't fuel the pretence any longer. Now he lay here, breathing softly in the campfire's warmth, his eyes half-closed but tracking Lois's movements with the resigned awareness of someone who knew they'd lost a competition they hadn't realised they'd entered.

Know the feeling, mate. Know it all too well.

Henri, naturally, had handled the situation with his characteristic strategy of absolute avoidance. I heard his satisfied snort from somewhere behind me—a sound so loaded with smug self-satisfaction that I didn't need to turn around to know exactly what it meant. While Duke had been running himself ragged trying to socialise, Henri had retreated to his bed, steering clear of Lois's enthusiastic advances and the general bustle of camp activity.

He'd dragged his bed outside at some point, positioning it near enough to the fire for warmth but far enough to maintain his precious personal space. I could picture him there, settled into the familiar cushion with an almost audible sigh of relief, having navigated another day's chaos without compromising his fundamental commitment to comfort and solitude.

At least one of us has figured out how to survive this place with dignity intact.

"And butter chicken for you."

Luke's voice snapped me back to the present, and suddenly there was a plastic container in my hand, warm against my palm, the sauce already escaping its confines to leave a streak of rich orange against my dusty fingers. The smell was intoxicating—spiced tomato and cream, the particular warmth of properly prepared curry that had no business existing in this dimension.

I managed a nod of thanks, though the gesture felt stiff, forced. The complicated tangle of feelings I had toward Luke didn't evaporate just because he'd brought me dinner. Gratitude and resentment could coexist, it turned out. They were sharing space in my chest like reluctant flatmates forced together by circumstance.

But my moment of complicated appreciation shattered when I noticed Luke moving past Joel's position, continuing his circuit of the fire without offering my son anything.

"Hey, what about Joel?"

The words left me sharper than I'd intended, my protective instincts flaring like a match struck in darkness. I was half-risen from my seat before I'd consciously decided to move, the butter chicken nearly sliding from my grip as my body reacted to what my brain had already categorised as a threat.

Luke paused, his expression shifting into something that looked like genuine surprise. As though the thought of including Joel simply hadn't occurred to him, as though my son was an afterthought rather than a person deserving of the same consideration as everyone else around this fire.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise he could eat."

The admission struck a nerve that was already exposed and throbbing. The thought that Joel's needs might be overlooked, that his basic requirements might be dismissed because of his condition, because of the impossible circumstances of his resurrection—it ignited something in me that burned hotter than the campfire.

"Of course, he can fucking eat!"

The words exploded out of me, probably more forceful than the situation warranted, but I was past caring about appropriate responses. The frustration of the past days—the tent struggles, the concrete work, the bogged car, the constant stream of complications and personalities and demands—all of it found focus in this single moment of perceived slight against my son.

He's been through enough. He doesn't need to be treated like he's not quite human anymore.

Luke's subsequent interaction with Joel did little to quell my anger. He offered beef madras, his tone carrying that careful politeness that always felt performative rather than genuine. Joel accepted with a hoarse word that scraped from his damaged throat like gravel over glass—evidence of injury, of violence survived, of the impossible price he'd paid for simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My glare followed Luke as he moved on, a silent challenge that dared him to forget Joel again. In this new world of ours, where nothing was certain and nothing was stable, the small gestures mattered more than they ever had before. Every word carried weight. Every action rippled outward. And I would not allow my son to feel marginalised by anyone, least of all by the man whose actions had brought us all to this place.

The evening had settled into something approaching comfortable routine when Paul's throat-clearing sliced through the ambient sounds like a blade through warm butter.

"Ahem."

The sound carried that unmistakable tone of self-importance that made my jaw clench involuntarily. He ploughed ahead without bothering to wait for the scattered conversations to quiet, his voice pitched for proclamation rather than discussion.

"I need everyone to check in at the Drop Zone regularly to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need."

Here we go. Paul's got a policy for us.

The suggestion was practical on its surface—someone needed to manage the flow of supplies Luke brought through from Earth, and keeping track of who needed what required some kind of system. But beneath the reasonable facade, I could smell what was really happening. Paul was crafting himself a position that conveniently avoided the back-breaking labour the rest of us had been doing all day.

I thought about the afternoon's struggle with the cement, my knees grinding against hard ground while I smoothed concrete into foundations. I thought about digging that bloody BMW out of the dust, my arms screaming as we shifted earth that kept sliding back. I thought about Paul's notable absence from both tasks.

Typical Paul. Find a job that keeps you away from the heavy lifting while still looking important.

My eyes rolled with such force I half-worried they might stick in the back of my skull.

"That sounds reasonable enough."

Chris's response was diplomatic, his willingness to see logic in Paul's proposal a testament to a patience I didn't possess and didn't want to cultivate. But Karen's reaction cut through the polite acceptance like a knife.

"Reasonable?"

Her voice carried an edge sharp enough to draw blood, her glare at Chris practically visible in the firelight. Whatever marital dynamics existed between them, this wasn't the first time she'd disagreed with his easy acceptance of other people's ideas.

"It's a long way to walk just to check. I'm too busy to wander over to simply check."

Her frustration mirrored my own sentiments so precisely that I felt a flash of unexpected kinship with the bug lady. We'd been at odds since her arrival, her relentless optimism grating against my cultivated cynicism, but in this moment, we were aligned.

"I'm with Karen on this one." The words emerged before I'd fully considered them, solidarity overriding my usual reluctance to agree with anyone about anything. "Too busy."

"Busy!"

Paul's exclamation was incredulous, his tone sliding toward scorn in a way that made my hands tighten around the curry container.

"All you've done is sit in the tent for the past two days!"

The accusation landed like a slap. My vision actually narrowed for a moment, the peripheral world fading as Paul's face filled my focus. He was accusing me of laziness? Of not contributing? While Joel recovered from literal death in that tent, while I kept vigil and helped him eat and watched for signs that his impossible resurrection might be failing?

You self-righteous prick. You have no fucking idea what I've been doing.

"Fuck off, Paul!"

The words emerged with venom I hadn't entirely intended to unleash, but the frustration had been building pressure for too long. At the same moment, the piece of chicken balanced on my fork chose to make its dramatic escape, tumbling from the tines and landing in my lap with the kind of comedic timing the universe seemed to specialise in.

I growled—an actual, guttural sound of animal frustration—and flicked the offending piece of food into the campfire flames. It was petty, childish, a waste of food we couldn't afford to waste. But watching it sizzle and blacken felt satisfying in ways I couldn't defend rationally.

"Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?"

Luke's question carried subtle challenge beneath its surface politeness, his sideways glance at Paul cutting through the tension with surgical accuracy. There it was—the implication that Paul had been angling for exactly this kind of position, that his policy suggestion was less about community organisation and more about personal advantage.

"I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break and good to see what's there."

Chris chimed in again, his voice carrying diplomatic neutrality that seemed almost wilful in its refusal to acknowledge the conflict brewing around him. Was he genuinely that oblivious, or had years of marriage to Karen taught him the survival value of apparent ignorance?

My eyes rolled again. At this rate, I was going to strain something.

This time, though, I kept my mouth shut. The words I wanted to say were all sharp edges and no substance—they'd wound without accomplishing anything useful.

"You make a good Drop Zone manager, Paul."

Glenda's endorsement came with a tone of genuine approval, her support casting a positive light on what I still viewed as elaborate work avoidance. But Glenda saw the best in everyone, even when the best required squinting and generous interpretation.

"Well, he is shit at building things."

Kain's muttered observation was barely above a whisper, but my ears caught it clearly enough. The candour of his assessment—so blunt compared to the diplomatic dancing everyone else was doing—forced a smirk onto my face despite my best efforts to maintain my scowl.

Out of the mouths of babes. Or at least, out of the mouths of twenty-three-year-old construction apprentices who've actually been doing the work.

"I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths," Glenda continued, her gaze briefly meeting Kain's before he looked away. The acknowledgement was subtle but present—she'd heard him too, and she wasn't entirely disagreeing.

"With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated Manager."

The proposal was logical, structured—exactly the kind of organisational thinking Glenda excelled at. She was building a framework that gave everyone a place, that turned Paul's work-avoidance into legitimate specialisation.

"Fine."

Paul's agreement came with the reluctance of someone who'd gotten what they wanted but hadn't enjoyed the process of obtaining it.

"I'll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order."

"Marvellous."

Karen's approval was succinct, delivered without additional commentary that might extend a conversation she clearly wanted concluded. The word drew a line under the discussion as surely as if she'd slammed a gavel.

But Paul wasn't quite finished.

"But... if I am going to be going back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road."

The suggestion pivoted us from interpersonal conflict to practical challenge, from who does what to how do we survive more efficiently. The dust was our constant enemy—it clogged everything, coated everything, turned every journey into an exercise in grit management. A road wouldn't solve everything, but it might make the daily business of survival marginally less miserable.

"Fair enough."

Glenda's quick agreement carried the weight of someone who'd been thinking the same thing but waiting for someone else to voice it. Consensus was building, that rare phenomenon where we all wanted the same thing for roughly the same reasons.

"I can help with that."

Chris's hand shot into the air with an enthusiasm that seemed wildly misplaced—like a student desperate to impress a teacher who'd stopped caring about grades. The gesture was so earnest, so eager, that I couldn't suppress the scoff that escaped my throat.

His weakness will get us all killed.

The thought was harsh, unfair perhaps, but it rose unbidden from some survival-focused part of my brain that had been running constant threat assessments since we'd arrived in this place.

"Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in."

Kain's voice carried solidarity as he scanned the group, seeking agreement through eye contact rather than verbal confirmation. He was trying to build something—not just a road, but a sense of shared purpose that might hold this fractured collection of individuals together.

My gaze had drifted from the circle, tracking unconsciously toward Joel, when his voice emerged—three raspy words that nearly stopped my heart.

"I'll help too."

The readiness in his voice, fragile but determined, sent conflicting signals cascading through my nervous system. Pride at his courage warred with terror at his vulnerability. The instinct to object, to insist he rest, to wrap him in protective barriers against every possible harm—it surged through me with nearly overwhelming force.

But the glint of resolve in his eyes, caught and amplified by the firelight's dance, stayed my words.

This time.

The concession was silent, internal—a battle I'd lost before consciously choosing to fight it. Joel needed to feel useful, to contribute, to be something other than a patient requiring constant management. And if that meant I had to swallow my protective instincts and watch him take risks that made my stomach clench with fear?

Then I'd swallow. I'd watch. I'd be here if he needed me, without smothering him with the kind of overprotective hovering that would make him feel diminished.

Around the fire, the group was coalescing around the idea of road construction—practical concerns being raised, resources being discussed, timelines being tentatively proposed. But my attention remained fixed on Joel, on the pride that flickered across his features at being included, at having something to offer this community that had formed around him without his choosing.

We're both learning how to be here. Both figuring out what we can survive and what we can contribute. Both finding our places in a world that shouldn't exist.

The thought carried unexpected comfort. Whatever else this evening had been—frustrating, contentious, exhausting—it had also been a step toward something. Not normality, exactly. Nothing here would ever be normal. But maybe something adjacent to it. Something that might, eventually, feel like living rather than just surviving.

The fire crackled its approval, sending another shower of sparks spiralling toward the starless sky, and for a moment, the warmth on my face felt almost like hope.