Saltwater nips at his face, with every ram against the waves. The ferry blazes ahead, keeping Olive with stiffened knees. He holds a hand on the boat's railing for balance, while his other hand flicks images from yesterday.

On the phone's screen, a closeup of Rodi's face shows up, capturing most of his nose. A soft smile rises from Anthos. The next photo in his gallery is a flute with a light lime drink, garnished with a long cucumber twist resting on it. A few bubbles are gathered around the lip of the glass. Pride swells in his stomach. Rodi did a fine job of Olive's haphazard spec.

Yet, there's apprehension whenever he flicks between the photo of his handwritten recipe, and the photo of the flute. Rodi has been going above and beyond since his attitude about Mimosa shifted, but Olive worries they're biting too much, too early, again.

*

Violet lights and white fluorescence. Fronds tickled their cheeks.

"We're going with these, then?" The pomegranate inkling asked as ten index cards were arranged on the low table, in order of preference.

The two have been hunching over cocktail recipes for hours in the lounge, sinking deeper into the sofa's patina-covered seating.

"Yes. This is the one that hit best with our regulars," Olive placed his finger atop a card. Bamboozler 75.

A cursory grin sprawled. "Have you thought they're just being nice?"

Olive couldn't help his nervous laugh. He had a wide range of reactions from his added wasabi, which laced the base of a Rhone 75. He also replaced the lemon twist for a cucumber slice, to play into the green theme.

"It makes an impression. That's what you need to stand out from your competition, right?"

"Definitely," Rodi got off the couch. He picked the Bamboozler 75 specs and went over them once more. "I'll stick it in the plaque as tonight's special. Save the other cards for tomorrow."

"Just a caveat, these drinks need more tweaking. Leave some orders to me. I need test subjects." With a smirk, Olive got on his feet as well, to prepare for the opening.

But Rodi wasn't following.

"...Competition." Rodi retraced. "Shit. Wait. Forget the menu. When were we supposed to film the video entry?"

"For what?"

"Reefeater's."

"We're still doing that?"

"Honey, did we ever stop?" Rodi checked the agenda on the low table.

"Next week, right...?"

"Close!" Rodi stuck the recipe card between his lips, to flip between the pages faster. "It's this week," he muffled through the card, before taking it out. "Let's film this bitch, get it done before we're neck deep."

"Wait, now? I need some practice takes. We're about to open, so..."

"Don't overthink it. You can do it in one take." Rodi insisted.

Olive hovered around the low table, mustering the guts to get placed in front of a camera again. The back of his neck reddened from the scratching.

"...Erm. Why don't you do it?" He reversed it.

"It's your drink," Rodi shrugged.

"It's your bar," Olive squinted.

Something hasn't sat right with Olive since that. Usually, they were pretty certain whose responsibility it was to do something. Sometimes, they'd even fight over who'd want to do it more. Yet, neither wanted to push for this.

Reefeater's Mixology Master was an intimidating title already, nevertheless the stakes involved. It is an annual showdown between the world's best bartenders, fighting for the fame of their venues and creations. One spot in the competition, even a mere participation, would bring a deluge of people to their business. It was a huge chance they were willing to take.

Neither wanted to fuck it up.

*

A foghorn blares over Olive's recollections. He raises his eyes from his phone towards the wide span of water, as the ferry approaches Bluefin Island.

Something hard slaps behind his calves. Mora's strong sturgeon tail weakens his knees.

"Stop moping," she delivers in her flat way.

Tilly prances behind, her many charms jingling against her handbag. "Yeah! You just got back, and you're already withdrawn!"

Olive hisses as his knees lock back in place. He slides his phone in his back pocket. "...I'm not withdrawn."

"Nah. We're just annoying you," Tavi makes the last appearance of the group.

"If you keep trying to talk to me while I'm taking notes, yeah, I'll be annoyed," Olive lows. He focuses on the sprawling island, using his hand as a shade.

It's a clear day, Bluefin's fogginess is wiped clean by September's gentle winds. Its vegetation is dense, prime for pages of observations.

"We don't have to stay together. We could split," Mora reminds the group.

"I've heard one too many ghost stories about Bluefin," Tilly hooks on Mora's arm. "I'm staying with you."

"Whoa. Ghosts? Who's gonna look for them with me?" Tavi talks over his friends, prompting another tail slap from Mora. With a sore on his thighs, Tavi takes a persuasive step towards Olive.

"I don't have time to mess around," Olive sighs. "I need to get my notes and herbarium in order."

"You barely started third year," Tavi points out.

"Yeah. It's the freest it's going to get."

"You're awfully busy," Tilly notices. "You never said what you were doing over the summer."

Olive leans on his forearms, lowering on the railing, looking away from the others. "I took a new job. It's nothing in the domain, so I don't think you'd care."

"I'd rather hear about yours than whatever Tilly's boyfriend's doing," Mora pushes. Tavi nods. Tilly squawks.

The winds and sprays become gentler as they slow down. The ferry is about to dock. Olive rearranges his shoulder bag's strap in anticipation.

"...I can tell you on the way back," he finally smiles at the group, joining their circle.

The Botany students make way for dozens of jellyfish disembarking in an unbroken row. A larger jellyfish takes the lead with a flag, so nobody gets lost, though it seems wholly unnecessary on the straight pier.

The smell of the fuel and sea gets replaced by the one of rust and wet dust. Inkopolitans stop at the edge of the pier to take photos of the distant city and its Tower. Three benches sit under the tired Tourist Centre, for people watching the speedboats spinning around the island.

The girls walk a distance ahead, turning their heads in curiosity, swaying tails and fins in sync. Tavi walks in step with Olive.

"I thought it'd look fresher, with the revitalization project and all... And it's been like, how much? Just fifty years since people scrammed?" Tavi sticks his hands in his puffy trouser’s pockets. His mask gathers in a squint, since he's more sensitive to sunlight. "It's kinda sad."

Olive hums. The bright white ferry sticks out between the dilapidated beige. Clumps of trash gather in corners.

"Time isn't kind, I guess."

In spite of its state, the brown-red structure ahead of them holds onto abnormally bright and cheerful hues. Speckles of ink are vanishing off the rusted areas. The next match's starting in minutes.

To the left of Bluefin's dock runs the Depot. A new pull bridge was installed, providing convenient access for battlers with heavy weapons. Starting from the heart of the island and going over the Depot, a brick red railway bridge runs over, only for it to end anticlimactically above the sea, dipping into the waves from degradation. Cargo and coal could've run atop it without issues, though few have the courage to trail on those shoddy iron beams anymore. At least not in broad daylight.

The jellyfish group reaches the end of the dock and leaves the students behind. Between low, specialized buildings, the island's lighthouse stands tall, one of the few buildings kept in function to this date. A handful of signs describe its history in multiple scripts.

The four meet past the dock's entrance, in front of a signposted map. They fight for a better look with tiptoe rises and head tilts.

"Okay, guys. Left for the mines, ahead for the centre, and right for the lighthouse area," Tilly describes. "Which should we start with?"

"Lighthouse's cool," Tavi chooses.

"Coal mines. Useful for notes about restoration projects," Mora imposes.

"But the centre has way more stuff to check," Tilly traces more hypothetical routes on the map with her glassy eyes.

Olive's the odd one out, without a pick.

"Do we have to make a choice for you again," Mora snarks.

"It's fine," Olive distances from the map. "I'll go for anything that looks interesting. Like, um..." he points at a crack in the ground, "that moss."

"You're not going to make the most of your time without a plan," Tilly raises a fin.

"You suck at mosses," Mora makes her harsher point.

"Let him vibe," Tavi brushes it off.

"Great... Noted. Let's meet here at the departure time?" Olive raises his look to his course mates. He waits until he gets nods from all.

They split in their chosen directions, except for Tilly, who seems to have second-guessed her decision. She hooks on Mora's arm, prompting a slouch in response.

Relieved, Olive leisurely approaches one of the decorative tiles in the road, inspecting the minuscule flora filling its cracks. He rustles his shoulder bag, taking a notebook out of it. As fun as it is to stare at tiny, fuzzy patches of green, he figures he's missing the bigger picture here.

He takes his gaze skywards. A flock of birds makes its way out to the sea. The road leading into the abandoned town is lined by medium-sized apartment blocks - slabs of concrete, with shrubs and vining plants bursting out of their cracked windows. If he advances into the urbanized area, he'll be unsure which one will be the first to swallow him whole: the buildings' cold husks or the infinitely branching foliage. It's too easy to get lost in both.

The sudden come-and-go of industrialization has left a biological wasteland. However, it's been overtaken by an explosion of greenery in a relatively short amount of time. There should be an explanation for this hidden somewhere. Determined, he takes in the direction of the island's heart.

*

The apron wrapped tighter around his waist.

"We're not submitting the Bamboozler 75," Olive established from the start.

"You got better ideas? 'Cause you haven't even tested half of these," Rodi pointed at the recipe cards. "The 'boozler fits the requirements. We put bubbles in most of our drinks, so it's iconic. It's inspired by Inkadia. They love this sort of local shit."

Olive sat back down, frantically browsing through his cards. "What about ...Mako Mango Mule?"

"They won't take mocktails."

"Grape Expectations?"

"Too basic for Reefeater."

"The one with rosewater."

Rodi cracked. "You don't even have a name for it!"

Of course he didn't. He wasn't done writing ideas. He hasn't scribbled over his measurements dozens of times, to make sure it reached perfection. He wouldn't have thought of his work as prize-worthy, without having to bang his head on the walls about it.

His journeys need to be frustrating in order to find any satisfaction in them.

*

Catching himself walking aimlessly on a deserted street, Olive remembers he's on a timer. Looking for any starting point, he spots an interesting cluster of leaves on some scaffolding, stemming off a vined plant. It circles and crawls out of an obscured side of the building. Olive supposes its base should be close somewhere. He takes a squeamish side-step off the road, getting sandwiched between rough walls.

The building reveals itself as more complex, with multiple blocks strung together. The narrow alleys have a repulsive stench to them. He trots around their gaps, hoping to see a corner to turn at.

Instead, he finds himself deeper into the puzzle of concrete, without an apparent path. The branches and leaves have turned denser, sprouting out of what used to be a children's park, nestled between apartments. The slide's been bleached by the sun. The playground bars used to be blue. Dried, spiny vegetation hangs on his jeans, as he marches towards a clearing. He stubbornly keeps going ahead, spotting the thicket finally growing sparser past this forgotten park.

He reaches a clearing. There's a pressure in the air, but he doesn't feel like something's out to get him. The urgency comes from something ephemeral. It could be the whistling wind through the empty complexes, unidentified things cracking branches and rattling the ferns, or the maniacal distant laughing from the Depot as dopamine-tripped inklings ride their special surges.

Rodi's laugh comes to mind again. It proved Olive had no leverage in the say.

*

Olive dropped all his cards. "Fine. You're right. This one fits the competition. ...But it's not gonna get selected as it is."

Tired of the back and forth, Rodi sent a telling look, the one when he puts Olive to work. He passed the Bamboozler 75's card back to his partner.

"Okay, babe. I'll give you one last-minute change. Tho' we have to film tomorrow, first thing before opening."

Anthos flicked his finger over the card's corner. The drink had a decent starting point. However, Olive always struggled with exploration.

*

Lately, he's been letting himself get a little lost. He's a fair distance away from the island's port. The direction comes naturally, as he takes in all the signals around - visual, auditory and olfactory. The ferns point arrows with their tips towards inviting glades. Birds with songs and colours he hasn't seen before roost in the showier trees and windowsills. The moss and fungi give the air an earthy tone.

He eyes native species in passing, some rarer ones showing in greater numbers than on the mainland. Other identifications leave him stumped. With a low tolerance for unknowns, Olive furiously notes as many details about inflorescences and leaves as he can. Placing his pen in his beak, he then nips specimens for his herbarium, mindful to minimise harm towards the plant.

He repeats this for a while. His rushed handwriting becomes a mess in his lap. Abbreviations dominate the page.

Bluefin Is.  
Primrose fam. Lysimachia sp.? Cute... ca. 20 cm h. Corolla c. 5 cm. Atch. to concrete slab.  
Shrub. V. fragrant. Lamiaceae. Peanut butter stink? Fl., ca. 5cm penduncle, 5 petals, white to pink. Ov. leaves.  
Fern. ??? Toothy margin. Brown sporangia. Sphagnum? No clue. Mora was right.

A flashcard spills out of his notebook while he writes. It's the same type of card he uses at Mimosa.

He picks it up in a similar manner he took a blank card out to rewrite his recipe. Carefully, yet unsure.

*

Olive placed the blank card and the Bamboozler 75 side-by-side.

He ducked his forehead over the papers, to wring all he could out of his brain. He had to visualise the ideal version of the drink. Brassicaceae and Cucurbitaceae danced behind his eyes.

Knowing his tastes, Rodi picked this drink for the strong first impression it left at soon as you brought it up to your nose. Olive's hold-ups stemmed from how overpowering the hit seemed for most, the mustard-y assault was too much to some. The bubbles only aggravated the bite of it, so he needed to bring more of the mellow cucumber forwards, increase the sweetness a notch.

A groan rang at the peak of his focus. After an indeterminate time, his head suddenly raised, bringing the index cards up with it. He unstuck them from his forehead, and began scrawling as feverishly as he would in his study notes.

Bamboozler 75 (better)  
30 ml Reefeater  
30 ml wasabi s. syrup  
30 ml cucumber j.  
15 ml lime  
cucumber peel (twist)  
top sprk. wine

Olive immediately flung the new card at Rodi, who had to fish it from between the couch pillows. He crossed his arms while his partner read the new spec.

*

He presses the hardcover notebook closer to his chest, to keep his flashcards from falling out.

Olive has no idea where he ended up, following all these random plants and thoughts.

If he has to guess, he has reached the heart of the island. There's something terribly off with his internal clock here. His mind keeps flicking between his past and present, and it doesn't help that Bluefin is forever stuck in time.

Olive checks the clock. A minute hardly passes. He still got one hour before departure. Time switches gears when he least expects it. As he buzzes around plants to identify, half an hour has already passed. The same happened at Mimosa while the index cards were stuck to his forehead. However, the island leaves him feeling haunted rather than smoking out of his ears.

Olive finds himself between buildings that are fully reclaimed by nature, walls covered in a thick, leafy blanket. He barely spots the top of the lighthouse from here. There isn't a soul in sight, yet he hears branches cracking, leaves rustling.

...Is he about to encounter one of Bluefin's infamous ghosts?

In spite of the urban legends, Olive gains an overwhelming desire to enter one of the dilapidated buildings, to take a break from brambles and thicket. He's a man of science, the paranormal won't stand in the way of his research.

He shakes off as much dirt and leaves as he can, once he gets into the building's clearing. Inside, delinquent turf battlers have previously sprayed the walls and have taken whatever they could from the ground floor. Through its skeleton, Olive can only speculate how this space could've been used - a living room, a classroom, a hip night venue.

There's plenty of overgrowth inside as well. There's a beam of light entering as deep as the centre of the room, for various small shrubs to feed on. A larger shrub sits under the light, its roots cutting through the worn concrete flooring. Specks of dust dance around its twirling spears of inflorescence. There are deep red splashes at the tips of its sepals and beyond. Olive's curiosity peaks. There's not enough light in this building to activate anthocyanin, the pigment responsible for these sensational red hues.

He approaches this mysterious plant with his notebook readied. Crouching next to it reveals its unique perfume, reminiscent of his balcony's herbs. Olive pushes his pen into the large tubular petals, and discovers the characteristic lips of sage plants: the corolla's bottom becomes a cosy seat for an unsuspecting bug, which gets dusted by the pollen guarded by the upper lobe. Two stamens dangle in that same intense red. His own lips part - this plant has no business being this pretty in a squatter's lodge.

He settles in a cross-legged stance and begins noting his observation. When he brushes a finger over its slender basal leaves, he feels a comforting fuzziness. Its aromatic oils are expelled, hanging on his tips, though he feels somewhat hesitant about tasting them. Nobody knows what could be in this industrialized soil.

Despite the earlier chills, Olive feels guarded in this building. He allows his handwriting to turn neater, curvier. He becomes acquainted with the blooms, which are as big as his thumb. He sketches them from every angle, like a lover appreciating every detail of another's body.

The shadows become warmer inside. The marine wind settles for a moment. The beam of light through the cracks dissolves. Time flies unkindly.

A horn blares in the distance, quickly followed by an announcement. It's too muffled by the trees and buildings for Olive to make it out. He checks his clock as a precaution, and as he feared, it's leaving time.

A cold sweat flashes all over. He got side-tracked with the sketch. He hasn't finished his observation. He has no clue how to get back to the pier. He needs to leg it.

However, something keeps Anthos to this place. He looks back at the mysterious sage shrub. He figures he can quickly make some cuttings. He snips softer, flowerless tips off the plant, then wraps them in his last newspaper sheet. He hopes the cuttings make it out alive, and that he makes it off the island today.

He puts his agility to the test as he heads back. Considering bartending replaced Turf Wars, he carries himself well. He's not a shabby runner, and the island's cinematic ruins already give him brag-worthy ideas. He imagines a cooler version of himself parkouring across the empty window frames.

In reality, he's a clumsy nerd. Something poetically snags his foot, making him trip. His hands and knees catch his fall. He turns to curse the mischievous branches, though he wasn't tripped by a plant. An off-white, long object sticks out of the ground. Olive grabs it, discovering it's neither rock nor deadwood.

He pulls a bone as big as his arm out of the dirt. He drops it in shock, which soon turns into disgust.

"God... No fucking wonder there's ghost stories," he curses under his breath. Yet, he is genuinely shaken by the size of the bone. No previous resident of Bluefin could've grown that big.

But what could he know? He's a botanist, one well removed from the rest of biology.

Thankfully, he makes it back to the main roads and the dock, a few minutes before the last ferry leaves. His friends are already giggling at their meeting point.

"Just in time, Oli!" He winces from Tilly's nickname. "On board we go!"

"Bro, I was plotting this whole rescue mission for you," Tavi grabs Olive's shoulder.

"Whatever it was, I hope it was worth us waiting," Mora twirls a whisker, her mean look softening a bit upon noticing Olive.

"Sorry. Come on," Olive continues walking towards the ferry, having the group follow in line.

They're one of the last passenger groups to embark. The jellyfish group has already taken over half of the seating in the ship. Olive walks to the back of the ferry, finding a seat for himself outside.

He gets one last look at Bluefin, before the ferry starts moving. There's a limited number of waves its wave breakers can take before they splinter. The sea foam sizzling on the shore becomes acute. Will Bluefin and its forgotten town withstand the ocean's ceaseless chewing? How many more lands and towns were lost to the water? Before Olive sinks deeper into these questions, he pulls out his notes, picking today's highlights.

But he never gets enough time for himself when his friends are around.

"You said you'd tell us about your job!" Tilly sits right across him. His friends complete the circle.

"Okay. Yeah. ...I did say that," Olive closes the notebook, keeping a finger in as a bookmark. "It's not a big deal, so don't get too giddy. ...Or creepy about it," he shrinks from the three pairs of eyes pinned on him, motionless.

"You've been all top-secret about it. It's t-t-time to declassify!" Tavi references something unknown to Olive.

He lays it plainly. "I've started bartending."

"You're a bartender?!" they say in unison.

"Mixologist, if I want to be pretentious about it," he loosens up.

"Ohmigosh, where? Tell us more. You must have these cool, exciting stories. Who would've thought? You're like a star!" Tilly dances in her seat.

"Yeah... I'm not a rock star," Olive keeps a straight face. "I'm more of a supporting act. My partner's the main act."

And sometimes, Isandro needs that support.

*

Rodi finished his third re-read of the new spec. "...I don't get it."

Olive rubbed his temples before expelling. "Don't get what?"

"What's the difference between the old 'boozler 75 and this one? It sounded like you wanted, like, this huge makeover."

"No. It just needed some balancing. I changed the measures, and mixed the wasabi straight into the simple. ...I still doubt I have it right," Olive trailed off.

Rodi took off from the lounge as Olive pressed his palms over his cheeks, pulling his large mask even lower down his face. While Olive sulked, the pomegranate inkling arranged the new recipe card upright on the counter, as he took behind the bar to mix it.

*

"Aw, Oli, you're too modest," Tilly tilts her head in compassion. "You're the main act too, who else could come up with that drink? Wasabi and cucumber? It's like, uh...! A maki roll in a glass!"

"...So it's too weird," Olive deduces. "Fuck it. I need to write another one," he pushes his fingers into temples again, staring into the sea's horizon.

"Isn't the point of competitions to show off weird shit," Mora figures.

"Not if it's disgusting," he says more forcefully.

"Uh, did it turn out disgusting?" Tavi naively asks.

Quite the contrary.

*

"Give me the deets about the syrup," Rodi keeps his nose close to the card.

"Just taste it until it's not too sweet nor pungent," Olive elaborates.

However, trusting his palate more than his partner's, he comes over to taste as well. The two bartenders checked their reactions, until both were in agreement about the wasabi and sugar ratio.

The citric, spicy, herbaceous and sweet notes of the ingredients came together in the shaker. Rodi took it upon himself to shake, while Olive watched with arms crossed, eyes wide. Through the strainer, the drink revealed its mellow green tone. It started to shine once Rodi topped it with the sparkling wine. Reminiscent of military kelp, the cucumber twist was the ideal bookend.

Isandro raised his flute a little, before taking a sip.

"Oh. Damn," Rodi laughed in his wrist, wiping the spill-over at the corners of his lips. "This is good. It's fresh and snaps at the same time."

Olive was so delighted with how it turned out, that he had to snap a picture of it. As he stepped back, Rodi stuck his face into the lens.

"Har har, very funny," Olive took a step to the side, though the first picture of his glorious nostrils was already taken.

Then the mood turned serious. It was already past the opening hour. Some confused patrons waited at the door.

*

"Oh, wow! You're even making drinks for competitions!" Tilly is over the moon, seeing Olive's photo of the Bamboozler 75. "Remember me when you travel the world!"

"I'll first have to film myself mixing it," Olive curbs her.

"That sounds so easy-peasy."

"You know me... I don't like being in the spotlight. Not all the time," he says the last part with the same surprise anyone else would have. "But, because it's my creation, I must stick my face next to it."

"You can do it!" Tilly pumps her fists and fins. "You're doing this for your career, the least you can do is steel up in front of the camera for a bit!"

"I... don't know if I'm doing it for mine."

"You make no sense. Why do you care so much?" Mora groans. "You improved the drink so it has a chance in the semi-finals."

"Yeah. I want it to enter. I don't want to enter."

"Make your boyfriend film it," Tavi states the obvious while chewing his nails.

Even Mora agrees. "Duh."

Anthos takes a second. His finger slips out of his notebook and he lays his hand over it, rubbing the hardcover in concentration. After thinking it through, he returns his notes to his bag.

"I don't know how to ask without disappointing him," Olive confesses.

Mimosa's signage is already lit. A grin with half-shut eyes greets him, as usual.

"Hi, hone-"

Rodi freezes, Olive zooms past like an arrow. He doesn't even acknowledge his partner's presence. Instead, he immediately goes for a pint glass, filling it with a nearby plant's soil, placing the sage cuttings into the makeshift vase.

While this happens, Rodi scans Olive repeatedly.

"Did you fuckin' fall in a mine shaft?"

"...Phew," Olive drops his hands and head to the bar. "Okay. Sorry. I needed this out of the way. Hi," he returns the grin, belatedly.

"Damn, you explored every corner on Bluefin. I was wondering where you were," Rodi picks a leaf that got stuck into his longer tentacles.

"Yeah... I'm sorry. I know we were supposed to film today. I... Uh. I doubt I have time to clean and change," he checks his clock, though he already knows it's too close to opening. His leafy eyes jump back to Rodi's, checking if he needs to push his suggestion further.

Rodi pauses for a moment, then the sound of running water comes from under the counter. He wrings his bar towel, then holds it up for Olive to use. Locking his sigh inside, Olive unwraps the towel and rubs it against his face and hands, getting most of the dirt off. He takes his over-shirt off, since the T-shirt underneath it is a bit more presentable.

"Yeaaah. This isn't gonna work," Rodi's grimace doesn't fully wipe either. "I mean, it's gonna work when the lights are low. But we need all the lights up for that crisp footage."

"Well... We can shoot a test run with you," Olive hazards.

"True."

Rodi doesn't seem discontent, rather stoked to set the bar in order for the presentation. Olive keeps bracing for the reversal, though it never comes.

"You're sure?" He's too surprised to keep his mouth shut.

"Why not?" Rodi seems genuine about it.

He gathers the cleanest tins and tools for the job, the nicest fruits, and displays the Reefeater in the forefront of the shot. Olive turns all the lights up, then sets up a makeshift tripod for his phone, using napkin holders and tealights. He gives Rodi a nod to start.

"Here we go," Rodi claps his hands. "Take one of twelve thousand."

"We haven't got a lifetime for that."

Once his smirk fades out, he begins directly, with no frills.

"My name's Rodi Isandro, I am the general manager and co-owner of Mimosa in Southeast Inkopolis, and this is the Bamboozler 75."

The married shakers separate in a roll, balanced between Rodi's thumb and middle fingers. Once one lands in each hand, he guides them to the bar mat. Eye-catching start, Olive mentally notes.

The recipe plays out like yesterday, following its instructions on Olive's index card. The Reefeater bottle hovers in Rodi's hands. His concentrated brow relaxes as he reaches for a jigger. Olive guesses he has let go of the reminder to not free pour this drink.

The jigger rolls on his thumb, it stops upright to form a connection with the speed pourer. Raising the bottle to his eye-level, he then cuts the pour with a delicate hover in front of his jigger, and the bottle returns to its home. The movements get a reprise for the following ingredients, up to the last one. This is Rodi's retribution for the previous competition.

He gives the shaker a generous ice scoop, and a slap to the top's base, as full of innuendo as he likes to have it on-shift. While Rodi's bottom lip folds behind his fangs in the shake, Olive puckers for a second, letting the gutter mind invade his thoughts. ...He can't help it, can he?

After straining the soft green drink, the flute gets topped with the sparkling wine, bringing it to the perfect wash line. Rodi twists a cucumber peel between his fingers, letting it rest over the glass' lip. As a spontaneous, personal touch, he picks one of the bar's signature dried flowers, letting it float gently in the middle of the flute, trembling when a bubble makes its way underneath it.

His middle and ring finger push the flute's base closer to the camera, dragging the square napkin with it.

"Enjoy," Rodi signals the end.

Once the recording stops, anticipation courses through them.

"How did that look?" he asks not a second later.

In the gap of silence, Rodi envisions his name printed next to other heavy hitters. Rewatching the footage, Olive rediscovers the dizzying prospect of a mark over this world. He lets out that held-in sigh from earlier, and it leaves behind a feeling of fulfilment.

"We're submitting it."

Over and over again, they can't stop falling for the same dream.