undergrounds | [ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

Entry tags:

[ 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. ]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Lancelot knows as soon as the files are dumped on his desk that this is going to be a problem.

If even the slightest hint of this investigation being in process reaches the papers they'll have a media frenzy, and if Silverton's security and PR team step up they'll never get within a foot of her.

Lancelot knows he'll need a range of skills, then. They'll need to pull all the records on her first, see what they can dig up in her past, then see what they can find out about the set up of her shows. If she's ordering a hundred stage hands with instructions to levitate things and radios for people to feed her answers then they might have an answer there.

It's probably worth seeing if someone can get close enough to try and sense something off her, too. Lancelot doesn't trust his bluff skills enough to do it himself, but there are a few people he can ask.

[ ooc; For everyone who signed up -- you can either have Lancelot approach your character someone he'd know they'd hang out, or have them already aware what the issue is and being pointed to him. He can meet them in the Night Council offices, or somewhere of their choosing if they'd rather not go there! ]

The sold out Manchester performance is in a theatre more traditional than the O2 arena, and it's buzzing with excitement. The crowd is a mixture of fervent believers and people who are already two drinks in and hoping to amuse themselves. The believers are quite sure she has special powers, some specify from god but others more generally. None of the doubters have a clear answer how she does thinks. Plants people in the audience? Special effects? Light tricks? They're certain its a hoax, but can't tell you how.

By the time everyone is ushered in the atmosphere is thick with anticipation, and there's an eruption of of applause as she finally comes on stage. Sarah Silverton is a woman in her 50s with wild dark hair and neatly lined eyes. Her dress glimmers in the stage lights and she moves with confidence, practised at being the focus of attention.

"My name is Sarah Silverton, and you -- all of you are my guests tonight. Some of you believe, some of you doubt. By the end of tonight you will all know the truth. You cannot deny what you see with your own eyes. My gift came to me at a young age. It made me different, it made me weird. I didn't understand it at first, understand why I had to be different. Standing here tonight, I know why. This gift was given to me so I could help all of you. I can feel your pain. I know that you have suffered. But you're here now. Let's start."

The show has the elements of any good psychic show -- sick people, people worried about dead relatives, emotional vamping by getting the audience to cheer and believe. Silverton is a good performer, she has a clear voice and certainly seems to believe in what she does.

Reading the show is a little harder. At least one or two people she calls up are plants, but not all of them are. There might be something else to it, they might have been feeding Silverton information in some way, but their emotions are real -- and there's something else.

The show is far from short of drama, but not all of it is just Silverton's preaching. The lights all flicker, dim brighten with her emotional displays. A few blow out at dramatic moments. It could be stage theatrics, but the air is thick with magic. The whole theatre feels alive with it. The lighting bars tremble and creak, the emergency exit lights flicker on and off, and they definitely shouldn't unless someone is flagrantly breaking the law for cheap drama. A few people look genuinely frightened and bolt from the theatre.

For those who stay, though, there's a VIP champagne meet and greet afterwards. Silverton turns up about five minutes in, and she's happy to chat. Some subtle security makes sure it stays just chatting.

Sarah Silverton is apparently planning an autobiography, but unfortunately for everyone concerned she hasn't written it yet. A little piecing together of old stories reveals she did spend her childhood in the southeast, moved to the midlands at some point. That she claims she has been gifted for as long as she remembers. There are stories of varying credulity from her childhood of the time she saw the ghost of someone's dead grandmother, of experiences she's had -- and more than a few news reports of strange goings on during her live performances. They seem to be more frequent over the years, and there are even one or two reports of injuries from falling equipment.

As a celebrity Sarah Silverton of course has a twitter account, facebook, a website -- all kept well up to date. It makes her a little easier to track, although not as specifically as might be preferred. Needless to say it doesn't take long to figure out she'll be checking in to the Radisson Blu Edwardian just across the river from the O2 arena, and taking the penthouse suite. At over £600 a night, she must be doing well for herself.

Daryl wiped his hands on the red rag that was near constantly in his back pocket, getting the grease off his fingers as he made his way from the back of the garage and through the lobby of the shop to the waiting room. He paused for a moment in the doorway before clearing his throat, surprised to see Lance sitting there. When he'd been told he had a guest, he'd thought it likely to be someone from Hillingdon. Maybe someone one of his regular clients sent over.

"You wanted to see me?" He asked, curious and genuinely confused as to why Lance of all people were. Far as he knew, the man didn't have a bike.

Daryl had experience ~~breaking and entering~~ sneaking into people's houses as a vital part of his investigations. He never did it to steal anything important. Usually to get an idea of what kind of interests or responsibilities they had and maybe something covered in their scent for him to find. Sneaking into a hotel room, on the other hand, was a very different kind of operation. He first had to go to the Hotel and not look like he stood out. He then had to find a way into the hotel room. And when he was done, he had to find a way out.

A rented suit and freshly washed and brushed hair made the first part go as easily as it could. None of the maids seemed to question his presence as he walked through the halls like he knew what he was doing. His hearing and attentive listening was what he was currently relying on to figure out what maid and cart would be heading into the Penthouse. Someone had to be jealous or excited about who got that service assignment for the day.

Edited 2016-10-18 00:56 (UTC)

Liadan had expected to find herself in a few unusual situations when she moved to London, but she hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon. But when she'd heard about this woman who may be putting the entire community at risk, she knew she had to do what she could to help. And so she headed to the Night Council offices, leaving Johnny in the care of her new neighbour, who seemed kind and trustworthy.

She mentioned the name Lancelot when she arrived and was told where she could wait to speak with him. As she sat, she closed her eyes. She could feel the power of this place, of the people in it. Hopefully, she might also be able to sense - or not sense - the power in this supposed psychic.

Lance is sitting in the waiting room with his dog, who is currently far too white to be this close to all the grease and oil that comes with a garage. She's sat pressed against his legs, eyes flicking around curiously, and they lift as Daryl steps out -- tail swishing along the floor of the waiting room. Hello, Daryl! Hello! Are you a friend? Because you smell like cat!

"If you have two minutes?" Lancelot answers, and gestures vaguely to the door. Since it isn't exactly garage related business he's here on.

Lancelot is busy, and on top of that he's exactly the sort of person who is poor at delegating. Currently he's trying to juggle the influx of investigation results, several other cases, answering the phone to a dog sitter and flicking through his emails trying to work out how he can get out of his normal Met Police job for a day or two without drawing suspicion. He opens the door, phone balanced awkwardly one one hand as he holds out a folder to a very prim woman sat at a desk neatly typing. She jumps up and scampers over to take it from him, then his eyes land on Liadan and widen slightly.

"If you could," he's saying into the phone, "that would really be a great help. Even if it's just the one night. Text me when you can confirm? I actually just have another appointment right now --"

He mouths just two seconds and waves at her vaguely, stepping back and holding open his office door for her. The desk is littered with files, the book shelves behind sparse but for a few reference books, and a photo of a very fluffy white dog sits in a frame.

Edited 2016-10-18 11:21 (UTC)

He knew that dog. Dog probably didn't recognize him, though. Not with all the grease and garage smells on his jumpsuit. He'd seen her in Lance's place when Faolan brought him by to investigate the man's kidnapping. She'd been awfully friendly, then, too.

Daryl stepped through and shut the door behind him. Moved so he could take a seat opposite Lance. Far enough away that it would be difficult for the dog to get too close and get that lovely white fur all dirty.

He doesn't say anything as he sits down, just lifts his head and looks attentive.

Well, they're going to just talk here then he supposes. Lancelot lofts an eyebrow at the silent way Daryl sits down, ruffling at Lily's mane and ears.

"I need some help with an investigation," he says finally, "something that needs to be done... carefully. Do you know who Sarah Silverton is?"

It's something of a toss up, after all. As a celebrity she tends to hit chatty talk shows and sometimes a little column in the paper, but if you don't read the papers much or watch TV you have zero reason to know who she is.

Ne nodded and pointed over to the corner where the tv was set for the most innocuous daytime talk shows, "Yeah. Seen her commercials in here. One'a them fake psychics. She get too close to something she shouldn't?"

It was the only reason Daryl could think of for an investigation involving her. Maybe one of the people she did a 'reading' for was part of their community and let something slip?

Liadan looks around the office as she waits for the phone call to end. She doesn't know much about this man but she has a feeling he keeps his schedule very full. It reminds her a bit of her mother, who had always been doing ten things at once - and each of those ten things had been a task for someone else, never anything for herself. Liadan had always admired that.

Her eyes are drawn to the photo of the dog, which seems out of place with the rest of this. She wonders what the animal's name is.

"That's what we're trying to find out," he admits. "There have been reports that her shows are a little more realistic than we'd like. Some people injured by mysteriously falling set, damage to theatres, that sort of thing. The Night Council are concerned that Silverton's shows might not be as fake as we all thought. If that's true she's breaking a lot of secrecy laws."

Which is a big deal, especially considering how much public attention she draws.

"Hey," Natasha says, smiling when Lancelot approaches her. Between his expression and the fact he's approaching her on campus, she feels confident that she's right when she continues coyly, "I get the feeling you didn't come here to take me out to dinner."

She tilts her head, considering him, wondering if she can guess what's concerning him.

"Want to tell me about it?"

Natasha has to admit, Daryl cleans up pretty well. Which isn't to say he looked good—though he didn't look bad—but that he passes for someone else, someone who looks like he belonged here. That isn't something everyone can learn. It takes talent and experience.

Natasha has both of those as well. A wig and makeup helps change her appearance, and a skirt suit set in professional grey effects a similar illusion for Natasha. She makes a pretty good blonde. And she pays attention to their surroundings in detail while seeming to have her attention fixed on a clipboard.

"Got anything?" she asks under her breath.

"Think it's her or someone on her crew?" he asked, leaning forward and resting his weight on his elbows which sat on his knees. "When did these problems start? Has it always been something her and her people've dealt with beyond whatever's normal for those sorts of shows? Did it just get more frequent or did it just start happening alla a sudden?"

Possibilities were immediately jumping to mind: her being cursed by a fae after a show, her having power and no longer caring about hiding it, a producer or effects technician with power deciding things needed to be 'more realistic' or 'exciting'. Could be any number of things. Obviously Lance wanted to hire him for this, otherwise he wouldn't be there. So getting a good idea of what was already known would help him figure out where to start his own investigating.

"Jeanette on floor 4 asked Olivia on floor 5 to take half her block so she could cut out early," he answered in at a similar volume, head up to let his eyes scan as much as possible while they made their way down the current hall. The gossip wasn't what he was looking for, exactly, but it was still informative. Gave them names and floor numbers. Ideas of who valued what in case they needed to make a distraction. "Chloe on 6 called in sick and the other girl working that block is pretty much pissed she's gotta twice as many rooms. Think there might be two Emily's. We passed one on the last floor but the girls we just passed said Emily'd be working the block two floors up and far as I know, hotels don't usually make people work separate floors unless it's an emergency."

"Part of what we're still looking into. Silverton's shows were a lot smaller when she first began, not as much attention means not as much coverage -- not as much on record. Things feel like they've escalated, but... without knowing how much was or is achieved through pyrotechnics and stage magic before it's difficult to judge if things are just getting sloppy."

He hesitates, fingers stilling in Lily's fur. Lancelot isn't someone who is particularly heavy on the letter of the law, but he's willing to embrace the spirit of it. Silverton is breaking it, but... equally, there's more to it than just that.

"There might be nothing to it. It could be coincidence, it could be bad luck with set. But we can't take the risk. I'll be getting some people who have good senses and judgement together to attend her show in Manchester, see if they can get a read on things. We have two weeks before she has a show in the O2. The O2 arena can hold thousands of people at full capacity. We need to know if there's a risk here, not just from a secrecy point of view -- but from magic if it's being misused. If it is, and these accidents are escalating..."

Then there could be a real danger.

"If you'll indulge me. It's work, but it's more of a request than an order. You can say no."

He stops what he judges as a safe distance off, close enough to not be applying pressure, and stands with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Shrugs a little.

"You can listen then say no too. You can even make me pay for your listening time in coffee. This is your ground, not mine."

So it's her rules, and he doesn't want to throw his weight around about it. Guinevere had told him he didn't seem frightening even though he's a guardian, but he'd like to keep it that way. Head of guardian division could easily be a title that makes you head of the hired thugs, used the wrong way. He's sensitive to that.

He doesn't need to look all that far for help in Faolan himself.

Glancing up at the other man from across the office he raises something of an eyebrow at Lancelot as he watches the other man frowning at the folder before him. Seeing as Lancelot is effectively his senior there at the Night Council, it comes as no surprise that Lancelot should receive the bigger cases to them delegate assignments out from there. He wonders if it's anything of the sort, as he picks up his Mr Grumpy mug and shuffles over to perch on the edge of the other man's desk.

"Anything good?" he asks, nodding to the paperwork spread across the desk in front of him and doing his best not to read any of it over without permission to do so.

The penthouse suite is on the 7th floor of the Raddison Edwardian. The whole place is sleek, expensive, and the hallways between the rooms are narrow -- the lift to the guest rooms requires a key card after 5pm to make it move. Each door in and out of the rooms requires a key card to be pushed in and out of the look to open, then to be slid into a holder by the door for the lights to work. The cleaners have master cards that unlock all the doors.

The penthouse suite with its greater space and view seems to be under the jurisdiction of a girl with blond haired that has been plaited then rolled into a bun of sorts. She might be one of the two possibly Emily candidates, but what she definitely is if anything is tired and distracted. She has the worn down look about her of someone who might burst into exhausted tears if only they had the actual time to do so.

Daryl understood the implications. And this wouldn't be the first time he was involved with an investigation into dangerous magic and breaking of secrecy. It was, however, more public than he was used to.

He leaned back, thumb comping up to his mouth as he thought about the logistics of it all. He'd have to take time off work if he took this job. At least a few days. The shop was pretty flexible with a day off here and there and any undertaking he did on the side, but they'd have words for him if he had to take that many off on short notice.

"Ain't sure I can do the Manchester Show," his words were slow with consideration, but were definitely not rejecting the entire proposition. "Could do some looking into her when she's in London. I'd need pay for the days I'd have to take off work for it plus the usual."

Not that he expected Lance to know his usual fees for this kind of work, but if he did, it made things simpler.

Natasha smiles slightly at his gameness to be fair with her. It's not really necessary, but she appreciates the effort none the less. It's a level of freedom to decline that's still new for her.

Even in Redbright, it's not something she gets much of.

"How about if I listen over coffee. Then I can give you my answer."

"Sounds like we're looking for Emily then," Natasha says. She has an idea what they're looking for—working with celebrities, even second tier celebrities, tends to have a particular effect on the staff. "We just have to keep an eye out for someone who looks like they're working three jobs."

Edited 2016-10-23 00:45 (UTC)

'Good' isn't exactly the word he'd have used, himself. Lancelot lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in his chair, picks up the Samoyed property laws travel mug that Faolan had given him in may and sips lukewarm coffee from it.

"Possible secrecy law breach," he says, and flips around the file he had open so it faces him. "Too public to dig into openly."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 5

[ SEMI-OPEN ] MEDIUM, LIVE!

RECRUITMENT;

MANCHESTER;

LONDON; INVESTIGATIONS

no subject

no subject

Re: RECRUITMENT;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

info dump (skip as much as you want)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject