You never know where the printouts come from, but they always seem to wake you up just as you’re dozing off at the control console.  While your contact could use any myriad forms of instant message, email, hologram, or telepathy to convey information, they always seem to want to use the archaic fax machine, which for some unknown reason is connected to a noisy, dot-matrix-esque printer.

It could be worse.  You could be a space janitor.

The message reads as such:

This precious cargo needs to be delivered to our neiiighbors.  But, unfortunately, we’ve lost the address.  Good luck! 

Well, of course.  This is typical – the incomplete message, the typos, and all.  It’s just sloppy.  Just as you consider turning down this one and heading to the bar and getting tanked on whatever weird drink is on special on this planet, your cargo hatch opens, and two cyborgs load a large crate.  Before you can reach the hold to protest, they’re gone.  And the cargo is making noise and moving.  Well, fuck.  Guess you better get going.