Why fix what ain't broke? Let's find something mysterious and illegal to transport!

Nobody ever got anything good without hard work...unless you're doing crime. Then it's a bit easier to get a big payday. Which is why you spend a lot of your time working on the more crime-oriented side of life and this time is no exception as you decide to make a call to a contact on the Junk Moon that was usually good for a job or two and paid extra for discretion, speed and not being curious about noises coming from boxes. Which, for the most part, you were good at.

So you make the call and, after the usual banter and back and forth negotiating, you come to a price that's agreeable to your client and to your future dreams of debauchery on a resort planet somewhere. The deal is made and you're told that the cargo will be delivered to the hold of your ship within the hour. Of course, as per usual, the big man himself (that's actually what he calls himself, by the way; The Big Man. It's embarrassing, really.) won't be showing up in person. He doesn't do the grunt work, he says, instead facilitating deals and making sure all the ends of the bargain are kept and everybody (mostly him) gets paid.

That being the case, you're not surprised when Nameless Goon number 1 (as you dubbed the tall and powerfully built alien with thick rhinoceros-like skin and bloodshot eyes who usually does the Big Man's grunt work) arrives at your ship with a large crate in tow. He carries the crate that it would take ten powerfully built humans to even budge easily and you suspect that's meant as intimidation to you, as it always is, but you take it in stride and keep your unimpressed demeanor the whole time.

He drops the large metal box in the middle of your cargo hold and turns to you, pointing a finger as thick as your forearm at you and poking you in the chest hard enough to jostle you.

"No look in box. Is usual deal. Understand, yes?", he grunts out in a broken version of the Universal Standard Tongue and you give him a nod and an easy grin as you assure him that, yes, you understand the deal and, yes, you understand that the usual deal also involves threat to your life and limb if you open the box and, yes, he is all sorts of big and scary and you're almost pissing your flight suit, you swear.

Satisfied with your answer (because he apparently doesn't get sarcasm), he nods and shuffles off of the ship, leaving you alone with the crate. As you close the cargo bay doors behind the thug, you take a good look at your cargo. It's a metal crate, about 2.5 meters by 2.5 meters, with small pin holes punched in the upper portion of it, more than likely for air to get into the box. That makes you think that, as is usual with the Big Man, you're transporting something living and probably sedated. You choose to think it's nothing sentient to ease what little conscience you have, but, in the end, a job is a job and you'll do what you gotta.

With that in mind, you finish securing your cargo and then head to the cockpit to get ready to set out on the task at hand.