Chapter Text
Wilbur:
Contrary to popular belief, Wilbur was not always a lost cause. Sure, for the last five years he'd been a heavy drinker, slowly driving the numbers in his bank account towards the lower end of the spectrum, but before that, he'd been the golden child.
'God's blessed!' his mother had praised when he'd sung to her for the first time, his teenage voice cracking and nervous.
'Obviously talented' his music teacher had commented, offering half price for classes after school. He'd been the performer on every stage in his hometown, a common visitor to the restaurants and bars to play his guitar and sing for coins. The school told him he was a dreamer, for wanting to move to the big city and try for something better.
'You've got it good here, Wilbur! Why would you leave?' They didn't understand, but Wilbur's teacher did, and his mother wasn't going to crush her precious son's dreams. Sometimes, Wilbur hated her for it. She'd made him feel invincible, made performing seem like it was his destiny. It only took a week in the city to tear away his confidence, to destroy the happiness he found in music. The city was cold, and dark, and so, so loud. Car horns and the constant buzzing of machinery wormed into his ears, a sickeningly out-of-tune melody he couldn't escape, even in sleep. But he couldn't go back. Wilbur was nothing if not proud, and he couldn't stand to see his mother's face if he returned. So, in true Wilbur style, he stayed, and he lied. The only money he didn't spend on alcohol, or paying his way into a slot where he could perform, was carefully set aside for letters to his mother, with a few notes at the bottom for her to give to his music teacher. In his notes, Wilbur was happy, comfortable in a nice apartment downtown and teaching guitar in his free time. His mother's replies were happy and full of excitement, and Wilbur missed her more than ever. It wasn't fun, living your whole life as a lie. Still, he'd make it one day. He had to keep believing that, even when it got hard.
Today was definitely one of the hard days. Wilbur ran his hand through his hair, tapping frantically at his phone. The bank wasn't responding to his calls, his rent was due an hour ago, and Wilbur still had to repay the neighbors for lending him their car. He never should have taken the offer, since they were more than slightly suspicious and had a literal assault rifle in their foyer, but he'd needed the car to get to an event on the other side of the city. "Public transport exists, Wilbur' he muttered to himself, gripping onto his hair and closing his eyes in defeat.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck shit dammit!" If he lost the apartment he'd have nowhere to go. He couldn't even afford the train ride to his hometown (it was still home, despite six years in another city), and his neighbors looked like they were from the mafia. Wilbur wasn't a fighter, for gods sakes! He was a musician, and he doubted they'd take a song as payment. There was a knock on his door, ringing out as Wilbur paled. The knock came again, harder this time. "Wilbur? You gotta pay your rent, man" Wilbur winced, as the jingling of keys sounded and the door swung open to reveal a more than slightly pissed off landlord. "Heyyyyyyyyy, man" Wilbur began, but the man just held up a hand. "Can you pay, or not?" Wilbur's face must have said it all, because the door opened fully, and the landlord stepped into the room, kicking at the clothes scattered on the floor. "Hey, hey! Dude, you can't just come in here!" Wilbur said, panicked. Halfway through the room, his landlord spun towards him, eyebrows raised.
"Wilbur, i own this apartment. Since you obviously can't pay rent right now, you are legally obliged to get the fuck out"
Despite his protests, and a slight scuffle at the door when Wilbur grabbed onto the doorknob and had to be pushed down the stairwell, Wilbur found himself on his doorstep, frantically balancing all of his belongings as the brightly painted door was slammed in his face. He groaned, crouching and setting down his luggage on the step. All he needed now was for his neighbors to show up, and then his day would be well and truly ruined. A car horn sounded, and light spilled onto the road as a sleek black car turned down his street. "Speak of the FUCKING devil" Wilbur half screamed, half cried into his hands. His breath started to deepen, coming in short, staccato beats, and he quickly recalled the breathing techniques they learnt in 9th grade, when the guidance councilor told them about anxiety. Composing himself, he turned towards the car.
"Wilbur, my man!" Quackity called from the car, slowly winding down his window and laughing as he took in Wilbur's bedraggled form. "What happened to you, dude?" One day, you're all high and mighty, wearing your new clothes with a gig at the Ritz, and now look at you, man? Someone drag you backwards down a drain?" Wilbur let out a strangled laugh, his eyes flicking to either side. There wasn't anywhere he could go, since Quackity's car was the fastest thing on the market, and it wasn't like Wilbur had any athletic ability. His hand subtly reached for the door handle, and he twisted his body to cover the movement. "Come on, Alex, don't compliment me like that! We both know i was born looking like i came from a drain" Wilbur joked, fingers crossed and praying. His fingers touched the grainy wood of the door and he felt sideways, reaching the cold metal doorknob.
Quackity laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Two things, friend. One, don't fucking call me Alex. Two, don't think i've forgotten about that little debt of yours." Wilbur took a small step backwards, and Quackity's eyes flickered to his feet. He twisted the doorknob, which was, unsurprisingly, still locked. Wilbur took a deep breath, shifted his feet, and decked Quackity in the face with all of his strength, which wasn't a lot. Still, Quackity fell like a stone, and Wilbur grabbed his guitar, accidentally hitting the man in the face with it, and ran. He'd always hated the city's narrow, winding streets, but Wilbur was grateful for once to have the easy escape route. He wasn't faster than Quackity, especially in his car, but unless the man was an F1 driver, he wasn't going to be able to steer his way through a farmers market.
It felt like days of running before Wilbur reached the train station, sinking into a plastic seat that dug into his back. His breath was still coming in shallow bursts, and Wilbur couldn't have controlled it if he tried. He was so, so very fucked. Without the money to get home, his only option was either walking, hitchhiking (which was the dumbest idea he'd had since moving here) or waiting patiently until Quackity inevitably found him and beat the shit out of him. "Fuuuuuuuccckkkkkkk" He groaned, sinking his face into his hand. "I just wanted to make music, man!" He felt a creak beside him and shot upwards, scanning the hall. It was empty besides his new companion, who was dressed in a suit that could pay for Wilbur's rent ten times over. The man smiled at Wilbur, and held out a hand for him to shake. Wilbur looked at him again, taking in his expensive shoes and the large wallet that sat on the bench beside him. Hey, maybe if Wilbur was nice enough to this guy he'd take pity on him and spot his train ride.
"Nice to meet you in person, Wilbur" the man said, and oh was Wilbur backing up. If this guy knew Wilbur, based on his experiences today, he probably wasn't Wilbur's friend. "Uh, do i know you?" Wilbur stuttered, looking nervously at the exit.
"No." the man said, and wow, red flag right there. The man seemed to sense the fact Wilbur was ready to bolt, because he held out a steady hand. "Calm down, Wilbur, i'm not going to hurt you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Would you like to play a game with me?" he offered. Wilbur scoffed, trying to summon confidence they both knew he didn't possess. "Do i look like i have time for a game?" Wilbur spat.
The man shook his head. "No, but you look like you need money, and i have plenty to spare. Here, i'll give you the deal. Have you heard of Ddakji?" Wilbur shook his head mutely. "That's not surprising. It's a Korean children's game, and its quite easy. All you need to do is flip a square of paper, and i'll give you 500 dollars. Every time!" He produced a colored square from his pocket, and Wilbur frowned.
"What's the catch?"
"Well, you can't exactly pay me back if i flip your square", with that he produced another colored square, "so i'll just take another method of payment. If you lose, i slap you!" Wilbur shifted in his seat. The whole point of being in the train station was to avoid getting beaten up, but on the other hand, he really needed the money. If he won enough times, he wouldn't even need to go home. The man looked at him with raised eyebrows. "So?" he asked. Wilbur nodded, and the game begun. Pardon his french, but Wilbur thought the game was fucking bullshit. He left the train station with a face blooming with bruises (that guy slapped hard), and a single crisp note. Oh, and how could he forget. A little brown card, with three shapes and a phone number on the other side. The guy didn't even say goodbye, or tell Wilbur his name. A large part of Wilbur, probably his rational side, wanted Wilbur to throw the card in the nearest bin and just catch the train home, but a smaller, louder part of Wilbur clutched onto the note and told Wilbur there was a lot more where that came from. And so, as night fell on his city, Wilbur dialed a foreign number, under a neon sign that read Jubilee Line, and the games begun.