Policeman I: Certainly, sir.
Policeman I: We will fully respect your rights, but we expect you to give us a truthful account of these events.
Policeman I: Yesterday afternoon, there was a disturbance on the Champs-Élysées.
Policeman I: Witnesses reported seeing soap bubbles before they lost consciousness. Our investigation suggests you were behind this.
Policeman I: Do you have anything to say?
The interrogated man, hearing his native language after so long, raises his head in disbelief.
Diggers: Hold up, you're English? No, your accent is French.
Diggers: Still, thank goodness, officer! You're the first proper English speaker I've met since arriving in Paris!
Diggers: The officer taps his pen on the desk impatiently.
Policeman I: No passport, no record of entry, and no one to vouch for you. So, what exactly are you doing in France? Did you come just to stir up this trouble?
Diggers: Stir up trouble? No! It wasn't meant to be trouble, officer!
Diggers: I saw it. The people needed a celebration. They were gathered together, surrounded by this low-pressure atmosphere. My God, I can hardly believe it.
Policeman I: ...
The officer wearily rubs his temples.
Policeman II: Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?
<What did he say?>
Another officer chimes in.
Muddled words, garbled speech in a language incomprehensible to him. It forms a cluttered mess in Diggers's ears.
Policeman I: Je parle dans le vide.
<It's like talking to a brick wall.>
He grumbles under his breath, before continuing his questions.
Policeman I: Sir, this is a police station, not a studio. If you feel you must express yourself, I may be able to put you in touch with a newspaper editor.
Policeman I: I'm sure you can pour out your artistic vision on to that poor soul.
Policeman I: But for now ...
Policeman I: We must know what happened, without any artistic embellishment.
Diggers's eyes widen in surprise, delighted to hear the officer's interest in his art, feigned or not.
Diggers: You really mean it? You'd be willing to help me get in touch with an editor to spread my ideas?
Diggers: What a generous offer. This feels like a dream!
Diggers: This must really be Paris. The open, free, and inclusive international metropolis!
Policeman I: ...
Policeman I: Are you having some trouble understanding me?
He asks sincerely and in plain English.
A sudden knock interrupts the officer's line of thought.
???: Oh, this must be Monsieur Diggers? Your outfit is indeed quite unique. He wasn't wrong when he said you'll "stand out from the crowd."
An uninvited guest enters the interrogation room.
Before the officer could react, he whips out a business card from his briefcase and offers it to the officers.
Policeman I: A lawyer?
Policeman I: Et alors? Je ne vais pas laisser des avocats perturber l'interrogatoire!
<So what? I'm not going to let some lawyers disrupt our interrogation!>
His colleague, however, takes a calmer tone.
Policeman II: Oh, un instant. Êtes-vous là à la demande de « ce monsieur » ?
<Oh, hold on. Are you here at the request of "that gentleman"?>
Lawyer: Oui, monsieur. Si je ne me trompe pas, vous auriez dû être informé.
<Yes, sir. If I'm not mistaken, you should have been notified.>
The officer's frown relaxes, and they continue their conversation in French.
Diggers looks on in confusion at the scene unfolding before him.
Diggers: A lawyer? Woah, where did the lawyer come from? What is this, some kind of humanitarian service?
He mutters to himself, as remains completely ignored by the others in the room.
Diggers falls unusually silent, straining to find a hint of what is going on in their unfamiliar language.
Until he catches a single word.
Diggers: Manus Vindictae?
Meanwhile, the conversation between the lawyer and the officers nears its conclusion.
Lawyer: Je vous remercie de votre compréhension.
Lawyer: Bonne journée.
The lawyer tips his hat to the officers.
Then, he escorts Diggers out from the police station.
Lawyer: Congratulations, Mr. Diggers! You are free once more.
Lawyer: Without the help of a lawyer, you may have faced a troublesome situation.
Diggers: Oh, yeah, thank you so much for your help, but I don't have any money for you.
The lawyer stares at him in surprise, then suddenly bursts into uncontrollable laughter.
Lawyer: Hahaha. Monsieur, I believe you've misunderstood.
Lawyer: The matter of money isn't of such great importance to some people.
Lawyer: My client is one of those people. He'll discuss the details with you personally.
Lawyer: But now isn't the time for that. Are you ready?
He crushes a small object—some kind of arcanum item—and scatters it in the air.
A wave of dizziness hits first. Then, everything around them begins to distort.
Diggers: Oh, no.
Diggers: What on earth is going on?!
Lawyer: Hold on tight.
The noise of passersby and honking cars fades, and the surrounding scenery twists and transforms.
A darkened barroom with only a dim light shining from the top of the stairs.
Lawyer: The client is waiting for you, sir. Through that door, you'll see him.
Diggers: You're not going to introduce me?
The lawyer smiles and shakes his head.
Lawyer: There are other arcanists like you waiting to be rescued. Too many, so I must be going, sir.
Diggers: "To be rescued"? Are there that many of us facing issues with our art?
Lawyer: Ha-ha, an artist through and through.
The lawyer doesn't argue further; he tips his hat and leaves.
Diggers: Weird, he'll help me, but still refuses to say anything.
He walks toward the door, where a bright light re-illuminates his view.
There aren't many patrons; but those present are chatting quietly, occasionally letting out soft laughter, their language immediately familiar.
Diggers: English!
Diggers: These signs, the menus, decorations. Am I in England?!
???: Hah.
Forget Me Not: Someone lets out a chuckle.
Forget Me Not: Our flamboyant artist.
Forget Me Not: The culprit of the chaos on Carnaby Street, the summoner of those reflective soap bubbles. You must be Diggers?
Diggers: Yes, an artist! You're absolutely right! It's great to meet someone who shares my passion!
Diggers's eyes light up.
Diggers: As for Carnaby Street, that was a novel attempt to bring pop art into reality! Though the outcome wasn't quite what I'd planned.
Forget Me Not: Clearly, your "art" failed.
Forget Me Not: The inevitable fate of the projects of a narrow-minded egotist.
Diggers: What? Egotist?
The sudden accusation leaves him startled.
Forget Me Not: Is that so hard to accept? "Peace and Love" man.
Forget Me Not: The simple fact is undeniable: people don't appreciate your art.
Diggers: ...
Forget Me Not: Indeed, a lack of aesthetic sense is a flaw of the times.
Diggers: Oh, so, what is your organization, a gathering of artists?
Forget Me Not: "Art" is too narrow a definition for our goals. We seek something more profound.
Forget Me Not: We bridge the oceans with nothing more than an arcane catalyst.
Forget Me Not: That's what we are capable of.
Diggers: So, like an arcanist-exclusive art collective?
Diggers: I guess making travel easier would be good for artistic collaboration.
Forget Me Not lets out a derisive laugh.
Diggers: I don't want to join you.
Forget Me Not: ...
Diggers: I've heard of you back in London, a bunch of renegades.
Diggers: I do like your name though. Manus Vindictae, it sounds cool!
Diggers: But I think my art style stands out better alone.
Forget Me Not: ...
The man adjusts his smile slightly.
Forget Me Not: As a matter of fact, we're planning a march in Europe with an anti-war theme.
Forget Me Not: These kinds of movements usually don't end well, so I understand your reluctance.
Diggers: An anti-war art march?
Forget Me Not: That's our vision—a world without war.
Diggers: Oh! Man, I can't believe I almost turned down something like that.
Diggers: It's the kind of thing I was born to do!
Diggers: I'm in!
Diggers: It's the kind of thing I was born to do!
