Selling (Somewhat) Magic Goods in Arknights

[Hephaestus]

I really like this fic I don't know shit about arcKnight but the way you have it be from the 3rd person point of view for the block of the chapter makes the world seem real and that is really good for a slow fic like this

 

[Dan O'von]

Well that's a real tease of a chapter ending. My guess is he's got a new assistant.

 

[Paracsus]

I really like this fic I don't know shit about arcKnight but the way you have it be from the 3rd person point of view for the block of the chapter makes the world seem real and that is really good for a slow fic like this

Click to shrink...

Recommend playing it for real. Not just to understand this story, but because that game's own world is really interesting to learn about. Such as how firearms are rare and highly regulated by the Pope (now isn't THAT a weird sentence to read?)

 

[stoodeu]

thanks for the chapter.

 

[OPG Merlin]

Thank you for the chapter

 

[Paracsus]

A New Face

Arno noticed the box before he noticed anything else.

It sat just inside the cart when he opened it that morning—large, rectangular, and positioned squarely in the center aisle, forcing him to stop short. The shelves were still in place along the walls, stocked the way he had left them the night before: bentos of different types were piled on top of each other, bottled juice aligned by color, bandages bundled neatly in twine. Nothing else had been disturbed. The lighting was the same soft amber glow that always filled the cart's interior.

But the box had not been there.

It was made of thick wood, the kind used for shipping equipment or delicate machinery, reinforced along the corners with layered panels. There were no printed labels, no stamps, no handwriting. Just a single strip of twine looped around it lengthwise, tied in a simple knot that looked deliberate rather than hurried.

Arno stood there longer than he needed to.

The cart was quiet. No alarms, no warning signs, no sense of damage or malfunction. That made the presence of the box worse, not better.

He stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him. The sounds of the street faded at once, leaving only the enclosed interior and the box occupying space that had not been empty by accident. It was placed too carefully for that.

Arno moved around it, slow and cautious. It wasn't heavy in the way crates of supplies were heavy. When he nudged it lightly with the toe of his boot, it shifted a fraction of an inch and then stopped, as if whatever was inside had its own balance.

No resistance. No tricks. He lifted the lid.

Inside was a child.

She was curled on her side atop a thick layer of packing material, knees drawn up, tail tucked close to her body. The oversized coat nearly swallowed her, the hem bunching around her legs while the sleeves hung past her hands. Her hat had slipped forward, tilted just enough to shadow her eyes, but not enough to hide her face entirely. Soft purple hair spilled out from beneath it in uneven strands, cut short and slightly messy in a way that suggested it had never been styled with much care.

Her ears were visible despite the hat—rounded, catlike, set high on her head. They twitched faintly as she slept. Her breathing was slow and even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the kind that came from exhaustion rather than comfort. One hand was curled loosely against her coat, fingers relaxed, empty.

Arno stopped moving.

His heart was beating hard enough that he could feel it in his throat. This wasn't caution or calculation kicking in. His mind had already skipped past that entirely.

"…No," he said quietly.

Because he knew her.

The ears were unmistakable, even half-hidden beneath the brim of her hat. The shape of her face, the small frame, the way she slept curled inward as if conserving warmth—it all lined up too perfectly with a memory he hadn't expected to see standing up in front of him, much less lying asleep in a box.

"Niko," he said under his breath.

The name felt unreal in his mouth.

Spoiler

The cart did nothing in response.

Arno sat back on his heels, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. He had played OneShot years ago. He remembered the choice at the end. Remembered sitting in front of his screen long after the credits faded, knowing there was no continuation, no branching path left unexplored.

Niko had gone home.

Or—no.

Niko had given that up.

She stirred, ears twitching beneath the hat. A small sound escaped her, somewhere between a sigh and a question. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as they landed on him.

Confusion crossed her face. Then awareness—not of who he was, but of where she wasn't. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. The space was unfamiliar.

Her ears flattened slightly.

"…Hello?" she said.

Her voice was quiet, but controlled.

Arno swallowed. "Hi."

She pushed herself upright, blinking as she adjusted, tail flicking once behind her. She scanned the cart carefully: the shelves, the narrow bed folded into the wall, the kettle resting on the counter. She noticed the way the interior didn't quite match the outside dimensions. She noticed everything.

"This isn't where I went to sleep," she said.

"No," Arno replied. "It's not."

She accepted that, then asked the next question without panic. "Is this another world?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. She processed it with the same seriousness she'd always had. "Am I stuck?"

Arno hesitated. He didn't want to lie to her.

"I don't know," he said.

She nodded once. That answer seemed to satisfy her more than false reassurance would have.

Before either of them could continue, Arno felt the shift—subtle, familiar. A piece of paper slid free from between two shelves and drifted to the floor near his foot.

He picked it up.

The paper was plain. Unlined. The text was printed cleanly, evenly spaced.

---

NOTICE OF ASSIGNMENT
Subject: Niko
Origin World: Unrecoverable
Status: Displaced (Permanent)

Due to successful completion of prior world-stabilization event and subsequent loss of return vector, Subject Niko has been relocated to an environment with sustainable support infrastructure.

Assignment: Assistant (Merchant Operations)

Role Parameters:

• Inventory management (non-magical)
• Customer interaction (limited)
• Observational support

Compensation:

• Housing
• Sustenance
• Protection under Cart Protocols

This arrangement is non-negotiable.

---

Arno lowered the paper slowly.

"That's… blunt," he muttered.

Niko leaned closer, peering at it upside down. "…What does it say?"

He looked at her. At the way her fingers were clenched around the pendant, at the careful way she was sitting, as if ready to move if needed.

He folded the paper once and set it aside.

"It says," he said carefully, "that you're safe here. That you have somewhere to stay. And that you won't be on your own."

She was quiet for a few seconds.

"…Okay," she said.

She swung her legs over the edge of the box and stood. She wobbled briefly, then adjusted her footing. She was smaller than he remembered—too small for the responsibilities she'd already carried.

She looked up at him. "Do I help people here too?"

Arno felt something tighten in his chest.

"Yes," he said. "But not like before. Smaller things. Food. Supplies."

She considered that, then smiled. It was tired, but sincere.

"I'm good at small things."

She turned her attention to the shelves, stepping closer, eyes scanning labels, positions, patterns. She wasn't touching anything yet—just learning the shape of the place.

Arno let out a slow breath.

He didn't know who had decided this, or why.

But watching Niko already orient herself, already trying to understand how to exist here without causing trouble, he realized the truth of it.

The cart hadn't given him control.

It had given him responsibility.

And this time, it wasn't something he could set aside.

---

Niko POV

I remember the light most clearly.

Not how bright it was, but how heavy it felt in my hands. Like it wanted me to understand what it meant before I let it go.

I put it where it was supposed to be.

The tower didn't shake, and the world didn't end. It just… settled. Like a sigh that had been held for a very long time and was finally allowed out.

Everyone was safe.
That was the important part.

I waited for something else to happen. I hoped beyond hope that there would be a chance.

For a door.
For the feeling of being pulled home.
For them—the one who helped me throughout my journey—to say something.

Nothing.

The tower was quiet. Too quiet.

When I left, the streets looked the same, but they felt different. People smiled. The sky didn't look like it might fall apart anymore. I walked past faces I recognized, and they waved at me like I was just another part of the day.

I waved back.

They didn't know what I'd given up.
That was okay. They didn't need to.

I kept walking until my feet started to hurt.

That was when I realized something was wrong.

I should have been home by then.

Back in my village, the air smelled like soil and wheat. Mama would've asked where I'd gone. She would've scolded me for worrying her, and then she would've made something warm, and everything would've been okay.

But when I tried to picture it, it felt… far away. Not gone. Just unreachable. Like looking at the moon and realizing you don't know how to get there.

I sat down on the edge of a rooftop and hugged my knees.

"I did the right thing," I told myself.

The world stayed quiet.

I didn't cry at first. I was tired of crying by then. Tired of being scared. Tired of carrying something everyone else needed and pretending I wasn't afraid of dropping it.

I stayed there until the sun set and rose again.

People didn't ask me where I lived. They just assumed I had a home somewhere.

I started sleeping wherever I could—empty rooms, warm corners, places where the light didn't flicker anymore. The world felt stable, but I didn't. I didn't belong to it the way everyone else did.

Sometimes, I thought about the tower.

The final destination of my journey. That room where the Sun was supposed to be. The place where I made the decision that changed my life forever.

I wondered if they really remembered me. As Niko, not as The Messiah.

I hoped they did.

One night, I fell asleep thinking about home so hard it hurt. About Mama's voice. About pancakes. About the sound of the wind outside our window.

When I opened my eyes again, I looked up and saw something that was wrong.

It wasn't the cracked stone of the room I had in the City. It wasn't the newly brightened sky.

It was wood.

Warmth filled the space, soft and steady, like it had been waiting for me. I sat up too fast and bonked my head on something solid.

"Ow…"

That was when I realized I was inside a box. A big one.

I pushed the lid up slowly and peeked out.

Shelves. Lots of shelves. Bread. Bottles. Cloth. Things that smelled clean and simple. The space was bigger than it should have been, but it didn't feel scary. It felt… cozy.

Like someone had made sure there was room for me.

"This is definitely not where I went to sleep," I said out loud.

The air hummed. Not like machines. More like a cat purring in another room.

I didn't feel pulled. I didn't feel trapped. I felt… placed.

Footsteps sounded nearby. A door opened and I quickly ducked back into the box and shut my eyes. didn't raise my head until someone lifted the lid.

"Niko…" the man gasped.

He said my name. That made my ears twitch.

I opened my eyes and saw a man staring at me like he'd seen a ghost.

He looked tired. Kind. The way people do when they've learned how to keep going without expecting things to get easier.

I waited for him to tell me to leave.

Instead, he looked stunned.

Later, when he explained—about the cart, about the city, about how I couldn't go home—I felt the sadness again. It sat in my chest, heavy and familiar.

But it wasn't sharp anymore.

"I already knew that," I told him.

He looked surprised.

I shrugged. "You don't make choices like that and get everything back."

He looked at me like that hurt more than if I hadn't. Yet, he didn't argue.

Arno, he said his name was, offered me a place to sleep. Food. Work that wasn't dangerous. People who didn't ask too many questions.

We sat inside the cart while the light hummed softly around us. It felt different from the tower, but not wrong. Like a place meant to pass through, even if you stayed longer than expected.

After a while, Arno cleared his throat.

"You don't have to stay," he said. "You can leave. The cart won't stop ."

I looked at him.

"Where would I go?"

He didn't answer right away. "Anywhere," he said eventually. "The city's big. You could… find something else."

Something else.

I swung my legs a little where I sat. The thought of leaving didn't scare me. That surprised me. I'd already left one world behind. Another door didn't feel impossible.

But staying didn't feel like a trap either.

"…If I stay," I said slowly, "what would I do?"

Arno glanced at the shelves. "Help," he said. "Organize things. Talk to people. Keep me from missing things I shouldn't."

That sounded familiar.

He watched me carefully, like he was trying very hard not to hope.

"I don't need an answer now," he added. "You can look around first. Get used to things."

I nodded. "I'd like that."

So he showed me how to open the cart from the inside. How it folded smaller when closed. Where it usually stayed during the day. He gave me a coat that fit a little better than mine and pointed me toward the street.

Lungmen was… a lot.

Buildings stacked on buildings. Lights everywhere, even where there shouldn't have been shadows to chase away. People moved like they had places to be and reasons they didn't want to explain.

No one stared at me for long.

That helped.

I walked without a plan. That helped too. I listened to the city breathe—machines humming, footsteps overlapping, voices rising and falling like waves. It felt alive in a way my old world hadn't been. Heavier. More crowded.

But alive.

I stopped when I saw a kid crouched near an alley, staring at his hands. He couldn't have been much older than me. There was a scrape on his knee, fresh and red, and he was trying very hard not to cry.

I hesitated. Then I remembered the gifts I got from Arno.

"Hey," I said gently.

He looked up, startled.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

He nodded.

I took out the small bandage Arno had given me—just in case—and cleaned the scrape the way I'd seen done before by Mama when I got hurt. He winced and flinched, then relaxed when it stopped stinging.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

I smiled. "You're welcome."

He ran off after that, not looking back.

I stayed where I was for a moment, tail swaying slowly behind me.

Helping hadn't fixed anything big. The city didn't change. The lights didn't dim or brighten. The world didn't shift.

But someone walked away hurting a little less.

I think… I can do that.

When I went back to the cart later, Arno was preparing some tea. He looked up when he saw me.

"Well?" he asked.

I thought about the city. Then about the shelves. About the quiet hum and cozy feeling of Arno's home.

"I think I'll stay," I said. "At least for now."

He nodded, like that was enough.

And for the first time since I left the tower, the sadness in my chest loosened just a little—not gone, not fixed, but lighter.

Small ways mattered. I'd learned that already.

---

Third Person POV

That night, after the cart was closed and locked, Arno sat at the table and finally stopped moving.

The interior had changed.

It was still the same narrow living space tucked behind the shop—clean, orderly, built to be practical rather than comfortable—but it had adjusted in small, unmistakable ways. A second bed now stood against the far wall, sized for someone much shorter than him. It hadn't displaced anything; it simply fit, as though the space had always accounted for it.

The closet had expanded just enough to hold another set of clothes. The kitchen shelves now held extra plates and cups, stacked neatly beside the ones he'd used alone for years. In the bathroom, there was an extra towel folded on the rack and a second toothbrush set beside his.

None of it felt sudden. None of it felt dramatic. The cart had made room.

Niko was asleep on the new bed. She'd removed her coat and folded it carefully, setting it in the closet to keep it clean. Her ears twitched once in her sleep before she went still again, breathing slow and even.

'We'll have to do some shopping tomorrow.' Arno thought to himself.

She was there.

And the cart had treated that as a fact, not a question.

Not an image. Not a memory. Not something he'd imagined too hard and convinced himself was real. She had weight. She'd walked in under her own power. She'd eaten. She was sleeping because she was tired.

Arno hadn't been able to sit down until now.

He stared at the wall, then at the table, then at his hands. They were steady. That surprised him.

He knew how OneShot ended. He remembered it clearly. The decision, the message, the screen going dark. He remembered thinking it was final. That it was supposed to be.

Niko wasn't supposed to exist past that point. The game had ended when he chose to put the Sun in the tower.

And yet here she was.

That didn't feel like a miracle. It felt like a mistake that had already happened and couldn't be undone.

The notice had been clear enough. Origin World: Unrecoverable. Not delayed. Not inaccessible. Gone, in whatever way the system defined gone. The decision had already been processed somewhere far above his understanding.

He hadn't agreed to it. But he also hadn't refused or tried to renegotiate.

That part bothered him.

If she was here because of the cart, then the cart had reached farther than it ever had before. If she was here because of something else, then he was still responsible for what happened next. The notice made that part clear too. Assistant. Housing. Protection.

Arno exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.

He wasn't thinking about fate or meaning. He was thinking about the consequences.

Niko was twelve. She didn't know this city. She didn't know Originium, or Arts, or why some people avoided certain streets at certain times of day. Why certain people were avoided at all times. She didn't know which uniforms meant trouble and which ones meant paperwork. She didn't know how dangerous Terra could be when it wasn't trying to look dangerous.

And now she lived in a cart that attracted attention.

That was on him.

He glanced toward the bed again. She looked smaller without the sun or the box or anything dramatic attached to her. Just a kid who'd walked through something impossible and kept going because stopping wasn't an option.

She had agreed to stay. For now. She said.

That mattered.

Tomorrow, he'd show her where things went. He'd explain which items she could touch and which ones she couldn't. He'd tell her which customers talked too much and which ones didn't talk at all. He'd make sure she ate before opening and slept before closing.

He couldn't send her home.

He could undo neither the choice, nor how her story ended.

But he could make sure she wasn't alone in a place that didn't care whether she understood it or not.

Arno stayed where he was for a long time after that, listening to the quiet sounds of the cart at rest, until he was certain that this wasn't going to disappear if he looked away.

Only then did he turn off the light.

'Definitely doing some shopping tomorrow. A trip to the library, too.'

---

AN: Hey, consumers! Just wanna explain some things once more.

The reason I chose Niko was because while I was thinking about who I should introduce into the story that wouldn't cause issues, I remembered this lovely little game called OneShot. The whole premise of the game was that it could only be played once,and quitting the game would not only end badly for Niko, but would also not allow you to play the game again at all. So, knowing that, I wanted to give the poor child a semblance of a happy ending.

I know that there's the Solstice ending, which would allow you to get Niko home without sacrificing the World, but here's the issue; when (Arno and) I played it, that ending didn't exist yet. Therefore, making the choice between Returning Home and Returning the Sun more impactful, and my choice of her staying with Arno to carry weight without rewriting what that choice meant.

Don't get me wrong; I absolutely loved the fact that the devs added Solstice so that Niko could have her hard-earned pancakes and eat it too, but I just felt this was the right decision.

At the time, there was no third option. No hidden route. No way to make everyone safe and still get Niko home. You either returned the Sun and let the World continue without her, or you sent her home and accepted that everything else would collapse. Knowing that the game would never let you try again made that decision feel final in a way few stories ever manage.

I chose to return the Sun, and Niko acknowledged it really was the right thing to do.

That meant Niko didn't go home.

When I bring her into this story, I'm not undoing that choice or pretending it hurt less than it did. I'm treating it as something that already happened and left a mark. Niko isn't here because the decision was wrong, or because a better ending was discovered later. She's here because she lived with the consequences of it—because a child who saved a world and lost her own still has to exist somewhere after the screen goes dark.

Placing her with Arno isn't about fixing OneShot or giving it a cleaner resolution. It's about acknowledging that, after the World was saved and the player walked away, Niko didn't stop needing a place to sleep, food to eat, or people who didn't see her as a symbol. Arno's cart works because it doesn't demand heroics from her. It doesn't ask her to save anything. It just makes space and expects her to live in it to help her find her own direction, as well as her own happiness without requiring her to take up the mantle of The Messiah once more.

That's the kind of ending I wanted to give her in the context of having no New Game Plus—not a perfect one, not a triumphant one, but a livable one. One where the weight of the choice still exists, but it doesn't define every moment that comes after. One where helping means organizing shelves, handing out food, and patching up scraped knees instead of holding the fate of a world in her hands.

So Niko stays with Arno not because the story needs her, but because she does. Because after everything she gave up, she deserves something small, ordinary, and safe enough to last.

Will she be the "foreign object" to grace Terra's soil? Stay tuned, dear consumers.

P.S.: I know that her gender isn't explicitly stated. I just decided to write her as a girl because it would be very confusing for me to keep using they/them pronouns for her (skill issue, I know). I just did a coin toss to decide if she was gonna be written as a boy or a girl.

 

[VovaKostyuk]

Wow, literally just found and binged this story, thanks for the chapter!

Also:

The shelves were still in place along the walls, stocked the way he had left them the night before: bread wrapped in paper, dried meat stacked by size, bottled juice aligned by color, bandages bundled neatly in twine.

Click to shrink...

Weren't bread and meat replaced by bento boxes and such literally the previous chapter?

 

[Paracsus]

Wow, literally just found and binged this story, thanks for the chapter!

Also:


Weren't bread and meat replaced by bento boxes and such literally the previous chapter?

Click to shrink...

Wait, you're right. Thanks for catching that.

 

[Paracsus]

Omake: Unremembered Armories

Arno didn't talk about his father much, mostly because it rarely came up.

His father had run a YouTube channel when Arno was growing up. It focused on old firearms—mostly designs that had fallen out of common use. The videos weren't flashy. They were long, detailed, and often filmed at a shooting bench or worktable. Most of them involved careful explanations of how a weapon worked, why it was designed the way it was, and what made it different from modern firearms.

The channel was called Unremembered Armories.

Arno had spent a lot of time at the range as a kid. Not shooting at first—watching, listening, passing tools, and learning how to pay attention. His father was strict about safety and procedure. Arno learned early how to clear a firearm, how to identify worn parts, and how to tell when something wasn't functioning correctly just by how it felt.

By the time he was older, he could field-strip and maintain several older designs without needing instructions. It wasn't something he showed off. It was just something he knew how to do.

Those memories were why the crate inside the cart caught his attention immediately.

It was a wooden case, reinforced with metal brackets and closed with two latches. It wasn't near the food or medical supplies. It looked deliberate.

Niko noticed it too.

"Why is that box here?" she asked. "It doesn't look like supplies."

Arno crouched and opened the latches.

Inside was a Remington Model 8.

The rifle was clean and well maintained. The wood stock had been oiled recently, and the metal showed no rust. It was laid out properly in fitted padding. Beneath it were cleaning tools, spare parts, and several boxes of ammunition. There were also containers of powder, primers, brass casings, and bullet molds, along with printed instructions for ammunition reloading.

Arno stared at it for a moment.

"…That's his," he said quietly.

Niko leaned closer, ears flattened. "Why is there a gun in the cart."

"It's old," Arno said. "Early 20th century."

"That doesn't make it less scary."

He lifted the rifle carefully and checked the chamber. Empty. He set it back down just as carefully.

"My dad used to shoot this one a lot," Arno said. "He liked how it worked."

Niko folded her arms. "Do you need it?"

"Hopefully not."

"Good."

Arno closed the case and sat down on the bench beside it. He hadn't thought about those range days in years. The long explanations. The patience. The way his father trusted him to handle things properly once he was ready.

He picked up the paper that came with the box and read it.

NOTICE OF DELIVERY

Spoiler

Item: Remington Model 8
Category: Firearm (Antique / Semi-Automatic)
Status: Owner-Restricted — Non-Commercial

This item has been returned to a verified handler with prior training and documented familiarity.

Included Materials:

• Cleaning and maintenance tools
• Replacement parts (limited, will be provided when current ones are used and/or destroyed. NEVER BEFORE.)
• Boxed ammunition
• Ammunition creation tools
• Ammunition ingredients and instructions on how to make them

Usage Parameters:

• Not for sale
• Not for display
• Not for public demonstration
• Use restricted to self-defense

Safety Addendum:
These items are inaccessible to non-designated personnel.
Additional safeguards have been applied.
Instructions will only be legible to the designated personnel.
Information regarding these items will be sealed and protected frm any form of scrying, mind-reading, or any other form of hostile intelligence gathering.

Note:
Assistant has been informed that this item is not for customers and not a toy.

This arrangement is non-negotiable.

---

As Arno was reading and re-reading the paper, Niko watched him for a moment.

"…You're allowed to keep it?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Okay," she said. "Just don't point it at me. Mama says those are dangerous."

"Fair."

The cart didn't react to the case at all. No warnings. No changes.

Arno leaned back and exhaled.

He hadn't expected to see that rifle again. But he understood now about why it was here.

Some things didn't disappear just because you left them behind.

And this one, at least, came with instructions.

---

AN: Yes, this is canon. Yes, I did that name on purpose. My muse slapped me upside the head with this little nugget.

 

[pingas plight]

Fae Feast Series

Click to shrink...

Project moon flashbacks hit like a truck

Aftereffect: none; additional eating does not cause discomfort or illness.

Click to shrink...

Can't wait to see the Fairy that comes if you misuse THIS.

 

[Rockow]

Gun Jesus is his dad? Nice

 

[Paracsus]

Project moon flashbacks hit like a truck

Can't wait to see the Fairy that comes if you misuse THIS.

Click to shrink...

I just noticed that this was a Lobotomy Corporation reference lol. Fortunately, nothing of the sort will happen. I'm just using the more harmless version of that known in pop culture.

I didn't know Project Moon had anything like that since I don't play their games until you said that. And after reading the page on Fairy Festival? Yeesh.

 

[pingas plight]

Yeesh.

Click to shrink...

Some fat fuck: Buys up literally all the Fae Feasts

Fairy Festival:

 

[Despacitoleo]

Niko dont got a tail (did they in the earlier versions in the game????)

Also yippie I hope niko realizes this mf is whole ass god straight up as a mortal papa shopkeep

 

[Hopless-Curiousity]

Inside was a Remington Model 8.

Click to shrink...

Huh, a pretty cool choice! I haven't been able to find detailed videos with ballistic gel testing, but what I do see suggests that .25 Remington is enough to mortally wound most Terrans with a single shot, albeit not as likely for hardier races like Sarkaz Goliaths.

With how conservative you can be with the ammo, hand loading and manufacturing is feasible too. Looking forward to next chapter!

 

[HGieokk]

Love this so far! Niko is a great foil to the MC and I'm looking forward to see how Penguin logistics react to her.

 

[Paracsus]

Niko dont got a tail (did they in the earlier versions in the game????)

Also yippie I hope niko realizes this mf is whole ass god straight up as a mortal papa shopkeep

Click to shrink...

I always assumed that she did considering how catlike she already is
I thought that it was just hidden under her coat to prevent it from snagging on something.

 

[Paracsus]

A Cart That No Longer Felt Empty

It was a few days later after Niko's arrival, did the cart begin selling merchandise once more. After some shopping trips for clothes and some books and toys, as well as multiple trips to the library, Arno has gotten his new assistant somewhat up to speed on what her new world would be like.

Arno woke before the street stirred, in the hour before the sun began to rise—when only early laborers and night-shift workers were still moving through the city.

The apartment section of the cart was quiet as he rose, lantern light low and steady against the compact space. He washed his hands at the small sink, tied his apron, and began the morning preparations with practiced efficiency. Bentos were unsealed and set to warm, loaves portioned and wrapped at the narrow counter, pastries checked one by one for cracks or tears, candies counted and compiled into neat bundles. Everything had its place here, arranged to be transferred later. Everything needed to be ready before the cart ever opened to the street.

Niko stirred behind him.

She sat up slowly, blinking against the light, then watched him for a long moment without speaking. When she finally slipped out from her blanket, she moved closer on quiet steps, careful not to intrude on the narrow workspace. Arno noticed—he always did—but he let her observe. This part mattered. Before the noise. Before the questions. Before the rush outside.

"You should eat," he said at last, setting two prepared portions aside on the small kitchen counter. One was for himself, simple and efficient. The other was warmer, wrapped with more care.

Niko brightened immediately. "Already?" she asked, surprised, as if she hadn't expected him to think of it so soon. She took the offered meal with both hands and sat where she could still see him work, legs swinging slightly as she ate. He made her a simple plate of ham and eggs with some bread to start the morning.

Every so often, her eyes followed his movements—how he sealed containers, how he stacked trays—tracing the rhythm as if committing it to memory.

He worked slower than usual.

Not enough to be inefficient, but enough that she could see each step before it vanished into habit. This was still the inside of the cart. The quiet part. The place where the day began, before the walls would shift, compartments would slide, and they would exit the cart in order to set everything up for the customers.

Not enough for it to be obvious, but enough that she could see each step. How he checked the seals. How he arranged the display so that nothing looked crowded. How he left space—not just for customers, but for her. When she finished eating, she stood and hovered again, clearly wanting to help and clearly unsure where to begin.

Arno would pick up each product and explain to her what each thing was, how they worked, and where they went. This is to show her the best ways on how to stock items to catch the eyes of people, as well as know when is a good sign to head back inside to grab extra stock.

Arno lifted the first container from the counter and turned it slightly so Niko could see the label.

"Bentos go out first," he said. "They catch attention early. People notice warm food before they notice anything else." He tapped the lid once. "Front shelf. Eye level. If they're gone before noon, it's a good day."

He moved through the rest at an unhurried pace, picking up each product as he explained. Pastries were for lingering customers—placed where the smell carried when the panel opened. Candies were small, cheap, easy to add at the last second. Bandages stayed within reach, not displayed. Juice went by color. Patterns mattered more than names.

Niko followed closely, nodding, repeating placements under her breath as if afraid the information might slip away if she didn't hold onto it. When he asked her where something should go, she hesitated, then answered anyway. He corrected her once. After that, less often.

When he finished the last explanation, Arno slid a small stack of wrappers toward her. "Start with these," he said. "Neat matters more than fast. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fast is good."

Relief crossed her face. She nodded quickly and set to work, folding with careful focus. The first few were uneven. She frowned, smoothed them out, tried again. By the end of the stack, her movements had slowed, but the rhythm had settled into something steadier—more deliberate, more sure.

Outside, the street began to wake.

Footsteps echoed between buildings. A vendor farther down the block called out his first prices of the day. Someone laughed as they passed, sharp and unrestrained. Niko paused, ears twitching, then glanced toward the cart's door. Arno met her gaze and inclined his head toward the opening.

"Stay where you can see," he said. "Watch what people reach for. If something empties too fast, that's when you tell me so I'll know where to tell you to get the extra."

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and moved to stand beside him as they had the cart shift outward, panels sliding into place and shelves aligning with the street.

When the first customer approached, Niko stiffened—but she stayed. She watched how Arno greeted them, how he listened more than he spoke, how the exchange passed smoothly without urgency. When the customer noticed her and paused, surprise flickering across their face, Niko hesitated for half a second before smiling—small, careful, but sincere.

The smile stayed with her even after they left.

By the time the second and third customers arrived, she no longer shrank back. She didn't speak unless spoken to, didn't move unless she was certain—but she remained present. Visible. Learning. The cart no longer felt like a solitary fixture unfolding against the city.

It felt, for the first time, shared.

Arno continued working, aware of her beside him, aware of the subtle shift in how people looked at the cart now. He had brought her into this deliberately, knowing the pace would test her, knowing the noise would overwhelm her if he rushed it.

This was the beginning.

And beginnings, he knew, required patience.

---

As the morning wore on, attention began to drift toward Niko more naturally, less as a surprise and more as a point of curiosity. People slowed a fraction longer than they needed to. Their eyes flicked from the shelves to the cute, new, purple-haired addition to the cart's dynamic.

Some of them smiled.

One woman ordering juice tilted her head slightly and asked, "Did you hire help?"

Arno answered without looking up, but the follow-up wasn't for him.

"And you?" the woman added, crouching just a little so she wasn't looming. "What's your name, dear?"

Niko froze for a heartbeat. Her ears twitched, then she straightened, clearly rehearsing the response in her head before letting it out.

"I'm… Niko," she said. Her voice was soft, but it carried. "I help here."

The woman's face warmed immediately. "Well, Niko, you're doing a good job."

Niko's tail flicked once before she caught it, and she smiled—brighter this time, more confident. "Thank you."

It kept happening after that. Not constantly, but often enough that she noticed the pattern. Customers asked her name. Asked how long she'd been helping. One man joked that Arno had finally decided to stop doing everything himself. Another asked if she was his daughter. That one made Niko glance up at Arno in quiet alarm, but he answered calmly, redirecting the conversation without embarrassment.

Each interaction left her a little less stiff. A little more at ease.

She began to return greetings on her own. Nothing elaborate—just a nod, a smile, a soft "Good morning" when someone lingered near the cart. It felt strange to be seen like this, not as a traveler or a symbol or someone passing through, but as part of a place people returned to.

Somewhere between the late-morning rush and the lull that followed, Niko noticed something else.

The front shelf looked… thinner.

She frowned slightly and leaned closer, pretending to straighten a row of bentos while counting them in her head the way Arno had shown her. Fewer than before. Fewer than there should be at this hour. Her gaze flicked to the pastries next—also lower. The candies were holding steady, but the warm food was disappearing faster than she expected.

She hesitated, fingers curling into her sleeve.

Then she remembered what Arno had told her.

'If something empties too fast, tell me.'

She stepped closer to him and tugged gently at the edge of his apron. When he leaned down, she spoke quietly, careful not to draw attention.

"The bentos are almost gone," she said. "And the pastries too. I think… we'll need more soon."

Arno followed her gaze, scanned the shelves, and nodded once.

"Good catch," he said as he motioned to get refills for the dwindling stock.

The words settled warmly in her chest as he turned back toward the cart's interior, already adjusting his plan. Niko stayed where she was, watching the space she'd just learned to read—no longer just shelves and stock, but signals, rhythms, and needs.

She smiled to herself.

She was helping.

---

By the afternoon, the rhythm changed.

The early trickle of customers gave way to something heavier and less forgiving. Workers arrived in clusters, timing their breaks to the minute. Couriers slowed just long enough to grab food before moving on again. Word had spread—not loudly, not dramatically, but efficiently. The cart had long shed the guise of being a simple place to buy food, but a phenomenon with it's products.

Niko felt the shift before she understood it.

Orders began overlapping. Voices no longer waited their turn. The space in front of the cart filled faster than it emptied, and suddenly there were too many things to watch at once—hands reaching for payment, eyes scanning the stock, Arno moving with practiced speed while the shelves seemed to empty themselves.

She stiffened, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

"Two bentos," someone said.

"Add a loaf," another voice followed immediately.

"Are the pastries still warm?"

Niko's gaze flicked from the customers to the shelves and back again. Her heart jumped. She turned toward Arno, panic breaking through her concentration just long enough to show.

He caught it instantly.

"Front stock," he said evenly, not looking up. "Start with the warm ones."

The words anchored her.

Niko nodded and slipped back inside the cart, breath coming quick but steadying as soon as she had a task again. The interior felt smaller now, tighter with movement and urgency, but familiar. She grabbed bentos first, then hesitated, recalculated, and put one back before lifting a more manageable stack.

Don't rush. Don't drop it.

She returned to the front, weaving around Arno with more confidence than she felt, setting the food down carefully and straightening the display the way he'd shown her. Someone stepped aside to give her room without being asked. Another smiled at her in passing.

"She's fast," a customer murmured to no one in particular.

"Didn't know he had an assistant," someone else replied. "Good one, too. She's also very cute."

The comments followed her as background noise, blending into the general hum of the street. Niko heard them, felt her face warm slightly, but there was no confusion in them—just mild surprise, casual approval. She kept working.

Back inside. Out again. Inside once more.

Each trip was smoother than the last. She learned when to duck out of Arno's way and when to pause so he could signal what he needed with a glance or a nod. When the pastries ran low, she caught it herself and restocked before anyone asked. When the bentos dwindled, she was already moving.

People started watching her with quiet interest.

Not staring. Just noticing.

A woman at the counter smiled and said, "Busy day, huh?" Niko froze for half a second, then nodded quickly.

"Yes," she said, voice small but bright. "Um—thank you for waiting."

The woman chuckled softly, not unkind, and took her order.

By mid-afternoon, Niko was everywhere at once—or at least it felt that way. She moved with short, efficient steps, sleeves pushed up, focus written plainly across her face. Someone laughed nearby and called her a "busy little bee," and the phrase stuck in her head, oddly comforting.

She nearly stumbled once, catching herself just in time. Arno's hand steadied her shoulder without breaking his stride. No comment. No fuss.

That alone helped more than anything else.

When the rush finally eased, Niko leaned against the counter for a brief moment, chest rising and falling fast. Her legs ached. Her hands were warm from carrying food all afternoon. She was exhausted in a way she'd never been before—and yet, she hadn't fled. She hadn't frozen.

The cart was still open. The shelves were still stocked.

People drifted away with full bags and lighter steps, some glancing back once, as if committing the image to memory. Arno and his cart. And now, the small assistant beside him, doing her best to keep up.

Niko straightened, smoothing her sleeves.

She was tired, but she felt happy. Arno said she's doing good.

---

The late afternoon lull didn't last long.

Arno was restocking a half-empty shelf when a familiar, buoyant presence cut through the ambient noise of the street. It wasn't loud in the usual sense—no shouting, no sudden disruption—but it carried a certain unmistakable energy, like a song you recognized before you consciously heard it.

"Wow," Exusiai said, slowing to a stop in front of the cart. "That smell is criminal."

Arno looked up. "Afternoon."

"Hey!" She leaned forward onto the counter with easy familiarity, wings settling behind her as her eyes scanned the display. "The others are tied up today, so it's just me. Thought I'd grab something quick for everyone before the next run."

Then her gaze shifted.

Niko had just emerged from inside the cart with a small tray of pastries, moving carefully, focused on not dropping anything. She paused when she noticed the new customer, ears flicking once in reflex before she caught herself.

Exusiai froze.

Her eyes widened—not in alarm, but in something closer to delight. She straightened slowly, as if afraid sudden movement might scare Niko away.

"…Oh," she said softly.

Niko blinked, uncertain. She glanced at Arno, then back at Exusiai, adjusting her grip on the tray. "Um—hello," she said, voice polite and a little shy.

Exusiai put a hand over her mouth.

Arno sighed quietly. He knew that look.

"You didn't tell me you had an assistant," Exusiai said, already crouching slightly so she wasn't looming. Her wings twitched, restrained with visible effort. "She's sooooo cute!"

Niko stiffened, then relaxed a fraction when she realized there was no threat behind the enthusiasm. "I—I'm helping today," she said. "My name's Niko."

"Niko," Exusiai repeated, like she was testing how it sounded. "That's such a good name. Hi! I'm Exusiai." She waved, small and friendly. "You're doing great, by the way. This place is packed every time I pass by."

Niko's tail swayed before she remembered to still it. "Thank you," she said, smiling despite herself.

Arno reached over and took the tray from her. "She's on her first day," he said. "Still learning the pace."

Exusiai's expression softened instantly. "First day? Seriously?" She glanced around at the neatly arranged stock, then back at Niko. "You're doing way better than I did on my first day anywhere. I shot a sign by accident."

"That doesn't narrow it down," Arno replied.

Exusiai laughed, then leaned closer to the counter again. "Okay, late lunch. What do you recommend today?" She looked pointedly at Niko. "Assistant's choice."

Niko hesitated, eyes darting briefly to Arno. He gave a small nod.

She straightened, hands clasping together in front of her apron. "I really like meat pies. They make me feel really full and warm." she said shyly, not used to being talked to directly by the customers. "T-They last a long time. I also really like the bread with the strawberry jam inside…"

Exusiai beamed. "Perfect. I'll have four of each." Then, after a pause, "And maybe a box of butter candies for morale. Oh, and don't forget the Windrunner's Fuel! That stuff is super useful in getting deliveries on time!"

Niko nodded quickly and turned to fetch them, moving with renewed purpose. Exusiai watched her go with an expression that bordered on fond awe.

"She's precious," Exusiai said, lowering her voice. "You know that, right?"

Arno glanced toward the cart's interior, where Niko was carefully selecting items, double-checking labels the way he'd instructed her. "I'm aware."

Niko returned a moment later, setting the food down with care. "Here you go."

"Thank you!" Exusiai said brightly, then leaned in just a little. "Hey, Niko?"

"Yes?"

"You're doing awesome. Don't let the rush scare you, okay?"

Niko's smile widened, small but genuine. "I won't."

Exusiai paid, slung the bag over her shoulder, and stepped back, still grinning. "I'm definitely coming back later. Gotta make sure you're not being overworked."

As she walked off, she glanced back once more, waving enthusiastically.

Niko lifted a hand and waved back, a little awkwardly.

When she turned to Arno, her eyes were bright—not overwhelmed this time, just warm. "She's nice," she said.

"Yes," Arno agreed. "She is."

And as the cart settled back into its rhythm, something about the space felt lighter—like the city had noticed Niko too, and approved.

---

Exusiai didn't make it more than half a block before she was already grinning to herself.

She walked with a spring in her step, a paper bag tucked under her arm, the faint smell of warm pastry following her through the street. It wasn't the food that had done it—though that certainly helped—but the image that kept replaying in her head: a small figure behind the counter, ears twitching, hands carefully arranging food like it mattered. Like she mattered.

Cute didn't even begin to cover it.

By the time she reached Penguin Logistics' temporary staging spot—a converted storefront cluttered with crates, tools, and half-finished paperwork—she barely slowed before pushing the door open.

"You guys are not gonna believe this," Exusiai announced.

Texas glanced up from where she was leaning against a crate, arms crossed, expression neutral. Sora looked up from her tablet, blinking once. Croissant, who had been arguing with a terminal about expense reports, perked up immediately.

"Is it a bonus?" Croissant asked. "Please tell me it's bonus."

"It is not money," Exusiai said, waving her off. "It's better."

Texas raised an eyebrow. "That's subjective."

"There's a kid helping out at Arno's cart now," Exusiai continued, dropping into a chair backward and resting her chin on the backrest. "Small. Polite. Super earnest. First day on the job."

Sora tilted her head. "A helper?"

"An assistant," Exusiai corrected, tapping the bag for emphasis. "And she's adorable. Like—painfully so. I almost forgot to grab lunch."

Croissant snorted. "You never forget to grab lunch."

"I almost did," Exusiai insisted. "That's how serious this is."

Texas was quiet for a moment. "Arno's been doing things on his own for a while. This is surprising."

"Exactly!" Exusiai snapped her fingers. "Which makes it even weirder—but in a good way. She was nervous, but trying really hard. Recommended the bentos and everything. Called them 'lasting a long time' instead of, you know." She gestured vaguely. "The obvious part."

Sora smiled softly. "That sounds like her first day really is her first day."

"Oh, absolutely," Exusiai said. "You should've seen her. People were already noticing. Whispering. One guy asked her name. She got shy, but she answered. I think half the street melted on the spot."

Croissant leaned forward now, interest fully engaged. "So you're saying there's a new cute factor and the food's still amazing?"

"Yes."

"And she's helping him keep up with the crowd?"

"Yes."

Croissant grinned, sharp and delighted. "That cart's about to get even busier."

Texas sighed quietly, rubbing her temple. "This is how things escalate."

Exusiai shrugged, unrepentant. "Hey, I didn't do anything. I just noticed. Loudly. Repeatedly. To everyone I passed."

Sora laughed under her breath. "You're going back later, aren't you?"

"Obviously," Exusiai said, already standing. "Someone's gotta check if the assistant's surviving the afternoon rush."

She paused at the door, glancing back at them with a mischievous smile.

"And you guys should come too," she added. "Trust me. You'll want to see her."

With that, she slipped away to prepare her gear, leaving the others exchanging curious glances. The quiet hum of the office space felt a little different now, as if the mere idea of a small, earnest helper had already shifted their expectations. And somewhere, quietly, the seed of excitement had been planted—Arno's cart was no longer just a place for food; it was becoming something else entirely.

 

[TrahKartolo]

Daughteru get?

 

[dreammag]

Niko is on her 'become a mascot' arc and nobody can stop it.

 

[Scottyzelsnyder]

niko's a fast learner especially in a place where you don't only have one shot to do something. all jokes aside im loving this story im surprised there's not a lot more attention or at least a lot more comments in the thread.

I like the vibe the cart has but it makes me wonder are there days it's closed and he has time to do what he wants or is it just daily grind all the time. maybe im misremembering something but it feels like he doesn't get all that much time to do anything and that sounds painful.

 

[VovaKostyuk]

I like the vibe the cart has but it makes me wonder are there days it's closed and he has time to do what he wants or is it just daily grind all the time. maybe im misremembering something but it feels like he doesn't get all that much time to do anything and that sounds painful.

Click to shrink...

I myself wonder if he showers or goes to the bathroom, if those needs aren't magict away then he can't do that in the cart since I doubt it has any plumbing at all.

 

[Scottyzelsnyder]

I myself wonder if he showers or goes to the bathroom, if those needs aren't magict away then he can't do that in the cart since I doubt it has any plumbing at all.

Click to shrink...

I mean magical shower in a can might be a thing. they gave a bar for speed they can probably do a shower in a can for utility. plus if that starts getting sold I love the idea of someone passive aggressive using it on stanky people

 

[Paracsus]

niko's a fast learner especially in a place where you don't only have one shot to do something. all jokes aside im loving this story im surprised there's not a lot more attention or at least a lot more comments in the thread.

I like the vibe the cart has but it makes me wonder are there days it's closed and he has time to do what he wants or is it just daily grind all the time. maybe im misremembering something but it feels like he doesn't get all that much time to do anything and that sounds painful.

Click to shrink...

He closes on weekends. Arno takes the time to walk around Lungmen and do his own thing during those times. I keep the facilities of the cart simple so that he'll be encouraged to try newer things away from it. While I didn't mention it, he used his time off to help Niko get to the library, as well as buy her some clothes.

 

[Paracsus]

I mean magical shower in a can might be a thing. they gave a bar for speed they can probably do a shower in a can for utility. plus if that starts getting sold I love the idea of someone passive aggressive using it on stanky people

Click to shrink...

He showers. In the Index of this thread is a layout of his dwelling space inside the cart. It includes a small shower.

 

[Paracsus]

I myself wonder if he showers or goes to the bathroom, if those needs aren't magict away then he can't do that in the cart since I doubt it has any plumbing at all.

Click to shrink...

The cart has plumbing, electricity, and Wi-Fi. His needs aren't magically met wherein they just disappear, the facilities are free for him to use.

 

[Scottyzelsnyder]

He showers. In the Index of this thread is a layout of his dwelling space inside the cart. It includes a small shower.

Click to shrink...

thank you for the explanations

 

[Paracsus]

thank you for the explanations

Click to shrink...

Best to get rid of misunderstandings now than later