Save the world?
What kind of absurd objective is that?
Nick was completely thrown by the system mandate.
In Alien, his primary task had been straightforward: eliminate a single Xenomorph.
In that nameless zombie flick, he simply had to survive until the credits rolled.
Yet here, before he could even identify which universe he had landed in, he was burdened with the heavy mantle of a savior.
Nick readily admitted his bone structure rivaled Keanu Reeves’, but he was Nick, not Neo.
And in this timeline, he was designated as Levi, not John Wick.
With a heavy dose of skepticism, Nick spent two days lying low in the former owner’s modest studio apartment.
At noon on June 7th, a black Chevrolet Suburban bearing government plates pulled into the alleyway behind his building.
The Suburban passed through the security checkpoints of Camp Pendleton without stopping.
A private escorted Nick down a sterile corridor and ushered him into a high-ceilinged briefing room.
An officer wearing colonel’s eagles on his collar and an elderly woman dressed in a tailored, administrative pantsuit were waiting inside.
Having spent forty-eight hours rehearsing his military posture to match “Levi’s” service record, Nick immediately snapped his feet together and offered a crisp hand salute to the colonel.
While American and Chinese military salutes appeared similar at a glance, the nuances differed.
The former featured a slightly wider arc, distinct movement speed on the raise, and a slight outward tilt of the palm.
Nick had spent two days practicing in front of a mirror to adjust his muscle memory from his previous life.
The woman stood near the window, her back turned against the harsh afternoon sun.
“Colonel, please grant us a few moments in private.
Thank you.”
The colonel nodded, turning toward the door.
Noting the officer’s eyes lingering on him, Nick—unsure of their prior rapport—subconsciously executed a second salute.
The colonel, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, remained silent.
He returned the gesture, brushed past Nick, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him.
“Four years out of the Corps and you still double-salute?” The woman moved away from the window, gesturing toward a metal folding chair.
“Sit.”
As he pulled the chair out, his gaze locked onto her face.
His hands froze, and the chair legs dragged across the floor with a harsh, metallic screech.
Flight Officer Ellen Ripley?
What are you doing here?
The phrase nearly escaped his lips.
Standing before him was the unmistakable likeness of Ellen Ripley—the legendary protagonist of the Alien franchise.
Though she looked roughly thirty or forty years older than when he had first encountered her in deep space, her features were instantly recognizable.
Her hair was a silver-gray, and deep lines were etched across her forehead, yet her sharp, commanding gaze remained entirely intact.
“Do you know me?” the woman asked, noticing the handsome young man’s sudden hesitation.
Who wouldn’t recognize the Mother of Xenomorphs?
Nick thought dryly, wondering if the “female lead” he was supposed to protect was this formidable woman who could operate an exoskeleton power loader.
“No,” Nick said, shaking his head.
“I don’t.”
He wasn’t about to expose his knowledge.
If she was asking, this was explicitly their first meeting within this timeline’s reality.
The older woman sat across from him, eyeing him with quiet curiosity.
“Then why the sudden look of recognition?”
Without context, Nick needed to maintain his cover.
He feigned a quick, observational assessment of her demeanor, letting a beat pass before offering a calculated response.
“I assumed you were a high-level official.
Given your posture, your age, and the colonel’s deference toward you, I’d guess senior executive branch or central intelligence.”
The woman remained impassive, turning her attention to a manila folder on the table.
“Your father and grandfather both served in the Infantry?”
“Yes,” Nick confirmed.
“As a scout sniper, you have a recorded total of 118 confirmed kills and 81 unconfirmed.
Is that figure accurate?” she asked.
“No,” Nick said.
Levi’s integrated memories indicated the true count, including private contracting work, exceeded two hundred.
“Is the actual number higher or lower?” She glanced up from the dossier.
“Higher,” Nick replied, letting a subtle flicker of fatigue enter his eyes to match his character profile.
He mused that if he survived a few more world transitions, he could easily pivot from police work to professional acting.
A series of routine background questions followed.
She pressed him on the specific private military firms he had contracted for, whether he maintained outstanding personal debts, his relationship status, surviving relatives, and potential substance dependencies.
To nearly every personal query, Nick offered a simple, concise negative.
The line of questioning mirrored the screening process for a high-risk black-ops detachment.
While Levi’s psychological file noted severe PTSD, the recruiters seemed far more interested in his absolute lack of personal ties.
Following the initial interview, a staff psychologist subjected Nick to an extensive psych evaluation.
Having minored in behavioral psychology in his past life, Nick navigated the diagnostic questions effortlessly.
He refrained from projecting an unrealistically pristine mental bill of health.
Given his file noted a medical discharge for combat trauma, he allowed mild depressive markers to surface while carefully masking any genuine suicidal ideation.
The evaluation yielded favorable results.
When the older woman returned, she presented the operational terms: a classified, off-the-books deployment with a one-year timeline and a baseline compensation package of $600,000.
Nick accepted without hesitation.
He was then informed that prior to operational deployment, he would complete a mandatory three-month specialized orientation program.
Three months passed in a blur of rigorous tactical conditioning.
When Nick finally boarded a military transport plane, he remained mildly bewildered.
Based on the specialized syllabus he had just completed, he wasn’t being deployed as cannon fodder for a suicide run.
Nor did the training suggest he was about to single-handedly avert a global catastrophe.
Instead, the curriculum felt suspiciously like an intensive orientation program designed by an elite private security initiative.