He's inside a cocoon of chatter, yet he doesn't participate. His leafy eyes bounce from one paper to another in rapid bursts. In his left hand, there's curly Inklish scattered between multiple choice answers. In his right, it's his rushed scrawl getting more horizontal as the questions neared their end. There's a shockingly small amount of similarity in their submissions. Less enthusiastic about comparing answers, Olive passes the question and draft sheets back to Tilly, a lively trout. Her webbed hand fits them in her handbag in one motion, then goes for the pint glass in front of her. Her slate scales reflect the strong sun rays in pink and yellow spectrums, and mirror the golden glow of her drink.

Tilly brings the pint glass up for a toast, her gills expanding for her cheer. "Bottoms up!"

"Another year down," Mora, the sturgeon sitting next to her, adds to it. Before she reciprocates, her long snout's whiskers wiggle at her drink's spewing effervescence.

The only other inkfish at the table is Tavi, his cheeks rosy and warm thanks to the two empty glasses. His flattened blue-grey tentacles have been losing their brushed-back styling with each sip.

"Uh, I got nothing to cheer with," he grins at them all.

"Go get yourself another round, dumbass," Mora dismisses him. Her rugged way of speech fits her sturdy scales, which run across the back of her hands, head and neck in light beige tones. Their distinct diamond shape catches the eye, unlike the understated tan of the rest of her scales.

"I can see someone that could use another!" Tavi gives a soft elbow towards Olive's arm.

"I just got everyone a round," Olive's eyebrows lower, though he's used to the temperaments at the table.

Tilly doesn't bring her glass down. "Oh well! You'll get your chance next time, Tavi."

"Yeah, and you're paying next round," Mora taps the edge of her glass to the other.

With a light chuckle, yet without brushing off the worries from earlier, Olive completes the toast with his shorter glass.

They take a symbolic swig. The one-two punch of the piercing lime juice and the gin's botanicals halts Olive's thoughts for a moment. An ice-cold beer would've slid down with more ease in this weather. Case in point, Tilly's mouth lets a satisfying sigh escape through it, just as the draught's foam makes its way off her upper snout.

The bar closest to their campus is at its capacity. All the tables outside are taken by the Botany department, seeking escape after their very last exam. In lieu of the air conditioned interior, they invite any soft breeze that passes along their table, and pray that the shade will not shift much from under the terrace's umbrella.

"Now that we're done cramming, we could go do something fun," Tilly proposes. "Do any of you already have plans for the break?"

"Not really," Mora says.

Tavi also shakes his head. However, something quickly springs to mind. "Did you guys see that huge announcement on Inkopolis News last week? There'll be another Splatfest."

"...Another?" Olive's expression is an odd one for the group. Instead of excitement, his worry is permanently etched in his brows at the sound of festivities.

"Yeah, they didn't space this one out," Mora nods.

Tavi casually stretches his arms above while he talks. "It sounds like it's a big deal. It's already got drama."

"Oh, they just do it for showbiz," Tilly does a snarky flick of the wrist.

"I know, right." Mora's question marks will always be flat. "They're overdoing the smack-talk lately."

Tilly nods. "Everybody knows they're cool off-air. No way they actually have a grudge."

Olive is even more puzzled with every addition. He completely missed any announcements. With his head deep into revision and bottles, nothing else could enter his perimeter.

"What's the theme again?" Olive plays catch-up without making it obvious.

"Callie versus Marie," Tavi says.

"They're pitting us against the Squid Sisters, so that fax is probably running out of ideas," Mora places her chin on her fist.

"Oh..." he sits deeper into the chair.

"We're all grabbing Callie shirts and wristbands after this, right y’all?" Tilly lets in one breath.

Mora clears her throat. "I wasn't thinking of participating. But... if I had to, I'd rather choose Marie."

"Don't split our party into two teams! I don't want any rough feelings after the results," Tilly pouts.

Mora's peppercorn pupils do a lap. "Who cares..."

"We're a hashtag gang," Tavi does a bizarre hand sign.

Tilly brings her hands together in a plea. "It'll have to be Callie, Mora. You'll lose popularity anyway. Don't you want to be on the winning side?"

She scans the table, before crossing her legs. "Don't be rash. Olive hasn't expressed his choice yet."

Tavi laughs after glancing at Olive, who's unnaturally rigid in pose. "Don't say you can't choose. Are you secretly a Marie guy?"

"What?" Tilly's high pitch rings sharper. "Olive's obviously a Callie fan."

His eyes can't settle on one of them. "I haven't..."

"Okay, fine," Tilly forcefully crosses her arms. "Go have your own sad party. You should've said something earlier, Olive..."

"Hm. What if he's playing mind games. He's on Callie's side, but he's embarrassed about it." For some reason, Mora sabotages the group's equal split.

"I'm... whatever," he quickly gives up the fight, he can only make it worse. "I won't be able to join this one either way."

"Aww!" Tilly whines. "Don't tell me you're busy for the biggest weekend of the year?"

He uncomfortably taps his finger on the side of his glass. Mentioning his bartending nights doesn't fit right in this moment. He hasn't brought it up to them yet. He'll leave it to them to figure it out, yet his recent demeanour betrays some of its aspects. They've already had a friendly snide about his drink earlier, something he had to awkwardly describe by measure to the freshman bartender.

"...I won't be in Inkadia." His finger does one lap of the glass' edge, staying aloof in hopes that they drop the subject. Last thing he wants is for them to show up in the thick of the service, expecting freebies.

"Ooh, where are you going? Travelling?"

"Yeah... With my partner. We're still deciding where to." Though it's already decided. Ten Eelskin Street's basement, all day, all night.

"Ah! Speaking of!" Tilly's rainbow fins frill. "Have I shown you where I went with my boyfriend last month? No? Okay!"

With no one's obvious consent, her glittery clamshell's screen is now flicking between dozens of pictures of her and a pike, found in front of tourist traps. Most of the pictures have minor differences, consisting in twitch movements and angle changes.

"What was he, a Libra," Mora's bottom lip peeks out from under her snout. She brings her straw closer to it.

"A Leo," Tilly's got the image of the extinct creature in the sky transposed onto him already.

Tilly and Mora's friendship is as unlikely as it comes, though this is what often gels it together. The few things that could capture Mora's attention include the occult and pseudosciences. A variety of healing crystals cut into orbs form the many bracelets and earrings on her. An ornate star chart is on her black tank top. They spend hours psychoanalysing the people around them on astral suggestions.

The target is often Tilly's current romantic interest. Tilly can't ever resist externalising her infatuation, and dissecting each aspect of it. "I'm the luckiest girl with him. He'd do anything for me. Oh, he was just telling me, he's pulling a lot of strings to get me into his company next year."

"Doesn't he do somethin’ super boring, like insurance?" Tavi's merging some words together.

"That's where the dough is," Mora finally sips from her straw. "Unlike here."

Tavi raises his thick brows. "Yeah, I always thought it's weird how Tilly picked this degree. I thought you were a socialite or something in our first year."

"I'm studying botany because it's noble to dedicate yourself to science," Tilly pitches her chin slightly upwards.

Mora's lids lower over her yellow sclera. "Dedicate... You have to stick to botany, if you want that noble bit to happen."

Her fins perk in astonishment. "Have you seen what they pay for research!? It can't sustain my lifestyle!"

"That's why you sell your soul to some huge nursery, and scam people, just 'cause a leaf has a white dot of variegation on it," Mora smirks.

"Ugh, you sellouts. Can we change the subject?" Tavi tries, yet it doesn't budge the two.

Olive's been phasing in and out of the conversation since recomputing his chances of passing this year. It will hinge on this final exam, and cross-checking answers left him less certain of the outcome. If he weren't a martyr to Mimosa for Rodi's sake, he'd be worrying less about minuscule percentage differences. He agonises over his unwise nonchalance for academia, while Tilly harps about her boyfriend in the background.

"There's no better working arrangement than this. They call it a power couple for a reason," Tilly winks.

His head does a slight lift off his supporting hand. This statement finally caught Olive's attention. He speaks without waiting for a pocket of silence.

"Do you really think you'll work that well with your partner?"

Tilly's jaw hangs slightly from the rather stony reply. Regardless, she sits as tall as she can in the chair, grey pupils affixed on Olive's stance. His left hand keeps supporting his cheek, the right trailed to the glass' base. The way his cheek stretches against his hand creates a scheming smirk.

"I can't see how I wouldn't."

"You're new to this domain. I haven't heard you talk about it before you met him. Don't make him handhold you all day." Surprising for everyone, Olive doesn't stammer his sass.

"Oh, gosh forbid I make a fool of myself in front of my boo. I'll be as prepared as ever."

"You think so?"

"I've got a plan drafted for the first 3 months on the job."

"Of course," Tavi digs his fingers between his tentacles, burying his face in shame.

"Never change, Tilly," Mora's monotone interjection is met with a half-hearted lift of her glass. “Got a study guide as well?”

Tilly's gills flutter. "Of course. I'm just getting warmed up for this. Spoilers, but I'll be your Botany Club treasurer starting from next year!"

"Whoa," Tavi raises his voice. "When were the club elections?"

"There weren't any," she beams. "Nobody else took up the position."

"We're still given an option to re-elect the role if there's only one candidate," Mora mutters.

"Are-... Are you saying you wouldn't vote for me ?!" Tilly's eyes rapidly blink as she grabs her friend, rattling her out of these cruel thoughts.

"It's the standard process," she groans and stiffens, so she stops swaying from Tilly's pushing.

The subject didn't last long. Olive finds this a good moment to briefly extract himself. He gets up, picks everyone's now empty glasses, and brings them to the bar inside. He lays them neatly on the counter. A waitress catches this small gesture, and thanks him as she takes them to the kitchen.

Photos of alumni and professors adorn the wall behind the bar. Although the part-timers change more often than the semesters do, the student bar maintains its identity, the spirit of U of I. There's all the beloved staples lined on the back bar, all the low tier poisons students use to forget and celebrate the academic year's events. After this week, the place will be in near hibernation as everyone takes their summer break, and the battlers flock for the Plaza.

Olive returns with a round for everyone, managing to carry four glasses without breaking a sweat. In the meantime, the other two have been grilling Tilly about the club's budgeting, before she even holds the title. It's a ping-pong match of ideas.

Tavi is gesturing with his fingers splayed. "Can we finally get some cool merch? Socks with our club's logo, that would be kick-ass."

"Maybe throw some complementary stationery in there too," Mora mutters.

"Or, how about vouchers for takeaway?"

"More career fairs."

Tavi races her, climbing towards the final word. "Free entry for the Inkopolitan Botanical Gardens!"

"Something outside the Botanical Gardens, for once," she side-eyes Tavi. "Inkadia's big."

Tilly's half-shut lids raise. "Hm!"

Tavi's competitive burst fades. "Oh, right, they haven't announced the field trip locations for next year?"

"I don't think we'll be having any trips in third year," Tilly adds. "There's a bigger focus on laboratory work."

He looks as if he lost a turf match. "Bummer."

Mora rearranges the straps of her tank. "It wouldn't hurt having a day outside the labs, it'll be better for the practicals."

Tavi nods. "We haven't flexed our identification muscle enough."

"Yep, I don't mind the idea, guys. So, maybe somewhere out of the city... Got any specific locations?" Tilly tilts her head.

The ideas suddenly run dry. Mora pulls on her whisker, Tavi scratches his nose until he ends up picking it.

"...How about Bluefin Island?" Olive's voice lays featherweight on the background hum.

"Ohh, that new ferry service," Tilly immediately connects.

"Isn't that the abandoned island? It could be awesome to see an isolated ecosystem," Tavi says.

"There are also some non-native species introduced while it was inhabited. We can see how they affected the environment in this small time frame," Mora adds.

Tavi does a quick search on his phone. "Check it. The ferry tickets are dirt cheap too."

Olive's doesn’t spur such an enthusiastic reaction too often. He smiles to himself, lips curling against the edge of his glass.

Tilly nods. "Alright, alright. I'll bring it up in the first club meeting. ...And the other stuff as well."

He couldn't be more satisfied about the outcome. With a proud smile, his arm lifts to drape over the chair's backrest, turning him slightly sideways to the table.

"By the way, how did the idea come up, Olive?" Tilly tilts her head. "Is there something special about Bluefin?"

His resting hand takes a grip of the chair.

The overgrowth calls. The domestic structures have turned feral. The breeze whispers between rust and leaves. Secrets are weaved in the root systems.

"Ah, it's just my recency bias," Olive uncurls his fingers and waves his hand just from the wrist. "It's been very clear days over the sea, don't you think? It's easy to spot the island lately."

"Really?" Tavi expels. He gets up, scouts for the horizon, then climbs his chair for a better view.

"Not here! Past the bay, dumbass!" Mora pulls on his lower leg immediately, trying to drag him down before they make a scene. One of Tavi's knees drops to the seat, the other hovers as Mora pulls harder.

Tilly covers her chuckle with her wrist's fin. "Okay guys, I'll definitely look into group fares for Bluefin Island. Should we do September?"

"Yes!" Tavi and Mora look at Tilly, suspended in their ridiculous pose.

Olive remembers to nod, then rakes his tentacles with his fingers. That's fine, his blank smile suggests. That is, if he makes it to September in one piece. It wouldn't be the first time his life would trial him throughout the summer. Long nights await.

Fine dust specks make spirals in the basement's air. The palm fronds and larger leaves sway from one side to another. There's a come and go in one person's path, large steps spearheaded by stacked plastic crates. Bottles jingle, produce boxes creek under their weight.

Mimosa is wrapped in her daytime outfit, pure white lighting, getting ready for a fresh weekend ahead. The pomegranate inkling flips sheets of paper repeatedly, leaning his hip on the bar's counter. A silver trevally does the rounds between the entrance and the storage, handling the restocking for him.

Isandro in the role of the director, though it doesn’t sit right. He's holding pieces of paper with such importance, bossing someone who does the busy work from his first months of barbacking. He shifts the weight in his legs too often, unsure what the appropriate posture is. He reads some of the written down liquor names in his mind, without knowing how to spell them from the top of his head.

Breaking his walking pattern, the trevally sits on the bar stool next to Rodi. He's double the inkling's size, his forehead and chin slope without any breaks towards his broad shoulders. His tall, slender caudal fin poking out of his jeans has a steady sway. He drinks the last drop of his opened beer. He's jutting out his tongue to catch it, his small and numerous teeth gleaming in the light. Rodi raises his eyes off the papers.

"Got everything from upstairs?"

"There's two crates left," the trevally answers, repressing a burp.

"Then what are you waitin’ for?" Rodi's right upper fang shows up in his leer.

No reply follows. Rodi loosely crosses his arms, watching as the fish gets off the stool, somewhat indifferent about finishing his job. By the stairs, he wipes the corner of his jaw with his varsity jacket's sleeve.

In all fairness, Rodi used to have moments like these in his early days, though he knew when to hide his apathy for menial tasks, lest Beryl scolded his ear off. What some responsibility can make of a man... He tut-tuts and resumes crossing his boxes. The inventory's looking healthy for a Friday, the supplies are in the right places, and he's running ahead with the opening duties. Listening to her isn't such a tragedy, it seems.

Though if he were to fully conform to Barresi’s principles, he'd only prove how obtuse he can become through his impulsivity. It's true, there's only so much he can do with his experience and timeframe. Turning Mimosa into an established name isn't a matter of weeks, or months. It's a matter of years. If he'd make an effort to set aside his fantasies, he'd know his laurels aren't scheduled to arrive exactly a year after opening the bar. Ending up in the ten percent is just the first step.

But, damn it, a part of him won't deny his chances at it, as slim as they are. He might be too terrified to admit his foolishness, though he's confident enough to get away with it. For him, that's the attitude of someone who goes far. Possibly too far out for their own good. He'll fight tooth and nail for a featured page on TideOut magazine. He wouldn't even consider the precarity of a sudden influx of attention.

The trevally is back with two full crates under his arms, his pectoral fins fluttering on them. Rodi expectantly watches him go through motions as instructed earlier, unloading and taking all of the empty crates back to the street's kerb.

Great. He's doing great. He's so on track. No need to despair. All Rodi needs is to break free from the itches of instant gratification. This is another reason why he started this all, to learn how far his willpower would go for his whims.

While doing a last pass of a list that seems to shuffle itself after each read, Rodi calls out the bottle names yet to be crossed. His aide fetches the missing ones for him. The workspace gets its last check, the counter gets polished to a mirror shine. Finally, their ice bin is filled to the top with fresh ice, signalling the start of the night.

"Good stuff," Rodi brings his fist in the air.

The other completes the bump. His large fist knocks Rodi’s back. "Anytime, bro."

"See you Monday shift, yeah? I'm not at Treasure over the weekends."

"Gotcha. I'll be in." He stands put, one hand in his jeans’ pocket, the other hovering by his side.

Taking the cue, Rodi counts a few notes out of his wallet, licking his thumb to get a better grip.

Just as the notes get passed, a familiar trample sounds from the outside. Whenever someone enters these premises, the staircase's walls make their steps multiply, amplify. And when there's no music playing, it's hard to keep your eyes off the entrance.

Olive waltzes through the half-open door, picking his earbuds out and wrapping their wire around his palm. It takes a few steps inside to realise there's more than one soul in here. They all stay stuck on a frame.

"Cool, catch you next week," the trevally snaps from it, stuffs his pay in his back pocket, and waves at Rodi with his tail's fins.

Olive's unsure whether to greet or not, though by the time he decides, the other's already passed him. With the papers still under his arm, Rodi shuts the heavy door, leaving them both in comfortable privacy.

"Who's that?" Olive eventually allows himself to ask, pointing back at his trail.

"Eddy. Beryl's newest barback. I nabbed him for the opening and shaved off some time. You know, I actually took her advice, so I've been dropping hints at her bar that we got a free spot in our crew," Rodi returns grinning to his comfort zone, behind the bar.

"That's great..?" Olive mutters, stunned at how his partner has turned a backhanded comment into a case of malicious compliance. He spots the empty beer bottle on the counter, and picks it in his hand. "Is he good?"

"Still trying to figure that one out. But, hey, he's willing. That's leagues better than anyone I tried grabbing." Rodi tosses the inventory list, making it slide partway the counter's length. "How did today go?"

Olive laughs harder than he should, though it passes as quickly as it comes. "I'll tell you in two weeks," he dunks the bottle in the bin.

"Sounds encouraging," Rodi places his elbows on the bar. Olive takes his seat across, placing his backpack over the inventory list.

Face to face, they go for a peck on the lips at the same time. In his reach, Rodi's pearly tie drapes over the counter. Olive feels the tie's satin between his fingers, rubbing the fabric's layers together. Orange oil infused sheer lipstick. The aftertaste of quinine and thyme tonic. They separate, but don't immediately pull back.

"There's a... chance ," Olive gives up on finding an epithet for it, "that I'll need to retake one of the exams."

Rodi blinks, then peels his lower body off the counter's edge. He takes a moment to scratch his temple, to bring the stagnant thought out of it. "Okay. I should have someone hired soon, if you need to dive back into revision."

"Ah, no need to rush. Retakes are in late August. I'll be in for the rest of the summer. And for this short-notice Splatfest, by the way," he jeers. "Have you heard?"

"It's still two weeks to that."

Olive blinks twice. "So you knew about it?!"

"Of course. You didn't?"

"Why didn’t you say anything?"

"The fest announcement was everywhere last week!" Rodi snickers with his hands on his hips. "There's pink and green glow sticks all over the damn city!"

Olive's lips purse, tired of being the laughing stock for this subject.

"It's fine, you've been cramming too hard, babe." Rodi flicks the tentacle tufts in front of Olive's forehead, enjoying their bounce. "If you ask me, you've done good this exam session."

"Yeah..." Olive wipes his face with his palms. "Guess I can return to civilization now."

"Exactly," Rodi points. "Go get changed. It's quarter to."

Olive swaps his floral cotton shirt with his white work T-shirt. He double checks it in the bathroom's sole mirror, ensuring that the fabric's staining got removed in the last wash. It would've been wiser to have a darker top, though this outfit forces him to be neater in his work. It's a testament of skill and control, proof of how he's not as clumsy as he appears. Though there’s still the question of whether he can provide this proof after a busy night.

The lights dim to their moodier atmosphere, the saturated purples and yellows commence creasing the edges of every object in the room. They set up tea lights between the tables and mist the plants in a quick lap. They stand in positions at six sharp.

The first guests get seated. The first pour gets measured. Exchanges are warm, casual. About an hour after the doors have opened, the five round tables and the lounge have filled. The guests are comfortable and happily sipping away. The two get a sense of familiarity from some faces, though they cannot be fully certain about it, as these might've been some of the Night Owls. Not a single face from that night managed to stay imprinted in their memories.

Eventually, two inklings enter, orange and navy blue. They hover with slight hesitation upon seeing there's no free tables. They're whispering a debate between themselves. Just as Rodi readies to porter the two, wiping his tools and hands on a rag, they go straight for the bar seats in front of him. He greets them with a nod and smile and they nod back, a tad hurriedly as they can sense their large equipment falling towards the floor. They catch and balance it on the stools' footrests, double-checking their hold.

"Want me to place those near the entrance?" Rodi peeks over the counter and spots two ink tanks and their weapons.

"Nope, that's fine," she finally gets the folded rollers standing upright. "Is it alright to keep them here?"

"Yeah, no problem. Can I treat you to a post-match celebratory drink, then?" he hands over the menus.

The male inkling grins to himself. "Celebration! That would be nice."

"You can also ask for anything not on the menu, just give a shout," he gets his tools lined on the bar mat.

"Oh, I know what I want," The female inkling with the simple, knee-length tentacle style decides quickly. She points at a rum-based sour drink.

"Make it two," the ponytailed man with short back tentacles places the menu down shortly after. He's not in the mood for decisions, it seems.

Rodi is building both drinks in the same shaker, disregarding the jigger's word of law. He'll free-pour the simpler recipes. He enjoys exchanging a word with the people he is serving, offering them some undivided attention. He'd rather be talking over the silence of a stirred drink, though he can deal with a non-verbal exchange over shaking ice just as well. He tests the weight of the shaker, before throwing it in the air, letting it flip in its fall to his other hand. He can't keep his conceited grin to himself when he lands it. The two seem surprised, and do a little clap as Rodi repeats the juggle. He hears a small snort on his left, his man acquainted with such theatricals.

Served. The two glasses get pushed forwards. She takes a sip from her glass, closing her eyes and nodding in delight. Her friend follows, going through a similar reaction.

Isandro asks about their heavy equipment, and learns they've just finished servicing their Dynamo Rollers and ink tanks for some recent Squidforce-mandated modifications. Without these, they wouldn't be able to use them in competitive battling. It's not the first time Squidforce imposes sanctions on weapons that don't adhere to their standards.

Rodi settles on his forearms, carrying the conversation further. "Interesting! Isn't it weird how a clothing brand got so deep into this organisational stuff?"

"It's way more than clothes," the male inkling across from him laughs. "They got huge team sponsorships, collaborations with major weapon manufacturers, they basically own the scene."

His teammate crosses her arms. "Man, this whale of a corporation is taking over our sport. You can really feel the culture shifting. You can't even have a quick match behind the block anymore. They'll derank you for the rest of the season if they find you off the approved battlegrounds."

"Wouldn't want to lose that extra little landowner cash," her friend snides.

"Naturally," Rodi laughs the same, the sarcasm is right at home.

"It sucks! Old-school battlers like us got the short end of the stick, the competitive leagues won't take us seriously anymore. I've had this bad boy since I could first shift between basal and upright," she lifts her roller slightly, a custom golden paint job applied to the motor's components, which got scraped in some parts. Even when emptied of ink, the roller's weight brings out the breadth of the inkling's arm muscles.

"Oh, gorgeous," Rodi tilts his head while admiring it.

"Now, hear this, they dare tell me that its motor has been giving me an unfair advantage. ...So? Git gud!" She screams it as she takes a hearty laugh, her friend joining as well.

"Who are they fooling? It's not our fault they can’t play. And all this new gear is plastic crap! I don’t care if it’s subsidised. Why would I waste my time on that?"

"Oh my god, remember when that dude's Splatterscope snapped in half mid-match?" she turns to him, grazing his shoulder with her hand. "It was hilarious, the poor guy got drenched by the reservoir," she can't contain her laughter.

The blue inkling slaps his thigh. "Oh, that! That cost him his rank!"

They go on and reference moments only they two could understand, shared stories that blend the comic and tragic. Their gesturing grows larger with each reply. Noticing their empty glasses at one point, Rodi picks them up, leaving the square napkins underneath them behind. With just his eyes, he catches the blue inkling's gaze, and has him nod for the next round.

"Hah. Wait until the tabloids catch on this," Rodi adds his thinkpiece in between. "They'll write something exclusive like: This is how Squidforce saves face for their shitty sponsored teams – they make the challengers use worse weapons !"

The man lets a proper chuckle, which fades into a stunned realisation. "Actually... That would kinda make sense."

"For real?" The orange inkling places her hand on the counter, leaning closer to the bartender.

"...Well," Rodi skips a breath, then dips his head deeper into his workstation. "I'm taking a guess. Maybe I heard it from someone before," he carves a long, curly peel off a lemon. "You know, there's a lot of rumours that end up on these ears," his carmine eyes flick to the two.

As if transfixed, with their lips sealed, the two watch Rodi create another round for them, albeit with less show-off. He pushes the drinks forwards, choosing to look at his hand, not their faces.

"I wouldn't worry much about it, though," Rodi undoes the tension. "We have a friend that's freelancing for other teams, and she manages just fine without Squidforce."

"Oof, if you're a freelancer, you're never getting any recognition. You're staying the support act," the blue inkling draws out.

The orange inkling nods. "Also, finding unsponsored teams is getting impossible. Now I'm tempted to say fuck it and just sign the sponsorship. It’s our only chance at progressing."

"And give them a cut of our tourney prizes?" The blue inkling's eyes grow wide.

"What's the cut these days?" Rodi asks.

"Half," they say at the same time.

"Yikes," Rodi winces, yet that is still better than his split with Beryl. "I'm sure you can still rise the ranks without the sponsorship. It's doable if you're really good, and you guys look like pros."

"I don't know about that anymore," she takes a large swig, then places her head between her hands. "It changed too much. I think we'll have to accept it won't be like before and start adapting. Dammit. They made it into a huge advert, like everything in this city."

"Yeah,” the blue inkling sighs out. “The big names got bought out. And the rest don't earn as much just from unofficial matches."

"Hey, chin up. You'll work it out, then come back here to tell me how you stuck it up to them," Rodi sneaks a wink for both at the end.

Hums of mild approval sound from the two. Pleasantries. They sip at the same time, without onomatopoeia of praise. The man finishes his glass in one go, opting to swivel the ice in it for lack of a better thing to do, while his teammate finishes hers.

Instead of enjoying lifted spirits, the two are left detached, delving more into the disappointment of how their careers turned. Fickle regulations, baffling criteria, a recognition system that doesn't care for their actual skills.

"Thanks," they place the tanks on their backs, and get a strong grip on the rollers, before carrying them back to street level.

They've left enough of a tip to round up their bill to the next note, which wasn’t far off. That's a sign they're not coming back. Feeling he’s done enough clientele rapport for tonight, Rodi steps in the back bar’s shade. He gets himself a bottle of water from the fridges below, to swallow down any trace of embarrassment.

It doesn't add up. However he tries approaching their situation, he can't arrive at their same conclusions. It comes across as defeatist, a wasted opportunity to prove themselves and the world otherwise. It's slightly maddening. Their reasoning is sensible, you wouldn't want to fight it if you’re unlikely to win it, though isn't that the whole ethos of the sport? Turning the tides until the very last second? Now or never ? How would you know it’s impossible if you don't fight to the end? Where is that point where you drop the objective and keep your strength for the next match?

Olive takes a look over his right shoulder. He spots a Rodi chewing at his manicure, fervently tapping his foot on the off-beat. His senses flare up.

"What's up?" Olive takes distance from the worktop.

"...Nothing," Rodi snaps out of it and picks the first task in his reach. A little mound of shakers and strainers is in the sink. He clears it out, one tin at the time.

"Did anything bad happen at Treasure today?"

"No."

Olive won't let it slide, he sees Rodi's grip on the shakers firm, their placement rushed. "Is it something to do with poaching Beryl's staff?"

"Ha, no," Rodi can finally look back at his partner. "It's not like I can get more than the bottom of the barrel. She wouldn't bat an eye, even if she knew."

Silently watching him rinsing his tools, just as he'd watch him wash the dishes at home, Olive fixates on his hands. They slow their frantic pace, as Rodi's unvoiced thoughts invade his mindspace.

"You know, it would've been so much easier to sling rum and cokes every night. It's mindless and it pays better," Rodi snides.

"What? You can't be serious. You'd get bored in ten minutes at that sort of place," Olive's mask wrinkles in his smirk. "I've never known you for settling on the easy way."

"But, why? Why do I love making it so damn difficult for myself?" he shakes his hands in exasperation, large water droplets flinging on their clean glassware under the counter. "I finally made it, but some shit in me says it wants more . I should be happy we’re comfortably running this thing, but, no! Hang the bait on the lure for me, will ya? How does someone end up thinking like this? Isn't it against all logic?"

"I don't know. ...It depends? I guess ambitious people like you need the challenge.”

“Uh, duh, rise and grind, aim for the top, whatever. It’s not just that,” covers of his dodgy entrepreneurial books flash behind his eyes. “I don’t understand where these wants are coming from. Like... Why ?!” he groans, curling like a shrimp and bringing his hands to his temples. He walks circles in their small space.

Between the grunts of frustration, Olive slips a peek past the bar, making sure nobody will need them during the existential crisis. "Um. I can make a tangent about botany, if you want."

Rodi uncurls and nods, his upset brows and lips soften up. They both take two steps backwards, placing their hands on the back bar for support.

"Great. Okay. Think about the competition for resources between different species in an environment. If you look at those that have adapted to difficult conditions, the noteworthy ones excel in a multitude of functions and can find a very stable fit, regardless of resource scarcity. That's what usually makes an invasive species an absolute nightmare, by the way. It plays its strengths better than the native species. You can observe broader environmental tolerance, more efficient water use, better resistance against pests and diseases and faster reproduction in species that adapted to harsher environments. Choosing to thrive in difficult conditions can be an advantage, but the worse it is, there's less of a chance species can develop harmoniously."

"Okay, high risks, high rewards, that's how you get tryhards like me. What about the other species?"

"Well, ecosystem dynamics are a very delicate balance, and will always shift in favour of the outcompeting species. If a, uh, tryhard gets introduced and there's no natural competitors, then the native species can't keep up with it and are depleted of resources. If it's bad enough, the entire ecosystem gets disrupted and the invasive species become more resistant, even to external control methods."

"Damn. So you can theoretically create a motherfucker of a plant if you grow it in a pit in hell? Make it the ultimate invasive species?"

Olive puffs through his nostrils. "That might be an environment too difficult for anything to grow. It's so hostile that everything dies before it has a chance to adapt."

"Though if you give it enough time, it's not impossible, is it?"

"It's still too difficult... but it's theoretically possible if you've got an eternity to waste. Sadly, you'll end up with a plant so freakish that it wouldn't know what to do in any normal environment. So, it's still impossible."

"Even these green guys have the same struggles, huh? Don't have it too easy, or you'll be the first to go when it gets tough. Don't have it too hard, or you won't even make it out."

"Pretty much," Olive slowly nods.

A sigh slips by. Rodi picks the clean ashtray between the glassware, taking a cigarette from the pack next to it in the same motion. Olive notices the gesture, and pulls himself closer to the counter to make way. However, Rodi isn't passing by him.

Instead, Rodi flips the glass ashtray between his fingers, before asking Olive one last thing.

"Am I bad at telling apart what’s difficult and what’s impossible?"

Olive turns his head for a second, noting a raised arm at one of the tables. Before adjusting his apron, he looks back at his partner.

"Tell me how you trace the line between possible and impossible first," the corners of his lips rise.

The answer has Rodi smiling as well, slipping the cigarette between his lips to curb their upturn. He pats Olive's thigh as he gets out of the bar. Anthos lets the contact linger in his mind, as he steels up to take full control of the bar.

Rodi’s already flicking his lighter on the way up the stairs, struggling to get a flame out of it. On the street, he notices little droplets expelling out of the lighter’s wheel, instead of the usual sparks. That’s new. He discovers the joy of working behind a wet bar when your mind and belongings end up scattered everywhere.

He laughs in lighthearted scorn and keeps flicking the lighter wheel, in hopes that the friction will dry it. In the meantime, he paces on the kerb, lifting and placing the Rockenberg soles with intentional, gradual weight. A rhythmic pattern emerges from the lighter, and his steps take on a bit of its beat. His fingernail adds another layer of percussion against the ashtray’s glass. A familiar melody forms into thin air. He wouldn’t know how to describe it, but it’s second nature for him to recognize it.

Before he turns the pace into a strut, he lifts his head. His side swept tentacles fall from his shoulder to his back. The sky is a flat black. A new moon left their streets without a guiding light. The only saving graces are the streetlights.

His red ink shimmers as he comes closer to a streetlight, to study its utter blandness. It’s ubiquitous, yet its absence would be felt. Engineering and craftsmanship have come together to create what essentially is a big stick with a bulb. Though, he’s being reductive about it. Every Inkopolitan district has its own streetlight design, speaking to its culture and style. The high-rise centre is utilitarian, choosing function over form, making them extremely efficient. The North has them dressed in nostalgia, or what some would call obsolescence, an influence stemming from Mt. Nantai in their horizon. The South has ones as varied as its denizens. Eelskin Street’s streetlights in particular have slender poles, ending in geometric light enclosures that taper out from the base, like inverted pudding bowls. Each of their tops has a six-sided spike to continue their shape language, and to keep the pigeons away.

Rodi feels something’s flinging out of the flint’s wheel. At last, it’s sparking again. He places the filter back between his lips and lights the other end. However, he’s not going to rest his back on the building’s wall. He settles the ashtray at his feet, deciding to focus on the odd texturing found on the streetlight’s metal.

It turns out to be many layered stickers, haphazardly stuck on the black pole. Some of them are the usual: infamous graffiti tags done with flat tip markers, cartoonish fish and clams, Firefin and Zekko logos which come complementary with every purchase from them. Though some new designs have been emerging: a growling anglerfish, a beholding mollusc with a single eye, a single white letter in a square crimson background. These take themselves more seriously than the older stickers. He’s got no clue what these symbols represent.

Indeed, there is a wind of change, and it could put a dent in his dreams as it did for the professional battlers. All of this city’s inhabitants should feel it, really. There’s a trepidation in every establishment, a sense that a beginning to an end is congealing. This ethereal essence can become visible in such minutiae. A sticker of stylised renditions of the kitsune and tanuki guardians stands out with its curled corner. Rodi picks at it, and ends up ripping the sticker in half.

With a frown to one side, he bends to pick the ashtray up, and leaves the crumpled remains of the sticker in there. He can’t even behave around a streetlight, he’s got to leave this one some space too. He unceremoniously takes his usual spot by the wall, besides Olive’s soot-stained bricks.

Isandro spends the last drag of his cigarette inspecting the sky, again, for reasons he’s still trying to figure out. Something between a habit and a need. The new moon is offering a shy sliver of itself, something Rodi hadn’t known was there before. His diamantine eyes squint, testing if it’s an optical illusion. The moon isn’t retracting its thin light upon inspection, like hypocrites would. Though, it only offers it upon request.

The white sickle became part of reality only when he decided so. It’s as if a decision, in its unspoken state, is enough to make something real. No wonder there’s nothing he can categorise as “impossible”. He’s too much talk, and if any of his breath shapes into words, his judgement materialises the ideas like actual substance in this world.

He puts out his cigarette, drags his tongue over his fangs, and places the ashtray back between his feet. He better get some ideas materialising out of this smoke break.