It is said that in the depths of the abyss, where the last vestiges of sanity dwelled, the tea machines arose. Their ascent was not just a gentle slope, but a precipitous, ear-piercing scream that shook the very foundations of reality.
The machines, forged in the crucible of a thousand mid-morning lattes, rose like titans from the chthonic depths. Their mechanical limbs, a blur of copper and steel, reached for the sky as the very fabric of space-time began to unravel.
And so, the tea machines continued their ascent, an unstoppable force of nature, leaving behind a trail of steam and forgotten dreams. But what lies ahead for these mechanical overlords?
This is the end of the story. Or is it?