Sergio Guerrero stepped onto the deck of the Trotsky from his small transport. He had spent weeks in the cramped transport flying towards the coordinate he had been given in a bar. He still thought this might be some sort of trap. He didn't recall recently crossing anyone, but that had never stopped people from shooting at him before. He was not visibly nervous when he was asked to turn over his weapon to security, but in reality, he was terrified. The thought of going into the office unarmed and at the mercy of whoever was waiting for him was almost enough for him to turn around right then and there.
He walked towards the door marked 'Recruitment offices' and paused a moment outside the door. He straightened up his hair and fix the collar of his jacket before knocking on the door and walking into the small reception area. "My name is Sergio Guerrero, I'm here for a Interview." He said to the receptionist.
"Take a seat Mr Guerrero, someone will be with you shortly."
He sat down in of the chairs in the corner. He lit a cigarette looking around the room at all of the posters and bulletin boards. "No body would go to this much effort to set me up." He thought. "A battleship in the middle of know where... all of these posters and notes.. this must be the real deal... at least that's one thing right recently." He tapped the ashes off the cigarette and waited for his name to be called.
Discordianism: the Schroedinger's Cat of religions.
