The place is mostly cleared out when the owner of The Vogue finally corners them near the side of the room. He's got that look—half business, half adrenaline—like he knows something just worked and doesn't want to miss the window.
"You guys packed the room," he says, nodding toward the emptying floor. "Didn't expect that much reaction this early."
The manager smiles, already doing math in his head. 'They've been building buzz.'
The owner looks at Kurt, Krist, then Rory—his eyes linger on Rory for half a second longer than expected. "You ever want more dates here, we can do it. Couple months out. Maybe earlier."
Krist grins. Kurt shrugs like he's trying not to look too interested, but his eyes give him away.
"We're actually planning a mini tour," the manager says. "Seattle, Olympia, Portland. Small run."
The owner nods immediately. "Then pencil us in on the return. You finish that run, you come back here."
The manager sticks his hand out. "Done."
No contracts yet. No paperwork. Just that kind of handshake people still believe in when something feels real.
Rory watches it happen quietly.
This is how it starts, he thinks. Not with labels. With rooms that remember you.
//
The bar is loud in that end-of-night way—not packed, just full of people who don't want it to be over yet. All the bands from the night are there, clustered together like rival tribes that decided to call a truce.
Melvins at one end. Skin Yard nearby. Green River drifting between groups.
Someone slides Rory a drink without thinking.
Rory looks at it, then smiles politely and pushes it back. "Can't. My parents'll kill me if I get home smelling like beer."
That gets a burst of laughter.
Buzz Osborne squints at him. "Smartest thing said all night."
Krist laughs too hard. "Kid's got more discipline than all of us."
Dale raises his glass. "Orange juice it is."
Someone flags the bartender and gets Rory a tall glass of orange juice. Rory lifts it in a mock toast.
"To not get grounded."
More laughter. Nobody pressures him. Nobody even jokes too hard. They all know he's twelve, and somehow that just makes everything more absurd.
Kurt's a little loose now, leaning against the bar, talking animatedly about bands he loves and bands he hates, sometimes in the same sentence. Krist's louder than usual, slapping backs, replaying moments from the set like a proud older brother.
Jack Endino drifts through at one point, nodding at Rory. "Drums sounded huge."
"Thanks," Rory says simply.
Jack looks like he wants to say more, but doesn't. Just nods again and moves on.
The night winds down naturally. No speeches. No big goodbye. Just that shared sense of 'yeah, that happened.'
By the time the lights start coming up, everyone's tired and smiling.
That's it.
//
The Vanagon smells like old vinyl seats and beer breath. The manager drives, one hand on the wheel, relaxed.
Krist is in the back, still buzzing. "Man, did you hear that crowd? They didn't even know what hit 'em."
Kurt stares out the window for a second, then says quietly, "I think… I think this is it."
Krist leans forward. "What's it?"
Kurt turns toward them. "This. The band. I don't want to half-ass it anymore."
There's a pause.
"I don't want to just make songs," Kurt continues. "I want to be a band. Tour. Records. All of it. I wanna be—" He stops, searching for the word. "I wanna be big. Not famous. Big."
Krist nods immediately. "Yeah. Same."
The manager glances at them in the mirror, smiling but not interrupting.
Rory listens quietly, legs tucked up, hands resting on his knees.
You have no idea how big, he thinks. And how broken it gets.
But he doesn't say that.
Out loud, he just says, "We'll do it."
Kurt looks at him. "Yeah?"
Rory nods. "Yeah."
Inside, his thoughts are already years ahead.
'We'll tighten the songs. Pick the right singles. Keep the chaos, lose the mess. Avoid some traps. Fall into others on purpose.'
He watches the streetlights pass.
'I'll take you further than you ever got. And maybe keep you alive longer while we're at it.'
The van rolls on.
//
November 25, 1985.
KCMU, 12:00 AM.
Chris Knab leans back in his chair as the clock ticks over to midnight.
"Alright," he says into the mic, voice calm and confident. "This is something new out of Seattle. A band called Nirvana. EP's called Fecal Matter. You're hearing it first."
He cues the tape.
As the first track plays, he listens closely—not multitasking, not distracted. By the time the drums come in, his eyebrows lift.
'That's tight,' he thinks. 'Real tight.'
The kick and snare don't just keep time—'they push'. Every fill lands where it should. No flailing. No slop.
By the end of the song, he's nodding.
Back on mic: "That was rough in the best way. I like the aggression. And those drums—really driving the whole thing."
Track after track rolls by.
"Spank Thru" gets a small grin out of him. "That one's got hooks hiding under the noise."
"Anorexorcist" makes him sit forward. 'That groove shouldn't work,' he thinks. 'But it does.'
After each song, he offers a few words—never overhyping, just honest.
"The drummer on this tape—whoever that is—he's doing something special. Reminds me how much a band changes when the drums really lock everything together."
By the end of the EP, he already knows this isn't a one-off.
//
2:00 AM.
The phone rings.
Then again.
The intern looks at it, confused. "Uh… line one wants Nirvana again?"
Chris chuckles. "Alright. One call."
They play "Spank Thru."
Ten minutes later, another call.
Then another.
"Are they all asking for the same band?" someone asks.
Chris leans back, surprised now. "Yeah. Looks like it."
By 4 AM, it's undeniable.
"Okay," Chris says on air, amused. "Clearly you people are onto something. We're running the EP again."
As the tape rolls for the third time, he listens like it's new.
That drummer, he thinks again. 'That's the difference.'
He hasn't seen them live yet. Doesn't know about the kid behind the kit. But he knows what he's hearing.
'Anorexorcist is my favorite,' he admits to himself. 'That one sticks.'
The phones keep lighting up.
Chris smiles.
Alright, he thinks. 'You've got my attention.'
And somewhere across Seattle, a band sleeps—unaware that the city just started asking for them back.