The old shaman's eyes were grave as she looked up from the sickbed. "The poison's strong, Neon. Corp stuff, nasty. Little one's fadin' fast."
I nodded, my troll frame tense with worry. The kid - barely ten years old - had gotten caught in the crossfire of a corp turf war. Wrong place, wrong time, and now she was payin' the price.
"What do we need, One-Who-Sees?" I asked, ready to move.
The ork shaman's weathered face creased in thought. "We need to cleanse her system, boost her life force. I've got some herbs, but..." She hesitated. "We need something more. Something to carry the magic, to nourish her body and spirit."
I understood immediately. "A broth. Something real, something pure."
One-Who-Sees nodded. "Exactly. But it's gotta be perfect. One wrong ingredient and we could lose her."
I cracked my knuckles, feeling the weight of the task ahead. "Then let's get cookin', omae."
We worked through the night, One-Who-Sees gathering her magical components while I scoured the shadows for the purest ingredients I could find. Real vegetables, smuggled in from Tír. Clean water, a rarity in the polluted sprawl. Cracked bones for stock, simmered for hours to draw out every bit of nourishment.
As dawn broke, we reconvened in the makeshift clinic. The kid was pale, her breathing shallow. Time was running out.
One-Who-Sees laid out her herbs - some I recognized, others mysterious and shimmering with arcane energy. "Ready?" she asked.
I nodded, setting up my portable stove. "Let's do this."
What followed was a dance of cuisine and magic, science and spirituality. As I prepared the broth, carefully balancing flavors and nutrients, One-Who-Sees chanted in a language I didn't understand. The air crackled with energy.
"Ginger," One-Who-Sees called out. "For cleansing."
I added it to the pot, watching as the broth took on a golden hue.
"Garlic," she continued. "For strength."
In it went, the aroma filling the room.
We continued like this, each ingredient chosen with purpose, each addition accompanied by One-Who-Sees's incantations. The broth bubbled and swirled, taking on an almost ethereal quality.
Finally, One-Who-Sees nodded. "It's ready. Now, we feed her."
Gently, we propped the child up. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glazed with fever. I held the bowl to her lips, coaxing her to drink.
"Come on, little one," I murmured. "This'll make you strong."
At first, nothing happened. But as we continued to feed her, spoonful by careful spoonful, I saw color returning to her cheeks. Her breathing deepened, steadied.
One-Who-Sees's chanting grew more intense, her hands glowing as she channeled healing energy. The broth seemed to shimmer as it passed the kid's lips, carrying magic and nourishment to every part of her body.
Hours passed. We took turns, feeding and chanting, never giving up hope. And slowly, miracle of miracles, the kid began to improve.
By nightfall, she was sitting up, eyes clear and alert. "I'm hungry," she said, her voice weak but determined.
I laughed, relief washing over me. "That's a good sign, omae. How about some more broth?"
As I prepared another batch, I saw One-Who-Sees smiling. "You know," she said, "what we did here... it's old magic. The kind our ancestors knew, before the corps tried to make us forget."
I nodded, understanding. "Food ain't just fuel. It's life. It's connection. When we cook with purpose, with love... that's a power all its own."
The kid sipped her broth, strength returning with every mouthful. Looking at her, I felt a fierce pride. We'd done more than save a life tonight. We'd proven that even in the darkest corners of the Sixth World, there was still magic to be found.
And sometimes, that magic came in a simple bowl of soup, crafted with skill and care, infused with the power of tradition and the strength of community.
As I watched the kid eat, I knew this was a lesson I'd carry with me always. In a world of chrome and shadows, real healing - of body and spirit - often came from the most unexpected places.
And that, chummers, is a kind of alchemy that no corp will ever truly understand.