Selected for Paradise

"Nothing says 'fresh start in an alien dimension' quite like arranging rocks in the dust and naming them with the gravity of a government institution."

The heat was more oppressive than I'd given it credit for.

Or perhaps the task of repairing the tent had demanded more from me than my stubborn pride wanted to acknowledge. Either way, the evidence was unmistakable—my shirt clung to my torso like a second skin, soaked through with sweat that had accumulated during the hours of labour. Each movement sent the fabric sliding against my chest, the damp material catching on the burn in ways that made me wince.

I made my way into the tent's dubious shelter, seeking the marginally cooler air that the canvas provided. Paul's figure caught my eye as I entered—he was moving toward the suitcases with the kind of abstracted purpose that suggested his mind was elsewhere entirely. His body performed the motion whilst his thoughts wandered through territories I couldn't access.

He really is just as odd as his brother.

The observation formed without malice, a simple recognition of similarity that I was only beginning to understand. Luke had that same quality—the ability to be physically present whilst mentally inhabiting some other plane of existence. It had irritated me for years, that distant look that suggested I wasn't interesting enough to hold his full attention. Seeing it mirrored in Paul felt like discovering a family trait I'd missed.

I turned away from watching him, seeking out the small comfort of a fresh t-shirt from my case. The act of changing should have been simple—a momentary grounding in physical sensation, the relief of clean fabric against sweaty skin. But removing the soaked shirt meant exposing the injury I'd been hiding, and even in the tent's dim interior, I felt vulnerable.

The burn throbbed with renewed intensity as I peeled the wet cotton away from my chest. The fabric had adhered to the damaged skin, and separating them sent a lance of pain through my torso that made my vision swim. I bit down on my lip, hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself to continue the motion despite every nerve screaming for me to stop.

"Hey, Jamie?"

Paul's voice cut through my concentration. Panic surged—immediate, irrational, overwhelming.

Did Paul notice?

The question raced through my mind whilst I struggled to compose my features. The fear of my secret being exposed felt disproportionate to the actual stakes, but I couldn't control the reaction. I didn't want his concern. I didn't want his sympathy. I didn't want another person knowing about the wound that Clivilius had carved into my flesh.

A soft gasp of pain escaped as I wrestled the fresh shirt over my head, the fabric brushing against the tender area with excruciating precision. I steadied myself, pushing past both the physical sensation and the mental turmoil, forcing my voice into something approaching calm.

"Yeah."

The word emerged more controlled than I felt—a façade of normality that cost more than I wanted to admit.

"What did you like least about life back on Earth?"

The question landed so unexpectedly that I forgot, momentarily, about the burn and the fear and the exhaustion pressing down on every part of me. My mind shifted gears, transported from immediate concerns to reflections on a life that now felt impossibly distant.

"Hmm," I mused aloud, taking a moment to gather my thoughts. The question deserved consideration, even if Paul's timing felt bizarre. I turned to face him, finding his expression open and waiting. "Not sure. Life was pretty good."

Paul's reaction was immediate—his features lit with a blend of surprise and something that looked almost like disbelief. Whatever answer he'd been expecting, that clearly wasn't it.

What stories has Luke been telling?

The thought surfaced with a familiar edge of resentment. Luke had a tendency to share things that weren't his to share, to frame narratives in ways that served his purposes rather than truth. Whatever portrait he'd painted of our life together, Paul had apparently absorbed it as gospel.

I watched him carefully, tracking the shift in his expression. "Were you expecting something different?"

The flush that spread across Paul's face was answer enough. His composure crumbled into visible embarrassment, words tumbling out in defensive fragments. "I... uh... that's not what I meant."

"Really?" My tone was light, almost playful—a register I hadn't deployed in days. "Then what did you mean?"

"I mean..." Paul began again, his hesitation a clear sign of internal struggle. He was trying to articulate something he hadn't fully thought through, caught between curiosity and the social awkwardness of having revealed too much.

"Hmm," I interjected, drawing out the moment with teasing deliberation. I settled myself beside Paul on the mattress, the movement sending a fresh wave of discomfort through my chest that I ignored with practiced determination. The proximity felt strange—intimate in a way our circumstances had forced upon us. But I was curious now, genuinely interested in where this conversation might lead.

"We get to leave all of the dramas of Earth life behind and start fresh."

Paul's voice carried a note of excitement that seemed to illuminate his entire face. The sincerity in his expression struck me—this wasn't performance or wishful thinking. He genuinely believed what he was saying, saw possibility where I saw only imprisonment.

He really believes it.

The realisation sparked curiosity even as it raised my defences. Paul wasn't stupid. He'd experienced the same terror I had last night, the same helplessness, the same physical suffering. And yet somehow he'd emerged from that darkness with hope intact.

"Go on," I encouraged, genuinely intrigued despite my scepticism.

Paul didn't miss a beat, his enthusiasm building with each word. "Think about it. We don't have to go to work. I mean, yeah, we may need to 'work' here so that we don't die, but it's not the same thing as having set hours working for someone else."

The distinction wasn't lost on me. There was something appealing about the idea of labour that served immediate survival rather than corporate profit margins. No timesheets. No performance reviews. No pretending to care about someone else's bottom line.

"And?" I pressed, sensing there was more to his vision than escape from employment.

"And," he continued, each word thoughtful, as if he were constructing the idea in real-time, "we get to leave all the annoying, stupid people behind. All the politics. All the stupid rules."

Wow!

The comparison to Luke was unavoidable. The same impatience with social constraints, the same frustration with bureaucracy and convention.

I didn't realise Luke and Paul were twins!

The thought was both amusing and illuminating, offering new insight into the brothers' dynamic.

"And family?" I queried, curious to see how he'd reconcile utopian fantasy with the messy reality of human bonds.

"Not necessarily," he replied, the caveat hanging between us like a challenge.

"How so?"

"What if we created a new civilisation here? One where we could bring only the family we wanted? Only the people who would participate and contribute productively to the society?"

The proposal was ambitious—a bold imagining of community built on selection rather than accident. No more toxic relatives or deadweight connections. No more obligations to people whose only claim on your time was shared genetic material.

But as Paul's words lingered in the air, discomfort began to build in my chest that had nothing to do with the burn.

People are stupid, sure, but does that really warrant playing God with who gets to exist in paradise?

The simplicity of his solution troubled me. Who would decide worthiness? What criteria would apply? How many people through history had thought themselves qualified to separate wheat from chaff, and how many atrocities had followed from that certainty?

Life just isn't that simple.

"Don't you think that's even a little exciting?" Paul persisted, his enthusiasm undimmed by my silence. "Don't you get it? We can create our own rules. Our own culture. Our own society."

His words struck a chord—but one that resonated with caution rather than excitement. The audacity of his vision was undeniable. So was its danger.

"After last night, do you really believe all of that is true?"

I fixed my gaze on him, searching for any sign of doubt. We'd survived a storm that had nearly destroyed our only shelter. We'd experienced terror and pain and the raw vulnerability of being trapped in hostile wilderness. How could he maintain optimism in the face of such evidence?

"I do."

Paul's confidence remained unshaken. His belief in the potential of our situation, after everything we'd endured, was both baffling and—in some strange way I didn't want to acknowledge—admirable.

"As soon as Luke returns, I'm going to try and leave Clivilius again."

The declaration emerged with more scorn than I'd intended, but I didn't bother softening it. I let myself fall back onto the mattress, seeking the brief escape that closing my eyes offered. My arms settled behind my head, cushioning the back of my skull against the hard surface beneath. The burn protested the movement, sending fresh pulses of pain through my chest, but I welcomed the sensation. Physical discomfort was simpler than the emotions Paul's vision had stirred.

His relentless optimism was grating on me now—that voice, that certainty, that refusal to acknowledge the bleakness of our reality.

Perhaps if I ignore him, he might just go away.

The thought was desperate, born from a need for peace that felt increasingly urgent. I couldn't engage with his utopia. I couldn't pretend to share his excitement about building civilisations and selecting worthy citizens. I wanted to go home. I wanted electricity and running water and my own bed and the familiar irritations of a life I'd taken for granted.

Minutes passed, filled with Paul's sighs and contemplative sounds—small noises of someone processing thoughts I had no interest in hearing. I kept my eyes closed, feigning the kind of exhaustion that discouraged conversation.

Eventually, the tent fell silent.

Paul had left, granting me the solitude I'd yearned for. The canvas walls seemed to breathe with his departure, the space feeling simultaneously larger and lonelier.

Despite my resistance, his perspective lingered in the back of my mind. The possibility that there might be more to our situation than mere survival. The idea that we could shape something new rather than simply enduring something terrible.

I pushed the thoughts away, but they refused to disappear entirely.

"There's nothing else to do."

The words carried resignation as I settled beside the river, folding my legs beneath me in the dust next to Paul. The landscape before us stretched toward distant mountains, offering nothing in the way of distraction or direction. We'd exhausted our immediate tasks. The tent was repaired. The morning had been survived. Now we faced the particular torture of unstructured time in a place that offered no entertainment, no obligations, no purpose beyond staying alive.

"Well," Paul began, his tone deliberate, "we could do with a place near the Portal where Luke can deliver things. We can then work out what to do with them."

I turned to him, bewilderment creasing my features. The suggestion felt disconnected from our current aimlessness, a leap from boredom to planning that I hadn't anticipated.

"Well, that seems a bit random."

Paul chuckled—a sound that carried lightness we'd been missing. "It does a bit, doesn't it?"

The admission, coupled with the gentle humour in his voice, coaxed a reluctant smile from me. Despite everything, Paul's drive to find purpose remained intact. His need to plan, to build, to mark time with accomplishment rather than mere existence—it reminded me of something I'd lost, or perhaps never fully possessed.

I gazed at the river's gentle flow, the water moving with purpose that seemed to mock our aimlessness. Being permanently marooned here was a weight I wasn't ready to accept. But the idea of engaging in some project, however futile, offered distraction. A way to fill hours that would otherwise stretch into unbearable emptiness.

"I guess it would give us something to do," I conceded, careful to offer neither false hope nor dismissal.

Paul's enthusiasm remained undeterred. "And not just finding a good spot. Getting Luke to leave whatever he brings through the Portal in a single spot, will give us something to do to move it."

The plan was simple, but simplicity had value here. Something concrete in a reality that had become disconcertingly abstract.

"And," I found myself adding, drawn into the planning despite my resistance, "Luke is very intelligent, but he can also be a bit of a scatterbrain."

"Totally!" Paul's agreement came with a mixture of affection and frustration that I recognised immediately. Living with Luke meant living with his brilliant mind and his chaotic execution—grand visions implemented with maddening inconsistency. "I don't think it's wise for us to trust Luke to establish a settlement properly."

The shared understanding felt unexpectedly valuable—a rare moment of alignment between two people whose only connection was Luke himself. We both knew his strengths. We both knew his limitations. And in that knowledge was common ground that felt almost like friendship.

With something approaching renewed purpose, I rose to my feet and offered Paul a hand up. His palm was warm against mine, rough with the grit that coated everything in this place.

"You coming then?" I called back, already moving toward the task ahead. Action was welcome after the inertia that had gripped me. "It was your idea after all."

Without waiting for Paul to catch up, I set off toward the Portal with brisk strides. My legs welcomed the movement, muscles engaging with work that felt productive rather than merely necessary. The sight of the large, translucent screen came into view gradually—that impossible membrane between worlds, shimmering with whatever energy kept it upright, despite dust storms and all.

I couldn't help comparing our current endeavour to childhood projects—the dens and forts constructed from whatever materials could be scavenged, the imaginary kingdoms defended against imaginary enemies. We'd been children then, believing in the importance of games that adults tolerated with indulgent smiles.

This is just distraction, I reminded myself. Something to pass the time until Luke returns.

The internal reminder felt necessary. Paul's enthusiasm was contagious in ways I didn't want to acknowledge. If I wasn't careful, I'd find myself caring about outcomes in a place I intended to leave at the first opportunity.

A hand-sized rock nearly sent me tumbling, catching my toe at exactly the wrong angle. I seized it reflexively, fingers closing around its irregular surface before I could fall.

Without conscious decision, I used its pointed end to etch a boundary in the loose dust. The line appeared behind my dragging movement—crude but visible, a marker of intention in a landscape that had no interest in our plans.

The site I'd selected seemed practical: close enough to the Portal screen for convenience, yet far enough to maintain safe distance from the threshold that connected worlds. We didn't know what might come through that membrane, or when, or with what force. Staying clear seemed wise.

Paul's uneven footsteps announced his arrival, his gait still affected by the burns on his soles. I watched him approach, noting the determination in his movements despite the obvious discomfort. Without a word, he began gathering larger rocks, arranging them into a neat pile at one end of the line I'd drawn.

Not a bad idea.

The silent acknowledgment surprised me. Paul's initiative, unspoken but effective, reminded me that capability came in forms I didn't always recognise. He wasn't waiting for instruction or seeking approval. He was simply doing what needed doing.

The dust stirred around us as we worked, fine particles lifting and settling with each movement. I found myself drawn into the rhythm of our shared task, my body moving in complement to Paul's without conscious coordination. With each rock we placed, something built between us that had nothing to do with boundaries or delivery zones—a silent partnership that felt both fragile and unexpectedly solid.

Together, we marked corners and intervals, placing rock piles at regular spacing along the perimeter. The physical work grounded me in ways I needed—the weight of stones in my hands, the dust coating my skin, the simple satisfaction of visible progress. No complicated emotions. No impossible questions. Just the clarity of labour and its tangible results.

Stepping back, I surveyed what we'd accomplished. The boundary stood out against the barren landscape—a rectangle of organised stone amidst the chaos of unmarked dust. It wasn't much, objectively. But here, where nothing existed except what we created, it felt almost significant.

"There," Paul stated, wiping away the sweat that had gathered on his brow. Satisfaction coloured his voice, the particular pleasure of completion that transcended the scale of the accomplishment.

"Looks alright," I acknowledged, my gaze still fixed on our creation. The pragmatic part of me appreciated the tangible result, even if another part remained detached from Paul's obvious pride. "You got a name for it?"

"Hmm," he hesitated, taking a moment to consider. The pause stretched, filled with the kind of deliberation that suggested he was treating this decision with far more gravity than it warranted.

"Yes. The Clivilius Delivery Drop Zone."

The name—earnest, grandiose, utterly absurd—caught me completely off guard. Laughter bubbled up from somewhere I'd forgotten existed, breaking free before I could contain it. Not mockery, but genuine amusement at the sheer unexpectedness of Paul's naming convention. He'd christened our pile of rocks with the formality of a government building, and somehow that was exactly right.

"What?" Paul looked at me, confusion and amusement competing for dominance on his face.

"Nothing. It's as good a name as any." I managed the words between subsiding chuckles, my laughter fading into something softer. A knot tightened in my stomach—the silent acknowledgment of connection forming despite my resistance. I was still planning to leave. I was still determined to escape this place the moment Luke returned. And yet something about this ridiculous moment, this absurd christening of a rectangle in the dust, made my departure feel more complicated than it had an hour ago.

"But I'll just call it the Drop Zone for short," I added, bridging my practicality with Paul's vision.

"Drop Zone," Paul echoed, a grin spreading across his features. "I like it."

A small smile found its way to my lips as I watched him bask in the simple joy of the moment.

At least one of us seems to be happy here.

The thought carried resignation and something else I didn't want to name. Begrudging appreciation, perhaps. Or the uncomfortable recognition that Paul's ability to find contentment in challenging circumstances was a skill I lacked and might need to develop.

The Drop Zone sat before us, our first collaborative creation in this hostile world. It was nothing, really—rocks arranged in the dust, marking space that belonged to no one. But it was also something. Evidence that two men trapped in an impossible situation could still create, still plan, still hope.

Even if one of them was trying very hard not to.