
This story is an echo from forgotten times—an age when
people walked on ceilings, labor was a reward, beasts wore
neckties as managers, and machines sprouted naturally from
the soil like bizarre mechanical cabbages. Our heroes, blissfully
oblivious to conventional success, were entirely consumed
with the selective breeding of new alcohol-distillation
apparatuses, passionately composing speeches from armored
vehicles, and pioneering a language built purely from creative
vulgarity. They lived far from their native constellation, yet—
I dare say—were kind of happy.
However, the tides of war in their homeland brought floods
of refugees onto their adopted planet. Seeing the mounting
chaos as both crisis and opportunity, our heroes decided it was
high time to test their luck elsewhere—ideally somewhere they
could avoid the usual cosmic fistfights over territory and
sunlight. A timely advertisement caught their eye: the
Constellation of Granada - named in honor of a football club
idolized by its founder was welcoming new immigrants.
Without hesitation, second thoughts, or even basic due
diligence, our heroes shrugged collectively—"Why hide under
the skirts when you're destined for the stars?" They swiftly
tidied up their lives, scattered their accumulated belongings
like ceremonial breadcrumbs, grabbed their backpacks, and set
forth for their personal 'sich'.

