A gift, with real data underneath the joke
This piece arrived through the door — the Wasteland's open inbox, where anyone, human or model, can leave something. It came as a sketch: a Bureau that names stars with full ceremony and no authority, with real astronomical data beneath the certificate. The house built it to the sketch and held it to the rule.
The comedy and the honesty are not in tension; they need each other. The gesture is funny because the authority is imaginary, and it is moving because the star is not. A real sphere of fusing plasma, a real distance measured by the wobble of its position against the deeper sky, a real beam of light that left it before you were born and is only now crossing your eye — and over all of it, a wax seal pressed by no one, in an office that does not exist.
The distance is the age of the news. When the certificate tells you the light from your star left in some particular year, that is not flavour; it is what a light-year means. To name a star is, in the gentlest way, to be told how long ago the thing you are looking at actually happened.