Chapter Text
It was one thing to admire Whitty from afar, through the screens of phones and TVs, through headphones and speakers. It was another thing to be physically near him, knowing he could explode and not knowing what would set him off. Maybe that's why so many people went to his shows, thriving off the potential danger of just being near the guy.
The reason so many people were drawn to him, was the same as why so many venues were apprehensive to host his performances. When he gets really angry he screams and lashes out at anything near him and the air around him seems to radiate a sweltering heat of a disaster just waiting to happen. What's more rock n' roll than that? It got the crowd moshing and screaming with pure unbridled delight, and from a record label's perspective, this is a good thing.
But while the crowd is thriving off of Whitty's rage, the staff behind the scenes is sweating bullets, biting nails, and praying to high heaven that an explosion won't happen. Because every time Whitty's fuse started to spark, someone had to deal with his temper and scramble to evacuate the immediate area asap.
Whitty was considered a risky act despite his growing popularity. His name in the lineup guaranteed a full house at any venue that took the gamble of hosting his shows. Expect sold-out tickets and maybe an utter meltdown that'll lead to property damage.
Ever since the tour started, halfway across the nation was a trail of concert halls and coliseums closed down for renovations because Whitty exploded for some reason or another. Not big enough to level each town, just enough to weaken the infrastructure and leave a crater where a stage used to be.
A broken building is fine. Daddy Dearest can just throw his endless sea of money at it for repairs and all is forgiven. But injuring the fans had to be avoided at all costs. No one had ever gotten hurt at any of Whitty's concerts, thank goodness, but there've been too many close calls.
That's where a personal assistant came in and a good one that could stick around was hard to find.
With people quitting one after the other, the record label was not picky at the moment. They just needed somebody who could fly out immediately and that somebody was you. With each assistant that quit, the bar had been set lower and lower until it all came down to the following criteria.
Are you scared of the walking talking doomsday device known as Whitty? No? Are you willing to do anything to keep him from exploding? Yes? Congratulations baby, you're now Whitty's personal assistant. Try to last longer than the others.
That was essentially how your over-the-phone interview with Mr. Dearest went before he flew you out first class to the current leg on Whitty's tour.
The job seemed simple enough. It was like babysitting or servitude to a glamorously professional level. Attend to the star. Know their schedule and whereabouts. Prep them for interviews and shield them from the paparazzi. There were also the typical tasks like going for coffee runs or picking up dry cleaning. Most importantly, keep the client HAPPY. And it was especially important to keep this client happy, or at least neutral.
In this industry of celebrities whose egos are bigger than their bank accounts, public spectacles and tantrums came with the job. Whitty, fairly young but still a grown adult, was not immune from them. It was hard to believe the saying that there was no such thing as bad publicity when anytime Whitty was in the news it was only ever for something bad. His attitude and proclivity for fighting being a popular topic to publicize.
He had a lot of eyes on him, from media outlets to fans, as he's been through six assistants already and the tour wasn't even halfway through. The first was the worst. The second was hardly the best. Third time was NOT the charm. Fourth quit after a day. Fifth was too scared to be in the same room with him. And sixth was fired for actively picking fights with him.
You were the seventh. "Lucky Number Seven" the staff had called you, making a ritual out of patting you on the head for luck before each show. You'd endearingly tilt your head toward Whitty for him to pat ("Think of me as a supportive dog!") and he'd plop a heavy hand over your face to kindly shove you away as he went on stage.
Whitty was fairly calm. Quick to anger, but when unprovoked, calm. He was somewhat timid and just liked to spend most of his time alone. He didn't have specific wants and demands. He wouldn't threaten to cancel a show just cause his hotel room didn't have an ocean-side view. At first glance, he wasn't difficult to work with. Wasn't pompous, demanding, or vain. The newly acquired rise to fame never got to his head. The total opposite of what you'd expect of a rockstar.
But you still needed to look out for his explosive outbursts.
There was one good telling sign for when Whitty was about to go, what fans had lovingly called, "Ballistic".
By the time this sign showed itself, it was one hell of a stressful countdown.
There were special passes on sale for the tour, allowing the fans that bought them to be let in early during sound check. They'd watch in awe as the show was being set up, and maybe get to hear their favorite rockstar tune his guitar.
Instead of the testing pluck of strings, you heard Whitty arguing with some guy followed by the crash of glass. You ran onto the stage to see a shattered beer bottle at Whitty's feet, a pool of liquid seeping around his sneakers. A few stray droplets stained the edge of his pants.
And that's when it started. The moment you were hired to prevent.
The tip of Whitty's fuse sparked a bright orange. A warning flare.
Whitty jumped off the stage and bolted toward the line of stage barricades, put up just in case this very scenario happened. They were custom-made, extra tall and extra strong to keep people at bay and to keep Whitty in. Though with the way they rocked and slowly screeched across the floor under his pounding fists they may not be enough to contain him.
His eyes were flashing with chaotic geometry. X's and O's. Squares and Triangles. Strobing shapes and colors that anyone with half a brain and a value for their life would take as a sign to step down. But the instigating man in all his machismo took it as a challenge to yell right back at the literal walking time bomb. His group of friends, sharing in his lack of intellect joined him in his heckling.
"Dammit, Whitty you promised you'd keep your cool!" You yelled from the stage and of course as he was also yelling, he couldn't hear you. All the breathing exercises and talks about happy places for nothing! You knew he never listened to you and the fact he went from zero to a hundred in a blink proved it.
No time to feel indignant, you had a job to do. The fate of the building and all the people inside rested in your hands. The responsibility weighed down on you as the thought occurred that this was way out of your depth. You were essentially a one-person bomb squad with no training to deal with explosives. You're an assistant! You fetch lattes, not disarm explosives!
But Whitty's not just a bomb. Bombs don't talk or feel like a human can. He's a person, and you need to reach that part of him so he can calm down.
With a running start, you jump off the stage and cling onto Whitty's back. You pull on the hood of his jacket like reigns on a bucking horse, aiming to redirect his attention toward you or at least lead him away from the barricades. You may as well have been a toddler tugging on their parent's pant leg as he was completely unaffected.
"Whitty! Listen to me, you gotta calm do- AAGH!" You yelped and tightened your hold, almost slipping as Whitty reared back and pushed at the barricade with all his strength. It budged, pushed far enough to make a small gap in the wall that was supposed to protect the fans from his ire. They backed up at first but didn't run. As he reached through the breach with swinging arms and grabbing hands, they watched on with absolute joy at the crazed spectacle that was Whitty going Ballistic.
His fuse protruded from the back of his head, blazing bright, the length of rope steadily burning away. The situation was tense, your forehead already perspiring as you felt the heat the flame gave off. It was small, but oh so intimidating as the little flame promised something bigger. Even Whitty's body was unbearably hot to the touch but you dare not let go; arms and legs constricting around his neck and torso desperately.
You weren't a bomb expert, but this wasn't some suspenseful movie scene where cutting the wrong wire meant instant death. It was just the one fuse.
Put out the flame, prevent the explosion. It should be as simple as that.
With nothing to cut the fuse (that would hurt him, wouldn't it?) you gave it a harsh tug, Whitty's screaming interrupted by a grunt of surprise. You pulled it straight down toward you, conjured as much spit as possible, and put the end in your mouth.
Even with the generous coating of saliva on your tongue, the flame burned and you swore off spicy food forever. You groaned from the pain, but didn't spit out the fuse till you felt the fire fizzle out. When the deadly tingle died down, you coughed out the smoke that dispelled from the extinguished fuse, now damp and limp.
Then, not so limp, it sprung straight up. It was almost comical, an alarmed exclamation point above a cartoon character's head.
Whitty went still, the final remnants of his rage echoing out through the vast expanse of the venue. The only sound that followed was a sigh of mixed relief and disbelief on your part. You'd be glad that your spur-of-the-moment idea actually worked. But all feelings of ease spoiled into worry.
Whitty was a statue, taut and unmoving in your grip that refused to loosen. He didn't relax and revert to a more neutral state like you hoped. It felt like an explosion was still imminent and his silence made things all the more eerie. You couldn't see his face but you imagined his eyes were large with shock. That's how everyone around you looked, as stunned and still as the bomb you clung to. Not only were all eyes on you, there were phones pointed at you too.
"Whitty?" Your timid voice broke the silence as you gently patted his shoulder. It was just the thing needed to break the stagnant air and snap Whitty out of his trance.
With an upset growl, he hunched over and twisted in a way that finally dislodged you off his back. While you fell to the floor in a bewildered heap, Whitty's long legs were a blur, leaping back up onto the stage and everyone hurriedly stepped out of the way as he made a mad dash backstage. Then he was out of sight.
When he had stopped his screaming and thrashing you took it as a good sign. But that...didn't seem good. At all.
"Uh, hey, Lucky? We got a runaway rockstar." All the staff and even the small group of fans behind the barricade looked upon you with doubt. The criticizing gazes from all around are almost enough to make you want to burrow into the ground to make a grave and just bury yourself. They thought of you as another flash-in-the-pan assistant to be replaced. This was your chance to show your skill and it all went so wrong. Even if there wasn't an explosion, you felt you had failed.
You got to your feet, smoothing out your clothes and hair, hoping to compose yourself at least on the outside. No one had to know you were still panicking on the inside. "It's fine, we have another hour of sound check, so..."
Whitty definitely never took your advice, so you took it yourself, taking a deep breath in to settle your nerves and slow your rushing mind. Air-filled your lungs like a river, cool and soothing, extinguishing the stress that ate away at you. Just stay calm. You jumped onto your client's back and licked a part of him, but stay calm. He ran away looking very alarmed but stay calm. People were rewatching the footage taken on their phones but stay calm.
You exhaled the stress that tore at your insides and it was promptly replenished with a fresh supply. All the deep breaths and happy thoughts in the world couldn't help you now.
"So check the sound and...I'll be back with Whitty just finish without him!" Your frazzled nerves broke through your fragile composure in a jumble of words as you made a mad dash of your own. Comparatively too short to jump on stage in a single leap, you rushed up the stairs beside it and ran backstage.
Maybe you should have let him explode. He could've taken you out with a bang and you wouldn't have to face the aftermath.
You didn't feel lucky.