"We can't be The Slayerettes," said Xander, tapping his drumstick impatiently against the hi-hat stand, "Everyone will think we're a Slayer cover band."

"So?" said Willow as she struggled with a tangled instrument cable, "Element of surprise."

"We're playing dive bars, not fighting the forces of darkness," said Buffy. She adjusted the microphone, "We don't need the element of surprise."

"Well fine," Willow huffed. She opened a small tin box to reveal a collection of unusual guitar pedals, "You got any ideas?"

"'Kingman's Buff'," said Xander, "You know, like that cliff at the edge of town? Except 'Buff' instead of 'bluff,' 'cause of Buffy."

"It's a thinker," said Buffy, "Maybe too much of a thinker for our inebriated patrons." She thought for a moment, "What about 'Stakes'? Like, the stakes are high. But also stabbing things. Y'know?"

"I'm not sure we're going for the meat association," said Xander, but his gaze was on Willow, "Will, you're not gonna use a Scooby Doo lunchbox to carry your pedals to shows, are you?"

"Uh," said Willow, "Why not?"

"Because it's…" Xander trailed off. He tried and failed to twirl a drumstick, "I mean, it's not exactly punk rock."

"It's DIY!" said Willow, "Look, I turned it into a pedal board, and it fits my cables and my picks and it's got a convenient handle."

"It's also got Fred and Daphne and a talking dog," said Xander, "Is that really our image?"

"Could be," said Willow. She rolled her eyes, "'Punk rock' can mean anything, Xander. You really wanna be skulls and devil horns like every other band out there?"

"Yeah!" Xander nodded, "Rock 'n roll! You know. I mean, where's the… the edge? I may as well start doing the Snoopy dance onstage!"

"It'd be unique," said Willow.

"That dance is for your eyes only," muttered Xander. "Anyway—"

"The Scoobies," Buffy announced, and her friends stared at her.

"It doesn't really indicate who we… are," said Xander, "People are gonna expect Shaggy and Velma."

Buffy shrugged and cast a little smirk at Willow, who was plugging something into the wall, "Element of surprise."

Suddenly the lights flickered, and then shut off completely, the buzz of their amps fading away.

"Shoot," said Willow.

The studio was old, everything half-working, possibly haunted. It was hardly a space meant for rock 'n roll, the library in a converted old school house. Stickers and grafitti from bands past now lined the poorly soundproofed walls, and mysterious stains graced the floors. Buffy opened the door and could hear a cacophony of other practicing bands down the hall. She and popped her head out and called, "Giles!"

The older man came quickly, vaguely miffed, "I know, I know." He muttered a couple light British curses as he opened up the breaker box on the wall, "Sometimes I wonder why I pay an electricity bill at all."

"It's Will's fancy stomp-boxes," said Buffy, "She's too powerful."

"It wasn't my fault," Willow pouted. She sat cross-legged on the ground and took a screwdriver to her pedal, squinting at the circuits inside, "Oh. Actually, it was. Sorry."

"When I was your age," said Giles, "We just cranked our amps up as far as they'd go."

"I like building my own effects," Willow whined, "It gives us a unique sound."

"Anyway," said Buffy, grinning at Giles, "We booked our first show for next week. At the Bronze!"

"That's wonderful!" said Giles, "How much are they paying you?"

"Free drinks and some pizza?" Buffy winced, "It's our first gig, we need to build momentum, okay?"

"Yes, quite," Giles said, "Though I don't believe momentum will pay the rent on this studio."

"Yeah," said Xander, "But you love having us around. Besides, Wills is always fixing your gear when it breaks down, that's gotta count for something."

"I suppose you're right," said Giles, "How were you able to find the, uh, gig?"

"Xander's dating the girl who does the sound," Willow explained, "Does that count as cheating?"

"No," said Xander, "Anya played our demos for the guy who books the place and he thinks we're good. For real." He paused, "Well, he thinks we're okay…" He cocked his head, "He thinks we… own instruments. And have fingers. They've been having some trouble finding bands, apparently."

"Well we better do good," said Buffy, "I hear this guy's not the most… Well, I don't think he loves girls playing punk. He's one of those old-school guys."

"Giles is an old-school guy," said Willow, "And he thinks we rock. Right, Giles?"

"Yes," said Giles, "You all, erm, rock. The power should all be working now, so why don't you—"

"—One! Two! Three! Four!" Xander counted, and Giles covered his ears against the screeching instruments that followed.


"Our first show," said Buffy, "You nervous?"

"Me?" said Willow, gasping as she tried to lug her heavy amp head towards the stage, "Never been nervous in my life."

Buffy dropped her bass at the stage, then came back and took Willow's amp from her, easily carrying it to the back.

"God, you're strong," Willow panted.

"I used to roadie for bands in LA," Buffy shrugged, "You got your lunchbox?"

"It's in the car," said Willow, "I'll grab it in a sec. Are you nervous?"

"I'm jittery," said Buffy, "But I think it will be good. I think we'll slay 'em."

"I was lying when I said I'm not nervous," Willow admitted.

"Yeah Will," Buffy laughed, "I figured."

"I've never seen the Bronze empty like this," said Willow. Her eyes widened, "Do you think it's gonna stay this empty when we play? I can't play in front of one person, Buff. It's too awkward!"

"Will," said Buffy, "It's barely 6. We don't go on till 7, and in punk time that's 8. People will show."

"But at 7 people are still eating dinner and—"

"Will," Buffy thrust a red coupon in Willow's face, so close that the redhead had to nearly cross her eyes to look at it, "This is a drink ticket. Go get yourself a beer and relax a little. I'll get the rest of the stuff."

"But we should set up—"

"Willow," said Buffy, "There's plenty of time."


Buffy watched Willow go, and then went outside to get the rest of the gear from their car. She pulled her own amp from the trunk with some effort and prepared to carry it into the venue.

"Lift with your legs," was the unsolicited advice that came in a rough English accent.

Buffy rolled her eyes and turned to the speaker, a rugged older man with bleach blonde hair, drenched in shadows. "I'm stronger than I look," said Buffy.

"Yeah?" The man fished a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather overcoat, "Hope you play better, too."

"I look like I can't play?"

"You look like a bird,"

"I don't speak British," said Buffy, "But that sounds sexist."

"You know, we invented punk rock."

"The British?"

"Men." He took a puff from his cigarette.

Buffy scoffed, "Well, men invented laissez-faire capitalism too, so let's call it even."

"You're funny," said the man, "Maybe you'll get some laughs tonight."

"They'll be too busy in the pit to laugh," Buffy shrugged, "We're gonna tear apart that stage, alright? You don't know who you're dealing with."

"Well don't be too rough," said the man as he began walking away, "It's my stage, after all."

Buffy cringed as he turned into the alley, "Ah, shit."


Willow wandered over to the bar. She hopped up on a stool and glanced at the overwhelming list of craft beers on the wall. She started to space out, to worry about the night's performance. What if she forgot the notes? What if her string broke, or her pedal stopped working? What if her hand cramped up, or she dropped her pick, or—

The bartender smiled shyly at Willow, "Can I g-get you something?"

"Uh," said Willow. She glanced up at the blonde woman who was presently drying a glass, "Just give me a…" She frowned at the list of beers, and then dropped her gaze down to the wood of the bar, "A shot of vodka."

The bartender poured her the shot and took Willow's ticket. Willow wasted no time downing the drink.

"A-are you in one of the bands?" the bartender asked.

"Uh-huh," said Willow, "We're opening. Yay us."

"You don't seem very excited."

"It's our first show. I'm nervous," said Willow, "That's why the shot. Buffy says I need to chill out."

"Buffy?"

"Our singer," said Willow, "And she plays bass but I think she's unplugged half the time."

The bartender laughed, "What do you play?"

"Guitar. Sorta," said Willow, "My ex-boyfriend started to teach me but I'm not that good."

"I bet you're g-great," said the bartender, "Besides. I'm guessing it's punk, so…"

"Are you into punk?" said Willow.

"I'm into all kinds of music," said the bartender, "I… I mean, I don't play or anything. I m-m-mean, I do, but not… in front of people or with a band or anything—"

"We should totally jam sometime!" said Willow, "You could probably teach me a thing or two. That B minor 7 chord gets my fingers all confused."

"It can be a tough one," said the bartender with a seductive little smirk, "It's deceptively simple."

"Why don't you have a band?"

"Oh, I… I… I'm n-not brave enough for that."

"Oh come on," said Willow, "I'm a nervous wreck, so if I can do it anyone can."

"That's okay," said the bartender, "I prefer going and watching shows. I publish a-a fanzine and—"

"You make zines?" Willow almost leaped from her seat, "I make zines! We should make one together!"

The bartender grinned, "That'd be fun," she said, "I have a group I make them with but they don't really…—"

"—Get it?" Willow guessed, "Yeah, some people are all about the punk rock image and not the… the meaning , y'know? The essence and the politics and…"

"Y-yeah," said the bartender, "Exactly."

"Oh!" Willow exclaimed. She was feeling much more energized and a little goofy, her nerves a lot calmer. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a few bucks, "Here! Thank you for the shot, it really helped with the nervousness. You deserve it. Not that you… need a big tip or anything, I bet you get lots of big tits— tips …—" Willow turned bright pink and bit her lip hard enough that it hurt.

The bartender blushed and looked at Willow like she was legitimately insane. She glanced at the bottle of vodka she'd poured from and wondered if it was something stronger than she'd thought, or if this woman was just like this all the time.

"What's your name?" Willow asked quickly, like in changing the subject she could wipe that last interaction from the blonde's memory.

"Tara," said the bartender.

"Tara," Willow repeated, "Very pretty. The name, I mean. I'm Willow." She glanced at the door, "I think our drummer just got here. I'm gonna go help him unload. I'll see ya after, Tara!"