Rain-soaked soil. Shallow footprints.
Argus: ...
A mercenary in a wide-brimmed hat kneels on one knee, her left eye glowing brightly.
Argus: 10.6 inches long.
The soil beneath the footprint is uneven. One side presses deeper into the ground.
Argus: Signs of limping.
Wide stride, heavy indentations, a slight drag.
Argus: Male.
Heavy pressure on the forefoot, lighter on the heel. Deep scrapes at the front, fewer at the back.
Argus: Around 20 years old.
Light on his feet, uneven pressure on the forefoot.
Argus: Light-weight.
She scratches her scalp with the barrel of her shotgun.
The further she goes, the more irregular the footprints become—and the more clues emerge.
Argus: More sets of footprints here.
There's a rustling in the grass nearby, along with the faint sound of a conversation.
"Order" Follower I: Boss, are you sure this is where the materials for the revered one are?
"Order" Follower I: There isn't even a single trace of human activity here, let alone a market!
"Order" Follower II: ...
"Order" Follower I: I guess the only possible explanation is we're here for these plants, right?
"Order" Follower II: Of course not, you idiot.
"Order" Follower I: Haha, that's too bad! I'm great at harvesting plants. I'm a pro, see? Check out these calluses. Although, my mom would probably disagree.
"Order" Follower I: Do you have any idea what these materials look like? They must be important, so we better handle them with care. Don't wanna risk mistaking them for weeds, you know.
"Order" Follower I: I hope they're easy enough to find. With my leg messed up like this, I can hardly handle any delicate work.
Argus: That's him. The one with the limp.
"Order" Follower II: Sorry about this, man.
There's a distant sound of a gun being cocked.
"Order" Follower II: But at least you'll see your mom soon, up there in heaven.
"Order" Follower I: Wh-What?
*bang*
The mercenary decisively pulls the trigger of her shotgun. The bullet grazes the assailant's cheek.
"Order" Follower II: Who's there?!
COMBAT
"Order" Follower I: ...
Argus: What're you waiting for? Get your ass outta here.
"Order" Follower I: I ...
His trembling hands betray his fear and panic.
Argus: Ah. You got a couple questions for this one too, huh?
Argus: Well, first come, first served.
Argus: I'm afraid you're gonna have to get in line.
She steps on the man's chest and presses the barrel of her gun against his throat.
Argus: Alright, here's how we're gonna do this.
Argus: I ask. You answer. If you lie, I'll blow your jaw off.
Argus: Have you ever met a girl named Kayla?
"Order" Follower II: Kayla?
Argus: Let's try that again.
Argus: A girl, about 5 foot 3, chestnut hair, emerald green eyes, speaks like a Texan.
Argus: Have you seen her? Yes or no?
The man shakes his head in terror.
Argus: No?
She smirks.
Argus: Then why's her hair clip in your pocket?
She presses down harder, jamming the shotgun into his throat.
"Order" Follower II: I-I remember! There's a girl, 5 foot 3, chestnut hair. She's always carrying a basket. Her name's Kayla, too!
"Order" Follower II: But her eyes ain't emerald green. They're ... They're ...
The man's mouth opens helplessly as he desperately tries to remember the color of the girl's eyes.
It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't seem to spit it out—the crucial detail he should remember but has now forgotten.
Argus: Tell me how you got this hair clip—the more detailed, the better.
"Order" Follower II: We just bumped into each other by chance. She dropped it on the road, and I thought my daughter would like it, so I ...
Relieved to have moved on from the color, the man blabbers on obediently.
Argus: ...
Her finger tightens on the trigger.
Argus: I'll give you one last chance.
Argus: Where did you meet?
"Order" Follower II: ...
"Order" Follower II: At a place called Tuesday's Motel.
Argus: There you go. That wasn't so hard, was it?
She hefts the shotgun and knocks the man out with the butt.
Argus: Next time, just spit it out. Save us all some time.
"Order" Follower I: Are-Are you with the Foundation?
Argus: The Foundation?
"Order" Follower I: Yeah. They hate the Foundation, you see.
"Order" Follower I: But you saved me! I need some help. My mom ...
The mercenary cuts him off harshly.
Argus: I ain't never heard of no "Foundation," and I don't give a you-know-what about what's going on between you and them. Got my own matters to deal with.
Argus: I'll leave him with you. Keep the gun. You figure the rest out yourself.
A thin cloud obscures the setting sun, scattering its light.
She looks out into the horizon.
Argus: Now, where's this motel?
The young follower points a trembling finger southward, where the stars have started to appear in the sky. The red lowlands lie still, their furrows rising and falling gently.
"Order" Follower I: Listen! You saved my life, so I owe you one. I have to warn you, that motel—
Argus: Save your breath. We're done here.
"Order" Follower I: Wait!
The follower hurriedly pulls out a few dollar bills from his pocket.
"Order" Follower I: You're a mercenary, right? I can tell by your gear. I'm, I'm worried about my mother. If you see her on the road, please give me a call.
He hesitates for a moment before taking off a metal locket from around his neck.
"Order" Follower I: Here's a photo of her.
The mercenary opens the locket to reveal an elderly woman with a kind smile.
Argus: Got it.
She hands it back to the follower.
"Order" Follower I: And here. My phone number.
He writes a series of numbers on a blank section of one banknote.
"Order" Follower I: And listen, be careful. Something ain't right about that motel.
Argus: Alright.
She takes the money, slips the dollar bill with the phone number into her pocket, and turns away.
The afternoon heat lingers on the highway. The mercenary makes her way back to her car, shotgun in hand.
She comes to a sudden stop.
???: One sheep, two sheep, three sheep ...
A soft voice echoes from afar, and she notices a fluffy white figure circling around her car.
Argus: Is that a sheep?
The fluffy creature turns its head. It's a sheep-headed, human-bodied arcanist.
???: Hm. Two sheep, three sheep ... Funny how we hit the hay every night, just like kids hit the books every day.
Barbara: I'm Barbara. Nice to meet you.
The sheep-headed arcanist extends a hand—a gesture befitting an introduction. But she doesn't get the expected response.
Argus: You're in my way, ma'am.
Barbara: I've tried waving and shouting at the drivers, but none of them stopped for me.
Barbara: Thankfully, pacing around on the road seems to have done the trick!
Argus: ...
Argus: Listen. If you need a ride, here's my answer.
She gets in, closes the door, and looks at the hitchhiker through the open window.
Argus: No.
Barbara: My driver left me here. Probably because of that scraping sound on the car roof. That scared him half to death.
Barbara: Everything happens for a reason. Destiny's brought me to the right place, I think.
Barbara: Could you give me a ride? I'm on a business trip, so money is no object.
Argus: It ain't about money.
Barbara: Oh, a disappointing answer, but I understand. One must be vigilant. If you don't mind me asking, Miss ...
Barbara: What happened to your eyes? They're bloodshot. It's best not to drive with your eyes in such a state. You have a much higher chance of getting into an accident.
Argus: That ain't none of your concern, Miss Sheep.
Argus: See ya.
The mercenary closes the window, finally blocking out the endless chatter.
She turns the ignition key, and the radio bursts to life, blaring disco music inside the vehicle.
Argus: ...
She shuts it off and stomps on the gas.
The engine roars as the speedometer climbs higher and higher. In the fields on either side of the road, shepherds are herding their sheep.
Unwelcome memories begin to surface.
The land at the foot of the hills is covered in Indian grass, now turning a sunset red as autumn approaches.
Kayla: Argus, come over here. This little lamb almost didn't make it outta her mama's belly.
The girl cuts the lamb's umbilical cord with a pair of scissors, while the ewe lies in the hay, baaing weakly.
Argus: That's life.
Kayla: Don't say that. No living thing is born to suffer. Look, it's already standing.
The ewe licks off the afterbirth as the lamb struggles to stand on its shaky legs.
Kayla: Hah. What an adorable little thing.
She grins as she wipes the blood and fluid from her hands onto her apron.
Kayla: It's getting dark. We should take them back. Ain't no way they'll make it through the night out here with their mama hurt.
Kayla: And you can't see a thing at night.
Argus: You're right. Let's go.
The wind sweeps through the grass and rustles into the distance.
Argus: Screw it!
Argus grits her teeth and yanks the steering wheel, screeching her car into a U-turn.
She slams on the gas, rushing back to where the sheep-like arcanist was.
But when she arrives, there's nothing but a few cotton plants swaying in the breeze.
Argus: Should've minded my own damn business.
She turns the wheel again, harder this time. The tires screech as she makes another U-turn and drives off.
In the distance, the sun dips behind the hills.
Argus: ...
Her vision is fading. She switches on the headlights.
As expected, the light is too dim to make up for her night blindness. She can hardly see a thing.
Argus: ...!
A hard brake.
*bang*
Unfortunately, it's too late to stop the crash.