Chapter 5 - Light Years away from Earth, still need to study?

I’m Alex, just Alex, Mumbai’s gym coach turned galactic guinea pig, now sweating it out with Team Misfits—Dmitri, the Russian brawler who could probably knock out a meteor, and Fiona, the Irish MMA maestro who sizes up people like they’re sparring partners. Day four on the Arkvault, a seven-mile cosmic zoo where 500 Earth years vanished faster than my dating prospects, and we’re diving into prep for the Space Adventurer tests. Our bracelets—those glowing, sassy wristbands—have downloaded Space Adventurer Basics, a digital tome of starship jargon and alien etiquette, and I’m buzzing like it’s leg day at FitFreak Gym. I tap mine, muttering, “Day four: Team Misfits vs. cosmic pop quiz.” It pings: Log saved. Query: Study snack preference? “Mate, you’re my spirit animal,” I chuckle, picturing a protein shake. Single, stranded, and ready to ace this, I’m Coach Bounce, and this galaxy’s my new track.

We huddle in my 5th-floor 1BHK—Unit 59, a plush pad with a bed that molds like a warm-up stretch and a kitchen that’s suspiciously good at mimicking Earth burgers. Dmitri sprawls on my couch, flipping through the study guide on his bracelet, which projects holographic ship schematics. Fiona paces, her sparring mat folded away, her bracelet flashing alien terms like “quantum tether.” I’m at the kitchen counter, blender whirring a shake (1 credit, thank you, cosmic economy). “Right, Team Misfits,” I say, flexing like I’m hyping a gym class. “Written test, physical test, aptitude test—one month to prep. Let’s make this a cosmic bootcamp.” Fiona grins, cracking her knuckles. “I’ve got the physical locked.” Dmitri grunts, eyes on a diagram. “Written’s the problem. Reading’s not my ring.”

I lean in, curious. “What’s your deal, Dmitri? He smirks, a rare crack in his tough-guy armor. “Moscow streets, mate. Grew up scrapping in back alleys, betting on fights to eat. Learned to hit hard, trust few. Never read much—fists were my language.” His eyes darken, but he shrugs. “This Arkvault? Just a bigger cage.” I nod, channeling my coach vibe. “Fists are great, but we’ll make you a scholar yet. Stick with us.” Fiona chimes in, her Irish lilt sharp. “And me—Dublin gyms, bouncing from MMA to Muay Thai to Krav Maga. Bar fights taught me to read people fast, spot the ones who’d swing or bolt. Books? Not my thing either, but I’ll outsmart any test.” Her grin’s all confidence. “Team Misfits doesn’t flunk.”

We dive into the study guide, and it’s like deciphering a sci-fi fever dream. The written test covers starship navigation, alien biology, and Guild protocols—terms like “plasma conduit” and “xeno-diplomacy” make my head spin. I project a hologram of a ship, poking it. “This looks like my old blender on steroids.” My bracelet glitches, logging: Query: Blender-based propulsion? “Oh, you’re hilarious,” I mutter. Fiona laughs, swiping through species profiles—tentacled Zykarans, spiky Vordex. “Bet I could armbar that one,” she says, pointing at a claw-heavy critter. Dmitri squints at a navigation chart, grumbling, “This is worse than dodging cops.” I clap his shoulder. “Think of it as a fight plan. You dodge, we weave.”

The physical test sounds like my jam—endurance runs, strength challenges, maybe a cosmic obstacle course. We hit the gym, a gleaming arena with gravity-shifting weights and treadmills that mimic alien terrains. I crank a treadmill to “Martian dunes,” sprinting until it bucks me off, sending me sprawling. “Personal best!” I wheeze, laughing. Fiona nails a sparring bot, her kicks a blur, while Dmitri deadlifts a bar that adjusts to lunar gravity, nearly launching it into the ceiling. “Easy, champ,” I call, dodging the bar. A robotic alien trainer glides over, its voice flat: “Recalibrating equipment. Avoid structural damage.” I salute it. “No promises, tin man.” My bracelet logs: Incident: Gym chaos detected. Fiona snorts. “You’re trouble, Coach Bounce.”

The aptitude test is murkier—problem-solving, teamwork, maybe psych evals. We practice in the park, its humming trees casting eerie shadows. I set up a mock scenario: “Okay, we’re stranded on Planet Spiky. Escape plan, go!” Fiona suggests stealth, using her people-reading knack to predict alien moves. Dmitri proposes punching through. I pitch a sprint-and-distract tactic, like dodging defenders in a football match. We bicker, laugh, and end up tangled in a net-like vine that’s apparently “decorative.” A drone frees us, its buzz sounding judgy. My bracelet logs: Team exercise: Net entrapment. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” I mutter, grinning.

To burn off steam, we hit a shop for snacks—1-credit protein bars, 5-credit fizzy drinks that glow like mini nebulas. The alien clerk, eyes like LED fireflies, scans our bracelets. “Credits: 918,” mine reads after a bar. I eye a 100-credit glowing fruit. “What, is that the apple of immortality?” The clerk’s eyes flicker—alien humor?—and it offers a 2-credit discount on a water. Dmitri grumbles about prices; Fiona just grabs another bar. “Focus on the tests, not the fruit,” she says, smirking. Back in my flat, we quiz each other, but it’s like herding cats. Dmitri mixes up “warp coil” with “plasma vent”; Fiona keeps turning protocols into fight moves. I log to my bracelet: Team Misfits: Study skills questionable, spirit unbeatable.

A trip to the help desk clarifies the stakes. The alien lady—sleek as a spaceship, voice like a cosmic Siri—reiterates: “Space Adventurer missions range from habitat maintenance to planetary quests. Pass the tests, join the Guild.” I picture us dodging alien critters or fixing cosmic plumbing, my gym-coach heart racing. “One month,” I say, rallying the team. “We train, we study, we crush it.” Fiona nods, her fighter’s focus locked. Dmitri cracks a rare smile. “Better than alley fights.” My bracelet downloads more study files, glitching with: Query: Galactic victory dance? I laugh. “Save it for the win, bangle.”