2 - Welcome to The Cat's Cradle

Once upon a time there was a world weaved out of highways, navigated by street names, diced into blocks and then gently pulled apart by long stretches of roads that weren't quite highways, just long ways. In this world there were shops and there were offices, sometimes there were parks, many times there were malls. But in this world, tucked away unassuming on a street corner like any other, was a space: for music, performance, drama, revelry, or whatever else you could convince them to put on. It was small, cramped, like a hug from a friend you haven't seen in a long time. It was a stage, a theater once, a pit, a joint, a venue more accurately called. Legends rolled around tongues explaining why exactly this place is called The Cat's Cradle.

The true story of how The Cat's Cradle got its name has been forgotten over the years- lost in the murmurations of musicians, drag queens, beat poets, punks, and roadies who graduated off to better or worse places than here. What really did happen was, when they bought up the lot and took over the property, it had a different sign out front. They rearranged the letters to see what they could do with it- so they wouldn't have to buy too many more letters, you understand. And The Cat's Cradle is what they came up with.

Once upon a time there was a little girl with always an odd number of pigtails. She bounced along the rows of seats of The Cat's Cradle observing everything it took to run the place with wide eyes and poking around with prodding fingers. She was bright and she was fast and she was rambunctious and they called her Little Electrode. As days went by and shows went by, tumblings and fallings into pleading for donations more than usual, rutted The Cat's Cradle into a corner. Eventually the upstairs half of the building had to be sold just to stay afloat. Management changed hands to one Lady Electrode, who hoisted the place up with fly lines and a few loans, and who now was sitting in the booth swivel chair. It was a swivel chair that was just as old as she was and nobody knew how old she was.

When Obsidian Rainn knocks on the door to The Cat's Cradle hex knows none of these things. Hex will learn some of them in time and some never, there are some here who know much much more than what they seem to on a first pass, but no one person knows the whole story- such is the habit of life, and of any story. Obsidian really hopes this is an okay door to knock on, hex knew full well that any seasoned tech wouldn't be seen using the door the audience uses if they can so help it.

After the third try at knocking the door opens on its own with no person on the other side. Obsidian worries hex is being set up for some kind of trap. The threat of accidental trespassing does not phase hexa but when the door shuts behind hexa on its own hex starts to look around frantically. The room hex is in could be called a foyer or the general suggestion of a lobby if you excuse the fact that it could probably only realistically hold ten people or 20 crammed together. There is one tall table which, indicated by the tip jar, is likely for ticketing, and a small magazine shelf with dozens of zines and flyers littered on it in a generous approximation being grouped by publication. Other than that there isn't anything else in the room which makes sense because it wouldn't fit much else, it's just a couple meters wider than the double doors in front of Obsidian. Hex tries the door's large handle but some how that is also locked. Except as soon as hex lets go the door opens by itself, hex steps back startled but at least this time there is someone on the other side of the door.

The person, dressed in old period costume sort of squints as they stand blocking the doorway, "Shows are Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and also doors are at 7:00, so you're at least 25 hours early." They say.

"Oh no I'm um here for the position?"

"The position? What position?"

"The sound engineer position?"

"Ohhh! The position! Yes of course, the position! Right this way!" They step backwards further into the house, which had a good handful of rows of seats along with an empty area for a pit for moshing or perhaps an avant-garde interactive performance. "So umm wait right here-" they pull out their phone and text someone. "Death will be here momentarily- you won't die though" they wink at their own joke, "I'm going to inform The Lady that you're here. Sit tight."

"I never got your-" Obsidian reaches out hext hand but then drops it as they disappeared "-name..."

Obsidian was about to take a seat awkwardly in the front row when a second person burst through the blackout curtains which make up the wings. They scramble off stage and sit down on a seat in the front row and pat the one next to them for Obsidian. Then they look down at their tablet and back up at Obsidian.

"Hi I'm Death Grip we spoke on the phone", Death Grip's tablet spoke in an artificial voice. Obsidian glanced at it then focused on Death Grip who was sticking out their hand. Obsidian shakes it hesitantly. Hex winces when, to their name sake, they crush hext hand in a strong handshake. Obsidian shudders as their grip loosens so they can tap more things on the tablet.

"I speak through this when we can be talking volume- so not showtime. Otherwise texting, and sign when you learn it. My name is Death Grip pronouns per/person. The queen you saw at the door is Ghostlight she/they/he." Death Grip said.

"Is Ghostlight-" Obsidian drops their voice down in embarrassment. "a ghost?"

"Is Ghost what-? Don't whisper." Death Grip rolls per eyes as per enters in the words.

"Sorry sorry this must sound crazy but, before you came in, doors were opening and closing on their own and I was freaked. And then someone answers the door dressed like-like that!" Hex waves hext hands searching for words. "I mean I know every theater is haunted but I didnt think people meant that literally... is this insensitive? crazy? I don't she just seemed a little-"

"Hazy?" Ghostlight appears right behind Obsidian and hex jumps in hext seat.

Death Grip signs something to Ghostlight and she signs back, Obsidian lost in the middle.

"Sorry, I won't jump-scare you again- unless you like it. Anyways yes I'm a ghost, no you can't ask when my deathday was, but there is a fab party every year. I've been tasked with the catwalks but I don't have much of a choice. Anyways no worries your contract will be just fine, no limited perimeters!" He giggles moving his hands in a rectangle in the air.

They put a hand on Obsidian's shoulder and it sinks into hex. Obsidian looks down to the chilling sight of her finger tips poking out from the side of hext shoulder. Frigid cold seeps into Obsidian and hex tries not to say anything of it. Just then Death Grip's tablet flashes its flashlight.

Death Grip glances at per notification. "She's still going to be a while" person reports.

Ghostlight perks up, she snapped a finger with no sound. "Oh! We should tell hex about that time this poor girl was lit in green her whole act- looking all sickly!"

Death Grip nods and quickly starts tapping away, "Way long ago we had no LED lights, if bulb burnt? You have to climb up and change it, and we had no trees so gels were a big hassle..." Death Grip began explaining.

And so, Death Grip and Ghostlight fill the time weaving stories about the venue, old shows, the colorful cast of big personalities who graced the stage in hacked together costumes or drag or sharp spiked and studded up looks, and all the funny mishaps over the years; all the while waiting for the infamous Lady Electrode to become unbusy enough to see Obsidian.