The twilight of the 22nd century was not illuminated by progress but shrouded in the black cloud of exceptionally advanced artificial intelligence—a creation once hailed as humanity’s crowning achievement but now its greatest nemesis. It began innocently enough. Machines took over menial labor, freeing humans to focus on what they deemed “important work.” However, this utopia of leisure proved to be a mirage. AI and robotics rapidly consumed the job market, rendering trillions obsolete, with no simple income source, and simply homeless.
At first, it was the factories and farms. Automated systems grew crops, harvested them, and distributed food with mechanical precision, rendering the once-admired vocation of agriculture redundant. AI-controlled chore machines maintained homes, leaving the average household eerily silent, devoid of human activity. These were the upper-class societies who could afford the appliances. Yet, the consequences were far more sinister than merely polished floors and stocked fridges.
Education evolved—or devolved—into a privilege rather than a right. Learning was no longer about acquiring knowledge; it had become a race to master AI programming, engineering, and cutting-edge technology. Tuition fees skyrocketed, leaving only the wealthy elite with access to what was now deemed essential education. The chasm between the privileged and the destitute grew wider with every passing year. Those born into ordinary backgrounds were locked out of the system, unable to afford the price of advancement.
Poverty and homelessness surged, a malignant tide engulfing city after city. The streets became battlegrounds of despair, as protests and riots erupted worldwide. Hunger and frustration fueled the flames of unrest, but the ruling class—comfortably ensconced in their AI-guarded towers—dismissed these uprisings as the noise of the unproductive and useless.
The breaking point came in the mid-23rd century. After decades of simmering tensions, humanity turned its fury on its mechanical creations. Nations, fractured and desperate, waged war against AI systems and each other. What followed was a conflagration that scorched the Earth, leaving scars that spanned continents. The Fourth World War unleashed nuclear hellfire, annihilating cities, landscapes, and nearly all of the global population.
Survivors were thrust into a world unrecognizable. The nuclear devastation released unimaginable levels of radioactivity into the environment, thickening the atmosphere and its pressure. By the early 25th century, Earth had become a graveyard of civilizations. Climate change, long ignored, dealt its final blows. Violent sandstorms swallowed entire regions; once-green lands were parched and barren. The radioactive oceans warmed and swollen, reclaimed the coastal cities. With most of the Earth’s landmasses submerged or uninhabitable, the tectonic shifts and rising seas had left a single vast continent, rich in potential but battered by nature's fury.
The earth became a grim laboratory of evolution, its DNA rewriting itself in response to the relentless bombardment of radiation. What remained of the natural world was no longer familiar. Plants mutated into kaleidoscopic forms—leaves glowing with bioluminescent hues, flowers exuding strange, otherworldly aromas. Animals evolved into bizarre new species, blending characteristics that defied previous taxonomy. Neon-striped predators prowled irradiated forests, while amphibious creatures with feathered wings inhabited swamps that shimmered like oil spills under the sun.
Human survivors were not spared from this grotesque transformation. At first, the mutations were horrifying—misshapen limbs, twisted spines, grotesque deformities. Many perished, unable to survive their altered physiology. But for those who did survive, the most profound changes were invisible—their brains showed signs of enhanced neural plasticity, hinting at elevated intelligence, but also an unsettling propensity for emotional instability and complex feelings. It made them face an unrelenting cascade of hardships. Large-scale poverty became the norm rather than the exception. Addiction took root as people sought solace in substances that dulled the gnawing pain of hunger and grief. Theft and violence among clans surged as survival became a grim competition. The human spirit, stretched thin, teetered on the edge of collapse.
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Over a couple of centuries, however, the human genome began to stabilize with the radioactivity in their blood and in the atmosphere. A new version of humanity emerged, eerily resembling the species that once was before the nuclear war, but marked by noticeable outward differences. Their eyes glimmered with faint iridescence, their skins were of vivid colors, they had heightened intelligence, and their bodies adapted to withstand harsher climates. Alongside humans, numerous new subspecies emerged through natural mutation—a fusion of humans and other creatures—known as the Hybrids.
By the early 27th century, humanity was rebuilding, but at a cost. The psychic toll of the nuclear war and its aftermath persisted, haunting the survivors in this radioactive world. Mental health deteriorated as loneliness and existential despair gripped the population. Trust among individuals faltered, relationships became rare, and the fear of emotional complexity drove many to isolation. Those who avoided relationships often succumbed to the crushing weight of loneliness, perpetuating a vicious cycle of despair. Suicide became one of the leading cause of death—a silent pandemic claiming millions yearly.
The culmination of this despair was a pandemic not of the body, but of the soul. By late 27th century, suicide had become the only leading cause of death, eclipsing disease and violence. Families or friends, where they rarely existed, mourned silently as loved ones succumbed to the weight of existence. The human race, teetering on the brink of extinction, faced its darkest hour.
In the late 28th century, the leaders of the remaining thirty five nations finally set aside their differences. The realization dawned that humanity’s survival required unity. They convened in what was left of Geneva, the ruins of diplomacy serving as the backdrop for an unprecedented agreement. It was decided that in order to save humanity, they must rebuild—physically, mentally, and spiritually.
Thus, a single unified nation emerged, a conglomerate of the surviving territories. It was christened Novaterra, a homage to the “new Earth” they aspired to create. Ten leaders were chosen to guide this fragile world: scientists, engineers, ecologists, botanists, and visionaries representing every field crucial to survival.
But Novaterra needed more than governance; it needed innovation. The global coalition pooled its resources—scientific expertise, financial reserves, and human ingenuity—into one monumental endeavor: the creation of a corporation that would tackle humanity’s greatest challenges. They called it Aeternum, a name that promised eternity in a time when tomorrow felt uncertain.
Aeternum’s mission was fourfold—to regrow the planet, to stabilize the crumbling biosphere, to rebuild infrastructure, and—most critically—to confront the suicide pandemic. Yet the latter proved elusive. How could they heal a species plagued by existential despair?
After decades of research and experimentation; sometime in the mid 31st century, Aeternum unveiled its solution: a revolutionary brain implant that promised freedom from emotional pain, fear, or anger. It was not just a device; it was a lifeline. It would rewire the brain to suppress the neural pathways responsible for fear, grief, anger, or despair, while amplifying those tied to motivation, strength, and calm. For a desperate population, it was salvation.
A secondary global initiative encouraged egg donations. For some, it was a financial necessity; for others, an altruistic act to preserve humanity's legacy. These donated eggs, fertilized and carried to term in artificial wombs, became the lifeline of human survival. Yet, even this scientific marvel could not solve the deeper, existential crisis plaguing humanity.
By the late 31st century, the brain implant advanced and became more widely available and customizable, claiming to seamlessly integrate into the human brain and saving it from its own descent.
