I needed a good meal, which required salt, and there was a guy named Babba the prisoners whispered about who claimed could get me the stuff. I had arranged to meet him at breakfast chow, which wasn’t easy, I had lied to Tiffany and told her Melody recommended my meeting and making friends and stealing salt was a code phrase we had developed to reference making friends. Apparently, Babba had enough sway already within our wing that the phrase “stealing salt” was already becoming common, 30 other offenders convincing their AI’s that “stealing salt” was them finding friends. I found myself having breakfast next to the man himself, Babba. He has a hint of Arabic accent when he spoke, “listen max, my siddique that means friend, stealing salt is no small task I will be on punishment detail for 3 days if this doesn’t work what can you give me in exchange?” I said, “I am a pretty good fighter how about we fight together, and I help you make it through this alive, I heard you were more of a support character anyway.”
Babba replied, "Siddique, who has been spreading my secrets? Are they truly so exposed? That traitor Jimmy will regret betraying my trust. But indeed, you are right; my expertise lies in influencing minds and controlling minor portals." I pressed on, "Then, Babba, can you get me the salt? Your friendship means everything to me." Unlike Babba, I lacked any psychic abilities, which apparently made it challenging for the AI to discern an offender's true intentions, necessitating my use of coded language. Babba confessed, "My psychic powers are minimal, so my influence requires physical contact, which is forbidden for us to touch any staff. Therefore, I must devise an alternative plan." With a conspiratorial wink, he rose and made his way to the kitchen.
The guard thinking he was trying to steal a second portion shouted, “hey, you no more portions you’ve had your meal already.” Babba responded respectfully, “Officer, my food has a hair in it can I change it out for a new one?” The officer replied I guess that’s fine”.
Babba called for a cook and while the cook was approaching Babba slipped and stumbled his hand landing on the cook’s arm. He then mumbled something to the cook and when the cook returned with the food Babba’s face smiled for a second before returning back to his normal expression.
Sitting back down Babba smiled and handed me a small piece of bread with salt packets hidden inside, he touched my arm and said, “Max you have stolen the salt of my company, and I am very thankful for that.” I smile clapping him on the back, “that was brave of you to steal the salt for a perfect stranger, may our friendship be long and prosperous.”
Salt was nothing special but to people like us it was everything to be able to have it. Salt transformed the disgusting slurp into a salted slurp which is far better. And the feeling of control it gave us, that our lives were back in our own hands, couldn’t be measured. Whether we were really tricking them, or their AI recommended a certain few violations be allowed for the added psychological boost they’d give, I couldn’t tell, but I had my salt and that’s all that matters.
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Babba looked at me and said, “I hope you are ready to die because they will put us through hell these last 3 months to get our skills up and prepare us.”
I smiled and said, “with salt I can do anything, siddique.”
The training was intense. While the regular troops lounged in air-conditioned mech suits, mastering targeting systems and enjoying the devastation of the Gav cannon, we grinded through the obstacle course daily. The simulations were comprehensive: from dilapidated buildings swarming with aggressive, pockmarked goblins to vast caverns hosting sprawling tent cities teeming with goblin hordes.
The Dungeon was a labyrinth of varied sectors, each dominated by creatures who had staked their claim and were empowered by relics birthed from the Dungeon given as gifts for their dominance of that sector, enhancing their kind. Our 5th army unit was set to delve into a goblin-dominated sector. These goblins, short and grotesque, owned relics that bolstered their numbers through rapid reproduction. Their warfare strategy was cunning, striking during moments of rest and employing shamans to warp in their strongest warriors, creating havoc and allowing their vast, albeit weaker, forces to advance and overwhelm.
In this magical melee, where even a pistol's shot might failed to pierce their magically hardened skin, the mechs resorted to 30mm rounds to decimate the goblin ranks and Grav cannon that shot out a short-distance out blast of gravitational energy distorting space and blending everything it touched into a wet slurry.
As a magic-wielding soldier, my role was to engage larger threats and shield the mechs from distant assaults, swooping in post-volley. At level 3, my contributions were modest, but our unit was an evolving force, predicted to surpass the mechs in strength and cost-effectiveness over time. Our potential to weave defensive spells promised to bolster the mechs' protection significantly. My melee weapon was a Grav gauntlet, with each strike, the gauntlet's gravitational forces penetrated the target, taking the internal organs and subjecting them to an invisible blender of gravitational energy. Bones and sinews twisted and snapped, organs smashed into a fine slurry, and the monster if still standing is reeling from the pain.
My tier 1 boosters were a fusion of modern pharmacology and magical fauna. A set of pills I took each day that boosting my cognitive function and improving my bursts of speed allowing for super human levels of speed and response times. My jetpack was so powerful it came with a titanium skeletal system so my spine and neck wouldn’t fracture from the sudden thrust.
My Rifle was a custom designed nelson-forge Aegis semi-automatic rifle with shot massive15mm rounds each kicking like a wild horse. Thankfully my new stats afforded me the strength to withstand the punishment. The ore for the rounds was mined here in the dungeon and was capable of piercing troll skin at 300 yards. Each magazine held 20 rounds and a standard battle kit would bring 8 magazines into the battle, meaning we had very little room for anything else to carry.
Now with salt in hand and preparations made, it’s time for the exciting part. War.