Rubbish and Resolve

“Civilisation doesn’t start with monuments—it starts with bin bags, shovels, and the stubborn will to keep going.”

As the light carried itself across the sky, Clivilius seemed momentarily softened by its touch.

The sharp reds and ochres of its landscape gave way to warm shades of amber and gold, the desert briefly transformed into something almost welcoming. For a handful of heartbeats, I could almost forget that this was a prison. Could almost see what I had promised them—a canvas waiting for new colours, a world ready to be shaped by willing hands.

Yet beneath the beauty, a quiet tension thrummed, pulling at me as insistently as the voice of Clivilius itself.

My curiosity tugged me towards the encampment, where Paul and Jamie were no doubt still entangled in their struggle with canvas, poles, and each other. The possibility of their frustrations spilling over into another clash gnawed at me, quickening my stride. I had left them barely an hour ago, but an hour was enough time for old wounds to reopen, for harsh words to be exchanged, for whatever fragile truce they might have forged to crumble back into hostility.

The rhythm of my existence had already begun to reshape itself into a pattern of crossings: Earth to Clivilius, Clivilius to Earth. Back and forth, ferrying survival in small doses, patching over gaping uncertainties with each mundane item I managed to carry through.

The idea had solidified into something resembling a plan. Each trip was no longer a gamble but a contribution, however modest, to the fragile bones of a settlement we were forcing into existence. Practicality, I told myself. That's the key now. Not grand gestures, not impossible visions—just practicality.

In my hand I carried a roll of black garbage bags, their glossy surface crinkling softly with each step.

Back home, they had been background clutter, an afterthought shoved into a cupboard beneath the sink. Here, in Clivilius, they were currency. Tools. Shields against chaos. Their promise lay not just in tidying the detritus of our efforts, but in protecting supplies, in managing waste, in carving order out of a wilderness that cared nothing for us.

They seemed small, laughably so. Yet I couldn't help but feel they carried a symbolic weight: a reminder that civilisation begins not with monuments, but with the quiet discipline of keeping things clean.

"What now?"

Jamie's words reached me like an arrow dipped in venom, his irritation cutting through the still morning air before I had even laid eyes on their progress. The familiarity of that tone—weary, caustic, perpetually dissatisfied—was fast becoming the soundtrack of Clivilius.

"I've got clothes on," I shot back, my attempt at levity masking the dull ache his attitude left behind.

I twirled in the dust for effect, jeans catching the wind as if they, too, wanted to mock the absurdity of the moment. Little eddies of sand spun at my ankles, playful reminders that even in this alien world, some gestures retained their humour.

"You're such a dork," Paul's laughter rolled across the camp, light and genuine, slicing through Jamie's scorn like sunlight through heavy cloud. For a brief instant, the tension slackened.

"I know," I conceded with a lopsided grin, shrugging as if my ridiculousness was a deliberate choice rather than a coping mechanism.

Hoisting the roll of garbage bags aloft, I presented them as though they were some priceless relic unearthed in the sand. "I figured rather than dirty a brand spanking new world, you can put all your rubbish in these garbage bags and I can take them back through the Portal."

"But how is that possible? I thought we couldn't leave?" Jamie's eyes narrowed, his question pointed, edged with suspicion. It was the first spark of genuine curiosity buried beneath his layers of hostility.

"You can't," I said, the mirth slipping from my voice, replaced by something harder, heavier. The truth sat between us like something none of us could move. "But it seems that items can. I took Paul's phone, remember?"

The words hung there, sobering the air. A reminder of the invisible laws that governed our entrapment—laws that still seemed to twist and shift with each discovery.

"You might want to keep anything combustible," I suggested, my tone measured, though the memory of the previous night's oppressive blackness lingered in my mind.

The way the darkness had closed in—heavy, absolute, smothering—was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn't just an absence of light; it was a presence in itself, a suffocating cloak that seemed to press down on the land and crawl beneath the skin. No moon. No stars. Just endless, impenetrable black.

"It gets pretty dark here at night."

Jamie responded with a shrug that was more dismissal than acknowledgment, his expression carved in stone. Paul followed suit, though his agreement carried less resistance and more weary acquiescence, as though he was too drained to challenge the practicality of my suggestion.

Together, we set about the menial yet strangely grounding task of stuffing the first garbage bag with the mountains of blue plastic strips that had cocooned the tent components.

The material crackled under our hands, its sharp edges catching the light as though mocking the fragile hope it had once wrapped. Each strip we tore free seemed to whisper of the absurdity of our situation: here we were, three men stranded in a barren world, reduced to clearing away packaging like suburban neighbours tidying up after a weekend project.

The sound of the plastic rustling and tearing filled the silence between us, a substitute for words too heavy or too raw to speak.

It was a task that required no thought, no decisions—only action. And perhaps that was its quiet gift. As the bag swelled, the once pristine surface of Clivilius bore the faintest mark of civilisation. A sign—however small—that we were beginning to stake a claim on this strange new land.

As we worked side by side, the rhythm of our movements filling the silence, my eyes caught on Paul.

He had stripped down to the waist, his skin gleaming under the relentless Clivilian sun. It was a perfectly sensible response to the heat, yet the sight nagged at me, sparking a question I had been holding back since the tension of the morning.

The thought burrowed into my mind, impossible to ignore, scratching at my composure until I gave in.

"So…"

The word slipped from my lips, heavy with implication. I felt the ripples of unease radiate before the sentence had even finished forming. My heart tightened with the awareness that I was stepping into treacherous territory, and yet curiosity—laced with a hint of grievance—compelled me forward.

"So, what?" Jamie asked, not raising his head, his hands busy gathering the stubborn scraps of blue plastic. His voice carried a note of irritation, though it seemed aimed more at the task than at me.

"So…" I continued, my gaze fixed on him with quiet intensity. "Why is it that you made such a big deal about me, your partner, having no shirt on, yet you seem to be perfectly comfortable with my brother flashing himself around?"

The words emerged sharper than I had intended, tinged with the vulnerability I had tried to mask.

The effect was immediate.

A strangled cough burst from Paul, breaking the fragile equilibrium like glass shattering. His hands jerked awkwardly at the bag, fumbling until its overstuffed contents spilled free, scattering over the dusty ground. In a hasty attempt to gather the mess, he dropped to his knees, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed low.

The fine dust clung to his skin as his fingers clawed at the plastic, but it was his face that gave him away—flushed a vivid crimson, visible even as he tried to angle himself away. His embarrassment hung in the air like a neon sign, as though my question had cut to some truth none of us were ready to confront.

I watched him scramble, watched Jamie's careful non-reaction, and felt something shift in the air between the three of us. Something unspoken. Something I wasn't sure I wanted to name.

"I think you better bring us a couple of towels, a few rolls of toilet paper and a shovel," Jamie said at last, his tone clipped and business-like, stripped of its usual sting.

The words were practical, grounded—a stark contrast to the relentless negativity he had wielded like a weapon since the moment we arrived.

For a moment, I just stood there, blinking at him in disbelief.

The blunt demand itself wasn't what startled me; it was the underlying pragmatism, the glimpse of someone who, despite his fury and resentment, was still engaging with the reality of our circumstances. The Jamie I knew would sooner scoff, tear down, or sabotage than admit a need. Yet here he was, asking plainly for what was necessary.

A part of me—small but undeniable—dared to hope that Clivilius might be chiselling away at the walls between us, revealing something less combative, more cooperative.

"Oh, and I really need my suitcase of clothes, too," Paul added, his voice emerging slightly muffled as he rose from where he'd been crouched. He brushed dust from his knees, the fine orange grains clinging stubbornly to his skin and fabric, defying his efforts to rid himself of them.

When I looked up at him, I caught more than just exertion in the flush of his cheeks.

There was something else there—a flicker of unease, or perhaps embarrassment—something that danced just out of reach, like a shadow vanishing as soon as you turned your head to catch it. He met my eyes for the briefest moment before glancing away, his features tightening as though sealing away whatever he didn't want revealed.

And Jamie—Jamie of all people—didn't bite. Didn't mock. He simply nodded once, terse and unreadable, before returning to the task at hand.

That, more than anything, gave me pause.

I dipped my head in silent acknowledgment of their requests, my thoughts swirling with questions I dared not voice.

There was a strange shift happening between us, a subtle rebalancing of roles and expectations. Something was unravelling and being rewoven in the crucible of this alien world.

But I chose silence over interrogation. The day had already demanded enough from all of us, and patience—like water, like shelter, like trust—was a scarce resource here. And if Clivilius was teaching me anything, it was that sometimes survival meant holding your tongue and letting the answers come in their own time.

As the three of us moved about in a quiet rhythm, gathering up the remnants of plastic wrap, discarded ties, and scraps of packaging, there was an odd sense of ceremony to the act.

Each crumpled shard of rubbish sealed away into the garbage bag felt like an offering to Clivilius itself—a declaration that, despite our fumbling and frustrations, we were committed to treating this strange land with care. For a moment, the three of us were united in purpose. Bound not by argument or accusation, but by the simple, shared labour of keeping our fragile camp clean.

It was then, as I cinched the top of the last bag, that Paul straightened suddenly, as though remembering something long overlooked.

"Wait," he said, patting down his pockets, a faint crease of concentration crossing his brow. From the inner fold of his jeans, he produced a small, slightly crumpled slip of paper. "I actually made a list. You know, like you asked."

The gesture stopped me in my tracks.

For all the chaos that had shadowed our steps since arrival, here was my brother—practical, methodical Paul—still clinging to order, to planning, to the structure that defined him. He extended the folded paper to me, his fingers brushing mine in a quiet exchange that seemed almost solemn.

"I'll be sure to get everything you need," I told him, my words deliberate, infused with as much conviction as I could muster.

This wasn't just a list of provisions. It was a thread of hope, a promise that despite everything, I would deliver.

Folding the slip carefully—with a reverence usually reserved for sacred texts or fragile keepsakes—I slid it into my back pocket. There it rested, pressing against me with a weight far greater than its paper form. It was the weight of their reliance, their expectations, their fragile faith in me not to fail them again.

Paul and Jamie trailed behind me in silence as we approached the Portal, their eyes fixed on the swirling lights with a tension that mirrored my own.

It was more than curiosity—it was a test. A trial by passage that would either confirm or unravel the fragile logic we had built around what could pass between worlds. Their folded arms and the sharp set of Jamie's jaw betrayed the undercurrent of doubt that neither of them dared voice.

Stepping forward, I felt the now-familiar pull, the curious blend of warmth and cold that seemed to tangle itself around my nerves. As the kaleidoscope of colour enveloped me, a shiver chased its way down my spine, sending my heart lurching against my ribs.

And then, just as suddenly, I was back.

The stillness of the study wrapped around me, unbroken, mundane. The shift from dust and glaring sun to the dim familiarity of home was jarring—a collision of worlds that left me momentarily disoriented.

But in my hands, the bags of rubbish remained. Solid proof that the theory held true.

Dragging the bags through to the bins outside, I found myself oddly reverent in the act.

The crack of the lid as it slammed shut, the dull thud of plastic against plastic, was more than a routine gesture. It was an offering, a cleansing. In that simple act of disposal, I had affirmed something profound: we could build, we could manage, we could endure.

The thought settled over me with unexpected clarity: The three of us are still alive.

In the great, sprawling scheme of things, it was such a small truth. Yet here, in the fragile infancy of Clivilius, it was everything. Survival was not just a victory—it was the very foundation upon which everything else could rest.

"This civilisation building stuff is easy!" I chuckled as I stepped back inside, the sound ringing with more than humour. It was resilience, defiance, and perhaps the first flicker of pride in the strange, arduous path I had chosen.