U milne il toku. | The apple is cut.

U midi milne il Zil. | One half is the Soul.

U midi milnu il Dos. | One half is the Vessel.

Zil kin Dos ol Sef. | Soul and Vessel make Self.

The sun has set, and the smaller stars have come out from hiding. The moon glows a brilliant alabaster on the androgynous, blond figure approaching the bar, a clutch purse in hand. Parts of their long, wavy hair cascade down the front of their blue, belted sweater top, but most of it bobs up and down their exposed back, revealing hints of the wings tattooed upon its ivory surface with every step. The sharp heels of leather boots clink against the pavement, keeping each sable-wrapped leg in check. The steps finally halt when, in front of them, stands a bar that caps the end of the strip mall.

The building shimmers in an array of colorful string lights wrapped around the plain pillars that hold up the building’s tapered, rectangular roof. A bit further in, its metallic jade walls have hints of neon red signage rimming the perimeter. Stopped above the entry door hangs the prominent, cursive name of this joint: La Caldera Bar. The figure pauses, a manicured finger pressed against their rosy lip in thought. “Hmm…”, they mumble with a smirk. “What a delightful coincidence.” Brushing down their top, they walk in.

Immediately as they open the door, a whiff of herbs and spices assaults the nostrils, and a warm air blows against them. Blinking their eyes a few times, the figure looks around: the interior brick walls are covered from top to bottom in framed photos and posters. Some of them featured images of vast, open plains, others were of vintage gas stations, but many of them were of people of different walks of life -- of different clothes and skin tones -- and every one of them were smiling in some fashion.

“Bienvenudos,” shouts the barkeep, her accented voice asserting the awestruck blond to look in her direction. She is dressed in full greyscale -- black apron tied snug around her white dress shirt and black skirt -- a stark contrast with the colors everywhere else. The barkeep’s wavy brown hair is held up in a bun, keeping the hair out of her face as she starts cleaning up loose dishware. When her soft, framed hazel eyes are met with the foreigner’s icy blues, she continues. “Welcome to La Caldera; sit anywhere you want, I’ll get to you in a moment.”

“Yes, thank you”, the dazed foreigner responds. They step slowly along the bar, heels clanking against the patterned tile with every step. As they look for a place to sit, they spy a lone patron sitting at the back corner of the bar. The poster child of a miserable businessman, in full suit-and-tie, the man stirs around the ice in his empty shot glass with the straw it came with.

The perfect person to sit next to. They sashay over to him, stopping when they’re within earshot of the man. “Hey hun,” the blond says with honeyed words, “is this seat taken?”

“Nah,” mumbles the gruff-sounding man, “go ahead.” When the barkeep wraps back around, she refills his empty glass with scotch, the bar lights refracting through the glass and onto his tawny skin with warm hues. When the blond finally sits down a seat over from him, the businessman’s hazel eyes stare through the foreigner’s own blue pair. “And before you start hitting on me, sorry, I’m not interested in women.”

They pause, eyebrows subtly raised in surprise. “That won’t be a problem here, ser,” they reply, face softening into a smile with rosy cheeks. Their white-tipped fingernails tap against each other in waiting, and the barkeep finally comes back around. Once their head turns towards the barkeep, the businessman keeps fixating on this mystery person beside him.

“Sorry for the wait, ser,” she humbly apologizes before pulling out a pen and pad. “Welcome to La Caldera. My name is Katarina, and I will serve you today. May we start off with a drink tonight?” The pen clicks open, and the blond strokes their chin in thought.

“Do you serve non-alcoholic beverages,” they ask, “something light and refreshing?” They pause with soft, silvery laughter, twirling a strand of hair around a finger. “Sorry for not being specific; I am new to the area, so I am unfamiliar with the local drink options.”

“No problem!” Katarina chuckles. “It might not be the fanciest, but how about a cup of sparkling cola with grenadine?” When the blond nods, she grabs a tall, plastic cup and fills it part-way with ice. Pouring strings of the deep red syrup along the ice, she then fills the glass 2/3rds full with a clear, bubbly liquid. It is then topped off with a white-skinned fruit, skewered by a pick. “I call it, The Serpent’s Eye. Virgin, of course.”

The blond looks down at the glass, tapping fingernails against the cup. They immediately go for the fruit: pulling it out of the cup, they take a bite through its flesh. The fruit’s white shell hid from them a pink center. An immediate burst of sweetness hits the tongue, followed by a slightly sour, slightly bitter bite afterwards. As their face contorts into a squint from the sharp aftertaste, the bartender laughs. The businessman, too, chuckles softly to himself.

When she gets her composure back, Katarina continues: “That fruit is what we locals call the Serpent’s Eye. It’s deceptively sweet at first, then it sneaks behind you and bites you on the back of your tongue.” She pantomimes a viper striking forward with an arm and hooked fingers. “Sorry for not warning you, though; I didn’t know that you would go straight for the fruit, but good on you for doing it.”

“Is fine,” the blond mumbles from puckered cheeks, and places the fruit back in the cup. After getting the feeling back in their tongue, they sigh in reminisce. “Reminds me of all the pranks met Kalbat used to pull on the elders.” Their foreign words are accented with soft guttural aftertones, catching both the businessman and the barkeep off-guard; intrigued by the unfamiliar words, the man turns in his chair to face the foreigner.

“Met… kale-bat?” he attempts to say. The foreigner flushes in embarrassment when they register that they spoke off Common, then chuckles at the attempt to parrot the phrase spoken.

“Met kaal-bat, long ‘ah’ sound,” they correct. “Good attempt. Kalbat means something along the lines of ‘childhood friend’, I would say. Less syllables, same meaning.” They take a long sip of the drink they ordered, the half-bitten fruit sunken to the bottom of the cup. “Hmm… sweet, yet fuzzy. Slightly tart, thanks to the fruit, but a manageable flavor profile. Thank you for the drink, ah… Katrina?”

“Katarina,” the barkeep corrects, placing a hand on her waist, “but friends call me Kat. Katrina, ah… family nickname, I guess, so you aren’t totally wrong.” She points behind her at the businessman, who silently repeats the foreign word to himself. “That over there is Valdas, he keeps to himself but is a regular here. We both grew up in these parts, but we don’t bite as hard as the other locals around here. Nevertheless, where are you from, stranger; the east?”

“Technically, yes...” they pause. “Family gave me the name Kimenohelani, but for short I go by Ke’tlan, or Keh-tlan.”

Both barkeep and businessman squint at the complexity of the blond’s name. Their brow furrows for a moment before they continue: “If the airy stop seems too complex, you may omit the T entirely. Kay-lan is fine as well.” The locals’ brows soften at the simpler, more digestible name given, and the blond smiles. “It is very nice to meet you two. Thank you for the drink.”

“Thank you for your patronage, Ke’lan,” Katarina says, smiling. “Would you like anything else, to eat or drink, or have any questions about the area?”

“Those pictures…” Ke’tlan turns their seat and looks at the collage of photographs on the wall, bringing their glass to the lip once more. “Where do they come from?”

Katarina’s smile shrinks, and Valdas’ gaze lands on the barkeep. “Many of them are from the travels that Katarina’s parents have done before,” Valdas answers for her, as he finally finished tackling the conundrum that was foreign enunciation. “They used to travel the world on their skyship, from the tops of tall mountain cities to the valleys of small secluded tribes, from the dense marshes to the driest deserts. They even managed to find some civilizations beyond The Wall, but we didn’t receive anything aside from a few letters.”

“‘The Wall’? What happened beyond The Wall?” Ke’tlan asks, turning a head to the now solemn-looking barkeep. She sighs, and refills Valdas’ empty glass.

“They never returned,” she simply answers. “After we got the letter saying that they found a tribe of people they’ve never seen before, the letters stopped coming. The only thing I have left of them are all these pictures.” Ke’tlan’s eyes start to sadden, but Katarina smiles softly, brushing a few strands of her brown hair behind her ear. “These murals are their life here. They’ve made an impact on me through their dreams being met. I cannot feel bad for that at all. After all, they could still be alive after all these years.” She collects Ke’tlan’s now-empty glass and heads back into the kitchen.

Ke’tlan looks confused. “I do not understand, why does she not just go and find them?”

“Not everyone wants full closure for those that are lost,” Valdas responds before taking a swig of his liquor. “Plus, not everyone is permitted to go beyond The Wall-- the Zelotian Wall, that is. It would take years to get permission, and even longer to prepare for it, so why should she pursue something that may as well lead to a dead end, or worse, have her killed?”

Ke’tlan’s brow furrows. “My soul would not find peace.”

“Some people prefer survival over a closed chapter.”

The blond looks over at the businessman, almond face starting to flush red. When Katarina returns from the kitchen, she takes the glass from Valdas, who has a smug look plastered on his face. Hazel eyes meet hazel eyes; due to Valdas’ sobriety falling off to the wayside, Katarina immediately wins the staring duel. “Tap’s off for you.”

“But ma,” Valdas exaggeratingly whines, teasing Katarina with fits of mischievous laughter. He lays his head on the bartop, pouting. “I don’t wanna, I’m not done yet.”

“Too bad,” Katarina snaps back, whacking him on the head with the notepad in her apron. “You work tomorrow, mister, and there’s no way you’re going home in time if you keep on drinking.” Seeing the smirk on the businessman’s face intensify, she whacks him again. “Be a responsible adult, for goodness’ sake.”

Ke’tlan sits silent in curiosity, their gaze flicking between the now-childish businessman and the stern parental barkeep. When they chuckle, the two of them register that they’re still there. “Two Kalbat causing mayhem with each other. Very reminiscent of my home place. When does he have to be home?”

“Should have been home half an hour ago,” Valdas admits, “but Kat is far more entertaining than sleeping in a boring apartment in a boring city.”

“You could always just call me instead,” Katarina retorts. “I have a slow enough stream of customers that it wouldn’t be a big issue. Or is that too much of a hassle for you?”

“You know where I work. You sure as hell should know how much I detest being stuck on the phone when I get home from work.”

“Career cha~nge!” Katarina sings. “Ditch your current path for a new one!”

“You know I can’t do tha~t,” Valdas moans in a similarly rhythmic manner.

“I can take him home,” Ke’tlan interjects with a chuckle, digging into their purse and taking out their identification card. It possesses the same layout as a normal ID, down to the very shapes on it; the header lettering, however, is entirely foil and written in a foreign script. The three of them group around the ID and look it over, trying to make sense of the information.

The ID says that Ke’tlan is qualified to drive a wide range of motor vehicles, but the trio’s gaze eventually lands on the ID’s pronoun marker. A standard for mainland IDs, it is shaped like an upwards-pointing triangle with a black pill dot in the center; only when it shimmers in its blue and yellow gradation, does Valdas interject with an exclamation.

“Ah, damn,” Valdas exasperates, his finger pointing repeatedly at the pronoun marker. “Damn-damn-damn, I didn’t mean offense earlier, sorry.”

“If it bothered me that much, I would have told you,” Ke’tlan chuckles, putting away the ID. “If anything, I am flattered. I kind of expect it when wearing feminine clothing anyways.”

“Nah,” Valdas interjects, “I appreciate the honesty but it feels wrong to assume, y’know. Last thing I wanna do is make people uncomfortable.”

“Doing what you’re doing right now makes people uncomfortable, dumbass,” Katarina says lovingly, patting Valdas on the head. “Go home already, you’ve had enough of me and my drinks for today. I need to close up soon anyways.”

“Put ‘is drink on my tab,” the disheveled mess of a businessman shouts as he stretches and pulls himself out of his seat. Katarina nods as she wipes off the countertop. Valdas walks himself over to Ke’tlan. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Yes, yes,” the blond answers with a smile. “I am fine with ‘she’ in this getup, you are fine. Just stick to the neutrals or masculines when I am not all dolled up, yes?” Pulling a hair tie from the clutch, Ke’tlan ties up the mass of hair cascading down his shoulders into a messy half-bun. “Now, do you drive a stick or automatic? I am driving you home in your car, am I not?”

“Yeah,” Valdas mumbles, pulling his keys out from his pocket. “It feels weird handing my keys off to a stranger, but you’ll promise me that you won’t kill me and jack my car, right?”

Ke’tlan chuckles. “Strangers? Do we not know each other’s names? That is enough familiarity to drive you home, I would say. Far more than you would give your taxi drivers.” Ke’tlan stands up from the bar stool, standing a full head taller than Valdas. The blond bends forward and preens the frazzled man in front of him by adjusting both his tie and suit jacket. “If you do not trust me, call Katarina when we get back to your home. If she does not get a call from you within, say, an hour, she can call the enforcement officers on me.”

“But it takes that long for me to get home,” Valdas mumbles, hesitantly handing over his keys. His phone chirps, causing him to dig through the same pocket for it.

“I got you, Ke’lan,” Katarina chimes in, putting away her phone and coming on the other side of the counter. “I’ll be expecting a call or message when you get home, Val. No passing out on me before then or else I’m gonna kill you and take your car instead, got it?”

“Yeah…” Pulling out a pair of glasses from his suit pocket as he brings up the bill on his phone, Valdas reviews the order quantity before typing in a tip amount. “Damn, did I really order that many scotches tonight?”

“You’re becoming an alcoholic like your womb-father,” Katarina says with a hint of sarcasm. “Just don’t overwork yourself, all right? And make it home safe.”