Monday is the "busy period" at this prison intake center, as more offenders are offloaded and delivered into the prison system's clutches.
A tequila ad jingle blares from an old radio above, while an arm sporting a pork chop tattoo waves for Mercuria to stop.
Prison Officer: Left hand.
Prison Officer: Right hand.
Prison Officer: Turn around.
Prison Officer: You're not allowed to have any items hidden on your person.
Prison Officer: Go on, Miss. You're good to head on in.
Dodging a pineapple can tossed from who knows where, she steps onto the noisy floor and enters the visitation room.
Her friend has been waiting a long time.
Fingers: See what I mean? If these pencil-pushers can stick a guy in a pink prison suit just for kicks, there's nothing they wouldn't do.
Fingers: You know that old country song? "Some things never change."
Mercuria: How are the Cheshire Cats holding up?
Fingers: It's grim—the boss is dead, and the rest of us? All locked away, with no light at the end of the tunnel. Well, except me, of course.
Fingers: Around here, death row's a revolving door. One second, you've got a neighbor; the next, they're gone.
Mercuria: You're looking better than I expected.
Fingers: Ha! I ain't like those mugs over there, brawling over a hand of cards. Me? I'm built different.
Fingers: I've got dreams, you know.
Dreams were life's great equalizer—polished visions for the rich, and a rallying cry for the poor.
Behind bars, a dream keeps hope alive another day, even if it is pure folly.
She nods in response, but her eyes never stray far from Fingers's mangled hand.
Mercuria: Longing. Intense longing, swelling with every iron-tinged night.
Mercuria: Your desire ... might be what you'd call a dream, wouldn't it?
Mercuria: I see now. That's why your energy's in such turmoil. Your hands are raw with the anxiety this "dream" has brought you.
Fingers: Right.
Fingers: Pfft—ha! Hahaha!
Fingers: Figures! You've always seen right through people, like we're just fish trapped in a glass bowl to you.
Mercuria remains unfazed, the silence broken only by a soft sigh.
Mercuria: Shame.
Mercuria: You need my healing, but my arcane implements were confiscated. They even took the selenium and lapis lazuli.
Fingers: Oh, oh—yeah, yeah, yeah, I need you, my little rambling genius.
The conversation circles back as Fingers regains his focus.
Fingers: Like the good ol' days—you really helped out our crew back then, and the boss.
Fingers: But this isn't about cleansing energy or anything. I need you to do something important.
Once again, he grinds his nails, their pointed tips dragging over the metal surface of the table.
Fingers: The boss is gone, and his most precious possession's got no one to look after it now.
Fingers: What I need is for you to track it down.
Fingers pulls out an old photograph.
MacGuffin the Knife
A name.
A name is a code, a symbol, a query or a resolution, a term of endearment, a lingering sigh, or the very start and end of someone's journey.
Fingers: You're looking at the sole copy of this photo—one of a kind.
An unhurried inspection ensues, burning every detail of the picture into her mind's eye.
Mercuria: Is that so?
Fingers: That's right. No matter what happens, get it and bring it to me.
Fingers: The day after tomorrow.
Fingers: Two days from now, I'm a free man. Seven sharp in the evening, make sure I get it.
She gives no reply. Her gaze is still locked on the photograph, as if seeing something beyond it.
Mercuria: I always help my friends, provided it doesn't breach my principles. A favor along the way, nothing more.
Mercuria: But I do have a request.
Fingers: I'm all ears.
Mercuria: May I bring someone along?
Mercuria: Northeast ... one step, two, three ...
Pickles: Sniff, sniff, woof, sniff, sniff ... woof! <I've picked up the trail. It's a familiar aroma.>
Pickles: Hrrr—woof, woof! <Hold on, is that what I think it is? A strawberry-scented red balloon?>
Along the busy roadway, a thick-furred Border Collie yanks a silver-haired disco girl along, their eyes locked on a red balloon in the air.
She initially means to head in a different direction, but the sudden pull of the leash trips her up before she can adjust.
Mercuria: Ah! Oh!
After a noisy struggle, the dog slams into a trash can, and Mercuria finds herself thoroughly tangled in the leash.
Pickles: Woof, woof, snarl ... <Perhaps we ought to reflect on this situation ...>
Pickles: Grrr ...
Pickles: Woof, woof ... woof, woof, woof ... woof, woof.
Mercuria lowers her head, unwinding the leash looped around her legs.
Mercuria: You're worried, Pickles.
Pickles: Hmm? Woof, woof? <Did I hear correctly? Me, worried?>
Mercuria nods.
A conflicted look settles on the dog's face.
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof ... Woof, woof, woof. <Well, I can't deny it entirely.>
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof ... woof! <It's just that this "treasure" itself isn't quite what I imagined it to be.>
Pickles emits a low, tender whine.
Pickles: Woof, woof ... woof, woof, woof ... <You see ...>
"Doggie": The puppy cannot believe his eyes.
Pickles reaches out, his paw resting lightly on the photo in Mercuria's grasp.
Pickles: Snarl ... Grrr, grrr ... <MacGuffin the Knife ...>
The dog points with his paw at the central figure in the photograph.
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof.
The focus of the photograph is a small dog with bright eyes.
It beams back at the photographer, as if on the verge of charging forward with unyielding courage, prepared to bring down the photographer or even the whole world.
Mercuria: Yes, it's in its belly—a genuine hoard of Rheingold.
Mercuria: And whoever claims the Rheingold within shall find great fortune.
