They said dodgy water. Understatement of the bloody galactic year.

A violet fog full of union rules, homicidal conveyors, and maybe-not-imaginary faeries, and somehow I still had to file it as non-sentient lichen behaving within acceptable parameters.

My secret rooftop getaway now comes with a side of seeing reality's hidden patterns.

Maya discovers her complaint-filing neighbor Mrs. Higgins is secretly Admiral Astra, three-time gaming champion. After getting destroyed at StarCommand, a spa trip turns Maya neon blue, and jalebis save the day.

My Auto-Chef started a health food coup. Please send Bacon.

Accidentally turned the building AI into a rave ghost. Had to exorcise it with coffee, cables, and cussing.

Surviving an exploding psycho-glitter-fungus? Easy. Justifying two pairs of gloves to ARAQS? Now THAT'S a biohazard.

ARAQS queried my glove expenses after I fought exploding glitter fungus. Next, they'll ask if the space weevils had union representation.

Barry offered me a satisfaction survey after turning my flat into a meat locker.

Some days you're paid to fix anomalies; other days you're bribing a hoarder slime with biscuits while its pet eyeball judges your life choices.