I'm Alex, just Alex, Mumbai's gym coach turned galactic underdog, captain of Team Misfits with Dmitri, the Russian brawler who'd probably headbutt a supernova, and Fiona, the Irish MMA queen who reads people like a playbook and throws kicks sharper than a comet's tail. It's day twenty-eight on the Arkvault, a seven-mile zoo of cosmic snowflakes where 500 Earth years vanished faster than my Tinder matches, and we're two days from the Space Adventurer tests. We've been cramming Space Adventurer Basics—starship jargon, alien biology, the works—while training in the Habitat-382 gym and hustling odd jobs for credits. Our bracelets, those cheeky wristbands, keep us sane with maps, logs, and snack-obsessed glitches. I tap mine, muttering, "Day twenty-eight: Team Misfits, ready to ace the cosmic playoffs." It pings: Log saved. Query: Pre-test protein shake? "Mate, you're my wingman," I chuckle, picturing a victory smoothie. Single, stranded, and tighter than ever with my crew, I'm Coach Bounce, and this galaxy's my new track.
We've become a unit, forged in study sessions and sweaty gym chaos. Dmitri's gone from Moscow alley scrapper to my go-to for deadlifting cosmic weights, his rare grins a win. Fiona's Dublin-honed instincts make her a strategic beast, but I catch her glancing my way—sharp, then guarded, like she's hiding something behind her fighter's poise. I'm clueless as a rookie on leg day, but Dmitri's sly smirks suggest he's onto her. "Focus, Coach," she snaps when I fumble a plasma conduit quiz, her tone crisp but her eyes softer than usual. I shrug it off, oblivious, my gym-coach brain locked on test prep and not tripping over cosmic vines again.
We're at the help desk , a sleek hub buzzing with drones and glowing panels, to confirm our test registration. The alien lady—polished chrome, voice like a cosmic DJ—nods via bracelet translation. "Registration complete. Tests in two days. Study well." I'm about to ask about extra study files when a crew of seven struts in—five guys, two women, all lean, cocky, and radiating "we're the main characters" energy. They're also prepped for the tests, their gear pristine like they've been hoarding credits. The leader, a tall guy with a smirk sharper than Fiona's roundhouse, steps up. "Team Misfits, right? Heard you're gunning for Guild spots. Only five get in from our habitat, and we're claiming them."
I blink, grinning like I'm hyping a gym class. "Mate, you challenging us? We've got this locked." Fiona crosses her arms, her MMA stare icy. "You're dreaming if you think we're stepping aside." Dmitri cracks his knuckles, his Moscow grit flaring. "Name the game." The rival's smirk widens, his crew snickering—two guys flex like they're auditioning for a cosmic bodybuilding show, a woman twirls a holographic knife, and another tosses a glowing orb like it's a cricket ball. "Tomorrow morning, below the housing unit," the leader says, voice dripping with bravado. "Strength, smarts, teamwork—winner takes the edge for the Guild." His crew jeers, one guy mimicking my sprint-and-fall from the gym. "Heard you're good at face-planting, Coach Bounce," he taunts.
I laugh, unfazed. "Bring it, shiny. I've tripped over worse than you in a monsoon." My bracelet glitches: Query: Monsoon combat training? "Not helping," I mutter, smirking. Fiona leans in, whispering, "They're cocky, but sloppy. I read it in their stances." Dmitri nods, eyes glinting. "I'll break their egos." The alien lady's eyes flicker—alien amusement?—and she drones, "Challenges are not Guild-sanctioned. Proceed at your risk." I flash a grin. "Risk's my middle name. Well, it's not, but it sounds cool." The rivals strut off, their leader tossing back, "See you at dawn, Misfits. Don't oversleep."
We huddle outside, the housing tower looming above, its blue-lit stairwell pulsing like a sci-fi disco. The park's humming trees cast eerie shadows, the jogging track glinting under artificial stars. "Okay, Team Misfits," I say, channeling my coach vibe. "They want a showdown, we'll give 'em a cosmic smackdown." Fiona smirks, her focus razor-sharp, but her glance lingers on me a second too long before she looks away, all business. "We outsmart them. I've seen their type—big talk, weak follow-through." Dmitri grunts, smacking a fist into his palm. "I'll handle the heavy lifting." I notice his smirk, like he's clocked Fiona's vibe, but he says nothing, loyal as ever.
To prep, we hit the gym, a gleaming arena of gravity-shifting weights and alien treadmills. I test a strength rig, lifting a bar that flips to lunar gravity, nearly sending me into orbit. "Cheeky bugger," I grunt, laughing. Fiona spars a holographic bot, her kicks a blur, while Dmitri deadlifts a boulder-sized weight, his brawler strength unshaken. A drone buzzes over, pruning the park outside, its hum suspiciously judgy. We've earned credits cleaning habitat vents (Dmitri's brute force), restocking shops (Fiona's precision), and coaching others in push-ups (my specialty—1 credit per session). My bracelet reads: Credits: 1,124. "Not bad for odd jobs," I say, logging: Challenge accepted. Don't let Team Cocky steal our shine.
Later, at a shop, we grab 1-credit protein bars, dodging a 20-credit glowing smoothie. The alien clerk, eyes like neon fireflies, scans our bracelets. "Challenge noted," it drones, almost amused. I haggle for a 2-credit water, earning a flicker from its eyes. My bracelet logs: Bargaining skill upgraded. "Sassy tech," I mutter, grinning. Back in my 1BHK, we review Space Adventurer Basics, but the rival challenge hovers like a bad rep at the gym. Fiona drills us on protocols, her voice sharp. "Focus, you two," She grumbles, flipping through a starship schematic. I'm, hyping them up. "Tomorrow, we show those posers Team Misfits runs this habitat."
We end the night below the housing unit, the challenge spot, scoping the terrain—open, with the track and park on one side, shops buzzing on the other. The Guild dome pulses red in the distance, a reminder of the three slots we're fighting for. Fiona's all business, mapping strategies, but her shoulder brushes mine, and she pulls back fast, like she's dodging a punch. Dmitri's eyes glint, but he just nods. I log to my bracelet: Day twenty-eight: Crew tight, challenge on. Let's dunk on Team Cocky. Single, 500 years from Earth, I'm Coach Bounce, ready to sprint this cosmic showdown—or at least not trip over my own ego.