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| It was a warm night for Manhattan in October, the enormous skyscrapers having caught the sunlight of early morning, noon, and evening and holding the heat captive long after sunset. Though the city never slept, many of its streets were considerably settling down as one by one the lights for the numerous Broadway theatres shut off, its crowds filtering out into the darkness. Shops closed, restaurants cleaned up, and only those who made their living in the night dared venture into the darkest alleys and streets, away from the flow of humanity. Among these average everyday people struggling to make ends meet in the Big Apple were the twenty-odd members of the current cast of CATS, just now leaving after their Saturday night performance. |
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| Justin Fisher felt no exhaustion after the two strenuous shows that day, only the satisfaction of a job well done and the euphoric contentment that came with each exhilarating performance, though the doubt in his mind lingered that tomorrow morning he wouldn't want to get up. Leaning casually against the back of the theatre building in his typical black attire, sipping an iced bottle of water, his dark eyes scanned coolly the few lingering die-hard CATS fans around him and the grateful performers they chatted with. He never participated much in the fan interaction himself, though if he were approached he wouldn't be rude. He liked the fans who openly showed their appreciation for the show he'd been involved with for so long, the less devoted theatre-goers who commended his performances and skills, and though pride was so often a character fault he enjoyed the compliments and praise. But he could never be completely one-on-one with any of these people. He didn't know them. Strangers, all, they came in endless supply, some of them more than once. They all knew him. Loved him. Or thought they did. None of them knew what he was really like beyond dancing Macavity at the Winter Garden, nor did they care. They wanted to see him as someone they could admire: a Broadway performer who was perfect in every aspect when in fact that was far from the truth. |
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| Thoughts like these were a frequent occurrence in Justin's mind, but not taken very seriously. He'd been one of those fans once, looking up to the singers and dancers. He knew what they were thinking. In a month or so many of them wouldn't even remember him. But it didn't matter... |
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| At that moment the tall, dark-clad Macavity dancer was more worried about what surprises lay in store for him in a few days, when it had gotten around the theatre would be his birthday. The CATS cast was not unique in the notion that they seemed so close, so compatible when they worked together, but in all honesty some of the stunts they managed to pull off never ceased to amaze him. Perhaps he would take that day off...avoid the surprises he would most likely end up hating... |
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| Not a chance, according to his Demeter: Russa Shepherd. She spoke for the cast when she told him he was too serious and never allowed himself to have much fun. She said he deserved a break. Justin of course didn't believe her, countering with the firmly rooted statement that to him performing was fun, his enjoyment and relaxation being before and after each performance. Such a thing could have been easily believed by watching that particular dancer walk his lone way home, seeming in a satisfied daze as he strolled carelessly down the dark, shadowy streets towards his small apartment. There was that glow about him that surrounds performers after those hot-blooded evenings of passionate performance, that barely noticeable grin on his features of an inner happiness that no other thing could provide him with. But then, that carelessness, that lack of attention to his surroundings, might have been half the reason the mugger crept up upon him from behind so easily. |
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| Justin heard the gruff voice behind him, felt the iron-hard hand grab his shoulder and the cold barrel of a gun shoved between his shoulder blades. In quick reaction to the mugger's demands Justin dropped his dance bag and lifted his hands, his heart speeding in a moment of fear that didn't register elsewhere. Without resistance he let the shadowy man search the pockets of his jeans and jacket, withdraw his small time-worn wallet, all the while keeping the gun pressed into Justin's back. Justin told him that there wasn't much in his wallet worth stealing, and with an array of profanity the mugger shot back that he would be the one to decide that. Justin waited, controlling his pulse with a mental concentration, listening to the sounds shuffle behind him until he felt the gun lighten in its pressure, the mugger's attention now more focused on the stolen goods. |
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| Justin whirled, knocking the gun aside, intent of protecting what was his, but it was a foolish move. As confident of his physical ability as he may have been, Justin Fisher was not a fighter, and it was barely a matter of moments before the mugger regained his bearings, readjusting the position of his gun, shoved it into Justin's ribs and pulled the trigger. Justin heard the gunshot, felt the impact of the weapon tear through his clothes, flesh, organs, but there was no time for pain. The pound of the mugger's footsteps against the pavement was what he heard as the performer slumped to his knees first, grabbing at his middle where he felt a warm liquid flowing, then his shoulder hit the rough pavement and he rolled over, his mind slipping into an all-concealing darkness. |
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| The face was his. The voice was his. The body, the costume: his. But what Justin saw as he stared into those disturbingly inhuman eyes was a soul that was not his, a life, pulsing with vitality and energy all on its own. The face he knew well: the red and black stripes, the white fangs, the zigzagging scruffiness that he had down to an art after so many times applying the look to his own face. The mane encircling that face matched the fiery red and black colors, wild and untamed, flowing down over the sleek body over a white base, all of it torn and tattered. The tail that hung limp behind, the black-clawed hands and feet. That sight that Justin opened his eyes again to looked like him, but was not. |
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| Macavity stared back, amused and interested at Justin's initial astonishment. That twisted half-grin over his black lips Justin knew well, that knowing smirk an expression he had done countless times when facing Munkustrap, Alonzo, Demeter, Bombalurina...the smirk of a corruption that had the upper hand. |
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| Justin didn't know what he was doing here with Macavity, but what he did know was that he felt no pain. He wasn't sure whether he expected to. Macavity didn't say anything. He didn't have to. He simply was there, staring, grinning, enjoying Justin's bewilderment before the vision faded. |
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| When Justin came to, he found that he was in pain, laid out on his back with several people surrounding him. Voices, numerous voices filtered down, a jumble of noise that made no sense. They touched him. Someone called his name. His entire left side and insides were aflame with writhing agonies. He wanted to roll onto his right side and curl up, wait for the agony to pass so he could go to sleep again: sleep where there was no pain. But something held him down, hands pressed flat his shoulders. He couldn't answer the calls for him, couldn't move to turn his head to see anything except the shining lights that flickered above him, rhythmic and steady in their pattern. He was being moved, prodded, asked questions, but it was all confusion. Something was placed over his mouth and the darkness came again. He was so tired...in such pain...he gave no resistance. |
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| Macavity was there in the darkness, waiting for him. Crouched in the shadows that were his, Justin could see his fiery costume--unitard, wig, tail, warmers--a bright beacon in the blackness. He looked up as Justin sighted him, his grin returning, tail tip moving with the satisfaction Justin had returned. He stood up, meeting his dancer. Justin's age. Justin's height. Justin's structure. Yet what Justin saw in those eyes, peering with a cat's curiosity into their golden-dark depths, was a soul not his own. It was Macavity. |
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| "I know who you are," Justin told him resolutely. Macavity laughed. |
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| "I perform as you every day. Of course I know." |
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| "No you don't. You have no idea who I am." |
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| "You're only my dancer, Justin. You're not me." |
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| "What are you doing here?" |
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| "I'm here because of you." |
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| "Just hold on a little longer, Justin, and I'll tell you." The vision grew faint. Justin could feel himself awakening, but Macavity's voice--Justin's voice--carried on. "Hold on for awhile and come back. I'll be here." |
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| Justin was still on his back when his eyes opened. The pain was still present, but dull, throbbing with only a minor discomfort. He could hardly feel the rest of his body. His clothes felt strange, different, the smell around him one of chemicals, the pillow beneath his head and the blankets up to his waist soft but itchy. There were lights all above him, someone touching his hand, saying his name. He turned his head slowly, noting its achiness, and saw Russa sitting there, leaning over the edge of his bed beside him. She smiled at him, small, and he returned it as best he could. A man stood beside her, dressed in a uniform and a badge, asking questions. Justin answered them as best he could, his vocals seeming not under his control, his body weak enough as it was hard to concentrate. Russa took over for him. The cop left. |
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| Russa told him then gently that she and Michael had found him after they heard the gunshot from the theatre. He had been lucky and nothing vital had been injured. They called an ambulance and he'd been here all night. It was just now seven in the morning. She told him he would be alright, that the worst part was over and all that was left was for him to rest. He wanted to ask her so many things... Would he be able to dance again? How soon? Where was Mike? Would his insurance cover most of this? When was he getting out of here? He wanted to tell her about Macavity and what he saw, but he was so tired. It was hard to think, hard to concentrate, hard to speak. Russa brushed back his hair and told him to sleep if he felt like it. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay awake, find out what was what, but the lulling sound of music somewhere in the distance put at ease his body already arrested by drugs and chemicals. Involuntarily he fell asleep again. |
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| Contrary to popular belief, Macavity was there. Striding up through the darkness with a confidence all his own both faces of Justin met again in the unending black. Expecting, knowing, neither said anything at first. They were sizing each other up, seeing what the other was made of. Justin was still curious about this being who looked like him dressed fully as Macavity, what he claimed to know that Justin didn't, what it was he wanted to tell him. What could he tell him? Justin was an actor as much as a dancer. Perhaps he didn't know who for certain Macavity--his character--was, but then that was how it was supposed to be. He had to interpret what other Macavity players had left behind for him, pulling the character forward from his own imagination and experience. Developed through improvisations, fine-toned in rehearsal, tested on stage. He knew Macavity better than anyone else in that cast. |
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| "Perhaps," Macavity agreed, "but not good enough. You don't really know me." |
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| "Then tell me," Justin said. "I want to know." |
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| "You're my dancer, Justin. My vessel to life. I need you. In a way you need me, too. We can both benefit from this." |
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| "I can't exist without you, and without me you couldn't perform. Do you understand that?" |
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| "Are you going to tell me?" |
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| "I don't have to tell you. I can't. There's only one way for you to know." |
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| Macavity extended his hand. A black glove with sewn-on claws, exactly Justin's size and shape, reached out for him. There was no evil there, as Justin had led so many times others and himself to believe. Only answers. Knowledge. Something Justin wanted to know and that Macavity wanted him to. Having not the hindrance of pain, Justin reached to take it. |
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| This time Michael was there with Russa, ever-laughing Mike. It was evening now, according to them, as he'd slept again all day. It had seemed so short to Justin. He could talk better now, keep down a little bit of the delicious broth and water they brought him, sit propped up again his hospital bed. They asked him what he had been dreaming about. Justin didn't tell them. Michael joked that it must have been something about work, for the name Macavity kept passing his lips. He called him a workaholic. Justin laughed. |
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| Macavity's hand was still extended, offering, welcoming, but Justin hesitated. He drew back, curious, questioning. Something didn't seem right. |
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| "You're a villain," he said. "I know that much. I can't trust you." |
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| "I'm a villain only to those who think so. Before CATS ever existed I was only a criminal. I've been warped and misinterpreted for years now. They've gotten away too much from what and who I truly am." Macavity pulled his black hand back, claws no longer plastic but real. His tail still flicked. His triangular ears rotated. "That's what I want from you. There's more to me than what they show in CATS. I want people to know that...by your performances." |
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| "And how do I benefit from this?" |
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| "You will in ways you can't imagine...at least not now. You wouldn't understand." |
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| "Someday you will. You'll know everything you need to behind and about what you do, where you do, how you do it. This is only the beginning." |
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| Macavity again extended his hand, that grin returning, that expression so often seen and displayed. There was no hesitation as Justin took it, their grips mirrored and exact, clasping together in a comradely brotherhood in which all formalities and etiquette were set aside and an understand was reached. |
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| An understanding between performer and character. |
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| No one could quite put their finger on it, but after that Justin was never the same. They thought it was the incident where he might have died that changed him so, his attitude towards life and appreciation for it. His performances alone were phenomenal, an unmeasureable upgrade from the excellence they had once been, but overall there was just something about him, some change that had taken place over that time in the hospital. It was an internal metamorphosis, this change that so dramatically altered his dancing and how he lived. What had been a quiet, modest Broadway dancer before was now a man who knew something the rest of them didn't, who could smile and joke when questioned about it. For him there was nothing that could phase him, nothing in the real world that mattered. There was a barrier between him and society, some sense of unreal about his very presence and being that was unearthly strange. He did only what he had to in order to get by in Manhattan, but beyond that, there was only CATS. Any and all emotion he had previously displayed outside the Winter Garden dissipated. It was saved, withheld in reserve for and only for his performances. No one could explain it. No one wanted to. |
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| "When I get out of here will I still be able to dance?" |
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| "Why me, then? Why did you do this with me out of the entire cast?" |
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| "Because you're not like any other CATS performer, Justin." |
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| "You've been with this show a long time. You've been able to see it grow and develop and change. You won't realize it until you get out of here, but you already possess a bond with it, something your colleagues can't remotely grasp. You and CATS understand each other, no matter how foolish it sounds. All I've done is opened your eyes to this understanding between you and CATS, between you and I. How else can you explain the way the others watch you when you as Plato gaze out at Grizabella finishing the first act? When the others take the resting advantage of intermission and that last song, you can be found still standing in the wings, listening to that voice sweeter than wine until she limps out of view. How else can you explain the way you take entire control of the atmosphere in those few precious moments when you let yourself go as Macavity? How else do you explain that feral look in your eyes when you stalk towards Demeter for the Mating Dance, that glow she sees so dark and animalistic? How else do you explain the way your voice rings out, not the best on that stage, but more powerful, emotional, and more meaningful than any other cast member? Justin, you're not only a performer in CATS, you're its lover. The others are overwhelmed by the first few weeks of performances, Russa as Demeter, Michael and Munkustrap. To them this show night after night is just a routine that is necessary in life: their meal ticket, no matter how much they say otherwise. They'll sing for their supper. But you're not like that. CATS is what you live for now, and always have. They'll say that you're insane, that it's not much to live for, nor will you ever admit it, but this is your sole passion and drive. Even you can't deny it. You were born to do this..." |
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