Chapter 4 - I Want to Be a Space Adventurer

I’m Alex, just Alex, Mumbai’s gym coach turned cosmic castaway, now part of Team Misfits with Dmitri, the Russian brawler who could probably bench press a truck, and Fiona, the Irish MMA queen who reads people like a playbook. We’re on day three aboard the Arkvault, a seven-mile galactic zoo where 500 Earth years zipped by in two days, and my single status feels like the universe’s longest running gag. Our bracelets—those glowing, glitchy wristbands—have become our lifelines, flashing maps, logging quips, and occasionally trolling me with snack-related prompts. I tap mine, muttering, “Day three: found a crew, still no barbells.” It pings back: Log saved. Query: want more Dried Shrimps For Protein? “Mate, you’re obsessed,” I chuckle, shaking my head. The map points to our 5th-floor apartments—Units 59, 58, 57—and I’m itching to explore our new digs and the cosmic playground around it.

We climb the tower’s sleek stairwell, its walls pulsing with soft blue light like a sci-fi disco. Our 1BHKs are absurdly plush: mine’s a spacious pad with a bed that adjusts to my spine like a personal trainer, a kitchen stocked with Earth-inspired grub (instant food and dried meat, even a blender for my shakes), and a window showing a fake starry view that’s oddly soothing. I poke the fridge, finding a sandwich spread that looks suspiciously terrestrial. “Alien peanut butter?” I muse, sniffing it. My bracelet logs: Query: Spread composition? “Focus, bangle,” I mutter. Dmitri’s unit has a punching bag that pops out of the wall—perfect for his brawler vibes. Fiona’s got a sparring mat that unfolds on command, like it knows she’s itching to kick something. “This beats my old gym,” I say, sprawling on my couch. Fiona grins, testing her mat with a mock jab. “Give me a bot to spar, and I’m set.” Dmitri grunts, smacking the bag. “Better than a Moscow alley.”

We spill out to the habitation sector’s campus, a sprawling resort that makes Earth’s fanciest clubs look like backstreet gyms. A shimmering pool glints under artificial stars, guarded by robotic aliens moving like wind-up toys. The gym’s a beast—weights that shift gravity, treadmills that simulate alien terrains. A jogging track loops through a park with trees that hum faintly, while restaurants waft aromas of pizza and curry, shops display clothes and gadgets, a theater promises old Earth blockbusters, and a hospital gleams with scanners that could probably fix a bad mood. All run by aliens, their metallic forms gliding with creepy smoothness. I jog a lap on the track, legs singing, while Fiona shadowboxes nearby, her moves sharp as a blade. Dmitri trails, eyeing the gym like it’s his new ring. “Team Misfits, ready to own this cosmic turf,” I call, dodging a drone that’s pruning the park’s glowing shrubs.

Our first stop’s a shop, shelves packed with Earth snacks and alien oddities—glowing orbs labeled “edible,” drinks that fizz like tiny supernovas. A bulky alien clerk, eyes like neon bulbs, greets us via bracelet translation. “Purchases via digital credits. Initial balance: 1,000.” My bracelet flashes: Credits: 1,000. The clerk points to basics—sandwiches, water, plain tees—all 1 credit each. “Exotic items,” it intones, gesturing to a shimmering scarf, “cost more.” I spot a glowing energy drink at 15 credits. “What, distilled starlight?” I quip, smirking. The clerk’s eyes flicker—maybe a chuckle. Dmitri snags a protein bar (1 credit); Fiona grabs a salad (1 credit). I test the system with a granola bar, my bracelet deducting 1 credit with a smug Transaction complete. “So, food and rent are pocket change,” I say, “but that cosmic smoothie’s a budget buster.” Fiona laughs. “Stick to water, Coach Bounce.”

We head to the help desk, manned by an alien lady—sleek as polished chrome, voice like a late-night radio host. “Credits fuel your life here,” she explains, her words crisp through our bracelets. “Basics—food, shelter—cost 1 credit. Earn more by working: shops, hospital, gym, maintenance. Clean the habitat, aid others—simple tasks ensure ample credits for comfort.” I instinctively said “Gym job? I’m your guy.” Fiona smirks. “I’ll take the hospital—patching up egos sounds fun.” Dmitri shrugs. “I’ll sweep floors if it pays.” The alien’s eyes glow brighter. “Tomorrow, registration opens for Space Adventurer roles. Missions, run by the Space Guild, range from habitat chores to off-planet quests. Requirements: written test, physical test, aptitude test. Study materials provided; one month to prepare.” My bracelet hums, downloading Space Adventurer Basics—pages of starship schematics, alien species, and jargon like “warp tether.” “This is my kind of playbook,” I say, imagining sprinting across alien dunes. Dmitri’s eyes spark. “Fighting on planets? I’m in.” Fiona nods, her MMA brain already plotting. “Tests? I’ll crush them.”

The alien’s claw hovers over a shimmering holographic globe, its inner surface a kaleidoscope of hundreds of habitats—each a tiny world of its own, swirling like cosmic snowflakes. One patch glows a sassy emerald green, labeled Habitat-382. “You’re here,” the alien hums, voice like a theremin with a head cold. Between the habitats looms a single, audacious structure—a skyscraping monolith of a building, pulsing a cheeky red, dubbed the Space Adventurers Guild. “Pass the test, and you’re in,” she says, her eyes glinting like twin supernovas. “All races, all missions, one Guild. But only five from each habitat get a shot. Registration kicks off tomorrow.”

My bracelet pings as I log: Goal: Space Adventurer. Don’t bomb the cosmic pop quiz. Fiona, Dmitri, and I exchange looks—three misfits ready to yeet ourselves into the stars. We saunter through the campus, where the gym’s gravity weights beckon like galactic bullies. I grab one, hoisting it like it’s made of moon dust—until it recalibrates and nearly flattens me. “Cheeky bugger,” I grunt, chuckling as I shove it back. Fiona’s a whirlwind, roundhousing a holographic dummy into pixelated oblivion, while Dmitri—built like a sentient bulldozer—sprints the track with surprising grace, his brawler’s bulk defying physics.

At the campus shop, I lock horns with a clerk over a 15-credit energy bar. “Mate, for that price, I could fuel a marathon and a moon landing!” I quip. He relents, dropping it to 12. My bracelet chirps: Bargaining skill detected. “Sassy tech,” I mutter, flashing a grin that could charm a meteor.

Later, the aliens offer a VIP tour of the Space Adventurers Guild, zapping us via teleport pad to its glowing dome. My bracelet logs the trip like a smug travel agent. Inside, it’s a cosmic carnival—spiked, tentacled, and luminous aliens hustle with purpose, their vibes screaming intergalactic hustle. A holographic sign pulses: Guild Missions: Habitat Hustles to Planetary Quests. I imagine Team Misfits dodging alien critters on neon-drenched worlds, saving galaxies with style. Dmitri cracks his knuckles, itching for a cosmic brawl. Fiona scans the crowd, her people-reading radar pinging like a sonar on steroids. My bracelet’s map reveals the Arkvault’s sprawling maze, and I log: Day three: Crew locked, adventure screaming. Let’s run this galaxy.

Single, 500 years from Earth, I’m still Coach Bounce—part dreamer, part galactic wiseass. “Forget Tinder,” I say, smirking under the dome’s throbbing light. “I’ve got stars to swipe right on.”