We're E-rank Earthly Ramblers clinging to the ship's hull like cosmic barnacles, magnetic shoes our only grip against the void. Space pirates swarm, their ships buzzing like angry wasps, lasers flashing for loot—cargo, parts, powercells, energy weapons. I'm Alex, my body-enhancing suit humming, plasma pistol in one hand, glowing blades in the other, power fist gloves sparking faintly with my new flux energy. Fiona's trapped in a thruster vent, Dmitri in a connector pipe, lockdown sealing them in.
I pry open Fiona's vent with my power fist, flux energy giving my grip a faint glow. "Hang tight, flux mage!" I call, yanking the panel. She crawls out, staff pulsing white, her Dublin eyes wide but sharp. "Took you long enough," she snaps. Next, I wrench Dmitri's pipe open, his magma spear sizzling as he emerges, shield flickering with fire. "Good punch," he grunts, smirking. We scuttle to a groove in the Arkvault's design, a maintenance door's shadow offering cover. Pirates close in, their ships darting, lasers scorching the hull. I grip my pistol, Fiona's staff shifts to bow mode, Dmitri raises his shield. "Stay low, Ramblers," I whisper, heart pounding like a sprint finish.
The Arkvault roars to life, its shields flaring, absorbing pirate energy blasts like a cosmic sponge, recharging itself. Railguns hum, firing slugs that tear through pirate ships, debris spinning into the void. "Blimey, it's a fireworks show!" I gasp, ducking a stray laser. Anti-matter torpedoes launch, glowing orbs that shred pirate hulls, followed by self-navigating drones zipping like angry hornets, blasting stragglers. Ship parts—twisted metal, glowing circuits—and alien bodies, some pirate, some not, float past, a grim ballet in the emptiness. My body tingles, flux energy sparking faintly. Fiona's staff hums, her eyes locked on the chaos, a flicker of awe crossing her face. Dmitri's shield flares, deflecting a drifting shard. "We're ants in this," he mutters. I nod, feeling small, the galaxy's scale crushing my gym-coach bravado. "Time to grow, Ramblers," I say, voice shaky but firm.
The battle slows, pirate ships retreating or wrecked. Our bracelets ping: Lockdown lifted. Doors open. We leap through the maintenance door, magnetic shoes clanging, and sprint to the teleporter inside, zapping back to the Guild dome. Its red pulse feels like a taunt now. My suit's buzz fades, flux energy flickering out. Fiona's staff returns to neutral, Dmitri's spear cools. At the mission desk, a glowing clerk hums, "Thruster mission status?" I grimace. "Cancelled. Pirates, mate." The clerk's eyes flicker—disappointment or amusement? "No credits, no promotion. Report for reassignment." Fiona's jaw tightens, Dmitri's scowl deepens. My bracelet logs: Mission aborted. Query: Pirate-dodging badge earned? "Cheeky," I mutter, too rattled to laugh.
We teleport to Habitat-382, exhausted and spooked, collapsing into our apartments—Unit 59 for me, 58 for Fiona, 57 for Dmitri. My 1BHK's spine-hugging bed feels like a lifeline, burgers untouched in the kitchen. I stare at the fake stars, replaying the floating debris, the tingling flux in my veins. Fiona's guarded glance from the hull lingers in my mind, but I'm too fried to ponder. My bracelet pings: Incident: Cosmic chaos survived. Query: Rest day workout skip? "You get me, bangle," I whisper, closing my eyes. Unseen, the sleek alien in dark metal reports to the elder, his eyes glowing as he hums, "The boy's flux grows under pressure." Single, I'm Coach Bounce, shaken but not broken, ready to ramble again—once my heart stops racing.