Chapter Text
The building looks unassuming.
It’s a nice, balmy day, the sun shining down fervently and illuminating the outside of it in warm light. It looks like a regular apartment building, with no strange markings or anything else to indicate that there could be anything magical about it.
The address is right, though, as he double-checks the directions on the card with the block in front of him. It has to be here — 45 East Evan Street, 4:44pm. There’s still fourteen minutes left before he’s actually supposed to arrive, but he’s always preferred being early.
He’s just about to move inside when there’s a car door slamming right behind him, and years of grounding himself and steadying his breath still aren’t enough to keep him from startling, even if he manages to stifle the instinctive flinch it brings about. The edge of surprise is immediately overtaken by something brighter, something lighter, when he spots a familiar face stepping out of a yellow cab. “Lula?”
“Jack — hey!” She looks— stunning, as always, even if she looks a little more mature than the last time they saw each other. Time looks good on her — she looks steadier, a little more settled in her skin, and there’s a familiar sparkle in her eye as she approaches. She closes the distance between them, a cup of coffee in her hand — and a familiar card clutched between her fingers.
“You got a card, huh?” It slips out before he can stop it, and a frown crosses her face as his tone comes out a little flatter than intended. “No, no, that’s— that’s good. You deserve it. It’s good to see you, Lula.”
They haven’t seen each other in four years — not since she was his assistant and decided she wanted to start something for herself, move out of his shadow. She was right to — she’s always been brilliant, and she deserved to be in a spotlight of her own, but he never quite figured out how to stop missing her. She’s been doing well without him, though.
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too,” she smiles back, and she bumps his shoulder amicably as she walks by. “And so we meet again.”
There’s a grin growing in his face as he hurries to catch up to her, and she holds the door open as they get to the main entrance. “You didn’t do this, right?”
“Of course not,” she mutters as they check the apartment numbers on the list and stop at 6A, seeing that it’s on the sixth floor, and starting the arduous trek up the stairs. “Besides, if I wanted to see you, I’d have just texted you.”
“And yet you didn’t.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out a little embittered, but there’s an edge to it that he can’t smooth over in time for it to go unnoticed, and Lula scoffs.
“Well, maybe I was busy. I have a life, you know.”
“I know,” he admits, and then, when she raises her eyebrow at him, he shrugs. “Sorry.” I wish you had, he doesn’t say, even though it’s on the tip of his tongue. He’s spent the past few years checking her website for the shows she’s doing, the sold-out venues and hazy pictures of her during her performances, and she was always good back when she was his assistant, when they still shared a stage — but she’s become great since. She’s never needed him, and it still stings that he never quite managed to forget about her, never quite stopped looking for her by his side — and that she seemed to move on just fine.
They trudge up the stairs in an uneasy silence, only the clicking of her heels and the soles of his shoes scuffing the stone under his feet filling the air, right up until they round the final bend of the staircase only to come face to face with someone new — a tall man, staring at them a little startled.
“Okay,” he drawls, pushing himself away from the door he’d been leaning against — 6A, Jack notes, and steps closer to them. “So, apparently none of us were the only ones chosen. Let me be the first to kick my ego to the curb.”
“Hi,” Jack’s the first one to speak, offering up a half-hearted wave and stepping past Lula to get closer to the mysterious door they were supposed to find. “Jack Wilder. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack,” the other man says, and then looks past him to let his eyes linger on Lula. “Even nicer to meet you, uh… let me guess… Leah? Lula.”
It’s written on the front of her coffee cup, bold font announcing it for all the world to see, but Jack decides to let the trick play out, and suppresses a smirk when Lula’s expression brightens, faux-amazement on her features. “Wow, that’s— that’s impressive, really. Did you figure it out all on your own?”
“Mentalism,” the new guy brags, smirking at her as he draws nearer, “it’s kind of my thing. Hi, Merritt McKinney — and let me just say, beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
“Yeah,” Lula drawls, holding up her coffee cup to tap one nail against the writing on it, “great deducing, Merritt. Nice to meet you, too. So why are you waiting out here?”
Merritt gestures over his shoulder to the door and shrugs. “Door’s locked. Can’t get in.”
“Oh, no,” Jack laughs easily, kneeling down in front of the door to peer at the lock, “nothing’s ever locked.”
He fishes up his lockpicking set from one of his pockets, quickly making work of the lock at hand. He twists the pick just slightly until it clicks, the door swinging open before them, and he feels a grin spread out over his face. “There we go,” he announces triumphantly, turning on his heel to smirk back at Lula and Merritt only to make eye contact with a new face, a young guy just appearing at the end of the staircase with wide, starstruck eyes.
“No way,” he mutters, drawing nearer almost breathlessly, and Jack can’t help but laugh at Lula’s affronted expression as he breezes right past her to stop right in front of Jack. “Jack Wilder — I’ve seen, like, everything you have ever done. You are— incredible. It’s such an honour to meet you.”
It’s endearing, almost — he doesn’t seem much older than nineteen, still slightly too lanky and awkward to really fit into his clothes, even though the pullover he’s wearing is a little too fancy, a thick, expensive fabric, practically exuding affluence.
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” Jack greets him, extending a hand to accept the kid’s overeager handshake, and tilts his head. “You ever been to one of my shows?”
“No, no— but I’ve seen all the videos there are, really,” he says, seemingly belatedly realising that he’s still clinging onto Jack’s hand and letting go with a faint blush. “You inspired me to try magic on my own, and I always wanted to be just like you.”
The words are flattering, almost reverent, and yet there’s something about them that leaves a sour taste in the back of his throat, and Jack draws himself back just slightly. It’s just a hunch, he decides, even as he lets his eyes roam over the other’s figure and lingers on the expensive leather of his belt, the perfect fit of his dress pants with not a crease anywhere in sight. This kid comes from money, and the notion that they’re anything alike doesn’t sit well, chafes a little over old wounds he likes to pretend aren’t there.
“Just like me?” he asks neutrally — and from the corner of his eye he can see Lula turning, the faintest change in his tone enough for her to realise something’s shifted, as though there hadn’t been hundreds of miles and four years between now and the last time they’d known each other well.
The kid nods obliviously, a beaming smile on his face as he takes a step back. “Yeah! I just figured— well, you know, if you could make it, then so could I, and it’s just— you’re such an inspiration, seriously, I idolise you.”
If you could make it, then so could I. There’s a surge of something cold, festering behind his ribs, and he has to school his face into something neutral before he lets any of the ice spill from behind his teeth. We are nothing alike.
The concept that they could be anything alike is laughable, really — the kid’s only just shown up, and already Jack can tell he’s got no idea what he’s walked into, who he’s really talking to.
He’s got an easy smile and perfect, unblemished clothes that cost a fortune, judging by the label, and he’s claiming to be a fan despite never bothering to actually show up to any of Jack’s performances. It takes nerve, he supposes, to play at being involved, to pretend to be something other than what you are just to fit in better, to trick others into liking you — but Jack’s already figured him out, and he knows that they’re miles away from any similarities.
Jack had nothing. He’s fought his way up, for years, to be taken seriously and to earn his spot in the limelight, to hone his skill beyond necessity and survival and into something beautiful. The sleight of hand he’d had to learn to pick pockets and steal just to have enough to get by, and the disappearing tricks whenever he got found out and couldn’t risk getting caught, getting sent back to one of those awful shelters or worse — the foster homes, and the easy smiles he’s had to rely on just to get people that bit more likely to give him the benefit of the doubt, to let him stay just a little longer or prove his innocence — all of those had been vital to survive back when he’d lived on the streets, with no home and no safety and warmth — with nothing to his name. With nothing but his name.
Jack had nothing, and looking at this kid, laughing so easily and sidling up to him as though they were the same, as though he’d gone through anything remotely as horrific and isolating as growing up alone and homeless — it leaves his teeth on edge, and has him bristling with something a little further from irritation than he’d like to admit — something entirely too close to that old, gaping wound of growing up terrified and starving and alone.
This isn’t someone who got here the same way the rest of them did — through hard work, and grit, and the blood, sweat and tears of setting a goal and stopping at nothing to get there. This is someone that hasn’t had to worry about scraping together enough money just to afford a meal, or someone who’s had to sleep rough and worry about making it through the nights alright. This isn’t someone who’s spent years practising to get good, to be brilliant only because the alternative was to fade away into nothingness — to become nothing.
If you could make it, then so could I. It’s a ludicrous statement, something so outrageous that it makes his jaw ache with the force of how hard he’s grinding it shut. He’s saying it as though he’s somehow better than Jack, as though his life had been just as bad and Jack was an inspiration, gave him hope that he could be just like him. It reeks of privilege, and of immaturity, and Jack decides quickly, instantly, that he doesn’t like this guy in the slightest.
“Well, hopefully I can inspire you to be something better,” Jack grits out icily, watching the kid’s face shutter and fall at his tone, “because there’s already one of me, and that’s more than enough for this team.”
“Jack—!” Lula shoves past him, her shoulder bumping roughly into his as she gets closer to the kid and extends her hand. “Hi, I’m Lula May. What’s your name?”
The kid shrinks back a little, eyes darting uncertainly between Jack and Lula before settling on her, a poor imitation of the smile he’d worn before echoing on his face. “Daniel— uh, J. Daniel Atlas. I know who you are, too — the trick with the guillotine was really cool.”
He’s a little more put out, enthusiasm all but drained, but Lula still beams at him nonetheless. “Oh, thank you! I know, it’s— like, one of my favourite tricks. Quick question — did you get one of these cards as well?”
A chastisement is on the tip of his tongue — this is clearly just a fan out of their depth who happened to see them come in and wanted to snap a quick picture with a famous person, someone who wanted to brag about meeting someone better than himself to their peers and who has no business knowing about the Eye, about the cards — except the kid huffs out a nervous laugh and pulls a tarot card from his back pocket. “Uh, yeah — I’m the Lovers, apparently.”
“Great,” Jack says flatly, “that’s just what we need.” At Lula’s warning look, her eyes narrowed in annoyance at him, he conjures up his own card from his jacket. “Death.”
“The Hermit,” Merritt announces, and in the swell of indignation, of old pain aggravated by this kid’s careless assumptions, he’d almost forgotten Merritt was there altogether.
“I’m the Sun,” Lula shrugs, flashing her own card briefly before turning back to the mysterious apartment door. “Great — we’re a team. Can we go inside now and figure this out?”
She steps past Jack, fishing her phone out of her pocket and turning on the flashlight before heading through the door, disappearing into the dark hallway that lies before him.
“After you,” Jack gestures for Merritt to go through, and follows close behind. He doesn’t bother to check whether the kid — Atlas, apparently, is coming, too. Whatever this is, whatever they’ve been chosen for — it’s something that requires skills, and experience. Lula’s one of the best escapists in the scene, and he’s heard of Merritt even though Merritt’s based in the South, and Jack’s never really bothered to venture far from New York whenever he’s not doing a performance somewhere.
They’re both talented, great at what they do — and he knows it’s no exaggeration to say that he, himself, is also one of the better performers they have in the circuit. He prides himself on his wide skillset — picking locks and pockets, throwing around cards like they’re an extension of himself and being knowledgeable enough to get around essentially anywhere, whether it’s by mimicking voices on phone calls or needing to fight his way out. He hasn’t had to do it in years, but skills like that never quite go away, regardless of how much time passes by.
It makes it all the more baffling that Atlas is here, too — far as Jack can tell, he’s not exactly experienced, too young to be anything other than fresh out of school, most likely, and that’s definitely not a name he’s heard anywhere before. He’d remember it if he had.
It means that they’re going to be saddled with dealing with an inexperienced brat for whatever the cards have in store for them — unless it all turns out to be some sort of prank, a joke played by someone wanting to pull a trick over on some of the greatest names magic has in the States. Well, the greatest names and one random rich kid.
At this point it would almost be preferable — just so he wouldn’t have to deal with him any longer, he grumbles to himself as they file into the narrow apartment, Atlas’s footfalls hot on his heels. The guy rubs him the wrong way, and though he usually loves interacting with fans and people on the streets, tries to find a kind word for everyone and invites people in to look closer, to try a trick or let themselves be fooled — the frostiness behind his ribs hasn’t thawed, and he’s rattled, a little unnerved by the unwelcome reminder of everything he’s never had, and it leaves him feeling particularly uncharitable towards the cause of it.
It doesn’t matter, either way. Lula finds a rose and plants it, and Merritt twists a lightbulb, and suddenly the air is filled with glowing light, blueprints and plans and schematics enveloping them in a future right there for the taking, and it turns out it’s not a prank after all.
It’s a performance.
“What did he ever do to you?”
There’s a shadow falling across the floorplan he’s staring at as Lula leans over the papers, half-bent over the table to press slightly too close into his space. Jack frowns as her hair falls over the section of the Vegas stage he’d been looking at, curling just so to obscure his vision.
“Lula, I don’t have time for this,” he sighs, giving up on trying to ignore her for all of four unsuccessful seconds, and instead looks up to meet her unforgiving gaze. “I don’t even know what this is about.”
“Then let me remind you,” Lula says sharply, and she stands up a little straighter, staring down at him icily. “It’s been almost a month of watching you be a grade A dick to Daniel — and I just can’t figure out why.”
Jack huffs irritably, dropping the pencil he was holding to fold his hands together and lean back in his chair, meeting her gaze head-on. “We’ve been over this, Lula. It’s complicated — and none of your business.”
“You’re making it my business by calling him a brat to his face and rolling your eyes every time he so much as breathes, let alone your bullshit comments.”
She’s not giving up, he realises, her brows furrowed in the same way she does when there’s a trick she can’t quite figure out, the slightest downtick to the corner of her mouth that’s usually a prelude to her taking apart every aspect of whatever she’s staring at, not backing down until she gets it. There’s a sinking feeling that he’s about to be her next puzzle, and with a quiet groan he kicks out the chair across from him at the table, Lula accepting the silent invitation in a heartbeat.
He’d been expecting this, honestly — Lula’s never been one to settle for accepting that things are just the way they are. She always has to poke and prod, right up until something snaps, just so she knows how to put it back together. It’s something he used to love about her, however infuriating it could be. Today, it’s bordering a little closer to infuriating than admirable.
“I’ve told you — I just don’t like him.”
She shifts in her seat as she crosses her legs, leveling him with a flat look. “That’s not good enough. Come on, Jack— I know you. You know me. Just tell me what’s going on. I’ve never seen you be awful to someone on purpose — not when they don’t even deserve it.”
Jack scoffs before he can help it, and he shakes his head incredulously. “Right— and what does he deserve? To be called into something like this while putting in none of the work? We worked hard to get here — for years, and now there’s this rich kid who gets invited in, just like that? It’s not right. He hasn’t earned it — not like us.”
“That’s your issue?” Lula snorts derisively, and idly flicks the corner of one of the papers that have curled up in front of her. “He’s eighteen — of course he doesn’t have years of experience, and he can’t help that his parents are rich, either. It’s not like he actually has access to their money right now, either.”
“Yeah, ‘cause he’s profiting off of whoever’s supporting us,” Jack snipes back, “he doesn’t need to spend his own money because he has us doing all his shit for him. Come on, you can’t look me in the eye and tell me that this isn’t unfair — this is the chance of a lifetime, and instead of having a team of people who are able to pull their weight we get stuck with a teenager who doesn’t even know how to boil an egg or remember to turn the heating on when we get home. I mean, it’s clear he’s never had to do anything — he comes from an easy life and expects everything to be done for him, and it’s grating on my nerves.”
His breathing’s a little too high, he realises faintly, infuriation and indignation crawling up his throat and twining around his ribs until he forgets how to take a proper breath. It’s just— Atlas skitters around the house quietly, never actually taking on any household chores until one of them tells him to get started, and even then he requires an explanation for the most basic things that Jack refuses to bother giving anymore.
If he can’t figure out that glasses go in the kitchen cabinet with the other glasses and the plates go in the plate cabinet… It’s a lost cause, he’s decided, and the fact that the kid spends entirely too long on making sure every single mug has the front facing forward, or wastes time sorting the pantry out so that everything is perfectly evenly spaced out and organised — and then jumps the moment Jack tells him to cut it out, as though he pretends Jack’s about to start yelling at him over something so insignificant as cupboard arrangement—
It’s incredibly irksome. It’s like he’s determined to see himself as a helpless victim, just a kid that shouldn’t be required yet to roll up his sleeves to make himself useful — as though Jack’s the one being unreasonable in expecting him to take a little initiative in pulling his weight.
It reeks of privilege — of a kid expecting to be accommodated, and it has him gritting his teeth against a surge of resentment every time. Old memories press at the back of his mind sometimes — of loud, enraged voices screaming at him, and of deep discolourations on his skin, bruises that never quite got to heal over before new ones started adding up, a constant fear that never quite went away even after he managed to leave that house behind and found a different type of terror to accompany him, when he lived on the streets.
None of that leaves his tongue, though — he swallows the cascade of bitterness and old grief, even if it doesn’t seem to matter. Lula’s eyes soften, because she knows — of course she knows, because years spent apart don’t erase the years spent together, the late nights spent with hushed voices and hands trailing over old, long-faded scars. He doesn’t have to say anything for her to understand him.
“Suffering is not a prerequisite for success, Jack,” she says slowly, “just because you got dealt an awful hand doesn’t mean that everyone has to overcome something similar to get to your level. It’s unfair, and you shouldn’t have been hurt in the first place — but that doesn’t mean he has to be hurt just to earn a chance, too.”
“That’s— Of course not,” Jack agrees immediately, even if there’s something flaring up in his chest in indignity at the notion that she’d think so little of him. No one should be hurt, not like that— and he doesn’t wish it on anyone. “That’s not why I’m— Lula, it’s just not fair. He’s fresh out of his parents’ house, all the money in the world to get him to wherever he wants to go, and if this succeeds — great, he’ll get the fame. If we fail, he’ll just go right back to whatever luxurious life he had before. There’s kids out there just like me, who need this opportunity a lot more and worked a lot harder to get here, and instead of anyone who truly deserves it we just get— him.”
Lula stays silent at that, for a moment, and then she tilts her head at him, eyeing him a little too knowingly for his comfort. “That’s really what this is about, huh?” She huffs out a laugh, shakes her head at him in amusement, and then she picks up one of his pencils to twirl it between her fingers. “I did wonder, you know — back when we first met him, why you were so quick to switch up between friendly and whatever you’re doing now, but I just remembered it. He said he wanted to be just like you, and you looked like you wanted to bite his head off. You think he’s privileged and downplaying everything you went through, just to be like you.”
She’s right — and he doesn’t have to admit it for her to know it, too. He heaves out another sigh, pressing the palms of his hands over his eyes briefly before staring up at her wearily. “I just don’t like him. He is privileged, and I have no interest in entrusting the fate of my future to the hands of a rich kid who’s never bothered to stop depending on daddy dearest to buy him out of his messes. Who knows — maybe he even bribed someone to get him that card, because he knew it was the only way he’d ever get a chance to get to the top—”
“That’s a line,” Lula cuts him off instantly, “and you know it. You can’t start sowing doubt in the plan, or in the Eye — if it’s really them that we’re working for. If this is going to work, we’re gonna have to trust that whoever got us here chose all of us for a reason — even Daniel. You don’t have to like it, but you’ll just have to trust that he’s every bit as competent as needed. He was chosen, just like us. He’s not a bad guy.”
“No, he’s just a pretentious dick trying to punch above his weight,” Jack shrugs, and pretends not to see the chastising look Lula sends him. “Lula, admit it— you thought the same thing when you met him.”
The pencil between her fingers twirls and twirls, nimbly flicking from hand to hand until she pulls it back and shoots it his way, the hollow wood softly whacking against his forearm. “I thought he was sweet,” she settles on, “if a little naive.”
Jack raises his eyebrows at her — she’s being deliberately disagreeable, and they both know it. She holds up her hands innocently, and then slumps in her chair as she seems to think better of it. “Fine — I also thought he was just an inexperienced rich kid, but you and I both know first impressions can be deceiving.”
She’s staring back at him expectantly, waiting for him to agree, to promise to give Atlas another chance — but there’s a bitter taste in the back of his throat, stinging with every breath he takes, and any willingness to try and be charitable disappears as he realises, in an instant, that Lula’s taking Atlas’s side.
She’s speaking up on his behalf, defending him against Jack — as though Jack is someone that he needs to be protected against. It’s a ludicrous notion, and it leaves any inclination to be agreeable or generous withering and dying on his tongue. Instead, something petty rears its head.
“No — well, okay. When I first met him, I thought he was a little shit with a superiority complex and a lack of accountability. On second thought, from up close… he’s just a little taller than expected.”
Lula’s expression flickers, something irritated crossing her features briefly, and then she’s on her feet suddenly, the chair scraping across the floor as she shoves it away from the table. “Nevermind. Just— lay off a bit, yeah? He’s just a kid, and he’s really trying. He means well.”
He’s just a kid. It’s a laughable notion, really — Atlas is eighteen, with a sharp tongue whenever Merritt provokes him or tosses a half-hearted compliment at his head, and he’s old enough that he should be able to figure things out on his own instead of relying on them to tell him how to do something.
He’s eighteen, and he’d still floundered and stared when Lula had told him to make them both tea for the movie night she’d decided they were going to do, as though he hadn’t realised that being invited into things meant being prepared to do something back, too — and he’d never been grocery shopping on his own before, apparently, and when Jack had snapped at him to stop hovering and make himself useful in the kitchen, shoving a kitchen knife and a bell pepper at him — ”My parents never let me help,” had been his excuse for not knowing how to cut vegetables.
It’s typical, really — and all the more reason that the Eye should have picked someone else. They’re all about to put their lives in the hands of a kid who hadn’t even been trusted with a knife by his own parents. It’s not exactly inspiring confidence, and the fact that he’s managed to convince Lula, one of the brightest, most clever people he’s ever met, that he’s somehow someone to be pitied — it’s distasteful, and Jack watches as Lula narrows her eyes at him before turning around, heading off to her bedroom.
It’ll be fine. The kid’s been growing a little quieter, over the last few days — at first, whenever Jack made a snide comment or purposefully bumped into him to make him drop his cards, just to see what he’d do, Atlas would snap and protest, easily riled up until he’d shout, and it was an easy outlet for the frustration that built whenever the kid darted past him in his periphery.
Atlas was loud, and prickly, whenever he got aggravated, and it’s not Jack’s fault if he can’t take a simple criticism without getting upset.
He’s no longer reaching out to Jack first, though, and that’s already a lot better. He’d hover, in those first few weeks, asking him about a million different things or pestering him to show him a new trick, and it had seemed as though no amount of rebuffing him could quell his determination to irritate Jack — not until he’d realised that a quick insult or biting remark was a lot more effective than simply giving the kid an excuse.
“I don’t have time for a movie,” turned into ”You shouldn’t be wasting time on movies when your cascade shuffle looks like that,” and Atlas would wilt before scurrying off to practice a little more, and it was better for them all if he’d simply put in a little more work to catch up to the rest of them.
He’d finally seemed to realise that Jack wasn’t interested in anything other than a strictly professional relationship, insofar as it was necessary in order to work together long enough to pull the trick off — and he’s hopeful that it’ll stay that way for the rest of the year.
It’ll be a long eleven months, and as far as he can tell they’re really stuck with him — but it’ll be tolerable. Merritt’s clever, responsible and capable enough that he’s confident in putting his faith in the man, and Lula’s here, too — still endlessly funny and bold, still one of the greatest people he’s ever met, and it’ll just have to be enough.
The door to Lula’s bedroom clicks shut, the only other sound in the room the faint buzzing of the lamp shining down onto the plans scattered over the table, and Jack sighs against the sudden wave of silence that surges up unbidden. Merritt and Atlas have long since gone to bed, left Lula and him the only ones still in the room, and even though he stands firmly by his opinion of Atlas, refusing to give him the benefit of the doubt after the kid’s made no effort to earn it — he doesn’t like that it’s seemingly creating a rift between him and Lula.
He folds the papers up, marks down where he left off and gets up from his chair, hand hovering over the light switch as he stares at the empty living room. It’s just a year. It’ll have to be enough. It will be worth it.