Save the fucking world, my ass!
Nick was stunned by this mission. In Alien, his main objective had only been to kill a single xenomorph, and in that unknown zombie movie, he had merely needed to follow the plot to survive to the end.
Yet now, before he had even figured out which movie he was in, he was already supposed to shoulder the burden of being the savior?
Nick admitted that he was no less handsome than Keanu Reeves, but he was Nick, not Neo, and in this world his name was only Rivi, not Reeves!
In that frustrated mood, Nick waited two days in the original owner's shabby studio apartment. Then, at noon on the third day, June 7, a black Suburban with government plates arrived.
The Suburban took him straight through the gates of Camp Pendleton, after which a private second class led him into a conference room.
An officer wearing a colonel's insignia and an old woman dressed like the Xenomorph Queen were waiting inside.
Over the past two days, Nick had repeatedly prepared for various anticipated scenarios in light of his current identity as "Rivi." The moment he saw the colonel, he gave him a thoroughly respectful salute.
American and Chinese military salutes looked much the same at first glance, but there were still subtle differences. The former involved broader movements, with extra motions when raising and lowering the hand, and the direction and height of the palm during the salute differed as well.
Forced to learn on short notice, Nick had practiced in front of a mirror for two days before he had barely managed to temporarily correct the habits from his previous life.
The old woman stood near the window, where the lighting made her features hard to distinguish. He heard her say to the colonel, "Colonel, please let me speak with Mr. Rivi in private. Thank you."
The colonel gave a slight nod and turned to leave the room.
Seeing that the colonel kept his eyes fixed on him, Nick had no idea whether the two of them were supposed to know each other, and instinctively saluted him again.
The colonel, who looked to be in his forties, said nothing. He merely returned the salute once more, then walked past Nick and closed the conference room door behind him.
"You've been out of the military for four years, and you still salute twice?" The old woman moved away from the window and gestured to Nick, indicating that he could sit.
"The military has its rules."
As Nick sat down and answered, he got a clear look at her face. His movement as he adjusted his chair briefly faltered, and the metal chair scraped across the floor with an ear-piercing screech.
Flight officer Ellen Ripley, what are you doing here? He nearly blurted it out.
Wasn't this Ripley, the heroine of the first four Alien movies? Although she was at least thirty or forty years older than when the two of them had first met, Nick recognized her at a glance.
The Ripley before him now had a full head of silver hair, wrinkles on her forehead deep enough to crush flies without even raising her brows, and sagging skin on her face. But Nick was utterly certain he had not mistaken her.
"Do you know me?" The old woman seemed to notice the handsome young man's unusual reaction and asked as she sat down opposite him.
Who doesn't know the Mother of the Xenomorphs? Nick grumbled inwardly. Surely the heroine I'm supposed to save isn't this badass who can tear xenomorphs apart with her bare hands? What could possibly qualify me for that?
"No." Nick shook his head without betraying anything. He was not stupid. Since she had asked that, this was clearly supposed to be their first meeting.
Unexpectedly, the old woman who looked like Ripley had no intention of letting the subject drop. Instead, she said with interest, "Then why don't you take a guess?"
You haven't given me a single hint. How the hell am I supposed to guess?
Nick continued grumbling inwardly. Knowing that the "interview process" had begun, he had no choice but to make a show of looking her up and down. Only after a moment's thought did he answer, "Someone important enough to make decisions?
"Judging by your clothes, your age, and the respectful attitude that colonel showed you just now, I'd guess you're at least a senior operative connected to the CIA."
The old woman neither confirmed nor denied it, offering no response. Instead, she opened the file in front of her. "Your father and grandfather both served in the military?"
"Yes." Nick nodded. That "Rivi" really did come from a thoroughly respectable, all-American background.
"As a sniper specialist, you have a total of 118 confirmed kills and 81 probable kills. Are those figures correct?" the old woman continued.
"No." Those memories told Nick that "Rivi" had killed far more than two hundred people. Although his own marksmanship probably was not as good, this was no time for modesty.
"So was your actual kill count higher or lower?" The old woman glanced at him.
"Higher." Nick let a trace of sorrow show in his eyes at the appropriate moment, doing his best to stay in character.
He felt that after experiencing a few more movie worlds, he could quit being a detective and switch to acting.
What followed was a pile of questions with little substance.
The old woman went on to ask how many private military contractors Nick had worked for, whether he currently had any unfinished jobs, whether he had a girlfriend, whether there was anyone else in the world he cared about, and whether he had any problems such as drug addiction.
Except for the first question, Nick answered "no" to all of them, while secretly wondering whether she was recruiting someone for a suicide mission.
The problem was that although this "Rivi" had suffered from depression severe enough to choose suicide, he did not seem "patriotic" enough to volunteer for a suicide mission. Otherwise, he would not have chosen to leave active service four years ago because he could no longer bear his conscience tormenting him.
The old woman clearly knew that "Rivi" had left the service because of PTSD, but she probably did not know how severe his depression was. Instead, she seemed to place greater value on the fact that he was alone in the world.
After this interview with neither head nor tail ended, a psychologist came to give Nick another psychological evaluation.
Having minored in psychology in college and recently assessed his own mental state, Nick handled all the questions with ease.
Of course, he did not present himself as particularly psychologically healthy. Considering that "Rivi" was an elite sniper who had left the service because of PTSD, and that they had approached him because he had no attachments, he displayed mild depressive tendencies, but nothing approaching a disgust with life.
The old woman seemed very satisfied. When she saw Nick again, she took the initiative to lay out the mission requirements and payment: a secret mission lasting one year, with compensation as high as $600,000.
Nick agreed readily, but then he was told that before undertaking the mission, he would need to undergo three months of specialized training.
Three months flew by. When Nick was put aboard an AC-130 transport plane, he was still somewhat confused, because judging by the training he had received during that time, it did not seem as though he was being sent on a suicide mission.
Of course, it did not seem as though he was going to save the world either. It felt more like some social assistance organization had given him pre-job training.
Before you continue