Flung Dust

"You can spend all day solving problems for people and still manage to miss the one that's been growing right in front of you."

I halted my frantic sprint, forcing myself to pause and catch the breath that had been escaping in ragged gasps since my escape from Jeffries Manor. My heart hammered against my ribs with the particular insistence of a body that had been asked to perform far too much running today—first from Kate's house, now from Thelma's cryptic revelations and Louise's proximity.

Confusion swam through my thoughts as the adrenaline began to ebb. I'd been moving with such desperate urgency, but for what? I’d already left Karen and Chris's suitcases abandoned in the Clivilius dust alongside the Portal. Smart. Very organised.

The bags containing Kain's clothes hung from my grip, considerably less impressive than the load I'd abandoned. Thelma's silver key pressed against my thigh through my pocket, a mystery I hadn't had time to process and wouldn't have time to process for hours yet. The swirling colours of the Portal painted the study wall in their impossible kaleidoscope, waiting for my passage.

"Just slow down, Luke," I murmured, seeking comfort in the sound of my own voice amidst the chaos of my thoughts. Another deep breath filled my lungs, the familiar air of my own home grounding me momentarily. There's no need to go stupid.

With a deliberate step, I passed through the Portal's embrace and emerged into Clivilius's bright blue expanse. The sky stretched overhead, its particular shade of azure still perfect enough to catch my attention every time, and the transition from the study's dim confines made me squint against the sudden brilliance.

Relief washed through me as I spotted Paul. My brother was bending to retrieve one of the Owens' suitcases. Lois had found her way here too, her golden snout investigating the luggage array with the particular thoroughness of a dog convinced that something edible must be hidden somewhere.

But something in Paul's posture set alarm bells ringing even before he spoke. His shoulders carried tension I could read from twenty metres away, and when he straightened and turned toward me, his expression held none of the wry amusement that usually softened our interactions.

"Who's all this for?" he demanded, and the irritation in his voice hit me like a slap.

"Oh," I stammered, thrown off balance by the intensity behind what should have been a simple question. "The suitcases are for Karen and Chris." I gestured toward the luggage I'd so thoughtfully scattered in my earlier panic. "And these bags are for Kain. Oh, and I've already left Joel's bags at the Drop Zone."

I was trying to be thorough, to preempt questions with comprehensive answers—the kind of organised communication that should have smoothed over any concerns. But Paul's expression didn't soften, and something about the set of his jaw suggested comprehensive answers weren't going to solve whatever was brewing.

"And I may as well bring a few things through with me whenever I come and go from different locations, so expect the unexpected," I added, attempting a lightness that died somewhere between my mouth and the dusty air between us. Paul's scrutiny remained unrelenting.

If anything, his frustration seemed to deepen, etching itself into the furrows across his forehead. "You can't just bring random crap through!" he exploded, his voice carrying across the dusty landscape with an volume that probably reached the tents.

"It's not crap! These are people's belongings!" I shot back, the words escaping with more force than I'd intended. I lowered the bags to the ground with a thump, buying myself a moment to process my rising defensiveness. This wasn't like Paul. This vehemence, this barely-contained fury—it sat wrong on a brother who usually met my chaos with sardonic observation rather than open hostility.

"What the hell are they supposed to do with it all?" Paul's anger seemed to feed on itself, his words carrying a bitterness that echoed off the barren landscape surrounding us. "It's not like we have anywhere to put anything! Hell, we don't have houses. We may as well be living in dog kennels."

The comparison stung more than it should have—partly because he wasn't wrong. The settlement remained a scattered collection of tents and improvised shelters, barely functional and miles from comfortable. I knew this. I lived with the knowledge of it every time I transitioned between Earth's amenities and Clivilius's dust.

"Far out, Paul!" My hands flew into the air in a gesture that matched my frustration. "Give me a break. I'm only trying to make things more comfortable and homely for you all."

The word was a mistake the moment it left my mouth.

"Homely!" Paul echoed, his voice climbing into registers I rarely heard from him. His next action was theatrical in a way that would have been funny under different circumstances—he scooped up a handful of Clivilius's rust-coloured dust and flung it into the air, where it hung like a bitter cloud before settling. "You can hardly call this homely! This fucking dust is everywhere and it is driving me fucking nuts!"

Despite everything—the tension, the anger, the genuine hurt simmering beneath Paul's outburst—I couldn't entirely suppress the twitch at the corner of my mouth. Paul swearing was a rare occurrence, reserved for moments of genuine extremity. Under normal circumstances, his profanity might have sparked shared laughter, a brotherly acknowledgment of stress levels reaching critical mass.

But my attempt at levity found no purchase. Paul's mood remained unchanged, his frustration a wall that my silent amusement couldn't breach.

"Just fuck off, Luke," he said, and the words cut through whatever remnants of camaraderie I'd been grasping for. He slung the backpack over his shoulder with sharp, angry movements, grabbing another bag with the resignation of someone who'd stopped expecting things to improve. "Come on, Lois." His voice softened for the dog, and the contrast with how he'd just addressed me was a blade I hadn't anticipated. "Let's get you some water."

I watched him walk away, his retreating form silhouetted against Clivilius's endless dust and that too-bright sky. A frown carved itself into my features, matching the confusion and concern churning through my chest.

What the fuck had ignited this?

Paul wasn't prone to outbursts. He processed frustration internally, emerging with sardonic comments rather than shouted accusations. Something had been building while I'd been running between dimensions, collecting belongings and narrowly escaping discovery. Something I'd missed entirely, absorbed as I was in the logistics of clothes and cars and cryptic keys.

My gaze dropped to the bags still grounded at my feet—Karen and Chris's suitcases, the accumulated evidence of lives I'd disrupted without warning. They sat silent and patient, utterly indifferent to the family drama that had just erupted over their presence.

"Paul will be back for you," I said to them, though the words felt hollow—an uncertain promise made more for my own benefit than theirs. The suitcases, being inanimate objects, offered no reassurance.

I stood there for a long moment, the dust settling around me, Thelma's key a weight in my pocket, the day's accumulated exhaustion finally catching up with muscles and mind alike.

My brother had just told me to fuck off.

The dust continued to settle.

It got everywhere, Paul was right about that.

Maybe he was right about the rest of it too.