Tranquil, the bar settled in pure silence.
Lias thought about the bartender's words, as his vision fought for its ownership against the alcohol.
Then he blurted, "Why a priest? Not a diplomat or a conversationalist, but a priest of all things?"
Nadeem grabbed a four-toothed comb out of his pocket and slicked his hair back. "The words of evangelism resonate far more than any other form of speech. Any other social approach ignores the heart, favoring pragmatism. That priest went against it all."
Lias kept his words together. "I'm not buying it."
"And you don't have to. I'd rather not point a finger to any names, but I feel that some of the other tribes put on a performance. A performance to something higher they don't quite understand, but follow anyway," Nadeem added.
Lias gave a conjecture, pointing the shot glass to him. "So you're saying my friends could've reached another one of those tribes you speak of?"
His question soldered to his mind, as it began to heat up.
Nadeem shrugged. "Maybe they did. But you can't disregard the chance of them—"
"I heard enough!" Lias asserted.
From his seat, Kamil flinched at the sudden interruption, but his eyelids twitched and stayed shut. He heard the four fingers tapping the wooden table—four emotions distributed through his travels, and four bolts on that door.
Then his thoughts submerged into slumber again, as the fragments slowly faded.
Lias felt his lips taste like cold metal. "You don't know them! How would you know whether they're okay or not?"
He could see clearly, but still stumbled through his words.
The bartender shook his head. "My apologies, but your outburst shows that you considered that before you got here."
Lias wanted to argue, but he couldn't. The words couldn't escape his lips, as it felt like they were welded shut. Then a gap broke, and he let out a murmur, "How do you know?"
Nadeem gave a soulful gaze. "Even here, people come for a drink and never come back. The next day, a family full of tears asks me where they were. But it pains me to break it to them. I only consider, never control."
Lias stared at the countless soldering bottles with alcohol labels on top, then hung his head.
Continuing, "You denied, angered, bargained, and are now feeling somber. You're slowly accepting that consideration, but you can control how you perceive it. That's the way it goes here."
Lias scrubbed his hair to the side and put his head down, but struggled to find a comfortable decision.
Sitting upright, he exhaled, staring at the others, then staring back at Nadeem. "Do you think they could see it that way?"
Nadeem furrowed his mustache and propounded, "I cannot confirm nor deny. I can tell the one slouching longs for leadership. But make sure none of them lose that sight in their path, while you tread on yours, as you cannot consider others without considering your own perception first."
Lias sank in a chrome-metal chair and felt the drink dissolve a weight as it went down his system.
The bartender laid one more drink on the table. "One more. To repeat the cycle all over again."
Fresh drops of condensation and foam nearly overflowed; one wrong move would cause it to spill.
Leaning forward, Lias inspected it. His tongue scraped metal lips, but he reluctantly shook his head.
"I'm good for tonight. Besides, I need to get these other two in bed since I heard there was a motel in here."
Nadeem nodded, adjusted a four-ribboned bowtie, which he unveiled from under his dark button-up.
Soon after, he opened a door leading to stairs of the motel above, and assisted Lias in carrying Amaya to an unoccupied room.
She was sleeping peacefully, and she weighed like an empty vial.
Going back down, they struggled lifting Kamil, as he particularly weighed like a ship filled with frogs.
As they carried him, Kamil slightly woke up, but he was still in a state of consciousness, only barely.
Kamil felt the blisters on his feet being held up, festering from the constant splinters dug into his soles, but the pain slowly faded.
Their gait persisted slowly, as each step felt like another beat of his heart.
Kamil overheard faint voices as he felt his body float, carried by two that held him. He felt his body sink into a cold mattress, submerging, and fell into slumber.
He kept a hidden bitter expression in his snores as his mind dissipated into fragments of words.
"Priest," "Pragmatic," "Performance," "Perception," "Consideration," "Control," "Cycle."
He couldn't connect the dots between them in his mind, but the letter "C" drew attention from him.
Only one clear thought created a full sentence in his scattered thoughts.
Did Cyrus stay at the ship because he knew how everything would turn out? Or did he stay because he never thought he'd make it this far?
That thought stayed. It couldn't escape him, and it bothered him the more time it stuck.
He opened his eyes to a dark room. On his left, Amaya was turned to her side. But on his right, Lias stayed awake, holding an empty glass in his palm, staring around the room, mumbling certain metals to himself.
Kamil felt his body drift into a darkness—one that surpassed the navy-blue night and traveled into a black abyss beneath his eyelids.
Then he continued to snore, keeping a slight smirk on his face.
On a window directly outside, a seagull watched, as it hushed its cries.
. . . . .
A frigid white room. Its air conditioning prevails in static.
A screen plays in front of two chairs, one higher than the other. The higher one was made of obsidian, while the other was of steel.
The screen displayed a forest flashing by as white wings flapped gracefully in its view. Silent cries collected as the rest of the seagulls joined together.
Each of them sat on a tree branch, feeling their energy replenish. Then their eyes shut, to properly recharge for the next day.
Turning the screen off, "That redhead was a loudmouth, wasn't he, Silo?"
In the smaller chair, Silo nodded. "Yes, Head-Bearer Jibril. In fact, I personally had to halt his experiment, as he's a brilliant one. A great potential addition to our projects, but that most likely won't come to fruition."
The head-bearer cackled. "Hah! And you waited until you saw that smile creep in accomplishment, just to tear it away. I never knew you could be so malicious, Silo."
Silo laughed, hanging his head. "Well, you came up with the idea, sir."
"And you proceeded. Don't try to push off the blame." Jibril smiled beneath his mask. He knew Silo was giving an insincere grin, and it gave him a pause.
Continuing, "That bartender interests me. I wonder the kind of priest that taught him such eloquence. You only reach those words once you've understood suffering to the point that you couldn't feel it anymore."
"He has such a strong heart in the tribe filled with despair. If things weren't this way, I'd like to have a drink with him. Wouldn't you, Silo?" Jibril uttered calmly.
Silo sighed, slouching forward, and only gave a forced mechanical nod.
"Does something trouble you?" Jibril asked.
For a moment, the servant only responded with silence. He only stared at a stack of documents laid out between his feet.
Then, "I believe the chances of failure are slowly rising. Something will come up, especially with our new bullet ant."
Suddenly, the head-bearer stood up and waved for him to follow.
Immediately, Silo stood up and held the documents close to his heart, and he heard his steps. He inferred that the head-bearer weighed more, as his steps felt heavier than his appearance suggested.
"Let's have a walk. Staying in that room hasn't been of service to us; instead, it has blinded us," the head-bearer spoke.
Strolling through layers of golden-leafed doors, they reached a cold white hall. They turned and followed a long path.
It was long, and their dark boots clacked on the floor.
However, the masked bearer was slim, abnormally tall in stature, and had long blond-black hair laying on his broad shoulders.
As they walked, Jibril pointed outward with his pinky.
When Silo saw it, he stood mesmerized. He had forgotten all that it took, and a warm smile crept up to his face. It was like the smile they stole off the island's visitor.
They were on a higher floor, and a tempered glass wall stood in front of them. Behind it, layers of warehouses worked on different elements.
Layers consisted of attached wires to artificial seagulls and ants; special trees were made to provide energy for those seagulls; and another layer had dozens of people repeating the names of their tribes.
Jibril pointed. "If this is failure to you, then what would be an accomplishment? Actually, don't answer it. You're afraid I don't approve of it, hence your shame."
Silo couldn't keep his eyes off the sight and kept nodding.
"Authority is in perception, as that server said," Jibril said. "Sure, I am the head of our next operations in the conjoined realm, but I could never be the head of the engineering department for that conjoined realm who allowed it to thrive. You don't give yourself enough credit."
"It pained me to hear your voice reminisce of those sycophants . . . you are much more."
The masked man articulated his words into a rhythm that uplifted something within Silo's heart.
"T-thank you, Jibril." He grinned brightly, slicking back his hair and adjusting his glasses.
"That's more like it." Jibril's face morphed into a gleam along with the mask.
Then he pointed to the center of it all—an untouched center that none dared to even stare at.
In the eye of the storm lay a table. On that table lay four teeth. Blue teeth, to be precise.
"Tell me, Silo. Do you remember that harsh storm from ten years ago?" he asked.
"Yes. It was long ago, so I couldn't store any names," he responded, with a more open posture.
". . . Across time, we collected three of those teeth attached to three lanterns. However, at the site of the storm, only this tooth was left behind. The fourth lantern was never found." Jibril stated.
He tapped his outward pinky on the wall profusely, pointing to the table.
. . .
Jibril spoke solemnly, "There are others pulling the threads, and they have learnt to be silent."