Golden Blur

"The trick to avoiding responsibility isn't saying no—it's always having somewhere else you urgently need to be."

Clivilius's sun hit the windscreen like an accusation—brilliant and unforgiving after the muted light of Pierre's garage. The transition between dimensions always did strange things to my perception, but driving a car through made it worse somehow, as if the vehicle's familiar solidity couldn't quite reconcile itself with the alien landscape now surrounding it.

I eased Glenda's BMW forward, the tyres finding purchase on terrain that had never known asphalt. The rust-coloured dust billowed around the wheels, coating the car's charcoal paint with a fine layer of Clivilius's particular shade of ochre. After twenty metres or so—enough distance to clear the Portal's shimmer—I brought the vehicle to a halt and let the engine die.

The silence that followed was the particular quiet of this place: not truly silent, but empty of the thousand small sounds that Earth provided without anyone noticing. No distant traffic. No birds. No hum of electrical infrastructure. Just the settling tick of the cooling engine and the whisper of wind across barren ground.

I'd barely cracked the door open when chaos erupted.

Heavy paws slammed into my chest as Lois launched herself across my lap with the single-minded determination of a dog who'd spotted something vastly more interesting than her current company. Golden fur whipped across my face, a tail caught me in the eye, and before I could process what was happening, she'd used my body as a launching pad and was gone—a streak of amber against the red-brown landscape.

"Lois!" I called after her, the word more reflex than genuine attempt at control. She was already a blur of motion, her focus locked on the direction of the camp ahead, her barks splitting the quiet air with announcements of her arrival that probably carried for miles.

Paul materialised from somewhere to my left, his posture broadcasting confusion even before his face came into clear view. His hands rose in that universal gesture of what the hell is going on, palms upward, fingers spread, demanding explanation without words.

"Glenda's," I offered, the single word serving as both introduction and summary. Glenda's dog. Glenda's car. Glenda's husband who nearly crushed my windpipe and then casually mentioned evacuating millions of people from Earth. But Paul didn't need those details right now.

His attention had already shifted from the retreating dog to the vehicle I'd arrived in, appreciation replacing confusion as he took in the BMW's lines. He approached and gave the bonnet an approving tap, the sound carrying that hollow resonance of quality engineering.

"Nice car," he remarked, something almost like enthusiasm entering his voice. "Do we get to keep it?"

The question landed with its own particular weight—this casual inquiry about asset allocation in a dimension where cars were as rare as the fuel to run them. We'd transported Kain's ute earlier. Now Glenda's BMW. Our collection of vehicles that would eventually become useless sculptures was growing faster than our ability to address the fuel problem.

"Of course," I affirmed, climbing out and stretching muscles that had stiffened during the drive. My throat still ached from Pierre's earlier welcome, and I found myself rubbing at the tender skin without meaning to. "The keys are in the ignition."

"Sweet," Paul responded, his enthusiasm carrying him past me and into the driver's seat I'd just vacated with the particular eagerness of someone being handed a new toy. The door closed with an expensive sound, and through the window I could see him adjusting the seat, familiarising himself with controls he'd probably never get to properly use.

I let him have his moment. There were few enough pleasures available in this dust-choked settlement, and the illusion of normality a car provided—even one that would run out of petrol long before we found a solution—was worth something.

"Have you got Joel's address yet?" I asked, redirecting us toward practical matters. The day's list remained long, and every minute I spent watching my brother play with a car was a minute I wasn't crossing items off it.

"Yeah," Paul responded, his attention still partially captured by the dashboard's array of buttons and displays. He fished through his pocket with the particular fumbling of someone searching by touch rather than sight, finally producing a torn piece of paper whose edges bore the marks of hasty creation. He extended it toward me through the open window.

I took the scrap and studied its contents, my brow furrowing as I attempted to translate what was written there into something resembling useful information. The handwriting sprawled across the paper in a chaotic tangle of lines and curves that looked less like alphabet and more like abstract art. Letters bled into one another, numbers wore disguises, and the overall effect was of someone having a seizure whilst holding a pen.

"Joel wrote it," Paul explained, apparently reading my expression correctly.

"Oh," I acknowledged, still squinting at what might have been an address or might have been a cryptic message from an ancient civilisation. Wouldn't have surprised me if it was yours, I thought, but managed to keep the observation locked behind my teeth. Paul's handwriting wasn't much better, though he'd never accept the comparison.

"Nice," I said instead, the word flat enough to carry sarcasm to anyone paying attention but innocent enough to deny if challenged.

I tucked the paper into my pocket—hopefully my subconscious would continue working on the translation whilst I walked—and turned toward the Portal. The day wasn't getting any younger, and Joel's clothes weren't going to fetch themselves.

"Hey!" Paul's voice caught me after half a dozen steps, reproach threading through the word. "Are you going to help?"

I paused, glancing back at my brother still ensconced in Glenda's BMW.

"Can't," I responded, the word carrying finality that had nothing to do with preference and everything to do with the list that still needed addressing. My hand lifted the scrap of paper, brandishing Joel's hieroglyphic address like evidence in my defence. "Joel's waiting."

It wasn't entirely true—Joel probably didn't give a damn about fresh clothes given that he'd been dead recently and might not have fully processed his return to consciousness. But the excuse served its purpose, providing cover for my departure without requiring explanations I didn't have energy to give.

I turned and continued toward the Portal, leaving Paul with his new toy and the settlement with its endless demands. Behind me, I heard the BMW's engine rev. A small smile crossed my face.

The Portal shimmered into existence at my mental command, its colours somehow both garish and beautiful against Clivilius's muted palette. I studied Joel's address one more time, willing the scrawl to resolve into something I could actually use.

One more errand. One more house to enter, belongings to collect, life to disrupt. The pattern was becoming familiar in ways I didn't want to examine too closely.

I stepped through the swirling light, leaving Clivilius behind, and emerged into Tasmanian winter once more.