It's day sixty-seven on the Arkvault, a seven-mile cosmic obstacle course, and we're D-rank Earthly Ramblers, buzzing like we've downed focus drinks before a sprint. I'm Alex, Coach Bounce, my red-and-black suit humming, flux tingling in my palms, heart doing burpees after Fiona's cheek kiss last night. My bracelet—cheeky glowing bangle—pings: Mid-Level access active. Credits: ~14,500. Query: Romantic sprint PR? "Not now, bangle," I mutter, plasma pistol holstered, glowing blades sheathed, power fist & binding rope ready.
Outside our flats—Units 57–59—Fiona's waiting, white-and-black suit sleek, flux staff in bow mode, her braid catching the fake sunlight. I can't meet her eyes, my cheeks burning like a botched deadlift. She's staring at her boots, cheeks redder than a nebula. Dmitri looms, orange-and-black suit snug, magma spear retracted, shield folded, his smirk wider than the Arkvault. "Why so shy, kids?" he grunts, voice thick with Russian amusement. "You like each other. It's okay." His rare wisdom hits like a perfectly timed rep, and we burst out laughing, tension melting. I meet Fiona's eyes, her green gaze sparkling. "You're right, mate. No need to be embarrassed," I say, grinning. Fiona nods, her smirk pure fire. "Let's keep it real," she says, staff pulsing. Dmitri's smirk deepens. "Now hunt, lovebirds."
We teleport to the Guild dome, its red pulse throbbing like a cosmic heart, using the elder's chips discreetly. The receptionist, a luminous alien with disco-ball eyes, hands us a new mission: hunt a slimy, fluid-bodied alien, no skeleton, slow and dim-witted, last seen in the Arkvault's engine room yesterday. "Probably still oozing there," she hums, passing a scanner that sees through walls and metal, plus a bag—shiny like metal but soft as cloth. "Trap him in this. He won't slip out." My bracelet pings: Mission: Slime capture. Query: Cosmic vacuum cleaner badge? "Cheeky," I chuckle, clipping the bag. Fiona's eyes gleam. "Let's bag this blob." Dmitri's spear glints. "Slow or not, he's ours."
We teleport to the engine room, a massive hall guarded by bulky metal aliens, their frames clanking like living tanks. "State your purpose," one rumbles, optics glowing. "Guild mission—hunt a slime alien," I say, showing our scanner. They confirm via their own devices, parting like gym weights on a rack. The engine room sprawls, a labyrinth of humming machinery, pistons thumping like a cosmic treadmill, pipes snaking overhead. Aliens in metal suits weld and tinker, sparks flying. We scan for hours, weaving through turbines and coolant vats, the scanner humming but finding zilch. My bracelet pings: Scan negative. Query: Cardio endurance logged? "Focus, bangle," I mutter, flux sparking in frustration.
Finally, in a corner, the scanner screams, signal spiking behind a thick wall panel. "Got him!" I hiss, fist glowing. Fiona's staff shifts to sword mode. Dmitri's shield flickers with wind. We call to a nearby metal alien, who hums telepathically, lifting the panel into the air like a floating bench press. The slime alien— a glistening blob, swirling like neon soup—spins in a crevice. "Not so slow!" I yell, diving with the bag. The slime whirls, flinging me back with a high-speed spin, my suit skidding. Fiona's flux pulses, her arrows barely grazing it. Dmitri's spear slashes, but the slime dodges, oozing fast. "Slow, my foot!" I shout, questioning the receptionist's intel. Fiona's eyes narrow, staff glowing. "This slime can fight!" We take stances—me with fist and bag, Fiona with flux sword, Dmitri with fiery shield—ready to tackle this cosmic blob in a galactic showdown.