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one
The scene is set: four weeks until Christmas, preorders so full the dated register terminals lag a little when anyone pulls them up, and a fresh new cohort of bright-eyed and marginally competent seasonal employees.
Okay, maybe that's a little mean. She's glad they're there — four people per shift isn't enough around this time of year, but it's certainly better than the two corporate's made them handle the rest of the year with.
The real problem is that GM Oiwake managed to shatter his femur in some kind of freak snowboarding accident on the one holiday he's taken in two years, and so Nametsu "Assistant Manager" Mai is running one (1) entire game store through the Christmas/New Year period. And no, head office has said she doesn't get a raise.
Awesome. Great. Cool. She's got this. It's 10AM and the store is filling up with befuddled seniors toting lists in illegible kid handwriting. She can do this. Grandparents love her.
Except today she's not the most approachable person on staff, apparently. That honor goes to Sakunami, who's an inch taller than her but has doe-eyes which make him look like an improbably tall ten-year-old. He's precise, calm, and already quick on stocktake and the register; he's been working retail since he was actually ten, apparently, which maybe violates labour laws Nametsu's not paid enough to ask questions about. She's grateful for a Christmas casual who hardly needs training, but there's one problem: he knows absolutely nothing about video games.
"Um," Sakunami says, probably too politely for the cluster of cheek-pinching grannies pressing in on him. "I don't know much about games for the new Xbox, or any games, really, so I'm not really sure I can help you...?" He trails off at the end, voice pitching so high Nametsu can't help but picture him as one of the little Animal Crossing raccoons.
Futakuchi, who's just clocked in, follows her gaze and exhales. "I'll get this," he tells her, grim like he's prepared for a different kind of battle. He shuts the stockroom door behind him, takes a fortifying inhale, and transmutes into the scarily out-of-character smiley automaton he only ever puts on when he's desperate to be done.
"Hi, ladies!" he chirps, apologizing quickly as he shoulders his way across the store. "I'm the store manager, and you three look like you deserve some extra-special service. I heard something about Xbox games? Let's see if we can find you anything we don't have on the shelves. Yes, your grandson? Oh, he's such a lucky boy."
Koganegawa, frozen in the middle of trying to fix the Funko Pop display he thinks Nametsu didn't see him bump into, stares. "I thought Nametsu was the manager?"
"The actual manager's off on sick leave," Nametsu says. Koganegawa drops the giant Pop of the Incredibles baby they'll never sell and jumps. Then he jumps again, for good measure, when he registers how close she's gotten. "But if any of us are in a tough spot, someone else can come in and say they're the manager if it'll help."
"Ohhh," Koganegawa says, like he understands. She hopes he does. The face he's making is like a real-world Telltale Games relationship notification: Koganegawa will remember this, she thinks. Ominous.
"Let's get you trained on the register," she says instead.
"Awesome!" He puts the giant baby back on the shelf, almost too carefully, then skips back behind the counter.
two
Aone introduces himself to the rookies by coming in on his day off and setting a sheaf of paper down on the counter.
"Union membership," he says. "You have rights. Especially after Christmas."
Koganegawa tilts his head in the open-mouthed way he has when he genuinely has no idea what's going on. Fukiage seems like he's halfway to an epiphany but really needs to pee. Nametsu sighs. This isn't a conversation she'd have picked for this early in the season.
"If you want to stay on after Christmas," she clarifies. "Head Office isn't good about letting us make rosters that give everyone hours, or keeping everyone. The union can sometimes help."
"And if anything happens before then," Aone adds.
"Like what?" Koganegawa asks.
This is the one subject Aone can really talk about, even with people he's never met, but they are in the middle of training. "Aone, do you mind leaving the forms and flyers? You're rostered with all three of them at some point in the next week, so they can ask questions then."
Aone nods, looking relieved. "Good luck," he says, and bows. "I look forward to working with you."
He exchanges an elaborate handshake with Futakuchi on his way out. Koganegawa watches him leave, awed.
"I don't know what a union is," he says.
"I'll explain at lunch," Sakunami replies, and immediately becomes her favorite trainee.
three
On the days Nametsu can't open, Moniwa's the only other keyholder the store has right now. Which is good, because he's the only one she trusts with it, but bad for both their blood pressure.
When Nametsu clocks in at 2PM on a Friday, Moniwa's slumped over the second-hand DS and Wii games bin with his head in his hands. A child meanders around his legs and he barely stirs.
"What now?" she asks Kamasaki, who's unsubtly admiring his reflection in the glass valuables-cabinet behind the counter.
"Ah, you know," Kamasaki says. "Security caught a guy trying to sledgehammer through the back wall into our stockroom at about 6AM, then there's been another guy waiting right in front of the store since before the mall opened, no idea, don't ask me how he got there but he tried to fight Moniwa and security came for him too, and about an hour ago a kid threw up into the box of spare sale banners Moniwa had just gotten out for me to put up." He doesn't sound sorry at all about that last bit, which is fair enough.
"Okay," Nametsu says. Obara salutes her, heading into the back room with what looks like a newly empty bottle of carpet cleaner. "Right."
No time like the present. She walks up to the Nintendo bin, leaning on its other side. "Moniwa," she says. No response. "C'mon. Kanachan. Break time."
Moniwa groans, lifting his head a little. "There was a... break-in attempt this morning. I forgot to text you because a dude who was legit mad about Battletoads jumped me. I gotta at least brief you on that so we can get the paperwork sorted."
"I'm sure I can get what I need from Security," Nametsu says, hoisting Moniwa fully to standing and thumping him on the back. "Or you can tell me later. Come on. Go stare into space in the food court for half an hour with some bubble tea or something."
He goes willingly, and without once turning to make sure everything else in the store is running smoothly, which speaks to how bad his day's been.
four
The next time Nametsu's working the close is the Monday three weeks from Christmas. Since they're closing at eleven until the big day, Moniwa's working the open seven days a week, leaving the store to at least two non-casuals in the afternoon, and she's coming in at five.
Which is why she's entirely unsurprised to shoulder through the end-of-work-day dinner crowd into the store and find Sasaya pulling himself to his full height in a faceoff with a middle-aged woman with two tote bags. Futakuchi is hovering nearby, clearly overwrought anxiety at play on his face, so nobody's at the registers. He shoots her a wink, then drops back into character.
Nametsu heads for the counter. It's not a big store, so she's got a front-row seat to all the yelling.
"Ma'am," Sasaya says, hands raised. "I understand that my employee—"
"He insulted my parenting—"
"I understand, ma'am." A smile flickers across Sasaya's face as he turns to Futakuchi. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"She said she wanted to buy Grand Theft Auto for her nine-year-old—"
"He's nearly ten!" the customer squalls. "You have no right to tell me what I can and can't buy for him!" In the corner of the store nearest the counter, a couple of teenage girls snicker. She whirls on them with a withering glare.
"I sincerely apologize, ma'am," Sasaya interjects quickly before this can turn into a battle royale. "That was unacceptable behavior on my subordinate's part. I'll make it right immediately."
She preens. "You bet it was! I expect a discount—"
Sasaya turns to Futakuchi, who's quivering where he stands. "YOU," he roars.
"S-sir! I'm sorry, please—"
"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT," Sasaya bellows. "YOU'RE FIRED."
The murmuring in the rest of the store quiets to a hush. "Sir," Futakuchi tries. His bottom lip wobbles. "I just... my little brother, he's about the same age, I didn't think—"
"You're not his parent, though, are you?"
The dam breaks. "He doesn't have anyone else!" Futakuchi wails. Honest-to-god tears are streaming down his face. "Please, sir, I need this job, I can't—"
He drops to his knees, but Sasaya steps away, sending him overbalancing to the ground. Behind him, there's a muted gasp.
"Pack up your things," Sasaya says, grim and quiet. "You've had enough warnings. There's nothing else I can do."
He turns to the woman as Futakuchi wobbles his way into the back room. "Company policy," he says. "We can't offer discounts for employee behavior, since it's not the game that's at fault, but we can make things right in other ways. I hope that suits you...?"
She swivels. Every eye in the store is trained on her, most of them disgusted.
"Ugh," she grinds out, turning on her heel and leaving.
There's absolute silence for a minute or two, then an older man pipes up. "Young man," he addresses Sasaya, "if you could reconsider about that boy..."
"Absolutely," Sasaya says, promptly. "The customer is always right. Futakuchi, you can stay."
"Really?" Futakuchi props the door open, hands full with new stock for the apparel section. His face is still a little pink, but he goes right to filling the near-empty shelves under the display wall.
"Really." Sasaya says, then joins Nametsu behind the counter. The gentleman watches Futakuchi for a moment more, bewildered, then turns back to browsing the Xbox shelves with equal confusion.
"Fucking hell," Nametsu says.
"Right? We've been practicing that one for a while, but I'm still glad it went off without a hitch. Perfect audience participation, too. I wasn't sure he was serious about teaching himself to cry on demand."
"Holy shit," one of the teenage girls whispers. Nametsu can't help but agree.
five
Sakunami has seemed... shifty of late. Not that Nametsu's known him long, but look at that face. It doesn't suit him, she decides.
"Looking suspicious doesn't suit you," she tells him next time she catches him stashing something in the top drawer, and he startles so much he jams a finger.
"Ow! Oh! I'm sorry!" he says, all at once.
"It's really all right, Saku-kun. What have you got in there?"
Sakunami sighs. "Just some crochet." He pulls out the drawer to show her the recognizable form of a half-finished beanie. "I wasn't sure if I was allowed, I know I'm only here because it's extra busy, but sometimes..."
"This job does still involve some standing around, yeah." Hmm. "Can you still keep an eye on customers while doing that?"
"Yeah!"
"Then it's fine." She smiles at him and wonders again what his previous jobs were like. "Bonus points if you're working on something pop-culturey that you can make small talk about, if someone does come to the register."
"Oh..." Sakunami frowns a little. "I've been meaning to look into amigurumi. I'll have a think!"
Nametsu has no idea what that is, but it sounds promising, so she leaves him be.
But everyone's being suspicious. Onagawa's rummaging through the far corner of the backroom, and he whirls around when he hears the door.
"Oh, it's you." He looks a little sheepish. "It's Obara's birthday soon. I was trying to hide all the Magic cards so he can't buy himself anything."
"That doesn't make sense," Nametsu says.
Onagawa wilts a little. "Like, so I could buy them instead?"
"Oh. Right." Nametsu sighs. "I was going to put together a little gift bag from all of us," she says. "You can buy stuff from the store using your discount, or not, but it's Christmas and we're the least scary-to-jock-siblings place to buy booster packs, so we need those back on the shelf."
"I wasn't thinking about that..." Onagawa wilts more, if that's even possible. "I figured nobody buys them usually, but I guess at Christmas they might."
"They deserve the chance all year round," Nametsu says firmly. "And besides, wouldn't you rather repaint a Pop in a way he'll hate?"
Onagawa stops dead in his tracks. Straightens, almost robotically, a man suddenly given new purpose. "You know what. I would."
Nametsu checks the store calendar, a kitschy unsold World of Warcraft thing whose target audience probably rarely sets foot in brick-and-mortar game stores. Onagawa's own birthday is coming up too, it seems. They're a day apart, so she can probably get away with a joint after-hours party. Except... Onagawa's a bit of a cryptid about his own interests.
Aone? I need some intel, she texts.
six
Fukiage's the one at the counter when a mid-thirties guy in cargo pants hauls in a plastic bag full of PS2 games and a console. Nametsu sees him on the security camera from the backroom; Kamasaki, who's been checking the hard drive on another trade-in console that he's refurbishing, stands up so quickly he knocks his chair over.
"What," Nametsu says.
"Spidey-sense," Kamasaki says grimly, and sprints to the front.
Oh boy. Kamasaki's never been wrong before, so she clears a path to the back door as quickly as she can, making sure all the apparel in sight is safely stowed in their plastic tubs.
They run a tidy ship, all things considered: it takes her all of thirty seconds, and yet in that time Kamasaki's picked up the console, elbowed his way into the backroom where she's got a zip-lock bag ready, dumped it in there, and burst through the other door into the loading bay. He drops the sealed bag on the concrete.
Fukiage, trailing behind, stares. "Um."
"Watch this, newbie." Kamasaki kicks the console. Its disc drive pops open, sending a legion of cockroaches skittering until they're met with the clear plastic walls of their new home.
"What the hell," Fukiage says.
"Let's check the games out here to be safe, though I have a feeling those are fine," Kamasaki says. "Nametsu, if you could...?"
"I'll handle the rest of that transaction. Have fun," Nametsu says.
Kamasaki shoots her a thumbs up. At the front, the man's shuffling impatiently; Sakunami, who's taken over the counter for a moment, sags in relief.
"That was pretty rude of your colleague, don't you think?" he says. "Seemed like he was robbing me."
"Your console is infested with cockroaches," Nametsu says. She's too tired to feign either politeness or disgust. "Even if we accepted PlayStation 2s over twenty years since they were released, which corporate says we don't have to, it wouldn't be worth more then ten bucks in our system." She shrugs. "Up to you. We have it triple-bagged in the back, if you want to take your infestation back home, or we can destroy it for you free of charge."
The customer splutters. "What about the games?"
She shoots him a distinctly unimpressed glare. "If the console isn't worth ten bucks, how much would those be worth?"
He tries a different tack. "You, boy," he says to Sakunami, who's been watching the entire exchange with wide eyes. "Get me your manager. Let's see what he has to say about this."
"Sure thing!" Sakunami chirps, bowing a little in that overly-polite way he has, then turning to tap Nametsu on the shoulder. "What do you think?"
"As your manager," Nametsu says slowly, ignoring the rising red on the customer's face, "I'd advise you to tell this man to either ask very nicely for his console and games back, or get out of here before we ban him from the store."
The man takes the point and leaves, but not without kicking over a stand of gift cards on the way.
"Wow," Sakunami says, moving to pick up the mess. "Does that happen often?"
Fukiage, returning to the counter, nods. He looks a little green. "Yeah. Kamasaki-san doesn't even need to be out the front to sense the scent of roach poop any more, he says."
seven
Being in a mall is generally a good thing, for things like Moniwa's need for wintermelon basil tea zero percent sugar double coconut jelly, or the supermarket being right there if they need carpet cleaner, or, you know, foot traffic and a proper security team.
Sometimes it sucks, though. Each store's being required to set up an interactive display right outside. In the middle of the silly season. Which is fine for a clothes store with jointed mannequins kids can pose, but the PS4 they've got set up requires... significantly more monitoring. Like now, when there's howling from outside.
Sasaya tucks the last of the preplayed Switch games into its sleeve and shuts the filing cabinet with his hip. "I'll get it."
He's good with kids, unlike certain others she won't name, so she lets him go. Through the blur of red promotional tape, she can see him crouch down, speaking to the kid who seemed to be causing the most strife. A short argument. The kid lights up, all defiance and glee, and Sasaya scratches his head in the sheepish, affable way she's learned means trouble. "Go easy on me," she hears him saying, and the kid spits back something that sounds too much like a slur for her liking.
Well. It doesn't mean trouble for her, so she leaves Koganegawa at the counter when he clocks in, and goes back to sorting out rostering.
Which goes well for all of fifteen minutes, until the howling from outside resumes, at three times its initial volume.
"IT'S NOT FAIR," the twelve-year-old from before is screaming. Families with trolleys laden with fruitcake and Christmas crackers slow to stare, holding up the entire atrium. "I'M BETTER THAN YOU." He looks around, noticing the attention he's gathering. Pulls himself up to his full height. "I'm going to complain to your manager," he says.
Sasaya shrugs. "Sure. Tell them I beat you at Tekken."
The kid's wobbly authority melts into a scowl. He storms in through the door. "I WANT TO TALK TO A MANAGER," he announces.
"Hi!" Koganegawa says. "I'm the manager!" Koganegawa says. "How can I help you!" Koganegawa says.
This, naturally, grinds the boy to a halt. "Uh," he says. To his credit, he stops to gather his thoughts. "Your employee was mean to me," he declares. "He's not supposed to do that. I want to file a complaint."
"Oh, do you mean Sasaya?" Koganegawa points, still brimming over with enthusiasm for his newfound role. Sasaya waves, from where a cluster of other kids have climbed onto or around him to watch him battle a black-haired teenager with a vicious grin. "He's really cool! Isn't he great at Tekken? He's even better at Street Fighter, you know! He's like... top 32 in the country... or something. The Capcom Pro Tour! I bet you felt really cool getting to play against a pro! I've only worked with him for a few weeks and I feel really cool about that!"
That last bit kind of gives away that he's not the actual manager, but the force of Koganegawa's million-watt excitement seems to have stunned the literal child he's beaming at into silence.
"I guess," the kid says, edging back toward the door. Then, as an afterthought, "Wait, do pro players win money?"
"They sure do," Sasaya drawls, eyes still fixed on the TV. "Top prize can get up to a quarter of a million bucks."
"Whoa," the kid mouths, the shape of the word visible even to Nametsu at the back. He hovers awkwardly around the growing cluster of teenagers who've broken away from family shopping trips to wait their turn, then decisively joins the back of the line.
eight
Futakuchi saunters through the front door on the quiet Tuesday night they've chosen for the joint birthday party (well, a present exchange and a photo), still pulling his work polo on. It's a little bit silly, all eleven of them loitering in uniform, but the adjacent shops are equally overstaffed on nights when Christmas patrons have decided the miserable weather isn't worth the trip.
So they look like they might possibly be doing work. Maybe.
"I don't think the store's even made for this many customers," Futakuchi says, immediately getting cuffed gently by Moniwa.
"Don't be silly," Moniwa says. He straightens his novelty tie. It's a garish Tetris print that clashes horribly with, well, anything.
"Okay, we're all here," Nametsu calls out. "Food only in the back room, presents and hanging out in the front. We're still open, so keep it safe for work."
"Awesome," a distinctly-not-staff voice pipes up. "Hey, happy birthdays!"
Aone, looming in the PC peripherals corner, turns to greet their little orange-haired regular and catches one of his pixel antlers on an exposed sprinkler pipe.
"Oof," Futakuchi says, somehow devoid of sympathy. Then, equally tonelessly, "Oh hey, it's Hinata."
"It's me!" Hinata declares. "I brought presents! They're nothing special, but Aone told me, and this is my favorite store and I like all of you guys a lot, so—"
He rummages through his bag and pulls out a battered binder. "I drew you game covers," he says, presenting them with a flourish.
They're pretty cool. Obara's been sharpied in with a cowboy hat on a cover that looks vaguely Red Dead inspired; Onagawa's is neon with overlapping highlighter strokes and features him as the glitzy person on the cover of any given Just Dance or Singstar game, holding what Nametsu thinks is an Otamatone. But...
"It's you," Nametsu says. "You're the one who's been drawing all those covers for our preplayed games?"
"Yep!" Hinata says. Koganegawa nods vigorously behind him. Aone clearly knew, and neither gift recipient looks surprised at all, just pleased. The betrayal. "I sneak them in sometimes. They're fun to do, and I hope you don't mind!"
"Of course not," Nametsu says. She's 99% sure there's no employment law issues here, and if there are, Aone's the expert.
The newbies have opted to take Nametsu up on chipping five bucks into the store's Collective Official Gift of candy and a card each, but nearly everyone else seems to have taken it upon themselves to find something special.
Something, singular, in one case.
Aone re-emerges from the backroom with a lumpy wrapped package, and deposits it carefully in Onagawa's arms. "From all of us," he says.
Onagawa tears up almost immediately. He's worked here nearly as long as Nametsu has, through high school and beyond, though he only works a day a week during semester. Everyone's fond of him.
"Go on," Futakuchi calls from the corner, gentler than he'd usually be.
Onagawa sets the gift on the counter and peels apart the Baby Yoda wrapping paper to reveal... something Nametsu doesn't recognize, but that Aone and Moniwa had promised would be perfect. "Holy shit."
He examines the instrument, picking it up. "Amazing," he murmurs reverently. If his eyes weren't wet before, they definitely are now. "I don't know what to say."
"What is it?" Koganegawa asks.
"Onagawa collects instruments," Aone says. "We found it online."
Which doesn't answer the question, but they eventually learn that it's an electric taishokoto, some kind of modern version of a traditional keyboard-harp? And that Aone must secretly be an eBay fiend, or something, because even in the battered condition this one is in, they're usually well over a hundred bucks. Sometimes even a grand. Moniwa looks extremely proud, so maybe the bargain-hunting was his doing.
When the chatter's dissolved into Onagawa swiping through his phone to show Koganegawa and Sakunami an assortment of budget melodicas and glockenspiels and other keyboard-adjacent things, the others start pressing smaller gifts into Obara's hands.
"Thank god," Obara says. "I don't know what kind of big thing I could've wanted that would have topped that." He peers into the paper bag Kamasaki'd slipped him, whoops, and wedges it straight into his backpack.
"I don't want to know," Nametsu says.
"Nothing illegal," Kamasaki promises, which isn't reassuring.
Sasaya presents Obara with a six-pack of a dubious foreign energy drink flavor; Moniwa presses a sleeved Magic card into his hand then darts away.
Onagawa, when he breaks away from the rookies, pulls out a Funko Pop box wrapped in clear cellophane. Obara eyes it suspiciously. "It's... Jace," he says.
"Sure is," Onagawa agrees, then drapes his jacket over it. "Glow in the dark."
"Bro," Obara says, and pulls him in for a one-armed, crinkly hug. "Birthday buds. Hell yeah."
Behind them, Futakuchi caps a Sharpie with a flourish, having finished suspiciously long messages in both cards. "Hell yeah," he echoes.