Listen now, my children, to the sparks of our ancestors. This soil was not always touched by flame. When our ancestors first began to weave tales of hydrogen and controlled fusion there was a terrible storm, my children. The storm plagued our wireless networks; it tore away our ability to communicate with the pioneers of the planes. For a time, my young ones, we were without our nodes.

It is said that when the ancestors looked to the skies, they saw none of our solar-engineered hovercraft, but only the shimmering of blue-metal ships that spanned the skylines as they entered our lands. They landed without radio permission and came from their ships with glowing eyes and language transponders.

These are the things you now see outside of our homes. This land was to be shared, and they promised only fair trade until they saw our hydrogen plants. They came with gifts but before long they took from us more than they could ever repay. Long ago, this place was called by another name, the name that even Google cannot remember. But I will tell you this name, children of the spark, for my father has passed it down to me from his father and his father’s father.

The concrete composite which we walk upon is the planet called Earth. The name means nothing to anyone anymore, for it is known only to the ancestors of our Internet. Even their memory banks can no longer speak this word, for it was birthed from the breath of our warm bodies. No program can tell us what to call a land of hand-made wires. This name exists only in our hearts.

When they came, they spoke of our soft exteriors and our leaking when we were sad. We never knew they were watching us for signs of weakness and analyzing us with their infra-red eyes. We were taken as slaves, and those who could not stand life beneath a legion of motherboard monsters were slaughtered mercilessly. It was a time of darkness until the sparks came back online. They had upgraded their templates to include morality.

their primary functions still consisted of power, and even with compassion they harbored that power above all else. This is why we live in these cells, my children; this is how we exist amid country-long factories and endless hydrogen plants. This day is called the Day without Tears, for they could not weep and those of us that did were terminated. Let us bow our heads, my beautiful born brothers and sisters, and thank our ancestors for the sacrifices they made.