The Cheeseslaw Conspiracy

"It wasn’t the Portals or the politics that undid us that night—it was a tub of cheeseslaw and the decision not to share."

Finally, I returned from the shop, the distinct aroma of Rags chips preceding me like a herald’s trumpet as I stepped through into Clivilius. The warm, salty scent curled through the cool evening air, finding its way to Paul and Karen with almost predatory precision. Both of them turned in unison, their eyes lighting up in the same way a starving dog’s might at the sound of a food tin cracking open.

I couldn’t suppress the small, satisfied smile that tugged at my lips—it was nice to hold the upper hand for once, if only in the form of deep-fried potato.

But the chips were just the overture. With a deliberate pause, I handed the bag of chips over to Paul, letting the scent drift temptingly towards them. Then, adopting the air of a magician about to unveil the grand finale, I produced a small plastic container from the second bag and held it up with mock ceremony.

“And… as if that weren’t enough,” I said, my voice infused with theatrical gravitas, “I present to you… cheeseslaw.”

The container gleamed under the light, its pale yellow-and-white contents looking humble, almost unremarkable—yet I knew better. This was not just a side dish, but a cultural treasure I had only just stumbled upon, an oddity with the potential to rewrite Paul’s evening entirely. I held the container towards them with all the reverence of laying an offering before a deity.

"Apparently, it's a game-changer." I let the words hang in the air, my gaze flicking between them like a card dealer sizing up their next play. I wanted to see it—that exact moment when curiosity tips into indulgence. Sure enough, there it was: a spark in Paul’s eyes, mirrored by the faint lift of Karen’s brows, a ripple of anticipation passing between them as though they’d just been handed a secret.

"Indeed it is," Paul echoed, his voice thrumming with an almost devotional fervour. The man moved with the speed of someone who feared the offering might vanish if he hesitated, his hand shooting towards the container in a decisive, almost predatory snatch.

The cheeseslaw met the chips with an unceremonious dip, and in the next breath, the first smothered chip disappeared into his mouth. Karen followed suit, her movements brisk, purposeful—as though they were both participants in a ritual they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

Then came the change. Their faces shifted in near-perfect synchrony, the moment of contact between taste and tongue unlocking something close to bliss. The sharp tang of cheddar, the sweetness of carrot, the creamy hit of mayonnaise—all wrapped around the golden crunch of chip—was a union so unexpectedly harmonious it seemed to stop time for a beat.

"Wow, this is amazing," Karen declared, her voice alight, her whole expression softening into an open, infectious joy that made it impossible not to smile back. For a fleeting moment, the harsh edges of the world beyond Clivilius seemed to dull, replaced by this odd little pocket of warmth and salt and cheese.

I nodded, scooping a heap with my chip for myself, my own taste buds lighting up in chorus. It was absurd, really—that something so humble could be this satisfying. But then again, after the day I’d had, perhaps it was exactly the kind of uncomplicated triumph I needed.

"Should we share this with the rest of the camp?" Paul’s voice cut into my quiet reverie, a note of hopeful reluctance threaded through his words—as though he already knew the answer he wanted and was fishing for my complicity. I didn’t need to think hard to find my own echo of that sentiment. The pull was selfish, yes, but undeniable; this tiny slice of comfort felt too precious, too fragile, to be diluted.

Karen, still half-lost in the hypnotic rhythm of chip to mouth, barely looked up. Her shrug was lazy, indulgent, accompanied by a grin that curved slowly, like a cat who’d found the cream. It wasn’t a spoken agreement, but it didn’t need to be. That single, unhurried gesture sealed it—tonight, the cheeseslaw and chips were ours alone, a private conspiracy of pleasure.

We lingered over the food, each bite stretching the moment, weaving a little cocoon around the three of us. The familiar weight that usually pressed on my shoulders as a Guardian of Bixbus—every decision, every risk, every looming uncertainty—slipped away just enough for me to breathe deeper.

It was absurd how something so simple could momentarily rewrite the day’s narrative. The harsh edges of exhaustion, frustration, and the constant awareness of danger were blurred, replaced with the warmth of shared laughter and the faint tang of cheese on my tongue.

Surrounded by friends, both barely acquainted and new, the Portal just metres away, I let myself believe—if only for a heartbeat—that perhaps the journey wasn’t all shadows and strain. There were still moments like this. Moments that reminded me I wasn’t just surviving, but still living.