The neon glare of Kabukicho blurred into a migraine-inducing haze as Carl slammed the izakaya door behind them. Jackie licked synth-teriyaki sauce off his fingers, oblivious to the way the fluorescent sludge left a faint glow on his lips. Oliver burped, the sound echoing like a malfunctioning exhaust pipe, his breath reeking of artificial wasabi and regret.
"Fuck that," Carl spat, storming past a Joytoy hologram offering "authentic Kyoto romance experiences" for 50 eddies a minute. The hologram flickered as he passed, its pixelated kimono dissolving into static. "We're finding a real meal."
Jackie jogged to keep up, his Saints necklace clinking like loose bullet casings. "Hermano, you just made us try seven dishes. My guts feel like a Scav's junkyard." He patted his stomach, which gurgled ominously. "Hear that? My spleen's writing its will."
"Seven disasters," Carl snapped, dodging a drone dropping flyers for *[Arasaka-approved antidepressants]**. The drone's propellers whined as it narrowly missed his head, scattering holographic coupons for 10% off "mental wellness" BD chips. "That wasn't food—it was a war crime with chopsticks."
Oliver leaned against a flickering vending machine hawking [Biotechnica's Midnight Snack Pellets], his face pale under the neon. "Could've told you that before you ordered the radioactive curry. My colon's gonna file a restraining order."
Carl ignored them, his HUD scanning storefronts through a haze of smog and desperation. A flickering sign caught his eye, its holographic cherry blossoms shedding petals that disintegrated before hitting the pavement:
[SAKURA FUSION GRILL]
Night City's #1 Rated Japanglo Cuisine!
Voted "Least Likely to Give You Radiation Poisoning" (2074)
The facade was a grotesque parody of tradition: paper lanterns made from recycled corpo memos, a sliding door jammed halfway on its track, and a faded mural of Mount Fuji defaced with Maelstrom gang tags.
"Here." Carl shoved the door open, releasing a cloud of synthetic cherry blossom scent that smelled like burnt plastic. The interior was a fever dream of cultural decay—projected cherry trees shed holographic petals onto tables where chrome-plated salarymen slurped noodles through neural port adapters. A trio of Tyger Claws in the corner eyeballed them, their cybernetic fingertips tapping rhythmically against holstered pistols.
"Fusion?" Oliver whispered, eyeing a salaryman's bowl of neon-orange ramen. "That's corpo-speak for 'we put mustard on sushi.'"
A hostbot glitched to life, its Geisha face frozen in a rictus grin. One eye twitched, cycling through languages. "Irasshaimase! Bienvenidos! Welcome to Sakura Fusion Grill! Booth or hanami seating under our patented holographic—"
"Booth," Carl growled, cutting off the bot's garbled spiel.
The menu materialized as a shimmering katana hovering above the table, its blade fracturing into pixelated options. Jackie stabbed at it with a chopstick, triggering a cascade of holograms that smelled faintly of ozone:
[BESTSELLER: SAMURAI BURGER]
Biotechnica Wagyu patty, shiso leaf, wasabi aioli, served on a PetroChem rice bun!
(Warning: May contain trace amounts of industrial lubricant)
[CHEF'S SPECIAL: CYBER-UDON]
Lab-grown eel, synthetic bonito broth, glowing green noodles!
(Caution: Noodles may exhibit autonomous movement)
[VEGAN DELIGHT: EDEN SALAD]
Hydroponic kale, insect-protein croutons, algae dressing!
(Note: Croutons may contain legs)
Carl's eye twitched. "This is just the same shit with fancier names."
Jackie shrugged, flicking a holographic petal off his jacket. "At least the Geisha bot's cute."
The hostbot winked, its left eye freezing mid-blink. A spider drone crawled out of its sleeve, trailing wires.
[ORDER #1: SAMURAI BURGER]
The "Wagyu" patty arrived oozing a viscous pink fluid that hissed on contact with the table, eating through the laminate like acid. Oliver poked it with a fork, recoiling as the utensil began to corrode. "Looks like a Maelstrom implant. Smells like one too."
Carl took a bite. The "rice bun" disintegrated into chalky dust, coating his tongue in a film reminiscent of powdered concrete. The patty itself tasted like a burnt circuit board marinated in liquid smoke, with an aftertaste of regret and copper.
[VERDICT]
"Nope." Carl spat into a napkin, which began to dissolve.
[ORDER #2: CYBER-UDON]
The noodles writhed in the broth like neon tapeworms, their glow pulsating in time with the overhead LEDs. Jackie slurped one, his ocular implant flickering as the noodle lashed his cheek. "Tastes like… static?" He wiped his mouth, leaving a smear of bioluminescent green. "Or maybe a microwaved car battery."
The lab-grown eel floated belly-up, its scales peeling to reveal gelatinous pink sludge.
[VERDICT]
"Hard pass."
[ORDER #3: EDEN SALAD]
The kale crunched like plastic, each bite echoing in Carl's skull. He held up a "crouton"—a fried insect leg twitched between his fingers, its exoskeleton glistening with algae dressing.
[VERDICT]
"Nuked."
"Christ," Carl muttered, tossing his napkin onto the growing pile of culinary casualties. A drone waiter swept past, its tray stacked with [Sushi Tacos] that dripped neon-blue sauce. "How do you two eat this?"
Jackie licked wasabi off a monofilament knife, unfazed by the way it tingled. "You get used to it after your third near-death experience. Hell, my abuela used to say, 'If it doesn't make your eyes water, it ain't food!'"
Oliver nodded, massaging his swollen stomach. "Pro tip: add enough hot sauce, and everything tastes like regret."
Carl's neural port pinged—a memory forcing its way through the synth-food haze.
[FLASHBACK: PRE-NIGHT CITY]
A summer afternoon, sunlight filtering through real trees. Carl's grandmother hands him a skewer of yakitori, the chicken glazed in honey and soy, caramelized edges glistening. Charcoal smoke curls into the air, mingling with the scent of scallions and sesame oil. The meat tears under his teeth, juices bursting—
The memory shattered as the hostbot slammed down dessert menus, its Geisha face now pixelated into a scream.
[DESSERT SPECIAL: MOCHI MARTINI]
Sake-infused synth-rice dough, liquid nitrogen "ice cream," edible circuit board garnish!
Carl stood abruptly, his chair screeching. "We're leaving."
Outside, Night City's smog had deepened into a jaundiced twilight. The streets throbbed with the bassline of a nearby club, its neon sign advertising [CYBERPSYCHO NIGHTS: LIVE BRAIN DANCE RIOTS!]. Oliver leaned against the Quartz, groaning as his stomach emitted a sound like a dying power cell. "Can we please hit a vending machine next time? I'd kill for a normal soy-paste taco."
Carl stared at a flickering billboard for All Food Nutritional Paste—"All the nutrients you need in 2075!"—its holographic spokesperson's smile stretching unnaturally wide. Something broke inside him, a fissure between the man who once tasted sunlight and the merc choking on neon lies.
"There's a place in Little China," he said quietly. "Noodle stall. The guy uses real PetroChem wheat. No meat. Just… edible."
Jackie clapped him on the shoulder, his grin tinged with pity. "Lead the way, hermano. But if this one makes you puke, I'm picking dinner forever."
The Quartz sputtered to life, its headlights cutting through the gloom like a dull knife. As they pulled away, Carl glanced back at Sakura Fusion Grill. A rat scavenged their discarded "samurai burger" from the dumpster, took one bite, and keeled over, legs twitching.
Somewhere in Night City, a real chicken lived in a corpo lab, pampered and scanned daily for pathogens.
Carl missed his grandmother.