First thing he did was confirm whether Anderson Gaming Corporation exists in this world. So he opened an internet browser called Google and then typed the name of the company in the tab and when he was done, he tapped the enter button and the results were displayed instantly.
"Let's see—huh?"
There were no results displayed. He tried refreshing it but the internet doesn't know about the Anderson Gaming Company. So that means the company doesn't exist in this world, and so do his immediate family members, further confirming that this was an alternate world.
With that knowledge, he tried searching for rival companies that became famous in the 2010s, like Rovio, PopCap, King, et cetera, and there were no results as well. So that means no Angry Birds that made billions, Plants vs Zombies, Candy Crush.
A smile crept across his lips. It's simple, if the companies that made them don't exist, then the games that would be a blockbuster won't exist as well. So that means he is free to recreate those games without legal repercussions. It's not like he can't make better games but there was a reason as to why they were successful.
"I'm going to have a field day for this."
But before he could venture on recreating those games, he has to consult with reality itself, particularly about his life.
First of all, James Pascual is drowning in debt, and there are a lot of them in due. Thomas recalled his memories about his finances but they were all empty. No savings, no backup, not even emergency money hidden under the bed. Just a thin wallet with less than a hundred pesos, a nearly empty bank account, and a load of unpaid bills that could drown anyone's spirit.
But even worse? No network. No connections. No one to turn to.
Thomas had built empires before—multi-billion-dollar ones with thousands of employees. But he always had tools, teams, and capital. Here, he had none of that.
Just an old PC, a failing internet connection, and memories of a future that hadn't happened yet.
He leaned back in the creaky chair, his eyes narrowing as thoughts whirled in his head like storm clouds. He had to start from ground zero. No—scratch that. He had to start underground, buried beneath poverty and obscurity.
But that was fine.
He still had himself.
And with that thought, a plan began to form.
Thomas—or rather, James now—knew that he needed money fast. Not millions, not yet. Just enough to stop the bleeding—pay the internet, the electricity, and keep himself from getting kicked out on the street.
Perhaps he could create a game that will generate him money through ads, and the game should be simple so that he could code it within hours.
Just thinking about it, he remembered that there was a game that was able to earn 50,000 dollars per day, and the game involves a bird flapping through pipes.
Flappy Bird.
Created by Dong Nguyen, it was the definition of viral: simple, addictive, and monetized with minimal effort. A game so basic it could be coded in a day—but it raked in thousands daily. In his original timeline, Thomas had laughed at the game's success. Now? It was his lifeline.
Good thing that James's computer had Unity and Unreal Engine installed. Outdated versions, sure—but still serviceable. Thomas opted for Unity—lighter on the system, and more than enough for what he had in mind. He cracked his knuckles again and began typing like a man possessed.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, building the basic mechanics—gravity, jump impulse, collision detection. He didn't need fancy graphics, just functional code.
He mimicked the art style in MS Paint—pixelated pipes, a flat, stubby bird, and a blue background. It was crude, but that was the charm. The important thing was how it played.
Click. Flap. Pass a pipe. Score a point. Simple.
Add a game loop. Add sound effects—he found a few royalty-free ones from an old archive James had saved. A soft "flap" sound here. A "ding" for points. A harsh "thunk" when the bird crashed into a pipe.
By 3 a.m., the prototype was done.
Thomas sat back, rubbed his eyes, and grinned. "This is going to print me money."
But then reality tapped him on the shoulder again. Just building the game wasn't enough. He needed to get it out there. Viral. Downloaded by thousands.
He needed exposure.
And with James's nonexistent social media presence and zero followers, that was going to be tricky.
"Alright," he murmured, "time to game the system."
Fortunately, James had a Google Play developer account—one he'd registered years ago under the name Espector. It was a digital graveyard, really. Filled with half-baked platformers, broken puzzle games, and a horror visual novel that crashed on the title screen. None of them ever got more than a hundred downloads. But now, that same forgotten account would be their ticket out of rock bottom.
Uploading the game there was easy. He titled it FlapFlap Hero—simple, catchy, mobile-friendly. Just enough charm to bait curiosity.
Then he moved fast.
He posted it to a few small indie sites and forums James used to frequent. He wrote up a fake backstory:
"Built this game in 12 hours to distract myself from heartbreak. Play it if you're bored."
Then he began his real magic.
He went on Reddit—back when it was still the Wild West—and dropped the link into /r/IndieGaming, /r/AndroidGaming, and a few tech subreddits. He even created burner accounts and replied to his own post, faking enthusiasm:
"Bro this is frustratingly addictive lmao."
"I hate how much I like this."
"Dude, I can't stop playing. Someone send help."
He emailed a few niche gaming blogs—those tiny ones run by college kids and hobbyists. He even sent the APK to a local gaming group on Friendster and early Facebook gaming pages. Anything to spark momentum.
Then he waited.
He refreshed the download counter.
7 downloads.
Not bad for the first hour.
By noon?
183 downloads.
And by midnight?
4,092.
He opened his account and stared at the dashboard. The in-game ad revenue—thanks to the embedded AdMob code—was already at ₱6,300. Not a fortune, but it was more than what James had in his wallet.
It was working.
For that, he earned himself a good rest. He hadn't slept the entire day, staying up to monitor the game's progress.
As he stood and stretched, he took in his surroundings. The place was a mess. He hadn't noticed it earlier—too locked in, too focused—but now it was impossible to ignore.
If he really wanted to turn his life around, this wasn't going to cut it. A dirty apartment couldn't be the foundation of something better.
He had to clean it.
Not tomorrow. Now.
He grabbed a trash bag and started with the obvious—crumpled paper, takeout containers, empty cup noodles, beers, and a pack of cigarettes. Each item thrown away felt like shedding a layer of the old him. The version that procrastinated, the version that gave up before even trying.
He wiped the coffee table, rearranged his scattered notes, coiled the cords properly. He even opened the windows to let some fresh air in.
By the time he finished, the room wasn't spotless, but it was decent. Livable. Respectable.
Just like him.
He sat back down in front of the screen, refreshed. The dashboard updated.
4,876 downloads.
₱7,100.
James cracked a smile. Well, this time he would sleep—oh no not yet. He hadn't taken a bath yet. He doesn't want to sleep if he is smelling so bad. So he took a bath first before going to sleep.