The Valdis Recruit: Chapter One

A 'Pick Your Path' Assassin Origin Story

Chapter One: Opening

Welcome to The Valdis Recruit: A Choose Your Own Adventure-esque story following your origin story as the newest recruit to a family of sibling assassins. Read along to see how well you fare off as an assassin… assuming you get that far unscathed. 
TW: Adult themes ahead.

Important Note: Substack’s poll choices are final. Meaning, once you’ve selected a dialogue choice, that choice cannot be changed. Please keep that in mind before you make a decision!

There was no such thing as a hand-out in the city of Ame. You knew that fact all too well. Here, in Ame, dreams came to die—and dreamers lost what little soul they’d blown in with. 

Most days were monotonous: A mishmash of breakfast, lunch and dinner, with a touch of petty crimes and minor delinquency sprinkled throughout.

Today, though, was different. 

Today marked your final day under state care.

Not that you had much of a choice in the matter. Orphaned at eight, and mistreated long before then, there wasn’t much of a soul left in you. Though the details are foggy, what little memory you have of your parents was just that: Little. 

The older caretakers knew a bit more than you did, though. They didn’t mince their words when they spoke about how each of the few children had shown up. 

Sometimes, it was tragic: A parent who couldn’t afford to keep up with hungry mouths or struggled to keep the roof over their head. Others were paying the price for their parents’ own mistakes: A shoot-out where their parents’ were caught in the crossfire—or had been the shooters themselves. 

Tragedy, too, was a precedent. Like, one where a fire had sprung up and only the kid’s life was spared. Others were left to their own devices, accidentally revealing they had no home to someone with enough sense to know why. 

While your memory often evaded you, there was no denying that your beginnings were more grim. After all, your mother had brought you there herself. She had made that choice all on her own.

If she had an excuse for abandoning you, she failed to let you in on it.

Rain poured down on top of you and the thin woman at your side. Your mother, you remembered. She tugged you towards the orphanage’s doorstep.

With one hand, she held an iron-clad grip on your wrist, while the other toted a baby in her scrawny arms. Those very limbs were decorated with a myriad of tattoos—inexplicable, spiraling vines. Meanwhile, your own arms were littered with dated cigarette burns and forgotten bruises. 

The door ahead creaked open, but a chain latch kept the door partially closed. A pair of eyes peeked out. The figure inside remained cloaked in darkness. You remembered feeling uneasy. Scared. Your mother was the opposite. 

“I can’t keep this one,” she spoke quietly, raising your arm as if the figure had somehow missed your shivering frame. “What can you do?”

The door closed, followed by the sound of a clink, the chain unbolting from its slot. When the door reopened, an apron-clad woman stepped out. With the way the cold whipped at your small frame, it was anyone’s guess when you landed inside.

Maybe your mother had pushed you.

Maybe the caretaker had pulled you. 

Either way, the woman kept you close to her leg, resting a hand on the top of your head. She was warm. One of the few good ones there until she left, too.

“Come inside,” the caretaker urged. “Let’s talk about your options.” 

When she gestured towards the baby, too, your mother stepped back, recoiling away with the infant. 

“No,” she refused. “This one stays with me.”

The caretaker and your mother then exchanged many, many words. What followed was a muffled mess of sounds. A cacophony of female rage and heavy rain. 

By the end of it, you were ushered away from the closed door—your mother and sibling now gone—and tucked away in a bed upstairs. 

It wasn’t a great thought to linger on. For starters, you didn’t have much memory to begin with. Considering your scars, you were probably better off that way.

Maybe her keeping the baby meant sparing you. 

Maybe, just maybe, you were better off for it. Either way, you hadn’t seen her since.

That was precisely why you held a shoebox in your hands, with the rest of your life tucked away in the backpack over your shoulders. 

Fortunately, the kitchen had been your second home. On days where you were assigned meal prep or dish duty, some items had inevitably gone missing. Especially over the last few weeks as you neared this fateful day. Hidden in the shoebox were a few granola bars, this morning’s tuna sandwich, a half-ripe banana and a bottle of water.

The Orphanage thrived on free labor, but you weren’t the type to volunteer. Something had to give. 

With the kitchen in first place, your next most visited corner of the orphanage had been the donation pile. You wore a handful of those hand-me-down pieces now: A white wifebeater, a pair of grey cargo shorts and faded sneakers. 

Your backpack held the rest, ranging from a chunky sweater, three-days’ worth of underwear and another outfit to change into. Despite knowing better, you had also stolen a pillow from your bed and a foldable pocket knife from your roommate. 

In these parts, that was plenty.

What pulled you from your thoughts was the door of the office peeling open. In walked a familiar old woman, Miss Ambrose. 

You had no intention of missing her. Simply put, she was a horrid woman. 

As if hearing your thoughts, her nose crinkled at you. “It’s about time we got rid of ya,” she muttered.

That must’ve been her cue to hand you a form, gesturing for you to fill out a few details with a dismissive hand. Mindlessly, you wrote your name and ticked a few useless boxes before handing the form back to her. 

Miss Ambrose tucked the form under a stack of books. She shot you a dirty look. “Keep out of trouble, will ya.”

If she planned on sharing any other nuggets of wisdom, she didn’t have much of an opening. You spared no time in hauling your box out of the office and towards the door leading outside. 

When you exited the orphanage, the stifling heat outside hit you square in the face, forcing you to lift an arm to shield your eyes. It was about mid-afternoon—no later than 3PM.

Your home for the last ten years was now behind you. A door closed to you forever. Faces already escaping your memory.

Ame was relatively unmoderated: a city left to rule itself, meant to be governed by its own collective conscience. Considering the rampant drug and prostitution rates, whatever conscience Ame had left, had shriveled up in the heat. 

Ame was nothing more than a city in ruin—abandoned much like you were.

The surrounding area was littered with many sights to see. Just outside of the orphanage, you spotted a homeless man jabbering on to himself. 

He pushed his shopping cart aimlessly in the street, bumping into a woman who was sprawled out on the ground, asleep. His expression was dazed, lost. Hers was enraged. What followed was a screaming match of gibberish and a few choice words. It was best to tune them out.

Besides, you were about to join their ranks. All you owned now was your dwindling memory, the clothes you wore and a few items you had smuggled away.

You were free. 

Homeless, uneducated and broke, but free. 

You’ve made it to the mid-way point of Chapter One: Congrats!

But, if you’re seeing this, that means you should scroll back up, pick your path and continue onward. Reminder to finish Chapter One by either visiting the pub or finding shelter.