Soundcheck – 5:12 PM – The Throttle Room, Tulsa

Inside the dim, echoing venue, chaos had matured into its final form: full-blown soundcheck.

Thane stood at the front of house, icy eyes squinting at a sea of glowing signal lights that should have all been green… but weren’t. His clawed fingers hovered above the board like a predator deciding which channel to maul first.

On stage, Jonah was in a drum-induced trance, hammering out an unnecessarily aggressive soundcheck solo that sounded like someone beating a metal trash can full of raccoons.

“Jonah!” Thane barked into the com. “I said kick drum, not war crimes in F minor!”

“I’m setting the mood!” Jonah called back. “You want energy or not?”

Mark stood at the lighting desk, index finger poised over a cue button, jaw clenched so hard you could’ve used it to cut glass. The VariLites had just decided they were unionized and on break, one was strobing in protest, and another was spinning lazily in an endless barrel roll like it had given up on life.

Rico was tuning, not really to any specific note—just plucking and turning knobs like a DJ looking for a vibe. Cassie tapped her mic and said, “Check one, check one, check—this smells like old soup in here. Is that normal?”

Maya was leaning into her amp, one hand wrapped around the neck of her guitar, unleashing a soundcheck riff so filthy it might’ve actually insulted someone’s mother.

“I’m getting feedback,” she shouted.

Thane slammed the solo button on channel 14. “You’re not getting feedback, your amp is trying to communicate with the spirit realm.”

From the back, Gabriel—sipping a comically large coffee with “HELLO I’M A PROBLEM” scribbled on the cup—called out with a grin, “Everything sounds great back here!”

Cassie turned. “Of course it does, bass players never get complaints.”

Gabriel raised a brow. “Because we’re the glue, baby.”

“You’re glue in that you’re sticky and inexplicably everywhere,” Maya shot back.

Mark, not looking up from his console, added: “Also he smells like tape.”

Rico struck a chord that screeched like a banshee.

“Okay!” Thane roared over the din, now holding an XLR cable in one hand and what appeared to be a chicken nugget someone had left on the power amp. “If anyone else touches anything, I will personally rewire this entire rig using your nervous systems as patch cable.”

A brief silence fell. Somewhere, a single monitor whined pitifully.

Cassie cleared her throat. “So… do we do the encore now or later?”

Mark sighed so hard the fog machine accidentally triggered. “I am one flickering light cue away from walking into the river.”

Thane grabbed his com mic. “Gabriel, level check.”

Gabriel slung his bass into place and played a clean, low E that filled the room like thunder through a cave. He looked at Thane with a wink.

Thane’s eye twitched.

“…Level’s fine.”

Mark finally hit a working light cue. Six VL2Bs bathed the stage in a glorious red haze. The smoke curled around the amps, the glow caught Maya’s pick mid-riff, and for one brief, shining moment—Feral Eclipse looked like an actual, professional touring band.

Then Jonah shouted, “Let’s do ‘Silver Fangs’ from the top!” and accidentally hit a crash so hard it shut off half the stage power.

Cassie blinked. “Is that… supposed to happen?”

Thane just stood still, cable dangling from one clawed hand, and muttered, “Why do I even have surge protectors…”

Gabriel raised his coffee cup and toasted the static-laced silence. “Soundcheck complete!”