I'm Alex, just Alex, Mumbai's gym coach turned cosmic janitor, now on day sixty-two aboard the Arkvault, a seven-mile zoo of cosmic snowflakes where 500 Earth years vanished faster than my gym membership. Our bracelets—those sassy, glowing wristbands—ping with boredom, logging our E-rank grind. I tap mine, muttering, "Day sixty-two: Earthly Ramblers, ready for something with punch, not polish." It chirps: Log saved. Query: Polish enhancement for power fist? "You're my kind of comedian, bangle," I chuckle. Single, stranded, and itching for action, I'm Coach Bounce, and this galaxy's my new arena—time to level up.
We teleport to the Space Guild dome, its red pulse throbbing like a cosmic headache. My body-enhancing suit hums, boosting me fivefold, plasma pistol holstered, glowing blades sheathed, power fist gloves flexed. Fiona's flux staff gleams white, orb pulsing, ready to shift into sword or bow. Dmitri grips his magma spear, tip sizzling red, his shield shimmering with fire and wind. We've adjusted to our gear through odd jobs—cleaning vents, restocking shops, coaching rookies—but no fights yet. "We're ready for promotion," Fiona says, her Dublin grit sharp. Dmitri nods, eyes glinting. I agree, "Earthly Ramblers, let's ramble up the ranks!"
At the mission desk, a luminous alien clerk, eyes like neon bulbs, hums through our bracelets: "E-rank team, Earthly Ramblers. Promotional mission assigned—clean light thrusters inside and out." I blink. "Thrusters? Like, engine guts?" The clerk nods. "High-risk, high-reward. Ship halted at a solar system edge, studying a life-bearing planet. Engines off for a week—safe window." Fiona's eyes narrow. "Promotion?" The clerk's eyes flicker—alien amusement? "Guild deems you ready. Succeed, ascend to D-rank." We exchange grins. "This is our ticket, Ramblers!" Dmitri's scowl softens at "D-rank." My bracelet logs: Mission assigned. Query: Thruster safety dance? "Not now, bangle," I mutter, smirking. Behind the scenes, the elder—high-ranking scientist with glowing eyes—pulls strings from his secret perch, testing my "?????" potential. His sleek subordinate, dark metal-clad and camouflaged, nods unseen.
We accept, buzzing with hype. Teleporting to the thrusters, we're on the Arkvault's hull, magnetic shoes anchoring us in the void. The thrusters loom like massive, dormant cannons, their rims glowing faintly. Tools in hand—plasma scrubbers, binding rope for safety—we split up: I take the outer rim, Fiona the inner vents, Dmitri the connecting pipes. "Stay sharp, Ramblers," I call, clipping my power fist. Fiona's flux staff shifts to sword mode for tight spaces, her orb pulsing. Dmitri's magma spear retracts, his shield folded. I scale the rim, blades scraping gunk, suit's strength making it feel like dusting dumbbells. "This ain't no glory run," I grumble, but smile—promotion on the line.
Fiona channels flux into her staff, slicing sludge with energy arrows, her moves a blur. "Like carving cosmic cake," she quips, then snaps away. Dmitri's shield flares with wind, blasting debris, his spear scorching residues. "Better than sweeping floors," he grunts. My bracelet logs: Activity: Hull hygiene. Query: Gunk workout benefits? "Always with the fitness," I laugh. The ship's halted, long-range sensors probing a distant planet's life forms, engines silent—safe, or so we thought.
Alarms blare through our bracelets: Pirate fleet approaching. Lockdown initiated. Doors sealed. I freeze, scanning the void. Smaller ships swarm like angry bees, lasers lancing the hull—space pirates, looting cargo, parts, power-cells, energy weapons. The Arkvault shudders, engines offline. We're outside, magnetic shoes glued to the surface, exposed ducks in space. "Ramblers, regroup!" I yell, but the lockdown seals vents—Fiona's trapped inside a thruster pipe, Dmitri in a connector. "This is bad," Fiona's voice crackles via bracelet. Dmitri grunts, "Shield up." Pirates board, lasers flashing, but we're hanging on the hull, no way in. "Coach, what now?" Fiona asks, voice steady but tight. I grip my plasma pistol, blades ready. "We ramble, Ramblers—we fight from here!" My bracelet glitches: Incident: Pirate party crash. Query: Swashbuckling certification? "Not helping, bangle!" I shout, as a pirate ship veers toward us. Single, stranded, and staring down vaporization, I'm Coach Bounce—time to turn this cosmic duck hunt into a win.