It's day sixty-six on the Arkvault, a seven-mile cosmic gym where chaos is the ultimate workout, and we're D-rank Earthly Ramblers, juiced like we've chugged focus drinks before a deadlift PR. I'm Alex, Coach Bounce, my red-and-black suit humming, flux tingling in my palms, heart doing burpees thinking of Fiona's shy smirk. My bracelet—cheeky glowing bangle—pings: Mid-Level access active. Query: Shapeshifter takedown badge? "Hold that thought, bangle," I mutter, scanner in one hand, plasma pistol, glowing blades, and power fist ready, binding rope clipped tight. Single—well, Fiona's glances are lifting my pulse heavier than any barbell—I lead the charge in a high-tech habitat, its sleek towers pulsing, long, spindly aliens gliding past in shiny suits.
Fiona's white-and-black suit glows, her flux staff in sword mode, eyes sharp as she sweeps the scanner. Dmitri looms, orange-and-black suit snug, magma spear retracted, shield flickering with faint wind. The scanner screams, its signal spiking near a lanky alien in a sleek suit, his hands stuffed in bulky metal gloves that scream "not local." "That's our Morph!" I hiss, flux flaring. Dmitri charges, shield igniting with fire, slamming the Morph's chest with a whump that echoes like a gym weight drop. The shapeshifter stumbles, his thin frame wobbling, gloves glinting. Fiona's staff pulses, flux spreading like a glowing net, pinning his arms. I pounce, grabbing him from behind, binding rope snapping tight around his wrists, claws exposed as the gloves slip. "Gotcha, cosmic con artist!" I grin, heart pumping like a sprint finish.
It's over in seconds—coordinated like a perfect team lift. The Morph, dazed, his 80% disguise flickering to reveal scaly skin, has no time to bolt. "Nice try, mate," I say, tightening the rope. My bracelet pings: Target secured. Fiona's smirk , her staff dimming. "Smooth work, Alex." Dmitri's smirk says he's impressed, shield cooling. We tap our bracelets—chips from the elder humming—and teleport to the Guild hall, its red dome throbbing like a cosmic heart. Guards, hulking aliens with tentacle batons, take the Morph, his claws twitching. "Mission complete," a guard grunts, transferring 500 credits each. My bracelet pings: Credits: +500. Total: ~14,500. Query: Cosmic payday party?
"Blimey, 14,500 credits!" I whoop, high-fiving Fiona. Dmitri nods, spear retracted. "Enough for serious gear." We teleport back to Habitat-382, Unit 59—my flat—decked with recycled holo-panels and a couch that's seen better days. Time for a D-rank promotion party! We crack open synth-juice, munch protein bars that taste like Blissful stardust, and play a holo-game of cosmic dodgeball. Fiona's laughter fills the room, her braid swaying as she tosses a virtual orb. Dmitri's smirks turn sleepy, his eyes drooping. "Too much party," he grunts, stumbling to Unit 57. "Night, lovebirds," he mutters, winking.
Fiona moves to leave, cheeks red. "Wait, stay a bit," I blurt, heart doing push-ups. She nods, blushing, and we step onto my balcony, fake stars twinkling in Habitat-382's dome, cool air brushing our faces, the habitat silent like a gym after hours. I lean on the railing, flux fading, courage pumping. "I've thought about it, Fiona. I… I do like you." My cheeks burn, and I look away, brain short-circuiting like a botched lift. She looks away too, blushing brighter than a nebula, then turns, her eyes locking on mine. Before I can stammer more, she leans in, kisses my cheek—soft, electric, like a flux spark—and pulls back, cheeks flaming. "Good night," she says, darting to the door.
I'm frozen, a statue mid-rep, brain blank. "G-good night!" I stammer as she slips out to Unit 58. My bracelet pings: Incident: Romantic spark. I'm Coach Bounce, 14,500 credits rich, a Morph in the bag, and a kiss on my cheek, standing under fake stars, wondering how I got this lucky in a galactic jail.