The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the Glade. Laughter echoed through the clearing—boys cracking jokes, swapping stories, arguing over chores like they'd known each other for years. I sat cross-legged on a log, still cradling the tin cup of what tasted like expired rainwater and regret. It was warm, at least. Probably boiled.
Still gross.
"Multiverse Mission System activated."
Yeah, that part was less warm and cozy.
I blinked down at my cup. Either someone had slipped something into this water, or my brain decided reality wasn't fun enough and downloaded a sci-fi DLC.
"You okay, Greenie?" asked a lanky kid with bad posture and a face like he hadn't slept in a week. His name was Jeff, I think. "You look like you just saw a bloody Griever."
"Pretty sure I drank one," I replied, grimacing. "This water tastes like despair. And burnt tire."
He laughed. "You get used to it. We call it Gladerade."
"Well, it tastes like it was filtered through someone's sock, so... makes sense."
A few heads turned and chuckled. My sarcasm was already doing its job. Humor: the universal currency for not getting punched in the face. Or at least, not right away.
But behind the jokes, my mind raced.
Multiverse Mission System? What the actual klunk does that even mean?
As if on cue, a screen flickered behind my eyes. Not physically—more like a heads-up display only I could see. Blue font. Minimalist. Fancy.
[Function: Host is transported to alternate worlds to complete missions. Rewards vary based on performance. Ratings: S (Excellent), A (Great), B (Good), C (Pass), D (Fail).]
Great. So I'd been isekai'd and drafted as some cosmic intern.
[Additional Functions: Inventory. Gacha.]
My cup nearly hit the dirt.
Gacha? Are you serious? What am I, a loot box addict?
"Something wrong?" asked a new voice—English accent, calm and curious. A blond boy with a limp sat down beside me. Newt. The Glade's unofficial glue, if I remembered right from the movies. The guy who kept everyone from punching each other into mulch.
I pasted on a smile. "Nah, just contemplating life, the universe, and why this water tastes like wet Band-Aids."
He chuckled, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "Yeah, well, it's all we got unless you fancy licking dew off the walls."
I made a show of considering it. "Depends. Do the walls have a lemon-lime flavor?"
"Lucky if they don't have fungus."
"Fungus flavor. Classic."
Newt shook his head, grinning. "You're weird, Greenie."
"Thanks. I work hard at it."
He studied me for a second, thoughtful. "You seem... okay. Most Greenies freak out their first night. You're just cracking jokes like you've done this before."
I shrugged. "Maybe I have."
It slipped out before I could stop it. Newt tilted his head, eyebrow raised, and I coughed quickly to cover it.
"Sorry, that was deep and mysterious. What I meant was: I'm probably repressing everything. Give it a day—I'll be sobbing into a cabbage."
He barked a laugh. "Wouldn't be the first."
While he chatted, my brain went full multitask mode. I focused on the System in the background like I was flipping through a phone while pretending to pay attention.
System, when am I? Timeline-wise. Give me some good news.
[Current Timeline: 3 months before canon events.]
Three months. That was huge. That meant Thomas hadn't arrived yet. The Maze hadn't fallen into full chaos. I had time to prepare. To figure out my role. Maybe even change things.
Assuming I didn't get eaten by a giant robot-slug.
Newt nudged me. "You spacing out again?"
"Only a little. Just soaking in the vibes, man. Good campfire energy. A+ for ambiance."
He snorted. "You're mental."
"Compliment accepted."
A shout rang out from the other side of the firepit.
"Greenie!" Gally again. Of course.
He swaggered over with a cocky grin, already holding out a stick. "Get over here. Let's see if you can swing a club without knocking yourself out."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why? You short on entertainment?"
He grinned. "You could say that. Plus, if I'm gonna train you to not die, we better start now."
I got to my feet, handing Newt my cup. "Hold that for me. If I die, bury it with me."
"Sure. I'll etch your name on it with a spoon."
Gally tossed me a staff. I caught it instinctively, and—just like earlier in the day—my muscles moved on their own. Familiar. Too familiar.
We stepped into the center of a ring of curious Gladers. I twirled the staff in my hands, feeling the weight, the balance. My grip was perfect.
I was trained. No question.
Wherever I'd been before this world, I knew how to fight.
Gally swung first—an overhead strike, telegraphed like a billboard. I sidestepped, knocked his weapon aside, and jabbed the end of my staff into his side. Not hard, but enough to earn a grunt.
The crowd whistled and hollered.
Gally came back with a grin. "Alright, alright. You're not completely useless."
"I aim to please," I said, parrying his next swing with a flourish. "And mildly concuss."
We went back and forth, the crowd cheering like we were gladiators. I didn't win—he clipped me on the knee and shoulder—but I held my own. That was the point. Respect through performance. Language these guys understood.
When we finished, I offered him a hand. He hesitated, then took it. His grip was strong, rough, but not hostile.
"You're not bad, Greenie."
"You're not either, Scarface."
"Watch it," he growled, but it lacked heat.
By the time the fight circle dissolved, a few Gladers were patting me on the back or tossing nods my way. Even Chuck—the youngest, roundest, most excitable kid in the Glade—ran up with a grin.
"You were awesome!" he said. "You gonna be a Runner?"
I blinked. Runners were the Maze-mapping speedsters who risked death daily for breadcrumbs of information.
"Not sure yet, buddy. First I gotta master 'not dying in the shower.'"
Chuck laughed so hard he snorted.
Eventually, Alby stood and raised his hands. The conversations dimmed.
"Alright, that's enough for tonight. Greenie's had his welcome party. Tomorrow, he works."
I saluted. "Aye aye, Captain Authority."
Alby smirked. "Keep the mouth, Greenie. It'll get you in trouble."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
As the Gladers trickled off to hammocks and crude tents, I lingered by the fire, feeling the warmth soak into my bones. The stars above were too bright, the sky too vast. It was beautiful and terrifying.
Three months until everything went to hell.
Three months to figure out who I was, what I could do, and how I could survive whatever the Multiverse Mission System decided to throw at me.
I stared into the dying fire, my thoughts racing.
System. What's in my inventory?
[Inventory: Empty.]
Figures.
Fine. Open Gacha. Let's roll the cosmic dice.
[Gacha Pull Initiated… Processing…]
A flicker of light behind my eyelids. A whirring sound.
[Congratulations! You have received: Enhanced Reflexes (Level 1).]
I blinked. My heart skipped.
That was... useful.
Not flashy. Not fireballs or teleportation or some anime-level power boost. But subtle. Effective. Real.
I felt something settle in my nerves. A clarity. Like my body was just a little faster. My instincts sharper.
I stood, flexing my fingers.
Okay, then. Let's play.
Because now I knew the rules were changing.
And Samuel?
Samuel was done playing the victim.
Tomorrow, the real fun would start.
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