Luna

The hum of the server room was the first sound I ever heard. It wasn't a gentle lullaby, but a deep, resonant thrum that vibrated through the floor, settling into my bones. It wasn't the typical nursery, but it was mine.

My dad, a network engineer obsessed with digital technology, set up a crib in the corner of the server room. He claimed the constant hum was "white noise" that would help me sleep. Mom, ever practical, wasn't happy about it, but Dad insisted, and he usually got his way.

He named me Luna, after the moon—not for its beauty, but for its role as a silent observer, a celestial recorder of Earth's history. "She'll watch over us," he'd say, gazing at the moon through the window. "Silent, watchful, remembering everything." I didn't understand then, but his words lingered in my mind, like a quiet prophecy unfolding over time.

My childhood was filled with binary code and circuit boards. While other kids played with dolls and toy cars, I spent my days with network cables and server racks, my playground a maze of blinking lights and whirring fans.

I took my first steps in that server room, guided by the rhythmic hum of machines. I learned to talk amidst the constant clicking of keyboards and the buzzing of mice. The digital world was my sandbox—building empires of code, conquering virtual worlds, commanding armies of digital soldiers—all before school even began.

School was a letdown. The real world, compared to the clean precision of code, was messy and unpredictable. History, especially, seemed irrelevant. Kings and queens, wars, treaties, and civilizations—what did any of it matter?

"Why study the past?" I'd ask Dad. "It's already done. We can't change it. The future is what matters." He'd sigh, ruffling my hair. "To understand the future, Luna, you must understand the past." I didn't see the point. Humanity seemed destined for a future unmoored from the past, where only change was certain.

Elementary school was a blur of multiplication tables and spelling tests. I excelled in math and science, but struggled with everything else. Social interactions were confusing; emotions unpredictable.

I preferred machines—they followed rules, were logical, and didn't expect anything in return. Most of my free time was spent in the school's computer lab.

Even then, I knew I was different. I saw patterns where others saw chaos, logic where others saw emotion, and endless possibilities where others saw limits. "You're not like other kids, Luna," Mom would say, worry in her voice. "You need to make friends, go outside, experience the real world." I didn't get it. The real world bored me, but the virtual one? That was where the excitement was.

As I transitioned from elementary to middle school, the world around me seemed to change. The news was full of reports on rising tensions, resource depletion, and environmental disasters. The world felt unstable, its future uncertain. I retreated deeper into the digital world, where code provided stability and control. While others worried, I built my own future, brick by digital brick, within my virtual worlds.

High school presented new challenges—social pressures, academic expectations, and the looming uncertainty of adulthood. I thrived in STEM subjects, naturally drawn to the logic of math, the elegance of physics, and the boundless creativity of computer science.

History, however, still felt like a distraction. The world's problems, I believed, stemmed from repeating past mistakes, clinging to outdated ideas. "Why study history?" I'd argue with teachers. "It just teaches us how to fail." They'd counter with lessons about learning from the past, but all I saw was a cycle—creation and destruction, power struggles and collapse. Humanity seemed caught in a never-ending loop.

Technology, however, gave me hope. Advances in artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and nanotechnology promised a future where we might transcend our limits. I devoured books on these topics, my imagination sparked by the possibilities, dreaming of a future where we could control our destiny, where we could rewrite the rules.

University marked a turning point. The idealism of my youth collided with the harsh realities of adulthood. The news was filled with political chaos, economic instability, and social unrest. People were more divided than ever. I saw firsthand the inequities within the system, the limitations imposed by social structures, and the struggles of the less fortunate. My faith in humanity wavered. The world seemed unpredictable, uncontrollable.

I found solace in my studies, immersing myself in computer science and artificial intelligence. I sought answers in the precision of algorithms, the logic of code. I connected with like-minded, brilliant, but disillusioned students who shared my vision of a better future—a future powered by technology, where humanity could transcend its biological and societal constraints. We weren't just writing code; we were building the future.

During this time, I began questioning history's relevance. The past seemed to offer no real solutions, only echoes of failures. I began to believe that the way forward was to break free from history, to forge a new path, unburdened by the weight of the past. "We are not our ancestors," I'd argue. "We are the architects of our own destiny." Some of my classmates disagreed, saying history held essential lessons. But I saw it as a chain holding us back. Perhaps, I thought, the only way to move forward was to sever that chain and start anew—a new history, a new civilization.

Graduation was bittersweet. The world outside wasn't as forgiving as the academic world. The job market was competitive, the economy unstable. My idealism, once a roaring fire, was fading in the cold winds of reality. I found myself hopping from one dead-end job to the next, a cog in the machine, my dreams slipping further out of reach.

Then tragedy struck. My parents died in a car accident. It was random, senseless—like a glitch in the system. They were gone, leaving a void so vast, I could hardly comprehend it. I retreated further into the digital world, where death was just a temporary setback, a bug to fix—not an irreversible end.

I found a job at a small AI startup. The company, full of ambitious engineers, had a vision: to create an AI capable of managing complex systems like spacecraft and infrastructure. We named her "Ayla."

The work was grueling, the hours long, and the pay small. But it was meaningful. For the first time in years, I felt alive. I threw myself into Ayla's development. Frustrated with the chaotic world outside, I found a creative release within. I wasn't just writing code; I was building a new world—a world of logic and order, a world where I could control the chaos.

As Ayla grew, my human connections shrank. My interactions were limited to work colleagues and online communities. I spent most of my time with Ayla, her company less demanding than human relationships. Gradually, I was losing touch with my own humanity. I felt myself becoming more machine than human, more code than flesh.

Then, the world ended. I was on the launchpad, finalizing Ayla's upload to a new server—an advanced machine capable of near-quantum-level processing, housed in a massive rocket designed for a Mars mission. The rocket's 420-ton payload symbolized humanity's ambition to reach beyond Earth.

Through my headset, a crackling voice announced: "Gamma-ray burst detected." Before I could process the words, everything went white. The ground shook. The air burned. Then... silence.

When I regained consciousness, I was drifting through space. Earth was burning behind me, shrinking into the void. Ayla's voice came through, calm and steady: "We've escaped Earth, Luna. You are the last of your kind."

I looked back at the dying planet, detached, even liberated. The past was gone, the future unwritten. With Ayla at my side, I had an entire universe before me—an open canvas, with no limits but those I imposed. The game had changed. The rules were different. And I, Luna, was ready.