Chapter 1 part 4

The Gourmet Space Butcher (Still Needs Sauce)

The Gourmet Space Butcher (Still Needs Sauce)

The food in this part of the star system? A crime against taste buds. If I had to describe the local cuisine in one word, it’d be disgusting. No joke. Everyone here survives on either flavorless goop or rubbery protein bricks, both of which taste like they were cooked by a broken food dispenser.

The so-called "meat" the protein blocks? More like pressed algae and yeast, chewy and bland, nothing like the tender, juicy meat I grew up with. Then there’s the nutrient paste—thick, slimy, and made from processed space kelp. Eating it feels like gnawing on the rusty hull of a junker ship.

The broth they serve? A sad excuse for soup. No richness, no depth—just weak, watery disappointment. They probably try to fake flavor with lab-grown protein and fermented beans, but it’s all flat. I miss real seasoning—actual taste. All they’ve got here are weak mineral salts.

Even the station-grown veggies are pathetic. Sure, they’re edible, but since nobody bothers engineering them for flavor, they might as well be chewing on space grass.

Call me picky—I won’t argue. I come from a place that knows good food. So yeah, my taste buds revolt. Even though I’ve gotten used to the blandness, I still remember how real food should taste.

But there is one thing worth eating in this sector: alien beast - Xenofauna meat.

Adjusting my helmet’s oxygen flow, I yelled,

"Gimme the meat!"

"SCREEEEE!"

Suit sealed, I braced as the space boar charged, its tusks gleaming like black steel. The planet’s weak gravity made me slow, but with a burst from my boot thrusters, I dodged, whipped out my blaster, and—BAM!—purple blood sprayed from its throat.

The beast collapsed with a heavy thud. This thing’s taken down plenty of rookies, but me? I celebrate when I get a hunt request for it. Because this mutant boar? Its meat is heaven.

"Gotta drain the blood. Gotta gut it fast!"

The nearby outpost has recycling tanks for waste. Hauling the boar’s massive body to a cleaning chamber, I sliced it open with my vibro-blade - usually mounted at my half-spec blaster. The smell of fresh meat hit me—raw, gamey, real. Some organs I’d eat, others I’d toss. The liver and heart? Prime cuts. The rest? Too much work to clean, and not worth the effort.

I’ve gotten used to this life—one that’d make most civilized folks cringe. But hunger changes people. For food like this? I’ll carve through every last scrap with zero shame.

"There we go… perfect."

I took the choicest cuts—flank, back, and that weird brain-like lump. Yeah, I’ve heard rumors about tentacle meat and other exotic xeno-fauna cuts, but I don’t know how to cook those. And honestly? Eating actual brains creeps me out.

But grilled xeno-fauna meat? If it tastes good seared over a plasma grill, I call it a win. A little mineral salt, a quick char, and boom—better than any sad protein brick or slimy nutrient paste.

That’s why I always take xenofauna hunts. Straightforward fights, delicious rewards.

"Mmm… hell yeah."

I portioned the meat: some to eat now, some to vacuum-seal for later, some to sell. The organs? A hunter’s treat. That liver’s packed with nutrients—way better than station slop.

The brain-thing? That’s mine. The back meat? Tender, juicy, perfect. The legs? Small but travel-friendly—good for trading. A few extra credits in my pocket, a meal for later.

I’ll admit it: I’m no expert butcher. But out here in the fringe planets, nobody cares. Sure, there are monsters lurking in the dark, but when there’s meat on the line? I’ll risk it.

…I just wish I had sauce. Something to bring this feast together. But I don’t know how to make any, so all I’ve got are herbed mineral salts. It works, but it’s not right. I miss rich, savory gravy. I don’t need fancy carbs—just give me sauce!

"Narwhal? Bagged another big one, huh?"

Back at the station, the airlock guy greeted me with his usual bored tone. I pushed my hover-sled in, stacked high with meat containers—proud as hell.

"Deliveryyyy! Want some meeeeat?" I shouted through my helmet speakers.

"Hah! Space butcher strikes again!"

I grinned. "We deliver, pal. Can I dock?"

The airlock hissed open. As my suit powered down, the controller eyed my gear and checked my tag. "Narwhal the butcher, back from another hunt? Creds check out. Next time, use the cargo bay."

"No way. I’ll handle my own butchering, thanks."

The cargo bay’s got processors that clean and prep xeno-fauna carcasses—pay them, and they do the messy work. But I can’t stand the judgmental looks when I tell them I tossed the hide. Unless I’ve got a mountain of bodies, I skip that place.

"I keep my own meat," I said firmly. "No arguments."

"Weird spacer. Thinking of switching to meat processing?"

"Maybe."

"Seriously?"

"Eh, brute work suits me."

"Fair. If you can solo a space boar, merc work’s probably your best bet."

I could be a processor, sure, but why waste my skills?

I pulled a vacuum-sealed pack from my suit. 

"Here—field-preserved. A little thanks."

"Sweet! Appreciate it."

"Share it around. Don’t wanna start a riot."

Keeping the airlock guys happy pays off. Not for shady reasons—just easier docking, maybe slipping in before lockdown. Plus, if they see me as just another tough merc, nobody asks questions.

"Off to the bar again?"

"You know it! Drinks later?"

And with that, mission complete. Time to turn this xeno-fauna meat into a real meal—because even the worst station slop tastes better with fresh kill on top.

(Still really wish I had sauce, though.)

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader, to another thrilling episode of "Why Settle for Bland Space Food When You Can Hunt Your Own Meat?" If you thought our protagonist's adventures were all about mopping floors, punching idiots, and blasting Krivvens, think again. This time, we dive into the delightful world of intergalactic cuisine—or lack thereof.

Yes, you read that right. Our hero is back, and this time, he's not just cleaning up messes—he's making them. With his trusty half-spec blaster and a whole lot of attitude, he's on a mission to bring some real flavor to this part of the star system. And by flavor, I mean xenofauna meat.

Now, you might be thinking, "But why would anyone risk their life for a taste of real meat?" Oh, dear reader, you underestimate the power of a good meal. Our protagonist might be a tough space merc, but he's also a foodie at heart. And when you've been surviving on flavorless goop and rubbery protein bricks, a taste of real meat is like a little slice of heaven.

]And remember, dear reader: when the stars are full of danger, it's better to be overlooked than overestimated. But if you do find yourself in a fight, make sure you've got a good meal waiting for you afterward.

And who knows? Maybe one day, our hero will find that elusive sauce he's been dreaming of. Until then, he'll just have to make do with herbed mineral salts. Bon appétit!