My planet was a primitive backwater just like yours. I was born weak and sick, and to my people, it'd have been a mercy if I died with my mother. The shaman wanted to sacrifice me to our Shadow Gods, but my father was a strong warrior and forbade it. My father was a savage, just like all those around me, but he had an inkling of goodness absent from the rest of us.

My father might have shown me kindness, but that made little difference to those around me. I gathered with the women while boys my age fought and hunted. I passed the time and escaped their bullying within my head. I told myself stories, and experimented with different forms of communication. The other quickly picked up my phrases and gestures, becoming our world's first language.

While I tried the new words out, my father would bang along on his drum. My words mixed with his heavy beat and became something else. He stared at me while I remained silent and smiling until he banged on the drum again. And thus, I brought my tribe the gift of music and song.

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While these were all meer tricks, it was watching two warriors fighting over a mate that raised me from unwanted cripple to god. Sparks flew from their stones, lighting a small patch of dried twigs before their tussle doused the flames. I venture beyond the walls and replicated what I saw, striking flint and stone and made sparks. By taming fire, I showed myself capable of wielding the elements themselves. My father proudly proclaimed me the new shaman of the village.

Nobody disagreed.

Under my leadership, my people thrived. We moved from caves to huts. Predators that once hunted us were domesticated. I had my choice of mates and built a family of my own, but none of that satisfied me. I led my people forward, looking for the advancement that proved why I existed and why I was so different from everyone else.

Then the machine came.