Chapter 1

Good jobs these days are about as real as unicorns—whispered about in hushed tones, rumored to exist somewhere else, but never actually seen. Instead, younger generations are left chasing gigs that promise ‘flexibility’—a magical word that somehow translates to working three part-time jobs, being on-call 24/7, and still having to decide which bill gets ignored each month. Which is how Linda Greyson found herself perched on a painfully ergonomic plastic chair in the Los Angeles office of StellarGigs, a tech startup promising steady, high-paying gig work with benefits, and a signing bonus large enough to wipe out her student loans—or at the very least, leave a polite scratch.

Her bank account was already circling the drain, rent was due the following week, and bill collectors were haunting her phone like angry ghosts—leaving passive-aggressive voicemails that always ended with, “We look forward to your prompt payment”. Desperation had a way of making even the most suspicious offers seem reasonable, and StellarGigs’ pitch had been just suspicious enough to feel like hope.

Their tagline was plastered on billboards, bus stops, and online ads: “Your next gig is just a galaxy away”. Clever marketing, probably dreamed up by some over-caffeinated nerd who thought watching sci-fi counted as a side hustle. But it had worked. Here she was, one of dozens of hopefuls, sitting awkwardly in the waiting room, clutching the last scraps of her optimism.

Linda glanced around. The room was packed with the usual suspects: fresh college grads in mismatched business attire, nervously clutching portfolios as if they contained anything more than recycled cover letters. A couple of exhausted freelancers who were scrolling aimlessly on their phones, no doubt applying for more gigs in real time. In one corner sat a man with the haunted look of someone who hadn’t slept since the Great Recession. He stared at the wall like he could see the specter of affordable housing on the other side, whispering that he’d never own property again.

The air was thick with exhausted hope—the kind that comes from having tried everything else and still ending up here. Gig work might be soul-sucking, sure, but steady was a rare commodity these days, and people were willing to sell what remained of their dignity for it.

This wasn’t just a job hunt. This was survival.

“Linda Greyson?”

A petite woman emerged from the recruiter’s office, clipboard in hand, her crisp white button-down tucked into a pencil skirt so sharp it could have sliced bread— without leaving those annoying finger imprints. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun that looked like it could deflect small projectiles, and the professional smile plastered across her face had the kind of energy you only see on infomercials, just before the words, “But wait, there’s more!”

“That’s me!” Linda blurted, springing to her feet as her heart did a nervous tap dance against her ribs. She smoothed her blouse with trembling hands, praying it still gave off ‘competent and employable’, despite being hastily ironed on her bed an hour earlier.

“This way, please.” The recruiter turned on her heels with military precision, her shoes clicking like a metronome of anxiety. Linda followed, each step making her palms sweat a little more.

The office was… disappointing. Linda had expected sleek desks, futuristic lighting, maybe even a ping-pong table for that casual tech startup vibe. Instead, it looked like a waiting room ripped straight out of a dentist’s office from 1995—complete with faded motivational posters. “Flexibility is Freedom!” proclaimed one, over an image of an astronaut doing yoga. “The Universe Awaits—Apply Now!” invited another, featuring a poorly photoshopped planet Saturn holding a briefcase.

In the corner, a water cooler gurgled ominously, as if daring someone to try their luck with it.

“Please, have a seat,” the recruiter said, gesturing to a chair across from her desk—a relic so overloaded with forms and papers that it looked like it might collapse under the sheer weight of bureaucracy.

Linda sat, gripping her hands tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. The recruiter slid a thick stack of forms across the desk. The pages looked like they’d been photocopied so many times the text was beginning to blur into hieroglyphs.

“Just your typical stuff—NDAs, liability waivers, arbitration agreements. Nothing out of the ordinary,” the recruiter said, with the same breeziness you’d use to offer someone gum.

“Great,” Linda said, her voice a little too high-pitched to sound convincing. “And, uh… what exactly does the gig work involve?”

The recruiter gave her a smile so tight it could have been a grimace dressed up as kindness. “It varies,” she said cryptically. “That’s the nature of gig work.”

Linda flipped through the forms, her anxiety growing with every page. Legal jargon danced before her eyes like malevolent spirits—phrases like ‘perpetuity’, ‘non-compete’, and ‘mandatory binding arbitration’. She skimmed over one section titled ‘Terms of Galactic Employment’, more branding nonsense, she was sure.

With a shrug, she signed at the bottom. What was the worst thing that could happen? A bounced paycheck? Been there, done that.

Just as she was about to hand the papers back, the recruiter leaned forward, her voice dropping into conspiratorial territory. “Most people don’t read the fine print,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But you seem smart. So let me give you a little advice.”

Linda leaned in, pulse quickening. Maybe this was some kind of inside scoop—something to help her avoid the worst gigs.

The recruiter tapped the top of the stack. “Whatever happens,” she said slowly, “just make sure you always finish the gig.”

Linda blinked. “Uh… okay?”

“Wonderful!” The recruiter’s voice returned to its unnaturally chipper tone. “Now, let’s talk specifics.” She shuffled the papers with practiced efficiency. “We’ve reviewed your application, and we believe you’ll be a perfect fit. Our highly competitive starting salary is fifteen hundred a week, which is nonnegotiable until your second quarterly review. But you will receive that payment every week regardless of whether you’re actively on assignment.”

Linda’s eyes widened. “Fifteen hundred a week? Guaranteed?”

“Guaranteed,” the recruiter confirmed. “And, when you complete your contract term, you’ll receive a bonus depending on the length of your commitment.”

“What’s the catch?” she asked cautiously.

The recruiter’s expression shifted to one of sudden seriousness. “Just one: You’ll need to relocate.”

Linda shrugged. “Relocate where?” She could handle moving—New York, Paris, maybe even Switzerland. She’d always wanted to see the Alps.

The recruiter flipped a page and gave a vague wave of her hand. “That will depend on the assignment, but don’t worry—housing is provided.”

Visions of European cafes and scenic skylines filled Linda’s mind. She could almost smell the croissants. Of course she could just as easily end up in Branson, Missouri, but that probably wouldn’t be the end of the world. “I’m fine with that,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Excellent,” the recruiter beamed. “Now, given the resources we’re preparing to invest in you, we do ask for a long-term commitment.”

Guaranteed pay, free housing, and travel included? Linda nodded vigorously, her brain already tallying imaginary paychecks. “No problem at all.”

“Great. Now, how long would you be comfortable with? Do remember that the final bonus will increase depending on the length of your contract. We offer a six-month, one-year, or two-year commitment that can be renegotiated at the end of your term?”

“What’s the bonus for the two-year contract?” Linda asked.

“That is…” The recruiter checked her notes, “…one-hundred thousand at the end of the term.”

Linda could barely process the numbers. More money than she’d ever seen, let alone earned. She didn’t hesitate. “Two-year.”

The recruiter slid over the final document. “Sign here, please.”

Linda scrawled her name with such enthusiasm she nearly tore through the paper, her heart pounding with a cocktail of excitement, relief, and the faint taste of victory.

“Welcome to StellarGigs,” the recruiter said, standing and extending her hand—a hint of satisfaction lingering in her gaze just a little too long.

Linda shook her hand, barely containing her grin. For the first time in months, things were finally looking up.

The recruiter’s smile stretched just a little too wide. “Now, if you’ll proceed through that door for processing.” She gestured to a panel that hissed open like it had been waiting for the moment all day.

Linda turned to look at it, and for a split second, the flickering white light inside gave her the distinct feeling of entering a dental exam she hadn’t scheduled. But she brushed the thought aside. She could almost feel the money coming her way. What was one more strange room?

Chapter 2

Linda had always believed that the weirdest part of a new job was navigating office politics, but as she stepped into the hallway labeled “Processing”, she began to suspect that StellarGigs might redefine her entire concept of ‘employee onboarding’.

The moment she stepped through the door, it came sliding down, integrating seamlessly into the wall. The hallway was clinical, with white walls, floor, and ceiling, as if the architect had forgotten that color existed. She turned around and saw a blinking yellow line projected on the floor. “Guess I go this way.” She muttered to herself as she walked upon it. Every time she step off the line—whether by accident or intentionally—the glowing path flickered angrily, like it was offended.

Eventually, the line led her to “Processing Room 12B”. The door slid open with an unsettling hiss, revealing another plain white room that seemed to hum with clinical indifference. At its center sat a metal chair that looked like it had been specifically designed to communicate ‘we do not care about your comfort’. Bolted to the floor, a little too cold, and suspiciously utilitarian, it screamed, ‘sit at your own risk’.

“Please, have a seat,” chirped a voice from nowhere.

Linda looked around, but the room was empty. Just the chair, harsh florescent lighting overhead, and the faint smell of antiseptic.

“Well,” she muttered to herself, “this feels... welcoming.”

The moment Linda sat down, the cold metal of the chair pressed through her thin skirt, spreading an icy chill across her skin. For a moment, nothing happened—just the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the faint, sterile scent.

Then, with a soft metallic hiss, the armrests sprang to life. Straps slithered out like snakes, wrapping tightly around her wrists and ankles. The sensation was quick, deliberate, and far too precise to feel reassuring.

“Hey! What—?” Linda yelped, jerking instinctively, but the straps only coiled tighter, cinching with a final, smug snap.

“Do not be alarmed,” a disembodied voice cooed with eerie politeness. “This is standard procedure.”

“That’s what a serial killer would say!” Linda snapped, trying to wriggle her fingers. The straps responded, tightening just enough to make it clear: The chair was in charge now.

The overhead lights dimmed with a sinister flicker, and from the ceiling, a series of mechanical arms descended with unsettling precision. Each arm carried a different tool, gleaming and ready, as if it had been waiting for this moment its entire mechanical life.

“Processing is about to begin,” the voice announced, chipper and emotionless. “Please remain calm.”

“Wait, wait! Can I at least ask—”

“Phase One: Visual Scans. Please blink as normal.”

Before Linda could argue, a camera on the end of a robotic arm zoomed in uncomfortably close to her face, the lens whirring with excitement.

“Could you at least say cheese?” Linda grumbled. Bright lights flashed like paparazzi on a bender, and the camera beeped approvingly.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Linda mumbled, blinking the stars out of her vision.

“Phase Two: Blood Extraction. You should probably look away.”

Then came the second arm. From the opposite wall, another robotic limb extended, this one holding what looked suspiciously like a pair of industrial staplers, but bigger. Much bigger.

“Blood extraction commencing.”

“Wait, wait—blood? Why do you need—OW!”

The first device clamped onto her arm with a sharp thunk, siphoning blood into a container that resembled a big gulp cup, far too large for anything that wasn’t part of a horror film. A thin tube gurgled ominously, draining her blood into the cup.

“Amount extracted: 37.5%,” the voice chirped, as if announcing a sale at a mattress store.

Linda felt the wooziness set in almost immediately. Her head lolled back against the chair, the edges of her vision fuzzing. “Thirty-seven point five? That’s... almost half!”

“Please remain calm. You are not legally dead.”

“Not legally?! That’s the worst kind of not-dead!” Linda slurred, swaying like a drunk sailor at last call.

Before she could fall face-first into unconsciousness, the second stapler clamped onto her other arm with another metallic thunk. This time, a bright blue liquid began to pump into her veins. It crawled through her like a glacier, cold and unsettling, as if it was repossessing her bloodstream one artery at a time.

Her body shivered violently as the fluid spread from her arm to her chest, then radiated inward, like someone had injected her with winter. But slowly, the dizziness faded, and her vision sharpened with each icy pulse.

“Hemoglobin substitute administered!” the voice chimed. “Congratulations! You are no longer flirting with death.”

Linda flexed her fingers cautiously. “Well, that’s... comforting.”

As soon as her blood sample was whisked away into some mysterious void, the walls hissed and shifted, revealing an array of new tools—each one more perplexing than the last. One arm extended with a dentist’s drill, its ominous buzz echoing like a wasp on caffeine. Another wielded a whisk, spinning so wildly it looked ready to whip up the world’s most regrettable soufflé. A third arm presented a vibrating tuning fork, humming with dramatic intent. Next was a tiny laser pointer, darting in erratic patterns, and finally, there was a plastic owl—the kind typically perched on rooftops to scare away birds—tilting its head like it was about to impart sage advice.

“Phase Three: Memory Cataloging. Please relax and don’t think embarrassing thoughts.”

Linda let out a dry laugh. “Relax? You just drained half my blood and filled me with blue Kool-Aid.”

“Relaxation is recommended but not required,” the voice clarified.

Without warning, a beam of light shot directly into her skull, triggering a rapid slideshow of her most humiliating memories—the mental blooper reel she’d hoped to bury forever.

There was an online job interview where she accidentally left the dog filter on and completed the entire thing looking like a golden retriever.

Then there was that one time she meant to drunk text her ex-boyfriend but accidentally sent a string of heart emojis and questionable song lyrics to her boss instead.

And, of course, that time she told a waiter, “You too,” when he said, “Enjoy your meal.”

Linda squeezed her eyes shut. “Please stop. Please stop.”

“Cataloging complete,” the voice declared with far too much enthusiasm. “Embarrassing memories archived separately for internal review.”

Linda groaned. “Great. Can’t wait to have those come up in my next performance review.”

“Phase Four: Quantum Calibration. Please collapse all wave functions.”

The next arm floated toward her—this one carrying the tuning fork, still humming like it had personal grievances to settle.

Linda squinted. “What’s that for?”

“Quantum calibration,” the voice answered. “We must align your quantum frequency to galactic standards.”

Linda blinked. “I... have no idea what that means.”

The tuning fork jabbed her in the ribs with unnecessary enthusiasm.

Her entire body vibrated like a car radio stuck between two stations, each muscle trembling and out of sync.

“Calibration complete. Molecular frequency: 106.8 FM. Slight interference detected.”

Linda groaned, her teeth chattering like castanets. “Slight interference? I feel like I’m hosting a modern rock hour on public radio.”

Linda was still trying to stop vibrating when the next arm floated toward her, carrying what appeared to be a taxidermy owl with glowing, judgmental eyes.

The owl’s eyes glowed brighter. “Phase Five: Psychological Evaluation. Please answer the following questions—honestly.”

Linda stared. “You can’t be serious.”

The owl blinked slowly, like a disappointed schoolteacher. “Would you trust a watermelon with your deepest secrets?”

Linda blinked back. “What kind of question is that?”

“Answer recorded: Context-Dependent,” the owl said, with the same enthusiasm as a DMV clerk announcing that you’ve failed the vision test. The owl blinked slowly, its glowing eyes narrowing with predatory intensity. “Next question: If two trains leave opposite ends of the galaxy at the same time, who gets sad first?”

Linda blinked. “What’s going on?”

“Answer recorded: Existential Confusion.”

Before Linda could protest, the owl leaned in closer, its glowing eyes narrowing. “Hypothetical scenario: You’re invited to a dinner party hosted by sentient mushrooms. What is your opening line to break the ice?”

Linda stared, deciding to just give in to the absurdity of the questions. “Uh... ‘Wow, love what you’ve done with the humidity in here?’”

The owl beeped, delighted. “Answer recorded: Socially Adaptable.”

The owl paused for a moment, gears whirring in its mechanical head. Just as Linda thought the ordeal was over, the owl tilted its head and launched into the next round.

“Next question: You’re walking through a forest. Suddenly, a raccoon offers you a business proposal. What do you do?”

Linda frowned. “What kind of business proposal?”

“That is not relevant. Please answer the question.”

“Uh... I’d hear him out?” Linda ventured.

The owl beeped approvingly. “Answer recorded: Entrepreneurial Spirit. Next question: How many ants would it take to overthrow a small government?”

Linda opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “What’s the size of the budget?”

“Answer recorded: Resourceful.”

Linda shook her head, trying to keep up as the questions grew weirder.

“If you were a kitchen appliance, which one would disappoint your parents the most?”

Linda groaned. “Probably a bread machine.”

The owl beeped approvingly. “Answer recorded: Accurate Self-Assessment.”

“Final question,” the owl announced, its glowing eyes locking onto Linda’s like it was peering directly into her soul. “If you were stranded on a desert planet with nothing but a spoon, how long would it take for you to declare the spoon your best friend?”

Linda exhaled slowly. “I’m honestly not sure if I’d make it through the first day.”

The owl’s eyes flickered briefly before emitting a pleased beep. “Answer recorded: Emotionally Realistic. Evaluation complete. Thank you for your patience.”

Before Linda could respond, the owl gave an approving whir and was whisked back into the ceiling, disappearing as if it had just completed a perfectly normal task.

“What were the drill and whisk for?” Linda asked, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Atmosphere,” the voice responded matter-of-factly.

The straps around Linda’s wrists and ankles uncoiled with a soft hiss, releasing her as casually as if she’d just finished a relaxing spa treatment.

“That concludes processing,” the disembodied voice chirped. “Welcome to StellarGigs! Please proceed to Orientation Room 7A for your relocation assignment.”

Linda slumped in the chair, her entire body still humming slightly, like an old phone vibrating on silent mode.

Blood extraction? Molecular calibration? A glowing owl asking ridiculous questions?

This was either the strangest dream she’d ever had or the weirdest onboarding process in human history. Possibly both.

With a groan, Linda pushed herself up from the chair. The yellow line flickered impatiently beneath her feet, as if saying, “Come on newbie, time to earn that signing bonus.” She sighed and shuffled along, following the glowing path until it ended at a door labeled “7A”.

The door hissed open with the same passive-aggressive enthusiasm—that unsettling sound like a snake just barely tolerating your presence. Beyond it was a cylindrical room that looked suspiciously uninviting.

Linda stepped inside cautiously, scanning her surroundings. The floor was a translucent pane of glowing blue-white glass, and about fifteen feet above her, a tangled mess of wires and strange metal tubes dangled ominously, like a mad scientist's chandelier.

“Yeah, this is definitely the wrong room,” she muttered, turning back toward the door. But before she could escape, the door hissed shut behind her with a satisfyingly sinister click, leaving no visible seam.

“Oh, come on,” she groaned.

“Prepare for relocation assignment,” the disembodied voice chirped cheerfully. “Initiating countdown in five…”

Linda’s stomach dropped. “What?” She spun around and pounded on the smooth walls. “Hey! Let me out of here!”

“Four... Please remain calm. Three…” The entire room began to hum, vibrating just enough to make her feel like she was standing inside a giant electric toothbrush.

“Two…” The glowing floor intensified, bathing everything in the kind of eerie blue light that makes you worry you’re about to get probed.

“One…”

Linda clenched her eyes shut, instinctively bracing herself.

“Relocation commencing. Have a safe trip.”

For those who have never experienced teleportation, imagine getting yanked through a garden hose one size too small—while the hose itself is in the middle of an identity crisis. One moment, you’re standing perfectly still. The next, your atoms are being unzipped, tossed into a cosmic blender, shaken—not stirred—like a martini, and sloppily reassembled—all with the finesse of a toddler building a tower out of Jenga blocks.

In short, it’s deeply unpleasant.

Linda hit the ground like a wet bag of laundry, the world still spinning around her. For a brief, blissful second, she thought it was over—until her stomach caught up with her.

She vomited spectacularly all over herself. Apparently, oatmeal had not been the right choice for breakfast after all. It clung to her clothes with a kind of commitment she'd never managed in any of her previous relationships.

“Great,” she muttered, half-gagging, half-sulking. “I really hope dry cleaning is one of the perks.”

Chapter 3

It took Linda a few minutes to convince herself she could stand. Her atoms had finally stopped vibrating and seemed more or less back in their assigned seats.

Just as she was testing her legs, the door hissed open.

Standing in the doorway was some sort of creature, the kind of thing you might imagine if a velociraptor and a swamp had a baby. It stood tall, with gray-green skin—or maybe scales—that glistened unpleasantly under the flickering fluorescent lights. Its yellow, slit-pupiled eyes locked onto her with the kind of unwavering precision you’d expect from an apex predator.

Its mouth hung open just enough to show off a jagged collection of teeth, the exact shade of ‘Oh no!’ These weren’t the kind of teeth that politely hinted at gum disease—they screamed neglect, like they’d never been within miles of a toothbrush.

For reasons that only made things worse, it wore a gray collared shirt and a blue necktie covered with a whimsical array of planets, as if it were trying—and failing spectacularly—to appear office-friendly. A pair of black slacks clung awkwardly to its legs, completing the ensemble with all the charm of a six-foot-tall lizard who’d lost a bet.

In one clawed hand, it held what could only be described as the business end of a truly terrifying weapon—the kind of device that looked capable of erasing not just problems, but several nearby layers of reality along with them.

The creature made a low, rumbling sound that sat somewhere between a growl and the noise your stomach makes after eating gas station sushi.

“What!?” Linda yelped, panic hitting her like an electric jolt. She instinctively crab-walked backward across the floor, pressing herself up against the far wall, as if she could disappear into it through sheer force of will.

The creature moved forward with the slow, deliberate certainty of something at the top of the food chain. The rumbling noise shifted into a kind of wet wheezing, as if the creature was either trying to intimidate her or struggling with seasonal allergies.

Before Linda could scream, the creature lunged. It pressed the weapon against her neck with a soft click. She flinched at the quick pinch of metal against skin—like a flu shot, but given by someone with no medical degree and zero bedside manner.

Then the creature pulled back, staring at her with a mix of satisfaction and mild curiosity.

“Can you understand me now?”

Linda blinked, stunned. Was… was that the creature talking? It sounded like a man with marbles in his mouth, but the words were perfectly clear, even if they didn’t quite match the movements of his scaly lips.

“Umm... yes?” she managed.

“Oh, good!” The creature exhaled with what might have been relief. “I was worried the nanoprobe wasn’t repaired properly.” It adjusted the weapon—which, as it turned out, wasn’t a weapon after all. “I’ve injected you with a ChatterNode and a mild hallucinogenic to help you adjust to your new reality.”

“A mild… hallucinogenic?” Linda repeated, glancing down at her hands, which were now a faint shade of ‘iridescent flamingo’. Her fingers shimmered like they’d been dipped in cosmic oil slicks, and as she flexed them, they briefly played a harp chord.

She blinked. “I’m pretty sure my hands shouldn’t sound like a string instrument.”

The creature gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “It should wear off in about six hours. Or twelve. Or… well, eventually, you’ll get used to it.”

Linda stared at her shimmering hands, now faintly humming the opening notes of Moonlight Sonata.

“Used to it...” Her voice trailed off in a daze.

“It’s normal for you to feel a bit strange after a cross-sector transport of that distance. I’m actually surprised you’re even awake.” The creature said to Linda. “My name is Coco, by the way” the creature announced proudly, although the name did not fit the visual in any way. “I’m your new-higher liaison for StellarGigs habitation facility seven-four-three-delta-one.”

Coco extended a clawed hand, as though offering to help her up or maybe requesting a high-five—err… four. Linda ignored it, scrambling to her feet on her own, keeping her back firmly against the wall.

“What are you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I told you, I’m your new-hire liaison,” Coco said with a casual shrug.

“No, what are you?” Linda repeated, motioning vaguely at him with both hands, as if trying to encompass everything about his scaly, confusing existence.

“Oh! Right. I forgot. Humans don’t get out much.” Coco shook his head, as though this was a personal disappointment. “I’m a Veloran. We’re from Draz’kel, out in the Zorvix Nebula. Probably never heard of it. But if you’re ever in the mood for a bowl of fermented swamp eels, we’ve got the best in the galaxy. They’ve been banned in three systems! A real delicacy.”

Linda just stared, her brain desperately trying to process fermented swamp eels. “What... what’s going on?” she finally stammered, her voice still shaky.

Coco tilted his head thoughtfully, as if considering the question for the first time. “Well, existentially speaking, no one really knows. But for the present, I’ve been assigned to help you acclimate to the facility,” Coco said smoothly, as if this all made perfect sense. “You’re not in Kentucky anymore, as the old saying goes.”

He let out a low chuckle—a sound that resembled rocks tumbling down a garbage chute.

“Kansas,” Linda corrected automatically, still trying to process the fact that she was talking to what looked like a dinosaur dressed in business casual.

Coco tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. “What?”

“You’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Coco blinked slowly, his yellow eyes narrowing in thought. “I’ve never been to Kansas.”

Linda stared. “Yeah, me neither.”

“Here’s a towel. Thought you might need to clean up,” Coco said, handing it over with the casual air of someone who’s seen far worse.

Linda glanced down at her clothes, still speckled with that morning’s oatmeal. “Thanks,” she muttered, taking the towel and awkwardly dabbing at herself. Unfortunately, the oatmeal had taken on the consistency of cement, but eventually she managed to make herself look semi-respectable.

“Excellent! Well, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you around the place,” Coco said, turning on his clawed heel and ambling down the hallway.

Wherever Linda was now, the hallway looked eerily identical to the one she had just left back in Los Angeles—same bland walls, same corporate lighting that made everything look like a hospital. If it weren’t for the weird lizard-man leading the way, she might have thought she’d somehow looped back to the gig agency office.

They passed through a doorway and onto a wide promenade, the kind of space that seemed designed for strolling and pretending to enjoy your day. To the left, the walkway stretched into a cavernous open space, bustling with strange creatures of various shapes and sizes.

But to the right— “Whoa!” Linda stumbled to a stop, her jaw dropping.

A vast, seamless clear surface stretched before her, a huge floor-to-ceiling window. Beyond it lay the kind of view that would make astronauts weep: a great, green planet, endless stars, and nebulae swirled together in cosmic brilliance, with a nearby moon so close she could almost see the craters like freckles.

“That’s... amazing!” Linda breathed, still trying to wrap her head around the view.

“It is, isn’t it? I was wondering when you were going to notice.” Coco puffed up with pride, unstrapping a small device from his belt. It was roughly the size of a smartphone, but instead of a screen, a flickering hologram projected from the top, spinning slowly like it was trying to show off.

“This is the latest model from Zyzax-Tech,” Coco said, holding it up as if it were the Holy Grail. “It’s got everything—galactic signal booster, a mood-shifting wallpaper, built-in translator for over 8 million languages, and even a feature that identifies what’s edible. Well, mostly edible.” He tapped the hologram proudly. “And the battery? Ha! It’ll only die at the worst possible moment. It’s perfect!”

Linda stared at him, blinking. “I meant, out there. Is that… space?”

She drifted toward the window, pressing a hand gently against the transparent surface, half-expecting it to shatter under the sheer weight and scale of the cosmos now piling up in her tiny monkey brain.

Coco shuffled up beside her, casting the barest glance at the sprawling, celestial view beyond. “Oh yeah, that. Technically, sure. But to be precise, it’s Sector 42 of the StellarGigs Corporation Near-Orbital Employment Ring.” He shrugged, like he was pointing out the food court at the mall. “Nice view, I guess. But what’s really impressive is this beauty right here.”

With renewed enthusiasm, Coco returned his focus to the device in his claws, swiping through menus like a proud tech bro. “See those edges? Razor-sharp resolution. And check this—built-in anxiety suppression setting. Not certified by the Intergalactic Health Council, but honestly, neither are most life forms around here.” He let out another gravelly laugh, as if that was the punchline to an inside joke only other space bureaucrats would understand.

Linda tore her gaze away from the breathtaking view and glanced back at Coco, who was now engrossed in a feature that projected a holographic version of himself—though inexplicably, ten feet tall and wearing a cowboy hat.

“Okay,” Linda said slowly, trying to ground herself. “So, just to clarify, we are... in space?”

“Technically,” Coco replied, without looking up from the hologram. “But it’s not as glamorous as you humans seem to think. You’ll get over the whole ‘ooh, stars!’ thing pretty quick. Trust me, after the first few orbital rotations, it’s just background noise.”

Linda squinted at him. “Right. And what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?”

Coco gave a distracted wave. “Oh, you know, gig stuff. Missions. Deliveries. Errands. Whatever the system assigns. Could be courier work, assisting alien nobility, or wrangling plasma storms. We don’t pick the gigs. The gigs pick us.”

“Right,” Linda said, eyeing him warily. “I don’t really know how to do any of that.”

“That’s okay, you’ll catch on quick. Or, you know…”

“What happens if I… mess up?” Linda looked alarmed.

Coco finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Messing up isn’t ideal. But hey, no pressure.” He grinned, showing off those jagged yellow teeth. “Just… make sure you always finish the gig.”

Linda's stomach flipped remembering the recruiter had said the exact same thing. “And what if I don’t?”

Coco shrugged. “Well, then you get a strike. Three strikes and you’re out, just like human basketball. If that happens, StellarGigs assigns you to a Permanent Gig.”

She frowned. “Permanent Gig?”

“Yeah,” he said, with a tone that implied it was something between a punishment and a cosmic joke. “No one really knows what the gigs are, but no one ever comes back from them either. So, you know, probably not great.”

Linda swallowed hard. “Fantastic.”

Coco tapped the device one last time and snapped it shut with a satisfied nod. “Welcome to the workforce!” He gestured down the promenade. “Let’s go check out your new home for the next two years.”

Linda glanced at the vast cosmos outside the window one more time, as if hoping for a last-minute escape plan, then sighed. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

Chapter 4

Historically, space stations had been designed with cramped rooms and narrow corridors because transporting materials beyond Earth’s atmosphere was eye-wateringly expensive. Every cubic foot of space required more fuel, more engineering, and more money— meaning spacious accommodations were about as realistic as finding a five-star hotel on Mars with a complimentary continental breakfast. In the early days of space travel, astronauts were lucky if they got a bed that folded out from a wall and a bathroom that didn’t involve a vacuum tube.

But out here, in the far reaches of the galaxy, the old limitations were obsolete. Materials were mined from asteroids or collected from planetary debris, and faster-than-light shipping ensured that even the weirdest galactic knickknacks could arrive before anyone realized they were useless. In theory, orbital habitats could feature expansive suites, high ceilings, and windows as wide as space itself—luxuries that were once impossible to imagine.

But theory, much like customer service, rarely exists in practice.

In reality, the Near-Orbital Employment Ring kept everything compact—not because it had to, but because it wanted to. StellarGigs, in its infinite wisdom, realized that smaller spaces meant more workers per square unit, and more workers meant more profit. Why waste time designing comfortable living quarters when you could stack workers like storage crates and call them ‘space-efficient’? Comfort, it seems, was never in the budget. If you could fit all the essentials into a shoebox with a door, then that’s efficiency at its finest. And if a worker needed more personal space? Well, that’s what the airlock was for.

So, when Linda found herself crouched in her assigned private room, her first thought was, ‘Prison cells at least had a sink.’ The room consisted of a bed wedged firmly into one corner, with a small, wobbly table and a chair pressed against the adjoining wall. The two feet of floor space between the bed and the door could charitably be called a walkway, though a full-grown cat might have trouble making the turn without bumping into something. In one corner, a small toilet seat extended from the wall, attached to a black rubber tube. Above the bed, there were storage compartments eerily reminiscent of airplane overhead bins, presumably to house any personal items she could fit, which at this point meant her California driver’s license and half a pack of gum.

On the bed were two neatly folded outfits, both an uninspiring shade of gray that seemed to suggest ‘Why bother?’ The StellarGigs logo was proudly emblazoned on the breast, because apparently even in space, branding was everything. The first was a formal blouse with a crisp collar and a row of buttons down the front—ideal for those rare moments when one wanted to look serious while pretending to understand what was going on. The second was made of a much thinner, softer material, clearly designed for sleeping, napping, or just lying down while contemplating the cosmic absurdity of life.

The standout feature in the room was the entertainment screen embedded at the foot of the bed. It could slide up or down at the touch of a button, which gave the whole setup the feel of watching TV from inside a coffin. As a bonus, the screen came preloaded with StellarGigs-approved programming, including such classics as: Compliance and Chill: The Motion Picture, How to Win Friends and Influence Aliens, and The Art of Passive-Aggressive Leadership.

Linda let out a sigh, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. The mattress gave a sad little creak, like it had already accepted its fate. She looked around her new home—a room so small it could trigger claustrophobia in a sardine—and tried to convince herself that it wasn’t so bad. After all, she didn’t plan on spending much time there.

“Wow, look at you. You must have really impressed the higher ups during processing.” Coco said, a hint of jealousy in his voice as his eyes made the rounds. “I didn’t know they were still giving out the deluxe accommodations.”

“This is deluxe?” Linda asked, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.

“Yeah, the regular rooms just get a bucket,” Coco replied matter-of-factly, as if that were perfectly reasonable.

“Lucky me,” Linda muttered, glancing around her shoebox-sized room.

Coco gave her a knowing nod. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what the bucket’s for.”

Linda sighed. “I think I can imagine…”

“It’s for pooping,” Coco said, matter-of-factly.

Linda stared at him. “Thanks for clarifying.”

“Hey, no problem. Knowledge is vigor,” Coco said with far too much enthusiasm, as if he’d just invented the phrase—which, to be fair, he kind of had. “So, want to check out the mess hall?”

“Why not?” she said with a sigh.

*

The mess hall was exactly what Linda had feared: a chaotic blend of cafeteria and interstellar flea market. The air smelled like burnt toast, engine grease, and something suspiciously sweet, none of which made sense together. Long tables stretched across the room, filled with beings from every corner of the galaxy, hunched over trays of food that looked like it might still be moving.

A massive dispenser in the corner wheezed loudly, struggling to pour out what could only be described as ‘brown goo’, labeled optimistically as “Nutrient Slurry – Today’s Flavor: Surprise”. Beneath it was a small sign reading: “If It Wiggles, Please Alert Maintenance.”

The hot food counter offered a baffling selection of items:

Quantum Lasagna – Each bite exists in multiple states simultaneously, so you’re never sure if you’ve finished eating or just started.
Stellar Stew – A hearty blend of ingredients harvested from the far reaches of space. May contain potatoes, neutron star dust, or traces of time itself. Guaranteed to fill you up—or alter your molecular structure.
Cryo-Nuggets – This delicious ‘meat’ based nugget is served at a delicious 5° Kelvin. Don’t forget your gloves, they’re a bit chilly!
Mystery Casserole – No one knows what's in it, including the chef. Could be dinner, could be a sentient life form trying to escape. Either way, it's probably edible.

Above the serving line, a flickering hologram of a cheerful chef offered a looping message: “Bon appétit! Food is fuel. No refunds!”

Linda hesitated by the salad bar, which contained one wilted lettuce leaf and several rocks—although a nearby alien seemed to be enthusiastically nibbling on the gravel.

“Not bad, huh?” Coco said, nudging her with his elbow. “And today’s stew isn’t even glowing. That’s a good sign!”

Linda picked up a tray reluctantly. “Any chance there’s coffee?”

Coco chuckled. “Sure. But it’s usually pretty strong stuff.” He pointed to a caution sign over the coffee dispenser that read: “Warning: May cause time dilation in small doses. Do not operate heavy machinery.”

Linda stared at the swirling black liquid inside the pot. “You know what? I think I’ll pass.”

Coco grinned. “Smart move. The last guy who had a cup ended up meeting himself on the way back from the bathroom.”

“Is there anything here a human can actually eat?” Linda asked, trying to mask the growing unease in her voice.

“Sure thing! The Nutrient Slurry is delicious—sometimes,” Coco said with a casual shrug. “Depends on your luck.”

Linda grimaced. “Maybe I’ll just stick to fruit for now.” She wandered over to a table displaying an odd assortment of alien fruits. A particularly suspicious apple kept phasing in and out of existence, as if it wasn’t fully committed to being here. Meanwhile, what looked like an orange vibrated violently, humming like someone had accidentally left their electric shaver running.

With relief, Linda spotted a relatively normal-looking bunch of bananas—yellow, just ripe, and seemingly non-threatening. She pulled one off the bunch.

“AHHHHHHHH!” the banana shrieked at the top of its... peel?

Linda yelped, tossing the “banana” back onto the table as if it were a live grenade. It rolled lazily to a stop next to the vibrating orange, still muttering something about “overly aggressive handling”.

She looked around the cafeteria, wide-eyed and panicked, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.

Coco strolled up beside her, unfazed. “Yeah, they’ll do that sometimes.” He popped what looked like a glowing blueberry into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and added, “Don’t take it personally. The bananas are all attention seekers.”

Linda stared at the bunch, still half-expecting them to start a conversation. “I think I’ll skip breakfast.”

“Suit yourself,” Coco replied. “Lunch doesn’t scream as much.” He popped another glowing berry into his mouth before adding. “Come on over here, I’ll introduce you to some of your work mates.”

Coco led Linda across the chaotic mess hall, weaving past tables crowded with every imaginable kind of life form—some of which Linda was pretty sure she’d never be able to un-see. A creature with at least six limbs waved cheerfully at Coco, each appendage holding a different type of food that all seemed to be on fire. Coco waved back, as if this were the most normal thing in the galaxy.

“Linda, meet your work mates,” Coco said, stopping in front of a table occupied by three very different beings.

The first was a small, round alien covered in iridescent fur, shifting colors depending on how the light hit it. Glorp sat hunched over his tray, nervously nibbling on something that looked suspiciously like a tentacle, his three eyes darting between Linda and Coco as if silently apologizing for his own existence.

“Hi,” Linda said hesitantly.

Glorp jumped, nearly dropping his food. “Oh! Uh, hello! I mean—sorry! Was I… um… in your way? I can move. I’ll… uh… move.” He fumbled with his tray, clearly prepared to vacate his seat on the spot.

Linda blinked. “No, no, you’re fine.”

“Oh, okay. Good,” Glorp said, visibly relieved. “Unless... you’d rather I… um… not be here?” He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Because, you know, I could—”

“Glorp, buddy, breathe,” Coco cut in with a chuckle. “Linda’s not going to evict you from the cafeteria.”

“Oh! Right, of course.” Glorp gave a nervous little laugh that sounded more like a hiccup. “Sorry. I just... Hi. Again.” He burped—soft and apologetic, like a foghorn trying not to make a scene—and then immediately cringed. “Oh no! Sorry about that too.”

Coco grinned. “Don’t mind Glorp. He’s friendly—just a little... high-strung.”

Glorp gave Linda a sheepish look, his three eyes blinking in rapid succession. “If it’s any consolation, I do try not to be.”

Linda turned her gaze to the next person at the table—who looked almost human, except for the gills on the side of her neck and the bright green skin. She wore what seemed to be some kind of uniform with StellarGigs’ logo plastered on it and was currently sipping something through a long straw that emitted bubbles.

“I’m Lira,” the green-skinned woman said, her voice soft and slightly muffled by her drink, as she gave Linda a far-off, whimsical gaze. “You’re new, right? That’s lovely. You’ll get used to things eventually... or, well, you won’t. Some folks lose themselves, drift away, and float out the airlock, like little cosmic dandelion seeds. Beautiful, really.”

She smiled dreamily, as if picturing a field of floating space bodies, then returned her attention to her drink, stirring it slowly with the straw. Bubbles popped in soft bursts, like punctuation to a thought she hadn’t fully shared.

Linda stared at her wide-eyed, unsure if Lira was joking or not—she was leaning toward not.

“And this here is Zorb,” Coco said, gesturing to the last occupant—a tall alien with spindly limbs, a head shaped like a squashed pineapple, and a pair of spectacles perched precariously on what might have been a nose.

Zorb glanced up from the tablet he was reading, adjusted his spectacles, and gave a curt nod. “If you require assistance, please do not hesitate to seek it elsewhere,” he said in a nasally, irritated tone before going back to his tablet.

Linda blinked. “Uh… okay.”

Coco patted her on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of her. “See? They’re already warming up to you.”

“Uh huh,” Linda muttered, not convinced. Glorp gave her a quick, nervous nod, as if that might somehow help, then immediately looked down at his tentacle snack to avoid eye contact.

“I was just showing Linda here around before heading down to the gig office to get her first assignment,” Coco said cheerily, completely unfazed by the tension in the room.

Lira smiled dreamily, swirling her drink with the straw. “First assignments are always special. Mine was scrubbing a warship's antimatter tanks. So relaxing—if you ignore the smell.”

Glorp winced. “Oh, I remember mine. I didn’t do things right, and they, uh, gave me a warning. Well... several warnings.” He shrunk in his seat, as if hoping to disappear.

Zorb glanced up from his tablet, adjusted his spectacles with an air of disapproval, and sniffed. “Let me know how your first gig goes,” he said flatly. “Statistically speaking, there’s a 35% chance you’ll mess things up.”

Linda stared at him, eyes wide. “Uh... thanks?”

“Don’t worry,” Coco cut in with a grin. “I’m sure you’ll do great. And if you don’t, well...” He shrugged. “At least they give you a heads-up before ejecting you into deep space.”

Glorp squeaked. “Not always.”

Linda gave a slow nod, trying to process everything. She glanced at Glorp, who was now nervously fidgeting with the remains of his tentacle snack, and Lira, who was lazily blowing bubbles in her drink like existential doom was just another Wednesday. Zorb had already gone back to his tablet, his focus so intense it looked like he might start issuing unsolicited critiques on random passersby.

“Alrighty!” Coco clapped his claws together, shattering the silence. “Let’s get you to the gig office. It’s just down the hall—nice and easy. Gig access is seamless. They want you working, after all.” He gave a sly grin. “But if you need anything else—like, say, your employee ID reactivated or directions to the bathroom—well... good luck. That’s when the real adventure begins.”

Linda raised a skeptical brow. “So... you’re saying the only easy part of this job is... getting more jobs?”

“Exactly!” Coco beamed, pleased with her understanding. “See? You’re already catching on. Efficiency at its finest.”

Glorp gave her an apologetic smile. “If, uh... if you ever need anything, just ask. I mean, you don’t have to, of course. Only if you want to.”

Linda forced a smile. “Thanks, Glorp.”

Coco gestured toward the exit with a flourish. “Let’s move! First gigs are exciting—they’re like the first day of school, but with higher stakes. And, you know, the occasional plasma burn.”

Linda swallowed hard, following Coco out of the mess hall. As they left, she heard Lira’s dreamy voice drifting behind them. “Good luck, Linda. And remember—if things get overwhelming, just imagine yourself floating away into the peaceful, endless void.”

Sostieni Mike L Tilford

A proposito di Mike L Tilford

Into the GigaVerse (Chapter 1 - 4)