Four werewolves in a city of humans. What could go wrong?
[Link to DeadBranch's Call of Duty Werewolf AU lore]
DJ Deep Ghost hates his stage name. Always has. But some wanker took the one he wanted.
The crowd moves like a writhing leviathan under the strobes, the distant glints and flashes of lenses backlit by an undulating sea of glowing personal device screens.
He needs to revisit the issue with Price. As a manager, he should've worked this out with the event staff. No phones out. Just enjoy the show. Don't ruin the experience for others, etc.
Christ.
He's been on his feet nonstop for the last eleven hours. His set only began ten minutes ago, but he's already exhausted. Bored. Just another crowd. The same screams. The same groupies hoping to get a glimpse of the face behind the mask. The same groupies hoping to get a length off the most popular DJ in the northern hemisphere.
Between sets, Gaz slides a clipboard in front of him.
"What's this?" Ghost shouts above the noise backstage.
"It's the licensing agreement we discussed earlier."
"You mean the monologue you gave earlier?" He amends with a smirk, then pushes the mask up just enough to drain a bottle of water.
Gaz looks down with a smile, laughter silent in the din around them.
"You know this is important, right?"
Ghost pulls his mask back into place.
"You're my lawyer. You handle it."
Gaz breathes deeply with annoyance. "I'm your solicitor. Been hanging around Yanks too much of late."
"The 'Yanks' pay well," he adds with a wink, then jogs through the stage-right door for the next set, leaving Gaz to pick up his clipboard from the hasty break table behind the woofer bank.
Soap startles Gaz as he appears.
"Did 'e sign it?"
Gaz tucks the clipboard under an arm, not caring about the creases in his suit.
"What do you think?"
"Shite..."
"I know."
"Maybe I can talk some sense into him..."
"He'll just remind you that you're his publicist, and you should tend your own wheelhouse."
Soap opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it in quiet resignation. Ghost has been more difficult than usual. It's time to tell someone. Before all hell breaks loose.
"Ya know he's been goin' out at night. After the shows."
Gaz faces Soap, looking him up and down, then drags him into the green room.
"Elaborate."
"He's...been goin' to clubs after shows. Without the mask of course. He's been coming back to the group accommodations smelling like..."
"Like what?"
Soap hesitates.
"...human."
It takes a moment for the words to settle in Gaz's thoughts.
"So he's mixing in with humans. The Wolf clubs get boring... I get it. Why do we need to be worried?"
"Smells like he's been takin' a few for a ride..."
"I don't know what that has to do with--"
"And he does not smell like latex. He should. If he's bein' safe."
"So he's not. Bloody hell, Soap. Does Price know?"
"I don't imagine so, since it's still goin' on."
"Fuck. We don't need an international incident on the books. Not like last time."
"Worse..."
"The last thing we need is more humans knowing we exist, let alone pregnant ones demanding compensation for the pups in their bellies."
Soap runs a hand up through his mohawk.
"I'll talk to Price. See if he can talk sense into him."
"What about tonight?"
"Ye can follow him. Make sure 'e stays out of trouble."
"Why can't you follow him?"
"Aye. Did already. Gave me tha slip. Maybe you'll have better luck. Got a better nose than me anyway."
"Bollocks. Fine. Don't know why I work for Simon anymore. Hard-headed trouble."
"Cause 'e pays well. And we love him like a brother, don't we? We may be out of uniform, but it's like we never really left."
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