The bus hummed softly as it rolled into the desert night.
Most of the pack had crashed in their bunks—Thane already curled up in the tech den with his tablet, Mark snoring quietly behind a closed curtain, Jonah mumbling in his sleep about drum fills and churros.
Gabriel lingered alone at the small side table in the front lounge, the lights dimmed low. He had the vintage pick in front of him—Eli’s old Iron Reign tour relic. It looked tiny against his black-furred claws, but it felt like it carried the weight of every solo ever played on stadium stages under moonlight.
He gently placed it inside a small black road case he kept tucked in a hidden panel under the bench—just big enough for things that mattered. Things with soul.
A crumpled photo. A broken string with a knot in the middle. A backstage pass from Feral Eclipse’s very first bar gig. And now, this pick.
The case clicked shut with a soft snick.
“You gonna sleep with that thing?” came a voice from the driver’s seat.
Diesel didn’t turn around—just leaned back in his captain’s chair, one hand still on the wheel, his signature trucker hat shadowing his eyes.
Gabriel chuckled. “Might. It’s got energy, you know? It buzzes. Like it still wants to play.”
Diesel grinned. “Eli gave you the ‘94 pick, didn’t he?”
Gabriel looked up, surprised. “You know it?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Diesel said, eyes still on the road. “That thing’s got stories. That tour? Iron Reign’s Nightfire Tour? I was drivin’ the crew bus back then. Packed with lighting techs and pyro guys who all thought they were gods of thunder.”
“No way.”
“Oh, yeah. Eli lost that pick three times on that run. Once in a hotel pool, once in a girl’s bra—I’m not kidding — and once inside a taco shell at 3AM. I think their tour manager nearly had a stroke when he found it stuffed in the pocket of a denim jacket three states later.”
Gabriel howled with laughter, tail thumping against the seat.
“He ever tell you about the backstage poker game in Detroit?”
Gabriel perked up. “No?”
“Ask him next time. Let’s just say he once bet a gold-top Les Paul and lost it to their lighting guy. That guitar’s still hanging in a barbecue joint in Michigan.”
Gabriel stared, slack-jawed. “What?!”
Diesel grinned wider. “Whole lotta chaos behind those solos, wolf boy. You’re walkin’ the same road now. Just… try not to lose that pick in a taco, yeah?”
Gabriel looked down at the closed case again, then back at the glowing highway stretching out in front of them.
“Don’t worry,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll keep it safe.”
Diesel nodded once. “Good. Someday some punk bassist’s gonna say you were the reason they picked up an instrument. Might as well give ‘em a story worth telling.”