Chapter Text
JESPER
It’s been said that seeing is believing; the way our brain communicates with our eyes is never wrong, or at least, it’s not supposed to be. There’s always bad people out in the world willing to lie, cheat, or steal to get by in life - humans are inherently untrustworthy. The only reliable facts are what we can see with our own eyes.
When that fails, all hope is lost.
It was well past midnight, but time was perhaps the least of Jesper Fahey’s concerns as his pride, dignity, and most importantly, money was on the line. His choice of gambling den that night was called ‘The Viper’s Venue’ on East Stave. It was famously known for hosting major parties and concerts on weekdays, but the late hours of the weekend were reserved for illegal gambling known only by word of mouth.
The dingy lighting, smoke filled air, and rowdy drunken customers yelling profanities were all qualities Jesper found familiar and comforting - an unsettling thought to say the least. While sitting at a large circular table, surrounded by money-hungry sleazebags who were all almost assuredly holding a better hand than he was, Jesper looked at his own pathetic cards and sighed.
He could have chosen to gamble at the Crow Club, but it was easier to hide both his considerable losses, and his steadily growing addiction, from his boss, Kaz Brekker, when he didn’t know where to find him.
The thrill Jesper felt every time the dealer shuffled a deck of cards, or when cold dice rattled in his hands, was becoming concerning. Routinely, he’d go out every night to any dingy bar or club he stumbled across and gamble away his earnings from Kaz, and when he wasn’t gambling, he was laying in bed next to some lovely face he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
Jesper had long since felt like his life was missing something, but now he felt it more than ever. Indulging in gambling more frequently, drowning in cheap liquor, having one night stands with pretty guys and girls, and requesting very dangerous jobs for the Crows were all a means to an end. His fruitless endeavors to find that missing spark from his life were taking a serious toll that he himself failed to recognize.
Especially tonight.
“Well, Gentlemen, I’d like to say it’s been fun but unfortunately for you, the fun is just beginning.” Jesper proudly announced.
He slid a stack of Kruge out of his pockets and haphazardly threw it in the center of the table. Like sharks sizing up their prey, the other men stared at the cash until the dealer pocketed the amount and traded it out for more tokens that Jesper could play with. Surely this time he’d be lucky enough to start with a solid hand.
Jesper glanced down at his cards and refrained from outwardly expressing his grievances, he wasn’t about to slip up now since bluffing was his specialty. His eyes scanned the other players’ faces, hoping to detect a hint of emotion that could shift the balance of the game, but they were all perfectly stone-faced.
Except for one. A fairly large gentleman, clad in a navy-blue suit vest with a blindingly shiny gold watch strapped to his wrist, had the faintest smirk across his lips - and Jesper could see why.
“Hey! He doesn’t have the correct amount of cards. Dealer, everyone needs to have an equal amount or that’s considered cheating.”
The whole table fell silent in confusion, each man gave Jesper a quizzical look that suggested his statement was illogical or untrue. The large man himself spoke up, “Listen here son, I don’t know how it works back in Novyi Zem, but around these parts, you can’t accuse a man of cheating when he’s done nothing wrong.”
Jesper decided to ignore the blatant racism dripping from that comment, and focused solely on the fact that this man was trying to manipulate him into believing he was holding the same amount of cards everyone else was.
“Done nothing wrong? Look at your cards again, you’ll find that you’re one card shorter than the rest of us.”
In perfect unison, everyone’s attention shifted to the man’s cards, and then back to Jesper. “You need to get your eyes checked, pal. This gentleman here has the same amount of cards as you or I.”
Jesper rose out of his seat in frustration, slamming his hands against the table. His reaction began a rippling effect as one by one the men around the table stood up as well, brandishing pistols and knives as a defense. Before Jesper could calculate his next move, a strong arm wrapped around his collarbone from behind and yanked him away from the table. As he moved through the den’s doorway against his will, he saw in the distance the men settle down and resume their game.
“Hey! Let go of me! Matthias, I had it under control!” Jesper wriggled free out of the larger man’s grasp, and stood face to face with him. The fresh air outside was such a stark contrast to what Jesper had been breathing in for hours that it almost made him light-headed.
Matthias solemnly shook his head, “Those men were dangerous. You couldn’t fight them all alone. Kaz asked me to come find you, and bring you back to the club. He needs to discuss some things with you about Pekka Rollins.”
“Asked or demanded? Are you his obedient dog now?” He didn’t mean to snap at Matthias, after all, he wasn’t the person Jesper was actually upset with. Jesper was mad at himself mostly, but the need to take out his frustrations outweighed any kindness he typically showed his Fjerdan friend. He quickly corrected his attitude when he saw the hurt look on Matthias’ face.
“Sorry.. Fine, I’ll come back with you. Next time, though, can you not pull me so hard? You nearly wrecked my nice jacket.” Matthias simply nodded in response and the two headed back to the Crow Club where Kaz awaited them both.
~~~
WYLAN
Unlucky wasn’t a strong enough word to describe Wylan Van Eck. His whole life had been shrouded in misery and misfortune since his father discovered his inability to read. A long series of events brought him to the slums of Ketterdam, known famously as the Barrel, and also led him to operating under a pseudonym while apprenticing at the tannery: Wylan Hendriks. It was his mother’s last name, and it seemed to suit him better than Van Eck ever did.
His once pleasant days spent painting in the garden with his mother back in the Geldstraat were now a distant memory. At night, Wylan would often dream of his mother, but he’d be watching her through glass-paneled doors as if the life he knew before was untouchable. She never saw him and never heard him, she was totally oblivious to his presence.
One singular thought seemed to persist in Wylan’s mind when he’d wake up the next morning: I think I’m meant to be invisible. And honestly, he was as close as a human being could get.
Wylan encountered a lot of problems, the worst usually being violent drunks stealing the handful of change he got from busking on the streets. Unless one would count the time that the notorious Kaz Brekker asked him to make a bomb that might have taken the lives of innocent people.
He couldn’t honestly say that he knew Kaz. He appeared in his life one day like a phantom and spoke to him with such authority and assertiveness that Wylan couldn’t refuse his request, especially not when he was offering him a month’s salary for just one little bomb. The guilt that he may have hurt, or Saints forbid killed, someone ate away at him ever since.
The only benefit from working for the Bastard of the Barrel was that it made him feel needed, but that feeling went away once the work was done. The thing is, it was the other daily minor inconveniences that liked to remind him of his general lack of importance in society, hence being practically invisible. That morning was no exception to the rule that Wylan can’t have just one peaceful day where nothing goes wrong.
With newly bought chemicals in hand, Wylan’s thoughts got lost in the deafening noise that filled the bustling streets near the workshop that doubled as his temporary home. He began to make his way across the cobblestone pathway when all of a sudden the sound of people shouting, wheels screeching to a halt, and horses crying out in protest caught his attention.
“Watch where you’re going, moron!” The driver of the horse-drawn carriage gripped the leather reins in his sweaty palms with fury. He shot daggers into a bewildered Wylan with his eyes, demanding at bare minimum an admission of fault.
A mix of embarrassment and adrenaline flooded Wylan’s senses, leaving him speechless. He expressed his apologies with a quick nod, then ran into a deserted alleyway to catch his breath.
Wylan leaned up against a brick wall and lowered his head in a futile attempt to make the world stop spinning. His whole body was drained of energy, it was a miracle he could stand up straight. The lack of quality food or sleep, if any at all, was catching up with him, and now he had nearly died because of it.
It wasn’t really his fault that he hadn’t eaten properly in a long time, he had pickpockets to thank for cutting his income in half, and whatever was left got put towards rent and chemicals before food. Without chemicals, he couldn't work, and without work, there would be no money for food.
But what good did working to death do him if he spent every cent on buying chemicals just to work more? It was a vicious and redundant cycle which resulted in cold, hungry, miserable nights without a soul around to sympathize with his plight.
It seemed like the universe was sending him signs left and right that he didn’t belong. You only see what you want to see when you want to see it. The universe decided today that Wylan was worth seeing, but what about next time when it's not feeling so generous?
Wylan felt like the unluckiest person in the world.