Chef

I was scavenging in the back alleys behind some fancy corp restaurants, hoping to score some leftovers. It was a risky gig - get caught, and you'd be dealing with some nasty security drones. But a troll's gotta eat, ya know?

That's when I saw him - this old ork chef, must've been pushing 70. He was carefully sorting through the restaurant's discards, but not like us street rats. He had purpose, deliberation.

Curious, I watched as he picked out wilted greens, bruised fruits, and what looked like animal bones. Stuff most of us would pass over for the "good" leftovers.

"Hey, old timer," I called out, "you're doin' it wrong. The real food's in the sealed containers."

He looked up at me, his cybernetic eye whirring as it focused. "Am I now, young troll? Come here and let me show you something."

Against my better judgment, I went over. Up close, I could see the years of experience etched into his face.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked.

"They call me Neon," I replied.

He nodded. "Well, Neon, let me teach you about respect. Respect for food, for ingredients, for life itself."

Over the next hour, that old ork - Chef, he told me to call him - showed me things I'd never imagined. He took those wilted greens and turned them into a fragrant broth. The bruised fruits became a sweet and tangy sauce. And those bones? He showed me how to extract every bit of marrow, creating a rich base for soups.

"In the old days," he said, his hands moving with practiced grace, "we used every part of what we had. Nothing went to waste. It wasn't just about survival - it was about respect for the life that sustains us."

I watched in awe as he turned what I'd considered trash into a meal fit for a corp exec. The smells alone made my mouth water something fierce.

"But why go through all this trouble?" I asked. "Wouldn't it be easier to just grab the pre-made stuff?"

Chef fixed me with a look, his real eye shining with a wisdom I'd never seen before. "Easier, yes. But at what cost? Every time we waste food, we're disrespecting the earth that grew it, the animals that died for it, the people who worked to produce it."

He handed me a bowl of the soup he'd made. As I tasted it, flavors exploded on my tongue like nothing I'd ever experienced.

"This," he said, gesturing to the meal, "this is magic, boy. Taking what others discard and creating something beautiful, nourishing. It's a way of saying 'thank you' to the world that feeds us, even in these dark times."

That night changed everything for me. I saw food in a whole new light. It wasn't just about filling my belly anymore - it was about connection, respect, and using everything to its fullest potential.

From that day on, I made a vow. In my kitchen, nothing would go to waste. Every scrap, every bone, every wilted leaf would be used, honored, transformed.

'Cause Chef was right - it is a kind of magic. Taking the overlooked, the discarded, and turning it into something that nourishes both body and soul? That's power, omae. Real power.

And in this world of excess and waste, where corps toss out tons of food while people starve in the streets? Living by that principle of respect and sustainability - that's my way of fighting back. Of saying that everything and everyone has value, if you just know how to see it.

So yeah, chummer, that's why there's no waste in my kitchen. 'Cause every bit of it matters. Just like every one of us matters, no matter what the corps and their wage slaves might think.