The week blurred fast.
Every afternoon, the three of them landed in the garage studio like they were clocking into some weird teenage factory. Kurt always came in with his hair still damp from a rushed shower, Krist with that long-legged stride like he was always late even when he wasn't, and Rory already behind the Vistalite kit tapping something restless.
By Monday, they stopped joking as much.
By Tuesday, none of them cared what time it was.
By Wednesday, they were basically speaking in song sections and half-grunts.
"Again," Kurt said for the fourth time, wiping sweat with the collar of his shirt.
Rory counted them in. "One-two—"
Krist interrupted. "No, no, no—Ror, that fill you do before the second verse? Keep that. It makes the riff punch harder."
Rory nodded, tapping the sticks together. "Got it. From the snare drop?"
"Yeah."
They ran through Downer over and over, sharpening it until it actually sounded intentional and not like three teenagers making noise in a garage. Kurt's voice roughened, then settled, then got some weird clean edge underneath the rasp—like someone sanding down wood but the grain was showing through more.
The vocal coach came by on Tuesday and Thursday. Middle-aged guy, soft-spoken, totally unfazed by Kurt's nervous smirks.
"Don't push from your throat," the coach said as Kurt attempted a scream that cracked clean in half. "Support from here."
He tapped Kurt's lower ribs.
Kurt frowned like someone had just given him homework. "Dude, I'm not trying to sound like some church singer."
The coach chuckled. "I'm not changing your voice. I'm keeping you from blowing it out by twenty-three."
Kurt blinked, like the idea hadn't crossed his mind. "Oh. Uh… yeah, okay."
Rory watched from the drum stool, pretending to adjust something. He couldn't help feeling a small jealousy that Kurt got to "learn" a voice he already knew would become legendary. But seeing him build it from scratch with that weird intensity… it made Rory weirdly proud.
By Thursday's end, Spank Thru hit harder.
By Friday, Anorexorcist became a monster—tight, ugly, loud.
Saturday, September 14, they wrapped practice around nine. No one talked for a minute when the last note stopped ringing. Just three teens breathing heavy in the garage light.
Krist was the first to break the silence. "Tomorrow's gonna either be legendary," he said, "or we're all gonna crash and burn."
Kurt laughed under his breath. "Let's shoot for legendary."
Rory spun a drumstick in his fingers. "It will be. Just… follow the cues. Don't overthink it."
Krist pointed at him. "You're twelve. Why are you talking like a war general?"
Rory shrugged. "Because I'm right."
They laughed, the kind you only get after hours of noise. Then they nodded at each other—silent, wired, ready.
Tomorrow mattered.
September 15, 1985 — Jack Endino Arrives
Rory heard the car door first. Then the footsteps. Then the garage door opening with a creak.
Jack Endino walked in beside the manager—thin, sharp-looking, with eyes that scanned everything like he was already engineering the mix in his head.
Kurt, Krist, and Rory straightened a little.
Jack gave a quick nod. "Alright, kids. Play whenever you're ready."
No lecture. No warm-up chat. Just go.
Rory clicked his sticks up. "Downer first."
Kurt tightened his grip on the guitar. Krist rolled his shoulders like an athlete.
"One, two—"
They blasted into it.
Downer hit the air like something scraped off the floor and polished with sandpaper. Rory's drumming was tight and ruthless, pushing everything forward. Kurt snarled through the lines with that new clarity the vocal coach had tortured out of him. Krist locked onto the bassline like he was dragging the room with him.
When the last note died, Jack nodded once. "Good. Next."
They exchanged looks—Kurt's eyes bright, Krist's mouth twitching in a grin. Rory raised a stick again.
"Bambi Slaughter!"
They tore into it. Faster. Dirtier. Messier on purpose. Rory's snare cracked so loud it bounced off the garage walls. Kurt stomped through the riff like it insulted him personally, and Krist's bass fuzzed so thick it became part of the air.
Jack's expression shifted—barely—but enough that Rory caught it. A small curl at the corner of his mouth.
Good sign.
Rory grinned at Kurt and Krist. "Next."
They were fully in the zone now.
Spank Thru exploded like someone kicked down a door. Kurt's voice rode the beat, rough and loose and intentionally unstable. Krist nailed the groove until the garage floor felt like it hummed. Rory kept the pulse going like he had something to prove.
When they finished, Jack actually clapped once.
He pointed. "Keep going."
They didn't even take water.
Rory counted off again—Anorexorcist, but the real version, their version. Nine minutes. Heavy as hell. Meaner than the original Fecal Matter tape. They stretched riffs, tightened transitions, slammed into sections with more confidence than kids their age should've had.
Kurt shredded his throat—but in the right way this time. The coach would've been proud. Krist anchored the room. Rory drove it like a machine running hot but refusing to break.
Jack watched with the kind of stare you only get when someone realizes they've stumbled onto gold by accident.
Holy shit, he thought. These kids… where did they come from?
It was exactly the sound he wanted to hear—the messy, loud, unapologetic Northwest noise he'd been waiting for.
The song ended. Jack didn't speak. He was still processing, maybe still inside the song.
The boys didn't wait.
Rory tapped his sticks.
Krist cracked his knuckles.
Kurt spit to the side.
Rehearsal Tape #1 began.
Heavy. Murky. A finessed, thickened version of "Mrs. Butterworth." Kurt's guitar growled through the riffs Rory had polished into shape. Krist's bass rumbled like a power tool. Rory pushed the tempo just enough to give it that frantic edge.
Jack leaned forward slightly. The silence behind him felt electric.
Still no cue.
So they moved straight into the final hit—
Bleach Baby.
This one was different. Sharper. More focused. Not Teen Spirit, but the ghost of its energy floated around the chords—something about the chugging rhythm, the way the chorus riff punched upward instead of sideways. Only halfway similar, just enough to feel like the future cracking through.
Kurt leaned into every lyric he wrote. Krist locked into a groove that felt bigger, more deliberate. Rory hammered the transitions, shaping the whole thing like he'd been waiting years to let this sound out.
When the last crash faded, the three of them stood there breathing like fighters waiting for the bell.
Kurt wiped his face. "So… uh… what do you think?"
Jack didn't answer.
He laughed—a short, stunned burst—then clapped hard, louder than anyone expected.
Krist blinked. "Uh… what?"
Kurt stared, confused and hopeful.
Rory just smirked. He already knew.
Jack kept clapping, smiling now, shaking his head like he couldn't believe his luck.
These weren't Fecal Matter songs anymore.
These were something else.
Something that would reshape their entire timeline.
And Rory Callahan knew exactly what they had just set in motion.