Marvel Multiverse Gacha

The soldiers flung the door open, the harsh light from the hallway spilling into the dark room. Without a word, they shoved John inside, letting his body collapse onto the cold, unforgiving concrete floor with a sickening thud. The door slammed shut behind him, sealing him in.

His vision swam, everything spinning around him. He could barely focus, his mind still clouded from the pain and the haze of the shock. His body felt like it was made of lead, each breath a laborious struggle, but he fought to regain some clarity.

Weakly, he tried to lift himself, his arms trembling as they scraped against the floor. His wrists burned where the handcuffs dug into his skin, but he ignored the pain, focusing only on the one thing that felt like the smallest semblance of control—getting to the corner. The cold, empty corner where he could finally stop being in the center of it all.

His legs were shaky, each movement sending ripples of pain through his bruised and battered body. Every inch felt like a mile. His fingers dug into the floor, dragging his weight forward, but it was slow, agonizing progress. His chest ached with every shallow breath, and the stench of sweat and blood filled the air, mingling with the metallic scent of the room.

As he moved, he could hear the soft shuffle of others in the room, but no one spoke to him. No one reached out to help. Their eyes, hollow and distant, simply watched as he struggled.

John's muscles burned, his body on the verge of collapse, but the corner—a place where he could just be alone for a moment—was so close. His vision blurred again, but he pushed forward, each movement a fight against the weakness and despair threatening to swallow him whole. He didn't look up. He couldn't. He focused only on the corner, his hand scraping across the floor in desperation.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he reached it, collapsing against the wall with a muffled gasp. His arms gave way, and his head dropped to his knees, his breath ragged and uneven.

The pain was still there, gnawing at him, but at least for a moment, he wasn't in the middle of it. He was just in the corner—silent, alone, and broken.

As John sat there, hunched against the cold wall, his body trembling, a wave of exhaustion hit him like a freight train. The pain, the confusion, the helplessness—it all blurred together in a haze of misery. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd felt whole. The bruises, the burning ache in his wrists, the lingering shock from the electric jolts, it all made him feel like an empty shell.

But beneath all that… beneath the physical torment, beneath the mental fog, something flickered. A spark.

Why am I here?

He had tried not to think about it, to push the thoughts away, but they were impossible to ignore. Every inch of his existence now seemed meaningless. He wasn't supposed to be here. He didn't deserve this. But who else would be stuck in this nightmare, surrounded by other broken, tortured souls? Why him?

The memories of John Allerdyce—this other person's life, his hopes, his pains—were still running through his head, swirling around in a confusing mess of foreign details. And yet, even though those memories were not his own, he felt them like a weight pressing down on his chest. He felt the loneliness, the rejection. He felt John's fear when he had first discovered his powers. The terror of being different in a world that saw such differences as an abomination.

Is this it? he thought. Is this my life now?

But then something colder than the room itself seeped into his thoughts. His mind flickered back to the conversations he'd overheard before the soldiers arrived. Mutants were no longer human, were they? No, to them, they were just weapons, tools to be exploited, used, and broken. The world saw them as a plague, a threat that had to be eradicated or controlled.

His stomach churned at the thought. But there was something else. A deeper, darker realization gnawing at him. It was not just the world that hated mutants. It was not just the soldiers, the scientists, the authorities. It was... him. John.

John's memories. They weren't just a curse; they were his potential. His power. His fire.

But there was a problem with that.

I can't even generate fire.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. In John's memories, the boy had discovered his ability to control fire. And yet, he had never been able to create it from nothing. He could manipulate flames, yes, but he was trapped by the same limitation that John had lived with every day. Power without the power to create it. It was a cruel joke. But these limitations can be broken.

There was something that could give him the power he lacked—the Gacha system.

Gacha system was his only shot. With the possibility of obtaining a new ability—one he could control—he had to try. Even knowing the uncertainty of it all.

As he sat there, exhausted and broken, John's memories—no, his memories—began to crystallize. The anger, the rage that John had kept buried deep within. The resentment toward a world that treated him like a monster.

And it made something inside of him stir.

He looked down at his shackled wrists, feeling the chains bite into his skin. But it wasn't just the physical restraints that were holding him. It was the mental ones. The fear. The helplessness.

A deep breath. A shaky exhale.

I need to get out of here.

The thought whispered through his mind, a truth he'd been avoiding. He didn't know how, or when, or even if it was possible, but he couldn't stay here. He couldn't let this be the end of his story. No matter how broken he was, no matter how weak, he would fight.

His mind raced, piecing together fragments of John's memories. Stark Industries. Captain America. The mutants. The X-Men. He'd known all about them before—watched them from the safety of a comic book page, a fan's escape. But now, he was trapped in that world. The world he had always read about, dreamed about. But it was real. And it was ugly.

What am I even fighting for?

The thought struck him like a slap in the face. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even a villain. He was just a man—who had been shoved into a world that he didn't understand. And what was worse, he was stuck with a body that wasn't even his own, haunted by memories of a life he had never lived.

But as John's memories twisted in his mind, something else bubbled to the surface—an undeniable truth. John Allerdyce had never given up.

I can't die here. I won't.

The words echoed in his mind, louder than the pain that racked his body. He didn't know what he could do, how he could escape, or even if it was possible.

But first... he had to survive.

His gaze swept over the room, taking in the other mutants. Each one was broken in their own way—defeated, hollowed out by the same torturous existence. They weren't his friends. They weren't even allies. They were just people who had been beaten down, who had accepted their fate.

But John—John wasn't like them.

And maybe... maybe neither was he.

He couldn't afford to think like this. He couldn't afford to let the hopelessness consume him. Because if he did, it was over.

With newfound resolve, he closed his eyes for a moment, letting the pain settle into the background. For the first time since he arrived in this nightmare, he felt something stir within him—an ember of defiance.

He would find a way. Somehow.