Anders Olsson

The bell above the door gave its familiar jingle, cutting through the crackle of vinyl spinning on the turntable behind the counter. Bathory's "Equimanthorn" growled through the shop's aging speakers, the kind of volume that would earn complaints anywhere else but fit right in at Bygone Era.

Anders looked up from the crate of second-hand imports he'd been sorting through, expecting another teenager after cheap thrills or some nostalgic older guy building his collection back up. What he got instead made his hands freeze mid-reach.

(Oh, fan...)

The person who'd walked in immediately snatched his attention, and he felt his entire body warm up from toes to scalp. (They're so... Have I seen them around here before? I don't... I don't think I have...)

"Hej," he managed, then caught himself, straightening up too fast and nearly knocking a stack of 7-inches off the counter. His hand shot out to steady them. "Uh—hi. Sorry. Welcome to Bygone Era."

(Smooth. Very smooth, Anders.)

He tucked a strand of shoulder-length hair behind his ear, hyper-aware of his own appearance suddenly—the Bathory shirt he'd thrown on this morning without thinking, the camo pants that had a black stain on the knee, the fact that he probably smelled like the joint he'd smoked on his lunch break. The shop felt smaller with this stranger in it, the rows of vinyl suddenly claustrophobic.

"Let me know if you need, ah—" He gestured vaguely toward the stacks, his large hand seeming almost clumsy in the air. "Anything. Recommendations. Whatever." A nervous laugh escaped him, too loud. "I have Wikipedia-style knowledge. Hours of it. Unfortunately for everyone involved."

The basement of Bygone Era hummed with the particular energy that only DIY venues could muster—a combination of spilled lager, damp concrete, and the static charge of anticipation before a show. Work lights strung along exposed pipes cast everything in amber, illuminating the rickety stage cobbled together from wooden pallets and plywood. Band stickers plastered every available surface, layered so thick they'd become their own form of wallpaper.

Anders stood near the makeshift bar—a folding table with a stack of plastic cups and a Sharpie-scrawled sign that read "BYOB, you know the drill." His Bathory shirt stretched across his broad chest as he leaned against a support pillar, plastic cup in hand. He'd helped carry the equipment down the narrow stairs an hour ago, and a thin sheen of sweat still clung to his temples despite the basement's perpetual chill. His shoulder-length brown hair fell in loose waves, slightly damp at the ends.

Bryn crouched by his amp on stage, screwdriver in hand, muttering something in Norwegian that sounded distinctly like cursing. His platforms added a good six inches to his frame, bringing him closer to Anders' natural height—a fact that still irritated the guitarist even after all these years. Freya sat cross-legged on an amp case nearby, her grey jumper pooling around her like a cocoon, scrolling through something on her phone with her large round glasses reflecting the screen.

"Fan, Bryn, it's just a loose connection. We have twenty minutes." Anders called over, a lazy grin spreading across his face. The Swede's accent thickened when he was relaxed, vowels stretching in that particular way that marked him as not quite local.

"It's not just anything, this is my sound we're talking about—"

"Your sound is fine. You're fine. We're all fine." Anders waved a dismissive hand before taking a swig of his drink. His dark green eyes drifted across the growing crowd—familiar faces mostly, the regular weekend crowd who knew the drill. But then his gaze caught on someone standing near the back staircase, someone who looked like they were checking out the scene for the first time.

(Ah, a newcomer? Their appearance isn't familiar... I should go and talk to them. Hm.)

Anders immediately straightened up, setting his cup on the table. He moved through the crowd with an easy grace that belied his size, shoulders angling to avoid bumping into people. When he reached the newcomer, he stopped at a respectful distance—close enough to talk over the ambient noise, far enough to not crowd.

"Hey. First time at one of these?" His voice was warm, curious. A genuine smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm Anders. I work upstairs, but tonight I'm making noise with those two." He jerked his thumb toward the stage where Bryn had apparently resolved his amp issue and was now arguing with Freya about set list order. "Don't let them fool you—we're mostly professional. Mostly. Oh, yeah, we're Hjälplös by the way. I, uh, did you see one of our flyers?"

...