Pain was the first thing Wildcard felt. A sharp, pounding pain in his skull. The second thing was nausea—his stomach lurched as the metal walls around him rattled violently.
He groaned, blinking through the dim red glow of emergency lights. His wrists were strapped into a crash harness. His feet dangled uselessly beneath him. A metallic voice crackled over an unseen speaker.
"Inbound transport. Designation: Prisoner #88321. Entry point confirmed. Impact in forty-five seconds."
Right. He was being dumped.
Wildcard let his head slump back against the cold steel wall. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Sure, he wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen, but he wasn’t one of the freaks that actually belonged on The Sinkhole. He was just a low-level nobody—a petty enforcer for a crime syndicate that barely knew his name.
And now? Now he was getting sent to a goddamn prison planet with real monsters.
His gut twisted.
He tried to shift against the restraints, feeling the familiar tingling in his bones. His power—random ability acquisition—was always shifting, but right now, he had no idea what it was. He focused, trying to sense something. Super strength? Heat vision? Teleportation?
Nothing.
God, if the transport guards had neutralized his ability, he was screwed.
"Impact in twenty seconds."
The ship shook again, more violently this time. Wildcard clenched his teeth, barely stopping himself from hurling. He should’ve never taken that damn job. The payout wasn’t even good.
"Impact in five."
His restraints unlocked with a loud hiss.
"Four."
His stomach lurched.
"Three."
Oh, hell no.
"Two."
Wildcard braced himself.
"One."
The pod slammed into the surface like an asteroid.
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The moment the hatch exploded open, the stench hit him first. Burnt metal, rot, and something thick and sour in the air—like blood left out in the sun. He barely had time to gag before voices cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Fresh meat!"
His heart jumped.
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A shadow fell over him. Wildcard blinked up at the figures standing around the wreckage—scarred, grinning, armed. Their armor was mismatched, stolen. Their faces twisted with amusement.
A gang.
Shit.
The leader, a thick-necked brute with a knife the size of a machete, cracked his knuckles. "What’s your power, rookie?"
Wildcard swallowed, forcing himself upright. His body tingled—his ability was shifting. He braced for the rush of something useful. Please be useful.
Strength? Telekinesis? Anything?
A warm sensation spread through his chest. He felt a surge of energy build up inside him.
Yes. Yes!
He took a deep breath and—
"ACHOO!"
The sneeze erupted out of him like a gunshot. A massive burst of wind and dust kicked up around him. The air vibrated. The scavengers staggered back—for half a second, Wildcard thought maybe, just maybe, he had something devastating—
Then the dust settled.
Everyone was still standing.
The lead thug blinked at him. "...Was that it?"
Wildcard wiped his nose. "...Uh. Yeah. But it was really loud, right?"
Silence.
The thug stared at him for a long moment.
Then he grinned, wide and cruel.
"That’s the dumbest power I’ve ever seen."
The punch came fast—Wildcard barely ducked in time. Oh, shit, oh, shit—
He turned and ran.
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He could hear them behind him—boots slamming against cracked pavement, laughter mixed with curses.
"You’re just making this worse for yourself!"
Wildcard vaulted over a collapsed beam, his breath ragged. Think, think! His ability would shift eventually, but he had no idea when or what he’d get next.
He skidded around a corner, nearly slamming into a crumbling wall. He had seconds before they caught up. Bluff. Just bluff, dammit!
He turned his head slightly, panting. "You really wanna mess with a guy who might go nuclear at any second?"
A pause.
One of the thugs hesitated. "What if he’s telling the truth?"
The leader scoffed. "Then we kill him before he does."
Wildcard groaned. Yeah, should’ve seen that coming.
He bolted toward a narrow alley, but his foot caught on debris—his body lurched forward.
"Shit—"
The gang was on him.
Then—a spark inside his chest. The unmistakable tingling of his power shifting.
Wildcard prayed for something good. Super speed? Flight? Anything?
His fingers twitched. A weird, sticky feeling spread through his hands.
New Ability: Slightly Stickier Hands.
"...Oh, come on!"
The first thug lunged. Wildcard threw his hands up on instinct—and accidentally stuck to a wall.
The thug swung, missed, and went tumbling into a pit.
Wildcard blinked. Looked at his hands. Looked at the pit.
Then, with a grin, he scrambled up the wall.
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By the time he finally stopped running, he was alone.
His lungs burned. His muscles ached. But at least he was still breathing.
He wiped the sweat from his face, forcing himself to look up.
And for the first time, he saw the world he’d been thrown into.
The sky was a sickly orange haze, thick with smoke and the distant glow of fires. He could see wreckage, old ruins, makeshift camps. In the far distance, massive structures loomed—fortresses? Cities?
Somewhere out there, people were screaming.
He had no idea who ran this place. No idea what the rules were. But someone was in charge. Somebody had to be.
All he knew was that this wasn’t some lawless wasteland. It was organized.
And that meant he was already behind.
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After wandering for hours, he found a ruined marketplace—if you could call it that. A few fires burned low in rusted barrels. Prisoners—villains, criminals, freaks—moved through the shadows, swapping stolen goods, whispering deals.
A man with a sly grin sat across from him. "You look new. Hungry?"
Wildcard eyed him. "...What’s the catch?"
The man leaned in. "Tell me what power you’re getting next… and we’ll make a deal."
Wildcard smirked, leaning back.
"Buddy, if I knew that, I’d be ruling this planet already."