Basement

The basement is dark. Fuzzy fluorescent bulbs buzz and hum on the low ceiling. Off in the Holman corner, some people are hurriedly plugging audio cables into mixing boards, adjusting mic stands, and testing kick drums. Under Atkinson, flickering light and saccharine Disney songs filter out through the gaps in the newspaper lining the windows of the TV room. In an alcove by the vending machines, a sleeve of plastic shot glasses sits next to a bottle of booze. The air smells vaguely like moldy twinkies and beer.

In the distance, you hear the pounding electrical beat of The Black Knight 2000. Someone's lowered the drawbridge.