Chapter 37 - Chapter Thirty Seven

Maine said they were doing it right and nobody argued, so after the market run they cleared a corner of the warehouse and set up a folding table for what Rebecca called "the soda lab," which meant a cheap blender, two big bowls, a strainer, a funnel, a stack of rinsed bottles with screw tops, and the fruit basket they had picked up earlier, mostly oranges, a few pears, two lemons, one lime, and a couple of apples that looked too good to waste; Kevin's directions were simple, so they followed them without overthinking: peel nothing, chop the citrus rough, blend it with a little water until it was juice with pulp, pour that into an airtight container, then add extra chopped citrus with the skins still on, seal it, stash it somewhere out of the sun for a few days, then strain and bottle it with a tight cap so the bubbles hold; they split the work fast—David washed and chopped, Dorio ran the blender, Pilar measured everything even though the recipe wasn't exact, Lucy labeled each batch with tape and a date, Rebecca taste-tested the blends "for quality," and Maine stood back pretending not to smile while he set up a small crate in the shade where the jars could sit and build pressure; they did three mixes to compare later: a straight orange-lemon-lime base, an orange-apple-pear mix to see if it stayed bright or went flat, and a small test with honey and water poured over a handful of smashed citrus peels because Kevin said that worked too; by the end they had two big jars sealed and one smaller one capped tight, all labeled with the day and a quick note like "citrus mix A" and "honey-peel," and then they did the hardest part, which was nothing, because you can't rush bubbles, so they cleaned the mess, stashed the gear, and agreed to wait three days; during the wait the crew kept moving like normal, a small escort job, a gear pickup, two quiet days on call, and every night someone tapped the lids of the jars and listened for a hiss, and on the morning of day three they popped the smaller cap slow, got a soft release of gas that smelled like orange peel and sugar, and Rebecca grinned, "It's alive," which made Pilar groan that she'd been waiting to say that since they started; they strained the first jar through a clean cloth into a bowl, the liquid bright and cloudy with tiny bubbles, then funneled it into rinsed soda bottles and twisted the caps until their wrists hurt, and when they cracked the first one open the hiss was louder and the smell hit their faces like fresh fruit and something a little yeasty but not off, more like a real soda than a lab drink; Maine raised an eyebrow, took the first sip because he was the boss, and nodded once, "It works," then passed it to David who took a long pull and laughed because it really was soda, sweet and tart and fizzy, not like vending syrup but something clean that tasted like what it said on the label instead of chemicals; everyone took a turn and the bottle emptied fast, then they tried the orange-apple-pear mix which came out softer and rounder with a little more sweetness and less bite, and even Kiwi, who never said much, asked how long it kept in the bottle if you didn't drink it right away, and Lucy said they should chill a few and see if it got sharper on day four, so they set two aside and opened the honey-peel test, which was lighter on fruit but carried a neat piney edge and a mellow sweetness that made Rebecca call it "forest soda," and nobody stopped her; while they drank, Rebecca sat on the floor with her rabbit, the harness clipped to a chair leg so he could hop around without vanishing behind gear, feeding him small bits of carrot from a side bag and laughing when he pawed her boot for more, and even Pilar stopped complaining long enough to scratch the rabbit's head because it was hard to be mad when a small animal was trying to climb into your lap; the burger plan came next because food tastes better when you share it and soda needed a meal, so they hit a stall two blocks over that had started grinding real beef and pressing patties on a flat steel plate, the vendor piling onions, tomatoes, and lettuce on a table like he'd been waiting years to sell the real thing, and they ordered a stack with plain buns plus a tray of pickles and a paper tub of fries cut from actual potatoes, and back at the warehouse they ate through the first round without talking because grease and salt do their job, then they started the slow stream of chatter that always followed a job and a good meal; Maine asked if the next batch of soda should get a lump of grated ginger or a few crushed berries to see what changed, Dorio said they should write down any mix that worked so they could repeat it, Lucy said we need extra bottles if we're going to rotate batches so there is always something ready, Pilar said he wanted to try a pine-needle brew with honey only and no fruit just to see if it fizzed hard or stayed flat, and Rebecca said they needed a name for the best one and then declared the orange-apple-pear the "Rebecca Special" before anyone could argue, then laughed when Maine said names are earned after ten good batches, not one; David kept an eye out around the market tables while he chewed, listening for more tips like the soda trick, and it didn't take long for the food vendors to start offering their own hacks, because people talk when they see a crew buying real ingredients and asking decent questions without acting like they own the place; a guy selling fish said you could smoke small fillets inside a metal bucket with a rack and a handful of soaked wood chips if you kept airflow low and heat steady, a woman with a stall of greens said the fastest pickle for crunch was hot brine over sliced onions and carrots with vinegar, sugar, and salt, lid on, cool to room temp, then ice if you needed it quick for dinner, the spice dealer across the aisle said whole cumin and coriander toasted in a dry pan made anything taste like you planned it, one old man at a folding table said if you render trimmings into tallow you can fry flatbread on a pan with nothing else and it comes out perfect every time, and a kid working his family's fryer said if you boil bones with vinegar and a little salt for hours you get broth that fixes sore joints after a hard job; Lucy typed notes into her shard while David recorded short clips of the tips with permission, saying they weren't selling the info, just keeping it so they remembered, and Maine nodded because this was the kind of advantage that wasn't about guns or chrome, it was about staying strong and steady between fights; on the way back from a water refill, Rebecca pointed out a used-goods stall with a beat-up pressure cooker and asked if it was worth it, Dorio said yes because beans and tough cuts become food fast under pressure, the vendor threw in a warped cast-iron pan for cheap, and Pilar joked that now they were officially "old people" who cooked on purpose, but he carried the pan anyway; by late afternoon the crew had settled into an easy rhythm, two bottles chilling in a tub with ice from a vendor, burgers gone, rabbit asleep in Rebecca's jacket, and small plans forming without anyone acting like it was a big deal: once a week they'd run a soda batch and rotate flavors, they'd test a smoke bucket and a pickle jar, and they'd keep a running list of good stalls and good people because trust saved time later; they also made a simple rule for themselves—if a tip worked, bring something back to the person who shared it—so Dorio walked the last half bottle of the forest soda to the honey vendor as a trade, the fish guy got a promise for a swap when they had their first smoked fillets, and the pickle woman handed them a bag of extra lids with a wink, "Return the jars, keep the lids moving," and it felt less like a transaction and more like community which was still a strange word in Night City but not a bad one; when the chilled bottles hit the table they popped both and the fizz jumped higher, sharper, and even Pilar admitted the cold made it better, saying the orange-lemon-lime nailed the soda target while the apple-pear leaned more like a soft drink you sipped slow, and Maine said that was fine because not everything needed to taste like a punch to the mouth; they kept talking food because it was easier than talking danger on a decent day, swapping ideas about jerky lines in the warehouse if they could hang hooks out of the way, bulk rice buys to stretch meat, a cheap cooler made of two nested clay pots with sand and water between them for passive chilling, a rocket stove for emergencies, and the obvious thought in the background was that eating well made you fight better and keep your head on straight, which they didn't say because they didn't have to; David checked his messages and saw one from the clinic about a delivery route that needed a last-minute driver and he told Maine he would take it after dinner to keep the schedule smooth, Maine said go but keep eyes open near the south edge because a fixer had mentioned a crew shaking down vendors there for "permit fees," and Lucy said she would ride along because she liked the air outside and because she didn't say no when David asked, and that was that; before they packed up, Rebecca took the rabbit out for a short hop around the cleanest part of the floor, holding the harness slack while he inspected a bottle cap like it was treasure, and she told him, "You are part of quality control, little dude," while the others stuffed gear back into crates and wiped down the table; they stashed two bottles for later and left one for the night watch with a note that said "not poison," which made the guard laugh, and as they rolled up the door for fresh air Dorio said next time they should try citrus with grated ginger and a spoon of sugar to see if it kicked harder, and Maine said pencil it in for Tuesday; out on the street the crew split—David and Lucy for the truck, Maine and Dorio to meet a contact, Kiwi home, Rebecca and Pilar on a snack run for extra buns—and the sky over the blocks looked cleaner than it used to, not perfect but better, and the smell of real cooking hung around the corners where once it had only ever been paste and burnt oil; later, after the delivery run finished clean, David and Lucy swung by the edge stalls again and picked up a small bag of dried herbs from an old lady who said putting a pinch into boiled water with lemon made a calm drink for when nerves ran hot after a job, and Lucy bought it without haggling, saying to David, "We try it after the next mess," and he said, "Deal," because calm had been rare lately; when they got back to the warehouse the crew had one more test waiting, a tiny jar of quick pickles the vendor had promised would be ready if they gave the jar a shake every hour, and it worked well enough that Pilar ate half the jar himself and called dibs on making the next round with chili flakes; the day ended simple: clean bottles lined up on a shelf, a note of future mixes on Lucy's shard, a list of good stalls with names and faces, and a quiet understanding that food was now part of the crew's kit, as important as ammo and med foam, because a steady hand comes from a steady body, and a steady body comes from decent fuel; when the lights dimmed, Rebecca tucked the rabbit into his box with a scrap of cloth and said, "Tomorrow we make the Rebecca Special again," Maine grunted that she could name it after the fifth successful batch, and she fired back, "You'll be thanking me when we sell it to chooms at double," and Dorothy rolled her eyes and said don't start a soda business before breakfast, but nobody said stop collecting tips, nobody said stop cooking, nobody said go back to vending paste, and that was the point—they had a new habit now, something small and good they could repeat, and in Night City repeating anything good was rare enough to keep.