Against All Odds

The barracks woke to the sterile buzz of lights flickering on, simulating sunrise in a place where the natural sun never reached. Luck's eyes opened a fraction before the wake-up call. It was a habit born of necessity, a few seconds of peace before the chaos of the day began.

At the Nexus terminal, Luck pressed his palm against the cool screen, the interface flaring to life. His stats stared back at him:

Strength: 4

Agility: 6

Vitality: 5

Luck: ...

— unchanged, as expected. He suppressed the flicker of frustration. After all, what could the Nexus System do for someone branded by misfortune?

The mess hall was a hive of activity. Luck's entry barely registered, his presence dissolving into the hum of conversation and clatter of cutlery. He sat apart, his meal a bland paste of nutrients, while he observed the stratified layers of camaraderie and disdain that split the room into invisible sections.

Physical enhancement training was as brutal as the trainers' glares. As others showed off their improving prowess, Luck's muscles ached with the effort to simply keep up. But there was something else — a subtle shift in his reflexes that the Nexus System grudgingly acknowledged with a fractional increment to his Agility. It was a minor victory, yet it felt monumental.

Lunch was a solo affair; the seat beside him remained empty. It wasn't just the superstition surrounding his bloodline; it was the aura of solitude that seemed to hang over him like a cloud. He didn't mind. Solitude meant survival, and survival was all he had.

Combat theory was a battlefield of intellect, and here Luck found his footing. The instructor's words on fate and chance sparked a light in Luck's eyes. As he spoke of using one's strengths to shape the battle's outcome, Luck's mind raced with possibilities. Maybe, just maybe, he could twist his cursed fate to his advantage.

Endurance training pushed him to the brink. Every fiber screamed for respite, but he pushed through, his eyes on the Nexus terminal as another point added to his Vitality. It was proof, however small, that he could evolve, could become more than the sum of his misfortunes.

Evening brought respite in the form of free time, but Luck didn't join the clusters of conversations or games. Instead, he watched, learned, and planned. Understanding the dynamics at play within the barracks was crucial. He needed to know who might become an ally or who would likely stab him in the back when the real test came.

Night found Luck alone with his datapad, pouring over strategy holos. Others slept, but he worked, turning over tactics in his mind. In the silence, he whispered a vow to himself — a vow to survive, to fight against the hand he'd been dealt.

As the lights dimmed, signifying the end of another grueling day, Luck lay in his cot, his body spent but his mind alight with the day's revelations. His bloodline, the Misfortune Wraiths, was seen as a blight, a harbinger of bad luck. But Luck wondered now if perhaps there was more to his legacy than misfortune. What if his cursed fate was the very thing that could keep him alive?

In the quiet that draped over the barracks, a determined breath escaped him, carrying the weight of his newfound resolve. Tomorrow was another day in the relentless march toward the CBR, another day to fight, to survive, and to bend the whims of fate to his will.