TALES FROM THE KITCHEN

[SLAYER LOG - DAY 2, NEURO-5]

A heavy, mechanical shriek jolted me awake as the fort's massive gates dragged open. My spine felt bruised from a night on the asphalt, and the humid morning heat was already suffocating.

"This him?" a woman's voice asked.

I blinked through bloodshot eyes to see three figures silhouetted against the blinding sun. They weren't wearing the piecemeal, scavenged armor of Slayers. They were fully decked out in pristine, dark-colored Marine fatigues.

The woman in the center stepped forward and drove the hard toe of her combat boot sharply into my ribs.

"On your feet, fresh meat."

I scrambled up, wincing as my stiff muscles screamed in protest. A skinny officer with a crooked nose stepped beside her, balancing a folding tablet on his forearm. He grabbed my wrist without asking, swept a scanner over my ZS-33, and waited for a sharp confirmation beep.

He glanced up at her. "He's a cook. The requisition you filed months ago, Colonel Akers."

"I'm sure the kitchen will be thrilled to have another pair of hands for the rotation," she muttered dryly. "Given how overrun this rock is with Spawn, though, I can't say I'm not disappointed."

"Indeed," the skinny officer sighed, tucking his tablet under his arm. "It seems our request for reinforcements of the homicidal variety has been denied once again."

Akers walked over and nudged my boot with the toe of hers.

"What's your name, Slayer?"

"Basham Anderson, ma'am," I replied nervously.

The casual mention of "reinforcements of the homicidal variety" hit me hard, like I had swallowed lead and felt it sink to the bottom of my stomach. It had never crossed my mind that some of my fellow Slayers weren't petty criminals like me, but actual cold-blooded killers. It was one more thing to worry about: getting shanked in my sleep, as if being eaten by a Spawn wasn't enough.

The skinny officer nodded, scanning his screen. "He's Rank One, no special skill assignments. Looks like he's already logged a small brood kill, plus a few assists."

"Skill assignments?" I asked, bewildered.

"Of course. They sent us another one who's completely clueless," Akers growled, pinching the bridge of her nose. "How close is he to hitting Rank Two, Bradley?"

"Sixteen percent. This guy? He looks like a plucked chicken, hardly any muscle definition," Bradley scoffed, pulling the tablet back out from under his arm and tapping through files. "His base stats are abysmal at best."

"My stats?" I blurted.

"They literally taught you nothing, did they?" Akers sighed, crossing her arms. "Hold your thumb over the central sensor for three seconds."

I pressed my thumb firmly against the smooth glass of the ZS-33. With a low, vibrating hum, a pale blue holographic HUD projected directly into the air above my forearm.

[VITALS]

[HEALTH: 85/85]

[STAMINA: 100/100]

[AP: 20/20]

[STATUS EFFECTS: NONE ACTIVE]

[CORE STATS]

[GRIT: 0/100]

[ENDURANCE: 0/100]

[COMMON SENSE: 0/100]

[STEALTH: 0/100]

[MELEE: 0/100]

[PISTOLS: 2/100]

[LIGHT RIFLES: 0/100]

[HEAVY RIFLES: 0/100]

[SKILLS: NONE ASSIGNED]

Akers peered down at the faint blue glow, gave a dry, humorless snort, and shook her head. "Two points in Pistols and zero combat skills. Truly inspiring."

Bradley tapped a note into his tablet. "Sergeant Kyles, you'll have your work cut out for you."

The third Marine stepped forward, a hulking wall of muscle whose large boots pressed deep tread marks into the dust. Kyles looked me up and down like I was a bad joke. "How the hell did a guy with zero Grit manage to kill a broodie on his first night?"

"It was a lucky shot," I admitted, rubbing the back of my sore neck. "I missed twice, then tripped, and it had me on the ground. When it leaped, I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger."

Akers shook her head. "Blind panic and pure dumb luck. Wouldn't you say so, Lieutenant Bradley?"

"Entirely, ma'am," Bradley chimed in. "Which is why I'd send him out early. Either he builds some stats, or he's just another KIA to report and one less mouth to feed."

"Can I say something?" I asked.

All three Marines snapped their heads toward me. The collective glare in their eyes made it crystal clear: they weren't taking questions, comments, or polite suggestions.

"No, you may not, Slayer," Akers snapped. "When speaking to us, you speak only when spoken to. Do you understand the position you are in, Slayer?"

I lowered my head, knowing that any sort of begging would fall on deaf ears and only anger her further. "Yes, ma'am."

"Kyles, take him to the mess hall. I will ponder who to place him with, to see if he's worth a damn or just more dead weight like the rest they keep sending us."

Kyles grabbed my shoulder, his deep grip pinching my skin as he hauled me forward like I was nothing. "Alright, fresh meat, time for you to get to work."

I was completely exhausted from sleeping on the hard ground with landmines detonating every couple of hours, but I knew better than to protest. I scrambled forward to keep pace behind him.

The courtyard inside Fort Carmone was teeming with people of every imaginable variety: young, old, towering, scrawny, sporting every hair color under the sun. Some slouched on rusted ammo crates, smoking cigarettes. Others stood in a winding line outside a fortified prefab building marked ARMORY, while several groups loitered near the fort's walls. Every single pair of eyes seemed to lock onto me as I trailed behind the sergeant toward a large corrugated building labeled MESS HALL.

Almost. Near the middle of the yard, three people sat on mismatched crates around a wooden cable spool, playing cards: a stout, barrel-chested older man, a lean, red-haired woman built like she could outrun anything, and a broad-shouldered man with a stripe of hair down the middle of his head like a horse's mane. None of them looked up as I passed.

"So, what did they teach you at basic?" Kyles called back over his shoulder.

"Not much," I admitted. "Honestly, they mostly took bets on how fast I'd die."

"Sounds about right. Those rear-echelon bastards don't know what it's like down in the dirt." He shoved the mess hall door open. "Eighteen months, four days, and five hours I've been stuck on this rock, and we're barely halfway through our tour. Jensen! You in here?"

A swinging service door behind the rows of metal dining tables creaked open. An older man wearing a grease-stained black bandana stepped out, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth beneath a graying mustache.

"Yeppers, Sarge, I'm here. What do you need?"

"We got that replacement cook. Finally."

"Hot damn," Jensen said, his weathered face crinkling. "That means I don't have to peel taters or shuck corn today. I can make the newbie do it."

Jensen walked over, wiping his hands on a filthy rag and giving me a thorough once-over while Kyles stood by. "Where'd you work before the courts shipped you out here, fresh meat?"

"I worked the flat-top at a burger joint," I said. "Flipping patties and dropping fries all day."

"Then you definitely know how to peel potatoes!"

"I do," I replied.

Jensen grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the kitchen door. Behind us, Kyles chuckled, clearly amused as he watched me get hauled off like a sack of dry potatoes.

"Alright, fresh meat, let's get you an apron," Jensen hollered over his shoulder. "We got about a hundred and fifty of our fellow Slayers to feed today. Don't you worry, Sarge, I'll take real good care of him!"

He dragged me through the swinging doors and kicked the metal panel shut behind us.

The heat of the prep line hit me instantly, smelling of scorched oil, steam, and industrial bleach. Sitting directly in front of the center steel counter were five massive burlap sacks of unwashed potatoes.

Jensen let go of my arm, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and tossed it onto a stainless-steel tray. The playful, folksy tone vanished from his voice, replaced by a cold, gravelly edge.

"Alright," he said, locking eyes with me. "Now that the Sarge is gone, let's have some real talk."

I stared at the folded over sack, caked in dirt and slightly damp to the touch.

Jensen grabbed my shoulder and pointed a calloused finger at a faded, stenciled red smiley face tucked near the bottom seam of the sack.

"You see that mark, fresh meat?"

"I mean... barely."

"Barely is all you need," Jensen said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "Because spotting that stamp is the difference between making a little extra scratch on the side, and getting gutted behind the barracks."

"Alright, I get it. So what's the point of the mark?"

"If you see taters or corn with this mark, you don't peel 'em. You set 'em aside for my partners."

"And one of those partners is me," a deep, raspy voice interrupted from the kitchen's doorway. "Who's the kid?"

Jensen and I turned to face an older man standing in the kitchen entrance. He had a full-blown gray skullet, completely bald across the shiny crown, but with long, stringy hair draping over his shoulders to match a grease-stained handlebar mustache. He wore grime-caked jeans, a patched denim vest over a bare chest, and arms completely plastered in faded tattoos.

"This here is my new cook, Brogan," Jensen said.

"Didn't know we needed one of those around here," he grunted.

"I've been shorthanded for a couple of rotations since the last one got, you know..." Jensen trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Oh, that guy. The one that got disemboweled," the man replied casually, scratching his jaw. "I remember now. He was sort of a dumbass anyway."

"I hope I don't go out like that," I muttered, barely audible to myself.

"Then don't be a dumbass, you might live longer," Brogan said, as he looked around for his sack.

"Sound advice, kid," Jensen said. "Your stuff's right here, Brogan," he said, nodding toward the marked sack. "Didn't expect Sarge to stop by with the fresh meat so early."

Without breaking a sweat, Brogan hoisted the fifty-pound sack of potatoes with one arm and slung it over his shoulder, a casual display of brute strength I couldn't match on my best day.

"Hopefully they didn't short us on the big ones like the last supply run," Brogan replied, offering a half-lazy wave over his shoulder as he turned for the exit. "The bigger the spuds, the better the brew, you know?"

"Ain't that the truth," Jensen responded, as the door closed, leaving the two of us standing in the kitchen.

I turned back to Jensen, who was already hauling another unmarked sack toward a stainless prep table.

"Brew?"

"His crew runs the fort's moonshine racket," Jensen explained, dragging the sack into position. "They slide us a cut of credits, and as long as you keep your mouth shut, I'll split some of that scratch with you."

"They make their own alcohol out here?"

Jensen gave a grunt of effort, using both hands to heave the sack onto the steel top with a dull thud that rattled the table legs. "Yeppers. Miles better than the swill Valentine's crew used to bottle. That junk tasted like stagnant creek water and barely gave you a buzz. Brogan's shine, though? That stuff'll put hair on your chest. Guaranteed."

"If you say so," I said, tearing open the burlap seam of the potato sack. "How long have you been a Slayer anyway?"

"Going on about five years, I reckon. Before this rock, I was on a cobalt mining colony called Messer-8. Ran a little food stand right outside the main shaft and fed the miners lunch and dinner before they crawled back down into the dark."

"So how'd you end up here?"

"Mines started running dry," Jensen said, his smile fading into a weary shrug. "Miners got laid off, nobody was buying food, and I ended up cutting a deal with some shady operators. Let 'em stash off-manifest crates in my walk-in freezer. Next thing you know, poof. Feds kick down the door, I'm branded a criminal, and I'm shipped out to become a Slayer. Same old story as half the poor bastards stuck in this fort."

A silence settled between us.

Jensen was still trying to hold onto the facade of a grin, but beneath the crinkles around his eyes lay an unspoken pit of regret.

"Aha, found it!" he barked, shattering the mood as he snatched something from under a greasy rag and thrust it into my hand.

It was a stamped-metal peeler, flimsy and bent. I grabbed a dirt-crusted potato and went to work, struggling to maintain my grip as the dull blade dragged stubborn strips of skin across the table.

"I see the rumors are true," I said, wrenching the blade through a knot in the spud. "These Slayer Forts get the absolute dregs of the supply chain."

Jensen chuckled, watching my clumsy efforts. "What's worse is that's one of the better ones we've got."

"How often do you have to go out there, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Once a week. Everyone on base pulls a perimeter rotation. But the brass hasn't been happy with this rock's numbers for a while now. It sits on massive Espen gas reserves, and the Corporate suits want the ground cleared so they can fire up the refineries yesterday."

"So what are they going to do about it?"

"My money says riskier sweeps outside the wire."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"They'll feed us into the meat grinder until enough Spawn are dead to start pumping that damn gas again."

As I finished peeling the first potato, I reached into the bag, hauled out another, and went right back to scraping. "How many of these do we need?"

"Every single spud in the sack. Mashed taters for midday chow today."

He picked up a butcher's knife and started hacking at a frozen gray slab. "Mystery meat for the rest. I'm praying this block doesn't smell like a rotting broodie corpse."

My hands froze mid-peel, my stomach instantly churning. "Wait, they don't feed us the things we kill, do they?"

"The official word is an emphatic no," Jensen said. "All I know is I keep getting frozen slabs shipped in from one of those godforsaken tundra penal rocks. So chin up, fresh meat. At least we aren't freezing our balls off out there."

As I finished scraping down the second potato and reached for a third, the ZS-33 in my wrist suddenly flared to life.

A soft chime trilled from the speaker grill, followed by a faint electric blue text alert hovering over my knuckles:

[NOTIFICATION: MANUAL CAMP LABOR CONFIRMED]

[+1 SLAYER CREDIT ADDED TO BALANCE]

I blinked, staring at the readout. "Wait... I get actual credits just for peeling potatoes?"

"Yeppers, one miserable cred at a time," Jensen said, already reaching for a meat cleaver. "Don't go getting grand ideas about saving up a fortune. You'll be burning every scrap of scratch you make on replacement plating, filters, and ammo if you plan on surviving past your first month outside the wire."

Standing at a prep table peeling potatoes felt almost normal, even if it was only one measly credit. After the absolute nightmare of the last twenty-four hours, I desperately needed normal.

Then I thought of the red smiley face stamped on the sack Brogan had carried out, and I wondered exactly what I had agreed to keep my mouth shut about.