Chapter 2 - The Cosmic Wake-Up Call

I’m Alex, just Alex, the gym coach who traded Juhu’s moonlit sprints for a cell that could star in a sci-fi flop. I wake to walls glinting like a polished trophy, a bed that hugs me like an overzealous spotter, and a window flashing a starry abyss that screams, “Earth’s a distant dream, mate.” My runner’s pulse races, trapped in this 10-by-10 box with nowhere to dash. The air’s too sterile, missing Juhu’s briny breeze. No door, no cracks—nothing to charge like a football in a street match. I pound the wall, hollering, “Hey! I’ve got a gym class to run! Who’s covering my no-shows?” Silence, thick as a fumbled catch, responds.

I pace, sneakers screeching on the slick floor, my mind doing mental sprints to dodge panic. Aliens? Me? The guy who just wanted a late-night snack? I drop into push-ups, counting—fifty, sixty—like I’m rallying my FitFreak crew. “Keep moving, no excuses,” I mutter, my mantra echoing in this sterile trap. A tray in the corner holds a quivering blob—food, supposedly. It wobbles like a nervous rookie. “No thanks,” I grunt, craving something solid. I try scaling the walls, my athletic instincts itching for action, but they’re smoother than a rain-slicked track. I slide down, landing in a squat, groaning, “This beats a gym with no weights.”

Hours stretch—days, maybe? No clock, just my spiraling thoughts. I’m mid-lunge, replaying my last run—dodging debris, music pulsing—when a holographic screen flares mid-air, nearly toppling me. Welcome, Specimen 47. Remain calm. You will be greeted shortly. “Specimen 47?” I scoff, wiping sweat. “I’m Coach Bounce, not your science project!” The screen blinks off, unimpressed. I’m about to shadowbox when the wall hums, sliding open to reveal a hallway glowing with eerie blue light, stretching like an endless relay course.

An alien strides in—eight feet of metallic menace, built like a powerlifter on cosmic fuel, eyes blazing like arena spotlights. Its movements are too fluid, like a stunt double’s routine, hinting at something strange. I square my shoulders, flashing a grin to mask my thumping heart. “Nice armor, big guy. Recruiting for a galactic marathon? I’m your man.” No reaction. A voice, flat as a deadlift bar, hits my brain: “Specimen 47, designation Alex. You are aboard the Arkvault, a collection vessel.” Collection vessel? Sounds like a cosmic trophy case. The voice continues: “Two Earth days have passed since acquisition. Due to temporal displacement from our propulsion systems, over 500 years have elapsed on your planet. SO don't think of Return, Return is not viable.”

My jaw drops faster than a fumbled kettlebell. Five hundred years? My gym’s gone, my clients are history, and my shot at a decent date? Vanished like a bad cricket shot. “Unluckiest jock in the galaxy,” I mutter, half-chuckling, half-gutted. “Still single at 29, and now I’m a space relic?” I picture a cricket match last month, my spin bowling scattering wickets, the kids’ cheers louder than a stadium roar. Or those evenings leading my bootcamp, all sweat and grins. Now? I’m stranded, no sunset runs, no flirty coffee dates. “Life’s a cosmic prank,” I sigh, recalling a friend’s nudge toward a blind date I skipped. Should’ve gone, Alex. Might’ve been the one.

The alien ignores my crisis. “The Arkvault spans seven to eight miles, housing 100 humans and approximately 5,000 specimens from diverse worlds. Your needs—nourishment, clothing, atmosphere—are provided. Adaptation is required.” Seven miles? That’s a marathon of madness. A zoo with 5,000 aliens? I imagine spiked creatures, tentacled oddballs, maybe one that looks like my gym’s broken blender. “Adaptation?” I snort, flexing my fingers. “I handle gym newbies and rainy seasons, but this is next-level. You filming a galactic game show?”

The alien’s eyes don’t flicker. "Follow for orientation.” Before I can toss another quip, a drone—sleek as a hawk—zips in, pricking my wrist. No pain, just a metallic bracelet fusing to my skin, glowing like a high-tech band. A translucent interface flares in my vision, like a fitness tracker from the future. Language translation activated. Low-level access granted. It flashes a ship map—corridors, sectors, cryptic labels—then glitches, spitting out alien text that sounds like static gargling. “Can it track my sprints?” I mutter, tapping it. It pings, logging: Specimen 47: Queries nourishment. I laugh. “Nice one, bangle. Prioritize snacks, why not?” I poke it again, and it pulls up a personal log, letting me record thoughts. I mutter, “Day one: stuck in space, craving a real meal.” It saves, flashing Log stored.

The alien gestures to the hallway, its claw gleaming like it could crush a shot put. “Proceed for orientation.” I’m reeling—500 years gone, no Earth, no gym, no chance to charm anyone with my relay skills. Unluckiest guy in the stars, but my mantra kicks in: Keep moving, no excuses. “Alright, shiny,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “Let’s see your Arkvault play. But if there’s no decent food, we’re having a chat.” I step into the hallway, its pulsing blue walls humming like a charged arena, my heart pounding like a sprinter’s. The air smells of ozone, a far cry from Juhu’s salty nights, and the weight of those 500 years hits hard—a life I’ll never reclaim. Still, I force a smirk. If I’m stuck, I’ll run this cosmic show my way. The hallway twists, leading to a massive chamber, its doors hissing open, ready to reveal whatever’s next.