Viktor's clinic reeked of antiseptic and false promises. The ripperdoc's autosuture hissed like an angry viper as he stitched Jackie's thigh, the needle darting in and out of torn flesh with mechanical precision. Carl leaned against a shelf of organ tanks, their green glow highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. A vending machine in the corner hummed aggressively, its holographic menu screaming:
[NEW! BIOTECHNICA WAGYU BURGER 2077]
Now with 30% More Real Meat! (Meat Substitute: Lab-Grown Rat Adjacent Protein™)
"Big job, huh?" Viktor grunted, not looking up from Jackie's leg. A chunk of shrapnel clinked into a steel tray labeled "Maelstrom Souvenirs."
"Forty grand each," Jackie said, grinning through the painkillers. "Even kept the Crusher." He nodded at the shotgun propped against a bloodstained wall—its barrel still flecked with bits of Demon's neural wiring. "Corporate bitch paid up fast. Guess we didn't ask enough questions."
Viktor slapped a pneumatic injector into Jackie's palm. The device looked like something designed to euthanize cyberpsychos. "Next time, stab yourself with this before playing hero. On the house." His gold-capped molar glinted under the surgical lights. "Celebratory discount. Don't get used to it."
Jackie flexed his repaired leg, the synth-skin still glistening with regenerative gel. "Drinks on me next time, viejo. Hell, I'll even spring for the good synth-whiskey."
"Save your eddies," Viktor muttered, already sinking back into his chair. The holovid resumed—two chromed-up boxers pummeling each other in a shower of sparks. "Just don't track Maelstrom guts through my door again."
The Quartz rattled into Kabukicho's neon-drenched streets, its headlights cutting through smog thick enough to chew. Oliver parallel-parked beside a noodle stall where the "grilled pork" skewers emitted a smell best described as burnt disappointment.
"This your idea of five-star dining?" Oliver eyed the alleyway izakaya. Its flickering sign alternated between Japanese characters and a glitched English translation: [FRESH SUSHI (CERTAINLY NOT HUMAN)].
Jackie threw an arm around his shoulders, the stench of Viktor's antiseptic clinging to his leather jacket. "Trust me, hermano. Owner's ex-Tyger Claws. Gets his 'tuna' straight from the docks." He lowered his voice. "Rumor says he bribes Scavs to keep the real human meat out."
Carl's stomach turned. Last week's "chicken" teriyaki had left him vomiting into a storm drain for an hour. The meat had squirmed on his fork like a dying cockroach.
They squeezed into a corner booth upholstered in duct tape and regret. A waitress with chipped neon-blue cybernails slapped down menus stained with soy sauce and existential dread. Carl's eyes zeroed in on the only vegetarian option:
[VEGGIE RAMEN]
100% Organic PetroChem Wheat Noodles!
Guaranteed 0% Actual Meat! (Terms & Conditions Apply)
"Fuck me sideways," Carl muttered.
Jackie ordered the "premium Kobe beef" donburi. Oliver opted for "spicy tuna" rolls that glistened with a substance the menu generously called "fish-adjacent lubrication."
When the bowls arrived, Carl's ramen resembled a science experiment gone wrong. The broth bubbled ominously, and the mushrooms floated like tiny biological hazards. Across the table, Jackie sawed into his "beef" with a monofilament knife. The meat squealed like a stepped-on cybermouse.
"Tastes like heaven!" Jackie lied, chewing with the enthusiasm of a man who'd never tasted real food. "Reminds me of my abuela's carne asada back in Heywood!"
Oliver gagged on his first bite of "tuna," which had the texture of lubricant-soaked cardboard. "The fuck is this? Tastes like a coolant leak marinated in battery acid!"
Carl slurped a PetroChem noodle. It clung to his teeth like industrial adhesive. "Told you. Kabukicho's idea of 'fresh' is anything that hasn't sprouted eyes yet."
[FLASHBACK - 48 HOURS EARLIER]
Carl stares at a food stall's holographic menu: [MOM'S HOMESTYLE FRIED CHICKEN!] The vendor proudly displays a tray of fried... lumps. The breading cracks open, oozing neon-pink sludge. Carl retreats, opting for a protein bar labeled [SOY-FREE! GLUTEN-FREE! JOY-FREE!]
Back in the booth, Oliver pushed his plate away like it owed him eddies. "Forty grand each. What's the play?"
Jackie leaned back, picking synth-meat from his teeth with a combat knife. "Three-five on subdermal armor from Vik. Rest goes toward a real ride." He jerked a thumb at the Quartz outside. "No offense, hermano, but your shitbox's backseat smells like a Maelstrom rave party's porta-john."
Oliver flipped him off. "Says the guy who uses ketchup packets as condiments and wound disinfectant."
"Gentlemen." Carl slammed his water glass—a mistake, as the liquid inside sloshed with a suspiciously metallic sheen. "Priorities. Oliver?"
The ex-6th Streeter shrugged. "Apartment first. That megabuilding near Little China. Then some optics—tired of being the only gonk who can't see through walls." His finger traced the outline of a sniper rifle on the menu's hoload. "Might specialize. Less running, more... precision."
Carl nodded. "Same on the apartment. And a new sidearm." He glared at his Lexington on the table—its grip still crusted with Maelstrom blood. "This thing couldn't penetrate a corpo's ego."
Their "meal" concluded with Jackie ordering dessert:
[MATCHA ICE CREAM]
Now with 50% More Real Dairy! (Dairy Substitute: Recycled Algae Paste)
The waitress plopped down a neon-green scoop that emitted a faint radioactive glow. Jackie dug in immediately. "Mmm! Tastes like my childhood!"
Oliver poked it with a spoon. The ice cream hissed. "Your childhood was a chemical spill?"
"Authentic," Jackie said, mouth full. "Try it, KK!"
Carl leaned away as the dessert quivered on his plate. "Hard pass. Last time I ate something that glowed, I pissed neon for a week."
ADDED SYNTH-MEAT SCENE:
Jackie nudged a strip of his "Kobe beef" toward Carl. "C'mon, hermano. Live a little. Even monks gotta sin sometimes."
Carl hesitated. The meat glistened under the bar's UV lights, its marbling a perfect geometric pattern no real cow ever grew. For a fleeting second, nostalgia punched through his resolve—the memory of his grandmother's Sunday pot roast, slow-cooked until it fell apart, rich with herbs and garlic.
He took a bite.
The texture hit first—rubbery, like chewing a bicycle tire. Then the flavor: artificial smokiness followed by a chemical aftertaste that burned his sinuses. His brain short-circuited. This isn't beef. This is what beef would taste like if it was designed by a spreadsheet.
Jackie watched him, grinning. "See? Almost like the real thing, right?"
Carl forced a swallow. His throat rebelled. "Yeah. If the 'real thing' was made in a sewer."
Oliver snorted. "What's your problem? Tastes fine to me."
Carl stared at him. "Fine? This tastes like a Scav's gym sock marinated in drain cleaner."
Jackie shrugged. "You're too picky, choom. Back in Heywood, we called this filet mignon."
Carl pushed the plate away. "Back in my day, filet mignon didn't try to crawl off the plate."
He pulled out the menu. There got to be some meat I can eat.