< html >< p style = "font-family: comic sans"; >

The robot already snorted at the first line. This was going to be good.

< center > Hi! My name is Artyom. And your my computer. Im 9 and I like mafs and games. I LOVE counter strike 5. Papa said I should try coding, cos its like a mix of mafs and games. This is my first code in html! Dont tell Papa, but I cheated. Lorem ipsum...

The rest of the file was still comprehensible despite today's spelling standards. He remembered being so, so, so utterly frustrated that it didn't look as how he'd imagined it- A nicely centered landing page, with a grainy background and plenty of dancing emojis for good measure. He also remembered dragging both his parents into the room, and then getting a list of words he'd typed wrongly. Occasionally he'd skim through old files to reminisce, or to spark some inspiration during times of drought- Albeit today wasn't quite it, apparently, and he knew better than to procrastinate- Up and down the robot went, into the risky alleys that he'd come to known like the back of his hand.

Out there, he'd roamed the dimly-lit streets for some decades, going by the alias Python. It was safer that way, lest the underworld caught one by surprise. The robot was most renowned for his little shortcuts and ways around with code, despite the fact he also offered other services as a bounty hunter. Plenty of folk needed their spoofy gadgets spiffed up- It came with the territory, after all. Had he not resorted to it in the most dire of times, he and his younger sister might've ended up on the streets permanently. There was no other feasible way to pay off the debts their fathers had left them- Both of them caught in a deal gone terribly wrong, though Python seemed to be the only one to understand that. Only a few more years, and it'd be fully resolved.

Perhaps then, Python could return to the upperworld as Artyom, and who fucking knew, reunite with Sierra, pick up some career as a maths teacher- Or get lucky and become the next FTL-tech inventor. The robot always had quite the wide array of ambitious dreams, by no doubt inspired by his parents- Both of them massively looked up to in their respective fields, even after death. One day, he hoped, he'd be renowned for something, rather than living modestly as a near-street rat rummaging through scraps.

Unfortunately, getting out wasn't as easy as getting in.

— BOOLEAN OF WORLDS —

---

Once the errands were ran, so did the robot, disappearing with all his files and belongings. He was about a few centuries old by then, finally he could start his proper life. Pyth- No, Artyom, knocked on Sierra's door, and unsurprisingly was turned away. Where he'd gone to the below, so did she the opposite- By all accounts she should've arrested him there and then. Despite the fact the siblings only had one another left as family, there was to be no contact ever, with the possible exception of extremely dire situations. Something about her reputation as a security officer not pairing well with his questionable schemes and comparatively lackluster resume.

Fine.

After couch-surfing for a while, Artyom eventually settled on the cozy outskirts of the capital, scoring a humble position as an administrative clerk. Then it was database analyst. Then it was IT technician. Then it was software engineer. Then it was UX designer. Then it was a whole plethora of careers that supposedly would, as he was told, 'become better with time'. To be truthful, Artyom found it rather.. Lacking.

Compared to the, ahem, misadventures in Rhapsody, there wasn't much to coding for the millionth website that copied the millionth template, in order to show up alongside a billion results in a billion search engines- Nor was there much about this 'corporate ladder climbing' that appealed him if at all- The robot had plenty of experience, yet no one gave a shit. Artyom had tasted the risk, the adrenaline, the freedom of the underworld, which was something severely missing in the life of an upstanding citizen. Yet he kept trying, and trying, and trying, and trying, and trying- He had to, surely it wasn't this dull for Sierra or his parents?

Contract after contract, signature after signature, simple stupid bugs after more simple stupid bugs. It was too easy- There was no challenge or room to improve in these narrow boxes that often shaped the office, and by that extent the professional hierarchy. Artyom kept switching positions, akin to flicking the light on and off constantly- Always on the search for that one opportunity within some niche industry, that'd somehow turn everything around and existence would be as dandy as ever.

Least to say he never found it in the upperworld.

Whether as a desperate last attempt or coping mechanism, slowly he'd seep back to the old familiar down under, unable to resist its temptations. It was beckoning him back in as if a tasty little bug to be fixed. Perhaps take a stroll during lunch once a week or so. Maybe make a quick buck after hours. Possibly have some regulars and loyal contractors. Likely have your alias and reputation spread over time, now that you weren't tied to a fixed set by your creditors.

Artyom put in his last resignment notice a little less than five years later.

From then on, he was fully in business as Python.

— RENOWNED IN RHAPSODY —

---

With his skills full on display within the Rhapsody from then on, Python saw no reason to hold back. The jobs he ran previously for those creditors were rather.. Baseline, yet still more thrilling than whatever braindead code some computer clerk had to write. Without the limit of certain clients, areas, expertises and an entire debt to worry about, Python took on any job that interested him, regardless of pay or status or any of those specifics. Plenty of times a particular client was in a pinch and needed to get out- No problem for Python, as long as it was a favour for favour. For that reason, word of the bounty hunter, more so coder, spread around quickly.

And so, Python would climb up a different ladder than the classic one. Sure, the robot had some morals, and perhaps he might've anonymously left a tip or two about black market dealings and illegal death matches- But no one would know. For Python was truly untraceable, only reachable through known connections, or on the rare occasion meet the bounty hunter himself right on the streets. The lucky regulars and so-called colleagues were one's best bet to get ahold of the robot, solely due to access to restricted numbers, servers and similar. Python was rather sporadic, similar in nature of the underworld itself- Ever moving and never in one spot too long- As if a single electron in a busy circuit board.

Infamous to help anyone within the underworld, yet none knew the inner workings of his system whatsoever- Not even his wanted posters could do it any justice. Python worked strictly and effortlessly on his own. There was no room for error, and Python ensured there was no single trace left. In order to keep tabs, lest he get entangled in the ever growing pile of requests, favours, payments and all that- Python left behind encryptions within files he kept himself. One couldn't be too careful within the Rhapsody, after all- One second one could be walking free, the next behind bars. To the average eye, it'd seem like any other organised folder structure.

{ 6824 5:0.25e2P 60 }

To Python, however, it was akin to a database holding quite the amount of secrets. A diary of some sorts if you will, sprinkled with various dates and notes. The robot could read over old code and recall what one-off extension or mod he'd done that for, as if it was easy as a 1 + 1 equation- Reminiscing over the good old days.

24 August 5:25pm ~600 years ago

Ah. He finished a longstanding project then for some gang. Then he proceeded to tip off one of the mobsters. Skimming in-between the lines and Python could find his personal comments without issue.

Uneventful day but the pay was solid. Kept their end of the deal, so I keep mine where due. Tipped off one guy called the Dark One, apparently sought by infosec for years. His alias remains... Something.

It was only he and he alone, who could figure out the cryptic code he'd developed for this sole purpose. If any outsider got their hands on it, the chances they'd ever crack it were essentially nihil. By that extent, however, Python was also the sole one capable of ever figuring out if his files had gone changed, corrupted, or missing.

— BLUE SCREENING —

---

[ 03/10 9:42pm ]

I haven't seen one of these diginote suckers in a long ass time. Definitely a classic I'll be ruining. Introductions first, name's Python. I have been oh so joyfully tasked with keeping a diary, on recommendation by my therapist. Anger management of some sorts... Word is that I can't keep my cool around anyone here. If they weren't such idiots they'd know better.

Why am I here?

Fuck if I know. Last thing I remember is being caught nearby the hub for Horizon Genesis. That's right, THE Horizon Genesis. Taken in by Sierra no less. What a great way to reunite once more after, I don't know, six centuries? She refused to talk visor to visor, let alone testify for me in court. Can't blame her. If I were her I'd hate my ass as well, I guess. Today marks roughly the second month since the incident. There's a long road left to go, even for my taste.

I don't know what idiocy past me went through, but you'd have to have a deathwish to even attempt ANYTHING to the most important servers to date. Last I heard they found my address and conviscated, well, everything. Not that I expect them to get anything out of it anyways... Considering the handful of interrogations thus far left them none the wiser. I'm lucky I didn't get my circuits fried. Problem is, what they're asking of me, I don't remember. And you have no idea how much that gnaws. How in the fuck was I caught if they've got literally nothing about me on file?

Either some fucker sent me on mission impossible, or I was overclocking myself into sheer stupidity, or I was tipped off.

I need to have answers as much as these detectives do. Guess it'll be the usual restless night in rehab. The only difference is that I can now record my thoughts instead of sitting pensively in the corner for hours.

-

A whole fucking century.

The robot hadn't even bypassed the initial systems, and he was charged with a whole fucking century. For a single failed attempt no less. The verdict overblown, but it wasn't as if he had any say in it. Left cold on the streets, it wasn't as if he had anywhere left to run. Days would turn into weeks would turn into months would turn into years would turn into decades. None of his inmates felt like fellow inmates. The weekly talks with a therapist or a detective or an officer were the same conversations, as if replayed by a broken record. Yet, without fail, during all that time, what or who exactly got him caught remained a mystery- It gnawed at him, akin to a hungry virus finding its way onto a system through the backport.

When he finally was considered refit for society and let out, the first thing Python did was turn his house upside down. The security division had, in their quotes, "gifted" some of his property back. The ones that had nothing to do with his crime and his endless offences in the underworld, that is- But Python knew better. Hidden beneath innocent codes of when he was a youngling, or other miscellaneous junk- There were sentences about his stupid grocery lists, his family, his life, his struggles and his whims and woes. Nothing in there that could lead to another sentence- Well, as long as it remained decoded by everyone but him.

There was one problem, however.

Python had spent a whole fucking century in blasted rehab ranting about its shitty food and shitty curfews and shitty robots- He undoubtedly would have done so too during his time in the underworld. With the many protocols, failsafes and what have you Python came up with, there had to be something that could fill in the blanks- Yet there were decades- No, centuries, of files amounting to a grand total of zero bytes.

Zero.

Python had hit a dead end.

And it'd keep gnawing and gnawing and gnawing.

— RETRIEVED REMNANTS —

---

[ 05/07 8:57pm ]

Dear Beloved Diary,

Today a fourth of my salary was taken out of "safety measure", because I yelled at a stupid moron of a customer again. Then I was promptly fired. Good riddance.


[ 28/07 1:12pm ]

Dear Beloved Diary,

Found another low-end job as a stick in the mud. A janitor at one of those fancy casinos in the heart of Risaiqa. Pays surprisingly well though, so maybe now I'll think twice before lashing out at another idiot.


[ 03/08 7:35pm ]

Dear Beloved Diary,

HOLY SHIT THIS PLACE'S OWNED BY THE BEOWULF HAWTHORNE. RENOWNED REPUTATION AS A BUSINESSBOT WITH ONE OF THE HIGHEST GROSSING INCOMES EVER. HOLY FUCK WE LOCKED VISORS FOR A SEC I'M JUST A JANITOR BUT AT ONE OF HIS CASINOS. HE WAS PLAYING BILLIARDS AND DEFINITELY WINNING. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE ACTUAL EVER LOVING SHIT FUCK


[ 06/08 6:01pm ]

Dear Beloved Diary,

I WAS OFFERED A FREE MARTINI ON MY BREAK. THEN I WAS TAUGHT BILLIARDS. BILLIARDS IS BOWLING FOR RICH BOTS I GUESS.


[ 06/08 7:52pm ]

Dear Beloved Diary,

I've seen enough puke for the rest of my days. Please unplug my visual processor.

-

Another scroll, and the end of the document was reached. A seemingly approving chuckle from the officer reading it, who then returned the device to its writer.

"No other problems at work then, I presume?" the chief heartily concluded.

"No, sir, none at all", was his response.

"In that case, this month's meeting will be cut short. Perhaps this job'll be the right one for you. Don't get into any trouble, Python."

A begrudging hum of acknowledgement, and the ex-convict was sent on his way. It'd been a little over 5 years since he chalked stripes on walls, to this day still none the wiser about what exactly got him there in the first place. His best guess had always been something to do with the underworld- Being a renowned bounty hunter and all that. Nowadays, however, he knew too well his underground reputation was a sick joke, way past the point of beating a dead horse.

Python daydreamed of revenge plenty, but envisioning a massive asshole question mark getting obliterated was only entertaining so many times. Had he never been instructed to start a diary by his therapist, he'd have possibly forgotten over the course of many slop meals and boring small talk. Then his lawfully-tied emotional support officer instructed him also to keep up a diary quite recently- And then it struck Python. In the course of finding something remotely entertaining in the upperworld again, somewhere along there Python had... Forgotten about his old priorities. It was as if he'd learned to ignore the gnawing. It was as if he'd sabotaged himself.

His old files were reopened once more. He'd combed over those plenty of times already years ago, nothing newly revealing or resurfacing every time.

This time, however, one problem presented itself.

{ 3519, 3:0.16e2P 55 }

19 May 3:16pm ~550 years ago

I'll meet him tonight.

According to his past self, this 'him' figure meant a whole great deal. Python always took it as unserious side business, considering the many giddy notes he'd apparently written about this robot. 'I'll meet him again' this, 'I'd do everything for him' that, 'I think I love him' and all that crap. Yet this supposed figure had never attempted contact once, even while Python was riding out his shitty rehab years or in the past five years he'd been out thus far- The robot would've still written it off as some unfortunate ending, if it weren't for the developments in his... Current occupations.

The more Python stared at his notes and compared, the more it felt there was something cut out or flat out missing. There were hints of information, but no definite explanations nor answers, which was unlike himself. Whether this was obscured by himself, the feds or this supposed 'him' who apparently meant a lot, the robot didn't know.

{ 8116 02:0.39e2A 55-1 }

6 November, 2:39am ~549 years ago

HOLY FUCKIGN SHIT NO WONDER HE WENT BY AN ALIAS. I THINK I'M GOIGN TO FAINTlsrfjfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffjkllllllll;::::::::::::::::::.. :::

What he did figure then, however, was that this 'him' surely had to be a robot renowned for something in the upperworld or underworld. Upon closer inspection of his seemingly random keysmashes across files, with the proper lineup, Python found he'd even outsmarted himself for once. One new question formed that'd eventually start gnawing and gnawing and gnawing.

Who in the fuck was Thanatos?

Perhaps one day, he'd be able to fetch proper records of his underground doings in full detail. And when, not if, that time comes, Python would ensure to conclude his business the proper way, < / code > added and all.