An airlock shuts behind you; sealing the slightly-warmer air of the arrivals shuttle away to be sucked into the unending maw of the slightly-colder air to the point of being just a bit uncomfortable. Even the jumpsuit (which is covering more scale than you really need to bother with typically) isn't really helping. The tiles are cold too-- earning a soft thwack from your tail. This sucks.
A cold, robotic voice speaks through an intercom somewhere. It's probably nearby. Or maybe just really loud.
"ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴄʀᴇᴡ. ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛᴀʏ."
You were the only one on that shuttle.
Well.
You're here, at least. Off to do... your job. Yes. Your job that you've been assigned here to do.
The job that you heard garbled through a desk microphone that you could barely make out over the roughly 30 other people packed into the spaceport. Yes. That job.
What is your job?
