“Yo Jonesy, who’ve you got in the pot for today?” Bizkit asked while securing his weapon in a mount, and buckling his seat belt. “2-2, catastrophic, I’m going to say 6 hours in”. I sat in the gunner seat of an up armored HUMMVEE listening to the ritual back and forth my truck crew went through before we rolled out of the gate. It was something that the whole platoon had taken up after they got the orders extending their tour from twelve months to fifteen, a death pool. We’d gotten fatalistic.

Bizkit continues the rounds of the truck, “what about you Big-J?”

“You know I don’t go in for the pool biskit, keep that bullshit off my side of the truck.”

“I’m with Big-J” Del chimes in.

“Ranger that. bout you gopher?” he always asks me because he knows Del hates my answer the most. “You know me: If you’re going to bet on death; bet on your own. 2-4, a disabler, I’m the only one that doesn’t make it, but you guys all go home and name your ill-bred children after me.”

I’m not suicidal, and I wouldn’t say I’m superstitious, but I don’t want to be the one calling someone else’s death; I don’t need to live the rest of my life with that kind of joke on my fucking conscience. My name isn’t gopher, just like the rest of these bozos aren’t as poorly named. We have call signs and nicknames to either bust balls or come across radio traffic, gopher is a play on gunner because we spend our days popping up and down in our gun-holes like gophers in a yard. That’s about as deep as we get most days.

I’ve gotten off-track, my name is Daniel and I sit in the gunner’s seat in a HUMVEE for second platoons fourth truck, this is the platoon sergeants truck in our platoon. I look nothing if not average 5’10 dark brown hair, brown eyes and a nose, an athletic body build, just your average joe. I’d been in the U.S. ARMY for about 6 years now, would have been out a few years ago, if my life hadn’t fallen apart. I was married, with one foot out the door with a medical discharge when me and my wife had what could easily be called a falling out. I decided to take the advice I had heard for years: fake it till I make it.

The gun is all I’ve ever known, what the hell else was I supposed to do?

Big-J slapped my leg bringing me out of my thought’s, “Call squadron on the way out of the gate, let them know what we're doing and how long we’re going to be gone.”

“you got it.” I push the black button attatched to my body armor, and key up my mic “wolverine, this is horseman 4golf”

A slightly annoyed, groggy voice comes back. Probably some poor private who got stuck jockying the desk for the day.

“we are outbound through gate ten to 3-10 west via Tampa, presence patrol, estimate 10 hours to return, how copy?”

“will-co, horseman 4golf out” Everytime I roll out the gate and have to 'out' the other end it reminds me how pissed off I get about movies where some shmuck ends his transmissions with "Over, and out" they both have their seperate connotations in the world of communications

"You know they hate it when you 'out' them gunny." Big-J is right, the command center didn't like it, but if those fuck-boys read their manuals they'd know that the initiator of the radio call was the one to 'out'. Try telling that to a few guys with officer rank on though, it rarely sinks in, and the ones it does rarely admit their wrong.

“You hear em Big-J, they want hourlies. Did we miss a threat level bump?” It wouldn't be the first time. Information dessimination is not the strong point of our unit, we're more the guys they send in to 'fuck shit up' it was a rare day that we were sent out on something as tame as a presence patrol. Normally we were out and about kicking in doors and putting people in cuffs.

Or in the ground.

“nah gunny, new procedure, they just want us to know that they know we know.” I don’t really need to respond, we’ve been at this for a few years now, and he knows I don’t like prolonged conversation. Big-J was my platoon sargeant when I first joined up, and through my first deployment. We were the lowest ranked crew, with the lowest ranked truck commander to ever recieve a top gun award at a gunnery. Of course we never saw it, but there's no denying the page in my jacket the first sergeant put there along with the scores from the judge.

Around 9 hours into the patrol we were headed back to base, it had been about as mind numbing as I thought it would be. Driving down a side road about three miles out from home when our truck hit’s an EID.

I’m lucky enough that the blast tags the back end and slams me into the floor of truck rather than out of the turret. “shitshitshit, you guys still up?” I ask my truck mates. Big-J and Bizkit reply immediately, I can see that Jonesy and Del are unconscious, but they are both still breathing. I stand up and realize my leg is probably broken, not sure yet, but it hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. “J the dismounts are Knocked-out, hell of a time to another fucking nap. My leg fucked, but I can stand on it.”

I hear big-J call it out to platoon, then hear the lieutenant call it up to higher that we have a disabled, but all personnel are alive. He sounds a little panicked, he's kind of new. We go through them on a pretty regular basis, our platoon is kind of the wild-card. What the hell do they want from us out here? This isn't like most of the rest of this country, we pick up more engagements in a patrol than most everyone else sees in a month.

We end up spending about 20 minutes getting the truck hooked up for a tow, probably would have been a lot sooner if we didn't have to spend most of the time with our heads turned over our shoulders scanning for threats hoping we weren't the ones finding the attack with a 7.62 to the dome. As soon as I hear LT start the call to move we start taking small arms fire; AK-47 and stolen M-4s, it’s not heavy enough to hurt our trucks but it is enough to keep the gunners behind the shields in the trucks so we don’t take any rounds. the LT comes across again, thank you sir, I had planned to stop and ask how they felt about the current state of affairs in Georgias parlaiment, but I guess we'll do your thing instead. He's barely through sending his traffick when our truck takes an RPG to the rear right wheel, the resulting blast’s throws me out of the truck. The blast throws my face into the back of my mounted gun, as it throws me out of the truck, smashing out my front teeth and spraying the blood and fragments onto my face and the turret area. I only have enough time to have the terrifying realization that I'm airborne before I hit the ground and sink into the dark.

I come to a short amount of time later, all I can hear is bedlam coming through the radio

If 'currently shitting a brick' were a tone of voice, the LT would have been speaking in it.

Big-J sounds calm, but I can hear the worry in his voice, out of everyone in the platoon me and him understand each other the best. Me and a few other guys were pretty close, but Big-J and me were closer to family. He was there for me when my wife left, he was there for me when my mom died. The man was my rock, and he leaned on me as much as I leaned on him.

I shake my head, and wipe the blood and pieces of tooth off of my face as I check my surroundings. I had been blown out and into a culvert. Once I have some presence of mind I realize that my left arm is half the length, and a dripping mess. My helmet is gone, never really liked wearing it anyways, the only solid thought I have at that point is how pissed command is going to be that I died without a helmet on. My rifle is nearby though, guess there’s something to be said for being in shock, I don’t even notice the pain of all the injuries. “not sure who is looking out close enough to make sure that gun came out of the truck with me, but you give me a sign and we’ll talk about my convert needs” I mumble to myself, just after thought is out of my mouth I hear peopletalking in Farsi close by, "I'll take that as a 'Were not interested.'". I don’t know a whole bunch of Farsi, but It sounds like they are searching the area.

“Aww fuck. They know I got blown out” I key up my mic and whisper into the unit

The relief in his voice hurts even worse when I think about what I'm about to have him do.

He's been a great friend, fuck that, he's been a part of my family, he's been the reason I pulled a gun out of my mouth more than once.

He know's what I want, and I know it's a hell of a thing to ask for, but there are promises to be kept.

He'll be good for it.

There was a seconds before his responce comes across with a cracking voice

I'd love to say I wasn't crying like a little bitch, but that'd be a godsdamned lie.

I drag myself up to a knee, seat my buttstock to my shoulder and take aim at the closest shape I can see in the moonlight “HEY!! FUCKFACE!!”

“Samiet eanh” I’m not one hundred percent sure what he said, but his surprise only lasted for as long as it took me to start pulling the trigger. The kick of the gun knocks me over and I roll further into the culvert. Through the muzzle flash I could see the first drop to the ground with red exploding from the holes in his chest, he has 5 more friends. I swap my selector switch to auto and pull the trigger, body shaking with the pressure of recoil; until I’m not.

Instead of pulling a trigger, I’m sitting in a smallish white room, in a chair looking at a watching what looks a hell of a lot like me, in what looks a hell of a lot like the situation I was just in, my finger is sub-consciously pulling a trigger, “…the fuck”

[the fuck indeed mister Nom] A voice inside my head, very clearly not mine, it's not that deep. I must have a concussion, maybe I’m sitting in Walter-Reed and this is how my brain is processing the trauma

[Not even close mister Nom] shit. Looking around the area I say “can you prove that?”

[can you disprove it?] I’m not about to argue with what I’m assuming is my own mind, that guys an dick.

A man wearing a pair of gray tactical pants and a standard issue brown-tee pops into my view off to the side of the screen. Built like Mac-truck, had to have been on the upper end of six-foot, stacked like he and the rock should have been oiled up duking it out on the big-screen. His eyes are a light piercing blue color, straight nose came to an almost abrupt slightly rounded end, and a mouth was set in what looked like a perpetual half smile. I’m not a gay man or anything, but if he’d have asked, I would probably have his babies.

"This event has already happened mister nom." His voice is a surprising tenor for his size, like it was pitched a half-step above where my brain wants it to be.

“I feel like I’d know if I were pregnant.” I mumble to myself.

As I mutter the sentence he smirks at me and I have an almost overwhelming sense of Deja’ vu. He waved his arm at the screen, "You died. A horrible death, A warrior’s death, your actions in notifying your friends brought attention to an impending rear ambush. Your entire platoon survived because you were incredibly unlucky."

“Silver-lining to everything I guess. This purgatory?” I'm kind of hoping it's not; if the christians were right I'm heading straight to hell.

"It is an analogue of what you would call purgatory, every soul from every world is measured in some form or another as they shrug their mortal coil. I am an entity of this…sector who is tasked with measuring souls and sending them onto their next stop" With those words the realization that I am dead starts to sink in. Fuck. I didn't have much to live for, but I could have had more, could have done more. Theres a heat inside my chest slowly making it's way up my throat, threatening to burst out of my mouth as a sob. Gritting my teeth I swallow it back down.

“huh, I’ll be damned if the Buddhist’s weren’t right.” I can't trust myself with more than short sentences at this point. Too much more than a few words and I risk turning into a useless ball of self-pity on the floor. I hope they send someone to my sister before my dad, he's not going to handle it well, her being there would make it much easier for him.

"Among a few others mister Nom. My point is that YOU have been judged as earning a reward. This can come as something in a few ways."

“Lay it on me big fellah." I take a sharp breath and try to push the fact that I'm dead out of my mind. " I guess I don’t have much use for money at this point.”

"You have quite a few options, but balance must be maintained. You can decide to be reborn on your current world as a new birth as any living, thinking being if you’d like, grow up in a cushy life. Be a great inventor or discoverer, that choice leaves you with an almost inexhaustible list of options. You can move onto a different reality if you would like. Or I can drop you into the SYSTEM." Those words shock me part of the way out of my self-pity.

“Like THE system? Where I get to loot dead goblins and shit?” If what he's saying, is what I'm thinking, then my love for reading fantasy, and litRPG books is going to pay off for me in the afterlife.

"Close. The current system-god attached to your universe has your system directly linked to a post-apocalyptic future of your universe, not just your world, your entire universe will be connected, it has to do with the respawn system." I feel like there's some kind of hint there, but I'm a little bit overwhelmed with whats going on to really dig into it, I can feel my initial shock of being dead fading though. Compartmentalization FTW.

I can’t help but interject, “I like the sounds of this 'respawn system'”

"This type of SYSTEM is referred to as Valhalla. The basic idea is the same in all universes, with a few differences, it is a place where people who have either constantly achieved greatness, or have lived through enough reincarnations to merit the choice. Even as that stands most people hear what it is and decide it is better to reincarnate to the world."

"There’s no WAY I’m passing up Valhalla, every soldier I’ve known would stand in lines around a block to kick me in the junk if I didn’t jump on this.”

HAHAHA> the room is suddenly assaulted by the sound of the deepest laugh I have ever heard.

"Yes All-father, would you like to keep the reward we discussed last time we convened?" He doesn't sound sad, more annoyed at the intrusion.

“Did you just say All-father? Man, this couldn’t go any better. Going to assume you're Loki, don’t feel like Thor would disagree with Odin.” Geek-mode, engage.

"I am Baldr, actually, one of Lady Hel’s generals. The universes have battles to decide who rules which reality, and those who populate our fields are pitted against one another, you typically fall under Odin, and the Aesir, but the god’s love a good wager, and Lady Hel did not believe you would choose the life of a warrior again, notations on your soul say this will be your tenth consecutive time deciding to live a life of struggle. As such, and in accordance with bets made; Odin has decreed that you will have the option to choose your race, and either two starting skills, or a skill affinity. The difference being the skills you start with will be maxed through the system, whereas a skill affinity means you can have a learning disposition towards a skill type. I.E; technical skills, warrior skills or survival skills.]

“Alright then biggen, let’s talk options. What kind of ‘System’ does my universe have?”

"The way the System works is that you will be spawned to the plane of Valhalla this is a place of safety and rest you will have your own lodgings and respite area. The downside is that growth personal combat growth in Valhalla can only be described as sub-par. But the option to run missions in a post-apocalyptic future of your own world, the earliest year you can jump into is 2030 as it is your actual world, is only an option because it is the instant the System has been implemented. Magic is commonplace, and zombies will be your main opponent, anything you loot can be brought to Valhalla, but not everything from Valhalla can be brought to the shifted dimension. You will have viewable stats and a skill list’s it’s pretty much the wet dream of every web-novel enthusiast everywhere."

The biggest kicker about the System that is run in this reality is that though respawn is a thing you start over from your a weekly time and spawn point, you will get to keep whatever skills you earn, but they will be reset to the bottom of the earned level any experience earned in them will be converted to a form of currency that you can spend to either outfit yourself, better your starting location, or link up with other survivors. I will tell you from the start that some of the people you know have decided, or will join you, in Valhalla."

The idea that I might find friends I've lost cinches it for me. “I’ll take human, and give me an affinity for survival please. I’d like to keep my own name though…ahh fuck it, god hates a coward. You ascended cat’s love a good bet, right? I’ll wager my race on the flip of a coin for doubled fixed starting stats, head’s I get human with doubled stats, tails I get the houses choice with whatever the baseline for that is.”

“I accept.” The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen stepped out of a door that definitely did not exist a second before. Six-foot if she was an inch, rounded face with eye’s that were grey, and perfectly spaced above her pert nose, mouth set in what I assume is an almost perpetual flat line, and an athletic body wrapped in a tight black body suit that did not leave much to the imagination. Her…assets…weren’t anything to write home about, I've always believed that more than a handful is a waste anyways. The feeling of danger coming off her was almost palpable.

“With the caveat that if you lose the coin toss you start as the base race, no racial traits unless you buy them with experience from your ‘runs’”

“Shit, I’d give up my starting affinity for a couple hours to test those waters” I mumbled to myself

“I acce- “

I quickly interrupted her “THAT WAS IDLE SPECULATION!!!”

"Very well, there is a good chance your soul would not have the resilience needed to survive such an encounter." waving her hand at Baldr, "Flip the coin, heads Gnome gets his request, tails I get mine.”

I looked over just in time so see Baldr send a coin the size of a silver dollar spinning into the air...