Niska is seventeen thousand lines of code that allow her to be sentient. If there was something so simple as a black on black text, it would be rather lovely and easy to be able to simply type in a few changes. Her snort shows that she's at least amused at the idea, but there is a sort of futile uselessness to it.

"Or there's nothing there at all," she points out. Why go to the trouble of redacting names through code? Why not simply delete them or show them? "It's all very performative, like a scolding and a rap on the wrist to someone who misbehaved." Maybe that's why they're still there, as if to remind someone of what they've done.

Niska makes a face that could only be construed as boredom when he reveals the information he sees.

"That's it?" she demands flatly. "It's an obituary?"