Uninvited Variables

“Control is an equation I’ve rehearsed a hundred times—but it only takes one uninvited variable to turn certainty into chaos.”

A solid knock reverberated against the front door, tearing me violently from the fog of sleep. My eyes snapped open, pupils straining in the thick dark, heart thudding with the disjointed rhythm of a man pulled too suddenly from oblivion.

For a moment I didn't know where I was. The disorientation was complete—was I in Clivilius? In the tent? Had something happened to Jamie? The darkness pressed in, offering no answers, only the hammering of my pulse and the lingering echo of that knock.

The girls already? The thought flickered across my mind, brittle and half-formed, colliding with the confusion of waking. Gladys and Beatrix were supposed to come over tonight. Some kind of gathering, a memorial perhaps—the details were tangled in the fog of exhaustion.

My head lolled to one side, taking in the room—or what little I could of it. The light had gone, swallowed by night. A sickening jolt followed.

Where the hell has the day gone!?

Hours had slipped through my fingers whilst I lay sprawled here, oblivious. The notion curdled in my gut, a mix of annoyance and shame. I had closed my eyes for what I thought was a moment, and the world had carried on without me. The afternoon had bled into evening into night, and I'd been here the whole time, useless, unconscious, whilst Jamie lay in a tent in another dimension fighting an infection that could still kill him.

Another knock rang out, sharper this time, more insistent, echoing through the stillness. Whoever it was, they weren't prepared to wait.

A low groan escaped me, half protest, half admission of how heavy my limbs still felt. Weariness clung to me like sodden clothing, pulling me back toward the cushions even as I forced myself upright. The couch had betrayed me, its deceptive comfort a lure I hadn't resisted. Now it seemed like a trap, moulding to my body, trying to keep me pinned, sedated, useless.

I rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my palms, the motion sluggish, almost futile, as though I could scrub the fog of sleep and the weight of Clivilius itself out of me. But the knocking at the door didn't relent, and the unease gnawing at my chest only deepened.

What if it wasn't Gladys? What if the police had traced me somehow—followed the trail from the medical practice, from the supply room, from the chaos I'd left in my wake? What if they were standing on my doorstep right now, ready to arrest me for theft, for assault, for crimes I couldn't even explain without sounding insane?

Reluctantly, I rolled off the couch, the cushions giving way with a sigh as if mocking my defeat. My body protested the sudden shift, joints stiff and sluggish from hours in the same awkward position, and I landed on the floor with a dull thud. The jarring contact shot discomfort up my spine, forcing a hiss between my teeth.

Gladys has her own key, why can't she just let herself in?

I muttered inwardly, annoyance sparking against the haze of fatigue. Irritation mixed with unease—because it wasn't like her. Gladys never knocked when she didn't have to. She was direct, practical, unapologetic. The kind of woman who walked into your house and started pouring herself a glass of wine before you'd finished saying hello. The knock felt... wrong. Out of character.

I hauled myself upright, every movement weighted as though I was dragging invisible chains. The fog of sleep clung to me, slowing my reactions, thickening my thoughts. My hand groped along the familiar wall until it found the first switch.

With a flick, the living room was flooded with light, harsh and sudden. Shadows scattered back into corners, revealing the ordinary contours of my life.

One by one I advanced, clicking the next switch, then the next. The entry light. Then the outside. Each click echoed in the stillness. Pools of light bled outward, exposing more of the house, more of the night beyond. With every switch, my nerves grew tighter, not looser.

The door loomed ahead.

A thin sheen of sweat gathered at the back of my neck as I reached for the locks. My fingers weren't steady—they betrayed me, fumbling, slipping, producing metallic clinks and rattles that sounded unnaturally loud in the hush.

The door swung open wide, the night air spilling in cool and sharp with the scent of eucalyptus, and I found myself staring into a face I hadn't expected.

"Cody, what are you doing here?" The words tumbled out before I could soften them, sharper than I intended. My brows knitted into a frown, the weight of displeasure pressing against my features.

Of all the people who could have been standing on my doorstep—police, neighbours, Gladys, anyone—Cody was among the last I would have predicted. The cryptic man who'd appeared in my driveway, who'd said those unsettling words that still echoed in my memory: We've been waiting for you. The fellow Portal Key holder whose very existence raised more questions than it answered.

His unexpected presence rattled me. Cody was never part of tonight's plan. He was an uninvited variable, and variables always carried risk.

"Gladys invited me to come along," he answered easily, a smile ghosting across his lips, fleeting and uncertain—as if he could sense my reluctance to welcome him.

His invocation of Gladys' name irked me further. Sanctioned by her. Brought here not by my choice, but hers. A ripple of discord stirred through me, tugging at the calm I had hoped to cling to. Gladys meant well—she always did—but her tendency to make decisions that affected everyone without consulting anyone could be maddening.

"Oh," I muttered, the syllable landing flat, a bland acknowledgement that failed to mask my inner tangle of resignation and annoyance. "Come on in," I added, widening the door, the gesture more obligation than hospitality.

Cody stepped past me. He was older than me by ten years or so, his face weathered in ways that spoke of time spent outdoors, his frame still solid despite his age.

"I've brought the whiskey," Cody announced, his tone tinged with pride. From the brown paper bag he produced the bottle like it was an offering—a label I didn't recognise, amber liquid glinting under the entryway light.

The sight jarred me. Too casual. Too abrupt. A ripple of unease travelled through my chest. "Whiskey? What for?" My voice held confusion, edged with apprehension.

"For the farewell," Cody replied evenly, the weight of his words settling thick in the room.

Farewell.

The syllables clung to the air, transforming the space, dragging the night's true purpose into sharp relief. Joel. This was about Joel—the man who'd been murdered, whose death had set so much of this chaos in motion. The gathering tonight wasn't just social; it was a memorial, a ritual of remembrance for someone I hadn't known well enough to mourn properly.

Cody, unbothered by my silence, moved past me into the kitchen. He placed the bottle on the island bench with a solid thud. He moved through my house with a familiarity that unsettled me—as though he'd been here before, or as though he simply assumed welcome in any space he entered.

"I've always toasted a shot of whiskey at memorials," he explained, his voice steady, though not devoid of sincerity.

"Why?" The question slipped out of me.

Cody reached up without hesitation, opening the cupboard above the range hood as though the kitchen belonged to him. His casual movements unsettled me further, underscoring just how at home he seemed in a space that wasn't his. "You know," he said, pausing with a thoughtful look, "I don't have the foggiest idea."

The honesty of his admission was almost disarming, whimsical even, but the ritual's solemnity still hung between us. The lightness of his tone couldn't disguise the undertow: this wasn't just about whiskey, or even tradition. It was about death, about remembrance, about how each of us chose to carry the unbearable weight of loss in a world that kept demanding we carry more.

He was looking in the wrong cupboard, fumbling with mugs and glasses that weren't what he needed.

"They're in the far cupboard, on the top shelf," I told him, my voice carrying that strange blend of resignation and reluctant acceptance of the role he'd claimed in my kitchen.

The top cupboard gave its usual complaint as Cody opened it, the hinges creaking into the silence. He didn't flinch, didn't glance back at me—just carried on with quiet focus, retrieving glass after glass. "Thanks," he murmured, his tone clipped, eyes trained on the task as he set the first two shot glasses down.

"Where are Gladys and Beatrix?" I asked, my voice sharper than I'd meant, curiosity barbed with suspicion. "I'm surprised they didn't come with you."

Cody's body stiffened for the smallest moment, the kind of detail most would miss. He masked it quickly, turning his attention to the whiskey bottle. "I prefer to travel alone," he said evenly. Too evenly. His hands worked at the cap, twisting it off with exaggerated steadiness. His eyes flicked up, only briefly, a glimmer of evasion betraying the calm in his voice. "I'm sure they're not far away."

It wasn't reassurance, not really. If anything, his words sharpened the unease that had been crawling beneath my skin. I prefer to travel alone. What did that mean? Travel by car? Or travel by Portal, slipping between dimensions in ways I was only beginning to understand?

I wanted to press him, but the moment slipped. Cody tipped the bottle, the amber liquid streaming into glass after glass until all four stood brimming. The whiskey caught the overhead light in rich hues of bronze and gold, gleaming like captured firelight. It looked less like celebration and more like mourning.

The kitchen was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the fridge. Four glasses, two men, and a ritual neither of us fully understood but both seemed compelled to see through.

My gaze flicked about the room, confirming what I already knew—we were alone. The shadows held no hidden listeners, only the two of us standing across the bench, the whiskey glinting between us.

"So, you're a Guardian then?" The question came sharper than I intended, blunt, loaded, heavy with everything unsaid between us. It wasn't just curiosity—it was accusation, suspicion, a demand to tear away whatever mask Cody had been wearing since I first encountered him.

He knew about the Portals. He carried a Portal Key. He'd said we've been waiting for you as though I were some kind of prophesied figure, some piece in a larger game I hadn't consented to play. And he'd been watching me, or at least watching my arrival, from shadows I hadn't known existed.

"Here," Cody cut in smoothly, sliding a shot glass across the bench toward me. The glass scraped faintly against the stone.

His timing wasn't accidental; it was a distraction, an invitation to leave the matter untouched for now. He lifted another glass for himself, his eyes giving nothing away, his movements deliberate, steady.

"You're not waiting for the others?" I pressed, my gaze narrowing. If Gladys and Beatrix were meant to be part of this memorial, then where the hell were they?

"It's been a tough week," he said at last, his fingers curling around his glass as though it were more than whiskey he held there. The way he gripped it—tightly, almost protectively—betrayed something softer, something worn down inside him.

He wanted this ritual, needed it, not for tradition but for survival. The past week had ground something out of him too, even if I didn't know the details. Joel's death, perhaps. Or something else entirely—something he wasn't sharing.

"Indeed," I murmured, the word thin as air, barely leaving my lips. My thoughts spun in restless circles. Cody didn't know half of it—the corridors, the officers, Jamie's collapse, Glenda's arrival. The sheer weight of the past few days pressed hard against my chest, and I longed to spill it, to unload the chaos onto someone who might understand.

But I didn't. Not now. Not with so many questions still unanswered about who Cody really was and what he wanted.

Instead, I held his gaze for a beat longer, and the silent recognition of hardship passed between us, unspoken but undeniable. Whatever else divided us, we had both been through something. We were both still standing. That counted for something.

Our glasses met in a faint clink—an oddly fragile sound for such a heavy moment. It was our truce, our reprieve, however brief.

"Oh, Luke," Cody said then, his tone shifting, deepening, carrying with it something far darker than camaraderie. His voice was almost a whisper, but it carried like a bell through the quiet. "You have no idea. This is only the start."

The words lodged in me, cold and unwelcome. They echoed in the silence, each syllable amplifying the tension already coiled in the air, until it pressed down like a weight I could not shake.

This is only the start.

What the hell did that mean? What more was coming? What did he know that I didn't—and why was he parcelling it out in cryptic warnings instead of just telling me?

My pulse quickened, thudding a little too loudly in my ears, a visceral reaction to the weight of Cody's words. They weren't idle. They weren't casual. They carried the heft of warning, and something deeper still—the kind of tone people used when they knew more than they were willing to reveal. A cold unease stirred inside me, a gnawing recognition that this was no passing remark but a harbinger of what lay ahead.

"Well," I managed, forcing my voice into a steadiness I didn't feel, lifting my glass in a gesture that pretended at ease. "Here's to tough weeks." The words fell from my lips like a half-hearted joke, but the undercurrent was clear. It was less a toast and more a fragile bridge, a way of acknowledging what had already been endured—and the harsher storms yet to come.

Cody nodded, his expression serious, matching the mood that had rooted itself in the room. The clink of our glasses rang out, a sound that usually evoked warmth, celebration. Here, it was different. It felt heavier—less cheer, more contract. An agreement, silent but binding, to carry our trials forward.

"Shit," I gasped as the whiskey hit me, the burn fierce and immediate. The liquid scorched its way down my throat, heat blooming in my chest like wildfire spreading through dry scrub. My grip faltered, almost losing the glass in my surprise. "That's some strong liquor," I muttered, my eyes watering slightly as the raw intensity overwhelmed me.

I wasn't much of a whiskey drinker—wine was more my speed, or the occasional gin and tonic on a summer evening. This was something else entirely. This was liquid courage distilled into its most aggressive form.

"But totally worth it," Cody replied, his grin widening, breaking through the solemnity for just a flicker. His casual ease—how naturally he tilted the bottle to refill—spoke volumes. It wasn't bravado. It was ritual. A way of steadying himself for what lay ahead, of borrowing courage from the fire in the glass.

"Totally," I echoed, pushing my glass back across the bench toward him. The motion felt almost ceremonial now, a signal of reluctant camaraderie.

The whiskey—sharp, fiery, unrelenting—had become more than a drink. It was a pact. A symbol of fortitude we both clung to, sealing an unspoken promise that, whatever came, we would brace ourselves.

"Hey," I cut in, my gaze holding on Cody as he carefully tipped the bottle once more. His movements were deliberate, measured, the amber liquid flowing in a steady stream. "You didn't answer my question." My voice was calm enough on the surface, but beneath it ran a vein of genuine curiosity. I needed to know—needed some kind of truth to grasp amidst the haze of evasions.

So, you're a Guardian then? The question I'd asked. The question he'd dodged with whiskey and toasts.

"Oh," Cody said, his grin sharpening into something playful, almost boyish, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. He met my gaze, pausing mid-motion. "Didn't I?" The words had a teasing lilt, a lightness that felt carefully constructed. An artful dodge. Frustrating, yes, but in that moment I couldn't deny the disarming charm of it either.

My lips betrayed me, curving into a smile despite the weight of the question left hanging. There was something about the way those dimples creased his cheeks, something that chipped away at my suspicion even as I told myself not to let it.

I guess no answer is an answer, I mused inwardly. In Clivilius, silence often spoke louder than words, and in Tasmania, it seemed, Cody was no different. His refusal to confirm or deny spoke volumes. Either he didn't trust me enough to admit the truth, or the truth itself was more complicated than a simple yes or no.

"To Guardians!" I declared suddenly, raising my glass, allowing the surge of camaraderie to spill into my voice. The toast wasn't just for him or for me—it was for all of us. For every one of us who bore the weight, who carried the secrets, who stood watch in the shadows between worlds.

If he wouldn't admit it directly, perhaps he'd drink to it. That would be answer enough.

"I'll drink to that," Cody replied, his tone rich with solidarity this time, less playful and more rooted. Our glasses touched with a soft clink, the sound small yet resonant, as though it meant more than either of us was willing to say out loud.

I'll drink to that. Confirmation, wrapped in ritual. He was a Guardian. Whatever else remained mysterious about him, that much was settled.

The whiskey flared against my lips and tongue, burning a fierce trail down my throat. I tilted my head back, surrendering to its heat. It spread through my chest in a slow wave, both a comfort and a sting—a mirror of our lives as Guardians, perhaps. A mirror of everything.

Cody and I were not friends—not yet, perhaps not ever. But we were something. Allies, maybe. Fellow travellers on a road neither of us had chosen.

And as the whiskey settled in my belly, warming me from the inside out, I found myself wondering what else this night would bring. What other revelations waited in the shadows. What other uninvited variables would appear at my door, reshaping the careful equations I'd tried so hard to control.

This is only the start, Cody had said.

I had a feeling he was right.