The smell of garlic and cumin filled my cramped kitchen, triggerin' memories I thought I'd lost in the chrome and neon of the sprawl. My abuela's voice echoed in my head, guidin' my hands as I chopped cilantro and squeezed limes.
"Yo, Neon! What's that scan? Smells like... home," Glitch called out, his cyber-enhanced nose twitchin' as he poked his head through the door.
I grunted, focusin' on the sizzlin' pan. "Carne asada, omae. Real deal, not that vat-grown drek."
Glitch's eyes widened. "No way, where'd you score real meat?"
"Got my sources," I winked, flippin' the steak. Truth was, I'd been savin' up for months, callin' in favors from every fixer and smuggler I knew. But it was worth it. Today was special.
As if on cue, the rest of my crew started filterin' in. Syntax, our elven decker, raised an eyebrow at the spread. "What's the occasion, big guy?"
I took a deep breath, the familiar scents centerin' me. "It's... it's my birthday. My real one, not the fake SIN I use for runs."
The room went quiet. In our line of work, real anythin' is rare. Names, faces, pasts - they all change like AR overlays. But this? This was me layin' out a piece of my soul on a chipped ceramic plate.
"Drek, Neon," Whisper, our street sam, whispered. "You didn't have to-"
"Yeah, I did," I cut her off, my voice gruff. "Look, we've been runnin' together for what, two years now? And in all that time, how much do we really know about each other?"
I gestured to the food. "This? This is who I am. Not the fake history on my credstick or the troll face I see in the mirror. This recipe, these flavors - they're my family, my home."
Slowly, almost reverently, they gathered around the table. I dished out the carne asada, the rice, the beans - each scoop a memory, a piece of my past.
As we ate, somethin' changed. Glitch talked about the Irish stew his dad used to make. Syntax reminisced about elven cuisine from the Tír. Even Stone, our normally silent rigger, opened up about the fusion street food he grew up on in Neo-Tokyo.
For once, we weren't just a shadowrun team. We were people, sharin' pieces of ourselves through the food on our plates.
As the night wore on and the dishes were cleared, Whisper caught my eye. "Thanks, Neon. For trustin' us with this."
I nodded, feelin' a warmth that had nothin' to do with the spices. "In this biz, we're always changin', always hidin'. But food? Food don't lie. It's how we remember who we are, where we came from."
Glitch raised his glass. "To Neon, and to keepin' our roots even when everything else is shiftin'."
As we toasted, I realized somethin'. In a world of fake everythin', we'd found a way to be real, if only for a night. And maybe, just maybe, that realness could extend beyond the dinner table.
'Cause when you share your food, you're sharin' your story. And in the shadows, our stories might be all we've got left to call our own.