As the worlds of the universe come to terms with survival, civilization, and religious wars, they start to become frivolous. They randomly start playing around with hard rubber balls, or feathery plastic balls, or soft, squishy mucus balls in the case of some planets.

And so is sport created.

One of the chief sports on the planet Venezia, for example, is Advanced Dodgeball. Advanced Dodgeball can be compared to the Earth game Football, for the reasons A) that both use a ball which travels through the air incredibly fast, B) that a lot of people get either minor or critical injuries and sometimes even lose their lives during play, and C) it's definitely more popular than anything much else, except for maybe living. Venezia's Advanced Dodgeball arena is a spectacle to be sure. Set about a hundred miles in the air, inside Venezia's thermosphere, spectators can watch through glass pods as the dodgeball players smash the hell out of each other with varying ballistic objects.

Advanced Dodgeball also draws crowds to Venezia, which can, at their greatest point, escalate into the octillion range. This puts a lot of pressure on Venezia's spaceports. Crowds jostle whenever the games end or begin. They don't care; they just want to get to the front and get either in or out.

In the crowd leaving the most recent of these Advanced Dodgeball games we find Sylia. She's a nervous girl, who just got a few degrees in mathematics, coding, and classic literature, and is now looking for a job. She has already tried the Iron Cafe (the jobs there require a level of mathematics above any so far known to outside civilizations), but was turned down. Desperate, she now looks inside the terminal for at least the post of assistant flight director.

She doesn't know who else is there, and that said individual is looking for another crewmember in one of the most risky jobs in the entire infinite reach of creation.

Sylia tried to fight her way through the crowd, but kept being pushed back. The masses swirled and churned, the floor vibrated like there was an earthquake of at least magnitude one-billion going on. Sylia ran for it. Hell, she thought. If she couldn't get through the crowds while being polite, she'd have to go sideways, because polite was the only way she'd been brought up as.

She managed to escape the maelstrom, and better than that managed to escape it at the entrance of a small cafe serving coffee and scones. At the tables there weren't many people. There was a swarthy looking guy with the clothes of a mercenary and a massive plasma rifle slung to his back; as well as that there was a scientist-looking guy with vivid bloodred skin and a knit cap slung over his head. There was a final customer, sitting at the table between the others.

He was dressed in a flashy black suit, with blue electric relays set in the joints and the chest and ab area. The man wasn't armed. He seemed to radiate an air of cool command. This was further evidenced by the fact that on his head was a sort of crown. It wasn't a conventional crown. The thing was a metal-plated cap, painted blue and red on opposite sides, with gold lightning bolts sticking up out of it.

The weirdest thing was that he was staring right at Sylia.

Sylia tried to look away, but found herself being held by the gaze. The man didn't move at all when Sylia sat down at a table far away from him, but his eyes followed her.

She tried to compose herself. This guy was really freaking her out.

The man suddenly moved. He shifted an inch in his seat.

Reassured by the friendly movement, Sylia cautiously walked over and sat opposite from him. The man stared and stared and stared. Sylia, feeling that she had to get involved too, stared back, not blinking. They stared for a while. Finally the man gave a small laugh and closed his eyes for a second.

"You beat me," he said.

"So I did," Sylia replied. "Why were you staring at me?"

"To challenge you to a staring contest, that's why." The man rummaged around in his pockets for a few moments, then fished out a piece of paper. He flattened it on the tabletop and faced it Sylia's direction. "I also want to interest you in something," the man continued.

The paper said, on the top, in bold letters, "CONTRACT FOR JOB". It was neatly typed, with no errors at all. Sylia asked the man what the job was.

"I just want you to join it," the man replied, "because I can sense you're intelligent. We need an intelligent member. And I can also see," he went on, "that you are in desperate need of a job at the moment."

Sylia didn't ask why; personally, she was glad that she even got an offer at all.

"I'll do it," she said. "What are the requirements?"

"Read." The paper was pushed lightly towards her. Sylia did as she was told.

The contract read like this:

"I, INSERT NAME HERE, do solemnly swear, upon my word and honor, to uphold the centuries-old traditions of this job, and to carry out my duties with pride. I swear hereby, as well, to respect the organizer but keep a firm grasp of myself and my needs. As this job is strictly confidential, I, INSERT NAME HERE, shall not confide in any law enforcement officials what my job actually is, and if I have to, shall do it as if it is someone else, not using the word 'I' while telling your profession. I do swear upon this, and will be a profitable member of the company/organization/unit. Amen."

There followed a line for which to sign a signature on.

Sylia read the whole thing again.

And again.

And again.

She thought long and hard about what signing the contract might do to her life.

She dismissed what she was thinking about and signed the contract anyways, then handed it back to the man, who took it and showed it to the two men opposite him.

The two men seemed to give their agreement to the thing which Sylia had agreed to, and finally with a nod stood up. Their leader, for leader he was, walked up to the now deserted terminal. He beckoned to Sylia.

"My name is Overseer 2," he said, "and you have nothing to fear from me."