The New Man

“You don’t get to pick who the Portal sends—only how you meet them.”

As I approached the location of the Portal, the translucent screen stood silently where it always had—towering and inert, yet undeniably present. It didn’t materialise from nowhere; it had been there all along, like a monument to possibility, waiting. Roughly three metres across and five high, the Portal’s surface shimmered faintly in the morning light, a plane of glassy stillness.

Even dormant, it didn’t feel passive. There was something about it—an energy that hovered, intangible but constant. It wasn’t just a structure or a machine. It had presence. It watched.

Standing before it, I found myself paralysed by a complex rush of feeling. My father had told me about this—about the grandeur, the elegance, the way it shimmered like it was breathing. But nothing he had said, no matter how vivid, had prepared me for the awe of witnessing it for myself. He’d described it with reverence, and now I understood why. And yet... he had been right. His descriptions, fantastical as they had sounded to me as a child, had been almost eerily accurate.

The knowledge that the Portal’s activation was restricted to a Guardian—someone genetically bound to a Portal Key—cast a shadow of resignation over me. This magnificent construct, humming with unknown origin, remained beyond my touch. Dormant for now, and likely to remain so unless the one person able to awaken it chose to return.

It was a threshold we couldn’t cross, a reminder that as close as we were to home—technologically, spatially—it might as well be a universe away.

With a quiet sigh, I forced myself to look away. Dwelling on what we couldn’t control would serve no one. The Portal was both promise and prison, and staring into its shimmering face wasn’t going to change that.

Gazing away from the Portal, my eyes were drawn to a curious sight—meticulous stacks of pebbles encircling a large area nearby. Each stone appeared carefully chosen and placed, not just haphazardly dropped but arranged with clear intention. The deliberate geometry of it—the soft curves of stone forming neat outlines on the dusty ground—was oddly pleasing to the eye. There was a quiet charm to it, a sense of purpose in such a humble task. It is cute, I mused silently, my lips curving into a faint smile at the thought.

Even though, practically speaking, the markings seemed premature—after all, we were only a handful of people in a largely empty expanse—the gesture felt symbolic. A small, stubborn declaration of order amidst uncertainty. Someone had seen fit to draw invisible lines in the sand, to tame a corner of Clivilius with nothing more than pebbles. Perhaps it was an attempt to manifest structure, to imagine permanence where none yet existed. I made a mental note to ask about them later. Whoever had arranged them was thinking ahead, and I wanted to understand the thinking behind it.

I stepped over one of the pebble borders, careful not to disturb the pattern, and found myself within what was clearly a staging area. A small but growing stockpile of supplies had been placed inside the outlined space—stacked boxes, rolled tarpaulins, and scattered tools left out from the previous day’s labour. My eyes caught on a set of metallic cylinders and moulds that could only be part of the concrete-pouring kit. The sight grounded me. It wasn’t just talk or vague intention anymore—this was preparation. Plans were becoming action.

I scanned the gathered materials more methodically now. Estimating what I could from the visual cues alone, I counted enough sheeting and structural support to construct at least six large, corrugated iron sheds. It was ambitious, far more than I would have expected from a group still adapting to their surroundings. But it was also hopeful—a sign that someone here, maybe all of us, believed we’d be here long enough to need proper buildings.

Tucked beside one of the supply crates was a flatter, lighter bundle that caught my attention. A quick inspection revealed it to be components for at least one, possibly two, additional tents. The realisation sparked an idea almost immediately. If the others had no objections, I would claim one of these and establish it as a dedicated medical tent. Jamie's ordeal had already proven how essential it was to have a clean, private space for treating injuries. Setting up such a facility felt not only logical but overdue.

Hopefully, they wouldn't need to use it, I thought, a flicker of optimism colouring the moment. But the reality, stark and ever-present, was that Clivilius would likely test all of us again. We were exposed, physically and emotionally, and it was only a matter of time before someone else fell ill or was injured. Having the tent ready wouldn't prevent that—but it might just help us endure it.

I ran a hand over one of the unopened boxes, feeling the grit that clung to every surface. The air was still and dry, the dust ever present. It settled into everything, just like the weight of what lay ahead. But beneath that weight was something more—a quiet, growing resolve. We were going to build something here. And I would start with this.

The sudden eruption of colours on the Portal's screen, a spectacle of vibrant, gyrating hues rippling across its translucent surface, jolted me from my thoughts. Like an oil slick catching light, the hues spiralled and bled into one another—violet streaking into cyan, gold melting into crimson—until the entire frame pulsed with a mesmerising brilliance. It was a living kaleidoscope, dazzling and utterly at odds with the sterile, dormant state I had become accustomed to.

My breath caught. Something was happening.

Then, through that swirling spectacle, a shape emerged—a silhouette coalescing from the chaos. A young man stumbled forward, as though spat from the Portal itself, tumbling inelegantly onto the packed earth of Clivilius. His body pitched slightly as he tried to right himself, knees buckling beneath him in a moment of disorientation before he found his footing. His eyes, wide and frantic, scanned the terrain as if expecting something—anything—familiar to ground him.

"Clivilius," he breathed, the word spilling from his lips with the raw edge of disbelief. "What the hell is Clivilius?"

The question, although spoken into the open air, struck with a kind of personal resonance. It wasn’t directed at me, and yet it pierced the space between us like a flare. For a split second, I was standing where he stood now—newly arrived, eyes wide with panic, lungs tight with the crushing pressure of the unknown.

A jolt of unease knotted in my stomach. Who is he?

His sudden appearance shattered the quiet rhythm of the morning. We were vulnerable here—exposed, without warning systems, without any kind of process for vetting newcomers. My mind raced. Is he dangerous? Could Luke have sent him without telling us?

"Where the hell am I?" His voice cracked slightly as he turned on the spot, searching the unfamiliar horizon with growing alarm.

I observed him more closely now, my instincts kicking in as I assessed him not just as a person, but as a potential variable. He couldn’t have stood more than five foot five, yet there was no mistaking the strength carved into his frame—biceps taut under his t-shirt, calves that hinted at agility. He wasn’t bulky, but compact. Contained power. A boxer, perhaps, or a sprinter. Despite my height advantage, I felt an acute awareness of how quickly panic could turn into violence in someone unmoored from reality.

You know well how heightened emotions make people do unpredictable and uncharacteristic things, I reminded myself, reining in the flicker of anxiety. This wasn’t the time for fear—it was the time for care, for calm. Diplomacy first. Always.

"Are you okay?" I called gently, stepping forward with a measured pace. My voice wasn’t just a question; it was an offering—a signal that he wasn’t alone, that he was seen.

His head whipped toward me, eyes locking on mine with a sudden sharpness. There was surprise there, certainly, but also a kind of instinctive wariness.

"Did Luke push you too?" he asked, his voice tight, edged with suspicion. His gaze scanned me as though weighing whether I might be part of some larger deception.

I shook my head slowly, deliberately—hoping to project reassurance. "No," I said, my tone calm but firm. "I'm guessing he pushed you though?"

"Yes," he snapped, the answer coming reflexively. His brow furrowed. "At least, I think he did." The edges of his certainty seemed to fray in that moment, as if the memory itself were slippery, not yet fully processed. His frustration was obvious, but underneath it, something deeper—betrayal, maybe. Or grief.

I nodded, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat. The air between us shifted.

And then, unexpectedly, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth—not out of amusement, but from an overwhelming sense of relief. I am no longer alone.

It wasn't just the presence of another human being, though that alone was reason enough to feel the tightness in my chest ease. It was what his arrival meant. The Portal still worked. Earth still had people. And Luke… Luke was still acting, still sending others through.

Our numbers had grown. Our isolation had, if only fractionally, diminished.

We had another life here now. Another story just beginning.

Luke's sudden emergence from the Portal, just moments after the young man's tumultuous arrival, immediately heightened the tension in the air. The colourful remnants of the Portal’s activity still shimmered faintly behind him, like a curtain just pulled back on an unwanted scene. "I see you've already met Glenda?" His words, seemingly casual, floated between us with a jarring incongruity. It was an attempt at levity that fell flat, smothered under the weight of what had already transpired.

Instinctively, I took a step back, the shift subtle but deliberate. It wasn’t fear exactly—it was wariness, a protective reflex born of witnessing the raw emotion on the young man’s face. His cheeks had turned a deep crimson, fury radiating from him like heat off scorched stone. This wasn’t irritation; it was full-bodied rage, the kind that simmers just long enough before boiling over.

"You're a fucking arsehole, Luke!" he spat, stepping in close, his face mere inches from Luke’s. His voice cracked with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief, and for a moment, I wasn’t entirely certain what he might do next. "What the hell did you push me for?" His body tensed as the words left his mouth, a rhetorical question asked not for clarity, but to underscore the depth of his indignation.

Then came the shove—sudden, forceful. Luke stumbled back a step, thrown off balance not just by the physical impact, but by the emotional weight behind it. "See," the young man snarled, pushing him again, sharper this time. "You don't like being pushed around."

A protective urge stirred in me, a flicker of movement that didn’t quite make it past my shoulders. I hesitated, assessing. Luke wasn’t retaliating. He looked… remorseful.

"I'm sorry," Luke said, his tone subdued, more human than I’d ever heard it. There was no trace of defensiveness—only a quiet appeal to understanding. "But Jamie needs you."

The words landed like a stone in water. My breath caught. So, he knows Jamie. The revelation reshaped everything. I studied the young man more closely, searching for resemblance—a flash of bone structure, a similarity in voice, perhaps a familial tie. A nephew?

"What? Uncle Jamie is here?" The words burst from him like steam, disbelief hardening into something more urgent. His eyes darted toward me, as if I might confirm or deny the impossible.

"Yeah," Luke replied, his voice clipped, his shoulders sagging as though releasing a truth too heavy to carry much longer.

I watched the shift in the young man. His expression transformed from fury to resolve in an instant. The crease between his brows deepened, his jaw tightened. "Take me home, Luke," he said. "And I'll take Uncle Jamie with me."

There was something touching about his certainty—his complete refusal to accept that this might be anything more than a temporary nightmare. His voice, though firm, betrayed a tremor of desperation. He truly believed there was still a choice to be made, a path back.

But I knew better. We all did.

Luke didn’t speak at first. The silence dragged, and with it came a heaviness that filled the space between us. I could see it in the way Luke’s mouth pressed into a tight line, in the way his gaze fell away from the young man.

"I can't," he finally said, the words barely making it into the air.

The man flinched. "What do you mean, you can't?" His arms flared outward, gesturing to the Portal, to the sky, to the dust beneath our feet—as if the entire world was complicit in this absurdity.

Luke’s apology was almost inaudible, delivered to the ground as if it alone had earned his remorse. "I'm sorry, Kain."

Something shifted inside me at that. The look in Luke’s eyes—it wasn’t evasion, it wasn’t cowardice. It was pain. Real, unfiltered pain. I swallowed hard, my stomach lurching as if pulled by gravity. Luke had dragged this boy into a world he didn’t understand, and now he had no way to return him.

"Sorry?" Kain exploded, his voice rising like a crack of thunder. "You're sorry! Sorry for what?"

The question wasn’t meant to be answered. It rang out like a shot, not seeking explanation, but broadcasting betrayal. It was pain in its rawest form—wounded, cornered, and suddenly dangerous.

Compelled by a deep, instinctive need to offer some kind of anchor amidst the storm of emotion, I stepped forward, bridging the space between us cautiously. The air was thick with tension, every breath a calculation. Gently, I placed a firm hand on Kain’s shoulder—more to ground him than to stop him. I hoped the weight of my palm might convey something that words couldn’t. That he wasn’t alone. That we understood, even if we couldn’t fix it.

"It's impossible for us to return," I said softly, my voice low and calm. I tried to offer him a lifeline of truth, something solid to hold onto in the shifting sands of grief and disbelief.

But it was like trying to hold back a tide with a whispered command.

Kain jerked away from my grasp, the motion sharp and final. In an instant, fury overtook him. His body lunged forward, and with terrifying speed, he launched himself at Luke. The force of his shoulder slammed into Luke's chest, the impact knocking them both off their feet and sending them crashing into the dust.

I froze for half a second, horror pinning me in place before I found my voice. Someone is going to get seriously injured. The thought sparked me into action.

"Kain!" I shouted, my voice loud, cracking with urgency as I ran towards them. But my warning didn’t register. Kain, lost in a red haze, swung a wild punch. Luke managed to dodge, but the fist clipped the air close enough to send a rush of wind past his face. Kain's knuckle struck the ground instead, blood immediately welling up and beginning to trickle from the split skin. The sight of it—fresh, real—was like a cold hand wrapping around my spine.

I lunged forward, trying to restrain Kain, but he was quick—too quick. Anger, adrenaline and sheer desperation gave him an edge I couldn't counter. He grabbed Luke by the foot and began dragging him with a single-minded intensity, as though the weight of his fury could carry them both through the dust.

"Both of you, stop it now!" I commanded, my voice sharper, more forceful—an edge of desperation clinging to the words. But they kept going. My shout became background noise to the raw, chaotic scene unfolding in front of me.

Then it happened.

In his rage-fuelled effort to get at Luke again, Kain’s elbow lashed out—and struck me. The blow landed hard against my jaw. A sharp, jarring pain shot through my face, and for a moment everything spun. I staggered back, stunned. It wasn’t deliberate—I knew that. But it didn’t matter. The pain bloomed quickly, hot and throbbing.

Luke, seeing his chance, pushed back.

Kain hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. The struggle paused—not ended, but suspended in that fragile, breathless moment. Luke loomed over him, tense, ready.

"Luke, don't," I said, my voice cracking with the weight of command and pain. My hand rose instinctively—half warning, half appeal. The ache in my jaw radiated outward, fuelling the urgency in my tone. "Don't."

Luke hesitated. The dust around them swirled in the wake of their scuffle. And then, silence.

Kain lay on his back, chest heaving. The fury that had driven him moments earlier had drained, leaving something rawer in its place—fear. His eyes searched Luke’s face with haunted intensity. He looked younger in that moment. Vulnerable.

Luke’s posture eased, and slowly, almost cautiously, he extended a hand. Not as a victor, not as an appeaser. As an equal. An offering. A bridge.

I held my breath, the moment poised like a blade.

And then Kain reached out and clasped Luke’s hand.

Luke helped him to his feet, the gesture quiet but monumental. My breath escaped me all at once, the rush loud in my ears. Relief flooded through my chest in a heavy wave. The dust settled slowly around us, like the remnants of a storm finally spent.

It wasn’t resolution. Not yet. But it was something.

A start.

Turning my attention back to my own discomfort, I couldn't help but quip about the lack of medical supplies, "I'm assuming we don't have any ice either?" The question, though rhetorical, came out with a dry edge, more grimace than humour, and it laid bare the truth of our situation—no clinic, no freezer, no ready comforts. Just dust, gauze, and determination. Luke's response, a quiet confirmation with the faintest trace of sympathy, made it official. I’d be nursing this jaw the old-fashioned way.

My jaw is going to swell up nicely, I thought ruefully, already anticipating the ache that would settle deeper with each hour. The prospect of treating myself without the most basic of tools felt like a cruel irony. A doctor without supplies, in a place where injuries might soon become common.

Kain’s voice broke through the internal noise.

"I'm sorry," he said, his head bowed, shoulders drawn in. His gaze didn’t rise to meet mine—didn’t try to deflect or excuse. There was a sincerity in his tone, a disarming vulnerability that softened the residual tension coiled in my chest. The fire that had driven his earlier outburst had burned down to embers now, and what remained was regret.

I winced slightly as I tried for a smile, a sharp throb radiating across my face in protest. Still, I extended my hand. The pain didn’t matter, not in that moment. What mattered was the gesture—the choice to move forward. To mend what had broken before it became something worse.

His grip was steady. Firm. A handshake that said more than words: he wasn’t proud of what had happened, but he was willing to earn back the trust.

"I'm the camp's doctor," I said as I released his hand, taking a small step back. The declaration held weight—not just for Kain’s benefit, but for my own. I needed to remind myself of the role I had taken up. The one person who could tend to wounds in a place where mistakes cost more dearly.

"And I'm..." Kain began, but faltered. His hand rose to his forehead, fingers brushing through his fringe with a distracted kind of uncertainty. The pause lingered, his expression clouded with something I couldn’t quite place—confusion, maybe. Or disbelief. Perhaps he, like the rest of us, was still grappling with the surreal nature of where he was, and what that meant.

I studied him carefully. There was more to Kain than what we’d seen in the brief, bruising chaos of the last ten minutes. That much was already evident. But what exactly had Luke seen in him that prompted this uninvited conscription into Clivilius?

The answer came, unsurprisingly, from Luke himself.

"And you're our new construction expert," he interjected with a grin, the kind that tried to ease tension by sheer force of charm. The sudden announcement was like tossing a pebble into still water—unexpected, and bound to ripple.

My brows lifted slightly, not in doubt but in silent recalibration. Construction expert? I turned the words over in my head, considering the implications. It was a critical role. And from what I’d already observed of Kain—his physique, his quick reaction time, the force he’d wielded earlier—it wasn’t difficult to imagine him working with tools, lifting timber, driving stakes into the ground. He certainly had the frame for it.

I nodded, slowly. The image of Kain hauling materials and erecting shelters began to take shape in my mind, fitting into the expanding patchwork of our settlement. There was something promising in it, even if the morning’s drama still echoed faintly in the air between us.

He looked young. Early twenties, if that. Yet already he was being handed one of the most critical responsibilities of our survival. My initial impressions were being steadily rewritten. Whatever he'd done in his old life, however rough the start he'd had here, perhaps Clivilius would give him the chance to become something more.

Something needed.

Someone necessary.

The sudden, faint sound of a bark slicing through the air was unexpected, but what followed sent a jolt of alarm through me. Paul's loud cry for help echoed across the distance, piercing the relative calm of the moment and instantly transforming it into a scenario fraught with urgency. The bark—was it Duke or Henri?—had barely faded when Paul's voice tore through the silence like a flare, igniting dread in my chest.

Luke's reaction was immediate; the shift in his expression from one of casual engagement to grave concern was palpable. "Something's wrong," he voiced the dread that had already taken root in my mind. His tone was clipped, urgent—his body already in motion.

He didn’t hesitate. One sharp look in the direction of the cry and he was running, all thought of conversation or context abandoned. The dust billowed up in his wake, dry tendrils curling in the air like smoke. His reaction told me everything I needed to know: this wasn’t a false alarm. This was real.

My own heart matched Luke’s pace, pounding with a mix of fear and adrenaline as I hurried to keep up with him. The loose earth shifted beneath my boots, the rhythm of my breath shortening as I pushed forward, legs protesting but mind locked in focus. This wasn’t a jog—it was a sprint into the unknown.

The distance between the Portal and camp seemed to stretch unnaturally, every second lengthened by the sharp sting of anticipation. I could feel the pressure mounting with every step, the dry air burning my throat, my thoughts already racing ahead. What’s happened? I had seen Paul only moments ago—tired, dusty, but fine.

Now he was calling for help.

My mind flicked rapidly through possibilities. Had he fallen? Had Jamie returned in distress? Had someone—or something—entered the camp? As the camp’s doctor, I braced myself for the possibility of injury or worse. I mentally reviewed what supplies I still had on hand, calculating how fast I could reach the storage tent, whether I could stabilise someone on-site if necessary.

The calm we’d so briefly known was gone, shattered by a cry that echoed still in my ears.

And somewhere in that echo, a silent prayer formed: Please let it be something we can fix.