I'm Alex, just Alex, Mumbai's gym coach turned cosmic contender, leading Team Misfits—Dmitri, the Russian brawler who'd probably suplex a starship, and Fiona, the Irish MMA queen who reads foes like a dodgeball playbook. It's day twenty-nine on the Arkvault, a seven-mile zoo of cosmic snowflakes, one day before the Space Adventurer tests, and we're below our Habitat-382 housing unit, facing a cocky crew of seven who want our three Guild spots. Our bracelets—those sassy, glowing wristbands—have been our lifelines, logging our prep and trolling me with snack quips. I tap mine, muttering, "Day twenty-nine: Team Misfits vs. Team Cocky, round one." It pings: Log saved. Query: Pre-fight protein bar? I chuckle, picturing a victory shake. Single, stranded, and pumped to brawl, I'm Coach Bounce, and this galaxy's my new ring.
The challenge spot's an open plaza below our tower, its blue-lit stairwell pulsing like a sci-fi rave. The park's humming trees glow faintly, the jogging track glints under fake stars, and the Space Guild, mocking us with its three-slot limit. The rival crew—five guys, two women—struts up, led by a tall smirker with a jawline sharper than Fiona's roundhouse. His posse flexes, one woman twirling a holographic knife, another tossing a glowing orb like it's a cricket ball. "Ready to lose, Misfits?" the leader taunts.
A robotic alien ref, eyes like disco balls, sets the rules via bracelet: "Mock fight, gym ring, free-form. Knock your opponent down to win. No below-the-belt strikes, no killing moves. First to three wins claims the Guild edge." We march to the gym, its gravity-shifting rigs gleaming like cosmic bullies. The ring's a padded circle, holograms flashing a cheering crowd—alien spectators, spiky and tentacled, for extra pressure. I'm up first against the leader, Smirky McJawline. He's fast, dodging my jabs like a pro, landing a hook that rattles my teeth. I channel my gym-coach hustle, picturing a Juhu sprint, and tackle him rugby-style, sending him sprawling. "Down!" I wheeze, grinning as the ref drones, "Point: Misfits." My bracelet logs: Move: Tackle. Query: Rugby certification? "Not now, bangle," I mutter.
Fiona's next, facing a rival woman with a boxer's stance. Fiona's a blur, her MMA kicks landing like meteors. The woman hits the mat in ten seconds flat, groaning. Fiona, all business, points at the second rival woman, twirling her holographic knife. "You're up. If I win, it doesn't count for us; if you win, it counts for you." The crowd—human and alien—gasps at the bold move. Knife-Twirler sneers but agrees. Fiona dodges a flurry of strikes, reads her like a Dublin bar brawl, and sweeps her legs, dropping her with a thud. "Two points: Misfits," the ref intones. Fiona smirks, brushing my arm as she steps out, then pulls back fast, her eyes shining. "You're a cosmic ninja!" I said. Dmitri's smirk.
Dmitri faces a bulky rival guy, built like a lunar tank. The guy lands heavy punches, but Dmitri absorbs them like a Moscow alley scrapper, dodging some with surprising grace. He bides his time, then unleashes one earth-shaking punch, dropping Tank like a sack of cosmic spuds. "Three points: Misfits win," the ref declares. The crowd roars; my bracelet logs: Incident: Knockout detected. "Understatement, mate," I chuckle. The rivals slump, deflated. I step up, coach mode on. "Look, there's two Guild spots left. Fight among yourselves—fair shot." They bicker, then scrap in the ring. Smirky McJawline and Knife-Twirler win, their punches sharp but joyless. The other five slink off, shoulders heavy, dreams dented. I feel a pang but shake it off. "Tough galaxy," I mutter.
That night, we throw a bash in my 1BHK—Unit 59, plush with its spine-hugging bed and burger-stocked kitchen. We splurge 5 credits each on glowing fizzy drinks, toasting our win. "To Team Misfits!" I cheer, blender whirring a shake. Fiona sips, her eyes flicking to me, then away, her MMA cool intact. Dmitri grunts, mid-sip. "This name, Misfits—it's crap." I blink, laughing. "What? It's us!" Fiona shakes her head. "It's like calling us Team Losers. We need something epic." We toss out names—Star Strikers, Galaxy Jocks, Cosmic Kickers—but nothing sticks. "Blaze Brigade?" I suggest, flexing. Fiona snorts. "Sounds like a protein powder ad." Dmitri pitches "Iron Comets," but I grimace. "Too try-hard." My bracelet glitches: Query: Team name poll? "Not you too," I groan, grinning.
We banter till the fake stars dim, sprawled on my couch, bond tighter than a deadlift grip. Fiona's laugh softens when I ramble about test prep, but she masks it fast, all Dublin grit. Dmitri's sly glance says he's still onto her, but he's loyal, silent. I log to my bracelet: Day twenty-nine: Smacked down Team Cocky, partied hard. Test tomorrow—let's not flunk. Single, 500 years from Earth, I'm Coach Bounce, ready to run this cosmic race—or at least not trip over the finish line.