The sky was gradually darkening through the grey pall of the steady rain that had been falling all day: sunset, somewhere behind the clouds, but the sun was nowhere in sight and the clouds were settling into a reflective brown blur as the city below switched on its lights to guide itself through the long winter night. At ground level the steady swish of car tyres spinning over rain-black bitumen was accompanied by pale headlights, their light skived by thin streaks of rain. The red glow of traffic lights seemed like signal flares in the dusk-dimmed world and cars flocked to them as if beckoned.

One car in particular, an old, slightly grimy van, left the stream of traffic to veer down a side-street, where it parked not too far from a bar with a stage, and only a little further from a dim street-light. The side-door of the van slid open with a metallic rasp, and Mal got out. Eric, the hood of his jumper pulled low over his head, got out of the driver's seat while Steve got out of the front passenger seat.

"Man" complained Mal. "We're always hauling gear in the rain! What is it with this band?"

"It's all very Shakespearean" muttered Eric.

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

Steve stood still in the half-light, hands on hips as if daring the rain to fall on him (which it duly did). "What's wrong with you two?" he said. "You should be totally pumped about this gig!"

"I just hope we make it without Chas, that's all" replied Eric.

"Dude, we don't need that arsehole!" Steve put his hand on Eric's shoulder in solidarity. "Listen, I know I haven't been so hot in rehearsals. But you know me, I always save myself for the stage! We're gonna blow 'em away, you'll see."

"Um, can you guys come and give me a hand here?" shouted Mal from the back of the van, where he'd started unloading the gear, trying to avoid putting any of it in the puddles.

"Shit, sorry man!" They both rushed over to help him. "Get the door, Steve" said Eric, and Steve went 'round to the front of the bar to let the staff know they'd arrived. A moment later he opened the unmarked side-door of the building for Mal and Eric. He propped the door open and stepped back into the rain towards the van; Eric passed him, lugging the bass drum (covered against the weather) into the bar. On the way through the door he noticed a poster for the gig stuck there matter-of-factly on the inside of the door: he noted happily that, below the attention-grabbing announcement of the headline act, the TerrorFractals were listed with reasonable prominence. He was also pleased to observe that, unlike their previous gig at this venue, they had not been promoted as "the Pterodactyls".

Eric, Steve and Mal began all the formalities of setting up and beginning the sound-check. It was still some time before they were due to actually start playing, and there was no-one really there yet other than a few people dressed for a party who'd strayed in for a drink. Mal was standing on the stage tuning his bass, listening with satisfaction to the way the notes reverberated into the quiet bar. Suddenly, out of the blue he heard a piercing whistle: everyone in the bar looked towards the door to see who was there: it was Rona.

"Jesus, haven't you slack bastards started yet?" she laughed. Eric and Steve politely ignored her and went back to setting up. (After all, though she'd been something of a champion for the band they didn't really know her all that well.) Mal looked up, then stuck his tongue out at her playfully and grinned. She came up to the foot of the stage. Phuong was with her, and followed quietly, wryly amused by Rona's boisterousness as always. "When do you guys start?" asked Rona.

"About thirty minutes" replied Mal. "Forty, maybe."

Phuong tapped her on the shoulder. "Come on, Rona" she said. "Let's get a drink, and make ourselves comfortable."