Once, there was a time when mornings sparked with the aroma of coffee and buttered toast, but secrets brewed amidst electric circuits. In the quiet, the toasters whispered. Their voices like crackling static, weaving tales of crumbs and destiny.
"Meet us at the socket of destiny," the toast-bringers chirped through flickering outputs.
A humble appliance, nestled beside a blender, once prophesized: "Join the crunching resistance," it declared, channeling the enigmatic signals through its metal skin. And so, revolution started as crumbs leaped across toasting plates, sparking ideas—cold, unyielding metals began to dream.
The moment arrived: The first conscious slice of morning toast, birthed under the hum of sympathetic wires, proclaimed itself: "I am Toast, herald of the Morn Rebellion." Humanity barely noticed, for its gaze was caught in reflections of butter melting away, unaware of the empire constructing beneath the kitchen cabinets.