"You have a comprehensive work history, Miss Gutierrez. And you've handled my questions and hypothetical scenarios with admirable aplomb."

That was a fancy way of saying I couldn't make you sweat, she thought to herself. Ten years of working festivals, tours, and concerts had given her a considerable bank of experience, both in dealing with the problems that inevitably happened whenever you tried to put any kind of show together, and also in men who thought they could talk down to her about the very thing they had hired her to do. At least this one didn't try to look down her shirt.

That said, for the kind of money he was offering, she'd have dealt with a little ogling.

"The final step in your interview is meeting the leader of the band itself." About fucking time. Her 'talking to white people' voice was starting to run a little ragged. That, and the room was just this side of uncomfortably cold, and worryingly featureless. She'd been to corporate office trailers before, but this one felt entirely too much like an interrogation chamber on wheels.

The blond man pulled out his phone and sent off a quick message. He steepled his hands, waiting.

And then the door opened, and a monster poked his head in.

Seven feet tall, horned, scaled, and heavily muscled, the monster eyed her with glowing red eyes straight out of a horror film. Though, in this lighting? A rather poorly-produced horror film. No suspense, and too clear a picture of the antagonist. So she just eyed him back.

"Miss Gutierrez, I would like you to meet Apex. Drummer and vocalist."

Apex didn't offer a hand, but that was depressingly common, so she didn't take it personally. In this particular case, it might have actually been a courtesy, considering the size of the claws. What he did do was lean further into the room—a rather lengthy, spiky tail stretched out behind him to counterbalance—put his face uncomfortably close to hers, and sniffed.

On instinct, she reached into a belt pouch—yes, even for an interview, you'd be surprised how often they came in handy—and pulled out a piece of jerky. His eyes immediately laser-focused on it, his mouth opening, a pair of snake-like tongues just visible, their tips barbed.

"Sit."

He blinked.

Shit. Her reflexes had cost her, this time. Her dogs were too well-trained.

Then he sat down on his haunches, shaking the trailer with the settling of his weight on it.

Uh. Well. She supposed he'd earned it, technically. She threw him the jerky. It disappeared into his maw in a heartbeat, but she'd seen worse. She'd given a pit bull a hamburger for his birthday once.

"She's good," Apex said, picking himself up off the ground and scooting backwards out of the trailer, carefully keeping his horns from getting caught on the door frame.

Her interviewer watched all of that with the faintest look of amusement on his face. Wouldn't want to play him at poker. He did offer his hand for her to shake, though. "Welcome to the team, Miss Gutierrez."

She'd dealt with far worse bands, in her time. Bossy, demanding, unreasonable, spoiled, aggressive—they ran the gamut. This one was relatively chill, particularly the core members. She was surprised to find out Olaf had picked up a new gig so quickly after Death Strikes a Chord split up, and doubly surprised to discover he not only recognized her, but he even remembered her name. Kamala was a relative unknown, but if her worst sin was a debilitating addiction to phone gacha games, she'd take it. And Apex was easy enough to handle, once you figured out the tricks. And carried jerky.

Still, he never could remember her name. He did realize quickly enough that any question anyone had about what went where, who did what, or what time something needed to happen could be easily answered by pointing at her, though. When she wasn't in sight, however, he referred to her as "the bossy one with dreadlocks and duct tape who smells like dogs," then eventually "the bossy one with duct tape," and finally, inevitably, Duct Tape. She'd had worse nicknames, especially with some bands, so she took this one in stride. Even set a sort of trend.

Whatever got people to recognize her authority, she'd take it.

Of course, it meant she was always the first one called whenever anything ever broke pattern or needed arbitration. Two vendors claimed the same spot? Duct Tape would play Solomon. Stage trim got lost between cities? Duct Tape would set up Walmart and Home Depot sorties to craft a replacement out of bed sheets if she had to. Ludicrous inflatable stage monster horns weren't holding air? Conveniently, duct tape covered a multitude of sins, and with a variety of colors, too.

The drummer was curled up in a ball backstage and won't move and the show started in an hour?

She approached the spiky, bristly, and apparently now furry band leader slowly, her hands open, her footsteps loud. Behind her, other members of the crew were pretending to be busy, rubbernecking around crates and spools of cable while she actually did what needed doing. "Hey Big A, you doing alright?"

The hemispherical mass shifted, a head rising out from the curled up tangle of limbs and tail. Had he gotten bigger? She'd seen him change before, but this was a bit more than his usual 'claws slightly bigger' growth. His expressions were limited, but what she could read on his face was worrying. He looked… lost.

"I grew a lot," he rumbled, unusually quiet. "That's good. Right?"

Whatever she had been about to say disappeared when she noticed the blood splatter. A lot of blood, staining his new fur, his muzzle, the tips of his horns, his forearms up to the elbows. He shifted as she watched, climbing to his feet. Between arms and legs there was a whole second pair of arms that hadn't been there when she'd seen him a few days earlier. And as the new thick fur coat both waved on its own and changed colors to dark, muddy reds and browns, she got a better look at the crystal spikes that jutted out from his back where before there had just been dark, bony spines.

"...Who?" was all she could say, almost immediately regretting it as he hunched down into himself a little, head lowered, not meeting her eyes.

"The nngh…" he trailed off, his mumbling sounding like a distant rumble of thunder.

"You don't have to tell me, Big A. I just want to know if I should be worried or not. Should I call Kurt?" When your effective boss was covered in blood that wasn't his own, a lawyer seemed like a good next step. And if you couldn't get a lawyer, getting someone lawyers feared was even better.

He cleared his throat, still not looking her in the eyes. "The Nine."

She furrowed her brow. "The nine wha…" No, he couldn't. "The Slaughterhouse Nine?"

He nodded. One of his bigger hands went to his stomach, like he felt sick. Which, for someone like him, was pretty concerning—she'd seen him eat a motorcycle once, on a dare.

She was getting distracted.

"You just attacked the Slaughterhouse Nine?" Another nod. "And you're not hurt, or…"

He made a low rumble in his throat. "Stomach ache. But no. Hurt is good." Not all of those consonants were there, technically, but she had had plenty of time to understand his ventriloquism act. There were worse speech impediments.

"And they are…"

"Dead."

"...Oh."

She couldn't even begin to consider the ramifications of that, but… as far as her job was concerned, it didn't change much. He was already rich. He already got into fights. Maybe it would be good publicity, but that wasn't her department. More importantly, he looked…

Now she recognized that look. He looked guilty.

She took a few steps forward, boots crunching on the dust and gravel backstage. There was a lot to do and time was short, but damnit, the well-being of her band was part of her job as well. And this boy needed pets.

He didn't flinch away when she patted him on the head, which was a good sign. "Big A," she said quietly, and his head shifted ever so slightly to look her way. She did her best to ignore the blood in his fur, on her hand now. "You just killed a bunch of terrible murderers the world will never miss. They were bad people, and you did a good thing, okay?"

Apex closed his eyes, leaning ever so slightly into her hand. "I hope so."

Good. Now to get him stage-ready… actually, being covered in the blood of the Nine would probably only be a selling point for this kind of audience, so he probably didn't need a hosing this time. She'd just have to give a heads up to the bassist; he had a weak stomach. And hey, he had two more hands for the drums, now, so that was a plus. Which just left motivation to get him onstage after what had apparently been a rough few days.

"Would you like a treat?" she asked, already reaching for her jerky pouch. With her non-bloody hand.

And then he coughed up a foot.

They both looked at it on the ground for a moment. It was small, partially dissolved, and definitely human.

"I'm sorry," he rumbled, closing his eyes and lowering his head again, his tail curling up around his legs. "I'm not hungry anymore."

"Duct Tape," Apex rumbled as she passed him on the golf cart. She didn't stop, so he turned to follow and loped along, easily keeping pace. Damnit. She kept her voice steady, professional.

"I'm a little busy, Big A, so please just let me do my job."

"You smell upset," he said, ignoring her. She made a mental note to get stronger deodorant.

"It's fine," she lied. "Staying busy helps," she added, when his red eyes wouldn't leave hers.

He held a large, clawed hand out, placing it on the frame of the cart. If she kept going, it'd make her spin out, so begrudgingly she slowed down. "Just let me do my job, okay?" she pleaded. "There's nothing anyone can do about it and thinking about it only makes it worse."

Thankfully, he didn't try to pet her back this time. She wasn't nearly as touchy-feely as he was, especially when upset. He did stare at her, though, with a demonic equivalent of puppy dog eyes—

Oh goddamnit—

"It's Betty," she admitted, eyes stinging, face growing hot. Damnit, she was working, she could maintain… "Cancer. She's only got a few weeks. I'm deciding if I should put her down or not, but the vet says it's past the point of no return." He didn't say anything, but she hadn't had a lot of time to process this, so despite herself she kept going. "Even if I could justify the cost and the time off in the middle of a tour for her to get surgery, it would barely improve her chances and ruin what little time she has left." Her knuckles were turning white from her grip on the cart's steering wheel, and for all her despair she had a running list of things that needed to get packed up before they moved cities, and…

"I will be right back," he said, and she blinked after him. After all that, he was just going to walk away?

He disappeared for nearly a week.

When he came back, it was with Black Goat in tow.

"What do you think of his latest stray?" Pizza asked, as she drove him around the concert grounds. He asked for the occasional ride, to get fresh air, and it was usually when she needed a break anyway, so she rarely minded.

Duct Tape followed his gaze, narrowing hers at Lipstick, who was slacking off, making lovesick eyes at Apex as he lifted a crate bigger than her golf cart into a truck with only half of his hands.

"I saw her turn a live cat into a scarf," she said, succinctly encompassing all of her opinions on the woman.

He just smiled at her. Luckily for him, it was a kind, slightly sad smile, so she didn't punch his ass out of the golf cart at full speed. She'd done that to Burnout, once, after he threatened to melt her LP collection for some perceived slight. She had also convinced Happy Pill to convince Black Goat to not immediately fix his broken arm, either. He had learned his lesson, after that.

"I think she makes him happy," he said, after another minute's leisurely cruising around the camp.

She couldn't deny that, as much as she'd like to. She could, however, be displeased about it. "For now," was all she replied.

Pizza just hummed noncommittally, scratching Betty behind her ears, causing the little dog's leg to start thwapping the plastic seat in simple joy.

"Crew morale is low, Tape. I think it's time for the speech." Burnout scratched at one of his silly little devil horns, gesturing with his other hand at a crew that was, admittedly, somewhat listless. The end of a tour did that to some people. Seeing the end near, instead of pushing through one last time after all of that hard work, they lost steam.

She sighed, then climbed on top of a crate, put her pinkies in the corners of her lips, and let out an ear-piercing whistle, drawing the attention of everyone in a hundred yards. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Apex pop his head up over a trailer, but she waved him off. She looked over the sea of familiar faces—all hard workers, many of whom she could call friends. Raising her voice to 'stop what you're doing and look the fuck over here' levels, she addressed the crew.

"Do you know why they call me Duct Tape? It's not this." She gestured at the novelty-sized roll at her hip. "It's because I hold this whole show together! Kurt handles the money, Burnout handles the crew, Big A and the band handle the music, but the logistics? What goes where? Who does what? What to do when the septic tanks overflowed and now the grease trucks can't access the food trailers? Who to call when your staff Tinkers request a giant Slurpee machine or ten grams of depleted uranium?" She gestured with both thumbs at her chest. "That's all me!"

A pause for effect. A few small cheers, whistles from the newer crew who didn't already know where this was going.

"Except that's bullshit, because that's not why I'm named Duct Tape. It's because I hand-picked every single one of you chucklefucks, freaks, weirdos and outcasts, not just because you're good at what you do or can learn quickly, but because you are a fit for the family. That's right, a family. People who live together, eat together, sleep together, work together, don't see their other families for months and months on end, know each other backwards and forwards. We are Gold Mourning, and we are more than just a production company. We are a crew. We are a team. We are a family. And we get the job done."

Another pause. More smiles, but fewer cheers this time, as even the slowest members of the crew remembered the rule of threes.

"Except that's bullshit, too. It's because of the roll of duct tape. Big A is just bad at names." And there was the laughter, the release of tension she was aiming for. People looking around at each other, a few of them noticing Apex nodding silently over to the side, agreeing. Now for the motivation part. "Anyway, enough fucking around, get back to work! Larry, you're on forklift duty, so no drinking! Sarah, you're wrangling food trailers; make sure they're cleared out by six or we're not sleeping tonight. Get moving people, the tour's not over till it's actually done!"