"Not that I won't enjoy my tech quota bump, but if I'm honest miss Mercer, you are overqualified for any job I can offer you." The Hispanic recruiter in front of me shuffles some paperwork and slides a manilla folder to the side. He pulls out a few sheets of paper and turns them to face me. "But if you're sure, just sign the indicated areas pointed to by the sticky tabs and you'll be the Solar Navy's newest Reactor Technician."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

The smile on my face has nothing to do with the shit job I'm about to agree too, or the 6+ years of service (4 of which must be in space) I've been sentenced to. No, the fact that my teeth are showing is a result of the sick satisfaction of overcoming the efforts of the scientific community to keep me from working on the engine that my theories built.