Rory's fingers were getting calloused again. Not the clean, neat kind you get from lessons, but the rough, burning kind that comes from hours of hammering the same riff until it grooves into your bones. The jam space — a cramped, sweaty basement — smelled like solder, cheap strings, and half-drunk cola cans.
Kurt hunched forward with his Mustang, half-focused, half-floating in that weird headspace where everything clicked. Krist was slouched on a milk crate, bass strapped on, cigarette tucked behind his ear, trying to follow Rory's nods and little gestures like a rhythm coach who didn't need to talk much.
They'd been at it for weeks now — end of July slipping into August. Six songs, over and over. Riffs looping like mantras. Rory didn't push with lectures; he just played until they got it.
Kurt mumbled through a verse, his voice cracking but hitting the shape of something real.
"Try it with less bite," Rory said, hitting the snare rim to punctuate the tempo.
Kurt nodded, brushing his hair aside, and leaned into the mic again.
This one was the newest — the one Rory had shown them a few nights before. He hadn't even named it yet. Started as a sloppy chord pattern he remembered from a future that no one else knew existed. He couldn't say it out loud, but it was that riff — the pulse, the sneer, the drive. A proto-version of "Smells Like Teen Spirit," raw and half-formed, but alive.
He'd taught it like it was just some random idea he came up with in a dream.
"Let's make it meaner," he told Kurt.
"Meaner?"
"Yeah, like it's taunting someone. Don't rush the hits — make people wait for it."
They tried again. Rory's right hand pounded the snare, steady and cutting. Krist's bass line found the pocket and started walking inside it. Kurt hit the chords — not quite perfect, but heavy enough to shake the amps.
"Load up on guns, bring your friends…" Kurt tried the line he'd been working on that morning, half-scribbled on a crumpled paper next to the amp.
Rory recognized the words — familiar in a way that made his stomach twist — but he stayed quiet. He didn't want to control it too much. The fun was watching Kurt shape it himself.
Krist grinned mid-riff. "That's kinda sick."
"Yeah, maybe," Kurt muttered, pretending not to smile.
They ran the song again, faster. Rory's sticks blurred. The sound filled the basement — messy, jagged, but electric. The kind of sound that made you forget you were just a bunch of kids in a town no one cared about.
Then they shifted to another track — one they'd started earlier in the month. Rory helped tweak the bridge, adding a tiny syncopation between fills. Kurt caught it right away, matching the rhythm with his vocal phrasing.
"Feels better," he said, nodding.
"Because you're not fighting it anymore," Rory said.
Hours passed like that. Sweat on the cymbals, cables tangled like vines. Sometimes they'd stop mid-song, burst out laughing over nothing. Sometimes it got dead serious — the kind of silence where every mistake meant something.
By the end of August, the songs were sharper. The noise had purpose. Rory sat behind the kit, feeling the pulse of it all — his plan working piece by piece.
September 1, 1985.
Rory was half-asleep at the kitchen table when his dad called him into the living room.
"Son, I want you to meet someone."
There was a man sitting on the couch — late twenties, plain jacket, firm handshake, but tired eyes. Looked like someone who'd been through a few jobs that didn't stick.
"Used to manage a small electronics store," his dad said. "Says he's been wanting to move into the music business. Thought maybe you could use some help, since you're juggling those band rehearsals."
The man nodded. "Yeah, I ran inventory, staff schedules, kept the books. Always loved music, though. Figured I'd rather manage people who actually care about what they're making."
Rory leaned back, trying to hide a smirk. The guy wasn't flashy, but he sounded reliable. Someone who got things done quietly.
"You ever deal with musicians before?" Rory asked.
The man chuckled. "Not exactly. I once had to track down a delivery guy who disappeared with a stereo system for three days. Close enough."
Rory laughed. "Fair. You're hired."
The man blinked. "That's it?"
"Yeah. I don't like wasting time. You want the job, it's yours."
The man straightened up, a bit surprised but not complaining. "Alright, then. What do you need first?"
Rory thought for a second, tapping his finger on the table like he was counting beats.
"Okay. Here's your first list."
He leaned forward, voice calm but precise:
"Find and contract a guy named Jack Endino. He's in Seattle. He's gonna produce our first EP — title's Fecal Matter EP. Make it happen."
The man started taking notes on a pad. "Endino, Seattle, got it."
"Next," Rory continued, "book recording time at Triad Studios. They're open already — check their September schedule. I want at least a solid week. Don't cheap out on hours."
"Alright."
"Then get us gear upgrades: Ludwig Vistalite drum kit — orange if possible — six drum mics, a Univox Super-Fuzz pedal, an Ampeg SVT amp, and a Tascam 388 as a backup recorder. Write that down."
The man scribbled faster, eyebrows lifting. "You got a serious setup in mind."
"Yeah," Rory said, leaning back with a shrug. "I'm not playing pretend."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah. Find a local vocal coach for Kurt — something basic. Just to help him control his breathing and stamina. Doesn't have to be fancy, just reliable."
"Alright."
The man looked over the list again, nodding slowly. "Endino, Triad, Vistalite kit, mics, Super-Fuzz, SVT, Tascam 388, and a vocal coach for Kurt."
"Exactly."
"Budget?"
Rory gave a faint grin. "You'll get what you need. Just keep it clean and don't talk too much about it. The band doesn't know yet."
The man tilted his head. "Keeping it a surprise?"
"Something like that."
He didn't explain further.
When the man left, Rory sat back in the quiet living room, staring at the empty coffee cup on the table.
He thought about Kurt — how his voice cracked in the right places, how his lyrics were starting to carry real weight. Thought about Krist's steady hands on the bass, the way they'd both light up when a song finally clicked.
They didn't need to know about producers or budgets yet. That stuff could wait.
For now, he wanted them to stay focused — to keep chasing that sound like it was something holy.
He'd handle the rest.