I became 1-Star fodder in a gacha game! (Chapter 1) (Patreon)

Good lord, this chapter was harder to write than I thought.

It might seem a waste, not jumping right into things, but I wanted to spend some time with the MC first. I think it's important to set some kind of ground-work, to make it clear what kind of person the MC is, and to show the story won't be about its 'gimmick', but the characters (as I keep saying over and over again).

I'm not entirely satisfied with it. It feels too long and not much happens. I dunno. In a way, I'm also giving myself some time to think. 

I have a lot of gripes with these kinds of stories, ones I need to sort out for myself before getting to that part. The 'system' is a big one. I hate those. They turn stories into trash. I've never read a 'system' or 'game elements' story where it actually contributed meaningfully. It has a ton of problems (like giving the MC powers out of nowhere. trained with a sword for a day? grats, here's [Novice Swordsmanship]. And while your at it, have a bunch of skillpoints you can assign anywhere you want. Keep at it for a few more days and you'll be stronger than someone who's been training for ten years). 

And that's just the start of it. Immersion is a big one as well. An author spends a tremendous amount of time trying to suck the reader into their world, and part of that is making it easy to suspend disbelief. So having everything be like a game and not make sense if you invest even 1% of your brainpower really doesnt help with that.

I've gotten kind of an idea how I'll handle it though. I think the way these gatcha games work alleviates some of the problems with the 'system' archetype. Rather than giving power immediately, its more like youre unlocking potential future growth (with how star-ups work and so on). Ofc, high rarities do have more stats from the get go, but that's basically just 'talent'. The MC will be a trash common, so he doesn't benefit from that.

Anyway, I still think it's worth it after doing a bit of worldbuilding. Good characters and dialogue can and will hard-carry a story, and this setup makes that a lot easier for me.

Enjoy this one, and I'll try to get the next chap as soon as I can. As always, the title is WIP because I suck at those.

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The cause of Al’s death was an unfortunate accident near a construction site. A big truck had toppled over, colliding against the pallets of material he’d been inspecting. As a quantity surveyor, he was in the middle of writing something on his clipboard, not noticing until it was too late.

Perhaps if he’d been wearing his hard-hat, he would’ve survived. However, having worked in the office that day and only driving over to quickly check on the shipment, it had completely slipped his mind. Yet, in the construction sector, such negligence was often enough to determine life and death.

The pile of material had come down on top of his head, a literal ton of bricks. He remembered the feel of his skull cracking and warm blood rushing out. A numb, tingling feeling shot toward his limbs, causing him to go entirely limp.

He heard someone shouting, rushing over and jostling his now prone body, but it was no use. The injury was too severe. In mere moments, he lost consciousness, everything going black. And then, after an indeterminate amount of time, he woke up. Somewhere else, and as someone else.

It might seem rather anticlimactic, summing up his miraculous rebirth in so few sentences, but that’s how it felt to him. There was no meeting with God or some other omnipotent entity, no gathering of sorcerers hailing him as a summoned hero, nor a grey-haired old cultivator welcoming his heaven-sent grandson.

When he opened his eyes again, he came face to face with a normal nurse, dressed in a normal nurse’s uniform, inside a normal white-walled hospital. Kept in a ward, he was tended to by the staff, his parents being conspicuously absent.

He had a lot of time to reflect, coming to terms with what had happened to him. Eventually, the shock faded, accepting his new circumstances. Not that he had any other choice. Even if going back was possible, what would he go back to? A broken corpse, rotting in a grave?

He soon learned his mother had disappeared from her hospital bed shortly after naming him—being Alistair now instead of Alfred—and they were unable to track her down. She’d listed no father on his birth certificate. Al didn’t care much either way. He already had parents who’d raised him with love and were surely distraught over his death.

That said, a more practical part of him couldn’t help but be worried for his future. He’d surely be sent off to an orphanage, which wasn’t necessarily that great of an outcome, depending on where in the world he found himself.

Well, there was no sense in fretting over it. As an infant, he couldn’t protest even if he wanted to. He could only let the dice fall as they willed, sleeping the days away. His body was so weak he could barely keep his eyes open a few hours, and his thoughts clear half that time.

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It was perhaps two months later that someone finally came to collect him. The person in question was a tired-looking middle-aged man, his hair streaked with grey and having a dark, leathery face; evidence of a life spent in the sun.

At first, Al suspected the fellow was his grandfather, but from the way he interacted with himself and the hospital staff, that didn’t seem to be the case. He was very indifferent and business-like—not the kind of attitude one would have when dealing with their illegitimate grandchild.

After a short discussion with the nurses and signing a few documents, the man carried Al outside in his arms, his clothes stinking of cigarette smoke. They arrived at an unmarked white van, something that certainly didn’t put Al at ease, before he was strapped into a baby-chair. Without so much as a word, the man started the vehicle, pulling out of the hospital parking lot and driving off into the city.

In some part of Al’s mind, he hadn’t quite believed this world to be as normal as it appeared. Maybe the type of entertainment he consumed in his past life was to blame for that, but in many ways, this didn’t feel like the earth he knew. The language sounded weird. The text was entirely unreadable, like some kind of Roman-alphabet off-shoot, and he didn’t recognize any of the names on TV (the hospital had one playing in the background).

However, as they drove from one street to the next, passing grey and brown buildings; storefronts, apartments and warehouses, identified by signs written in strange scribbles, he couldn’t help but reevaluate. Perhaps it was indeed an alternate reality, but it was an ordinary one. There weren’t any superheroes. Humans didn’t co-exist with aliens or fantasy creatures. They weren’t in a zombie apocalypse. It was just a plain old modern world.

Staring out the window while lost in thought, Al didn’t notice the passing of time. When he returned to himself, they were already pulling up in front of a single-story building, surrounded by a tall, chicken-wired fence. In front, a big sign had been placed, though he couldn’t read it.

Al didn’t have much time to speculate before the man was out, sliding the door open and unbuckling him from his chair. Once again, he was being held and carried, and while the smell wasn’t exactly pleasant, he had to give the guy credit. At least he was careful when handling a baby.

Soon, they were inside, standing in front of the reception desk. The person on duty was a woman, surprisingly young. After exchanging introductions, the man was quick to hand Al over to her, promptly leaving when he was done.

“…”

The two of them—Al and the woman—watched as the man left through the double glass-doors without looking back. When he’d gotten in has van and driven off, the lady sighed, looking at Al with a tired smile.

“From now on, you’ll be living with us. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll love it here.”

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Time had passed in the blink of an eye, the years falling away like autumn leaves. 

In the end, Al's parents never did show up, nor any of his other family members. He didn’t even know who they were, nor did the orphanage. The circumstances around his abandonment likewise remained shrouded in mystery.

Perhaps if he were a regular child, this would’ve bothered him. However, on the inside, he was a man in his late-thirties. His so-called parents were ultimately strangers, ones he didn’t care to know, and who’d only complicate his life by suddenly showing up.

It was no surprise then that they eventually decided to put him up for adoption. Al was more than happy to stay, having no desire for a strange new family, but he was an extra mouth to feed. And like most government institutions, the orphanage was always short on money.

In retrospect, he wondered if it might not have been wise to downplay his ‘genius’. Knowing how to read, write and speak fluently before the age of four had given people that impression, and made him a rather popular candidate for adoption. It wasn’t long before a newly-married couple had signed the papers, whisking him off to their three-bedroom house in the suburbs.

The wife had desperately wanted a baby, but on account of her infertility, was unable to. They’d spent years trying before giving up and adopting Al. It was somewhat of a long story, one he’d learned during the three years he spent with them, but not that relevant to the crux of the issue—that their new ‘family’ didn’t last.

Despite him being past that age, his new mother wanted to baby him, to coddle and cuddle him, to feed him, to change his clothes, bathe him, sleep with him. He could only play with certain toys. He wasn’t allowed to go outside without her supervising. Even then, he couldn’t run. Wasn’t allowed to climb trees or swim, despite knowing how to.

To make matters worse, she practically never left the house, so he was never rid of her. She didn’t have a job. She had few friends to speak of. Her family lived in a different country, a thousand miles away. Al was her entire life, and she was always with him. Even a normal child would’ve felt suffocated, never mind someone like him who’d long since mentally matured, and very quickly got sick of being around people.

Initially, he felt sorry for her, but that pity quickly ran dry. She was an adult, not a child, and more than capable of sorting out her shit. Being naturally impatient and inconsiderate of other people’s feelings, Al just couldn’t deal with her.

An insult or rude remark would slip out now and then. She wouldn’t take it well, not scolding or arguing with him, but running crying to her room, locking the door behind her. And then her husband would come home from work and find her there, and things would go from bad to worse.

It was worth reiterating that, although Al couldn’t get along with her, he wasn’t entirely without compassion. Due to varying, complicated reasons, she was a vulnerable, needy person in a position where she had basically nobody to rely on. Though, he still felt that she should’ve gotten herself together and dealt with it—the world didn’t care if she was struggling, nor did the people in it.

His feelings toward the husband were a lot less ambiguous. Not only did he and Al not get along, it was abundantly clear the man didn’t want children. Most likely, he’d gone along with it, hoping a child would prevent his wife from succumbing to a depressive episode while he was at work.

A lot could be said about him, most of it critical. Frankly, he was… not a very intelligent person. Or perhaps it would be better to call him simple-minded. It was clear he’d been raised as a man’s man, and most of his life was doing ‘manly’ things. Everyone knew the kind—loud, boisterous, outdoorsy, suspicious of technology and very traditional.

Al didn’t necessarily have a problem with that in principle. His own grandfather had been a similar type of person—steady as a rock and tough as nails, demanding respect from friends, family and strangers alike. Yet, despite being cut from the same cloth, the husband had none of that crusty old bastard’s redeeming qualities.

The man expected children to be obedient, not to ask questions or talk back, and to do what they were told. It wasn’t necessarily a bad quality, but more of a neutral one—when dealing with normal children, that is. However, not only was Al not a normal child, being older than the man himself, but he’d never had good relationships with authority figures. He wasn’t shy about talking back when he figured the man was full of shit, which was most of the time.

At first, their arguments were verbal, but as time passed and they got more familiar, and with Al getting older, the husband lost the shred of restraint he initially had. To his credit, he didn’t lay his hands on a four-year-old, resorting to breaking plates and kicking doors. No, he waited until Al was about seven, and less likely to die from a casual slap.

Thinking back, perhaps Al himself was somewhat to blame for how things escalated. He could tell the man was grossly insecure, barely tolerating it when his wife talked back to him. When Al realized just how much his own smart-mouthing enraged the man—that a child would dare criticize him—he just couldn’t stop himself.

Things culminated on a certain day, the pot brought to boiling by the most petty of arguments. Frankly, Al couldn’t even remember what it had been about. Though, thinking back to his past life, it frequently worked that way, with a single straw being enough to break the camel’s back.

Al did remember staring challengingly at the husband, practically daring him to take a swing. And that’s exactly what happened. With the wife screaming in the background, the man raised his hand before bringing it down, going for something between a slap and a full-on punch.

Being the instigator, Al wasn’t surprised when it happened. In fact, he’d prepared himself for the eventuality. Though, ‘inevitability’ was perhaps a better word. 

Raising his hands toward his head in mock fright, Al moved surreptitiously into position. He clutched some dirt in one hand, wanting to toss it into the man’s eyes. Short as he was, it was a difficult task, but he’d chosen a patch of elevated terrain for exactly that purpose.

When the husband was close enough, Al deftly flicked his fingers. Having scooped a generous amount, and his target being too close to miss, the grit hit its mark.

It was worth noting that bullies usually reacted in one of two ways when confronted: either by backing down, or pushing forward. The former was more likely than the latter. This was because their tough attitude was just a façade, an attempt to make up for a sense of inferiority. They didn’t actually believe themselves to be the stronger party.

To Al’s dismay, the husband was not one of these. At first, he reeled backward, grunting and groaning while attempting to rub the grit out of his eyes. Even through the dirt and tears, it was possible to see his shock, like his brain couldn’t process what’d just happened—that Al wasn’t just talking back to him, but fighting back.

It seemed overly dramatic to say he went berserk, but there really was no better way to describe it. The next moment, he completely lost control of himself, storming at Al while roaring in rage, his bellows practically rattling the window-panes.

Needless to say, a six-foot tall, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man could do a lot of damage to a seven-year old child—even when restraining himself. And in that moment, ‘restraint’ had been the last thing on the husband’s mind.

Fortunately for Al, he himself was rather quick. Together with his mentality, not liable to freeze up in such situations, he’d been able evade the bastard long enough for the neighborhood watch to show up. Likely, the noise had attracted attention, and someone had decided to give them a call. The wife certainly hadn’t been responsible—she’d attempted to stop her husband before getting her nose broken, and had cowered in fright from then on.

Eventually, three burly fellows had broken down the front door. The first thing they saw was a ruined home, with Al and the husband inside, one chasing after the other. At that point, Al had been leaping over furniture while hurling decorations at the raging bull of a man. He was already bruised and bleeding, and running out of gas.

Fortunately, the three arrivals didn’t waste time, dogpiling the husband before getting him into a head-lock. One of the men had to have had some wrestling experience, because when said husband didn’t relent, he choked him out without much effort.

The consequences of that little episode were predictable. The husband got in trouble. Al got relocated. 

Admitting as much perhaps didn’t paint him in a favorable light, but he got what he wanted—ridding himself of a family he found entirely unbearable.

His only regret was the wife. She’d loved Al in her own way, there was no doubt about that. After everything that had happened, she was completely devastated. When he’d left, and after her husband had been temporarily stowed in a cell, she’d looked like a walking corpse.

Al felt it was a shame. If she'd picked another child, none of that would’ve happened. Perhaps she could've gotten the perfect family-life she wanted.

But it had always been that way. He’d never been willing to live for anyone but himself. It was why he’d never gotten married in his past life, and why his relationship with his family had been on shaky ground before his passing. Even in this life, he wouldn’t change. Because he didn’t want to. Didn’t see a reason to.

Her name was Jenna. He didn’t bother with the husband’s. He didn’t deserve to be remembered. But Jenna… he would remember her. It wasn’t much, but it was something he could do for her.

In the situation he’d left her, it wouldn’t be surprising if she did the unthinkable. Between Al and her husband, they'd all but ruined her life. And she never was a resilient person.

He decided to write her letters. Not often, but now and then. On holidays. On his birthday and hers. He didn’t really know what to say, just rambling on about the things in his life, but she seemed to appreciate it. He was glad she did.

At the end of that year, he turned seven, on the 15th of December—or its equivalent in that world. Al hadn’t attended school that year – his late birthday and family troubles being the primary reasons.

That next year, he enrolled at a poor little school, close to the orphanage. He was back there, of course, and would be for two more years. Because after his ninth birthday, he was adopted again.

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