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Macho Side Story #6: Bloodlines of the Second Dimension
Macho and his squad find themselves drifting further into the surreal, monotone realm of the second dimension—where time is unclear, direction is a guess, and home feels like a rumor. During a rare break from their march toward an unseen mine, the squad trades stories about their families, teasing and bonding over memories from the world they left behind. When the conversation turns to Macho, he shuts it down instantly, his past sealed behind his silence. The others, unfazed, joke about what it’d be like to be related to someone as intense as Macho. What follows is a round of laughter and playful mockery, easing the weight of their surroundings. Though Macho remains quiet about his past, his smirk and participation in the banter show that brotherhood can form even in a place without time or color.
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Transcript
Macho Side Story #6: Bloodlines of the Second Dimension
The second dimension stretched around them like a scar in the fabric of reality—black and white, no sky, no sun, no true direction. They didn’t know how long they’d been walking, not really. Could’ve been days, weeks, or just one long breathless moment repeating itself. The mine still loomed somewhere ahead. The extraction zone was far behind. All that was real anymore were the voices of the squad and the rhythm of boots on cracked stone.
They were on downtime—if such a thing existed here. Perched in a line around each other. Harris chewed on a protein bar so old it crumbled like chalk. Griggs picked at his boots. Pritchard stared into the haze of the shifting horizon.
“Harris,” Pritchard said, “you ever talk to your kid since?”
“Hell yeah. Little man drew me a stick figure with a rocket launcher. Said it was me. I hung it in my bunk.”
“You married?”
“Divorced. She got tired of the boots and the sand. Took the dog too.”
“Damn.”
They all laughed.
“Griggs?”
“Three sisters. One of them’s crazy. Like, YouTube conspiracy theory level crazy.”
“That’s just called a sister,” Pritchard muttered.
“Pritchard?”
“My old man runs a pawn shop in Detroit. I call from time to time.”
Then all eyes turned to Macho, who sat silently across from them, knuckles wrapped, helmet on, expression blank. His jaw flexed once. Twice.
“What about you, Macho?” Harris asked. “Got any little Machos running around?”
“Mom? Dad? Siblings?” Pritchard added.
Macho’s eyes didn’t blink. He stared through them. Through the fog. Through the air itself.
“No,” he said, flat.
“None of your business.”
Silence.
Then, Griggs smirked. “Probably for the best. World ain’t ready for two Machos.”
Harris grinned. “Imagine family game night—’pass the mashed potatoes’ turns into hand-to-hand combat.”
“His kid’s first words would be ‘DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!’”
Pritchard leaned in. “Bet his family reunions take place in bunkers with live ammunition.”
Even Macho cracked a half-smile. He picked up a rock, hurled it at Pritchard’s foot.
“Bet your dad pawned your personality before you left Detroit,” he muttered.
Laughter exploded again.
The rest of the down time passed like that—jokes, barbs, and brotherhood forged not by blood, but by proximity and survival. In a world without color or time, laughter was the only currency that still spent.
Macho never brought up his family again.
No one asked.
But that didn’t stop them from treating him like a brother anyway.
Some bonds don’t need explaining.
Especially not in a place where time stands still—and friendship is the only thing that moves forward.
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