A runner stumbled into my makeshift diner, his eyes unfocused and a nasty gash healin' on his forehead. I recognized him - Fade, one of the best infiltrators in the biz. But somethin' was off.
"You alright, chummer?" I asked, my troll frame tensing for trouble.
He looked at me, confusion clear on his face. "I... I don't know. I can't remember..."
Drek. Memory loss. In our line of work, that could be a death sentence. I guided him to a seat, mind racin'. "What's the last thing you remember?"
Fade shook his head, wincing. "Flashes. A job gone wrong. Then... nothing."
I nodded, an idea formin'. "Sit tight, omae. I've got somethin' that might help."
I headed to my cookin' station, pullin' out ingredients I rarely used - too expensive, too hard to come by. But this was worth it. As I cooked, I kept an eye on Fade. He sat there, lookin' lost, like a part of himself was missin'.
The smell of spices filled the air as I worked. Real cumin, coriander, a touch of saffron I'd been savin' for a special occasion. I saw Fade's nostrils flare, a flicker of something passin' across his face.
Finally, I set the plate in front of him. "Eat up, chummer. It ain't much, but it's real."
Fade looked down at the dish - a simple rice pilaf with bits of lab-grown chicken and real vegetables. Nothing fancy, but a far cry from the soy slop most runners lived on.
He took a bite, and I saw his eyes widen. Another bite, and his hands started to shake. By the third, tears were rollin' down his cheeks.
"My... my mother," he whispered. "She used to make something like this. Before..."
I nodded, encouragin' him. "Before what, omae?"
Fade's voice was distant, lost in memory. "Before the corps took her. I was just a kid. We lived in the outskirts, had a little garden. She'd make this dish every Sunday."
As he ate, more memories seemed to surface. Disjointed at first, then more coherent. "The job," he said suddenly. "I remember now. Aztechnology facility. We were after paydata, but something went wrong. An explosion..."
I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holdin'. "Good, that's good. Anything else comin' back?"
Fade nodded slowly, still savoring each bite. "Bits and pieces. But this... this is helping. It's like each taste is unlocking something."
We talked as he finished the meal, his past coming back in fragments. The hardships that led him to running. The skills he'd honed. The friends he'd made - and lost - along the way.
By the time the plate was clean, Fade looked more like himself. There were still gaps, but the lost look was gone from his eyes.
"Neon," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "I can't thank you enough. I thought... I thought I'd lost everything."
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "It's what I do, omae. Food ain't just fuel. It's memory, it's connection. Sometimes, it's the only fragging thing they can't take from us."
Fade nodded, understanding. "I've gotta be more careful. Can't risk losing myself again."
"You won't," I assured him. "Cause now you know - no matter what happens, there's always a way back. Sometimes, it's just through a plate of good food and someone who gives a drek."
As Fade left, looking more centered than when he'd arrived, I felt a fierce pride. In our world of chrome and shadows, it was easy to forget the power of something as simple as a home-cooked meal. But tonight, we'd been reminded.
'Cause when everything else is stripped away - our memories, our identities, even our fragging SINs - food can be the thread that ties us back to who we really are. And as long as we hold onto that, the corps can never truly own us.
In the neon-lit darkness of the sprawl, that's a kind of magic all its own.