The manager sat in his parked car for a moment before knocking on the Callahans' door again. He had the new gear receipts stuffed in a folder on his lap, plus the penciled notes about Endino, Triad Studios, and the vocal coach. He kept glancing at Rory's name on the top page.
Twelve years old.
He kept shaking his head at it.
The kid wasn't normal. Not in a creepy way — just… unusual. Most twelve-year-olds he knew barely cleaned their rooms, let alone planned gear purchases like they were assembling an army. Rory talked like someone who had lived inside the music business for years. Calm. Exact. No hesitation.
The manager leaned back in the seat and let out a quiet huff of disbelief.
I ran an entire store for seven years and that kid gives instructions cleaner than half the district managers I had to report to.
And he doesn't brag. Doesn't act older than he is. Just… knows what he's doing. Like he's been here before.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
How the hell is an 18-year-old singer and a 20-year-old bassist taking guidance from a kid? And why do I feel like they're lucky to have him?
He closed the folder and finally stepped out, muttering under his breath with a crooked smile.
"Jesus, if this is what new beginnings look like, maybe I picked the right time to quit retail."
September 6, 1985 — Friday
Practice ran later than usual. They were sweaty, cranky, and still wired from hammering through the six tracks again. They'd hit that point where all of them were buzzing but pretending they weren't.
Rory tossed his sticks into the open snare case.
"Okay, serious question," he said while stretching his fingers, "we need an official band name."
Krist raised a brow immediately. "What's wrong with Wankers?"
Kurt snorted. "Dude, we're not going on a poster with that. People'd think we're a joke."
"We are a joke," Krist said.
"We're trying not to be," Kurt shot back, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.
Rory sat on his amp. "Look. Wankers was fine when you guys were just messing around a year ago. Garage jams and playing Zeppelin covers in bars with that hired guitarist? Sure. But if we're recording an EP, that name's gotta die."
Kurt rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright… alright. Yeah. It's dumb."
Krist groaned dramatically. "Fine. Replacement names?"
"Shoot," Rory said.
Krist went first. "Uh… Skumfizz."
Kurt made a face. "Dude, that sounds like a cleaning product."
"Okay, fine, what about Gutless?"
"Too punk," Kurt muttered, "and it sounds like we're complaining."
Rory looked at Kurt. "You got anything?"
Kurt shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe something weird. Something that isn't trying so hard. Like… uh… Bliss Burn?"
Krist blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"Hell if I know," Kurt said.
Rory drummed his fingers on his knee. He could hear his heart thumping with a kind of excitement that didn't show on his face.
He said it simply, like he wasn't dropping a bomb:
"What about… Nirvana?"
Kurt stopped fiddling with his guitar.
Krist looked up, curious.
Rory shrugged, keeping his tone breezy.
"It sounds peaceful. Beautiful, even. Kinda the opposite of all the gross punk names out there, you know? Everyone's trying to sound mean or raunchy. But something clean… something calm… it hits different."
Kurt mouthed the word.
"Nirvana."
There was a long pause.
Then he smiled — really smiled.
"That's… perfect," Kurt said quietly. "It feels like it's supposed to mean something."
Krist nodded. "It sticks in your head."
"Yeah?" Rory asked casually.
"Yeah," Kurt said. "Nirvana. Let's do it."
Rory slapped his hands together. "Alright then. We're Nirvana."
They all shared a small, stupid grin — that electric feeling of something beginning.
As Kurt packed up his guitar, Rory added, "Oh, and I got a surprise for you guys on Sunday."
Krist's eyebrows shot up. "Surprise?"
"What kind?" Kurt asked, suspicious but hopeful.
"You'll see," Rory said, teasingly neutral.
September 8, 1985 — Sunday
Kurt arrived first, yawning, hair tied back lazily. Krist followed with a bag of chips and bass in hand. The moment they stepped inside the garage, both froze mid-stride.
"Holy—"
Krist dropped the chips.
The Ludwig Vistalite kit gleamed in the corner — translucent and bright. Six fresh drum mics were already mounted around it. The Univox Super-Fuzz pedal sat on the table, still partly wrapped. An Ampeg SVT amp towered beside the wall. And the Tascam 388 waited near the shelf like some secret weapon.
Kurt walked in slow, as if he wasn't sure the gear was real.
"Rory… what the hell is all this?"
Krist touched the Vistalite toms like they might vanish. "Is this… for us? For Nirvana?"
"What else would it be for?" Rory's voice came from behind them.
They turned. Rory stood in the doorway, carrying two folders.
Behind him were the manager and another man — short, older, quiet.
Rory stepped aside.
"Alright, guys. This is our manager."
The manager waved awkwardly. "Hey."
"And this," Rory continued, pointing to the second man, "is Kurt's new vocal coach."
Kurt's jaw dropped. "My what?"
"Your vocal coach," Rory said. "Basic technique stuff. So you don't blow your voice out by the time you're twenty-five."
Krist snorted. "He's already blown half of it out screaming over the vacuum cleaner back home."
"Shut up," Kurt muttered, still staring between the coach and Rory. "Dude… why? Why all this?"
Rory folded his arms and spoke plainly.
"You want to sing long-term, right? You want this band to actually go somewhere? Then you need stamina. I'm not asking you to sing like some choir kid. Just enough technique so your voice doesn't die."
Kurt swallowed hard.
"…Okay," he said quietly. "Thanks. Really."
"As for the gear," Rory continued, "we're gonna record soon. You can't show up with junk equipment. So this is prep. Nothing crazy."
Krist laughed. "This is absolutely crazy."
Rory smirked. "Yeah, but it's the good kind."
The manager cleared his throat and opened his folder.
"Uh, Rory — updates. About Jack Endino."
Kurt and Krist both blinked.
"Jack who?" Krist asked.
Rory shot him a glance. "Producer. One of the best underground ones out here. Don't worry about it."
The manager continued, reading from the notes:
"Endino got the message. He said he's interested, but he wants to see the band first. So he's coming next Sunday — September 15th. Says he'll sit in on your rehearsal. If he likes what he hears, he'll lock in the EP."
Kurt's eyes widened. "A… producer is coming here?"
Krist's voice cracked. "Us? A trial? Seriously?"
Rory's face stayed calm, almost relieved.
"Yeah. That's good. Tell him Nirvana accepts the test."
The manager nodded, writing it down. "Will do."
Kurt and Krist kept staring at Rory like he just turned into someone else entirely — someone more dangerous, more ambitious, more certain.
Rory gave them that small, confident grin he always used when he didn't want to reveal too much.
"Relax," he said. "We're ready."