The documentary crew showed up with matching polo shirts, clipboards, and the air of people who had clearly never toured with a band like Feral Eclipse.

Their director—a serious guy named Brennan with perfectly coifed hair and a rigid moral spine—shook hands with Thane and muttered something about “capturing authentic artistry” and “demystifying the creative journey.”

Thane blinked at him. “Sure. Just try not to stand in front of the subwoofers.”

They nodded, smiled, and wheeled in three Pelican cases full of camera gear.
By hour two, they regretted everything.

The first day’s shoot began backstage at a modest arena. Brennan prepped his team to capture “candid pre-show tension.” What they got instead was:

  • Jonah juggling drumsticks while loudly narrating fake cooking shows in a Julia Child voice.
  • Cassie leading a five-person argument about which band member would survive longest in a zombie apocalypse (Gabriel kept insisting he was the zombie apocalypse).
  • Rico shirtless, under a table, trying to solder a broken cable while Maya shouted, “Use the heat of your rage!”
  • Thane in the rafters, calmly zip-tying a dangling truss cable while muttering, “It’s fine. I do this sober, which is more than other sound guys can say.”

Gabriel?
Gabriel was skateboarding down the loading dock ramp, holding a donut in his mouth like a victorious wolf pup.

The first official interview attempt started with a boom mic dipping too close to Mark. He stared at it like it had committed a felony.

“I don’t do questions,” he said flatly.

Brennan gently pushed. “But we’d love your insight into the emotional core of the band’s lighting design—”

Mark just walked away.

Later, Brennan caught Gabriel in a quiet moment tuning his bass.

“So Gabriel,” he said, hopeful. “Tell us… what does it mean to be the only werewolf in a band of humans?”

Gabriel looked up, thought for a moment, and said, “It means never having to worry about who’s going to eat the last burrito.”

Brennan waited.

Gabriel blinked innocently. “Oh, was that not deep enough? Okay. Here’s the real answer: it means I get all the cool merch designs and I can sniff out bad tour catering from the parking lot.”

He winked. The sound tech behind Brennan snorted into her mic pack.

That night, they tried to film a “wind-down moment” at the hotel.

Instead, the crew caught:

  • Maya arm-wrestling a fan on a dare (she won).
  • Jonah playing a kazoo version of Blood Moon Revival through a megaphone.
  • Gabriel leaping from bed to bed in the suite like a sugar-high golden retriever.
  • Thane calmly fixing the coffee maker, again, while muttering, “I swear I will replace every outlet in this room.”

They kept asking Thane to sit for a formal interview.
He kept handing them schedules, safety checklists, and half-eaten protein bars.

Eventually, Brennan sat on a flight case in the middle of soundcheck and whispered, “I thought this was going to be like a Fleetwood Mac documentary…”

Mark walked by, sipping a soda.

“Nope,” he said. “This is a Looney Tunes documentary.”

Still… they kept filming.

Because somewhere in the chaos, in the howl-soaked shows and lightning-strike solos, the crew started to get it.

They caught Cassie crying backstage after a perfect vocal take.
They filmed Gabriel slipping a backstage pass to a teen too nervous to ask.
They captured Thane quietly coiling cables long after the fans had gone home.
They watched Mark cue up a lighting rig with the gentleness of a priest tending candles.
And they realized… this wasn’t madness. This was pack.

Weeks later, Brennan stood behind the camera watching the band finish a set in front of fifty thousand screaming fans.

Gabriel stood at the edge of the stage, shirt gone, fur slicked with sweat and moonlight, bass slung low. He raised a clawed hand to the crowd… and the entire field howled in return.

Brennan turned to his assistant and whispered, “…this is going to win a damn Emmy.”

Gabriel turned just slightly toward the camera, grinning with fangs.

“Y’all get my good side?” he growled.

And the camera guy fainted.