I'm Alex, just Alex, Mumbai's gym coach turned galactic greenhorn, fresh off acing the Space Adventurer tests with Team Misfits—no, wait, Earthly Ramblers. Dmitri, the Russian brawler, and Fiona, are my ride-or-die crew. It's week one of Guild training on the Arkvault, a seven-mile zoo of cosmic snowflakes, and we're teleporting daily from Habitat-382 to the central dome, our bracelets now unlocking the pad like a high-tech keycard. Mine glitches with a cheerful ping: Log saved. Query: Teleport sickness remedy? "You're full of surprises, bangle," I mutter, chuckling as the world blurs. Single, stranded 500 years from Earth, I'm Coach Bounce, and this galaxy's my new gym—complete with weapons that could make a treadmill look tame.
My training's in a stark chamber, a high-tech dojo manned by a robotic instructor with eyes like laser pointers and a voice like a bored announcer. No fancy potential for me—just "?????" on my aptitude scan—so I'm stuck with basics: hand-to-hand combat, melee weapons, and guns, all in a body-enhancing suit that amps my speed and strength fivefold. The suit's sleek, black, and hugs like a second skin, turning my sprints into blurs and punches into wrecking balls. "Adapt quickly," the instructor drones, tossing me a plasma pistol that hums like a charged blender. I fumble the first shot, scorching a target dummy's foot. "Not bad for a rookie," I quip, firing again—this time hitting center. The suit's boost makes me feel like a superhuman sprinter, but the first day leaves me dizzy, crashing into walls like a pinball. By day three, I'm zipping around, dodging holographic foes. Next come the glowing blades—longer than daggers, shorter than swords, their edges shimmering like starlight. I swing them like a cricket bat at first, nearly slicing my own boot. "Focus," the instructor snaps. By week's end, I'm dual-wielding with flair, the blades humming in sync with my moves. The power fist—mechanical gloves that supercharge punches and grips—feels like wearing iron knuckles. I test it on a training bag, sending it flying. My bracelet logs: Incident: Bag demolition. "Thanks for the commentary," I chuckle. Exhausted but buzzing, I teleport back each night, the suit's boost wearing off like a post-workout high.
Fiona's sessions are in a special chamber, walls lined with glowing stones that pulse flux energy like a living heartbeat. Her aptitude scan lit up with flux potential, turning her into a space mage—or flux mage, as the Guild calls it. Her instructor, a luminous alien with a voice like echoing wind, guides her through absorbing the energy, her body tingling as she channels it. Her weapon's a sleek staff, taller than her, glowing white with an orb at the top that emits pale light. It transforms on command—orb shifting to handle for a thin, sharp longsword with a glowing edge, or to middle for a bow with an energy string, arrows formed from her flux energy. "Melee with sword, ranged with bow," the instructor intones. Fiona's first attempts are comical—the staff refuses to shift, then explodes into bow mode mid-swing, launching an energy arrow that singes a stone. "Like trying to kick a ghost," she grumbles, but her Dublin grit shines. By mid-week, she's slashing dummies with the sword, the blade humming like a angry bee, and sniping targets with arrows that arc like lightning. The chamber's energy boosts her, but it drains her too, leaving her shaky after sessions. "This flux stuff's no joke," she says, collapsing in my flat one evening, her eyes lingering on me a second too long before she looks away. My bracelet glitches: Query: Flux energy smoothie? "Not helping," I laugh.
Dmitri's training's in a rugged arena with elementals—humanoid aliens of pure energy specializing in one or two elements. Rare as a perfect gym day, only one's on the ship: a fire and lava master, its form flickering like a living flame. Dmitri's aptitude showed elemental block potential, a Guild-trainable power to block attacks and shield allies when mastered. The elemental's voice crackles like burning wood: "Coat your shield with elements—start with fire and wind." Dmitri's given a sturdy shield and body suit like mine, plus a magma spear from the elemental, its tip glowing red and hot. His first tries are hilarious—the shield flares with weak flames, singeing his boot, or wind gusts that blow him off balance. "Like wrestling a storm," he grunts, but his Moscow grit kicks in. By week's end, he's coating the shield with fire and wind, the energies swirling like a mini tornado, blocking holographic blasts. The spear's a beast—he swings it, leaving trails of heat, but nearly sets a dummy on fire too hot. The elemental nods: "Potential for more elements." Dmitri returns each night, exhausted but grinning, his bond with us ironclad.
We commute via the teleporter, now ours to operate—Habitat-382 to Guild dome and back, with permissions for other habitats on missions. The Guild gives us extras: drinks to boost focus and power for 10-15 minutes, with a weakness crash after (I call them "cosmic energy shots"), and binding rope—black, strong material for traps or rescues. "Report in two days," the proctor drones. "Train or rest." My bracelet logs: Items received. Query: Rope swing workout? "Cheeky," I mutter, grinning. We spend the downtime in the gym, sparring lightly—me testing my power fist on dummies, Fiona practicing flux arrows, Dmitri shielding wind gusts. Fiona's energy control improves, but she's guarded around me, her laughs quick and sharp. "Earthly Ramblers, ready to ramble!" Single, 500 years from Earth, I'm Coach Bounce, geared up for this cosmic game—or at least not dropping the ball.