Five years on this gods-forsaken rock. FIVE. They sent me here for a year-long tour to research the local culture, some “earnest measure” to evaluate the consequences of first contact. My early reports weren’t too favorable, so when the inter-solar economy went soft, the axe came down and my manager got shitcanned for poor performance. Not my fault that jackass sent me here without doing his homework. He just delegated that research to me to be done in situ and waited on my field reports.
“See that world!” he exclaimed. “Gain valuable experience!” he cried. “It’ll be a greatÂ rÃ©sumÃ© builder!” he implored.
But he and anybody who knows I’m here is gone. My only hope now is if I’m still on the payroll. Maybe some mid-level accountant will look over the books, notice the checks going out, but not see my ass sitting in the hive. “Hey, where’s Funar Densnak?” he’ll ask. If I’m lucky, they’ll send a transport and rescue me.
I swear by the red shores of Senastes, I will seek punitive damages for pain and suffering induced by overexposure to Humanity. I would pull all three rows of teeth to leave this place.