19-Zach
The sun hasn’t even risen and it’s already too warm.
Hot tar and diesel fumes stink up the depot. Engines hum, and gear clatters as it’s loaded, creating a chaotic burst of color behind my lids.
I toss my suitcase into the back of Livewire’s custom-remodeled cargo van, the wheels thudding against the floor. It’s cluttered with cameras, cables, tripods, and hard drives, but it’s my and Coop’s home away; the only place that feels remotely safe since everything else in my life fell apart.
We’re leaving LA for Vegas, where Somnium will kick off the tour tonight.
Then we’re traveling east before we head up the coast. We’ll make our way back west along the northern states before ending back here in the city for the final two nights.
Forty-one shows in twelve weeks is insane, but so is the music industry.
Somnium released their fifth album, and it dominated the charts within hours. There are whispers of multiple nominations throughout the music circuit, though it’s too early to know for sure. When the tour and inevitable documentary was announced, presale sold out in minutes.
Minutes.
People are calling it historic. That terrifies me, because historic means there is a shit-ton to lose. I keep imagining every possible way I can screw this up, making the band I love hate me—more than their fearless leader already does.
My fingers tremble as I reach for my necklace. I flip it around with my thumb, the tiny fragments of powder and ash sparkling in the waking sun. Pieces of home with me always.
“Did you sleep?” Cooper asks, side-eyeing me as he hoists another camera case into the van. His long hair’s tied back, a few locs draping over his shoulders as he moves. “You look like crap.”
“Well, good thing I’ll be behind the camera, then,” I say through a yawn.
“I’ll take the first leg,” he says, sliding the door shut. “I know how easily you fall asleep in the car.”
“It’s a medical condition,” I insist.
He chuckles, spinning the keys around his pointer. “Or a clever way to get out of driving.”
“Until I fall asleep at the wheel and drive us off a cliff.”
“Yeah, yeah, Michigan, you were raised on tractors in the cornfields. We get it. No need to drive the freeways.”
“Screw you.” I laugh, smacking his arm. “I’m from Wisconsin.”
“My darling girl!” Pamrata calls from across the lot.
She’s impossible to miss. With her ridiculously high platform boots, she’s nearly six feet.
Her thick braid sways across her back as we run toward one another.
Glitter liner shimmers along her waterline as it catches the morning sun.
When she stops before me, I put my palms together and bow my head until the tip of my nose touches the tops of my fingers, just like she taught me.
Pamrata returns the gesture, then scoops me up and spins me.
Warm sandalwood and jasmine yank me straight back to nights on the Masonary tour, sharing sappy stories before leaning on each other for comfort.
Liane and Whitney trail behind her, dragging their suitcases over the half-filled potholes.
Liane reaches me first, the giant wheels on her beige-leather luggage skidding to an abrupt end.
“Hey, Mama,” I murmur as we embrace. “How’s baby Ronnie?”
Liane has a softness to her short stature that makes me want to hug her forever. She smells of dandelion fields, like a sunny summer’s day.
“He’s been yappin’ non-stop, babe,” she says, swiping her blunt blonde bob from her face. “I’ve gotta show you. You’re ridin’ with us, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re coming with us, no question.” Whitney lifts her mirrored aviator sunglasses to reveal her fiery brown gaze. “We’ve got loads to catch up on!”
Whit grabs my hands as she practically bounces into me. The distinct, citrusy bite of energy drinks fills the space between us, mixing with her amber, almond, and vanilla. It’s like Christmas as a kid, or how TV portrayed it, at least. Baked goods and home.
“And what about me?” Cooper calls from across the lot as he locks up the van. “I thought we had a connection, ladies.”
“Ayyo, get a load of this one.” Whitney says, stalking toward him with open arms. “Proper grown after a year, beard and all.”
“Cooper! Namaste.” Pamrata and he exchange bowed greetings. She cups his goatee-lined chin with both hands, inspecting him. “Good to see you, love.”
Cooper blushes, his cool umber cheeks darkening. “Good to see you too, Babygirl.”
“Pam, we’ve not even pulled out the bloody car park and you’re already eyein’ up the crew? Behave yerself,” a scratchy voice calls from behind me in a heavy Scottish accent.
With broad shoulders that are going to rip his black leather vest apart at the seams, Seth Syed-McFadden, aka Quatour, is impossible to miss.
Tattoos are inked throughout the tanned, cool-sepia skin, crawling up his hairy hands and arms in geometric patterns.
A pleated kilt sways across his knees as he saunters toward us in combat boots that have definitely been through some shit.
“This is Cooper, and this is Zach,” Liane says as Seth approaches, gesturing between us.
“Ahlan,” Seth greets with a bow to his head, placing his palms together haphazardly while he holds the strap of his oversized duffle bag.
“It’s truly an honor to meet you,” I say, beaming as I return the gesture.
His big hand swallows mine. It’s warm and calloused, rough from guitar strings and sketching.
Seth and Silver have other projects outside of Somnium, so they aren’t sticklers about their identities.
I’ve seen plenty of pictures, but he’s even more charming in person, with wide onyx eyes that crinkle at the corners when his boyish smirk appears.
“Aye, you’re a bonnie wee dish, love,” he says, his movie-star grin widening. “Makes the next few months of our own noise a bit less grim.”
Louanne, known to the world as Duae, strides toward us with a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
Her other hand drags an embossed leather suitcase across the lot.
Chunks of cropped dark hair are pinned back from her oversized sunglasses, the white rim and square-shaped lenses resembling an animated fly.
“Zachary,” she chirps, kissing both of my cheeks as we hug. She steps back, her tiny forehead creasing as she no doubt assesses me beneath those glasses. “Good to see ya, love.”
“That’s my father,” I remind her, winking. “Just Zach, or really anything else.”
“Oi, right. I’m a proper—” She reaches for my necklace, her emerald and gold wedding band cradling the vial as she holds it. “Where’d you get this? It looks just like K—”
“I already miss my clawfoot tub,” a tenor-pitched voice exclaims in a crispy posh accent, and Louanne drops the vial as I turn to face her twin.
A striped designer suitcase rolls behind Silver, also known as Tria, the glossy monogram and gold-plated hardware catching the dawn.
Tailored black dress pants drape down their mile-long legs, a silky cream blouse tucked in its waistband, unbuttoned to expose their sculpted upper body.
A long charcoal trenchcoat hangs from their narrow shoulders like a cape.
They’re dressed for a runway, not a stinky old tour bus.
“H-hi,” I stammer as Silver takes my hand, nearly forgetting how to breathe.
Unlike their twin, Silver’s eyes are more gunmetal than sea. They’re unreal. Ethereal. Their sleek, silver-blond strands frame their face perfectly, the rest of it settling past their shoulders in blown-out twists.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, covering my mouth. “I’m definitely not being professional right now.”
My nerves buzz like live wires under my skin.
“Ah.” Silver tilts their head, an amused smirk forming as they consider me. “You truly are a fan?”
“Are you kidding me?” Cooper jumps in before I can deny my fixation, pointing at me with both hands. “Dude, she’s obsessed. Like, full on Somnium encyclopedia. She pitched the whole concept.”
“Cooper,” I groan, dragging my hand down my seared face.
“Aye, she’s blushin.” Seth hooks an arm around me and tugs me into his massive bicep. “That’s sweet, hen.”
Cooper snickers, pointing at me again. “She’s like—”
I smack the back of his head before he can finish.
“You are quite charming,” Silver says, glinting with a quiet, Loki-like mischief I want to explore. “I can see why Kit’s so stroppy about you.”
Hearing Kit’s name casually without him around feels like stepping over a line I don’t have permission to cross. We haven’t spoken in months, and I can’t help but think that’s intentional on his part.
“Judas to me,” I say curtly. They exchange a look, something unspoken passing between them like a silent current. “I don’t want to step on his toes any more than I already have.”
“Speak of the devil,” Liane murmurs as her gaze flicks past me and over my shoulder.
I turn, following Liane’s stare. Toward the far edge of the depot, a black town car rolls to a stop.
The backseat door on the driver’s side opens, and Judas steps out like a shadow peeling itself from the interior.
A large, beast of a man steps out behind him and shuts the door before tapping the metal roof, one of those light-up fidget spinners twirling in his other hand.
Judas moves toward the big bus quickly, posture rigid and shoulders tense as he practically yanks his suitcase along.
Huge black sunglasses swallow his eyes. A black cap is pulled down to his brows, the brim cutting a line through the upper half of his face while the bottom half stays hidden behind a black surgical mask.
His hood hugs the sides of his jaw, making sure not to expose any skin.
Static rolls off him, that prickly, electric discomfort of standing too close to a downed power line. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the transport like a turtle in its shell.
“Kit seems chipper,” Pamrata says dryly, arching a brow. “Shame, I wanted to make some proper introductions.”
“Come on, lads, let’s round up, yeah?” Greg pops his head out of the bus Ki—Judas vanished into. “We got a long drive ahead.”
Everyone gives their goodbyes and disperse toward their respective buses. Pamrata lingers a step behind, glancing at Cooper and me.
“Don’t take his behavior personally, yeah? He’ll give you what you need.”
Fiery stubbornness rises in me. I’m not going to tip-toe around my damn job. If Judas wants to glower at me from behind the lens as I shove a camera in his face, he can do it while I stand ten toes down. I’m done shrinking to the flippant whims of men. He doesn’t decide whether I belong here.
“He’d better,” I snap. “Because I’m here, and this documentary is happening whether Judas likes it or not.”
The arena’s alive; stretching awake as the crew moves across its floor.
Cold steel and dust fill the air, along with the dated aroma of concessions that leaked into the cracks over the years. Metal risers clatter, instrument cases roll over concrete, and a drill whines from somewhere up in the rafters.
I’m shooting B-roll nonstop; the quiet glue that holds a documentary together.
I climb to the nosebleeds for a wide, sweeping shot.
Lights, sound, crowd, band—every piece matters.
Every crew member is a vital organ in a massive, breathing body.
And I’m the outsider trying to map its anatomy before it shifts again.
Cooper’s already in the rafters setting GPS points for his drones. From the floor, he’s a tiny silhouette against the catwalks, moving like he’s done a hundred times.
“Point A locked.” His voice crackles through my earpiece. “Two more to go.”
Drifting between departments, I catch people where they naturally exist.
Marcus, the audio engineer, lives at the front-of-house console like it’s a spaceship only he can fly.
He lets me film his pre-show line check, fingers moving over sliders with surgeon-level precision while LEDs blink under his hands.
He talks about vocal chains with the reverence of someone discussing scripture.
The merch crew consists of five people knee-deep in shirts and posters. They joke between takes, swapping stories about fans who cried at the table or tried to buy shirts in bulk like they were prepping for the apocalypse.
Sam, the backline tech, tunes guitars and checks pedalboards while I film. He’s been with the band since their first club tour.
“They’re loyal,” he says when I ask why he keeps coming back. “That’s rare.”
Theo, the production manager, gives me the full tour logistics rundown. Tall, soft-spoken, and methodical, he was hired by the tour manager, Trayvon, who was hired by the label. They work with venues, unions, and local crews.
“Zachary Blake?” A tall man with a short, salt-and-pepper afro stands behind me, beige sleeves of his knit sweater crossed over his chest.
“Yeah,” I say, putting my hand out in greeting as I advance. “Trayvon Anderson, right? Tour manager.”
He smiles, bright and polished, as we shake, his palm weathered but smooth like the rest of his tanned copper skin. “You’ve done your homework.”
“I’d be bad at my job if I didn’t.”
“Touché.” Trayvon tilts his chin over my shoulder in farewell. “Come on, I’ve got a few things to run by you so we can line up with your shooting.”
“Sounds good.” I turn back to Theo. “Nice meeting you. Can’t wait for the show.”
Theo waves as I follow Trayvon down the hall.
“Making friends?”
“Some,” I answer, glancing toward the dressing room we pass. “Not with everyone.”
“Judas will come around,” he says, a shrug to his padded shoulder. “He kind of has to.”
“Yeah. I just wish he wanted this.”
“He does,” Trayvon responds without hesitation, gray brows knitting. He regards me, bronze glower resolute. “He’s sacrificed everything for it.”
His words settle heavy. I know pieces of Judas’s backstory; the addiction rumors. This is darker. A truth I’m not ready to name curls at the edges of my thoughts. People joke that Somnium are devil-worshiping demons sacrificing fans to Satan, which is obviously ridiculous.
But the thing about devils—they wear many faces.