fourstrings | to swing on the spiral of our divinity

[ Wolfwood’s worked in private security for a while, but never in a role as public as for a pop star. This is probably thanks to his… occasionally shady past; little bits here and there in his history that make him ideal for, say, Saudi royalty who believe (rightly or otherwise) that every corner they turn is potentially hiding someone ready to make an attempt on their life, who’ll need to be taken out expediently. So it’s kind of a surprise to get a call from an annoyingly silky-voiced PA about working daily with one of the biggest names in music. Wolfwood’s honest about his history, and surprised to learn that they know exactly what kind of things he’s been up to and that it’s exactly why they want him. Apparently there’d been a credible threat against their golden goose and the previous security had responded in a way they found… lacking. So Wolfwood had met with the PA, and the met with the producer, and now he’s in an elevator on his way to meet with the star himself. The last hurdle, because as the producer in question had put it, he needs to trust you, and I need to trust you with him.

It's a job. It’s just a job. But there’s a part of Wolfwood that’s screaming internally to keep it cool, because although likes to think he’s too jaded to have favourites, he definitely had a favourite artist when he was about 19. He’d spent countless hours laying on his bed with the best headphones he could afford, eyes closed, soaking up the music. A tangle of discordant melodies and arrhythmic beats all layered one on top of the other until they somehow made a glorious, perfect whole, all laid over with grim and cutting lyrics sung in such a sweet voice it was like poetry. And the singer himself was a perfect reflection of the music – a long red coat made up of so many straps and buckles and strips of leather that it evoked an avant-garde straightjacket, chunky black boots that came so high up the singer’s long, long legs that they must have been about crotch-height on an average person. Blond hair spiked vertically, like a warning, and in the middle of all that a face as sweetly beautiful as an angel’s. Wolfwood had also thought he was too cool for crushes, but he’d definitely been nursing one on that singer. Vash. Vash had released two poorly-selling albums of the best music Wolfwood had ever heard - Stampede and Typhoon - and then promptly vanished off the face of the music industry.

Vanished until he’d come back years later, with a softer coat and softer hair and the same sharp lyrics but set to the kind of pop beats that make Wolfwood begrudge the way he taps his foot, and put said industry in a chokehold. Now his music is playing on tv and radio everywhere Wolfwood goes. Teens dance to his music all over tiktok and pack out stadiums where the tickets are in such demand they’re sold by lottery, and still at prices that make Wolfwood wince. Even the producer and co-writer has had an image makeover – it almost startled Wolfwood to recognise the slick music mogul Nai was the same man who’d been credited as the (unhinged-sounding) Knives on the albums Wolfwood had loved so much. All in all, it’s pretty embarrassing – but nowhere near embarrassing enough to put him off the pay they’re offering.

The elevator dings its arrival, and the blue-haired PA rolls his eyes at the way Wolfwood adjusts his very best suit and leads him into the biggest, fanciest penthouse suite Wolfwood’s ever laid eyes on – Saudi royalty included – and murmurs I’ll let you two get acquainted before installing himself at the back of the room and making a very poor show of being focused on his ipad, not the other two men in the room. Vash is leaned in close to a laptop, headphones on, focused on something so deeply that it puts a little furrow in his brow, so Wolfwood awkwardly tries to edge into his field of view and… waits. It’s probably gonna fuck this whole deal to demand his attention, right? ]

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to swing on the spiral of our divinity

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