4338.208 · July 27, 2018 AD
Three-Quarters of a Tank
A single pillow. A set of car keys. And an offer that sounds too good to be true — because in Clivilius, it probably is. When Kain hands over his keys, he's trading the last piece of his old life for the promise of something familiar. When Paul watches the ute bunny-hop through the Portal, he's already calculating what it costs to keep secrets from a man who deserves better. Then the engine roars, and for a few reckless minutes, none of it matters. Just speed, dust, and two men remembering what it feels like to be alive.
The Drop Zone yields its treasures reluctantly — a single pillow wedged between boxes, supplies already coated in dust despite arriving yesterday. Luke appears with an offer that changes everything: give him the keys, and Kain's ute comes through the Portal.
The brothers argue about communication, about responsibilities, about who should know what. When Kain asks if his mother knows where he is, the answer lands like a dropped brick. No one knows. No one can know. The less anyone outside Clivilius understands about its existence, the safer for everyone. It's logical. It's sensible. It tastes like ash in Kain's mouth when he says no, don't bring her here.
Paul watches Kain hand over those keys and sees something he recognises — a man trading pieces of his old life for the promise of something bearable. After Kain climbs into the waiting vehicle, Paul and Luke have their own conversation. Karen and her husband are coming. Cash is running low. Secrets are multiplying faster than anyone can track them.
Then the ute bunny-hops through the Portal like a drunk leaving a pub, and both men collapse into the kind of laughter that hurts. Luke sulks away. The engine roars to life. And suddenly nothing else matters.
The detour is Kain's idea — a sharp turn away from camp, wheels biting dust, speedometer climbing toward something reckless. Paul doesn't argue. The landscape blurs past in shades of fire and earth, the mountains watching from their distant posts, and for a few glorious minutes they're just two men flooring it across alien terrain, howling at a sky that's the wrong shade of blue.
Then the engine dies.
Dust has infiltrated everything — air filter, radiator, every gap and crevice packed solid. The solution is absurd: two grown men leaning over an engine bay, blowing like children clearing dust from a book. It works. Barely. The crawl back to camp teaches them both what this place demands: patience, adaptation, and roads that don't exist yet.
When they finally limp into view, strangers are waiting. And Paul remembers what he forgot to mention.
