"Figured out how it works yet?" Paul’s voice, tinged with a hopefulness I couldn't share, snapped me back to the harsh reality of our situation.

I turned towards him, my frustration boiling over as I lashed out at the inanimate object before me. "This thing is fucking useless!" The words burst from me with a vehemence that felt cathartic, even as they echoed futilely against the desolate expanse. My foot sent a cloud of the omnipresent dust into the air, a physical manifestation of my anger and helplessness.

Paul's hesitation was palpable, a brief moment where the weight of my frustration seemed to give him pause. Yet, he recovered quickly, offering a suggestion that, under different circumstances, I might have dismissed outright. "Why don't you give that a rest for a bit and help me move these boxes?" he proposed, his voice steady. "It might help you to keep your mind and hands busy with something else."

His words hung between us, and I found myself caught in a moment of introspection. The nerve of him, I thought bitterly. Paul, with his ever-present optimism, couldn't possibly understand the depth of my frustration. How dare he presume to know what's best for me? His suggestion felt like a dismissal of the gravity of our situation, an underestimation of the turmoil churning within me.

Yet, as I stood there, my gaze wandering over the desolate landscape that stretched endlessly around us, the silence, the emptiness, the oppressive ubiquity of dust, I was struck by the futility of my anger. Paul's offer, though perhaps naïve, was a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty—a chance to focus on something tangible, however mundane, in the face of our overwhelming predicament.

"Sure," I acquiesced, the word escaping me in a resigned exhale. Accepting Paul's suggestion didn't come easily, but the alternative—standing idle, consumed by anger and despair—offered no solace. Moving the boxes, engaging in a task, any task, seemed a better use of my time than railing against an unresponsive Portal. It was a small concession, a begrudging acknowledgment that, perhaps, Paul's approach—keeping busy, maintaining hope—might offer a temporary reprieve from the helplessness that threatened to engulf me.

As I surveyed the assortment of boxes before us, the larger ones immediately caught my attention with their blue plastic strips—a feeble attempt at reinforcement that did little to disguise their cumbersome nature. They seemed awkwardly shaped and unwieldy, prompting me to opt for a smaller box instead. Wrapped tightly in thick packaging tape, it promised to be more manageable. Yet, as I lifted it, the weight caught me off guard, my biceps straining against the unexpected heft. Who knew a tent had heavy parts, I mused silently, a mix of annoyance and amusement threading through my thoughts. Imagining Luke hauling these boxes around by himself brought a soft chuckle to my lips. The mental image of his struggle was a small, light-hearted reprieve.

As Paul and I worked, a new pile of boxes began to take shape in a flat clearing near the river. The location Paul had chosen, much to my surprise, was actually quite reasonable. The proximity to the water source and the flat terrain made it an ideal spot for setting up whatever semblance of a camp we could manage. Acknowledging this, even silently, felt like a concession on my part—a rare moment of agreement with Paul's judgment. It was a realisation that, despite our differing perspectives and the occasional clash of personalities, Paul's optimism and his knack for finding practical solutions in the face of adversity were assets in our shared struggle to make the best of our situation in Clivilius.

Luke's arrival, with his proclamation of "bearing gifts," momentarily cut through the tension that had settled over Paul and me by the riverbank. His attempt at humour, however, did little to quell the irritation that had been simmering within me. About bloody time, I couldn't help but think, my patience wearing thin after the ordeal with the boxes and the unyielding Portal. "There had better be a knife in that bag of yours," I found myself saying, the frustration evident in my tone. The practical challenges of our situation had quickly overshadowed any initial wonder at finding ourselves in Clivilius, reducing our concerns to the most basic of needs—like opening a box.

Luke's response, "As a matter of fact, there is," accompanied by the gleeful presentation of a large kitchen knife, was a small, yet significant, victory. Relief washed over me as I took in the sight of the knife, a tool so mundane under normal circumstances, now imbued with an almost ridiculous level of importance. When I return to earth, I promised myself, I am definitely going to petition for fewer packaged goods. The thought, half-serious and half-jest, was a mental note on the absurdities we’d already come to face in our current predicament.

"Thank God for that," Paul exclaimed. "We moved all these boxes ready to put the tent up and then realised we couldn't get that blue plastic crap off. I was about to start trying to bite my way through." The image of Paul resorting to teeth against plastic in a desperate bid to make progress brought an involuntary smile to my face.

Luke's presentation of the small toolkit as an additional offering to our survival arsenal drew a chuckle from me. It wasn't so much the gesture itself but the thought of Luke, with his penchant for overlooking the practicalities, deeming this as essential. "Did you check that all the tools were actually in there?" I couldn't resist adding a condescending edge to my question. In my mind, Luke handling tools was akin to a fish trying to climb a tree—futile and slightly amusing to imagine. His technological savvy might have gotten us to Clivilius, but when it came to hands-on practicality, I had my doubts.

"Of course, I did," he retorted, a snap in his voice that suggested my jab had hit a nerve. It was a rare instance of Luke showing irritation, which only piqued my interest further.

"And?" I prodded, barely containing my anticipation for the inevitable confirmation of my assumptions.

"And most of it is in there. Only a few random bits are missing. But I don't know what any of them are anyway, so I doubt they would have been very useful," he admitted with a casual shrug, as if the absence of these "random bits" was inconsequential.

My reaction was automatic, an eye roll that conveyed my sense of vindication without a word needing to be said. I'm right, as usual. Luke's ambitious claims of self-sufficiency in building and repairs had become a running joke between us, primarily because his enthusiasm often outstripped his preparation, leaving a trail of unfinished projects and misplaced tools in his wake.

"Now, why doesn't that surprise me?" Paul’s comment, dripping with sarcasm, was a light jab but one that resonated with a shared history of witnessing Luke's overestimations of his handiwork capabilities.

Despite my earlier criticism of Luke, I found myself jumping to his defence. "Well, it's not like you're any better," I retorted, turning the spotlight back onto Paul. His own attempts at home improvement were a source of much amusement and bewilderment among us. "I've seen the unfortunate state of your latest home construction project. Scrolling through your Facebook is like watching all the 'before' bits from DIY SOS back-to-back." My words, though teasing, were not without a base of truth. Paul's projects, much like Luke's, often started with grand visions that seldom matched the reality of their execution.

"Anyway," Luke began, effectively halting the playful banter, "The two of you had better get to work putting this tent together. We have no idea what the temperature or conditions are like at night here. We'd better be as prepared for the unexpected as possible."

His directive, while sound, left me momentarily taken aback. "We?" I echoed, my incredulity evident as I gestured between Paul and myself. "And what about you? Aren't you going to help us?" The notion of Luke departing on another errand, however well-intentioned, while leaving us to tackle the logistics of our shelter, seemed disproportionately unfair.

Luke's justification, however, held a certain appeal. "I'm going to see if I can get us a couple more tents. I know this one is huge, but I'm sure you'd both appreciate having your own." He had a point. The thought of personal space, even in such dire circumstances, was undeniably comforting. The idea of sharing close quarters with Paul, whom I knew only through sporadic encounters, was far from appealing. Luke's understanding of my preference for solitude, a trait he was well acquainted with, was both a relief and a reminder of the depth of our partnership.

"Good point," Paul conceded. "He's not wrong." His agreement, mirroring my own reluctant acceptance, marked a rare moment of consensus between us. It was an unusual alignment of opinions, given our differing outlooks on life and our current situation.

I found myself shrugging in agreement, a silent concession to the practicality of Luke's plan. My raised eyebrow betrayed my surprise at this unexpected harmony between Paul and me. Did Paul and I just agree on something? The thought, fleeting as it was, highlighted the ways in which Clivilius was already changing us, forcing us to find common ground in the face of adversity. The shared goal of survival, it seemed, had the power to bridge even the most unlikely of divides.

As Luke made to leave, a sudden impulse seized me. "Wait!" I couldn't let him go without at least trying once more to leave this place together. The idea of making another attempt at escape, even with the slim odds, was better than resigning ourselves to waiting for Luke's return. "We may as well see if we can leave with you again," I suggested, turning towards Paul, hoping for his support in this spur-of-the-moment plan.

"Sure! Good idea," Paul responded, though the lack of conviction in his voice was palpable. It was clear that hope was a scarce commodity among us, but the agreement was enough to set us into motion.

With a shared, albeit hesitant, determination, we made our way back to the Portal. The dust beneath our feet seemed to mock our efforts with its omnipresence, a constant reminder of the desolation that surrounded us. Yet, the possibility of leaving, of returning to a world where the ground beneath us wasn't a constant haze of dust, spurred me forward. My desire to return to the familiar comforts of home was a powerful motivator, one that overshadowed the resignation that had begun to take hold.

Then, without any warning or discernible trigger, the Portal sprang to life. It was as if the very air around us vibrated in anticipation before the screen erupted into a dazzling display of colours. Brilliant hues burst forth from its centre, spreading until the whole screen was alive with pulsating light. The sight was mesmerising, a stark contrast to the bleak landscape that had become our prison.

Despite my curiosity, I suppressed the question that bubbled up within me—how had Luke managed to activate the Portal? In that moment, the mechanics of it all seemed inconsequential. The "how" and "why" of the Portal's sudden activation paled in comparison to the singular thought that consumed me: escape. If this spectacle meant a chance to leave Clivilius behind, to avoid ever having to understand its mysteries, then I was more than willing to embrace ignorance.

As I faced the vibrant, pulsating Portal, a sense of desperation took hold. With each hand, I reached out towards the swirling colours, my movements deliberate, fuelled by the faint hope that this time, something would be different. The sensation was like pushing against an unseen force, a barrier that grew stronger with every attempt to breach it. Despite leaning in with all my might, my hands refused to penetrate the brilliant façade of light and colour. It was as if the Portal itself was consciously denying me passage, a gatekeeper to a path I so desperately sought.

Then, cutting through the silence and my futile efforts, came the voice—ominous and chilling in its clarity. Clive sees you, Jamie Greyson. You will never leave Clivilius. The words echoed around me, their finality striking a chord of fear deep within my chest. My face drained of colour as the gravity of the proclamation sunk in. The voice, embodying the will of Clivilius itself, seemed to cement my fate with those few, haunting words.

Surely this isn't true. It can't be, can it!? The thought raced through my mind, a whirlwind of panic and disbelief. The idea that our presence had been noted, named, and bound by this place—by an entity known as Clive—was too much to comprehend. The notion of being trapped here indefinitely, of never seeing home again, was a reality I wasn't prepared to accept. Yet, the voice's declaration left little room for doubt, instilling a deep-seated fear that our attempts to escape might indeed be futile.

In that moment, the vibrant colours of the Portal no longer represented a beacon of hope but a mocking reminder of our imprisonment. The voice, with its ominous message, had transformed the allure of the Portal into a symbol of our captivity. The realisation that Clivilius might be more than just a location—that it might possess a consciousness or will of its own—was both terrifying and bewildering. The implications of being under the watchful gaze of something known as Clive, something capable of denying our departure so definitively, painted a grim picture of our situation. As the weight of the voice's words settled around me, the struggle to find a way home took on a new, more daunting dimension.

As I faced Paul, the weight of my defeat pressing heavily upon me, I couldn't help but feel a desperate urge to see if he might succeed where I had failed. "You try," I said, my voice a mix of hope and resignation, gesturing towards the Portal with a hand that barely concealed my trembling. The defeat wasn't just in my words but in my eyes, a clear signal of the hopelessness that had taken hold.

Paul's hesitation was palpable. He took a cautious step forward, his eyes searching mine for reassurance, for any sign that this might end differently than my own attempts. "Go," I urged him again, my voice firmer this time, though it did little to mask the anxiety that gripped me. Watching him, I was torn between wanting him to succeed, to find his way back to a world we both longed for, and the selfish part of me that recoiled at the thought of being left behind alone.

As Paul approached the Portal at what felt like an agonisingly slow pace, my patience snapped. Acting on impulse, fuelled by a mix of frustration and a desperate need for something, anything, to happen, I stepped forward and gave Paul a forceful shove in the back. My heart raced as he stumbled towards the Portal, his hands reaching out towards the swirling colours that had denied me passage.

For a brief, irrational moment, my eyes lit up with the possibility of change, of escape. But just as quickly as that hope flared, it was extinguished. The Portal, unyielding and indifferent, repelled Paul with the same invisible force that had thwarted me, setting him back on his feet with an abruptness that left us both staring in disbelief.

The tension that had been building finally erupted as I witnessed the tears forming in Paul's eyes. Luke rushed to Paul's side with concern etched across his face. "Are you hurt?" he inquired, looking for tangible injuries that could explain the sudden emotional outburst.

Paul's anger, directed squarely at me, was a palpable force. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he yelled, his voice a mixture of pain and fury. The accusation stung, more so because part of me questioned the same thing. In my mind, the mysterious entity of Clivilius, or Clive, loomed as a potential threat, yet part of me clung to the hope that this place, this situation, wouldn't truly harm us. It was a thin thread of hope, frayed and fragile.

"So, you heard it too?" The words slipped out, a desperate attempt to find common ground in our shared predicament. Paul's silent nod was a confirmation I hadn't realised I needed until that moment.

"Heard what?" Luke's confusion added another layer to the already heavy atmosphere. His question, innocent and concerned, forced me to confront the harsh reality we were all trying to process.

The frustration and helplessness I felt exploded in a moment of raw emotion. "Fucking shit!" I couldn't contain the outburst, my foot lashing out at the dust beneath us in a futile gesture of defiance. The dust kicked up, swirling around us, and I was seized by a coughing fit, a physical manifestation of Clivilius's indifferent response to our turmoil.

Paul's tearful admission cut through the tension. "That we can never leave," he said, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air. "This is it. Forever. I'm going to die here." The defeat in his voice was a mirror to the despair we all felt, a grim acceptance of our seemingly inescapable fate.

Luke's response, a simple "Oh," was painfully inadequate in the face of our collective despair. His eyes, downcast, refused to meet ours, as if the ground beneath us held any answers to the dire situation we found ourselves in.

Anger surged through me like a wildfire, uncontrollable and fierce. My frustration with Luke, with this entire situation, boiled over in a moment of raw fury. "You fucking arsehole!" The words erupted from me, each one laden with the betrayal and fear that had been simmering beneath the surface since our arrival in Clivilius. My feet barely touched the ground as I closed the gap between us, propelled by a need for answers, for accountability. I shoved Luke hard in the chest, the physical manifestation of my anger, demanding, "What in the name of holy-fuck were you thinking? How the hell did you think this was going to go? Did you think we wouldn't find out? Is that it? Did you think you could literally kidnap us and no one would fucking notice!?"

Luke's reaction was immediate, his hands coming up to swat mine away, a defensive gesture that did little to quell my rage. I was beyond reason, beyond the point of calm discussion. The thought of what could have driven Luke to make such a decision, to bring us to this place with what seemed like no way back, fuelled my anger further.

"Hey!" Paul's voice cut through the tension, his hand gripping my arm with surprising strength. His intervention, a desperate plea for sanity, momentarily halted my next move. "Fighting isn't going to help any of us." His words, though logical, were a distant concern compared to the tumultuous mix of betrayal and panic that clouded my judgment.

My reaction to Paul was harsh, fuelled by a cocktail of emotions. The frustration, the fear, the sense of betrayal—all of it came rushing out in a torrent of anger directed not just at Luke, but now at Paul as well. "You're no better than your pathetic excuse for a brother," I accused, the words laced with venom. The shove I gave Paul was more forceful than intended. Watching him stumble and fall, the shock and hurt evident in his expression, a part of me recoiled at my own actions.

Paul's reaction, a mix of disbelief and disappointment, was a mirror to the chaos churning inside me. His head shake, more than words could ever convey, spoke volumes of the rift my outburst had caused.

"Cut it out, Jamie!" Luke's voice sliced through the tension, his scream a desperate plea for sanity. It was the raw edge of fear in his voice that finally penetrated the fog of anger enveloping me. The urgency, the need in that scream, acted as a cold shock to my system, pulling me back from the brink.

In the aftermath of Luke's cry, I found myself frozen, my body tense with adrenaline, my breathing heavy and uneven. The realisation of what I had become, of the anger I had allowed to control me, was sobering. I turned away from Paul's gaze, which held a mixture of firmness and disbelief, a silent testament to the fracture my actions had caused among us.

The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken words and emotions that had driven us to this point. The awkwardness of the moment was palpable, a physical barrier that seemed almost insurmountable. In that silence, the reality of our situation settled heavily upon me. We were lost in an unfamiliar world, dependent on each other for survival, yet here I was, pushing away the very people I needed the most.

As Luke departed into the unknown, the silence that followed him was profound, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, watching as the vibrant colours of the Portal dimmed and dissolved into the air, taking Luke with them. The beauty of the display was lost on me, overshadowed by the gravity of what had just transpired.

A single tear, unbidden and unexpected, broke through my resolve, tracing a path down my cheek. I brushed it away with a mixture of anger and sorrow, my emotions a tumultuous storm. I'll never forgive you for this, Luke! The thought was a venomous whisper in my mind, a vow of resentment for leading us into this situation, for leaving us behind. Yet, even as I entertained thoughts of anger and betrayal, another tear made its escape, a silent testament to the complex web of feelings I was struggling to untangle.

My legs trembled beneath me, not just from the physical confrontation that had taken place but from the onslaught of emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. Anxiety coursed through me, a relentless tide that pulled at the very foundations of my resolve. Amidst the anger, the blame, and the fear, a more pressing question emerged, its weight heavier than any accusation I could level at Luke. But will Luke ever forgive me?