Adult reaction to the Gacha Glove was mixed.
Most parents didn’t pay much attention to the fact that their little angels had brought one or more living sentient beings home to live with them. As one father famously said to another in church, referring to the octopus with a cat head sitting on the end of the pew next to her son, “it’s just plain amazing what computers can do these days.” The existence of these beings was simply another trick of newfangled modern technology to them, like AOL instant messenger, the Nintendo 64, and those Blue Mountain e-cards aunt Susan kept sending with the animated cartoon dogs. Surely their child’s comical cartoon dog with a chef’s hat and a ravioli mustache was a similar feat of technology, some sort of hologram or robot. It was the second coming of the Furby--it’s amazing how drastically animatronic technology can improve from only one holiday season to the next! This whole fiasco was simply another youthful trend to ignore until its passing, at which point the ten-foot-tall dragon made of waffles, pancakes, bacon, eggs, and French toast would sit in the back of little Jessica’s closet for a few years until it was sold at a yard sale for two dollars when she discovered boys.
Of course, many parents got much more invested, for better or for worse. One dad tried to get into it himself, but realized the glove was comically undersized for adult hands. He went on to summon the bundled gacha without it, a measly Sequin Secret who wasn’t much trouble even sans-glove (though, high on this success, he went on to get a Breakfast Dragon from the machine outside K-Mart off Greenbriar Avenue, which devoured him alive seconds after being summoned). The “cool moms” tried to memorize the names of all the different gacha, and subsequently horribly embarrassed their children by calling their “Linguine Arf” a “Ravioli Bark,” or by calling “Several Hats” simply “The Hat Boys.” Angry soccer moms would line up in front of the mall every chilly Monday morning before opening to be first in line to buy the Gacha Glove with each new restock. They didn’t understand why, if the glove came with a single One Star gacha for twenty dollars, they were required to pump a hundred dollars of quarters into a machine at Pizza Hut to have a shot at additional, more powerful creatures, the ones their kids actually wanted... but they weren’t particularly concerned about it either. The economy was good.
Then there were the doomsday prophets. “As we near the year 2000, we near the return of Christ,” Father Smirnoff boomed to a crowd of hundreds at his oceanfront monolithic megachurch. “The good book tells us that the world will not stretch past the year 2000, and we have secular proof: the ‘Y2K bug,’ as the world’s news channels like to call it, will destroy all of the technology we have foolishly insulated ourselves with, protecting ourselves with the luxury of personal computers and the comforting embrace of high tech security systems instead of our faith in God--where will that leave us when it all crumbles around us in just fifty some days?”
“And already,” he continued, tears swelling in his eyes, “the End Times engulfs us, as it was prophesied, and the good Lord does not lie to us. The Beast is here, and the Enemy has chosen our own quaint little town to introduce his spawn. Look out your car window on your way home, and see them roaming our streets, even now--horrendous, hideous abominations, in the forms of man and of demons, mocking God as they stroll casually next to our own children. They are building their ranks, draining our children’s blood in Satanic rituals, using it as a portal from the infernal plane into our own. You do know that, don’t you? That is the only way to open the capsules we find planted in machines all over town--your child must give them blood!”
The word ‘blood’ was emphasized like the final word of a single ritual that would bring the entire Earth to its knees. The congregation went into hysterics, weeping, blaming one another for letting Michael bring that darned Rex home, screaming--Father Smirnoff had to wait a full minute before he could regain their attention to speak.
“It is too late, my brothers and sisters. Blame not your children, for it was whispered in their ears by these demons. There is no way to stop what is to come--for God to return, the Enemy must first take charge of this Earth, and he has chosen to do so in the form of collectible children’s toys. Nobody knows where they come from, do you know that? They say ‘GachaCorp’ on them, but that’s not a real company! The Enemy, he isn’t even--he’s not even trying! He is mocking you, he is mocking your children, just as he is mocking God!
“If your children have these abominations, listen not to what they say! They will tell you they are just toys, they are friends, they are family--they are lying to you! They only listen to your children if they always wear the powerful talisman they can obtain from KB Toys, the Glove, as it is called, which comes with a single abomination of a low rank but is compatible with the more powerful demons your children are encouraged to purchase from machines. The Enemy and his legions of Occultists are fond of talismans that allow demons to be controlled--that is what this is all about! Throw out the Enemy from your home, and only then should you burn your child’s Glove. You cannot hurt the Enemy, they are too powerful and nothing can harm them. They are protected by dark magic, just as you are protected by Jesus Christ! Throw them out, and pray for protection until their dark ruler returns on January 1st, 2000, and is subsequently vanquished by the returning Christ as he ushers in the new Kingdom!”
Many children wept that night as hysterical parents forced very confused characters like the sentient bow tie named Bow Tie and the living pants named Terrible Trousers into the cold, banishing them from their homes. They tried to burn the gloves, but the purple plastic accessories would not burn, even with gasoline. One concerned father took a small Phillips head and disassembled it, expecting to find a tiny demon or a jar of voodoo ingredients inside. Instead, he found only a single LED light connected to a very basic circuit board capable of one thing: making it light up when the glove was switched on, with wires connecting to the batteries compartment and the on/off switch respectively. He threw the glove in the garbage, then drank Bud Light until he passed out.
Which is all to say that it was no great surprise that Woodruck Middle School had a brand new oversized “NO GACHA ALLOWED” sign affixed to the front entrance when Matt and Kevin arrived there the next morning. It could also have been because a child was hospitalized after being hit by a cannonball from his bully’s Armatank, or the fact a boy had been caught making out with a Nyancy in the bathroom (who, when caught, claimed she was simply his older girlfriend in a catgirl maid costume), but Kevin found it easier to just blame parents for it. Old bastards. He was glad he didn’t have any. Except not really. He tried not to cry.
“Well, that sucks ass,” Matt mumbled, sighing as he too noticed the sign.
“I can’t go in there now,” Kevin quickly slurred, the panic in his voice evident.
“Why not? You already went for… uh... however many years kids go to school before this... without me, right?”
“Yeah, but Brian already kicked my ass every day, even before you killed his Fridge Horror. Now he’s gonna be out for blood.”
“I didn’t kill it,” Matt replied. “I just… dented it beyond the ability to open its mouth.”
“It can’t breathe if it can’t open its mouth, Matt.”
Matt shrugged. “Sounds like a personal problem.”
“The point is, I’m back to a sitting duck if you’re not there.”
“I can’t be around every second of every day, little dude. You’re gonna’ have to fend for yourself at some point.”
“I fended for myself for years, more than any other kid had to. But Brian is strong. He knows karate.”
Matt took a deep breath and put his hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Listen--you’re a strong kid. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met, though I confess I’ve only been alive for like, three days now. You don’t know karate, but that doesn’t mean you can’t defend yourself.” Matt fumbled around in his pockets and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles, stealthily slipping them to Kevin.
“Matt! I can’t use these! I’ll get suspended!”
“Yeah, but you won’t get picked on any more, I bet.”
“Why do you even have these?”
“In case Brian tries to use karate on me, I guess.” Matt chuckled. Kevin didn’t. “Look, I can’t always be in a situation where I can use sonic magic on mofos, dude. You need these more than I do right now.”
“Matt, I can’t break the law,” Kevin replied, firmly forcing the weapon back into his hands.
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Say, are instruments banned at school?”
“No…?”
“Well, I don’t know if it’ll work if you’re not a Matt, but...” Matt dug around in the front pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out his Les Paul. “...this is a pretty good way to keep people from messing with you, if so.” He dug around in his other pocket and slid out a soft case for it with a shoulder strap, putting the guitar inside and slipping it over Kevin’s shoulder. It dragged along the ground a little on the bottom, but it was a cheap case anyway.
“I thought the guitar only had sonic magic power because you do.”
“It recharges from contact with me, but I think it should have enough residual energy do give you a good blast if you need it. Probably.”
“Probably!?”
The first bell rang, and the boys noticed they were the only ones left outside. “You’re gonna’ be fine, but you’re also gonna’ late. Get the hell in there, kid: you got this.” Matt winked.
“Thanks again.” Kevin smiled before running up the stairs, but Matt could still see the terror in his eyes. It made Matt’s stomach churn that he couldn’t protect Kevin, but getting him expelled wouldn’t help anything. It would just ensure he’d never have a stable place to stay. At least this way, the kid had some hope of getting a job in a couple years, and then hopefully a really good one after he graduated high school. Good enough to get a decent little apartment in the suburbs, at least.
As he walked away, Matt noticed that a Fem-Fatal had fixed her glowing purple eyes on him like she’d seen a Five Star or something. The evolved form of Magical Girl stereotypes Tiffany and Nyancy, formed by fusing five of each of them, this gacha had the appearance of a busty mid-20s cat-woman in a fancy gothic witch costume. Her breasts barely fit in her corset, and Matt couldn’t help but think she looked like a total creep chillin’ beneath a willow tree in front of a school like this. The kind of MILF Kevin would go crazy for, no doubt, judging by the Italian place. Who designed these characters, anyway? She was levitating slightly off the ground, legs crossed, scanning him up and down with her gaze even after she clearly realized he had noticed her.
“If you watch any more of the movie, you’re gonna’ have to pay for a rental,” Matt snapped. She giggled, but he had meant it as an insult, not an advance.
“I could not help but notice your interesting tattoo,” she said in a sultry baritone, biting her black-painted lips. Matt caught a glimpse of bloodstained fangs. When the resulting silence made his confusion clear, she motioned to her own forehead, tapping it with her mahogany wand.
“What are you talking about?”
She uttered some unheard spell under her breath and flicked her wrist so that it spun her wand round in a perfect circle: in an instant, a portal of sorts appeared in front of Matt, quickly solidifying into a mirror. In his reflection, he realized two things. One, after he showered for the first time in his life the night prior, he’d forgotten to re-apply his foundation, and the glowing red eyeball-shaped emblem was completely visible. Two, there was now an army of identical magical girl Tiffanies lined up behind him, their heart-tipped wands raised and glowing with pre-charged magick spells with any number of debilitating effects. The Tiffanies were flanked by several Nyancies, teenage catgirl maids with handheld vacuum cleaners in their hands, fingers resting on the on-off switch. Matt knew the purpose of these--they were her signature weapon, capable of absorbing all but the most powerful magic the instant it was released. Even if he’d kept his guitar with him, it would have been completely useless in this situation.
“It was nice of you to gather a harem for me, but you got my preferences all wrong,” Matt quipped, trying to suppress the rising panic. Now he was the one in trouble. He could protect Kevin, but he had failed to protect himself. He was up against thousands of dollars’ worth of two-to-three-and-a-half star gacha with a four-star evolved gacha at their helm.
“You sweet boy,” the Fem-Fatal crooned, faking a pout and shaking her head. “You may be a Legendary rarity variant, but even with your 200% attack and magic boosts, you are still just a Matt. If you still had your guitar, you could take maybe ten Tiffanies or Nyancies, and that is very impressive. You might even be able to take a Meowquis de Sade, if the Nyancies fused to become one. But twenty Tiffanies, five Nyancies, and moi? You never stood a chance, you pretty little boy.”
“You bitch,” Matt spat, but when he turned to leap at the witch, a spell from a Tiffany made every muscle in his body tingle and caused his body to go rigid, lifting him up and placing him so he was facing the mirror. Matt tried to move, but the spell had him psychically paralyzed below the neck and stuck facing straight forward. “What the fuck is this about?”
“Our Master has taken a special interest in you,” she replied. “Word spread fast of your explosive little bout with Brian’s Fridge Horror. Matts shouldn’t be able to do that--no normal Matt, at least. We were sent here to see if you were indeed a variant, and to restrain you accordingly--and imagine our surprise when you didn’t even try to hide it! You are such a sweet, foolish little boy. I wish our other Matts were more like you, especially the ones who do like pretty girls. But I digress. Master will be here any minute now!”
“Did you call him with your dark magic horseshit?”
“No,” she replied. “I called him with my cell phone.” She took a moment to show off her new Nokia 8210 with a purple faceplate. How rich was this guy if he was buying brand new top of the line phones… for his gacha? “And you’re in luck…”
An unseen boombox started playing My Name Is by Eminem, one of few songs even Matt thought was overly edgy. The mirror vanished in a puff of smoke, revealing two Throckmortons looming up ahead: bad baseball-bat-with-nails wielding dudes with demonic luchador masks, backwards hats, and sunglasses like Neo in The Matrix. The right one held the boombox, and they were both bobbing their heads to the beat. They flanked a boy with perfectly coiffed, platinum blonde, side-swept, center-parted locks. This song must be his self-proclaimed theme song or something. What a little prick. He wore a custom black Armani suit under a black trenchcoat, and a pair of sunglasses not unlike Agent Smith’s in the Matrix.
“You really like the Matrix, huh, kid?” Matt spat. Granted, he also liked the Matrix, but come on--all things in moderation, dude.
“You would be wise to alter your tone, you measly One Star!” the boy replied. His voice was nasal, posh, and insufferable. He had to be fourteen at the very oldest, most likely thirteen--it was absurd for him to speak this way. There was a slight accent to it, but not an authentic one--like a child whose only introduction to ‘British accents’ was the narration from old Winnie the Pooh VHSes, and who then tried to co-opt it to sound smart but ended up sounding like a series of wet farts. That was how Matt thought it sounded, anyway. From his phrasing it was clear he thought he sounded quite elite and dignified. Matt also recognized the voice from somewhere, like he’d heard it in another world, or in a dream. Not in a mysterious way, though. Just in a way that pissed him off.
“If I’m just a One Star, why did you bring your whole harem of virgin-fetish-fuel cartoon chicks to capture me?”
“Because even as a lowly Matthew, you are a variant who will serve a very important purpose.”
Matthew? Did this little POS just call him Matthew? Wait--Matt had it! He knew where he’d heard that voice--
“Yet another Matthew? God damn it all! Argh! Fetch me more quarters at once!”
Matt burst out laughing, laughing until tears fell from his eyes and ruined his mascara. “What is so humorous, you cursed churl?” he demanded.
“It’s just… it’s just…” Matt paused to cackle again, struggling to regain his breath. “I know you!”
“Impossible! I would know if I had ever spoken to a variant Matthew. The odds of pulling one are greater than ten thousand to one--”
“ You pulled me, idiot! I heard you! You started crying to your Mommy or whoever to bring you more quarters because I was just a Matt, and you…” he laughed even harder, tears streaming down his face, “you threw me away ! Ha! You threw away a Legendary rarity variant because you were such a spoiled little brat! This is fuckin’ GOLD--”
The boy snapped his fingers, and the Fem-Fatal fired a dark energy pulse at Matt. Every nerve in Matt’s body felt like it was tearing out of his skin, knife-under-fingernail pain invading every millimeter of his being. His tears of laughter immediately turned to sobs of pain, blood interspersed with the saline. He forced himself to keep making laugh sounds, just to spite the little prick, but was quickly silenced by the sudden impact of a Throckmorton’s magic-infused spiked baseball bat to the gut. His fishnet shirt offered no protection against the nails, so the weapon tore into his flesh as the thug spun the bat in place to systematically grind away his skin. Bits of flayed skin clung to the nails as the Throckmorton returned it to his shoulder and readied himself to swing again if commanded.
“Are you not going to continue laughing, Matthew?” the boy taunted him, a small sardonic grin spreading across his chubby cheeks. His face was practically orgasmic--he was taking deep, twisted pleasure in this. Matt tried to muster at least a small chortle, still moving by pure pride and spite, all he could manage was a deep, hacking cough. As he coughed, bursts of crimson erupted from his lips, hot blood splattering across the pavement under him. Doubled over like this, Matt caught his first glimpse of his stomach, and saw raw, bloodied ground beef where his abs should be. He felt dizzy at the sight and almost toppled over, fighting just to retain consciousness. This was after one casual hit!
Matt couldn’t survive another blow, and he knew it. Human weapons were worthless, but a Throckmorton’s enchanted bat hit with the power of a small car going full speed, and they could win an arm wrestle against a silverback gorilla. In any other situation, if he was up against one, he would pull his guitar out and send them flying hundreds of yards away. Or, very worst case, he could squeeze in one fast sonic-powered punch to their arm and try to break the bone before they could swing. Matt was physically outmatched a hundred fold, with Nyancies standing in a circle around him ready to vacuum up any traces of sonic magic he may potentially muster. There was no out.
“Will you be a good Matthew now and come along with me?” the boy asked in a satisfied, playful tone, like a cat toying with a half-dead mouse. It would be his personality to welcome death with open arms if it meant keeping his pride, but Matt couldn’t die. He couldn’t leave Kevin alone in a world of maniacs like this little prick with his private army of god knows how many arcane, superpowered creatures. If you’re alive, he reasoned, you can hope for a miracle. If you’re dead, nothing can bring you back.
“A-alright. I’ll--I’ll go with you.”
“Good boy. Tiffanies, take him.” He was bound and gagged by cords of white magic and hoisted up like a burlap sack by three of the magical girls, Nyancies on either side and a Throckmorton in the back in case he should try anything. “It’s a shame, really, you have such a rotten personality, Matthew. Such an obstinate little churl, with such nerve! I was hoping to make you the core of the fusion, but after you’ve mocked me so, I don’t have the heart for it. You’ll become magical nutrients for one of my favorite Matts, and when they form their Legendary evolution, your soul can rest easily knowing it went to such a worthwhile cause.” Matt panicked and thrashed about, trying desperately to bite through the gag, but was punched by the Throckmorton and started to lose consciousness. The last thing he heard was the boy talking to his Fem-Fatal and explaining, “you see, my dear, one variant counts as fifty normal Matts, so we’ll have enough to easily create an Ultimatt, finally--combined with my other fifty, I’ll be the first to ever possess one! I’ll be absolutely unstoppable against even you know who, since he can--”
And then, darkness.