What kind of mission began with an order to save the entire world?
Nick stared at the objective for a long time, hoping the Magic Movie Ticket would provide a more reasonable explanation.
Nothing else appeared.
During his first journey, he had only been required to eliminate the Xenomorph aboard the Nostromo and save as many crew members as possible.
The second movie asked him to rescue a trapped couple and survive until the main story ended.
Both missions had been difficult, but their scale was understandable.
This time, Nick had not even identified the movie before being handed responsibility for the survival of humanity.
He admitted that his appearance could compete with Keanu Reeves, but that did not make him Neo.
His borrowed name was Levi Kane, not Levi Reeves, and he had no reason to believe he could dodge bullets or rewrite reality.
With no useful clues beyond the message ordering him to Camp Pendleton, Nick spent the next two days inside Levi’s small studio apartment.
The place reflected the life of a man who expected to leave at any moment.
It contained basic furniture, several locked gun cases, military equipment, and little else.
There were no family photographs, decorations, or personal belongings that suggested anyone would miss Levi if he disappeared.
Nick used the time to inspect every document, weapon, financial record, and electronic device connected to his new identity.
He also studied modern military customs and practiced the subtle differences between the habits of his previous Army service and those expected from a former United States Marine.
At noon on June 7, a black Chevrolet Suburban with government plates stopped outside the apartment building.
The driver did not introduce himself.
He merely confirmed Nick’s identity, took his bag, and instructed him to enter the rear seat.
The vehicle carried him south through California before passing the guarded entrance of Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton.
No one searched him or explained why he had been summoned.
The driver handed his identification to the gate personnel, received immediate clearance, and continued deeper into the installation.
Nick watched barracks, training areas, warehouses, and administrative buildings pass beyond the tinted windows.
Levi’s false memories recognized parts of the base, but they remained too vague to tell him exactly where they were going.
The Suburban eventually stopped outside an ordinary government building.
A young Marine private met Nick in the lobby and escorted him upstairs.
The hallways contained no unusual security beyond what he expected from a military facility, though the private refused to answer questions about the meeting.
He opened the door to a conference room.
A Marine colonel and an elderly woman were waiting inside.
The colonel stood near the table in a pressed uniform.
He appeared to be in his forties and carried himself with the rigid confidence of a career officer accustomed to immediate obedience.
The woman remained beside the window with the afternoon sunlight behind her.
She wore a dark business suit and held a folder beneath one arm.
Her silhouette and the colonel’s respectful posture suggested she possessed authority that did not come from military rank.
Nick straightened and saluted.
He had rehearsed the gesture repeatedly in front of a mirror during the previous two days.
The salute used by the American military differed slightly from the one ingrained in him during his former life, particularly in the hand position and the path of movement.
A small mistake might have looked strange for a former Marine sniper.
The woman glanced toward the colonel.
“Colonel, I’d like to speak with Mr.
Kane privately.
Thank you.” The officer nodded.
As he moved toward the door, his eyes remained on Nick.
Unsure whether Levi was supposed to recognize the man, Nick saluted again.
The colonel returned it without comment, walked past him, and closed the door behind him.
The elderly woman studied Nick.
“Four years out of the Marines, and you still salute twice?” “The military teaches habits that are difficult to abandon.” “Sit down.” She stepped away from the window and gestured toward the metal chair opposite her.
Nick pulled it back, but his movement stopped when the light revealed her face.
The chair legs scraped harshly across the floor.
For an instant, he almost spoke a name aloud.
Ellen Ripley.
The woman looked decades older than the warrant officer he remembered aboard the Nostromo.
Silver hair framed her face, deep wrinkles crossed her forehead, and age had softened the sharpness of her features.
Even so, Nick recognized Sigourney Weaver immediately.
Ripley had been the central survivor of the first four Alien movies.
Nick had met a younger version of her during his failed journey aboard the Nostromo, and the resemblance was impossible to ignore.
His mind immediately considered the worst possibility.
Was this older Ripley the female lead he had been ordered to save?
Had the Magic Movie Ticket thrown him back into another branch of the Alien universe, where an elderly Ripley planned to send him against Xenomorphs once again?
The woman noticed his hesitation.
“Do you know me?” Nick recovered before his expression betrayed too much.
“No.” Her eyes narrowed with mild interest.
“Then take a guess.” Nick resisted the urge to complain.
She had given him no name, insignia, or introduction, yet expected him to identify her position from appearance alone.
The interview had clearly begun.
He sat down and studied her as though considering the question carefully.
“You have enough influence to order a Marine colonel out of his own conference room,” Nick said.
“Your clothing is expensive but deliberately plain, and no one has asked me to sign ordinary military paperwork.” He leaned back slightly.
“My guess is that you’re a senior intelligence official.
CIA, or an organization close enough that the difference doesn’t matter.” The woman showed no reaction.
She sat across from him and opened the folder.
“My name is Bartholomew.” That confirmed she was not Ellen Ripley.
The resemblance came from the actress rather than the character, meaning Nick had entered an entirely different story.
Whether that was comforting remained uncertain.
Bartholomew scanned the first page.
“Your father served in the military.” “Yes.” “Your grandfather as well?” “He did.” Levi Kane had come from the kind of American family that treated military service as a tradition.
His father and grandfather had worn uniforms, while Levi had grown up on an Oregon ranch surrounded by firearms, hunting, and stories about duty.
Bartholomew turned a page.
“You served as a Scout Sniper and recorded one hundred eighteen confirmed kills, with another eighty-one listed as probable.
Is that accurate?” “There’s a problem with those numbers.” Her gaze lifted.
“Are they too high or too low?” “Too low.” Nick allowed a trace of exhaustion to appear in his eyes.
Levi’s implanted memories carried enough guilt to make the performance easy.
The official count did not include every person he had killed during operations where confirmation was impossible.
It also excluded deaths from his later work as a contractor.
Bartholomew watched him for several seconds before returning to the file.
“How many private military companies have employed you since leaving the Marines?” “Eleven.” “Why so many?” “Different expectations.” “That is not an answer.” “Some contracts ended normally.
I walked away from others.” “Because you refused orders?” “Because I disagreed with the target.” Bartholomew’s expression remained unreadable.
“Your employment evaluations describe you as exceptionally capable but difficult to manage.” “That sounds accurate.” “They also state that you possess an unusual attachment to personal principles.” Nick almost smiled.
“I wasn’t aware principles were considered unusual.” “In your profession, they can become inconvenient.” She continued through a series of questions that initially seemed unrelated to the mysterious assignment.
“Are you presently employed by any military contractor?” “No.” “Do you have an active private-security agreement?” “No.” “Any unpaid obligations that might require your return within the next year?” “Nothing significant.” “A wife?” “No.” “Girlfriend?” “No.” “Children?” “None.” “Parents or siblings?” “Dead.” “Anyone else who depends on you?” “No.” Bartholomew recorded each response without emotion.
The pattern became obvious.
She was not merely looking for a skilled sniper.
She wanted someone who could disappear for an extended period without family members, employers, or friends demanding answers.
“Do you currently use illegal drugs?” she asked.
“No.” “Prescription painkillers?” “Only when medically necessary.” “Alcohol?” “Occasionally.” “History of addiction?” “No.” “Is there anyone in the world whose death would make you abandon an assignment?” Nick paused.
For Levi Kane, the honest answer would have been no.
The man had lost his family, destroyed most of his personal relationships, and spent years drifting between conflicts.
Nick Burkhardt had people he cared about, but none of them existed in this movie world.
“No,” he answered.
Bartholomew closed the folder.
“Wait outside.” Nick rose and left without being told whether he had passed.
A military psychologist arrived thirty minutes later and led him into another office.
The evaluation covered combat trauma, depression, suicidal thoughts, impulse control, paranoia, substance abuse, and his ability to tolerate isolation.
Nick understood the purpose of most questions before the psychologist finished asking them.
His criminology education included a minor in psychology, and he had recently completed several professional assessments after the Joshua Coffey shooting.
Pretending to be completely healthy would have been suspicious because Levi’s records clearly documented severe PTSD.
Instead, Nick presented a believable version of a damaged but functional veteran.
He admitted to occasional nightmares, emotional distance, and mild depression.
He acknowledged discomfort in crowded environments and difficulty forming lasting relationships.
At the same time, he denied active suicidal thoughts, showed no signs of psychosis, and demonstrated strong control over his behavior.
The psychologist tested him repeatedly with differently worded versions of the same questions.
Nick kept every response consistent.
By the end of the session, he appeared lonely and scarred rather than unstable.
That was apparently exactly what Bartholomew wanted.
She summoned him back into the conference room later that afternoon.
“You passed.” “What am I being considered for?” “A classified security assignment.” “What kind?” “You will receive the necessary details after acceptance.” Nick had expected that answer.
“How long?” “One year.” “Location?” “Undisclosed.” “Who am I protecting?” “You are not being hired to protect a person.” “Then what am I guarding?” Bartholomew folded her hands on the table.
“That information will be provided when you reach the assignment.” Nick studied her face.
“What are the operational restrictions?” “You will have no contact with the outside world.
Communication will occur through scheduled encrypted transmissions.
You will follow established procedures, maintain the assigned equipment, and prevent unauthorized movement through your area.” “Movement from which direction?” “You are asking questions I am not authorized to answer yet.” That response interested Nick.
Someone with enough influence to command colonels and recruit black-operations personnel was claiming that even she faced limits on what could be discussed.
“What’s the compensation?” “Up to six hundred thousand dollars upon successful completion.” The amount was generous for a one-year contract, though not unbelievable for an isolated and dangerous assignment requiring an elite sniper.
Nick pretended to consider the offer.
The Magic Movie Ticket had already ordered him to save the world.
Refusing the first mysterious mission connected to Levi’s identity would leave him with no direction and no way to identify the female lead.
“I accept.” Bartholomew slid a thick nondisclosure agreement across the table.
“Read and sign.” Nick reviewed the document carefully.
Most sections threatened prison, financial penalties, or disappearance into the federal legal system if he disclosed classified information.
He signed Levi Kane’s name.
Bartholomew collected the papers.
“You will begin specialized training tomorrow.” “I thought the assignment started immediately.” “You are skilled, Mr.
Kane, but your existing experience is incomplete for this position.” “How long is the training?” “Three months.” Nick raised an eyebrow.
“You’re spending three months preparing someone for a one-year contract?” “We prefer our personnel to survive long enough to complete their duties.” The answer gave him little comfort.
Over the next three months, Nick was moved between secure training facilities and isolated ranges.
The program included advanced long-range shooting, weapons maintenance, automated defensive systems, explosives, emergency medicine, wilderness survival, climbing, rappelling, parachute procedures, communications repair, and the operation of equipment he had never seen during ordinary police work.
Instructors tested him under extreme heat, freezing rain, darkness, sleep deprivation, and simulated isolation.
He learned to repair generators, replace components in remote weapon stations, maintain surveillance cameras, and diagnose failures in older military systems.
Much of the training felt less like preparation for combat and more like instruction for maintaining a distant outpost without outside assistance.
Nick performed well.
Lightning Reflexes improved his speed with firearms and mechanical tasks, while decades of discipline allowed him to endure the physical demands.
Levi’s implanted experience filled gaps involving modern sniper systems and contractor procedures.
His shooting scores quickly exceeded the instructors’ expectations.
Nick deliberately concealed the full extent of his ability.
A man who reacted too quickly or consistently outperformed electronic timing systems would attract attention he did not need.
The training provided no clue about the female lead or the threat to the world.
No one mentioned monsters, biological weapons, alien organisms, or an approaching catastrophe.
The curriculum contained no special instruction for preventing global destruction.
Instead, Nick learned how to maintain a fortified position, survive alone, and shoot anything that approached from a distance.
Three months passed in a blur.
At the end of the program, armed personnel escorted him onto a military transport aircraft.
Nick carried a heavy equipment bag and wore clothing without insignia or identifying marks.
The cargo bay contained crates, secured weapons cases, and several passengers who refused to make eye contact.
No one explained their destination.
Nick strapped himself into a seat along the fuselage as the engines grew louder.
The aircraft began moving down the runway.
He leaned his head back against the metal wall and considered everything Bartholomew’s organization had taught him.
The program did not resemble preparation for a suicide mission.
They had invested too much time and money in keeping him alive.
It certainly did not feel like training for someone expected to save humanity.
If anything, Nick felt as though a strangely generous government employment agency had provided three months of professional development before sending him to repair equipment in the middle of nowhere.
The aircraft lifted from the runway.
Nick looked toward the small window as the California coast disappeared beneath the clouds.
Somewhere ahead waited the mission, the unknown female lead, and whatever danger had convinced the Magic Movie Ticket that the entire world needed saving.
[Community Goals Ongoing]