Live music is what brings in the crowds at The Forge. Sure, Duncan and the crew can hire a DJ, or throw on an album on their own, but live music always has the best reaction. It's one thing to have punk and rock and metal coming thumping through the speakers. It's another to have the vocals screamed into your face. See the light glinting off the strings of that shredding guitar. Feel the drummer's wild energy. There's something magical about live music, a connection between the performers and the crowd. It's worth showing up for. Even in heat like this.
The building isn't exactly ideal for, well, any human habitation during the summer months. An abandoned factory of metal and concrete, with just a few slowly twisting overhead fans for circulation. Forget about AC. Few concessions are made for the comfort of visitors, because the Forge isn't somewhere you go to be comfortable. It's a place for listening to music and punishing bodies. No cuddly shit here. With the summer heat rolling through Sacramento, lingering well past dusk, you have to want it to show up to a place like the Forge. It hardly helps that the Forge includes an actual forge. At the back, beneath the mezzanine level. Separated from the dance floor by a chain link fence, the facilities are fully operational, and currently in use. The heat of the fires only compounds that of the weather, and the building's poor construction keeps it nice and contained. Everyone in here is sweating, even if you're not on the floor dancing before the band. Ramona faces the worst of the swelter, standing back there in the forge, working with the fire and hot metal.
This is kind of a dream job. The ventilation isn't ideal, but she gets to work with music she likes. A few different bands are cycling through the stages, each with their own brands of their respective genres. Some are better than others, but it's all stuff that gets her blood pumping. Often she swings her hammer in time with the beat, glowing sparks shooting across the work space and singing her heavy protective apron and chaps. Or hold a glowing piece of metal over head as the song reaches a climactic point, before quenching it with a hiss. It's smithing, but it's also performance art. It adds a little something extra to the experience of the Forge. You can stand by the chain link, or glance over once in a while, to see someone twisting steel into shape with nothing but fire and muscle. How much more metal can you get?
The crowd's appreciation combined with the intensity of the music is electrifying. She almost doesn't notice how much time has gone on as she's worked back here. But one band's set list is ending, another's is starting soon, and now is a good place to stop and rest. Rehydrate. Take stock. All her current projects are finished, or can sit a while with no harm done. She could start on something new, but no, she's due a break about now. So she kills the fires, hangs up the thick apron, pulls off the heavy gloves, and signals another employee to come over. She can unlock the gate herself, but it's a risky proposition without someone lending a hand. Overzealous patrons have been known to try to slip into the workspace, where everything is dangerous. Bad for business, that.
With a partner's help, she steps out, and accepts a big, unopened bottle of water. She snaps the cap and takes a long pull, bubbles gurgling up to the back of the bottle. She can tolerate a lot of heat, but there's always the danger of losing moisture. After a moment to collect herself, she starts weaving through the crowd, heading back to the bar. The next band should be on any minute, and she'd like to get there before the thrashing and dancing starts up again.
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