Errikland
21-12-2007, 02:53
OOC: I’ve seen some threads similar to this, such as the Kahanistani politician scandal (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=523765) and some advertisement that pushes the line a bit (there may have been more than one of the latter, but I don’t remember), and have decided to try my hand at it. I’m going to be an individual, though, and go a bit farther than a suggestive commercial to something a bit more overt and abrupt.
This is broadcast internationally, and will certainly be available on the internet shortly after it happens, so reactions would be warranted.
IC:
The concert was the event of the year, with many of the major networks, available internationally, covering it live (along with more than a couple live internet feeds); though the star attraction was the young starlet, Miss Valerie Venustas, who led the show with co-host James Baker, there were several different performers. All of the profits of the show were to go to charity, specifically the Mucro Orphans Fund. The amphitheater was packed, sold out weeks in advance.
“Hurry,” she said as the wardrobe people went to work. It was part of the business to have to change quickly between parts, but this was a bit ridiculous; they had been delayed, and now it was moments before she was due back on stage for the closing line, and she needed to be in the hostess gown, the large, flowing dress that felt lighter than air.
“And the ever beautiful . . .”
“Thank you,” Valerie said, as she always did when they finished, though this time it was hurried as she scuttled off to the stage.
“Valarie Venustas!”
The bright lights initially blinded her as she stepped out onto the stage, but she did not react. She knew the deal, as she had done this countless times in the past; the nigh blindness dissipated after a moment, but a dumb look on your face upon entering the light, the eyes of the viewers and the lenses of the cameras did not. So she beamed and stepped forward to greet her co-host. As she walked across the stage, she ran over exact details of what was to happen in her head. They would have brief friendly banter, a couple witty lines the writers had especially liked, then they would have the final number, and it would close. As she thought through the whole of the matter, she was actually quite satisfied that this near delay was the worst snafu of the evening—it was not uncommon for these sorts of major events to be hell going though, with everything that could go wrong going wrong. This had gone remarkably well . . .
She barely felt the snap as she continued to walk across the stage, and did not give it any conscious thought. However, as she stepped forward, she became quite aware that something was wrong, as the breeze was even more apparent and her shoes were catching—wait, catching? There was nothing on the stage to catch on, and it certainly couldn’t be her dress, unless there was some tear in the bottom. Now that would be a serious problem, exactly the sort of wardrobe snafu that she had prayed would not happen; still one has to expect such things, given the hurried nature of the last assembling. What should I do? Looking down, drawing attention to the problem, was not the way to go, as that would blow any small, momentarily unnoticeable issue into a larger one. Still, this was certainly serious enough to trip on, and that would be even worse.
Against her best held stage instincts, she looked down to see the problem.
Immediately, she had to suppress a gasp. With her heart pounding in her ears, she thought that this absolutely has to be a dream. Some terrible nightmare, she knew, brought on by stress of the upcoming show. It had happened before; it had just never been this vivid.
But as she looked up, she knew that it was not a dream, it was really happening. For a moment, she couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. Then she snapped back into reality and turned to dash off stage. She had to forsake her shoes, so tangled in her dress, and ultimately ran off the stage wearing nothing but her makeup.
The broadcasters demonstrated their amazing grasp of the situation, as the signal was cut off "due to technical difficulties" thirty seconds after her disappearance from the stage.
This is broadcast internationally, and will certainly be available on the internet shortly after it happens, so reactions would be warranted.
IC:
The concert was the event of the year, with many of the major networks, available internationally, covering it live (along with more than a couple live internet feeds); though the star attraction was the young starlet, Miss Valerie Venustas, who led the show with co-host James Baker, there were several different performers. All of the profits of the show were to go to charity, specifically the Mucro Orphans Fund. The amphitheater was packed, sold out weeks in advance.
“Hurry,” she said as the wardrobe people went to work. It was part of the business to have to change quickly between parts, but this was a bit ridiculous; they had been delayed, and now it was moments before she was due back on stage for the closing line, and she needed to be in the hostess gown, the large, flowing dress that felt lighter than air.
“And the ever beautiful . . .”
“Thank you,” Valerie said, as she always did when they finished, though this time it was hurried as she scuttled off to the stage.
“Valarie Venustas!”
The bright lights initially blinded her as she stepped out onto the stage, but she did not react. She knew the deal, as she had done this countless times in the past; the nigh blindness dissipated after a moment, but a dumb look on your face upon entering the light, the eyes of the viewers and the lenses of the cameras did not. So she beamed and stepped forward to greet her co-host. As she walked across the stage, she ran over exact details of what was to happen in her head. They would have brief friendly banter, a couple witty lines the writers had especially liked, then they would have the final number, and it would close. As she thought through the whole of the matter, she was actually quite satisfied that this near delay was the worst snafu of the evening—it was not uncommon for these sorts of major events to be hell going though, with everything that could go wrong going wrong. This had gone remarkably well . . .
She barely felt the snap as she continued to walk across the stage, and did not give it any conscious thought. However, as she stepped forward, she became quite aware that something was wrong, as the breeze was even more apparent and her shoes were catching—wait, catching? There was nothing on the stage to catch on, and it certainly couldn’t be her dress, unless there was some tear in the bottom. Now that would be a serious problem, exactly the sort of wardrobe snafu that she had prayed would not happen; still one has to expect such things, given the hurried nature of the last assembling. What should I do? Looking down, drawing attention to the problem, was not the way to go, as that would blow any small, momentarily unnoticeable issue into a larger one. Still, this was certainly serious enough to trip on, and that would be even worse.
Against her best held stage instincts, she looked down to see the problem.
Immediately, she had to suppress a gasp. With her heart pounding in her ears, she thought that this absolutely has to be a dream. Some terrible nightmare, she knew, brought on by stress of the upcoming show. It had happened before; it had just never been this vivid.
But as she looked up, she knew that it was not a dream, it was really happening. For a moment, she couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. Then she snapped back into reality and turned to dash off stage. She had to forsake her shoes, so tangled in her dress, and ultimately ran off the stage wearing nothing but her makeup.
The broadcasters demonstrated their amazing grasp of the situation, as the signal was cut off "due to technical difficulties" thirty seconds after her disappearance from the stage.