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Wilbur is pretty sure that Las Nevadas is supposed to be a lot busier than it is. The buildings stand tall, the lights glittering with tempting promises. Advertisements line the walls and streets, speaking of love and glory and money and everything anyone would ever foolishly put their livelihoods on the line for.
But the streets are empty. Every door on every building is locked, saved for the open entrance of the entirely vacant hotel. Wilbur walks around the fountain path, listlessly kicking at a stone he had grabbed from the bottom of the fountain pool. The sleeve of his coat is still dripping, creating a trail that circles around the fountain twice now.
For some reason, Wilbur had been expecting more. The place has been up and supposedly running for a while now, right? At least before Dream had brought him back to the land of the living. Every day and night, the neon lights of the city gleam, and every day and night there is a persistent silence in the streets. The casino still isn't open. The strip club is still closed. And to top it all off, the one man who runs the place, one of the only people Wilbur considers to be worth his time these days, is nowhere to be seen.
It isn't that he even really wants to see Quackity. The man has been a constant thorn in his side from the moment Wilbur first laid eyes on him, and he's been insufferable ever since in every sense of the word. If Wilbur were a smarter man, a more put-together man, a healthier man, he supposes he'd be sitting in a cabin in the middle of a tundra, or perhaps in a therapist's office, he'd be anywhere but here.
And yet.
And yet Wilbur needs to see him. Quackity is as intoxicating as he is intolerable, the only person out there who can match him step for step and blow for blow in every word exchanged. The two of them, circling around each other like jungle cats, waiting for one to make the first move. Suspicious glares leveled as they each try to parse out the meanings behind every tricky word the other says. Language is the game they play together, words stretched like strings wrapped around their tongues and pulled at by the crook of a finger.
When they speak, when they toss insults back and forth like others would throw compliments, when Wilbur looms over Quackity as the shorter man stands on his tiptoes to glare up at him, jaw clenched and eyes burning with a hatred Wilbur sees as a reflection—
Well, call it an addiction, but Wilbur can't help but return, over and over, to the only person out there who makes him feel alive. To make him feel like maybe he's actually got a beating heart somewhere underneath his reconstructed bone and blood and muscle, and that the words in his mind can be used for something other than blatant self-destruction.
The annoying thing is, though, is that Quackity is nowhere to be fucking seen.
Normally, the man could be spotted exited the unopened casino, or leering at him from high above the balcony of the needle-top restaurant he and Wilbur tend to frequent these days when Quackity is feeling charitable.
But he's nowhere in sight today. So Wilbur wanders.
And eventually, he finds something.
His obsession with Las Nevadas has, for all its shortcomings, allowed him to know the surface of city in its entirety. What lies underneath, that's nothing something he's been able to be privy to yet, but the surface has so far been his to map out in his mind, seeking out the cracks that one day he will pry open to reveal in all its rancid glory.
And today, he discovers not just a fracture, but a deep, gorging injury.
Around the other side of the needle, Wilbur is surprised to find that a moderately sized hill of sand has been broken away, clever redstone revealing a set of steps descending into some dark gloom. Wilbur's more surprised with himself, that he had failed to catch this hidden staircase before. And it's not a new development, either, he can see repeating sets of footsteps descending and ascending the stairs, grooves and disturbances in the inner workings of the mechanics that have been worn there over time.
Maybe it's Foolish, maybe it's Fundy, but Wilbur is pretty certain he knows which resident of Las Nevadas is squirreled away deep down in these depths.
"Found you," he mutters, a grin slowly spreading across his face as he brushes his hand along the sand opening of the staircase, and he begins to descend. His boots scuff against the sand as he steps atop it, heel digging into the grooves of the steps as he makes his way cautiously. Las Nevadas has been without its tripwire traps so far, of course, but it had also been without its hidden stairwells, so Wilbur won't take too many chances.
He doesn't know what he expects when he reaches the bottom of the steps. Some great room akin to Techno's vault, perhaps, though he never took Quackity as one to make preparations quite like that. A secret meeting room, maybe, or just a place to hide chests.
Well, there is a chest down here.
But that's hardly all there is.
Wilbur is suddenly grateful for his silent footsteps, something he's drilled into his body through years of practice for various reasons. He's fairly certain he can't give himself all the credit though, because the occupant of this area seems... rather distracted.
On the other end of this long hallway, Quackity is kneeling. His back is turned to the entrance, and even Wilbur's long shadow stretching across the floor doesn't quite reach him where he crouches. The hallway is small and cramped, piles of books stacked and scattered and a thin cot, shoved against a wall to make space in the walkway. Wilbur goes to call out, but stops himself. There's someone else here, too.
At first, he thinks it's the lantern light that's tricking his eyes, but no, it's not two blocks of slime stacked atop each other, it really is a slime in the shape of a human, eyes, clothes, and all.
"What the fuck..." Wilbur murmurs, not realizing that he'd spoken aloud until Quackity's head snaps to face him, and the silence of the room has been irrevocably broken.
"What the fuck!" Quackity repeats, but his voice is far sharper with surprise and anger, frayed at the edges as he stands and rushes toward Wilbur. His hands are up and outstretched, as if he could possibly keep Wilbur from seeing what's down the hall. "What are you doing here, Wilbur?"
Wilbur pushes himself up on his toes, craning his neck so there's no way for Quackity to block his view. "You left your sand-door-thing open," he says, rushing into the next sentence. "What is that thing?"
He takes a step forward, but Quackity's arms block him, pushing against his chest. Wilbur's hands rise up, defensive, wrapping his cold fingers around Quackity's wrists. "None of your fucking business, man." Quackity snarls, attempting to shove him back. It works, but only because Wilbur isn't trying very hard. His hands tighten nonetheless, a single flinch away from sending Quackity tumbling to the floor.
But then Quackity sags, hands falling limp against the front of Wilbur's coat, weakly grabbing onto the lapels. Wilbur's own hands slip, fingers falling to flutter at his sides. "He's not a thing."
Wilbur's brow crinkles. The thing at the back hasn't moved an inch. "What?"
"I said—" Quackity's voice rises, then abruptly cuts off. "I don't want to talk about this here." Shoving roughly past Wilbur, Quackity storms up the steps. Wilbur hastens to follow Quackity, if only so he doesn't get locked down in there. He's just two paces behind, and almost not quick enough—Quackity's hand is already slamming on the button the moment Wilbur pulls himself to the surface.
"Prime," Wilbur mutters as sand falls behind him, sealing the entryway until it looks as natural as any other hill around. "You're in a right state, aren't you?"
"Shut the fuck up!" Quackity snaps, voice once more full of vitriol. "Shut the fuck up, Wilbur. Get the fuck away from me. Get the fuck out of here!"
Now that they're both outside, Wilbur can see how Quackity's eyes are red-rimmed, jaw trembling though he tries, unsuccessfully, to hide behind his anger. It leaves Wilbur intrigued and, if he allows himself to be honest, a little concerned.
"No," Wilbur says, leaning forward. He doesn't take his eyes off Quackity for a second. "Talk to me, Quackity."
All the honey in the world and his voice only slightly tempers the venom burning in Quackity's eyes.
"Who is he?" Wilbur's voice softens, careful with every word. "To you."
Silence hangs between them. Wilbur thinks back to what he had seen, the green slime in shape of a man. He searches Quackity's face, quietly curious.
How desperate is Quackity for comfort, that he'd spill his secrets to his greatest rival?
Well, he's apparently desperate enough.
Wilbur knows Quackity isn't telling him everything. He didn't expect everything anyways; truths are rarely given freely between them, and so he'll take the few he can get without an expected return.
"I taught him everything he knows— knew," Quackity rasps, leaning back against the side of the hill. Wilbur has taken to sitting on a stone to listen to the tale of Slime, the tale of Charlie, Quackity's protégé and friend. "And now I don't even know if— if I'll ever get to hear him speak again. All he leaves me are books. Stupid fucking encrypted books when my back is turned." He sounds angry, but Wilbur knows he's not, really.
"Shit," Wilbur says, because honestly, he's still trying to process the concept of a primordial slime who has been able to observe everything happening since the dawn of time. Now that's a brain he'd like to pick, if he weren't reasonably sure his own mind would fall apart trying to understand it. "That's... shit, man."
"Do you know what it's like, Wilbur?" Quackity asks, in a voice so quiet Wilbur has to strain to hear over the breeze trickling grains of sand off the tops of his boots. "To like... to have someone die, but then he's there, but he's not... he's nothing like he should be?"
Wilbur's whole body goes still, even the breath in his throat catches. For a moment, the wind picks up, and it sounds like a train rumbling by, it sounds like the shuffling of cards, over and over, endlessly dealing. The air is too hot and stifling in this enclosed space, in this desert, sitting on these cold stone floors where the empty eyes of his brother stare up at him, blood trickling down his forehead.
"Yeah," Wilbur answers, surprised at how choked his voice sounds when he finally gets the word out. His hands are curled in the fabric of his pants, bunching up and releasing, over and over again. Sometimes his nails dig a little too hard into his skin. "I know."
His head bobs up, just in time to see Quackity lick his lips, and scoff. "Sure you do."
"I do!" Wilbur sputters, standing, digging his heels in the sand. "I— I know what you mean."
Quackity regards him, eyes barely lifted, a tremble in his crossed arms, hands gripping the fabric of his stained white shirt. "Okay," he responds, and for once, Wilbur can't tell if his words are being believed.
"There's got to be a way to get him back," Quackity continues. "I just...even if I did get the revive book from fucking Dream, somehow, I don't... I don't even know if that would work. I...I don't know what to do." And with that last sentence, that admission, Quackity looks more miserable than Wilbur has ever seen him before.
"The revive book to bring him back to life?" Wilbur questions. "But you said he's been leaving you messages. Surely that means he's...alive? Just, you know. Not entirely present, I suppose."
"The messages, they- they're just words, Wilbur!" Though he means it as a genuine question, Quackity's emotions explode on him again anyways, arms thrown up in the air with furious abandon. "They're just echoes, things I taught him, principles that I don't even know if I—" His voice stumbles, cutting off, restarting. "They're just words."
"But words have power," Wilbur reminds him. "Surely that counts for something."
Quackity heaves a sigh, staring at Wilbur with a kind of fury that isn't all there. "Maybe you're right," he mutters. It's a victory, but not one Wilbur feels very strongly. He still feels that damned deck of cards in his hand.
Quackity clears his throat. "I don't... I'm not giving up on him."
"I don't think you should," Wilbur says, softer than he means to. Quackity blinks tired eyes at him as he says that, all guards laid down for a moment. They're back up in an instant, but now there's no hiding the sheen of exhaustion in Quackity's eyes, the dark circles growing more prominent by the second. "Honestly, man," Wilbur says, huffing a breath of laughter that's half amused, half concerned. "I think you should sleep."
Quackity starts. "Huh?"
"Well, you're not exactly going to be any use if you're falling over yourself," Wilbur points out severely. "I'd take a guess on how long it's been, but I don't want to know if you've beaten my personal record." He grins, small and wry. "Get some sleep, man. In a real bed, not that shit cot. And I'll- I'll make sure nothing happens to him."
Quackity sneers. "Wilbur, I trust you about as far as I can throw you—"
"—Well, that's not very much, Quackity, I'm hurt—"
"—so why the hell would I just trust you to- to watch over me while I sleep? You'd take over the country the instant my back is turned!"
Wilbur's lip curls. "I'm not interested in that, Quackity."
Quackity laughs harshly. "Bullshit you're not—"
"Quackity." Wilbur breathes deeply. His lungs ache, and he suppresses a cough. "I swear on Tommy, I'm not going to do anything to you while you take a fucking nap, alright? Is that what you want to hear?"
Quackity's barbed expression falters, genuine curiosity replacing it. "Wilbur," he begins, soft, faltering. "Is- Are you—?" Though Quackity makes no move to step forward, Wilbur steps back anyways, crossing his arms and forcing an unpleasant expression across his face. "Huh."
And this is how Wilbur knows Quackity is truly desperate: He doesn't fight Wilbur any more on it. He leaves, and presumably, he sleeps.
So Wilbur keeps watch, wrestling with his heart and mind the whole while. Compartmentalizing his actions, he first frames his offer as something out of guilt. Then he tries to order it as something to suit his own needs, plans to demand a favor from Quackity in return.
But he can't get his mind to cooperate. Emotions spill out like spools of string, wrapping and entangling into a mess that pulses in a headache at the base of Wilbur's skull that makes him want to shake Quackity awake so the two of them can begin spitting enough venom to shake the strings free from the confines of Wilbur's messy head.
He's not going to stick around forever. This is Quackity's problem to fix, and not something Wilbur wants to get himself wrapped up in, anyways. He'll leave Quackity to it, and in the interim, they'll go back to their regular meetings and spats.
There is so much he could do to ruin everything around him and yet, for this moment, Wilbur doesn't feel compelled to do anything at all except to sit and watch the empty city of Las Nevadas.