Chapter Text
This was perhaps the best part of the job. Gripping the knife firmly, you slide it over the sea bream, the resistance of the scales giving under your skilled hands. Popping and crackling, little translucent flakes flutter around the sink. After rinsing it under the tap, just as you're about to pull out your fillet knife, you hear your boss bellowing.
"Out! Out, you fool!"
Eyeing the stack of sea breams that have already been scaled and butterflied, you figure you've gotten enough work done to merit a little break. Perhaps not long enough for lunch but certainly long enough to stick your nose in Mikhail's business. Crossing the threshold of the backrooms, you make your way to the storefront to observe your boss scowling at a half a dozen packing cases filled with fish and leisurely melting ice.
Mikhail stands tall and broad shouldered, square hands balled up and pressed firmly to his hips. Having heard you, he turns his big, bald head to glare at you instead, probably ready to send you off. Glancing at your reddened hands however, Mikhail decides to complain in place of cussing you out.
"Can you believe it? The nerve of that man—no, that boy to fuck up the shipment and expect me to pay full price?" Steam is practically coming out of his ears. Perhaps any other Zaunite business owner would thank their lucky stars they had anything to sell at all but moving to the Promenade level had given him a little bit of an ego.
"Is nothing salvageable?"
He scoffs.
"If there was, I wouldn't be complaining," Mikhail mutters. He then begins to stroke his moustache, yellowed from decades of overzealous tobacco use. It reminds you of a cat grooming to self soothe after having done nothing all day besides lounging in the sun. Wisely you keep that image confined to the sanctum of your mind, and instead pick up the least foul-smelling box and take it with you to the backroom.
If he's miffed at your silent dissent, you don't hear it.
Without turning back, you hear another grumble, followed by receding footsteps. On Fridays Mikhail usually left you in charge of the store all day, choosing instead to visit his son at the College of Techmaturgy. Another thought you keep to yourself: how could he possibly afford it? It turns out the day’s shipment was largely a bust, just as he’d said. Opening the ice boxes, you find yourself pulling out mostly sorrowful-looking freshwater fish imported from Ixtal.
However, in one of the crates, squeezed in between the Noxian gars, you'd found a handful of wriggling rainbow fish. Petite, smooth and somehow still-breathing, they gently glittered in the sunlight breaking through the boarded-up windows of the backrooms. You'd assumed the holes in the netting would be too big to capture such small and delicate animals but somehow, they'd made their way to the store.
It was miraculous that they’d survived the journey from Noxus, daringly sucking up all the salty water and air that had pooled at the bottom of the box. Deftly, perhaps a little intimidated at handling such fragile creatures, you scoop them up and quickly deposit them in a little tank Mikhail had briefly used to store brackish water crabs when they were in season.
You elect to not tell your boss about the rainbow fish, scared he would tag them with an obnoxious price that only Tropsiders slumming their weekend away through the Promenade level would be willing to pay. Sliding into a middling aquarium that was usually used for pigmy rock crabs, the rainbow fish floated unhurriedly. You hope that putting them in closer proximity to the cash register in comparison to the other sea creatures will hopefully let customers know they’re not merchandise but pets.
You twist the sign at the front door to read: OPEN; getting ready for your lonesome Friday shift.
About an hour into your shift a regular breezes in. She'd stopped by with one of her oddball little sons to pick up a green snapper for his birthday dinner. You wish him a happy birthday. He silently blinks up at you, as his mother offers a hurried “thank you”.
Then a young woman comes, dressed in a sturdy cotton ensemble, emblazoned with gold and silver detailing. Tall, pale, and blue haired, she seemed completely out of her depth, as Topsiders usually are.
“I’m looking for a flake?” You gaze at her blankly.
“You mean a fluke?” The Topsider’s face heats up, as she lets out an embarrassed laugh.
“Yes, I-thank you.”
She takes her flake fluke and leaves without another word, though you suppose she’d probably find a way to fuck them up too.
Now this fucking guy.
“No, no, no. When I was last here you had the trout.”
You take a deep breath: “Yes, but now it is out of season.”
“How could it possibly be out of season? It’s a dammed fish, it can’t read the calendar!”
“Sir.”
In your experience, old men made the worst wet market customers. Entitled, rude and unbelievably stubborn, you've always half a mind to tell them to go catch the damn fish themselves.
Janna's sake, I ought to kill him next time.
In your haste to get rid of the self-entitled trout expert you miss the soft chime of the brass doorbell alerting you to the entrance of a new customer.
"Hi."
Startled, you gasp and drop your coin on the floor. Looking down, you're prepared to fight for your life yet again. But instead of another fish fiend you're faced with a peek of electric blue hair and two delicate, pale, paint-smattered hands. Whoever this new shopper is, they're too short to even look over the counter. Slowly you pick up your coin, drop it in the till and get up, eyes cutting down to your potential patron.
She's no more than 12, no less than 9. Slim, gangly if you were honest, the girl has the biggest, bluest eyes you've ever seen in your life. Her hair is long, in some sections pin straight, in others slightly wavy. Worriedly, in a very small section appears singed. Her manic eyes meet yours and you suppress a shiver. Perhaps you were hasty in not judging her as a fiend.
Coughing, you search for some words to say, though she seems content with your uncomfortable silence. Think, think, how do I speak to kids?
"What can I help you with, darling?" She smiles devilishly, but you can see in her eyes she looks a little unsure.
"I want a fish?" The questioning tone is almost as charming as her mispronunciation—fich.
"I...alright," you're at a loss for words. Who is this girl? What is she doing alone, shopping for fish? "What kind of fish, dear?"
Now she looks annoyed, as if you're keeping something from her, as if you're deliberately playing dumb. Her eyes move all over the counter, studying the fish on ice behind the glass case. They rove over the clams, the breams, the gars over to the left, then to the far left until they land on your tank of rainbow fish. Her eyes – somehow – widen more, and you're scared they'll get stuck that way. How the hell are her eyes so big?
Her thin index finger, nail lacquered with pink glittery polish and stained with a blue paint smudge, points determinately at the guppy tank.
"Those," she practically gasps. You shift in your boots. You've no qualms handing one or two over to her but you're still so curious as to why she wants them. Sure, children love bright colorful things but she'd come on a mission for a vague “fish”.
"Alright, but what do you want them for? You know you can't eat those, right?" Her eyes narrow, their size almost normal.
"I know that. They're too small," she squeaks, insulted. All her mannerisms are so endearing, reminiscent of a small, angry critter. You struggle not to laugh.
"Ok, ok. I'm sorry." Her ego seems appeased. "But you still haven't told me why you need them." As she takes a moment to chew your statement over, you take in the rest of her.
She's taller than you originally thought but still shorter than the counter. The textile of her clothes looks comfortable, expensive even, yet somehow not a single scrap of fabric is unscathed. She's got little holes, tears and stitching all over her clothes.
Her troubled sigh pulls you out of your musings. It sounds so heavy and world-weary that you must bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to bleed to stop from laughing.
Suddenly shy she mumbles: "It's for my dad."
"He has, like, so many books about fish in his office...and," now a blush overtakes her freckled face, "well, I wanted to get him a gift." You strain your ears to hear that last part, as it's spoken in a small, embarrassed whisper.
You smile in reassurance. "Well, in that case, would you like to come with me to look for a baggie?"
The backroom is dark and reeks of salt, wood, and fish, a fact that your little companion notes immediately. Dramatically pinching her nose she mutters, "How do you even work here?" startling a giggle out of you.
"Well, I've worked here so long I suppose I've become nose blind."
You point a box at a box for her to look in, and she starts digging through the parchment and wax paper. Finally, after turning the place upside down you find a clear plastic bag for the guppy. Hopefully it'll last until her journey home.
"Hey, over here," as you call her over you realize you don't know her name. Her eyes are zeroed in on the plastic bag in your hands yet the girl seems to have heard your unspoken question well enough.
"Jinx," she whispers, and you raise your eyebrows. "My name is Jinx." She grabs the bag from your hand without meeting your eyes, nor thanking you. As she turns around you tell her your name.
"Jinx is a lovely name, it suits you." The girl—no, Jinx—lets out a snort but you can see the tips of her ears are turning pink. You both make your way to the front of the store, Jinx's boots clunking alongside yours.
"Well, which one do you want?"
She eyes the guppies with great interest. Jinx's eyes are tracking the pinkest rainbow fish out of the five and you suspect the color is a favorite of hers. Her little glitter-tipped fingers tap on the glass, startling the fish.
"That one?" She nods.
Carefully, you pull out a small ladle out from behind the counter you usually use to grab ice, and scoop out the fish and some water in the bag Jinx holds in her hands. You feel like you're working at a soup kitchen but hopefully the girl has taken the hint on not eating the fish. You tie the bag and Jinx tries to pull some coins out of her pocket. As she places them on the countertop you shake your head.
"Keep them. I'm just glad I could help you find a gift for your father," you smile, the mention of her father suddenly making her timid again. She gives you a shy smile and a thank you and you laugh, delighted. Jinx grips the clear pouch with the same determination that's oozed from her since she walked into your store.
“Do you need anything else?” you prod gently.
“No.”
Another weary sigh leaves her and this time you cannot prevent a giggle from slipping out. She blows a raspberry at you and turns away, little brass bell announcing her exit. Your eyes track her as she leaves and waves at you behind the glass of the storefront. She hurriedly disappears from view, but just as quickly makes her way back. She gives you a timid wave. You smile and wave back at Jinx, watching her leave for good and belatedly wondering if her father has a fish tank.