It was her first time there.

She heard rockish-sounding noise on her way into the Vault. A brass handrail divided the stairs which led to the space. The space was a conference room; there was indeed an unused bank vault right before the stairs. The acoustics in the bank vault would surely have been better than in the thickly carpeted room. Even so, the room was the the right size for the performance. It made some sense, despite screaming corporate drivel on every blank wall.

The distortion on the guitar sample grew more and more heavy before dropping off when the artist dropped his hat when he leaned into the vocoder to utter a quick non sequitor. Unintelligible at first, the phrase became a loop. Said loop was then overlaid by something in French. The music swelled and swallowed the illusion of choice.

She looked around the room and saw the dozen or so odd people intent upon the performance, almost all staring at the artist behind the table. He manipulated unseen switches and switched unheard manipulations; bloops and bleeps and bonks and boinks washed over the audience. Most are seated in chairs; two are on the floor, one is stretched out with head cushioned by discarded outer layers.

Time seemed to stop. Her thoughts traced backwards from to every noise show she'd ever been to and the sanctimonious seriousness which absorbed all who would frequent such events. Fate held her hand along the paths of memory. The thing inside her grew with each passing moment. She did not notice when the set was done until the clapping began.

It was her last time here.

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