Diggers: Ha-ha, I agree.
If he knew what the future held, he would never have said those words.
Diggers: Sticky, foul-smelling mask.
Diggers: Painful imprisonment spell.
Diggers: Endless attempts.
Manus Apostle: Stop this foolishness. Your attempts are futile. No one escapes Manus Vindictae.
Manus Apostle: All is set in motion the moment you don that mask.
Diggers: ...
Manus Apostle: But there is some good news to share.
Diggers: What?
Manus Apostle: Don't worry. This time, it's really good news. Well, let's just say, not so bad.
Manus Apostle: Our next mission is on a peaceful island. I've heard they don't even have police there.
Diggers doesn't seem to take the news as any relief.
Manus Apostle: ...
Manus Apostle: Come now, isn't that good news?
Diggers: Destroying peace—that's my mission.
The sunset's glow bathes in vast and open sea, its waves crashing in a steady rhythm, rising and falling.
He sits barefoot on the shoreline, reaching his hand into the gold-tinted waves.
Diggers: So that I can catch the sunset in my hands.
The tide recedes.
Diggers: But the golden water slips away so quickly, like the sands of time.
Diggers: Like the height of the moon or a blooming flower, like a moment of joy or laughter.
Diggers: Why am I here?
Now, art and poetry have both receded out, with tides moving far from him.
Diggers: I should be in London, speaking out for the dead in Hue and Saigon. This world doesn't need more war!
Diggers: "War means tears shed by countless mothers."
Diggers: "Life is precious because it's short. Why do we waste it killing each other?"
Diggers: ...
The sounds of footsteps gently crunch across the sand.
A red-headed Corrector stares out toward the irrational number before her.
Sophia: What is going on here? You shouldn't be here.
Diggers: Shh—quiet.
He watches the seagulls pacing the sand not far away.
Diggers: They get startled easily.
Sophia: You didn't report your outing at all.
Sophia: Several integers were forced to search all night for a missing irrational number, that's unacceptable.
A brief silence.
Diggers: Integers? Irrational numbers? Is that what you people call people?
Diggers: If I were to give up a sunset over these waves for your numbers, that would be an uncountable loss.
The seagulls flap their wings and fly into the distance.
Sophia: But it's necessary. There needs to be an alignment to your overly chaotic soul.
Diggers: I don't get it.
His incessant need to argue the point stirs up annoyance in the girl.
Sophia: You are an irrational number, a collection of disorder and chaos. You must accept the Truth to approach the realm of rational numbers.
Diggers: Why should people be expressed as numbers, rational or not?
Diggers: How come 1 is thought, 2 is opinion, 3 is wisdom, and 4 is strength?
Diggers: Haven't you noticed? All your choices are confined within a tiny number.
Diggers: No branching paths, no sights along the way.
Sophia: ...
Diggers: Miss Sophia, you can't explain everything with maths.
He points toward the horizon.
Diggers: Look, the sun is almost gone now.
Diggers: The calm night will bring reflection, and although twilight is brief, it brings eternal memories.
Diggers: Then, the moon will rise and pull back the tides. The seagulls will return to their nests and sleep with their heads tucked under their wings. Everything will be still and quiet.
Diggers: Where are the numbers in all of that? Where's the maths?
He closes his eyes.
The water laps at his skin.
Diggers: A seashell just touched my toe. Do you have a number to describe that feeling?
Sophia: A seashell?
Sophia: That's not a seashell.
Diggers opens his eyes and looks down to his toes.
After a few blinks, his unfocused eyes make out the object before him.
Diggers: —?!
A black Browning pistol.
Diggers: Oh no, Bad Civilization is here.
Diggers: A gun, why is there a gun here?