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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Liadan nods. "I have some ability to see into the past, present, or even future, though I admit these powers can be unpredictable, to say the least. But I might be able to help determine if what she says is true or not."

Liadan is very ill at ease in the crowd, though she is able to maintain a calm exteriour. And as her dress is dark blue and fairly simple, she is able to fade into the background without too much trouble.

While she keeps an eye out for Ms Silverton, she is also listening to the conversation. From what she can tell, most of the audience is very enamoured of the medium and believes every word she said.

Liadan shakes her head sadly. She is still not sure if they are right to believe but she suspects that they would be taken in by anyone who had enough special effects.

She spots a woman who appears to be part of the show and walks over to her. "Do you know when we should be expecting the guest of honour?" she asks.

Guinevere shakes her head, offering a weary but sympathetic smile.

“No, sorry, I don’t.”

She checks her watch, grateful to have worn one tonight, which she so rarely does these days.

“I do hope it will be soon.”

"Not a whole lot. She's one of those television psychics right?" Natasha shrugs. "I know she's in town."

That's about all the more attention Natasha gave to her; Natasha has lived long enough to see enough frauds, she tended to tune them out. In Red Room, they hadn't been her problem or her business.

"Should I take it from the fact you're bringing it up that she's more than she seems?"

Natasha hasn't decided how she'll handle Emily herself when they find her. There were options, but most of them off the table for one reason or another. It does occur to her, not for the first time, how much easier it would it would be if she could influence the girl's thoughts. This is not a mission worth falling off the wagon, though.

When they do see Emily, she leans in closer to Daryl and asks in a low voice, "You think me and her wear the same size?"

It's hard to tell if she's serious or not from her tone. Natasha herself is still considering as she asks.

"That's what I need to find out." He takes a sip of the coffee, considering his wording a moment. "There have been a few accidents at her shows. People quitting. Injuries from falling set. It could be nothing but publicity, but her next show is going to be the O2 arena. That place can hold twenty thousand people. If there's more than publicity stunts to this we need to know before she has a bigger accident."

An accident in a place with that many people could quickly descend into chaos, which could mean more injuries as people try to escape.

Edited 2016-11-04 14:11 (UTC)

Liadan quickly realizes her mistake, but thankfully she seems to be the only one aware of it. "Soon would be nice," she agrees. "Long day?"

Natasha was on the smaller side, Emily looked a little wider at the waist. Taller, though. "Should fit you," he answered back.

He reached up to loosen his tie like he was getting ready to go into his room - hopefully the actual occupants of the one the girl was cleaning weren't inside and Emily hadn't seen them before they left for the day.

"Don't hand that shit out. You can drop the cash off yourself," he replied with a shake of his head, hand on the doorknob. "Or send someone to do it for you. I'll give you the estimate after I get the info and a final bill when the job's done. You can pay me after."

“Oh god yes! I thought that show would never end!”

The words come out in an uncensored rush, and she regrets them immediately. Most people here, she assumes, are devotees of Ms. Silverton and probably wouldn’t take kindly to Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm.

“Not that it didn’t meet my expectations,” she adds hastily. “It was definitely…memorable.”

Faolan glances up at the familiar voice addressing him and finds his hackles lowering slightly. It's good to see someone he knows, here among the crowds. He didn't think he would, considering the nature of the event. He wasn't sure how much of a waste of time this whole trip would be, truth be told.

He raises his glass at her in greeting as she approaches. "It has," he replies, a bit more gruffly than he intended to, but he means well. "I take it that you saw the show as well?" Did Lancelot get her the tickets and send her along to investigate as well, he wonders? He hadn't known that they knew each other. For such a large city, the underground community seems a small world after all.

Faolan glances up at the other woman as she approaches and holds out a hand to greet him. (Literally up, at only 5'6", she towers over him, especially in those heels of hers.) Glancing warily at the hand held out to him, Faolan accepts it in turn. A member of the Redbright Institute, their groups have something of an alliance at the moment, and he should really play nice, even if he's feeling a bit on edge, firstly because of the thought of having to confront this medium and now thanks to this new woman reminding him of his own less than impressive stature.

"It's nice to meet you," he replies, which is as polite as he can be, in the circumstances, shaking her hand before retracting his own. "I can't say that I am, though, no. I suppose you could say that I've been assigned here." His position as a Guardian in the Night Council is no secret at this point, even though it makes him wary to admit to it at certain times.

Faolan keeps the file loosely in his hands, allowing the other man to turn the pages for him until they stop on the accident reports. Scanning the sheet as it details the damage done to the theater this particular show had taken place at. He flips to another behind it, with similar results. Frowning down at the report before glancing up to Lancelot himself.

"They wouldn't have put the report on your desk if they thought it was nothing," Faolan replies. Even with so little information as what he's just gleamed by skimming through the file, Faolan can see why they'd be suspicious of it. Of her. Of course, if she really is more than what she seems, she's a dangerous woman indeed. Especially if she's doing these things around the crowds of people that her popularity suggests.

She smiles, not offended by the gruff tone. Though she does not know Faolan well, she has already seen enough to know what a busy man he can be. And she has known enough busy men - and women - to know how tiring that can be.

"I did," she confirms, "though I cannot say that I enjoyed it much."

"Memorable is one word for it," Liadan says with a smile, glad to know she is not alone in being less than enthralled by it all. "I suppose now she wants to make a fashionably late entrance, completely with lighting and sound effects."

"So you're investigating and you're hoping I'll help," Natasha says, putting the situation as she understands it on the table. "I'm free to turn you down, but that's still the question?"

She sips her coffee, letting it rest on her tongue a second or two longer than normal before swallowing.

"Do you have a plan?"

Natasha nods. No need to over-complicate this. They were dealing with a psychic, not a foreign dignitary or a crime lord. She had plenty of money and some B-list celebrity status, but it wasn't as though she had a full security detail.

Posing as the hotel staff should be enough to get close.

She stays in step beside Daryl with the air that she belongs there, and they both belong in this hall, in the room that they're approaching, that they don't know or care about anything out of the ordinary.

It's a convincing act. No one's given them a second glance so far, and it doesn't change now.

"It's obviously suspicious," Lancelot half agrees, and he leans back in his chair -- rubs at his face in thought. "But we can't just walk up and ask her if she's using her gifts because her whole persona is that she does. We need to work out if there is magic involved at all first, and then if there is what the source might be. It could be a stage hand, could be an audience member out to cause problems, could be a ghost haunting her. It could be that cat for all we know. My initial thought..."

Here he sighs a little and turns the file back toward himself, flips through pages.

"... Was to try and send some people up to Manchester. She has a smaller show there first. If some people go and feel it out they might be able to confirm if magic was at least in use at all."

"That's the question," he agrees, "and I have an idea. I wouldn't call it a fully formed plan. I'm sending a few people up to Manchester to scout out her smaller show, to see if they can pick up anything. People who can sense magic, who might be able to tell me if our concerns seem founded. What I'd also like is a few people to do some more traditional investigation on her. After her show in Manchester she'll be down in London for a week and a bit before her show starts. I'd like some people to see what they can pull up. If we end up with two positives, hopefully we can put them together and do something about it. If we pull two negatives, we'll have to admit we might be a little paranoid."

That... is actually extremely useful. He looks thoughtful for a second, turning it over, then frowns.

"I don't suppose you'd have time to go to Manchester for a weekend? Expenses paid, of course. She has a smaller show she's holding there first. I was hoping to send a few people up to scout it out, see if they can sense anything from her or from the show in general. It sounds like you might be exactly what I need."

Sarah Silverton arrives fashionably late, and holding a cat.

There's a smattering of applause as she walks in, having changed into a black dress that glitters in a way that suits her. She looks like an old fashioned model who has aged gracefully, right down to the slightly wild hair and carefully manicured nails. The black cat she carries seems as much a prop as a companion, and unconcerned by the crowd. Presumably it has suffered this indignity many a time before.

"Thank you," she says in answer to the applause. "You're all too kind. Some water for lunar, please?"

Presumably the cat. One of the attendants circling with a tray of champagne nods and vanishes away, while Sarah begins to mingle in with crowds -- chatting to people politely. She seems to have a tendency to touch people by the hand, something that -- with how long her red nails are -- almost feels like being secured in place by her claws if you're unwilling.

Part of being a professional psychic, of course, is being able to read people. Guinevere's discomfort is readable a mile off as he begins to tire. Sarah approaches after a moment, lunar cradled in her arm like a tired child, and offers her a thoughtful frown of concern. She knows the names of everyone on her guest list, obviously, as much to add to the magic of her knowing as so she can make sure they're not investigative reporters out to cause her trouble.

"Guinevere, you seem tired. I hope tonight was not too draining for you?"

Shows can be a little emotionally taxing, after all. She knows, because they're meant to be.

Sarah Silverton's arrival is clear from the smattering of polite applause and a few gasps. She's changed into a glittery black dress as old fashioned as she is, and walks in holding a cat that incidental conversation with an attendant reveals is named Lunar. Of course a few eager people surge forward to greet her, and she's polite. Anyone who has done the same thing will recognise her style of speaking to people, the calculated non-answers and non-questions which let people believe what they will and decide what they will.

She knows who is on her guest list, of course, and has made sure she knows what they look like too.

When she can.

Some people don't come up, or when they do they come up suspiciously. It's for that reason that she approaches Faolan, who is signed up as Dubhan. Dubhan O'Neill is dead, and that means this person might be a private investigator here to get a story to sell. So either she needs to scare him enough he might write a good story or unveil his fraud and thus make a good story for herself.

She approaches casually, the cat cradled in her arms like a baby. Everything about her is old fashioned elegance, pearls around her neck and twinkling diamond earrings -- perfectly manicured long, red nails and neat lipstick.

"I've been curious about you," she opens with, "so many shadows surround you, Mr O'Neill, you have an air of mystery. I wonder at the truth of you. Did you enjoy the show?"

Faolan flicks something of a smile at the suggestion that it might be the cat. So the cat wasn't just for the photographs, then? He watches as Lancelot takes the file back from him and flicks through it, adjusting the way he's perched on the edge of the desk to make himself more comfortable as he settles in to listen.

"Feel it out," he repeats. "With their own abilities, I take it." He cocks his head at the other man slightly. "Manchester isn't too far to go. I could check it out, if you need volunteers. D'you think the Council would spot the cost?" he asks, quirking something of a smirk at him as he does. He knows just as well as Lancelot does how tight they can be on these things, but then again, this is their investigation.

Gwen chuckles, no longer afraid to show her true feelings.

“She is quite the performer. It’s almost convincing, really. I’ll give her that.”

She raises her glass briefly in a mock toast.

“I’m Gwen, by the way. It’s nice to meet someone else who isn’t completely enraptured by our host.”

Gwen starts to slouch, unconsciously closing the gap between her and Faolan. Had she come on her own, the difference between them would have been slightly less. (She’s the sort who generally prefers to wear low heels or even flats.) Unfortunately, attending as Agnes’ guest also meant abiding by her sartorial rules, and the older woman is of the firm opinion that a proper lady should always wear heels of exactly two inches. Disagreeing with that hadn’t seemed worth the hassle before now.

Thankfully, his reason for being here tonight is interesting enough to temporarily distract Guinevere from the awkward height differential (and the growing pain in her feet from the unaccustomed heels).

“Assigned? Oh!”

She has been thinking of Faolan only in terms of Hillingdon. Being assigned here seems more in line with his role as a Night Council guardian, a position that had been exposed during the election. That realization makes Gwen immediately smarten (and straighten) up. A lifetime spent as part of a police family has left her with a deep sense of respect for anyone filling a similar role (at least until said person proves to be unworthy of it).

“Am I intruding? I don’t want to get in your way.”

Guinevere’s father would read her the riot act if she compromised an operation by being chatty.

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[ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

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