Fingers: How's it looking, pal? You watching that chick like I told you?
Voice on the Other End: You mean Mercuria?
Fingers: Give me a breakâwho else? I'm not keeping up your lifestyle for nothing.
Voice on the Other End: Yeah, yeah, I'm on it. I've got eyes on her.
Voice on the Other End: Looks like she brought a buddy along, a loyal little arcanist companion.
Fingers: Hah, I know.
Fingers: Stay on top of that little friend of hers. If she backs out of this job or finds it and doesn't turn it in, you know the drill.
Pickles: Woof, woof ... woof, woof. <Not all dogs have a taste for milk, despite what you might think.>
Pickles: Mmm ... whuhâwoof ... <Even we, on occasion, are troubled by lactose intolerance.>
Pickles: Snarl, whuh-woof ... <I wouldn't say no, of course. If there were to be some leftover milk, a little taste to quench my thirst would be welcome.>
Mercuria: Patience, Pickles.
Mercuria: There's a new energy here.
Mercuria empties the newly bought milk into a battered little bowl and pushes it slowly toward a scrap heap by the roadside.
From the garbage, a small nose emerges, trembling as it presses against the bowl with two quick nudges.
Pickles: Woof, woof, hrm, woof, woof, woof, woof, whuh-woof. <The last three stray dogs we found have been brought back to where they belongâto the place their humans call "home.">
Pickles: Woof ... woof, woof, woof ... woof. <Yet, as of now, we still haven't found a trace of this MacGuffin the Knife.>
"Beepâbeep-beepâbeepâ" The communicator around the dog's neck buzzes to life.
ONiON: Can you hear me, Pickles?
Pickles: Grrr, grrr! Woof, woof, woof. <I can hear you, ONiON. So, this thing you gave me before you left is finally doing its job?>
"Doggie": The puppy is curious about this device.
ONiON: Oh, you mean the communicator? Yes, it guarantees I can receive your latest updates whenever necessary.
Pickles: Hrrr ... <Ah, so you've been eavesdropping the whole time, eh?>
"Doggie": The puppy does not approve.
Pickles: Woof, woof ... <I didn't mean it quite like that ...>
ONiON: A journalist needs to grab every tidbit of useful info whenever she can. It's just part of the job.
ONiON: Let's get back on track. Have you found MacGuffin the Knife yet?
Soft grumbles escape from Pickles's throat as an indication of his frustration.
ONiON: But hey, you've managed to find quite a few strays.
Pickles: Woof, woof, mrm-woof, woof, woof. <Yes, we found them and received rewards from their grateful owners.>
Pickles casts a quick look at Mercuria, noting how her pants' pockets and backpack are both stuffed with loose bills and money.
"Doggie": The puppy is very satisfied with the money they have earned.
Pickles: Woof, woof, woof, grrr ... woof. <Oh, ohâI wouldn't say excited, not about the money per se. I just appreciate it as the fruit of our labors.>
ONiON: I see now. Helping those owners find their missing pets has brought in quite a bit of cash for you.
ONiON: But you still haven't gotten your hands on this MacGuffin the Knife, have you?
Pickles: ... Whuh ...
"Doggie": The puppy is disheartened.
ONiON: Well, it won't be a walk in the park. No wonder this Fingers guy put all his trust in Miss Mercuria.
ONiON: My journalist's intuition tells me this trip of yours sounds like it's going to get rough.
ONiON: It's either going to be a bust, or you'll end up in deep, or maybe both. Basically ...
The voice on the other end of the communicator hesitates for a moment.
ONiON: From a journalist's point of view, I want to keep following your actions, but from an objective third-party perspective, I'd suggest thinking carefully about whether to proceed with this.
On the other end of the line, the journalist waits for an answer.
ONiON: Hey, can you hear me? Hello?
The silver-haired girl seems oblivious to the sound of the communicator, her eyes scanning the air as if searching for something.
She abruptly lifts her eyes, drawing focus on the road ahead.
Mercuria: There!
As fine as a cicada's wing, blending seamlessly with the air, and a tiny shudder, like a black ant.
Low heels reach a quickened pace over the concrete.
Mercuria climbs the railing at the side of the road.
With a quick jump, she lands right in the heart of the bustling, traffic-filled lane.
Mercuria: Gone, already gone ... and so fast!
Pickles: Grrr, grrr! Woof, woof, woof!!! <Miss Mercuria, where are you going?>
Pickles watches the scene unfold and swiftly follows.
But with the towering fence along the road and the cars releasing dangerous fumes, the little dog can only pace anxiously on the other side of the barrier.
Mercuria has already climbed onto a car's roof, bouncing lightly as she moves from one to another with ease.
Red, white, black, greenâher feet tread on the scorching car roofs, like a dance, or perhaps an unusual children's game.
Mercuria: Southeast, fading fast ...
Eyes shut, Mercuria senses it, whispering softly to herself.
Driver: What the hell are you doing, girl! It's dangerous up there!
The car owners, without exception, stick their heads out of their windows and begin shouting at Mercuria.
The strands of her hair lift whimsically, and without a backward glance, her words reach the tops of their heads.
Mercuria: It's alright. Just keep steady.
Mercuria: I won't fail now.
Pickles: Woof, woofâ! <Miss Mercuria ...!>
The little dog's unwavering loyalty drives him to stay with his companion, even in the midst of danger.
A chorus of car horns erupts as the dog leaps up, soaring over the fence and lands beside the girl.
Their feet press down on the brightly colored car roofs beneath the scorching sun, carving a path from one end of the densely-packed road to the other.
Tracker: What in the ...
In the dark, a silent tracker stares out in shock.
Pickles: Grr, grr! <Where are you going to now?!>
Mercuria: South ... black ants and warm currents ...!
Mercuria: You know exactly where I'm going!
Pickles: Woof!
"Doggie": The puppy understands entirely.
ONiON: What's going on? Hey, the signal's getting really weak! Whoa! Take it easy. Slow down!
