Part 1: Sunday Morning

Sunday morning.
Everything suggests that today is set to be a fine one.
The eastern wind brings wisps of white pampas grass, mingling with the city crowds, infusing the streets with a spirit of quiet contentment.
That is until the first fuel drum explodes.
ONiON: Earlier this morning, two suspects made a daring escape from a blazing gas station, their van driving away at breakneck speeds.
ONiON: Eyewitness reports identify them as the same suspects who have brazenly attacked over half of the city's gas stations previously.
ONiON: This is ONiON—first on the ground and live at the scene. Through rigorous investigation, our team is committed to uncovering the truth of this case, one clue at a time.
ONiON: In fact, our initial findings have revealed this explosion to be merely the prelude to a far more complex tale.
ONiON: The common thread weaving through this story is a name—
ONiON: something that has stood as the ultimate hope for all, the muse that has sparked the soul of inspiration for millennia.
ONiON: It is the true value of gold:
MacGuffin the Knife.
Mercuria: They usually stay around three to eight inches from your body.
The world outside may turn, but in the suitcase, life is steady—organically stable, perpetually still.
Mercuria: Some are sweet like honey, while others taste like iron.
Mercuria: Oh, and the wick is something else too, warming the tongue without getting too spicy.
In the common room, they form a circle, hand-in-hand with eyes closed. A flame comes alive in the center, and gray smoke lifts into the air.
"Communing with one's own spirit," that's one interpretation of this ritual.
Mercuria navigates the spiritual items, aromatic herbs, and candles on the floor, pausing behind each individual.
She strikes the singing bowl, then rubs rosemary behind the ears of each participant.
Mercuria: Trauma lingers like a taste ... a ringing in the ears, sour, slightly bitter, yet ... refreshing.
Argus: Argus's eyebrows draw together, reflecting her discomfort.
Mercuria: Parchment ... the hum of static and leather. Fascinating—oh, good.
ONiON's head shakes, then promptly settles back into a state of calmness.
Mercuria: A gust from a painting, earthy and heavy. Painful, but passing.
Druvis III: Druvis inhales softly, her features smooth and serene.
Mercuria: Meadows, sweat-soaked medals, the logic of brown, and ... sunlit pages.
Dogs often have a higher body temperature than people, especially the more intelligent varieties.
Mercuria extends her hand, her fingers dancing above Pickles's head as if tapping piano keys.
Mercuria: Good, now everything's in order.
Pickles: Woof, woof ...
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof. <Her sense of smell evidently differs from mine, otherwise she would have said I smell like the bowl of yogurt Charlton gave me.>
Pickles: Woof ... woof ... woof, woof, woof ... <Another possibility is that—I have a scent even I can't detect?>
Pickles: Grrr ... <Apparently, each one of us must work on diligently building their own sense of self-awareness.>
Pickles: Grrr ... <But where can true self-awareness be found? Perhaps this is my question to answer ...>
Mercuria: I like the aura of your thoughts; their shine has such a unique hue.
Pickles: Woof? <Oh?>
"Doggie": The puppy is surprised.
Mercuria: Surprised, yes, but curious—even more so.
Mercuria: Your translator is not as precise as it should be.
Pickles: Woof-woof, woof, woof, woof ... woof. <It is my understanding that due to our distinct physiological forms and the vastly different experiences between individuals and species, true perception and understanding are virtually unattainable.>
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof ... woof, woof, woof.
Pickles: Aroo, woof, woof, woof. <I do believe I'm becoming somewhat curious.>
Mercuria: Thanks for noticing.
Mercuria: Perhaps someday, we'll get to know each other better.
Druvis III: It appears our healer has discovered a technique for communicating with animals.
Druvis offers a summary of their interaction.
Sonetto: Ms. Mercuria, I have a letter for you.
Sonetto: Oh! What are you all up to?
The meticulous girl, laden with letters and documents, stumbles into the impromptu gathering.
Before anyone has a chance to respond, the smoke detector above reaches its limit, overloaded like lungs inhaling too much smoke.
Mercuria: Oh, what a delightful rain.
Druvis III: We may need to upgrade the smoke alarm system in the common room to prevent it from being "excessively responsive" during these ceremonies.
Mercuria: The spirits are grateful.
Sonetto: Miss Mercuria, I have your mail—
She offers the letter outward.
Mercuria reaches for it, only to hesitate and retract her hand.
Mercuria: Ominous berries, like the ones you find in a bog.
Sonetto: Is everything alright? The canteen has been swamped with letters just like it. They've been putting a burden on our operations.
Still hesitant, Mercuria takes the letter, quietly smooths it out, and begins to read.
She reads with the utmost seriousness—slowly, very—slowly ...
Until at last, she folds the letter and prepares to leave.
Sonetto: Oh, just a moment, please—
Mercuria's steps are natural and steady, and doesn't slow a moment against her words.
Sonetto: What's the matter? Is there something going on? Please, Ms. Mercuria, you can tell me.
Mercuria: My friend.
Mercuria: Panic, like fresh currants and seedless apples.
Sonetto: Are you talking about his energy?
Mercuria: He needs me.
Sonetto: So, you intend to find him and help regulate his energy? Is that what this is all about?
ONiON: But ...
After wringing out her wet coat, the journalist edges nearer.
ONiON: That letterhead, it's definitely not store-bought.
A white-gloved hand makes contact with the letter, turning it over.
ONiON: Take a look.
ONiON: ...
ONiON: Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville?
The eyes of all present move from the envelope to Mercuria's face, but she betrays no hint of emotion beyond her calm determination.
Mercuria: Yes, that's his address.