Paper Truce

"Watch how fast a group can move from 'fuck off' to 'let's build something together'—then ask yourself whether they've actually resolved anything or just agreed to stop talking about it."

Paul's throat-clearing cut through the post-meal quiet with the deliberate quality of someone who'd been rehearsing something in his head and had finally decided to release it. The sound carried across our small circle, and I found myself settling deeper into my wobbling log seat, the vindaloo container momentarily forgotten in my hands as my attention shifted to whatever my brother was building toward.

I'd always been more observer than participant in group discussions—a trait that served me well when trying to gauge the invisible currents running beneath surface conversations. Paul's announcement promised to be one of those moments that revealed more than its words contained.

"I need everyone to regularly check in at the Drop Zone to see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need." His voice carried weight, the unspoken subtext clear to anyone paying attention: I'm tired of being the only one who deals with the chaos Luke keeps depositing in our midst.

Fair enough. I had been treating the Drop Zone rather like a cosmic lost-and-found, dumping whatever I'd acquired between dimensions and trusting that someone would sort it out eventually. That someone had apparently been Paul, and Paul had apparently reached his limit.

Chris responded first, his voice steady and reasonable. "That sounds reasonable enough." The words were simple agreement, practical acceptance of a practical proposal. Chris, I was learning, had a talent for smoothing rough edges without appearing to try.

But Karen's reaction arrived like a splash of cold water on warm camaraderie.

"Reasonable?" The word emerged sharp as broken glass, her eyes narrowing as she turned toward her husband. "It's a long way to walk just to check. I'm too busy to wander over to simply… check."

The frustration in her voice had layers I was still learning to read. Karen hadn't asked to be here. She'd touched a Portal mid-sentence and been torn from her comfortable life without consent or explanation. Every inconvenience in Clivilius was a reminder of that violation, and apparently, wandering to the Drop Zone on the off-chance of finding her belongings qualified as an intolerable inconvenience.

Jamie's alignment came swiftly, his voice carrying that particular edge it had developed since arriving here. "I'm with Karen on this one. Too busy."

The claim hung in the air, begging for challenge.

Paul obliged. "Busy!" The disbelief in his voice was tangible enough to touch. "All you've done is sit in the tent for the past two days!"

"Fuck off, Paul!" Jamie's anger erupted raw and sudden, shattering whatever remained of the evening's earlier warmth. In the same moment, the piece of chicken balanced on his fork chose to make its escape, tumbling from metal to lap with the particular indignity of food that had become collateral damage in human conflict.

I watched the chicken's undignified descent, feeling something twist in my chest. This was exactly what I'd feared—the simmering tensions beneath our firelit fellowship bubbling over into open hostility. These were people I needed to work together, people whose cooperation was essential to everything I was trying to build. And here they were, fracturing over the question of who should walk to the Drop Zone.

The altercation was a vivid reminder of just how fragile this community remained. We were days old, bound by circumstance rather than choice, navigating the impossible while pretending it was merely inconvenient. Clashes like this weren't aberrations—they were inevitable. But they also underscored how easily everything could unravel if I didn't find ways to channel frustration toward something other than each other.

Before the situation could deteriorate further, I broke my silence. "Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?" The question aimed at Paul carried carefully calibrated challenge—a reminder that he'd expressed interest in exactly this role before his mood had soured.

Chris seized the opening I'd created, his voice deliberately light. "I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break and good to see what's there."

He returned to his meal with timing that felt almost strategic, a physical withdrawal from the battlefield that allowed others space to de-escalate. I filed the observation away: Chris knew how to navigate conflict. Useful knowledge for the community dynamics I was trying to understand.

Glenda's contribution came next, her voice gentle but carrying quiet authority. "You make a good Drop Zone manager, Paul." The words were encouragement wrapped in subtle reminder—an acknowledgment that Paul had value, that his efforts were noticed, that his role mattered.

Then Kain opened his mouth.

"Well, he is shit at building things."

The comment landed like a brick through a window—jarring, unexpected, and entirely unhelpful. Whatever reconciliation had been building shattered against Kain's bluntness.

I watched Paul's expression flicker through stages: surprise, hurt, anger, and finally that particular closed-off look people wore when they'd decided to stop engaging. The observation wasn't even wrong—Paul's construction skills were genuinely terrible—but its timing demonstrated the social awareness of a sledgehammer.

Glenda's response was swift and diplomatically cutting. "I think our settlement has more chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths." Her eyes met Kain's briefly, sharp with unspoken reprimand, before he retreated to the safety of his meal like a scolded child.

The message was clear: We don't tear each other down here. We find what people are good at and we let them do that.

It was a philosophy I could work with.

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

"Fine. I'll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order." The acceptance carried reluctance, but it was acceptance nonetheless—a commitment that gave Paul purpose whilst addressing a genuine need.

Relief washed through me, though I kept my expression neutral. I'm glad that sorted itself out. The thought carried more weight than the words suggested. I needed Paul. Needed his energy, his willingness to take on thankless tasks, his presence as family in a situation where family meant something. Having him shirking responsibilities or, worse, actively hostile to the community's functioning would undermine everything I was building.

If only I knew how to keep him motivated without these constant flare-ups...

Karen's voice pulled me from my spiralling thoughts. "Marvellous." The word was light, approving—a verbal stamp on the agreement that suggested she'd already moved past her earlier objection. Progress, however incremental.

"But..." Paul raised a finger, his tone shifting to practical concern. "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."

I almost laughed. Of all the infrastructure challenges facing an inter-dimensional settlement—sanitation, water, shelter, food production—Paul's first priority was making his walks less dusty. But there was wisdom in the suggestion too. A road would create visible progress, give people something tangible to point at and say we built this. Morale mattered as much as logistics in the early days of any community.

"That sounds fair enough," Glenda agreed, and I watched the idea gather momentum around the circle.

Chris's hand shot up with an earnestness that reminded me of schoolchildren volunteering for teacher's attention. "I can help with that." The eagerness in his voice was genuine, the first real enthusiasm I'd seen from him since his accidental arrival. Perhaps this was what Chris needed—a task that used his body rather than his mind, something physical to do whilst his brain processed the impossible circumstances he'd been thrust into.

Kain's agreement came more tentatively. "Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in." His eyes swept the circle, seeking consensus, perhaps hoping his earlier misstep had been forgotten. His willingness to contribute was noted, even if his reservation remained visible.

Then Joel spoke, his voice emerging hoarse and barely above a whisper: "I'll help too."

The words were so quiet they nearly disappeared into the campfire's crackling, but their significance was considerable. Joel, who had been silent through nearly everything, who had accepted food with shrugs and monosyllables, was volunteering to participate. It was a tiny crack in whatever shell he'd retreated into—the first indication that he might be willing to engage with this strange new existence rather than merely enduring it.

Jamie's face did something complicated in the firelight. Pride, perhaps. Or hope. Or the particular terror of a parent watching their child take steps toward normality when normality itself had become impossible.

As the conversation wound down, fragmenting into smaller exchanges and the comfortable sounds of people finishing their meals, I observed the group with renewed attention. The earlier tension had dissolved into something approaching collaborative spirit—a collective willingness to tackle challenges together rather than snapping at each other.

But the speed of that transition troubled me too. They'd moved from fuck off to let's build a road in the span of minutes, as though the friction preceding had never occurred. The forgetting was convenient for harmony but concerning for sustainability. If conflicts resolved this quickly, did they resolve at all? Or did they simply go underground, accumulating pressure until the next eruption?

In this world we were building—and it was a world now, not merely a settlement or a camp—every conversation shaped what we'd become. Every decision was a brick in the structure of whatever civilisation might emerge from these uncertain beginnings.

I needed to ensure the Clivilians remembered why they were here. Not the immediate circumstances—the accidents and manipulations that had brought each of them through the Portal—but the larger purpose. The community they were creating. The future they were building.

That purpose was still forming in my own mind, still taking shape through trial and error and the particular alchemy of people learning to depend on each other. But it was there, growing stronger with each meal shared, each conflict navigated, each small agreement about who would manage what.

The fire crackled its endless monologue. The dust settled around us, as it always did.

Tomorrow, apparently, we'd be building a road.