Insomniac Player

Damien read the last line twice. "Why Major?"

"Because I offered you that rank publicly already. Walking it back now would look punitive and invite exactly the kind of political speculation I’d rather avoid." Martin’s tone stayed even. "More importantly, it grants the clearance you need for emergency gatebreak intelligence."

John leaned forward. "How many troops does he command?"

"None."

"Command authority?"

"None, outside a mission that specifically grants it."

"Permanent posting?"

"None."

"Compulsory deployment?"

"Only during a declared regional gatebreak emergency, and only if Mr. Damien is physically present on Earth-69 and medically capable of responding."

John looked at Damien. "That last part needs a coma clause."

The legal officer answered without looking up from her tablet. "It’s covered under medical incapacity."

"Write coma."

"Medical incapacity is the broader term."

"Write both."

She glanced at Martin. Martin gave the smallest nod imaginable, and the contract updated itself.

➤[Including forced comatose episodes.]

John settled back into his chair, satisfied.

Damien kept reading. He could accept or turn down standard assignments without penalty. Cleared gates would belong to the military. Mission pay was settled before deployment, and any loot followed whatever the individual gate’s contract said. In exchange, the army would protect his private information, provide him with restricted threat reports, and recognize his freelancer status throughout the region.

No unit under him. No salary sitting between missions. No authority to order a single soldier around just because the word "Major" happened to sit next to his name on a card somewhere.

Exactly what John had been pushing for from the start.

"The designation helps during a live gatebreak," Martin added. "Captains and junior officers will know you’re an approved independent asset instead of an unregistered civilian wandering into their perimeter. It doesn’t make you a career officer."

"Good," John said.

Martin looked at Damien directly. "You can request permanent service later, if you ever want it. That decision stays yours."

John opened his mouth.

"His," Martin said again, before he could get a word out.

John closed it.

Damien set his hand flat against the contract panel.

➤[Do you accept the Region 21 Independent Combat Agreement?]

He thought about the tutorial. The Rusted Blade. Tycho City. Twelve investigators bleeding out in a burial chamber under Black Reed Gorge. Nearly every disaster in his life so far had found him well before he understood the rules governing it.

This contract wouldn’t make him safe. It would at least get him the rules a little sooner next time.

He pressed Accept.

➤[Contract Signed.]

➤[New Designation Registered: Military Freelancer.]

➤[Honorary Rank Registered: Major.]

The uniformed woman set a black identification card and a small silver insignia on the desk. Damien picked the insignia up. It felt surprisingly plain for something that came with this much paperwork attached.

"Do I have to wear this?"

"Only inside restricted facilities, or when you’re attached to an official operation," Martin said.

John examined it over his shoulder. "Too small."

"It’s an identification mark. Not jewelry."

Martin dismissed the legal officer and both guards, and once the door shut behind them, he touched the desk. The signed contract vanished, replaced a second later by a new file, its border pulsing a slow amber.

"Freelancers normally get a few days before their first assignment lands."

John’s eyes narrowed instantly. "Normally?"

"Mr. Damien’s circumstances aren’t normal."

"That’s the first correct thing you’ve said all day."

Martin let that pass and turned the file toward Damien instead.

At the center of it sat the image of a gate shaped like a standing mirror.

"Your first mission is already available."

[One-person gate]

The gate in the image had no swirling blue center. Its surface just reflected the military chamber where the photo had been taken, soldiers standing around it in a loose ring, their reflections facing the wrong directions. One reflected soldier had a hand raised. The real man beside him kept both hands flat at his sides.

Damien zoomed in. The false hand looked as if it were waving.

"That’s unpleasant," John said.

"The official assessment uses more technical language," Martin replied.

"The official assessment lacks personality."

Martin expanded the report anyway.

➤[Gate Information]

➤[Name: Trial of Borrowed Self]

➤[Difficulty: Legendary]

➤[Required Level: None]

➤[Required Players: 01]

➤[Attempts: 103]

➤[Recorded Deaths: 51]

➤[Current Status: Dormant]

Damien read it twice.

"Only one person can enter?"

"At a time," Martin said. "The gate rejects parties outright. Whoever crosses first seals the entrance behind them until they die or clear it."

A hundred and three attempts. None of them had survived.

John stood up. "We’re refusing this one."

Damien stayed in his seat. "You said this was my decision."

"That promise lasted almost a full day. Respectable, for me."

Martin folded his hands on the desk. "Hear the briefing before you decide anything."

John didn’t sit back down. He moved behind Damien’s chair instead, arms crossed tight enough that his own muscles looked like plate armor.

Martin kept going. "The gate appeared five weeks ago under an abandoned commercial district thirty-one kilometers east of Viremont. Its energy output climbs when a high-level player gets close. It drops when a weaker one does."

"It scales to the person," Damien said.

"That’s our working theory. The first entrant was Level 63. Second, Level 91. Third, Level 146. More strength never improved the outcome."

John’s mustache twitched. "So your solution is to send in a Level 22."

"My solution is to stop treating this like a contest of levels."

Martin swapped the display. Three short clips ran in sequence, each one showing an entrant standing in front of the mirror-shaped gate, each reflection moving a fraction of a second before the real body did.

The Level 63 swordswoman reached toward the surface, and her reflection smiled before her actual face had time to change expression. She stepped through. The gate stayed sealed eleven hours before resetting on its own.

The Level 91 mage lasted four hours.

The Level 146 brawler lasted thirty-seven minutes.

"The stronger they were, the faster they died," Damien said.

"Possibly. Or the duration depends on how each person handled whatever waited on the other side. We recovered no bodies, no messages, no combat logs." Martin paused. "A handful of survivors made it back out, though. All of them described the same thing, a doppelganger that copies your stats and skills, everything except your titles. It fights with real killing intent. Anyone who chose to fight, died. Anyone who surrendered got let go. Every survivor said the same thing about the fight itself, that they lost to a version of themselves that had simply done everything a little better."

"Also," he added, "the gate spoke to each of them, one line each, tailored."

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