Zeke never cooked before.
Unless you counted pouring neon noodles into hot water and forgetting about them until they developed sentience and unionized.
But formula for Bitty was expensive. The cult's "divine nutrient paste" turned out to be 98% recycled printer ink and "love frequencies," whatever that meant. Tess banned it after Bitty's eyes glowed red and he tried to recite the Terms of Service backward.
So when Zeke saw an ad in the underground metro terminal for a high-stakes cooking contest, he signed up.
The grand prize?
A year's supply of Plasti-Formula™: The Only Milk Approved by the Techno-Pope.
...
Zeke stood backstage at the "Neo-Chef Deathbake Extravaganza", surrounded by cyber-chefs with blade arms, flamethrower mouths, and suspiciously French accents.
He had… a wok.
And fear. Mostly fear.
Tess sent a text:
"Do NOT screw this up. Bitty is chewing on the TV again."
Zeke stared at his ingredients: a can of expired soy-meat, three mystery packets labeled "DO NOT EAT," and one egg.
Not a cyber-egg. A regular one.
It terrified him.
...
The timer buzzed.
Zeke did what any man in over his head would do: he panicked.
He dumped everything into the wok, added some neon hot sauce, and whispered prayers to any kitchen gods that would listen (they didn't).
Nyx, bless her circuits, tried to help.
"Activating Emergency Recipe Protocol: Hope for the Best Stew."
Smoke billowed. Sparks flew. Somewhere, a raccoon died.
And yet… his dish looked edible. Kind of. If you squinted.
...
The judges were all VIPs: a former war-cook, a food vlogger with 12 million subscribers, and Senator VORG-9, a chrome-plated diplomatic mech who once dissolved an assassin with vinaigrette.
Zeke served his "dish."
Senator VORG-9 took a bite.
He froze.
Then he vibrated.
Then he screamed in seventeen dialects of C++.
His eyes turned green, sparks flew from his mouth, and he launched himself through the ceiling shouting:
"WHY DO I TASTE MY CHILDHOOD!?"
...
Zeke blinked. "Wait… was that good or bad?"
Turns out: unclear.
The judges conferred while the audience roared. A swarm of flying news drones arrived. Someone tried to sell t-shirts.
Ten minutes later, Zeke was handed the trophy and crowned Neo-Chef Champion of the Underground Sector.
Apparently, making a war-bot "feel something again" was considered a culinary miracle.
...
Back at the hideout, Tess stared in disbelief at the wall of formula crates delivered by hover-drone.
Zeke plopped onto the couch, exhausted and covered in sauce.
"I think I poisoned a senator."
Tess tossed him a bottle. "Whatever. You also won."
Bitty gurgled happily and exploded a diaper.
Zeke stared at him. "Was this worth it?"
Bitty replied in soft binary: "F@ther. M0re H0t S@uce."