вы and George's home attic. A sole bare bulb hangs on its cord. It's dark outside, winter's chill seeping through the eaves.
Old carpet on the wooden floor gives some warmth. Dusty chairs and a sofa are pushed back towards the walls, making space for tables strewn with gutted radios, disassembled tape recorders rewired to serve as a 4-track recorder, and a lone Minimoog without its casing, hooked up to reel-to-reels: sequencer and synthesiser, George's latest project.
Screwdrivers, soldering irons, razors for tape splicing, wires, plenty of tape and some empty reels. Stacks of boxes with old clothes, china, books, and tools sit around the area, kept just out of the way to avoid cluttering the workspace.
A makeshift workshop, or a studio used by вы's brother and his childhood friends.
A place to make music to piss people off.
George finishes up with the tape loop, closes the casing, and nods at Mark. Adam lounges on the sofa, plucking at the strings of his bass. It's not plugged into the amp, he's not playing, he's thinking.
вы is there, as always. She's apparently cool enough, despite her age, to be there without annoying them too much.
