Category: Tour Life Page 4 of 5

Still broken down. Still hot. Now everyone’s talking.

Thane was elbow-deep in the engine bay, grease streaked across his forearms, claws smudged with radiator fluid, and the unmistakable snarl of a werewolf slowly losing his grip echoing faintly in the back of his throat.

Gabriel crouched beside him, cheerfully unhelpful but loyally close—his tail lazily flicking in the dust while sipping the last of his now-warm coffee.

Behind them, the humans had given up pretending to be useful and were instead forming their own little shade-seeking think tank beneath the one sad excuse for a tree.

Maya, shirt tied up at the waist, already had her boots off and was fanning herself with a lyric sheet. “I’m just saying, maybe we wouldn’t be broken down in Hell’s Armpit if our fearless tech alpha would let a real mechanic touch the engine once in a while.”

Rico chuckled. “You know wolves and territory. That engine bay is basically his den.”

“I heard that,” Thane barked from under the hood.

Jonah, still sitting on the flight case they’d dragged out for seating, smirked. “It’s true, man. We offered to take it to a shop last week and you looked at us like we’d just insulted your mate.”

“That’s because you did. This van’s gotten us through three tours and five near-deaths,” Thane snapped, standing up, claws glinting in the sun. “And I know it inside and out. The belt snapped because someone overpacked the rear and threw the weight balance off.”

“I packed the merch box,” Rico said with mock offense. “We need to sell shirts to pay for gas and Gatorade.”

“And I packed Gabriel’s pedal board,” Maya added, eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s ears twitched. “Why am I catching strays over here? I’m not the one who threw the patch kit at the transmission.”

“You threw the patch kit?” Jonah asked, laughing.

“I placed it. Aggressively,” Thane growled.

Mark, who had been silent up to this point, finally chimed in from his perch on a folding chair, deadpan and bone-dry: “We’re going to die out here. If dehydration doesn’t get us, the werewolf rage kill will.”

“Say that again, I dare you,” Thane snarled, teeth bared, shoulders flexing as he took a slow step toward Mark and the others. The desert wind carried a hint of something feral, something primal—and for one tense moment, even the heat seemed to hold its breath.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I said, we’re going to—”

“Thane.” Gabriel’s voice sliced through the air, calm and steady. His hand was on Thane’s shoulder, claws brushing lightly through the matted fur. “Not worth it. They’ll taste like stress and irony.”

Thane growled low, nostrils flaring… then exhaled hard and rolled his neck with a crack. “Right. Right. I promised.”

Gabriel leaned in closer, voice softer. “Besides, I haven’t had dinner yet. Let’s not fill up on junk food.”

A reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of Thane’s muzzle. “Fine. I’ll finish rigging the belt. Someone find me water, duct tape, and an emotional support animal.”

“I’m the emotional support animal,” Gabriel said proudly, standing tall with his arms wide.

Jonah muttered, “We’re all gonna die petting the werewolf, aren’t we?”

Maya groaned. “Only after he eats us for mocking his spark plugs.”

Mark deadpanned again, “Call it ‘Death by Ignition Drama.’ I’ll write the song.”

Late morning. Blazing sun. A long stretch of West Texas highway with nothing but mirages and regret.

The Chevy tour van, affectionately named “Fangwagon,” was doing its best impression of a dying animal. The whole crew was inside—seven bodies and enough gear to rebuild a music store if it exploded.

Thane sat behind the wheel, one clawed hand adjusting the rearview mirror, the other tapping rhythmically on the wheel as if sheer force of will would keep the engine from quitting. Gabriel, in the passenger seat, was chugging a gas station iced coffee like it was going to give him wings. Spoiler: it didn’t.

In the back, Maya sat crisscross on a flight case, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Rico was dozing with his face against the window, Jonah had his earbuds in, and Mark sat silent, glaring at the rattling A/C vent like it owed him money.

Then—THUNK-KRCHHHH.

The van gave a lurch. The dashboard flickered. Thane’s ears snapped upright.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, easing off the gas.

Gabriel looked over. “Did we hit something or just lose a piece of the van?”

“Do you smell smoke?” Maya asked sharply from the back.

“No, but I can smell our career dying,” Mark deadpanned.

The van shuddered again, then coasted silently for a second too long.

Thane pulled to the shoulder. “That was the serpentine belt, I’d bet anything on it.”

Everyone piled out, the dry heat slamming into them like a hairdryer to the face. Thane popped the hood, and a thin wisp of smoke curled up into the air like it had somewhere better to be.

Gabriel leaned in beside him. “So… we walk now?”

“We’re not walking anywhere,” Thane muttered, inspecting the mess. “I can fix this, but I need a belt. And duct tape. And about six fewer people asking me questions.”

Mark pulled out his phone. “No signal.”

Maya pulled out hers. “Same. Welcome to ‘We All Die in Texas,’ starring: Us.”

Jonah sighed. “I knew we should’ve taken the scenic route. Scenic routes have Walmarts.”

Rico pulled a lukewarm soda out of the cooler and cracked it open with a hiss. “Guess we’re camping. Anyone bring marshmallows?”

Thane stood up, wiping grease onto his jeans. “Alright. This is fixable. I’ve got a patch kit, and if I can jerry-rig the belt with zip ties, we can limp to the next town.”

Gabriel looked skeptical. “How many zip ties?”

“Enough to qualify as an engineering degree,” Thane replied.

Mark stared at the van. “I’m not dying in this van. If this is how I go out, I demand a better soundtrack than ‘loose fanbelt in A minor.’”

“Rico,” Thane snapped, “check the back bin. Should be a repair roll and extra fluid.”

“On it.”

“Jonah, Maya—watch the road. Just in case anyone comes by who isn’t planning to murder us.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “And me?”

“You,” Thane sighed, “stand there and look pretty.”

Gabriel saluted with his coffee cup. “Mission accepted.”

8:17 AM – Lobby Breakfast Area, Sunrise View Lodge

The smell hit first: burnt coffee, rubbery eggs, and the vague sorrow of powdered orange juice. The complimentary breakfast area looked like a crime scene designed by a cereal mascot—stale pastries under plastic domes, a toaster older than Thane, and one very overwhelmed waffle machine coughing batter.

Thane shuffled in first, fur fluffed and still damp from the world’s most aggressive showerhead. His black Feral Eclipse shirt was only half-tucked into his jeans, and his claws clicked faintly on the linoleum floor as he grabbed a paper cup of coffee with the same reverence as a relic.

He passed Mark, who was already seated in a booth with one half-toasted bagel, staring into space like he was experiencing war flashbacks.

“No coffee yet?” Thane asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mark didn’t blink. “There was one cup left. The machine screamed. I took it as a warning.”

Thane slid into the booth across from him. “You look like you were mauled by dreams.”

“I was,” Mark said flatly. “You tried to eat my tail in your sleep.”

A moment later, the front door opened with a squeak and in bounded Gabriel—fur neat, tail wagging, coffee in hand, and acting way too chipper for someone who spent the night half-curled on a questionably clean motel bedspread.

“MORNING, LOBBY DWELLERS!” he sang, spinning into the booth next to Thane and almost sloshing coffee on his fur. “Guess who found a box of Fruity Dino-Pebbles in the cereal cabinet?”

Thane raised his mug. “Guess who doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to guess?”

Gabriel took a huge slurp of coffee, then grinned. “Spoiler: it’s me.”

Behind them, Maya stormed in wearing sunglasses, a hoodie, and murder in her stride. She grabbed a paper plate and tossed three mystery danishes onto it like she was challenging fate.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe my air until I’ve had four cups of coffee and a victory pastry.”

Rico and Jonah stumbled in shortly after—Rico with pillow creases on his face, Jonah carrying a plate of hotel sausage links like they were treasure.

Jonah dropped into the seat next to Mark. “These taste like despair and meat glue. I love them.”

Rico sat beside Maya and muttered, “Someone in the next room was playing polka covers of Kesha until 4 AM.”

“Polka should be illegal after midnight,” Maya said, deadpan.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “You snored so hard last night the lamp fell off the nightstand.”

Thane nodded solemnly. “Good. That means I’m still alive.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, sipping bad coffee, eating worse breakfast, and watching the single waffle machine sputter like it wanted to be put out of its misery.

Eventually, Mark broke the quiet with a sigh. “So… what time is load-in?”

Thane checked the time and winced. “We need to be rolling out in ten.”

Gabriel stood up, still clutching his coffee. “LET’S GOOOOOO!”

Maya didn’t move. “I dare someone to try to make me leave this booth.”

Rico groaned. “Do they make tour insurance for emotional damage?”

Jonah, still chewing: “I think that’s called tequila.”

As the team slowly rose and shuffled toward the door—bags dragging, breakfast regrets mounting—Gabriel was already halfway to the van, tail high and singing some off-key pop song with alarming confidence.

Mark took one last swig of his lukewarm coffee, sighed, and muttered, “Day two of the chaos parade.”

Thane gave him a sideways grin. “We march with claws.”

10:02 PM – Sleepy inn on the edge of town

The van rolled into the cracked parking lot of the Sunrise View Lodge—a bold name for a squat, two-story motor inn surrounded by chain-link fencing and exactly one half-lit palm tree. The only view here was the Waffle Depot across the street and a dumpster large enough to be haunted.

“Why does this place look like it’s been condemned twice and is trying for a third?” Mark asked, clutching his soda like a protective talisman.

“They had a group rate,” Thane grunted, stepping out with a clipboard still in hand. “And they don’t ask questions.”

Gabriel grabbed his duffel, tail flicking behind him. “Perfect. I’m gonna take a four-hour shower and cry.”

Cassie, Maya, Rico, and Jonah piled out of the van in various states of road-worn disarray, dragging cases and backpacks across the pothole-laced parking lot like a pack of exhausted cats. Rico dropped his duffel and muttered, “I will give my soul for a towel that doesn’t smell like armpit.”

Inside the lobby—which was 50% ficus plants and 50% outdated regional brochures—a lone front desk clerk blinked at the approaching wall of band.

She was maybe 22, clearly underpaid, wearing a name tag that said “HAYLEY :)” in a font that tried too hard to be friendly.

Her smile faded the instant she saw Gabriel’s clawed hand resting on the counter. Then her eyes traveled to Thane’s clipboard, Mark’s permanent scowl, and Maya—who was glaring at the decorative moose painting like it owed her money.

“Um… can I help you?”

Thane leaned forward. “Feral Eclipse. Three rooms under Conriocht. Two doubles, one single.”

Hayley tapped at the keyboard like it had insulted her. “Right… I have you in 102, 103, and… 205?”

Maya stepped up. “No. No stairs. Not with this amp. If I have to carry this up a flight I will set the building on fire with my mind.”

Hayley looked panicked. “We don’t have an elevator.”

“Then swap with Jonah. He’s like, four ounces and lives in the floor tom anyway,” Maya snapped.

Jonah, still yawning, held up a hand. “I’ll allow it.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “Everyone just go inside. I’ll figure out the keycards.”

Gabriel slid over and offered a charming, toothy smile to Hayley. “Sorry. We’re a little… road-cooked.”

Hayley, unblinking: “Do you have a pet deposit form for… um… that?”

Gabriel blinked. “For what?”

She pointed. “You’re… I mean… claws?”

Gabriel’s smile went full fang. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll try not to shed in the ice machine.”

Hayley backed away slowly and handed over the room keys without another word.

Outside, Rico had given up and was now laying on his duffel in the parking lot. “This is where I live now. My spirit has left my body.”

Mark walked by, sipping a second soda. “Don’t leave a forwarding address.”

By the time everyone had their keys and semi-agreed on roommate arrangements (Maya demanded her own room with a “do not disturb ever” policy), the band trickled toward their rooms like migrating zombies.

Gabriel flopped onto the bed in 102, still fully clothed, tail twitching once before going still.

Thane followed, dropping his rigging notes on the table with a grunt and flopping down beside Gabriel, stretching out his clawed toes with a tired sigh. “I swear, if the AC unit growls at me again like last time, I’m just throwing it out the window.”

Mark opened the door, stood there for a beat, looked at the ugly painting on the wall, and muttered, “I’ve made worse choices.”

From somewhere down the hall, Maya’s voice echoed: “If the water pressure in this shower is weak, I will scream.”

Jonah answered, “Please do. I want to sample it.”

9:17 PM – Post-show, post-fog, halfway to the hotel

The Feral Eclipse tour van rattled down a dimly lit Oklahoma backroad with the hum of overworked tires and the soft rattle of empty Red Bull cans somewhere under the bench seat. The scent inside was a cocktail of dried sweat, fog fluid, string polish, and just a hint of nacho cheese. Everyone was either comatose or vibrating from leftover adrenaline.

Gabriel was at the wheel, all sleek black fur and hyper-focus, one clawed hand gripping a giant coffee he somehow hadn’t let go of since the green room. The bass player was still riding high—singing along to whatever was playing on the radio, drumming on the steering wheel like he wasn’t the one doing 67 in a 55.

Thane sat shotgun, arms crossed, trying to unwind. A fresh coil of cable rested on his lap like a service animal. His fur was matted with sweat and smoke, and he looked half-dead but proud. “Gabriel, you missed the turn.”

Gabriel blinked. “No I didn’t. There’s a mini-mart up ahead. I saw the sign.”

“Mini-mart?” Mark’s voice croaked from the middle seat. “If they don’t have ibuprofen and soda, we leave Jonah behind.”

“Rude,” Jonah mumbled from the back. “Also fair.”

The van squeaked into the lot of a run-down combo gas station and liquor store. The neon sign buzzed like it had a grudge. A flickering “OPEN” sign clung to one window like it owed someone rent. Inside, the building looked like a time capsule for 1998 and a tax write-off for whoever ran it.

Gabriel leapt out first, still in performance gear, and made a beeline for the cooler wall like a caffeinated cryptid. “I need sparkling water. Or sugar. Or both.”

Thane followed, slower, dragging a clipboard to jot down gear failures and set notes as he walked—still in tech mode. “If they’ve got batteries, grab some. Half the in-ears crapped out again.”

Rico stepped into the liquor store next door with all the quiet reverence of a man entering a chapel. “Do not follow me. This is sacred time.”

Cassie and Maya stayed in the van arguing about whether it was too late for pizza while Mark stiffly unfolded himself from the backseat and muttered, “This is how I die. Not onstage. Not in a blaze of glory. In the snack cake aisle of a Chevron.”

Jonah, half-asleep, didn’t even leave the van. He just cracked one eye open and said, “If anyone finds sour gummy worms, I’ll trade you a cymbal.”

Inside the mini-mart, fluorescent lights hummed with the existential despair of overworked ceiling panels. Gabriel, now armed with an armful of random energy drinks and a suspiciously purple snack cake, turned and nearly bumped into Thane, who was standing by the batteries… and holding a banana.

Gabriel blinked. “Why the banana?”

Thane: “No idea. My brain said ‘potassium.’”

Gabriel just nodded. “That tracks.”

Meanwhile, in the liquor store next door, Rico triumphantly held up a bottle of Platinum 7X like a knight presenting a holy relic. “I summon thee—party juice!”

Maya, having changed her mind, stormed in behind him. “You better have Fireball in there, Rico, or I swear—”

Mark stood outside between both doors, sipping a soda and staring into the parking lot like he was reevaluating every life choice that led him to this moment. “Rock and roll,” he muttered. “All glamour. All the time.”

Eventually, everyone filtered back into the van—some with sugar, some with alcohol, and one (Thane) with a banana and a pack of guitar strings that weren’t even the right gauge.

As they rolled away, Gabriel cranked the volume again. “Next stop: Hotel Chaos.”

Mark leaned his head back and groaned. “Wake me when we crash into the pool.”

8:03 PM – Somewhere between adrenaline, chaos, and a badly dented nacho tray

The green room wasn’t a room so much as a warzone with carpet. The scent of sweat, string lubricant, and the world’s most questionable veggie platter hung thick in the air. Someone — probably Rico — had turned the volume on the little Bluetooth speaker way too high, blasting classic hip-hop while the band exploded in every direction at once.

Cassie was sprawled across the old leather sofa like a starfish, eyeliner smudged, shirt half-untucked. “I just found a chicken nugget in my bra. Not sure how long it’s been there.”

Maya, rhythm guitar slung over one shoulder, was rifling through the catering table with the intensity of a treasure hunter. “If none of this is spicy, I’m flipping the table.”

Jonah, the drummer, stood in the corner with a towel around his neck and two sticks still clenched in one fist like he forgot to let go after the set. “I think my snare stand is possessed. It moved. During the last song. While I was playing it.”

Mark, arms crossed by the door, offered helpfully: “Or you’re hallucinating from dehydration. Both are on-brand.”

Jonah blinked. “Oh. Cool. Just checking.”

Rico, meanwhile, was mid-argument with Thane near the rack of empty guitar cases. “I’m just saying — again — it’d be awesome if someone labeled these by instrument and not ‘Rico’s Shiny One’ and ‘Don’t Touch, It’s Maya’s.’”

Thane, coiled audio cable looped in one clawed hand like a lasso of logic, shrugged. “We tried that. Then Maya yelled at me for touching her ‘vibe.’ I don’t even know what that means.”

From across the room, Maya didn’t look up. “It means don’t touch my vibe, wolfman.”

Gabriel was leaning against the drinks cooler with a fresh shirt and a towel draped around his neck like a pro wrestler. He looked like the only one not actively malfunctioning. He took a sip of his coffee and grinned. “Well, I think it went great.”

Mark deadpanned: “You broke a monitor, two foggers, and screamed into the wrong mic during intros.”

Gabriel pointed with his cup. “Exactly. Rock and roll, baby.”

Cassie groaned from the couch. “Can we just acknowledge that the crowd went feral? Like I legit thought someone was gonna jump the barricade.”

Rico nodded. “That one guy with the glowing shirt? Yeah. He barked.”

Jonah: “Wasn’t that Thane?”

Everyone looked at Thane, who was now casually rewinding cable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a pause. “That one was me.”

A round of exhausted laughter erupted. Even Mark cracked a half-smile.

At that moment, Ruby—the venue’s overworked backstage coordinator—poked her head in. “Y’all good? Need anything?”

Maya: “A blowtorch and nachos.”

Thane: “Gaffer tape and maybe a chiropractor.”

Gabriel: “Coffee. Always coffee.”

Ruby just blinked. “…Right. So… no?”

As she backed out slowly, Rico grabbed a half-broken chair and flopped down next to Jonah. “Next show’s gonna top this one. I can feel it.”

Jonah gave a long, dramatic nod. “Yeah, but first — I gotta find out if that snare stand follows me home.”

7:12 PM – Backstage, Immediately After Opening Set

The backstage hallway was chaos flavored with sweat, fog juice, and celebratory profanity. Sound crew sprinted past with rolls of gaff tape and half-dead DI boxes. One of the monitor techs looked like he’d been electrocuted by enthusiasm alone.

Thane stood in the corner, one hand braced against the wall, still panting like he’d sprinted a marathon carrying an amp rack. His other hand gripped a half-empty water bottle that may or may not have originally belonged to someone else. Possibly even someone human.

“Okay,” he wheezed, “who the hell decided to trigger both foggers at once?”

From down the hall, Mark strode in calmly with a clipboard in one hand and a rag over his shoulder like a jaded kitchen manager. “Fog unit two glitched. Reassigned its function to ‘panic sprinkler.’ You’re welcome.”

“You mean you set off a cloud bomb during Gabriel’s solo.”

Mark didn’t blink. “I call it dramatic enhancement.”

Gabriel burst in next, still glowing—literally glowing—under a film of sweat, fog, and sheer ego. His bass was slung lazily over his back, and his mouth curled in a wolfish grin.

“That. Was. AWESOME.” He leaned against a crate of mic stands and dramatically wiped his brow with the edge of his shirt. “Did you see the look on that one dude in the front row when I snarled the chorus? He backed up like I was gonna bite him.”

Thane huffed. “You were gonna bite him.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Yeah, but he didn’t know that.”

Maya came stomping in behind him, a busted string still dangling from her guitar like a war trophy. She threw her jacket on a nearby stool and grabbed a towel off the crate.

“I need duct tape and a new A-string,” she growled. “That was the best solo I’ve ever done while internally screaming.”

Cassie appeared next, sweaty curls plastered to her forehead, still breathing hard like she’d just finished her third workout of the day. “That was incredible,” she beamed, flopping dramatically into a folding chair. “Also, pretty sure I kicked a monitor into a different time zone.”

Mark held up his clipboard. “It’s in Kansas now.”

Cassie gave him a thumbs-up. “Good. They need better monitors anyway.”

For a moment, the group just stood there—some leaning, some sitting, everyone dripping.

No words. Just that shared, electric post-battle silence.

Then Thane chuckled low in his chest. “Okay… that was loud, stupid, half-on-fire, and barely held together.”

Gabriel raised his coffee thermos high. “Just the way we like it.”

Mark raised his clipboard in a deadpan toast. “To chaos.”

Everyone clinked with whatever they had—thermos, water bottle, wrench, drumstick.

The war was only beginning. But the first blow had landed hard—and judging by the audience’s deafening reaction, it hit exactly where it needed to.

The crowd was already a boiling stew of denim jackets, faded concert tees, and plastic cups sloshing mystery beer. Some were legit superfans—wearing Feral Eclipse merch with pride—others were curious locals drawn in by flyers, friends, or the promise of “something weird but loud.”

Backstage, Thane gave a last glance across the stage setup. Lighting rig was holding, mics were hot, and the monitors were about as dialed in as they’d get without selling a soul to the audio gods. The VariLites were humming like a six-eyed predator waiting to pounce—just the way Mark liked them.

“All right,” Thane called, looping his coiled audio cable over his shoulder like a shoulder snake of judgment. “Thirty seconds. Everybody breathe.”

From stage right, Jonah spun his sticks between his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s light it up.”

Maya flexed her hands, already gripping her guitar like it owed her money. “I swear, if my strap fails again, I’m going to play the whole set with my teeth.”

Gabriel gave a confident smirk as he stepped up beside Thane, bass already slung low. “You ready to see me not rip my shirt this time?”

“You mean the one you safety-pinned together with gaff tape?” Thane raised a brow.

Gabriel puffed out his chest. “Fashion-forward.”

From the wings, Mark’s voice echoed dryly over comms. “Fog in three… two…”

The first hiss of the machine pumped out a thick red mist from the back truss, catching in the downbeams of six VariLite VL2Bs aimed like lasers through the haze. The house roared in anticipation. Somewhere, a dude screamed, “PLAY THE HOWL SONG!”

“Drums,” Thane called.

Jonah clicked in. One-two-three-four—

And then it hit.

Maya launched into the first crunching riff, distorted and raw. Gabriel’s bass slammed in behind her like thunder rolling through a graveyard. Jonah drove it like a madman, hair flying, sticks a blur. Cassie, center stage with the mic, stepped forward, hair whipping, eyes blazing, and snarled the opening lyric like a wolf leading the pack.

The crowd went feral.

Three notes in, Thane caught the monitor on stage left start to slide off its perch.

“SHIT—Mark, tilt three is slipping!”

Mark’s voice snapped back instantly, calm as death. “I see it. Already rerouting the signal. Tell Jonah not to kick it again with his damn boot.”

Jonah yelled mid-verse, “TELL MARK I’LL KICK WHAT I WANT.”

Stage left haze grew thick as a second fogger fired—too early. Thane coughed. “Mark—timing?”

“Fog unit two’s brain just exploded. You’re welcome.”

Gabriel danced around a puddle of mystery condensation and somehow made it look cool, even throwing a cheeky wink to the crowd. A rogue beam of red light cut across him like a spotlight from hell.

Maya, dead center, ripped through her solo like she was casting demons out of her guitar. Sweat glistened on her forehead. One of her strings snapped and she didn’t even flinch—just kept going, eyes locked in.

A beer cup landed near the front wedge. Gabriel kicked it aside without breaking rhythm.

Thane didn’t have time to breathe. One of the DI boxes was making a high-pitched whine, and the lead vocal compressor was dancing like it was on fire. He hit two knobs, shoved a fader, and punched a mute button that probably saved a speaker’s life.

Cassie shouted into her mic between verses, “We’re flying without landing gear, baby!”

The crowd loved it.

Pure chaos.
Pure lightning.
Pure Feral Eclipse.

By the time the opening song ended, half the venue looked like they’d just walked out of a thunderstorm—sweaty, stunned, and already screaming for more.

And on stage, every member stood grinning like lunatics.

Mark’s voice came through the comms again, dry as ever:
“Show’s going fine. Just used a guitar cable to tie off a fogger. No big deal.”

6:31 PM – Fifteen Minutes to Doors

Backstage was a pressure cooker of last-minute tuning, nervous pacing, and vague panic about whether anyone had remembered to bring the merch table banner (they hadn’t—Mark had to print one on paper towels in the venue office an hour ago).

Gabriel stood in the dressing room—well, technically it was a storage closet with an overloaded power strip and three sad chairs—trying to look composed while tugging down the hem of his Feral Eclipse stage tee.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “why does this shirt feel like it was washed in glue and despair?”

Thane didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Because I forgot to soften the band laundry. Just pretend it’s battle armor.”

Gabriel shifted awkwardly. “Battle armor doesn’t ride up and expose your werewolf belly every time you inhale.”

Mark, seated nearby with a roll of gaff tape in one hand and a half-eaten gas station sandwich in the other, muttered, “Maybe the belly is part of the stage presence.”

Gabriel pointed at him. “I will staple your sandwich to your forehead.”

Just then, Maya burst into the room, holding up her T-shirt. “OKAY. WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR GIVING ME A SMALL?”

Cassie peeked in behind her, giggling. “I mean, you are small.”

“I am small and dangerous,” Maya growled, tugging at the shirt that barely reached her waistband. “I look like a backup dancer for a toddler metal band.”

Thane finally glanced up. “We ran out of mediums. It’s either that or one of the old promo shirts with the misprinted logo.”

Maya blinked. “You mean the one that said FERAL ELK-LIPS?”

Mark didn’t even smile. “Those sold well in Montana.”

Gabriel bent over to retrieve his tuning pedal, and the fabric of his too-small shirt gave a heart-wrenching rrrriiiiiiipppp from armpit to hem.

Everyone froze.

“…I think I’m free now,” he said, very quietly.

Thane exhaled. “Okay. Everyone swap shirts if you need to. I’ve got a sewing kit, duct tape, and two emergency tank tops in the tech crate. Just… look like a band. Please.”

Cassie reached for one of the tank tops, held it up, and read the faded logo: Bite Me, I’m With the Band.

She grinned. “Honestly, I’ve worn worse.”

Mark, rising from his chair, tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash. “I’m going to check the fog machine. When I come back, I expect everyone to be clothed or creatively disguised.”

As he left, Gabriel looked down at the shredded shirt and sighed. “I’m gonna just rock this like an open vest. A little werewolf realness for the crowd.”

Thane gave a thumbs up. “That’s the spirit.”

Maya, who had tied her shirt into a fierce cropped knot, leaned toward Cassie. “This is going to be one hell of a show.”

Cassie laughed. “We look like a band held together by attitude and static cling.”

The backstage lights flickered. A low rumble of the crowd gathering beyond the curtain sent a wave of electricity through the air.

Thane looked around at his patched-up, over-caffeinated, emotionally-frayed band.

“Places in five.”

Back alley behind The Throttle Room – Tulsa, Oklahoma

The loading dock smelled like stale beer and hot pavement. It was 4:07 PM, and load-in was officially behind schedule—just like always.

Cassie leaned against a flight case with a fading “FERAL ECLIPSE – VOCALS” sticker peeling at the corner. She had one boot braced on the side, arms crossed over her mesh tank top, and eyeliner that somehow hadn’t budged since Chicago.

She sipped a half-flat Dr. Pepper and glanced toward the open bay doors. Inside, the unmistakable sound of Thane yelling at a tangled XLR snake echoed through the stage rafters.

“Bet you five bucks he threatens to burn the whole rig by soundcheck,” she said, not looking up.

Jonah, the drummer, perched cross-legged on a bass cab like some ADHD gargoyle, drumming on his knees with two Sharpies. “Oh please. He’s already halfway there. I heard him mutter something about ‘dragging this entire venue to hell by the truss.’”

Cassie snorted. “You’d think a werewolf would have more chill.”

“Thane?” Rico chimed in, emerging from the trailer with a guitar case over one shoulder and sunglasses on indoors. “Dude treats gaff tape like a personal vendetta.”

Just then, a deep growl of frustration from inside made them all glance toward the doorway.

“Three… two… one…” Jonah counted down.

Thane appeared, towering, fur bristled, ice-blue eyes blazing and holding what looked like half a lighting clamp in one clawed hand. “WHO PUT GAFF TAPE ON MY PATCH PANEL?!”

Nobody said anything. From across the dock, Maya didn’t even look up from coiling her own cable. “That was Mark,” she called dryly. “Said it looked ‘emotionally unstable.’”

Rico muttered under his breath, “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

Just then, Mark himself emerged from the shadows near the lighting rig, eyes half-lidded, carrying a coffee that definitely hadn’t come from a venue-approved source.

He looked at them like they were all a disappointment, and said in a perfectly flat tone, “If this truss were a person, I’d sue it for incompetence and general malaise.”

Jonah whispered to Cassie, “I think that’s the most positive thing he’s said all tour.”

Gabriel chose that moment to leap off the loading ramp, two iced coffees in hand and the biggest grin plastered across his muzzle.

“Hey crew! Guess who charmed the barista into a triple shot for free?”

Cassie looked him up and down, still panting slightly from the run, and smirked. “You or the claws?”

“Probably both,” Gabriel replied with a wink, handing one coffee to Thane, who was still radiating unholy rage.

Maya finally stepped into view, swinging her guitar over one shoulder and cracking her neck like a pro wrestler before a match. “If we don’t start load-in in the next five minutes, I’m mutinying and running this band myself.”

Jonah pointed at her with both Sharpies. “Honestly, I’d vote for you.”

“You should,” she said. “I have better hair and I don’t yell at cables.”

Mark raised his mug. “Yet.”

As the sun dropped lower behind the grimy rooftops, the band and the wolves—humans and not-so-humans alike—finally got to work, slamming cases into position, tightening bolts, running lines, and muttering half-sentences under their breath.

In the organized chaos of it all, there was a strange rhythm. A weird, dysfunctional family rhythm made of snarls, sarcastic one-liners, and three musicians who had somehow decided that sharing a tour with werewolves was fine.

Rico strummed a quick riff on his guitar and muttered, “Still better than my last band. No one’s tried to hex anyone yet.”

Cassie shrugged. “Yet.”

And from inside the stage, Thane’s voice rang out again.

“Mark, I SWEAR TO FENRIR if this fog machine tries to kill me again—”

Jonah grinned. “Showtime’s gonna be awesome.”

Tour van, 2:13 AM, somewhere on the highway

The wheels hummed steady beneath them, cutting through the Texas night. Inside the tour van, dim blue LED strip lights cast a quiet glow over empty pizza boxes, half-drained soda cans, and the slowly circulating cloud of airborne glitter that refused to die.

Thane sat in the front seat, laptop open on his lap, trying to update the rigging log. Trying. But every keystroke brought a faint shimmer off the pads of his claws, and the cursor had glitter under it.

Mark was reclined on the opposite bench seat, headphones in, arms crossed, eyes closed. The glitter in his fur sparkled gently every time the cabin lights dimmed. Someone—probably Gabriel—had drawn a smiley face in it on his shoulder. Mark hadn’t noticed yet. Or maybe he had, and was just accepting his fate.

Gabriel, sprawled on the floor in front of the mini fridge, was still laughing every few minutes at absolutely nothing. His tail twitched under the kitchenette table, and he had a glitter mustache that wasn’t coming off until at least Tuesday.

“You’re gonna wake up in like three weeks and find it in your teeth,” Thane muttered, rubbing his face.

Gabriel rolled onto his back and pointed lazily at the ceiling. “I regret nothing.”

Mark opened one eye, slowly. “You should. I sneezed earlier and sparkled like a My Little Pony death scene.”

Gabriel grinned wider. “See? That means it worked.”

Thane sighed, closing the laptop. “At this point, we don’t even need fog machines. We are the fog machines.”

The van hit a bump, and a faint tinkle sounded as a Rocket Gator charm dislodged from the air vent and clinked onto the floor.

Mark didn’t even flinch.

“I’m never trusting either of you again,” he said, voice flat. “Next time we pass a souvenir shop, I’m buying a flamethrower.”

Thane chuckled. “You say that every time.”

“And one day,” Mark whispered darkly, “it’ll be true.”

Gabriel reached for a soda, popped it open, and took a long sip. “Hey Thane?”

“Yeah?”

“Next tour… you think they’d let us shoot glitter into the crowd?”

Thane blinked slowly. “Gabriel.”

“…Yes?”

“You’re sleeping outside.”

Mark raised a hand. “Seconded.”

Gabriel just laughed, rolled onto his side, and curled his tail like a smug cat. “Worth it.”

And so the van rumbled on—three wolves, a metric ton of glitter, and one unforgettable night in the books. Somewhere out there, a stagehand was still coughing up sparkles, and a lighting console would never quite be clean again.

But on the open road, beneath the stars, they were content. Sleepy. Sparkly.

And ready to do it all again.

Post-show, same venue, very late

The set was a hit. The crowd had gone feral. Gabriel had absolutely shredded under a literal spotlight of sparkling fog, and Feral Eclipse walked offstage to a sea of flashing lights, howling fans, and an entire front row covered in gator-shaped glitter flakes.

But now?

Now came the reckoning.

Thane stood at the back of the venue, arms crossed, staring down at one of the subwoofers—completely caked in glitter. Like someone had rolled it in glue and dragged it through a Hobby Lobby.

Nearby, two venue staff stood frozen, holding a shop vac like it was a crucifix warding off a demon.

Mark joined him, sipping his third soda of the night, eyes tired and haunted. His voice came out flat as drywall.

“There’s glitter inside the dimmers.”

Thane winced. “How deep?”

“I sneezed glitter.”

“Oh.”

Mark pointed toward the back riser. “Also, a stray confetti charge got sucked into the intake fan on the hazer. It now produces a fine mist of regret and sparkles.”

Down on stage, a crew member kicked something with a clink. It was a Rocket Gator sticker. Still attached to the inside of a cymbal.

The house lighting op—some poor overworked twenty-something with a nose ring and trauma in her eyes—approached Thane like he owed her money.

“There’s glitter in the motorized yoke.”

Thane blinked. “Like… inside the housing?”

She nodded, defeated. “In the housing. It spins. It… throws glitter now.”

Gabriel appeared from stage left, shirt half untucked, hair floofed from sweat and fog. “Okay, that sounds awesome, not gonna lie.”

Mark didn’t even look at him. “You owe this venue a fruit basket. And maybe a therapy session.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I could sign some posters?”

“You’re gonna be signing warranty forms,” Thane muttered, hands on his hips.

Just then, the front of house assistant wheeled up a bin full of recovered debris—mostly confetti, some gator charms, and at least two small children’s shoes. No explanation.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “Just… don’t.”

Mark sighed and rubbed his temples. “This is why I don’t do joy.”

Gabriel walked up behind him and gently patted his shoulder. “But don’t you feel a little more fabulous now?”

Mark turned slowly. “I have glitter in places I don’t talk about in public.”

Thane started laughing so hard he had to lean against a bass amp.

“Okay,” he gasped, “next time, we clear any glitter-related ideas through the rigging team. And by that, I mean me.”

“Noted,” Gabriel said, absolutely not noting anything.

Behind them, someone turned on a fan.

A glitter cloud rose like a cursed phoenix.

Mark sighed again, deeply.

“This venue is going to blacklist us.”

Gabriel grinned. “But we’ll be remembered.”

Next venue, pre-show setup, 1 hour to curtain

The venue was already buzzing when Thane arrived—crew calling cues, gear still rolling in, the lighting rig humming as Mark began calibrations from FOH. Everything seemed normal.

Too normal.

Gabriel had been suspiciously chipper all day. Not just his usual “excited-to-be-alive” vibe. No… this was a smug kind of chipper. Tail twitching, eyes a little too bright, grinning just a little too much.

Thane knew something was coming. He just didn’t know when.

It happened halfway through line check.

Mark was standing at the lighting board, going through his color presets like clockwork. “Red wash, stage left. Chase pattern, preset three. Spot cue—” he paused. “Wait… why is cue twenty labeled ‘Eternal Sparkle’?”

He hit the button.

Boom.

All house lights dimmed.

Then, from every direction, fog machines kicked on in unison, unleashing a wall of glitter-infused haze that flooded the stage like a disco hurricane. From above, confetti cannons fired—each one loaded with shimmering silver gator-shaped glitter.

A fanfare blared from the PA. Not the band’s opening track. No, no.

It was “Rocket Gator’s Theme Song”, which—somehow—Gabriel had ripped from the gator ride and remixed with club bass.

The lyrics were even worse:

🎶 “Strap in, scream out, let the gator ride begin—
Space and scales, we’re goin’ full sin!” 🎶

Mark froze mid-cue, claws flexing on the board.

Thane, across the stage, dropped his tablet and just stared as a full-on inflatable Rocket Gator slowly rose from behind the amp stack. Seven feet tall. One googly eye askew. Clearly zip-tied to a moving platform.

In the chaos, Gabriel appeared at stage left, arms crossed, grinning like a feral mastermind.

“Too much?” he asked innocently.

Mark turned toward him slowly, face a blank canvas of impending judgment. “You activated every fog unit.”

Gabriel beamed. “I coordinated the DMX patterns myself. Thane wouldn’t let me blow up pyro, so this was plan B.”

Mark blinked, glancing toward the lighting rack now coated in sparkly residue. “There is glitter in my gobos. You glittered my gobos.”

Thane finally spoke, wheezing. “I am both horrified and so, so proud of you.”

Gabriel sauntered up and gave Thane a soft shoulder bump. “What can I say? If I’m going down, I’m dragging you both into fabulous, shiny hell with me.”

Mark looked at the inflated gator, deadpan. “I’m going to feed that thing to a real alligator.”

“No need,” Gabriel said. “It’s inflatable and biodegradable.”

There was a long pause.

Mark just muttered, “You planned that.”

“Of course I did.”

Thane wiped tears from his eyes again, claws resting on his toolbelt. “Okay, okay. Gator war truce. After this, nobody touches fog machines or sticker budgets without a permit.”

Gabriel raised a clawed hand solemnly. “Agreed.”

Mark raised his coffee. “Temporary ceasefire. Pending terms.”

Next night, backstage at the new venue, two hours before showtime

The venue was a serious step up from the last one—high ceilings, clean dressing rooms, freshly waxed floors, and stage rigging that didn’t look like it might fall apart with a strong gust of bass. Thane was perched up on a catwalk above stage left, fine-tuning a stubborn lighting anchor while the crew buzzed below like caffeinated ants.

Mark had been uncharacteristically quiet during load-in. Not the good kind of quiet either—the intentional kind. Thane had noticed, of course, but with all the tech checks and patch corrections going on, he hadn’t had time to dig into it.

Then Gabriel’s voice crackled over comms.

“Thane? Uh… did you mess with the dressing room?”

Thane furrowed his brow. “No, I’ve been up here the whole time. Why?”

“Then… you should probably come see this.”

Thane climbed down and made his way to the dressing room, passing through the familiar backstage maze of cables, dim light, and low conversation. As he stepped into the doorway, he stopped cold.

The entire room was plastered—plastered—with Rocket Gator stickers.

They were everywhere: on the walls, the mirrors, the ceiling tiles, the backs of chairs. Even Gabriel’s prized guitar case had stickers inside it, including one right over the logo that read “RIDE THE ROCKET, COWARD.” Another one near the coffee station simply said “GATOR SEES ALL.”

Gabriel stood in the middle of the chaos, holding up one of the stickers between two claws like it was radioactive. His fur bristled as he scanned the carnage, wide-eyed.

“This is a hate crime,” he muttered.

Thane stared in awe, then slowly broke into a grin. It was beautiful. It was unhinged. It was exactly the kind of calculated, spite-fueled vengeance Mark specialized in.

And then he saw it—the crown jewel of the scene.

A framed poster, lit perfectly by a soft white spotlight, hung dead center on the wall. It showed all three of them on the Rocket Chomp Coaster, snapped mid-scream by the on-ride camera. Gabriel’s ears were pinned back. Thane looked mid-howl. And Mark?

Mark looked dead into the camera.

Expressionless. Unbothered. Like the gator ride was a business meeting he didn’t schedule but had shown up to anyway.

That broke Thane. He doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

Just then, Mark walked in, clipboard under one arm, casual as ever.

“Sound check’s in twenty,” he said, brushing past them. “Oh—and Gabriel, I added Rocket Gator charms to your guitar strings. Gotta keep the theme consistent.”

Gabriel sputtered. “You touched my guitar?!”

“I wore gloves.”

Thane leaned on the wall, tears in his eyes. “You magnificent bastard…”

Mark glanced over, tail flicking once. “That’ll teach you both to drag me to a cursed neon gator hellscape.”

Gabriel pointed at him, incredulous. “This means war.”

Mark simply nodded, already turning to leave. “I look forward to it.”

One hour later, somewhere between Amarillo and nowhere useful

Thane should’ve known it was coming.

The moment Gabriel pressed his muzzle to the van window and let out a howl of pure delight, the possibility of peace vanished into the Texas wind.

“GUYS—‘Gatorland Galaxy: Home of the World’s Largest Taxidermy Reptile Rocket Ride!!’—EXIT 247! WE’RE GOING.”

Thane was halfway through checking rigging supply emails and coasting in a haze of post-diner exhaustion. Mark sat beside him, sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking like a furry, very dead executive en route to the underworld.

“We’re what now?” Thane asked flatly, not even bothering to hide the dread in his voice.

Gabriel was already unbuckling and leaning between the seats like an overgrown puppy. “Thane. Thane. The sign has a gator in a space helmet. I need this in my soul.”

Mark, still unmoving: “Leave me behind. Tell my story.”

But it was already too late. Gabriel took the exit like a man on a mission from chaos.

---

Fifteen minutes later…

The three of them stood before the gates of Gatorland Galaxy, a roadside atrocity that hadn’t been updated since 1993 and looked like it had survived a small tornado and a government coverup.

The attractions included:

• A six-foot animatronic alligator in a foil jumpsuit that wheezed “WELCOME TO SPACE!” every few seconds.
• Faded posters advertising a live gator feeding that turned out to be a sunburned man tossing hot dogs into a kiddie pool.
• A ride called the Rocket Chomp Coaster, clearly made from repurposed barn parts and sketchy ambition.
• And a cotton candy stand that, for some reason, also sold boiled peanuts and used VHS tapes.

Mark stared up at the rickety “space rocket” ride, arms crossed, completely deadpan. “This is how we die. This is my final form: pancaked by a neon gator rocket.”

Gabriel, naturally, was already dual-wielding a souvenir gator-head drink cup and two massive bags of neon green cotton candy. “THIS. IS. AWESOME.”

Thane just sighed. “We’ve got load-in at 4:00.”

Gabriel tossed him a gator hat without breaking stride. “We’ve got memories now.”

Mark tried one of the boiled peanuts, chewed once, stared into the void, and muttered, “I think this is how time breaks.”

Eventually, Gabriel talked them both into riding the coaster. Thane sat in the back, holding his rigging bag like an emotional support pack. Mark screamed once. Just once. And Thane made a mental note to never let him live it down.

---

Later, at the exit…

The three of them stumbled out of the Galactic Gift Barn like shell-shocked survivors, clutching knockoff T-shirts, gator-shaped stickers, and a deep, lingering sense of regret.

Back in the van, as Gabriel climbed behind the wheel with manic glee and fired up the engine, Mark leaned over to Thane, eyes hollow.

“I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about load-in days,” he said, voice flat. “I didn’t know true suffering until I met Rocket Gator.”

Thane laughed so hard his claws cramped.

Early morning, roadside diner just outside Amarillo

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. A faint pink glow spread across the dusty Texas sky like a tired yawn. Thane, Gabriel, and Mark sat huddled in a cracked vinyl booth inside The Saddle & Griddle—an ancient greasy spoon that smelled like burned bacon, black coffee, and twenty years of crushed dreams.

The waitress had called everyone “honey,” hadn’t blinked at Gabriel’s claws, and had already brought a full pot of coffee before anyone even asked. She clearly knew the type.

Mark sat across from the other two, fur slightly rumpled, blue polo shirt wrinkled from the long drive, and a sour look on his muzzle that screamed he’d been awake since before the concept of mercy. He stirred three creamers into his coffee with the lifeless precision of a man surviving on sheer caffeine and spite.

Gabriel, bright-eyed as always—even after a full night riding shotgun in the van—flipped through the laminated menu like it was a treasure map.

“Ooh, hey! ‘Lone Star Stack’—eight pancakes, eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast. You think it’s named after an actual star or just the state?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “It’s named after the inevitable heart attack.”

Thane smirked behind his chipped mug. “He’s not wrong.”

Gabriel grinned at Mark. “Come on, old wolf. You need something greasy to bring you back to life.”

Mark sighed with the weight of the world and set down his spoon like it had personally wronged him. “I’m beyond saving. Just let me fade into the booth upholstery.”

Their waitress—name tag Ruby, hair up in a shellacked bun that looked structurally reinforced—returned with a pen poised. “Y’all figured out what you want?”

Mark pointed at the menu without lifting his head. “Whatever has the fewest moving parts and the lowest emotional investment. And no melon.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So… eggs, toast, bacon. Black coffee. No drama.”

Mark finally looked up and gave a single solemn nod. “That. Exactly that.”

Gabriel ordered the Lone Star Stack, obviously, and Thane went for the skillet scramble with extra hot sauce—because sleep-deprived werewolf techs run on protein and spite.

As Ruby walked off, Mark leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. “You know what’s sad? This isn’t even the worst diner we’ve ever been in.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean the one in Tulsa where the table collapsed under your plate?”

“No,” Mark said, deadpan. “The one in Kansas where the ‘meatloaf’ tried to bite me back.”

Thane chuckled. “I still say that wasn’t meatloaf. That was punishment.”

“Whatever it was,” Mark muttered, “it had an agenda.”

The food arrived fast, clearly slapped together by a cook who didn’t care if his customers were famous, cursed, or undead. The bacon was crisp, the eggs hot, and the toast didn’t scream when stabbed. Honestly, that was good enough.

As they ate, conversation drifted into that cozy, blurry space between exhaustion and the next caffeine hit. Mark stayed quiet, as usual, but every now and then dropped a one-liner that had Gabriel snorting coffee or Thane choking on toast.

By the time plates were cleared, Mark was still tired, still cynical—but his shoulders had eased. Just a little.

Ruby returned with the check and a wink. “Y’all drive safe now. And you,” she said to Mark, “smile once in a while, huh?”

Mark, unblinking: “I’ll put it on the schedule.”

Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “He’s actually in a great mood.”

Thane grinned. “I know. He only made two apocalypse jokes today.”

Mark, already sipping his refill, mumbled without looking up: “The day is still young.”

Later that night, parking lot empty, the venue silent

The last road case clicked shut.

The gear truck was locked and latched, rigging tools stowed, cables coiled tight. The venue lights had gone dark, and the world felt hushed in that strange, sacred way it only does after a storm — after noise, lights, and fire have all faded.

Thane stood beside the truck, arms resting on the lift gate, fur still ruffled in places from the long night. Gabriel leaned nearby, one bare clawed foot propped up on a low bumper rail, absently picking at the edge of a backstage wristband. The lot was empty except for them, washed in pale moonlight and the faint orange glow from a distant security light.

Neither spoke for a while.

There was no need.

Eventually, Gabriel glanced over. “You good?”

Thane nodded slowly, then sighed. “I am now.”

Gabriel tilted his head slightly. “Rough show?”

“Rough gear,” Thane corrected. “Rough crew. Rough venue. But the show was fire. You were fire.”

Gabriel gave a half-smile. “We all were.”

“Maybe,” Thane said, turning toward him. “But you were the spark.”

Gabriel met his gaze — icy blue locking with icy blue. “Only because you made sure everything around me didn’t fall apart.”

A soft wind moved through the lot, brushing their fur, carrying the faint scent of hot asphalt and fading applause. Gabriel stepped closer, arms loose at his sides. His nose brushed Thane’s again, slow and tender this time. Thane closed his eyes and leaned into it, one clawed hand lifting to rest gently against Gabriel’s side.

The moment lingered.

No music. No roar of the crowd. Just the quiet rhythm of two hearts cooling down from the same storm.

“I love you, Thane” Gabriel murmured.

Thane’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know. I got you. Always.”

They stayed there, pressed together in the silence, no longer stage tech and rockstar, no longer gearhead and headliner — just two wolves under the moon, leaning on each other, holding the night still for just a little longer.

And when they finally pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They just walked, side by side, claws softly tapping the pavement, fading into the darkness together.

Outside the venue, behind the gear truck, well past midnight

The energy from the crowd had finally faded into the distance, replaced by the low rumble of road cases and the clack of boot soles across the pavement. The crisp night air carried a mix of ozone, diesel exhaust, and faint traces of sweat and fried food from the nearby concessions that hadn’t been cleaned up yet.

Thane stood at the open tail of the Feral Eclipse gear truck, clipboard in one clawed hand, grease pencil in the other. The rigging box sat open beside him, tools neatly arranged despite the chaos earlier. A pair of damaged cable runs lay across the loading ramp like limp snakes, and one of the rear par cans was hanging crooked in its cradle, waiting to be logged.

His fur was still slightly damp along his shoulders, light gray strands catching the moonlight. He jotted a note with practiced efficiency:

– Replace left-side lift chain (sticking again)
– Re-wire rig 4 junction, possible short in DIN plug
– Gabriel’s main vocal input channel: intermittent dropout under heat

A familiar set of footfalls crunched lightly on the gravel behind him.

“Hey,” Gabriel said quietly.

Thane didn’t turn, but the twitch of his ears said he heard him.

“You hiding out?” Gabriel added, stepping closer. He had changed into a dry black tee and was barefoot now—large clawed feet quiet as they padded across the asphalt. His bass was nowhere in sight, finally tucked away in its case.

“Not hiding,” Thane replied, still scribbling. “Just trying to stay ahead of next week’s meltdown.”

Gabriel gave a soft chuckle and leaned his shoulder against the side of the truck. “You really don’t slow down, do you?”

“Only when things aren’t on fire.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Gabriel said, “I saw you shield me back there. With the fans.”

Thane finally paused, pencil hovering in midair. “Yeah, well… I didn’t do it for applause.”

“I know. That’s why it means more.”

Thane glanced over at him now, eyes softening.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said. “Even with the mic going out, even with half the rig misbehaving—you held it together.”

Gabriel looked down briefly, then back up with a small grin. “Because I knew you and Mark had me. Like always.”

A low hum rumbled in Thane’s chest—a sound not quite a purr, but something close. He stepped down from the loading ramp and came to stand beside Gabriel, clipboard tucked under one arm.

Without a word, he reached out and nudged Gabriel’s nose with his own—just a slow, warm press, fur to fur. Gabriel closed his eyes and leaned into it, their foreheads touching for a brief moment in the hush of the night.

“I don’t say it enough,” Thane murmured, “but I’m proud of you. Every damn night.”

Gabriel smiled, one arm slipping briefly around Thane’s back. “And I’m proud to have my wolf out here with me. Even if you do snarl at everyone.”

Thane chuckled, then tapped the clipboard against Gabriel’s chest. “Help me finish logging this gear and I’ll consider not snarling at you for the rest of the night.”

Gabriel laughed. “No promises. But I’ll carry the rigging box if you buy me a pizza.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

They turned back to the truck, claws clicking softly on the metal ramp, working side by side under the soft yellow glow of the loading dock light—tired, a little sore, but grounded in the quiet kind of love that didn’t need an audience.

Backstage, moments after the final encore

The house lights came up to a roar. The crowd was still buzzing—sweaty, wide-eyed, and euphoric from the thunder Feral Eclipse had just brought down. Gabriel had just walked off stage, sweat-drenched and grinning, his bass slung over his back like a war trophy.

Thane was already waiting at the bottom of the ramp, towel slung over one shoulder, headset around his neck, his fur a little singed-smelling from too much time near the dimmer racks.

Mark stood nearby with his clipboard, watching the lighting rig slowly return to standby mode. He already had a soda cracked open and looked ready to throttle the next intern who bumped into the patch bay.

Before anyone could say a word, the side door to the loading area burst open.

A human fan—probably late twenties, glitter-streaked and wide-eyed—barreled straight toward Gabriel.

“OH MY GOD,” she gasped, waving a homemade sign that read “FERAL DADDY” in neon paint. “YOU’RE REAL. YOU’RE ACTUALLY REAL.”

Gabriel froze mid-towel swipe, eyes going wide. “Uh—hey?”

More fans followed. Dozens of them. Word had clearly spread backstage like wildfire.

“He was playing with CLAWS!”

“He howled into the mic during the solo—I swear I felt that in my soul!”

Security was late to react, caught between amusement and chaos. A few crew members tried to redirect the surge, but it was too late.

Gabriel, overwhelmed, looked to Thane and Mark like a cornered animal.

“Uh… guys?”

Thane stepped between Gabriel and the fan hoard like a brick wall, claws flexed just a little—not threatening, but clear.

“All right, everybody take a breath,” he said, projecting full Dad-Wolf energy. “You want autographs, line starts over there. If you want a chunk of fur, try eBay. And if you even think about touching his tail, I will bite back.”

The crowd actually listened—somewhat stunned, definitely impressed.

Mark, from off to the side, muttered, “You should’ve put that on a T-shirt.”

One brave kid in a band tee pointed at Gabriel, eyes wide. “Is he, like… a real werewolf?”

Gabriel tilted his head and gave them a sly grin, one fang just showing. “What do you think?”

The kid’s jaw dropped. “COOLEST. BAND. EVER.”

Thane rolled his eyes, but he was grinning now. “Yeah yeah, move along, rockstars. Some of us gotta strike the stage.”

As the crowd began to shuffle into selfie mode and merch tables, Mark took a long sip of soda and muttered, “Remind me to triple up the barricades next time.”

“Or just bring silver rope,” Thane replied, deadpan.

Gabriel looked over, still catching his breath, tail flicking behind him. “I think I’m gonna need a nap.”

Thane clapped a clawed hand on his shoulder. “You earned it, my wolf.”

Mid-set, peak energy, trouble brewing

Feral Eclipse was tearing it up.

The human band was in full beast mode—drums pounding like war calls, guitar riffs slicing through the summer air. Gabriel, the only non-human on stage, was a storm of muscle and motion. He moved like a force of nature, claws gliding over the neck of his bass, sharp teeth flashing every time he threw his head back into the lights.

From the sound booth near stage right, Thane stood with claws poised over the console, eyes narrowed behind a pair of monitor glasses. Everything was running smooth—until it wasn’t.

A light sizzle in the left sub. Then a loud pop in the drum overheads. And suddenly, Gabriel’s vocals dropped out of the front mix.

Thane’s ears snapped forward, fur bristling. “Oh, hell no.”

His claws flew across the board, fingers dancing through the aux sends, rerouting gain, isolating the dead channel. But before he could patch it through a backup, one of the rear rig lights popped—right above Gabriel.

Whumph.

Backstage, on the elevated lighting riser, Mark was already on it. His brow furrowed as his clawed fingers flew over the digital board, killing the voltage to the back rig to prevent a cascade. His voice crackled in Thane’s headset.

“Thane—overhead rig four just shorted. I’ve got backup spots online. You good on your end?”

“Trying to reroute lead vox now,” Thane growled back. “He’s dry in the mains. I’m sending him up on a side mix. Hang tight.”

Back on stage, Gabriel didn’t miss a beat. Despite the sudden loss of lights and lead mic, he adjusted like a pro—drawing even more energy from the crowd, switching to backup mic mid-verse with a practiced snarl.

From the booth, Thane routed the new path just in time for Gabriel’s voice to cut through the house again, raw and glorious, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

Mark dimmed the rear wash, brought up a cool amber chase on Gabriel, and sighed. “That’s better.”

Thane exhaled, claws flexing as the levels steadied. “Remind me to buy that wolf a drink later.”

From his post, Mark smirked. “He just saved our asses with style. Crowd thinks it was part of the show.”

As the band surged into their next track, both wolves leaned back for half a second—just enough to catch their breath.

Thane: “You see the power rack flicker earlier?”

Mark: “Yeah. We’re running hot. We need new distro before next tour. Or a miracle.”

Thane (grinning): “Gabriel might be the miracle.”

They both chuckled—then got right back to it, because the beast never rests, and the show always goes on.