The common image of the bots in the massive multiplayer hit Quake 3: Arena is that of bloodthirsty, single-minded automatons hell-bent on destroying anything and everything that stands in their path. And yet the recent discovery by a player from Southend-on-Sea of a diary kept by one such bot, known as Sarge, may cast new light on these misunderstood individuals…

February 12th
Above my head the rockets roar on, a never-ending cacophony of death which serves no purpose, no higher cause. Not for the first time I find myself thinking: what am I doing here? Who made the decision that this should be how my life, and inevitably my death, should happen? Not I.

February 15th
Blood. Slaughter. Screams and taunts. A silence that speaks volumes in the aftermath of the frag. What of love, in this dark place? What of beauty?

In another excerpt, Sarge writes of his family back in Ohio…

March 2nd
Today I lost the picture of Phyllis that I kept in my left boot. A bolt of plasma caught me in the leg and it was destroyed. Already her sweet face is fading from my memory. When will I see her again? When shall I lay my head in her soft lap as she soothes away the stresses of the day with gentle words of kindness? Phyllis…

March 5th
Amy’s birthday. She’s five now, and I haven’t seen her for what feels like an eternity. Does she remember me, I wonder? Does she understand why I am not there with her? That I must fight day in, day out, here in the Arena, probably until version 4 is released? Not that that will be any guarantee of my freedom. Marine had but a few short years to visit his goat farm back in Montana before he was recalled to fight alongside us.

As the pages turn, the diary grows darker and darker, presenting a document of a man’s descent into despair and madness…

March 29th
I killed. They killed. We killed. The stonework laughs hollow laughter no trees no grass just stone and metal and fire and the abyss, the abyss like the maw of a big dog and I’m a biscuit. Frag myself, respawn, frag spawn frag spawn frag spawn. The grenades have faces, faces like clowns, bouncing and laughing and joking and booming, do I have a clown’s face? Want a bunny.

There are no further entries. It is not known whether Sarge lost his mind or his pencil.