It's day forty-six on the Arkvault, a seven-mile zoo of cosmic snowflakes, and we're still E-rank adventurers, fresh off the soul-crushing Dump No. 275 cleanup. Our bracelets—those cheeky, glowing wristbands—ping with optimism despite the stench of failure. I tap mine, muttering, "Day forty-six: Earthly Ramblers, ready for glory, not garbage." It chirps: Log saved. Query: Anti-sludge deodorant?" I chuckl. I'm Coach Bounce, and this galaxy's my new track—time to sprint.
We teleport to the Space Guild dome, its red pulse throbbing like a cosmic migraine. My body-enhancing suit hums, boosting my speed and strength fivefold, plasma pistol and glowing blades clipped to my hips, power fist gloves itching for action. Fiona's flux staff glows white, its orb tip pulsing, ready to shift into sword or bow. Dmitri grips his magma spear, its red-hot tip sizzling, his shield faintly shimmering with fire. "No more dumps," Fiona says, her Dublin grit sharp. Dmitri grunts, "Give me something to hit." I nod, flexing. "Earthly Ramblers, let's climb that rank ladder—E to SSS, baby!"
At the mission desk, a luminous alien clerk, eyes like disco balls, hums through our bracelets: "E-rank mission, random assignment." I'm buzzing, imagining alien battles, maybe a shot at D-rank. The clerk hands us a holo-pad: Mission: Assist construction in Habitat-47, training cave for residents. One-week duration, high pay. "Construction?" I blink. "Like, cosmic carpentry?" Fiona sighs, "Better than trash." Dmitri's scowl softens at "high pay." My bracelet logs: Mission assigned. Query: Hard hat required? "Cheeky," I mutter. We're joined by 30–40 E-rank adventurers, a ragtag mix of humans and spiky aliens, all teleporting to Habitat-47.
The teleport spits us into a lush forest, air thick with sweet sap and humming energy. An ultra-huge tree towers like a skyscraper, its canopy sprawling wide, a glittering city perched atop its branches—platforms linked by glowing vines, houses carved into bark, lights twinkling like stars. "Blimey," I whisper, jaw dropped. "It's like a sci-fi treehouse on steroids." Fiona's eyes widen, her staff's orb pulsing brighter. "Flux energy's thick here," she says. Dmitri grips his spear, muttering, "Moscow never looked like this." The elf-like aliens greet us—slender, pointy-eared, with delicate frames but eyes crackling with power. "Agarvran,"as they are called. Their leader, a willowy figure named Sylra, explains via bracelet. "Strong in energy, weak in body. Build our training cave."
The site's a rocky clearing, tools and glowing stones scattered like cosmic Legos. We're hauling beams, stacking rocks, and binding supports with our black rope, my suit's strength making loads feel like dumbbells. I swing my power fist, hammering stakes, but overshoot, cracking a boulder. "Whoops, gym mode," I laugh. Fiona channels flux into her staff, its sword mode slicing beams with laser precision, though one misfire carves a tree's bark. "Oops," she grumbles, her glance at me lingering before she turns away, all business. Dmitri's shield flares with wind, lifting stones, but a gust scatters tools, earning a glare from Sylra. "Focus," she snaps. His fire-coated spear scorches a stray vine, and he smirks, unfazed.
We chug focus-enhancing drinks—bitter, like overbrewed chai—giving a 15-minute buzz before a weak crash. I tie ropes with my power fist's grip, Fiona's flux arrows pinning beams, and Dmitri's shield blocking falling debris. The other E-ranks bumble—some drop stones, others tangle in ropes—making us look like pros. Sylra's flux pulses guide the cave's frame, her energy weaving supports like glowing threads. "This cave will train flux masters," she says, eyeing Fiona. "You're learning fast." Fiona nods, but her shoulders tense when I cheer, "Go, flux mage!"
By week's end, the cave's taking shape—a glowing, stone-lined dome humming with flux. We're sweaty, sore, but the pay's 1000 credits each, a fortune. My bracelet logs: Mission progress: Cave 80% complete. Query: Construction cardio stats? "Always with the fitness," I grin. Back at Habitat-382, we collapse in my 1BHK, burgers sizzling. "Better than sludge," Fiona says, her laugh soft but guarded. Dmitri grunts, "Next one's a fight." I nod, dreaming of SSS ranks. Nearby, a sleek alien in dark metal watches them, unseen, per the elder's orders. Single, I'm Coach Bounce, rambling through this cosmic grind—one cave at a time.