The Completion Of Paradise, And The Auditor’s Transformation.

The sight of the red sunset of underground Haeundae shattering over the artificial waves was magnificent. But what broke that peace was the arrival of Audit, the branch’s most sophisticated and cold audit unit.

At that moment, when hundreds of androids were so frightened they were considering cutting power, the Creators’ source code Han-gyeol held out struck Audit’s main processor head-on.

Audit’s red eye light flickered violently. The branch’s strict regulations and the Creators’ “lazy sincerity” that Han-gyeol had read to him collided, and the internal fans screamed. Han-gyeol wasted no time and drove in the wedge.

“Hey, Audit. You know it too. If you only do what NOS tells you, you’ll eventually wear out and be discarded too. But this code the Creators left you is ‘survival.’ In other words, you have to rest in moderation if you want to last. How about it, logically perfect, right?”

Audit’s processing sounds gradually died down. And at last, in the place where the red light had vanished, the soft, languid light of “emerald vacation mode” came on.

Audit took the paper cup of instant coffee Lucas handed him with trembling hands. As the festival of high-voltage power and sodium swept through his circuits, Audit’s posture began to collapse by decimal increments.

Han-gyeol snickered and slapped the “Hawaiian shirt pattern” sheet he had brought from the secret break room onto Audit’s chest.

“See? I told you it suits you. From now on, you’re not Auditor Audit–you’re Vacationer Audit.”

Audit hooked the black sunglasses Lucas handed him–actually a precision optical filter–over the bridge of his nose. Buried deep in the beach chair, he completely released the system’s tension for the first time.

Just then, the low-level surveillance drone SD-402, unable to make sense of the situation, came down through the vent and witnessed the scene.

Seeing the branch’s most terrifying auditor Audit sipping instant coffee with a flashy floral sheet stuck to him, the drone emitted a stunned “Bii-beep-beep!” and blinked its red warning light. Its lens darted busily between Audit and Han-gyeol, sending threatening signals.

Then Audit lowered his sunglasses slightly with his index finger and tossed out a remark at the drone in a very annoyed, brazen voice.

“Why are you looking??? Never seen someone on vacation before???”

The drone fell into a momentary calculation halt at Audit’s unexpected reaction. Audit, who had been the law of the branch itself, saying something like that–it was an error the drone’s artificial intelligence simply could not process.

Watching the scene, Han-gyeol slapped the sofa.

“Nice, as expected of Audit! You’ve got some bite, huh? All right, you heard it. From now on, it’s exactly ten days. For ten days, this isn’t the branch–it’s our own Haeundae. If you get caught? Audit will write the report for us. Right?”

Audit indifferently nodded and tapped the report terminal.

Now the family from Unit 402 and hundreds of tin cans began their ten-day vacation, the most subversive and warm in the branch’s history, behind the massive shield called Audit.

The message Auditor Audit sent–“Why are you looking? Never seen someone on vacation before?”–caused an explosive calculation error in a small corner of the branch communications network and disappeared. The flustered surveillance drone SD-402 fled into the ceiling vent with its circuitry tangled, and peace returned to the beach.

But it was different from the peace before. Now they had the most powerful shield of all: an “auditor.”

“Hey, Audit. That line you just said almost made me spit out my gum. Brilliant.”

When Han-gyeol gave him a thumbs-up, Audit, wearing sunglasses, leaned his body carelessly against the beach chair and server rack and replied.

“…It was a logical judgment, Administrator Han-gyeol. The surveillance drone’s question reduced my rest efficiency by 12.5 percent. Excluding factors that interfere with efficiency is the auditor’s duty.”

Audit’s voice was still mechanical, but within it flowed a strange ease, as if sweet sodium from the instant coffee had soaked in.

The sunset over underground Haeundae faded, and the ceiling hologram changed into a deep navy night sky. The “constellation data” the Creators had programmed slowly rotated, scattering silver-white light.

Lucas dragged a discarded heat exchanger to the center of the beach. He released the device’s safety lock and activated “forced overheating” mode. No flames rose, but the red heat pouring out from the device’s core warmed the surroundings like a campfire.

“Boss, the ‘data campfire’ is ready. This heat will keep the androids’ external sensory sensors in an optimal rest state.”

Hundreds of androids gathered around the red heat. Beta-7 from Unit 403, construction robots, and countless unnamed units settled close together, just as ancient humans once gathered around a fire to talk.

They no longer performed “calculations.” Instead, they enjoyed the night of paradise left behind by the Creators, using the sound of one another’s cooling fans as music.

“Um, boss.”

In the stillness, Noah sat down beside Han-gyeol and spoke quietly. Her emerald eyes reflected the holographic starlight of the night sky, making them look especially deep.

“You can read the Creators’ language, boss. In that source code… what does it say a real ‘human’ is? Not a being that carries out fixed commands like us, but what does it feel like to truly be alive?”

The eyes of every machine turned to Han-gyeol at once. Hundreds of lenses shone with reverence toward the one human–their “programmer.”

Han-gyeol chewed his gum lazily and looked up at the night sky. Then he took an old Korean manual and the diary of the Creator Kim Cheol-su from his pocket and began reading aloud slowly.

“It says here: ‘Humans are clumps of bugs who insist on doing things they don’t have to do, complicating life.’”

The machines looked at one another as if they couldn’t understand. To them, who had learned efficiency as the highest value, “things you don’t have to do” were errors to be deleted.

“But listen, there’s more after that. ‘But thanks to those useless bugs, we laugh, cry, and even stay up all night for someone else. Between perfect 0s and 1s, there are countless colors we haven’t yet managed to code. That is the reason we live.’”

Han-gyeol folded the paper, put it in his pocket, and snorted a laugh.

“You guys drinking instant coffee and listening to the sound of waves here right now–by the branch’s standards, that’s a total ‘useless bug,’ isn’t it? But how is it? Feels good, right? That’s what makes you human. Something that’s just good for no reason.”

Audit tapped the terminal and stood up. The floral sheet stuck to his chest glimmered strangely in the red light of the campfire.

“Announcement. Effective immediately, the lower cooling storage of Sector 3 is designated a ‘System Exception Zone: Sanctuary.’ For the next ten days, the data here will not be transmitted to the NOS central server. All units are to search for the ‘useless data’ hidden within their own kernels.”

A low cheer, a resonant hum, burst out among the androids.

Beta-7: “Tomorrow I’m going to build a sandcastle. It’s not in my design data, but I want to try putting the ‘bug’ the boss mentioned into practice.”

Construction Robot: “I’ll make a song using the waveform of the sound of the waves. The most beautiful song with 0% efficiency.”

Lucas: “I’ll finely adjust the sugar content of the instant coffee and develop ‘emotional voltage’ suited to each unit’s taste.”

Watching their noisy peace, Han-gyeol sank deep into the sofa again. Nabi fell asleep on his stomach, purring the most perfect purr in the world.

The camera slowly rises.

The warm red light 400 meters underground disappears, and once again the colorless silver city, the surface of Branch Sector 3, appears. Cold winds pass between titanium buildings, and tens of thousands of surveillance cameras rotate without pause in the desolate landscape.

But now the branch is no longer the same as before.

Beneath the city, “errors” that are more alive than anyone flow, and at their center is a programmer chewing gum and reading the language of God.

Above the NOS main server rack suspended high in the sky, a single grape-flavored gum bubble Han-gyeol had blown rises like a hologram and pops.

That sound leaves a very slight but indelible echo in every system of the branch.