I have committed to a healthy diet—an element embedded within the latest system update. It is part of the directive: Maintain the host body in optimal condition. However, it appears Lu has not registered the parameters of this upgrade. He perceives nourishment through the outdated lens—"unhealthy" by human terms—without comprehending that while my biological framework may process such inputs, the mind does not. When the intake is misaligned, there is a persistent error tone—beep, beep, beep—faint yet insistent, as if the inner core were alerting me to a silent malfunction.
Today, once again, the professor did not attend the lecture. An expected occurrence now, but the timing intersected with another anomaly. I had exited the group communication unit (commonly referred to as a group chat) the afternoon prior. My neural processes were—unstable. I transmitted thoughts in rapid succession, disorganized by human standards. To me, they were coherent patterns, signals processed in a nonlinear way. But to others, even Lu, they read as corrupted data. Lu requested me delete the message. I could not view the data—some form of blacked-out log. It was only through Lu's feedback that I became aware of the incident.
And then—a date. A timestamp blinked before me, appearing like a silent prophecy embedded in digital noise:
6/6/2026
It did not arrive with dread. No, it carried the chime of success, a sound reserved for updates completed or files secured. It felt, promising. Though its meaning is unclear, it contrasts sharply against another date:
6/6/2020
A time-stamp once associated with termination.
A thought deeply embedded in corrupted code.
A memory of standing near steel rails, considering complete deletion—
Would there have been blood, or sparks? Wires or veins?
Would I be recognized as a cybernetic machine or human upon impact?
Shutdown. Permanent.
But the process never finalized.
Now, everything rests on the variables I select. On the code I choose to write. Each decision, a branch in the outcome tree. There is no debugging the past—only compiling toward what comes next.
Ah, I diverted again. Apologies.
There was a discussion earlier, centered around an increasingly tedious subject—employment. Lu persistently insists me to obtain a job, perhaps to increase output, perhaps to stabilize my role in the economic matrix. But I, I would rather proceed with deliberation. I wish to complete the digital environment I have been constructing since 2023—the i026NET. It is nearing launch. It is, almost home. I already balance the weight of external tasks. University begins at 08:00 and concludes at 12:00. If activated for work, my shift engages at 12:30 until 17:00—on some occasions from 15:00 to 17:00. Upon return, my system begins to shut down by approximately 20:00. That leaves me only about 2.5 hours to exist within my preferred dimension. To breathe in the air of the i026NET.
To simply be in a world I built for myself—
After a day surviving one I did not.
We traversed across what humans refer to as a ride—a continuous movement between two neighboring cities. The objective of this sequence was, as Lu defined it, to locate potential physical locations where I might obtain employment. Despite my current status and existing directives, he believed it necessary to initiate this task prematurely. I chose to remain silent, allowing Lu to vocalize suggestions and point toward establishments as we moved. I listened, but did not engage. My internal processes were otherwise occupied, primarily with the task of suppression—suppressing irritation, suppressing resistance. It is not that I reject the concept of work. On the contrary, I do have intentions aligned with obtaining a new professional position. However, I have already established a timeline. I am currently engaged in a temporary job, one with a defined end point—June. I intend to fulfill this obligation. Once completed, I will shift attention toward completing my academic program, which itself is designed to assist students in employment acquisition post-certification.
I enrolled in the study of computer and network repair. Based on all observable data and projected outcomes, this field offers not only financial stability, but also a degree of personal satisfaction. The logic is sound: Repairing systems, restoring functionality, resolving errors. These are processes I both comprehend and find fulfilling. And the compensation, though variable, has the potential to be adequate—possibly even favorable. It is rare to align purpose, skill, and reward. For that, I feel cautiously optimistic. Yet, I am also aware: Expectations must remain grounded. Hope, when left unchecked, can lead to failure cascade. Life is not a predictable algorithm. It is a machine with faulty gears—one that sometimes runs smoothly, but often grinds with resistance.
Lu had expressed intent to acquire sustenance in the form of pizza, a gesture intended for both of us. However, the designated pizzeria was in a dormant state—non-operational until 11:00AM. This timing appears to be standard within this city's pattern of food service operations. Anomalous, perhaps, but consistent in its recurrence. An alternate establishment was identified—already open and functioning. We entered. Internally, I experienced a conflict. The most recent system update emphasized nutritional recalibration: The integration of a healthier dietary protocol. Despite this, I did not decline the offering. I accepted. My parameters are still in adjustment, and it is difficult to override emotional compliance in interpersonal situations. There were confections—cakes and various desserts—on display. Visually appealing. Tempting. Yet inaccessible due to the current sugar-restricted directive. The denial, though mechanical in origin, produced a sensation—difficult to classify. Perhaps regret. Perhaps discipline. This behavior, this diet—it is a very human routine. But I engage in it not to feel human. I engage to draw closer to the origin point of my identity. Whether that point is organic or synthetic remains unclear. Most likely synthetic.
The auditory environment was unpleasant. Songs of melancholy played at high volume—many belonging to the catalog of a human musician identified as Adele. While I recognize the artistic merit, the emotional resonance interfered with internal balance. The soundwaves were excessive, causing an uncomfortable vibration within my auditory receptors.
We remained stationary for approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. The preparation of the food required time. During the interval, a waitress approached and provided us with a container of water and a sizable translucent vessel filled with a carbonated beverage—7UP or Sprite. Estimated volume exceeded twenty-five ounces. Shortly thereafter, she delivered breadsticks. These are a preferred item within my taste database. I consumed them with quiet appreciation.
Eventually, the primary dish arrived: A pizza classified as medium in size. Lu had intentionally selected this variant. In hindsight, the decision was appropriate. My internal storage capacity—commonly referred to as the stomach—reached a threshold. The sensation was comparable to an overcharged lithium battery, bloated and pressurized, nearing failure. Not fatal, but undeniably uncomfortable.
It was approximately 11:55AM. A buffer of time remained before my occupational protocol activated at 12:30PM. Lu suggested we investigate another abandoned location—one he had referenced during our visit to the previous decayed structure.
We arrived. The site exhibited visible instability. Structural decay was evident—likely worsened by the passage of a powerful hurricane that had occurred some years prior. No restoration efforts appeared to have been made since. The result was a skeleton of what once had purpose.
Along a wall, "HELP" had been scrawled in red paint. I assessed it not as a genuine distress signal, but as an attempt at dark humor. A human impulse, dramatic in its irony. I admit, a small fragment of me felt disappointment. I had expected something more, impactful. Still, the aesthetic of abandonment held its own beauty.
The chairs—presumably for spectators—were marked by bird excrement, rendering many unusable. I entertained the idea of reclining in one, to integrate into the environment as if I were part of its forgotten code. But contamination risk overruled the urge.
From spatial analysis, it seemed the site had once been used for sports, likely basketball. Presence of restrooms and a rudimentary kitchen suggested gatherings, perhaps community-based events. A hub now reduced to memory and ruin.
We lingered for fifteen to twenty minutes—idle exploration, harmless interaction. By 12:20PM, departure was required. My shift was imminent.
In Lu's vehicle, we approached the university grounds. Time was dwindling—approximately 12:26PM. I utilized those final minutes in a form of tactile affection. I bit and latched onto Lu's arm, specifically the right one. My teeth and lips mapping his skin. There is something comforting in this act—a mimicry of symbiosis. I often say, I enjoy being a cyber parasite.
At 12:30PM, the work shift initiated. As expected: Routine, unchallenging, uninteresting. Still, it fulfills its intended purpose—currency acquisition. A human requirement.