The restaurant occupied a converted storage bay on the Outpost's second level, its entrance marked by warm light spilling through frosted glass panels etched with pre-war floral patterns. Someone had salvaged them from the ruins and repurposed them here, creating an illusion of normalcy in the underground facility. Arthur felt Jackal's grip tighten as they approached.
"This is it?" Jackal peered through the glass, nose almost pressed against it. "There's so many people inside. Are you sure they'll let me—"
"They'll let you in," Arthur said, pushing the door open.
Warmth and ambient conversation washed over them. The interior featured mismatched furniture—tables and chairs scavenged from a dozen different sources, refinished and arranged with care. Pendant lights hung from exposed ceiling beams. The kitchen occupied the far wall behind a serving counter, steam rising from pots while staff moved with practiced efficiency.
Several diners glanced up at their entrance. A few recognized Arthur and nodded greeting. Others noticed Jackal—her shotgun, her restless energy, her platinum blond hair falling around red eyes that darted everywhere at once—but returned to their meals without alarm.
Jackal froze three steps inside. "Nobody's running."
"Why would they?" Arthur guided her toward a corner table, hand still firmly around hers.
"Because I'm—" Jackal gestured vaguely at herself with her free hand. "Me. People always run. Or yell. Usually both."
"Not here." Arthur pulled out a chair for her. "Sit."
She dropped into it, gaze sweeping the room like she expected an ambush. When none came, confusion settled across her features. A server approached—one of the human staff members, middle-aged woman with graying hair tied back—carrying two water glasses and menus.
"Commander," the woman said, setting the glasses down. "And guest. Welcome. Can I start you with anything while you look over the menu?"
Jackal stared at the water glass like it might be poisoned.
"We'll need a few minutes," Arthur said. "Thank you, Maria."
Maria smiled and withdrew. Jackal watched her go, then looked at Arthur, then at the menu she'd been handed.
"She didn't spit in my water," Jackal announced.
"Why would she?"
"Because—" Jackal's voice dropped to a hiss. "—people hate me. Every restaurant I've ever been in, they screamed at me to leave. Called me a menace. A public hazard. Once, someone threw a plate at my head."
"Did you break anything in those restaurants?"
Jackal's silence spoke volumes.
"Right." Arthur opened his menu. "Try not breaking anything this time, and see what happens."
They studied their options. The menu featured standard Ark fare—protein synthesizers could only do so much with limited ingredients—but the chef here had a reputation for coaxing flavor from scarcity. Arthur had eaten here twice before, both times impressed by the execution.
Jackal's finger traced down the page, lips moving silently as she read. Her eyes widened when she reached the bottom section.
"These portions," Jackal breathed. "These numbers. Is this real? Can someone actually eat this much in one sitting?"
"The kitchen prides itself on generous servings," Arthur said. "Pick anything you want."
"Anything?" Jackal looked up sharply. "Even the... the Wasteland Feast? It says here it's meant for four people."
"If you think you can handle it."
Jackal bounced in her chair, menu clutched to her chest. "This is the best day ever. We should order three of them. No, five. No—"
"Jackal." Arthur closed his own menu. "We're going to order two dishes. You'll pick one, I'll pick one. Then we're going to sit here and wait patiently for them to be prepared. No complaining. No breaking anything. No running off. Just sitting."
The light in Jackal's eyes dimmed. "Waiting. You mean like... doing nothing."
"Exactly like that."
"But that's so boring." She slumped in her chair. "Can't I at least go look at the kitchen? Or maybe inspect the—"
"Sitting," Arthur repeated. "Waiting. Patiently."
Jackal made a noise like a deflating balloon. For several seconds, she stared at her menu with the expression of someone contemplating a prison sentence. Then she straightened, jaw set.
"Fine. But only because leaving without eating would be worse."
"Glad we agree."
Maria returned, notepad ready. Arthur ordered the braised protein with roasted vegetables—modest but satisfying. Jackal immediately launched into ordering the Wasteland Feast, then changed her mind mid-sentence to the Scavenger's Banquet, then switched again to something called the Survivor's Spread before Arthur gently interrupted.
"The Survivor's Spread," Arthur confirmed to Maria. "And the Wasteland Feast as well."
Jackal's head snapped toward him. "Really? Both?"
"Both."
Maria noted it down without comment and collected their menus. Jackal watched her retreat to the kitchen, then turned to Arthur with an expression mixing gratitude and suspicion.
"Why are you being so nice?" Jackal asked.
"Because you're trying," Arthur said simply.
They sat in silence for several heartbeats. Around them, the restaurant hummed with quiet conversation—other diners enjoying their meals, staff moving between tables, the distant clatter of cookware from the kitchen. Normal sounds. Peaceful sounds.
Jackal picked up her water glass, examined it from multiple angles, then took a cautious sip. When nothing happened, she drank deeper.
"This is weird," Jackal announced.
"What is?"
"All of this." She gestured around the room. "I'm sitting in a restaurant. Someone took my order. Gave me water. Nobody's yelling at me. Nobody called A.C.P.U. It's like I'm a real person or something."
"You are a real person."
"Not to most people." Jackal set her glass down. "To them, I'm just the crazy Nikke who breaks stuff and causes problems. The one everyone crosses the street to avoid. The one shopkeepers chase away with brooms."
Arthur leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You said you've been to restaurants before. What happened?"
"I'd walk in," Jackal said matter-of-factly, "and everyone would start screaming. 'Get out!' 'We don't serve your kind!' 'You'll destroy everything!' So I'd grab food and run. Sometimes I'd break things on the way out, because if they were going to yell at me anyway, might as well give them a reason." She paused. "Other times, I just... wanted to eat. To sit down like everyone else. But they never let me."
"Is that why you break things?" Arthur asked. "Because people expect you to?"
Jackal's fingers drummed against the table—a restless rhythm that made the utensils rattle. "I break things because breaking things is fun. And because I'm good at it. And because..." She trailed off, gaze distant. "Because that's what people want from me anyway. The chaos. The destruction. So why not give it to them?"
"What if they wanted something different?"
"Like what?"
"Like this." Arthur gestured to their table, to the peaceful scene around them. "Sitting. Talking. Eating together without drama."
Jackal snorted. "Nobody wants that from me. Trust me. I'm the 'break stuff' Nikke. That's my whole—" She stopped, reconsidering. "Except you. You want me to sit and wait and not break things. Which is still weird."
Arthur smiled faintly. "Maybe weird is good sometimes."
The kitchen door swung open, releasing a wave of savory aromas. Jackal's entire body went rigid, nostrils flaring. Her fingers clenched the table edge hard enough that the synthetic wood creaked.
"Food," Jackal whispered. "That's food. Real food. Actual cooking. Oh goddess, it smells so good. Why is it taking so long? Are they cooking it with rocks? Did they forget about us? Should I go check—"
"Jackal."
She forced herself still, though her leg bounced under the table. "This is torture. You're torturing me. There's food right there, so close, and we're just sitting here like—"
Arthur reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. The contact silenced her mid-complaint. Her red eyes locked onto his.
"Tell me something," Arthur said quietly. "Before you became a Nikke. What was your life like?"
Jackal blinked, thrown by the question. "My life? Why does that matter?"
"I'm curious."
She chewed her bottom lip, gaze dropping to their joined hands. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its manic edge.
"I was broke," Jackal said. "Like, completely broke. No money, no home, no nothing. Just me and my stomach that never stopped growling." She laughed—a bitter sound. "So I did jobs. Whatever people would pay me for. Watching someone, finding something they lost, making someone disappear. Didn't matter what it was as long as they paid in food."
"How old were you?"
"I don't know. Maybe ten? Maybe younger?" Jackal shrugged. "Time gets fuzzy when you're always hungry. I remember doing a lot of sneaking around. Following targets. Stealing things from dangerous places. Once, I had to break into a warlord's compound to retrieve some data chip. He had guards everywhere, traps, the whole setup. But I got in, got the chip, got out. Client gave me three days worth of rations for it. Best payment I ever got."
Arthur's expression remained neutral, but his mind catalogued details. A child. Alone. Desperate enough to kill for food.
"Did you enjoy it?" Arthur asked. "The work?"
"Enjoy?" Jackal considered. "I guess? It was exciting. Scary sometimes, but exciting. Better than starving anyway. And I was good at it—sneaking, fighting, surviving. People started requesting me specifically. 'Get Jackal,' they'd say. 'She'll do anything for the right price.' And they were right."
"What changed?"
"Got caught on a job gone wrong. Authorities gave me a choice—get turned into a Nikke or face execution for the murders I'd done. I picked Nikke." Her grin returned, sharp and reckless. "Figured at least that way I'd never be hungry again. Turned out I was wrong. But hey, I got super strength and goddesium teeth, so that's something."
Maria appeared with a tray laden with plates. "Appetizers for the Survivor's Spread," she announced, setting down several small dishes—seasoned protein strips, roasted root vegetables, fresh-baked bread with spread. "Your main courses will be out shortly."
Jackal stared at the food like it might vanish if she blinked. Her hand twitched toward the nearest plate, but she forced it back down, looking at Arthur.
"Can I—"
"Yes."
She grabbed a protein strip and shoved it in her mouth, eyes closing as she chewed. A sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper escaped her throat.
"So good," Jackal mumbled around the food. "Why is waiting worth it when the food is this good? That doesn't make sense. I should've just broken in earlier and eaten everything."
"But then you wouldn't have gotten to sit here," Arthur said, taking a piece of bread. "Or have someone serve you properly. Or experience what it's like when people don't treat you like a threat."
Jackal paused mid-reach for another strip. Her gaze swept the restaurant again—the other diners still eating calmly, the staff going about their work, the complete absence of alarm or hostility.
"Waiting did this?" she asked softly. "Just... sitting here and not breaking things?"
"That. And trusting me."
She snorted. "I don't trust people."
"You're trusting me right now."
"No I'm not." But her protest lacked conviction. Jackal grabbed more food, eating with slightly less desperation than before. "I'm just doing this because you promised treats. And because your head pats feel nice. Which I definitely don't like, by the way. They're just... tolerable. Barely."
Arthur suppressed a smile and reached over to pat her head. She tensed, then relaxed into it with a contentment she couldn't quite hide.
Maria returned with their main courses—massive platters that barely fit on the table. Jackal's eyes widened to comical proportions.
"This is all for us?" Jackal breathed.
"All for us," Arthur confirmed.
They ate. Or rather, Jackal devoured while Arthur maintained a more measured pace. She tried everything, mixing dishes with abandon, occasionally offering Arthur bites of things she deemed particularly good. The chaos that usually defined her settled into something approaching peace as her stomach filled.
Other diners came and went. Staff cleared plates and brought more. Time passed in comfortable increments marked by satisfied sighs and the gradual emptying of platters.
When they finally finished, Jackal leaned back in her chair with both hands on her stomach, a dazed smile on her face.
"I'm so full," she announced. "Like, really full. I don't think I can move."
"Come on." Arthur stood and extended his hand. "Let's get you back."
Jackal took it without hesitation, allowing him to pull her to her feet. They made their way to the exit, Arthur leaving payment with Maria—who smiled and thanked them for coming.
Outside the restaurant, the Outpost's corridors stretched before them. Jackal bounced on her heels despite her full stomach, energy returning.
"That was amazing," Jackal said. "Best meal I've ever had. We should do that every day. Three times a day. Can we?"
"We'll see."
They started walking. Arthur noticed after several steps that Jackal was still holding his hand. Her grip was firm but not desperate—comfortable, even.
"You know you don't have to keep holding on," Arthur said. "We're just going back to quarters. You're not going to run off."
Jackal's fingers tightened slightly. "I know. But I want to anyway."
"Why?"
"Because..." She looked down at their joined hands. "Because it feels nice. Like I'm not alone. Like someone actually wants me around instead of just tolerating me until I inevitably screw up and they can kick me out." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Is that okay? Wanting to hold your hand even when I don't need to?"
Arthur squeezed her hand gently. "That's more than okay."
They continued through the Outpost's corridors, hand in hand. Jackal's earlier chaos had faded into something quieter—not gone, never truly gone, but tempered by full belly and simple companionship. When they reached Arthur's quarters, she lingered in the doorway.
"Tomorrow," Jackal said, "can we do this again? The walking and talking and eating thing?"
"If you continue behaving."
"I'll try. Really try." She paused. "Even though trying is boring and hard and makes my head hurt."
"I know."
Jackal finally released his hand and stepped back into the corridor. But before she left, she looked at him with an expression that was almost shy—so different from her usual manic energy.
"Thanks, Commander," Jackal said quietly. "For not giving up on me yet."
She disappeared down the hall before Arthur could respond. He stood in the doorway, watching the space where she'd been, and wondered if maybe Crow's bet wasn't as certain as she'd thought.