undergrounds | [ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

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[ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

Date: 17th to 31st of October, inclusive!
Plot: Medium, Live!
Areas: Manchester for the pre-London show, then Greenwich

Worldwide phenomenon Sarah Silverton is coming to London. The British Born psychic, medium and all round lady of the supernatural is doing a special tour ending with a Halloween show in the enormous setting of the O2 arena.

She's booked out the placed, too, tickets are sold out. They weren't exactly cheap, either.

Silverton has plenty of critics, but nobody can deny that she does put on a good show. Some put it down to publicity stunts, but every time she takes over a stage there always seem to be mysterious problems. Lights flickering, sound problems, all sorts of spooky goings on while stage hands swear blind they didn't touch anything. There have even been some who quit because they couldn't take it any more, claiming members of Sarah's team must have been deliberating interfering to draw crowds.

It's no surprise, then, that the Night Council has taken any interest. With the reports of strange goings on escalating (including a falling piece of set in one show that caused injury to one unsuspecting audience member) they've launched a full investigation. While most believe Silverton to be a fraud simply putting together elaborate stunts to sell tickets, any chance that she's a real member of the community flagrantly breaking the Statute of Secrecy must be addressed. Lancelot is charged with putting together a team and investigating carefully. Sarah Silverton is a celebrity, and they can't risk drawing attention to themselves in the process or causing any kind of public scandal. They have just over two weeks until her live show in London, and a lot of work to get done....

[ ooc; Post for the medium, live! plot. Still time to sign up if you want! Spooky content likely, in the spirit of Halloween. ]

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Pushing the door closed behind her he switches the hand he's holding the phone in, begins scribbling a note down.

"Yes, thank you that's perfect, yes. Uh, after five? Brilliant, thank you. Talk to you later." He hangs up, drops the phone onto his desk and takes a deep breath before smiling at her. "Dog sitter, sorry about that. Liadan, isn't it? Right, forgive me I totally lost track of time. Think you for coming -- please, sit down. I can get you something to drink if you like? I hope you weren't waiting too long."

He winces slightly at the thought, aware of what a shambles he must seem.

"Works for me." He flicks her a smile and gestures slightly over his shoulder. "There's a place on the corner I usually go to, but I can defer to the person whose time I'm buying."

Lancleot's smile turns playful as he waits for her to pick a direction, falling into step easily.

"So, is Redbright meeting your expectations?"

Either the faction or the person, he's leaving that deliberately ambiguous.

Edited (don't tag before coffee, don't be me) 2016-10-23 10:57 (UTC)

"The Night Council has budget for this sort of work. I don't mind making them spend it."

His lips flick in playful amusement for a moment, because he does take a little satisfaction in that, then he sobers again.

"Just send me your rates. So far none of our leads have recognised Silverton from any covens or factions, but if it's a stage hand or assistant we might be waiting on whoever I persuade to travel up. I'll let you know what they find. Obviously we'd prefer this not to turn into a spectacle, but..." He tilts his head slightly. "If it gets out of hand just let us know as soon as you can and we can pull resources in your direction. We're not aiming to kill anyone here, not if we can help it."

Daryl's usual rates were higher than most expected them to be, but it just meant he could give 'discounts' without cheating himself if he decided to. However with the Night Council funding all this, he felt absolutely no need to drop any prices. He wasn't much a fan of the Council on a good day. So they could afford to pay top dollar for his expertise.

"Didn't think you were," he said, brows raising. He could only think that someone else Lance had spoken with brought that option up. "But the dead could still be involved. Might not be anything on her or her crew. She could just be haunted."

"I know the place. That'll be fine." Natasha's not picky, and that's the closest coffee shop. She's more interested in where this is going than getting a particular cup.

She starts that direction, slipping her hands into her jacket pockets as they go.

"Lucky for me, I didn't come into this with particular expectations. Hard to fail them when I didn't have something in mind to start with." That's not entirely true, but it's true enough. Redbright hasn't disappointed her, but she expected not to be happy with everything she had to do so in that regard, meeting her expectations wasn't all that great.

"It wasn't long," she assures him, smiling. She's seen her husband in a similar state countless times and isn't bothered by it. There are always so many moving parts for those who are in charge.

"Water would be lovely," she adds, though the water in London tastes different than what she is used to. People usually look at her as if she's crazy when she mentions it, however.

He nods and flops into the chair behind the desk, wheels back and yanks open a cupboard with various things. He digs out a bottle of still and a bottle of sparkling water, not really sure which she'd prefer, then a clean glass which he sets on the desk for her.

"There we go," he says softly, and digs for another one for himself -- sets it down on the desk and shuffles forward again to loosen the caps on both bottles. "Right, how can I help you then?"

It's better to clarify, in Lancelot's opinion, than to risk someone assuming wrong. Still, he considers that -- leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and mull it over.

"She could be," he accepts. "At this stage it could any number of things, not necessarily malicious or even intentional. Her London show isn't until the end of the month, but we imagine she'll be down at least a week in advanced for prep. Would that work for you?"

He might already be booked up, after all. Lancelot is aware that Daryl probably has no shortage of work, and he doesn't get to pull rank in this situation.

He tilts his head at that, half watching her and half watching the road as they walk.

"It's good to keep an open mind. I can't fault you for that. I do find it hard to believe you have no feelings about it at all, though. You must have had an idea of what you wanted it to be."

Surely you can't join a program called something like 'Outreach' for a school system and not have some sort of expectation for how that would work?

Certainly, Lancelot would never have expected an 'Outreach' group to be involved in something like what happened to Abigail. But then again, that's none of his business, he supposes.

Checking the road is clear he jogs across and pushes his way into the coffee shop, ambles up to the counter and begins squinting up at the boards idly trying to decide.

Liadan decides to go with the sparkling water, pouring it into the glass. She takes a sip before responding. "Actually, I thought I might able to help you. I heard that you were investigating a medium?"

"I had something, but you know what they say. Happiness is all about managing expectations." And Natasha's life has taught her not to have high hopes. Somehow, it's still disappointing that Redbright managed to be more or less exactly what she would have expected.

That's not exactly high praise.

Natasha follows him inside, a step or two behind, and orders while he's still thinking. She doesn't spend a lot of time looking over the choices. Most of them would be wasted on her anyway.

Daryl nodded slowly, working out the logistics of it. He might not even have to take more than a day off to do it. "I can do that."

His nod came a little faster and he made to stand up, pulling his rag back out to wipe as his fingers again before he reached into his jumpsuit and the shirt pocket hidden under it. He pulled out a card with his 'work' number and an e-mail on it. "You get me the detail of when she gets into town, where she and her people are staying, and anything else you find out before I start working. Send it there. Account's safe. On one of the servers our people run."

Faolan reaches for the file to look at it closer as it's offered to him. Flipping through as he carefully reads through the situation. Raising an eyebrow slightly as he realizes just who it is that they'd be investigating. He's pretty sure he's seen more than a few advertisements for her upcoming show here and there, though honestly he hadn't paid the thought of it much mind. Not as far as the rules of the underground were concerned.

"She's been around long enough, you would have thought the Council would have taken an interest in her sooner then..." He glances up at Lancelot again, as if in question although from flipping through the file he's all but certain that's the direction that this is headed. "Before she became the 'Worldwide Phenomenon' that this claims her to be." He gestures to a flyer from a previous show that someone seems to have wrangled up for the purposes of the file.

Faolan has hardly been one for crowds, especially ones such as this. It's been quite the trip up to Manchester, and there's no way he can make it all the way back to London without breathing fire or tearing someone's throat out for simple things like talking on the train or meandering three abreast with their friends on the sidewalk -- so he's had to grab a hotel room and spend more money than he'd care for. And though it's largely on the Council's budget, since this is their investigation, needless to say he's not starting the night in the best of moods.

He knows there are other people that Lancelot had sent to investigate from London somewhere in the audience but at this stage in the game the tickets for their seats were purchased individually, and he hasn't much of an idea who all they might be. Perhaps it's for the best. He will know if he runs into them at the after party, after all -- the tickets all do at least include a given invitation to that. With separate seats however, he sits in the midst of a sea of what seem to him to be a broad collection some of the most gullible, excitable people in the whole of England as the applause erupts and Silverton herself waltzes onto the stage.

He can't get much of a read on her as the show progresses. There's too much interference, too many people around him and between the two of them. He feels at least several 'others' in the crowd, but he's not so good as to be able to pinpoint their locations as that. He supposes, as he watches her preach to a woman whose deceased parents apparently need to reassure her of her parenting skills from the beyond, that he's going to have to actually secure a conversation with her at this VIP meet and greet. And that, more than the theatrical flickering of the lights and the following terrified running audience members, fills him with a quiet sense of dread.

Showing his VIP ticket to the man checking them, Faolan shuffles around on the edge of the meet and greet until he finds himself a glass of the promised champagne. He's pretty sure he's going to need it, if he's going to make it through any sort of conversation with the woman at all...

Once Liadan had learned that she would need to go out of town, she had managed to convince her brother to come visit with his family. Her sister-in-law, Aisling, had come a few days early and was quite happy to look after Johnny. Her son was also thrilled with the arrangement, since he'd missed his aunt, as well as his favourite playmate, his cousin Muirrin. With her son taken care of, Liadan had headed out for Manchester. It was very uneventful trip and she was able to make her way out to the theatre.

The show itself is far too flashy for Liadan's tastes, though the people sitting nearby are enthralled. At one point when the lights begin to flash and she sighs, they even glare at her. It doesn't bother her though and she continues to do her best to focus on the substance of the show, rather than the style. If it is true powers, than this woman has far more control over the Sight than Liadan, for whom it has always been a tad unpredictable. This means, unfortunately, that Liadan isn't quite able to get a read on whether it is true or not. However, there are a few readings that feel different to her, though she is not sure why yet. She makes a mental note to try and speak with the audience members in question later, assuming they will be at the meet-and-greet.

She heads to the party afterwards and as she heads for the champagne, she notices Faolan. She hadn't realized he would be here but it is nice to see a familiar face. She picks up her glass and heads over to him.

"This has been quite the night."

Daryl snorted and went to step into the elevator, "Sounds like every girl we seen. Let's go up to 6th floor and see if we can spot her. Don't know about here, but stateside penthouse level ain't never had supplies at the ready. Always had to be brought up a floor."

He paused as he set his hand to the door to keep it open for her and then punch in the number after she was securely inside, "Least that's how it was always shown in the movies. Can't be that far off."

"Lead the way," Natasha says with a little smile. She doesn't quibble or challenge his explanation about the movies. Shaking her head a little, she says. "You have to feel sorry for them. They're just trying to make a living, then this falls on their laps..."

And Natasha does feel sorry for them, as far as it goes. It's not something she dwells on though. Instead, she directs her attention to the space around them, looking for anything out of the ordinary. In particular, she keeps her eyes open for ghosts trying to make their presence felt. If there's a real medium in the area, she'd bring the restless dead to her.

"If there really are ghosts, it won't be making their jobs any easier."

Daryl nodded his quiet agreement, sucking in another breath as the elevator slowed to a stop and dinged open before he could say anything aloud. He squared his shoulders and stepped out. A quick glance to either and then a turn to the left towards the cleaning cart tucked against the wall. The girl matching the description of the second 'Emily' was just coming out of a room with a pile of dirty towels.

He glanced over at Natasha with raised eyebrows. How did she want to play this? He had his own methods, but with all the security cameras a hotel like this had, he was less in his element and couldn't exactly shift safely.

While waiting for Sarah Silverton to make her grand entrance, Guinevere slowly wanders through the crowd. In these heels, she can easily see over the heads of almost everyone in attendance. She’s confident that when the medium arrives, she’ll spot her right away.

The drink in Gwen’s hand is her second of the night. The first she’d downed right away. This one she intends to nurse for a while. Not being much of a drinker, these bubbles could easily go to her head if she isn’t careful.

While scanning the crowd, Gwen recognizes one of the attendees: Faolan O’Neill, the newly crowned Head of Hillingdon. She doesn’t know him personally, but thanks to his election bid and the scandal that accompanied it, his face is a familiar one. Though, it is a bit odd to see him here. This doesn’t seem like it would be his sort of scene. Then again, what does she know? Perhaps it is.

Since Ms. Silverton is currently a no-show, Gwen decides to occupy her time by chatting with O’Neill, who is clearly an ambitious man and yet at the same time remains a bit of a reclusive enigma within the community despite his position.

“Mr. O’Neill. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She offers him her free hand. “I’m Guinevere Leodegrance, a member of the Redbright Institute,” she says by way of introduction. “I’m surprised to see you here tonight. Are you a fan of Ms. Silverton?”

It had not been Guinevere’s idea to attend this show. An elderly neighbour by the name of Agnes Crutcher had purchased tickets for both of them before inviting her, making refusal an awkward proposition. After reading up on Silverton, Gwen willingly accepted the invitation because what she learned while researching the show left her afraid that it might be a bit too much for the sometimes fragile Agnes.

Now, here they both sit in the front row, almost close enough to touch Sarah Silverton. Normally, Agnes would have reserved a box, but that would keep her too far away from the medium, whom she wants to look straight in the eyes. On several occasions in the past, Agnes has tried to get a personal reading from Sarah, only to be rudely rebuffed by her staff. Because of that, the old woman intends to make damn sure she gets a public one tonight.

At first things go swimmingly. Agnes remains on the edge of her seat, enraptured by Sarah’s every move, hanging on her every word. When the medium looks in her direction and claims to feel the presence of a fallen hero whose loved one is in attendance, Agnes knows (just knows!) that it’s her beloved Wallace, who passed away nearly ten years ago. You see, Wallace had served in the RAF. Mind you, he’d never seen active duty and been discharged long before he died, but that was neither here nor there. He had served his country, and that made him a hero, full stop.

In response to Sarah’s proclamation, Agnes claps her hands together and whispers words of comfort to her dear Wallace, so grateful to know that he is looking out for her still. Meanwhile Gwen squirms in her seat, avoiding Silverton’s gaze and thinking of her late husband, Leontes, who had died in the line of duty back in January.

Unfortunately, as Guinevere had feared, the show does indeed take a turn for the terrifying. What is at first a fun albeit spooky spectacular, eventually becomes traumatic. Flickering lights give way to falling bits of scaffolding. Tales of the protective deceased give way to talk of dark spirits who foretell doom. During one particularly harrowing stretch of the show, Gwen feels compelled to use her power to sedate those within range. As a wave of fear sweeps through the crowd, those closest to her remain suspiciously sedate, serenely riding out the panic.

When intermission mercifully arrives, Guinevere breathes a sigh of relief and checks her watch, calculating how much time remains before the finale.

Edited (forgot to say it was open to all!) 2016-11-02 01:42 (UTC)

Guinevere weaves her way through the crowd with ease. She’s in her element here amongst the wealthy, having attended many similar events with her mother, starting when she was a young woman. Though there are, of course, plenty of the not-so-rich also in attendance: people who had decided to splurge on tickets or obtained them through other means, such as a contest and the like.

She smiles and nods while passing by, stopping infrequently to make conversation. Dressed as she is in expensive boho chic with a crystal handing around her neck, she finds herself approached several times by strangers who assume her to be a member of Silverton’s entourage or a model paid to be here as a hostess of sorts. After the fifth time she’s accosted, her patient smile begins to falter.

Agnes--who had pressured Gwen to come and dictated her attire (including the necklace, which is supposed to help keep her Chakras balanced or some such)--should be at her side now, acting as a buffer to the attention. But the show had been too much for the poor, old dear. Emotionally taxed by the eerie goings-on, she had bowed out early. Naturally, before leaving she had insisted that Gwen go on without her.

As much as Guinevere would love to go home, she feels compelled to stay given how much money had been spent on her ticket. Besides, she must admit to a small bit of curiosity about Sarah Silverton. Hopefully, a face-to-face would prove interesting and thus worth her time. So, she waits with the rest of the milling crowd for the guest of honour to arrive.

His eyebrows jump at that, and Lancelot visibly re-arranges the situation and how to approach it.

"Sarah Silverton? Yes, actually. The Night Council has suspicions she might not be the fraud we all assumed she was, which makes her a big secrecy breach if it's true."

'On one of the servers our people run'. Lancelot takes the card and looks at it thoughtfully. He... well, he isn't sure he ever thought of himself that way. Maybe that's part of his problem. He doesn't feel part of this community. After a moment he blinks and nods to Daryl, pockets the card and flickers him a smile.

"I'll get you what you need. The Night Council payment systems are a little old fashioned. If you can send me through something official with your bank details I can get ahead on making sure you're in the system so you get paid quickly. If you don't have anything official looking see if Faolan has anything for Hillingdon, might speed it up."

"There are plenty of supposed mediums and psychics in the world. The problem here is we all assumed she was a fraud, but some of these reports have thrown doubt on that."

He leans forward and flips the file pages Faolan is holding until it stops on one of the accident reports.

"Things like this have become more frequent at her shows. It could be a coincidence, it could be nothing, but..."

But if it isn't then it's a risk, and if it's a risk they need to put a stop to it.

He opts for a flat white eventually, leans against the counter a little while he waits for it to be made before retrieving his drink and handing Natasha hers. He gestures for her to walk with him, cradling the drink between his hands and taking a sip.

"So," he says once they're clear of the coffee shop. "How much do you know about Sarah Silverton?"

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[ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

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OPEN;

Re: OPEN;

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The Performance & Intermission (open)

VIP After-Party (open)

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