After gracing those mountain hermits with his non-stop chatter and corrections and conspiracies for a hot second, Raygun was back on the road. Totally not because he was politely escorted out and dumped at the border. Who wanted to live out in the alps with no signal or technology anyway? As if he could get any signal even without dying of frostbite with the local yetis. He'd given up on trying to call home with a dinged-up flipphone ages ago, and the one time his call went through, the time before he found himself lost in a still-going hallucination of being some type of stray mutt, no one answered him.

    Raygun wasn't complaining; there was plenty to do out in the middle of nowhere. If only he wasn't so lonely and rejected from society -- he should write a novel about the atrocities against his poor outcast soul. New York Times Bestseller after he became famous and rich off at least one of his inventions. The very first chapter would detail how he was on a thankless quest to reach the rumored observatory hidden in the fields. The mousy-blonde dachshund tilted his nose to the pale sky, sunlight reflecting off his glasses' thick lenses and nearly blinding him. "I didn't know giant observatories were so stealthy," he chuckled to himself, stout legs unable to hold his head up above the tall grass. Belly brushing against the tickling dirt, he -- oh wait, dirt? Raygun paused in his trek, blinking down at the dark soil underfoot and stuck between his paw pads. Huh, he supposed he had been marching across desert sand, decorative rocks, and permafrost for so long he forgot what actual dirt felt like. Not the lame excuse for the filler grit that was laid throughout the suburbs he grew up in. Real, live dirt. He couldnt help but get excited at the prospect, feathery tail wagging like an idiot as he flopped on his side, determined to roll and writhe around in the field's dirt to his heart's content. While his white shirt was collecting dirt and mud and grass seeds like there was no tommorow, it already desperately needed a wash after his drifting from place to place.

    Before long, the tubby dachshund was crawling through the field on his belly, a soldier slithering under barbed wire for the sake of a confidential mission. "Professor Chuck Rogers, log number... 402, reporting in. I have discovered an alien landscape in search for the home base of the Illuminati, yet so far no signs of intelligient life," he mumbled to himself, wiggling his way across the field, blissfully ignorant nose far too damaged by his addictive habits to scent any border. Eventually trailing off from his self-narrative, Raygun settled upon humming his own imagined theme, the notes throaty and out-of-tune as he continued his sidetracked search for nothing in particular.