A stormy night in the forgotten backstreets filthy post-industrial Birmingham. A lone figure, head down, his chin nuzzled into a threadbare scarf, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a flimsy old overcoat. The pockets are filled with a debris of old receipts, tobacco from the few loose fags he keeps in there. In the nearby gutter he spots of a ragged piece of paper. No longer caring what anyone thinks of him, he makes no secret of bending down into the grime of the gutter to retrieve it. Unfolding the slimy and slightly torn leaf, he finds it to be a flier for a concert held some weeks ago. The name at the bottom of the bill catches his eye, it's slightly obscured at one end by mud and the end of the name appears to have disappeared in being ripped: E BLUEBEAT ARKEST.
'My God' mutters the figure, wiping drips of rain from his three-week old stubble and dashing them away to his side. He looks up from the flier and wonders whether to keep it, throw it or hold it close. His bloodshot eyes begin to well up and the nicotine-stained fingers which hold the flier start to shake.
The rain is beginning to hammer down so hard that it's bouncing back up off the street. Through the gloom however, he discerns another figure coming towards him on the other side of the street. He has no idea who it is, or why they too are out in such perilous and biting weather. He doesn't care either, circumstances have become long past that. Clenching his fist so that the flier is scrunched up within it, he trusts that the old, weary legs still have it in them.
Splashing through the huge puddles created by litter-blocked drains, he begins to run towards this other figure. Intensity rises within him as he sees the figure put their head down and begin a counter-charge straight at him. He knows it's now or never.
'SEVEN!' he cries.
Something he vaguely remembers as elation fights through years of cynicism and disappointment to rise within him as he hears the reply on the wind
'TRIGONOMETRY!'
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