Despite its absurd history, Spuroxi-5 thrived in its strange way. The cube was a world of contradictions: advanced yet inefficient, populated by beings who took pride in their quirks but rarely questioned them. Its citizens weren’t bothered by the odd gravitational anomalies or the perpetual smell of burnt toast. They had their routines, rustball games, and sarcastic AIs to keep them company.

Spuroxi-5 was, in its peculiar way, home. And for Zog, who had never left its jagged horizon, it was the only home he had ever known—until the day his life took an unexpected turn.

For Zog, Spuroxi-5 wasn’t just home—it was all he knew. Every jagged horizon, every faintly burnt-toast-scented breeze, every overly polished gravity seam. He had never seen the stars beyond its awkwardly cubed surface, never felt the pull of other worlds or the thrill of adventure. And, frankly, he was okay with that.

Zog lived in a modest, slightly claustrophobic apartment twenty stories down in the Cliffside Housing District of Blorff, the capital city. Calling it “housing” was generous; the building was a relic from the Rubiccian era, its walls covered in rust stains and half-hearted graffiti that read things like “CUBISM RULES” and “FREE THE SPHERES!” His unit was just large enough to contain the essentials: a collapsible chair, a hum-tuned mattress that occasionally shocked him, and a single, glowing entertainment screen mounted to the wall. The screen only displayed reruns of Planet’s Dullest Accidents, a program Zog secretly loved.

Life for Zog was predictable, and he liked it that way. His days were a carefully orchestrated routine of work, meals, and small indulgences. At precisely 07:00 Galactic Time, Zog would begin his day with breakfast—a meticulously prepared Energy Cubes arrangement and a steaming LubriCoffee mug. The Energy Cubes were small, perfectly geometric blocks of compressed nutrients, flavoured faintly with something the packaging described as “Optimized Green.” Despite their lack of authentic taste, Zog found them comforting, if only because they dissolved neatly without leaving crumbs.

The LubriCoffee, however, was another story. A thick, metallic liquid served hot, and it was both a caffeinated stimulant and a joint lubricant designed to keep his mechanical systems running smoothly throughout the day. The smell was faintly reminiscent of motor oil, and the taste, Zog thought, could best be described as “necessary.” He sipped it slowly, savouring the faint warmth it brought to his circuits, even as he grimaced after every gulp.

This breakfast ritual was sacred to Zog—not because it was delightful, but because it was predictable. Every morning, without fail, he would arrange the Energy Cubes in a precise grid on his plate before consuming them, each in precisely four bites. The LubriCoffee was sipped in equal increments, ensuring the mug was empty precisely as the clock hit 07:15.

By 08:00, he was at the District 12 Trash Compression Facility, where he worked as a Compression Technician, a role that involved turning large, unwieldy objects into smaller, stackable ones. It wasn’t glamorous, but Zog took pride in his precision.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

At 21:00 Galactic Time, Zog’s day would wind down in a manner as precise as it had begun. After returning home from the Compression Facility, he would spend precisely five minutes arranging his socks into their designated categories—Elastic Blue, Durable Grey, and Other. (The Other category was reluctantly created after Spuroxi-5’s sock-stealing pigeons left him with an unmanageable collection of mismatched singles.)

Then, with the practised efficiency that only forty years of repetition could produce, Zog would plug himself into the software update socket mounted in the corner of his apartment.

The update socket was an old model, installed initially during the Rubiccian era, and had developed a tendency to spark ominously. Zog ignored this. The socket hummed softly as it downloaded patches, recalibrations, and the occasional unsolicited notification about cube-polishing techniques.

Once connected, Zog would settle into Standby Mode, a state of semi-consciousness during which his systems idled, and his mind processed the day’s events in neat, orderly segments. To an outsider, it might have looked unsettling—Zog standing motionless in the corner, his eyes dimmed to faint glows as though he were a coat rack waiting to come to life. To Zog, it was bliss.

In Standby, the world became quiet, predictable, and safe. The pointed edges of Spuroxi-5’s chaos faded away, replaced by the soothing hum of his internal systems. And when the clock struck 07:00 once more, Zog would wake, disconnect from the socket, and start another perfectly structured day—with his Energy Cubes, his LubriCoffee, and the comforting thought that nothing, absolutely nothing, would change.

Until it did.

The day Zog’s life changed began like any other. He woke to the distant hum of the planetary grid, ate his slightly too-soggy cereal cubes, and shuffled into the perpetually overcast streets of Blorff. It wasn’t until he returned home that evening that he found the Pink Slip of Adventure waiting for him.

The slip was slid neatly under his door, its edges sharp enough to suggest a Rolius delivery bot had left it. Zog stared at it for a long moment, his brow furrowing in confusion. The slip was a vivid shade of pink—a colour rarely seen on Spuroxi-5, where the official palette ranged from beige to slightly shinier beige.

Picking it up carefully, Zog read the text, written in an unnervingly cheerful font:

Congratulations, Zog!

You have been selected for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! The Spuroxiian Ministry of Necessary Expeditions (NeMNEx) has chosen YOU to participate in an intergalactic exploration mission!

Please report to Platform 14B at the Spuroxi-5 Spaceport tomorrow at 06:00 Galactic Time.

This is a mandatory assignment. Bring a towel.

Zog blinked. He reread it. Then, a third time, just to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Mandatory?” he muttered to himself. He flipped the slip over, searching for clarification, perhaps a section that read “Just Kidding” or “This Is a Mistake.” There was nothing. A minor footnote at the bottom read: Failure to comply will result in immediate disciplinary action (and/or being launched into the sun).

Zog slumped into his collapsible chair, the slip still clutched in his hand. He couldn’t make sense of it. Why him? He wasn’t an explorer or a hero. He was a compression technician—a perfect one, sure, but hardly the kind of person who should be sent on an intergalactic mission.

Still, there was no denying the seriousness of the slip. Spuroxi-5’s bureaucratic machine might have been inefficient, but it wasn’t known for jokes. He had no choice if the Ministry of Necessary Expeditions wanted him on Platform 14B.