Chapter 3 - The Cosmic Team-Up

I’m Alex, just Alex, the gym coach yanked from Juhu’s night runs to a cosmic cage match called the Arkvault. The Central Hall’s doors hiss open, and I step into a scene that could rival any sports arena for chaos—100 humans, all lean and wired, aged 24 to 32, their voices a tangle of languages my bracelet unravels into a wild symphony. French, Mandarin, Swahili, Spanish—it’s like a global gym convention gone rogue. My heart’s still pounding from the alien’s bombshell: 500 years have passed on Earth, my life’s a memory, and I’m Specimen 47 in a seven-mile zoo. Single, stranded, and seriously unlucky, but my mantra hums: Keep moving, no excuses. I tap my bracelet, its glowy interface flickering antics—ship map, personal log, and a glitchy habit of logging my snack cravings. I mutter, “Day one: still no gym, but this bangle’s got my back.” It pings: Log stored. Query: Snack status? I smirk. “You’re my kind of tech.”

A robotic alien—eight feet of gleaming menace, eyes like arena spotlights—mounts a platform, flanked by others moving with that too-smooth precision. Its voice booms in our minds, my bracelet translating: “Specimens of Earth, you are preserved on the Arkvault, a vessel spanning seven miles, housing 100 of each and 5,000 species. Planets fall to wars, disasters, time. We safeguard your legacy, ensuring your kind endures. You will live, eat, thrive—homes, food from your memories, recreation provided. Your Earth, 500 years advanced after two days here, is unreachable. Adapt.” The crowd erupts. A guy in a soccer jersey yells in Portuguese, “You stole us for a cosmic backup?” A woman snaps in Arabic, “I had plans!” I’m reeling—preserved like a trophy to restart humanity? My single life flashes: no partner, no kids, just sweaty gym sessions. “Unluckiest jock in the stars,” I mutter, half-chuckling. “Couldn’t even score a coffee date before this galactic timeout.”

I fiddle with my bracelet, pulling up the ship map—corridors twisting like a marathon route—when I spot a guy, maybe 25, built like a tank, eyes blazing with fear despite his tough vibe. He’s Russian, my bracelet tags, muttering about fighting back. Others steer clear—he’s got a brawler’s aura, like he could knock out a heavyweight. I stride over, gym-coach mode on. “Hey, mate, I’m Alex. You look like you could deadlift a truck. Name?” He glares, fists clenched, then softens. “Dmitri. Moscow. Street fights were my game. This? Insanity.” His voice cracks, fear behind the bravado. I nod, like I’m spotting a nervous client. “Yeah, it’s a wild pitch, but we’ll hit it. Stick with me—I’ll back you up anytime. Deal?” He studies me, then smirks. “Deal, Alex. Comrade.” I clap his shoulder. One ally down, and he’s the kind you want in a cosmic scrum.

As the crowd mills, a red-haired woman, 28, edges over, her stance screaming fighter—balanced, ready, like she’s sizing up a ring. “Nice save,” she says, Irish accent sharp. “Fiona, Dublin. MMA, Muay Thai, Krav Maga—I read people, and you’re not a show-off.” Her eyes flick to a clingy guy trailing her, some American muttering, “We’re a team, right?” She grimaces, her look screaming help. I catch on. “Fiona, Dmitri and I are debating fight moves. Got a favorite?” I call, loud enough for the guy to hear. “Back off, mate,” I add, grinning like I’m hyping a gym class. Dmitri’s glare seals it; the guy slinks away. “Thanks,” Fiona whispers, relaxing. “Friends?” I nod, smirking. “Welcome to Team Misfits.” Her grin says she’s in, a pro fighter with a knack for reading the room—my kind of crew.

The aliens herd us to a holographic lot system flashing room assignments. My bracelet pings: Unit 59, 5th floor. Dmitri gets 23, Fiona 41. “Exchanges permitted,” an alien drones. We huddle, swapping with a German sprinter and a Kenyan runner to snag 58 and 57—adjacent 5th-floor 1BHKs. The habitation sector’s a sleek tower, like a high-end condo on steroids, with 10 units per floor: 0-9 ground, 10-19 first, and up. Our apartments are plush—spacious, with cozy beds, kitchens stocked with Earth-like food (I spot a blender for protein shakes), and modern fixtures that scream luxury. Outside sprawls a cosmic campus: a gleaming pool, a gym with gravity-adjusting weights, a jogging track winding through a lush park, restaurants serving global dishes, shops with clothes and gadgets, a theater for old Earth films, and a hospital with scanners straight out of a sci-fi flick—all manned by robotic aliens moving like stiff dancers.

We stand below the tower, the park and track stretching green on one side, shops and facilities buzzing on the other. Dmitri cracks his knuckles, eyeing the gym. “Not bad for a prison.” Fiona scans the track, fighter’s instincts sharp. “What’s our play here?” I glance at our 5th-floor windows, Earth 500 years gone, my single life a distant echo. “We train, we bond, we make this ours,” I say, smirking. “Bad luck or not, let’s run this cosmic field.” The stars gleam above, and for the first time, I feel a spark—maybe this zoo’s my new pitch.