Chapter Text
The first thing Wilbur noticed was the deck of cards he shuffled around.
The second thing he noticed was that he looked like a massive bitch.
Just look at him. A white dress shirt? Really? Who was he trying to impress? Prime, the man’s suspenders were so tight, that Wilbur was pretty sure they were pulling his shoulders down to his hips, (If they were, he wouldn’t be surprised. He was a short bastard). And that beanie. He’d be damned if it wasn’t fused to his head by the way his hair frayed out at the ends. What does L.A.F.D. even stand for?
Better yet, what the hell was this guy doing on his street?
All of L’Manburg should know this. His spot, famously known as “right in front of Niki’s Cafe”, was…well, his. Who was this guy to pick the place directly across from it? A fucking McPuffy’s? That was a fight ready to happen, and Wilbur would battle tooth and nail for it.
The guitar case displayed in front of Wilbur was a warning sign, open and littered with rusted coins and crumpled dollars. The guitar itself was battered and covered in stickers from cities he’s visited, cities that he never stayed in longer than he had to. He could tell the world a thousand stories from each one. From tourist attractions to music stores to coffee shops he sang for.
The world was a stage, and all those who passed him by were kindly encouraged by a smooth and silky voice to donate a couple of pretty pennies to someone in need. The money’s going to good use, anyway. A dollar can get him a packet of ramen, a trip to the laundromat, and the leftover change would be used to save up for new strings, as his old ones smudged up his hands like soot.
He needs this. Wilbur needs this.
Wilbur also really needs to wash his clothes, but that’s a problem for another day.
“Guess I’m not the only one here, huh, fellow entertainer?” The man cheerfully called, crossing the street, “What are you lookin’ at?”
Oh, right. He’s been staring at The Bastard™ for what, three whole minutes? He might as well make it known that his previous gaze was meant as a challenge, not an invitation.
“Nothing in particular,“ Wilbur remarked, “I’m just wondering why you picked my street to do your little magic show.”
“Your street?” The man questioned.
“Are you new around here, Houdini? I’m sure there’s another location, say, five miles out from here?”
“Why should I leave?” The man scoffed, shuffling the cards much more than necessary, “I think this place is cozy. And it’s packed in the daytime. Lots of people, y’know. People who would kill to see a good trick or two.”
“...You do realize that I’ll be here, stealing away the traffic?” Wilbur sneered.
“Out of pity. Giving money to the poor is a charitable act, isn’t it?”
Wilbur felt his mouth open slightly. Whelp, it’s official. This guy’s a dickhead.
“...You’re being a real arse, you know that? Just fuck off.” Wilbur groaned.
“Damn, someone’s angry. Might as well rub your face on that fire hydrant over there, if you’re gonna be so damn territorial.” The man chuckled. “Like the mutt you are.”
Rage boiled on Wilbur’s face. Wilbur scoffed, and leaned back against the wall of Niki’s Cafe, and started strumming an all-too-familiar composition of his. He wasn’t sure if it was intended more to soothe the man or himself.
“Name?”
“What?” Wilbur tilted his head slightly, still plucking the strings, and a little bitter that the man hadn't taken notice of the music he had been playing. Where were the compliments? The heartfelt connections?
“Your name. What is it.”
“...Wilbur.” He sighed, praying that this man would leave after learning of this information.
“I’m Quackity.”
Wilbur noticed Quackity’s hand twitch slightly, as if a handshake was considered, and promptly canceled out. Not like he wanted to shake his hand, or anything. Handshakes are for people you respect. And this man had done nothing to earn it, except maybe ask for his name. It was more of a demand, but…whatever.
Instead, his hand drifted back to the deck of cards, gently shuffling them around. It was quite hypnotizing, watching the cards swim along his hands. It seemed both of them had found their respective stimulation in their passions.
“Do you believe in magic, Wilbur?” Quackity questioned.
Wilbur paused his strumming, and thought for a moment. It’s not the dumbest question he’s heard, but he’s certainly heard worse.
“Not particularly, no.” He settled.
Quackity fanned out the cards, and held them out in front of him.
“Would you like to change that?” He said with a smirk.
“...You come all the way over here, tell me I should rub my face on a fucking fire hydrant, and then ask to show me a magic trick?”
“Yes.” Quackity nodded, “One trick. Then I’ll go over to my side of the street, and I won’t bother you for the rest of the evening.”
Wilbur sighed, tilting his head back against the wall.
“Pick a card.” Quackity crooned.
“Fuck you.” Wilbur groaned, as he selected a card.
The two of hearts.
“Don’t show it to me.”
Quackity pulled out a black sharpie and handed it to Wilbur.
“Could you sign that for me with your name?” Quackity motioned to the card.
Wilbur removed the cap with his teeth, much to Quackity’s dismay, and wrote down his signature in between the two hearts. The W of his name was rather large, and the rest of his name was scribbled out into a weird cursive drawl.
“Alright. Done.” Wilbur announced.
“Put that card back in the deck.” Quackity said.
After committing the card to memory, Wilbur followed his instructions, sliding the card back into the deck.
Silently, Wilbur prayed that the card trick would fail horribly. In that case, he would take the opportunity to laugh right in Quackity’s face. Maybe then he’d never show up here again. Maybe then Wilbur would have the street all to himself. A man can dream.
“You got a lighter?” Quackity asked.
Wilbur nodded and handed him a small blue lighter. Purchased to light his first cigarette in Pogtopia. He hated the taste, and it clogged up his voice for the rest of the afternoon. He never smoked again after that day.
“Thanks.” Quackity smiled, as he set the deck of cards ablaze.
The cards fell onto the floor, smoldering. It was likely for the trick, yes, but Wilbur couldn’t help but feel a bit of attachment from the card he just signed. Ah, well. Nothing good ever stays, does it-
“Wilbur.”
“...Yes?”
Quackity opens his mouth.
And smoke pours out.
It wasn't anything like the smoke from Wilbur’s first cigarette, dirty and smog-like. It was beautiful, and it wisped around his face like strands of thread.
And there it was. The two of hearts. Perched in his mouth. Signed by Wilbur Soot.
“What the fuck?! How did you-?” Wilbur stammered, snatching the card from his teeth. The signatures were the same, down to the last detail.
Quackity seemed a bit startled by the motion, but managed to recollect himself.
“A good magician never tells his secrets.” Quackity said with a smirk.
Bastard.
“You’re gonna tell me how you did that. Right fucking now. There’s no way it’s the same card.” Wilbur stated, staring straight into Quackity’s eyes.
“What card?” Quackity questioned.
The card was gone.
“...Alright, Merlin. You’ve done your little ‘magic show’. Now get the fuck out of my sight before I start screaming in your ears.”
Quackity smiled, seemingly satisfied, and started walking towards his now claimed area, not before tossing the lighter back to Wilbur.
“See you again soon, Wilbur.” Quackity called.
“Piss off.” Wilbur spat.
“Save it for the fire hydrant!”
And just like that, Quackity was back to shuffling his cards, a mere blur in the distance. Wilbur couldn’t help but try to pull apart the trick that was just performed in front of him. Yet, there wasn’t a loose end to grab onto. The cards were the same. The signatures were the same. The cards were destroyed, and somehow not? It didn’t make sense.
The mere thought of him being fooled by this son of a bitch was giving him a headache. Nothing a bit of music can’t solve.
Picking up his guitar, Wilbur heard something rattling inside.
Must’ve dropped a pick inside.
Carefully reaching into the instrument, he could feel the strings making lines on his hands. And...something else. It couldn't be a pick, no, who would make a pick out of cardboard? Unless...
Slowly, he pulled out the two of hearts. Signed ‘Wilbur Soot’.
That motherfucker.