Aliens teleport into your home while you’re in the shower, grab you naked, and beam you onto their ship.

You assume this is about to become a probing situation. Instead, it’s a job interview.

They clothe you, sit you across from a desk, offer sparkling space-water, ask questions for hours, and feed you a surprisingly delicious meal. They apologize for the kidnapping, explaining that humans “react poorly to unknown attachments,” and the shower was the best time to catch you without your phone, wallet, firearm, or emotional support vape.

Eventually, an important-looking alien enters. It has robes, assistants, and the vibe of someone who owns moons. After reviewing notes, it turns to you.

They run an intergalactic courier service: packages, diplomatic gifts, cursed relics, rare snacks, and things that must never be opened under any circumstances.

They need a human coworker who can follow orders, do grunt work, take jokes and insults, not ask questions about glowing crates, and undergo expensive body augmentations.

Minimum contract: five Earth years.

Then they slide over a contract printed on something that appears to be breathing.

The Job Terms

Pay:
$5 million per Earth year, tax-free, paid however you want: cash, gold, diamonds, Bitcoin, alien currency, or one legally enforceable favor from a minor planetary governor. Your family is told you’re doing “logistics consulting,” which is technically true.

Contract:
Five years minimum. You may only quit early if you die, Earth is destroyed, the company collapses, your supervisor is eaten in a workplace dispute, or you defeat Human Resources in trial by combat. If you quit illegally, they repossess your upgrades and leave you in a Denny’s parking lot.

Schedule:
Six days on, one day off. Unfortunately, a “day” on the ship is 31 hours. You get two weeks of Earth leave per year. No time dilation tricks: five years for you is five years on Earth. They repeat this because apparently they’ve been sued before.

Duties
You load cargo, carry space-boxes, deliver suspicious packages, press buttons you don’t understand, clean goo from vents, ignore diplomatic secrets, feed the ship mascot/possible war criminal, and occasionally wear a tiny ceremonial hat.

You are not the captain.
You are not the chosen one.
You are a forklift with opinions.

Augmentations:
You get enhanced strength, endurance, healing, radiation resistance, night vision, translator implant, disease immunity, vacuum survival, perfect teeth, and knees that never crack again.

You keep most upgrades after five years, except weapons, teleportation hardware, corporate software, and “the thing in your spine that makes you profitable.” They refuse to elaborate.

Robo-Slavery:
During work hours, authorized crew can command your body, but not your thoughts or personality. The system prevents you from abandoning deliveries, opening forbidden packages, starting cults, assaulting customers, or saying “make me” to someone with eight arms and seniority.

Sarcasm is still allowed. The aliens find it “adorably mammalian.”

Workplace Culture:
The crew is mostly respectful, but weird. You may be called “cargo ape,” “moist intern,” “the biped,” “Captain Pink Skin,” or “Greg,” regardless of your actual name.

You may insult them back if it’s funny. Bad insults cost snack privileges.

The Probing Clause:
Yes, there is one. It is described as “occasional,” “recreational,” and “team-building-adjacent.” Frequency, safety rules, and a safe word are negotiable.

Suggested safe word: unsubscribe.

HR insists this is normal. You are not convinced.

Benefits:
Full medical, dental, vision, resurrection attempt coverage, free housing, free meals, alien entertainment, therapy from a floating orb, and one emotional support clone if needed.

You also get to see the universe: alien civilizations, impossible stars, wonders beyond comprehension, and at least three toilets you will personally have to unclog.

Risks:
You may be shot at, cursed, partially disassembled, challenged to ritual combat, accidentally married, worshipped as a minor weather god, exposed to colors humans were not meant to perceive, or forced into small talk with extradimensional customers.

Death is “unlikely but not impossible.” If you die, they attempt to restore you from backup. The backup might be from earlier that week, so worst case you lose a few memories and gain a catchphrase.

End of Contract:
After five years, you return to Earth with \$25 million, most of your augmentations, legal proof your money is legitimate, and a hoodie that says:

I SURVIVED INTERGALACTIC LOGISTICS AND ALL I GOT WAS FINANCIAL FREEDOM AND SPINE SOFTWARE

You may also renew for $8 million a year and the title of Senior Cargo Ape 🦍

A prestigious honor.

If you refuse, they wipe your memory and return you to your shower. If you accept, you vanish for five years and come back rich, superhuman, mildly traumatized, and banned from several moons.

Do you sign?