Logs:Lux Obscura Fashion Show - Interior

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Cast

Aaron Cohen, Jack Martingale, Wren, Taylor Jennings, Joey Merlino, Captain Beltran. Scene run by Dadhoc.

Setting

Philadelphia Art Museum, Second Floor, Dorrance Galleries
2600 Benjamin Franklin Parkway

Log

The Dorrance Galleries have had their innoffensive stone walls covered in black curtains, obscuring whatever art may be left upon them. The gallery is now dominated by a black skirted raised runway, festooned with stage lighting and with quite the rig of overhead lighting suspended from gaffers rigs along the length of the runway. Another large black curtain separates the front of the performance from the backstage areas. Philadelphia's elite mingle in the rear of the room where a cash bar is operating, along with milling servers offering fancy nosh to the well heeled. Eccentric designers, those not panicking because zippers have broken and seams ripped, are mingling in as well, sipping cocktails with the best of them. Light jazz music is playing, because of course it is. Reporters mix in with the crowd as well, their press badges either attracting the media hounds or repulsing those presently dodging public scandal.

Jack's dressed for work, his yellow IATSE union bug shiny proudly on the breast pocket of his black dress shirt. Wherever he's needed, he goes, working as efficiently as he can, though he certainly glances at the bar more than once. If he's got the free time to even glance.

Aaron Cohen mingles and hobnobs with the money. It's what rabbis do half the time, sadly. Comes with the job. He's in what is doubtless his finest suit-- and looks it --with a blue tie with little starts of David on it. His rainbow pride flag star of David lapel pin replaces the US flag on many of the lapels of those around him. Can't be in politics without one these days. He's nursing the same glass of wine he took when he walked in.

After perhaps ten minutes more of mingling, the lights rise on the runway, and all eyes turn in that direction. An immaculately dressed black woman in her late 30's or early 40's steps out onto the stage, dressed in a jewel toned blue dress that makes her solid 7 into a mind-bending 9. Her makeup is on point, and the light plays off her hair in all the right ways. Best of all, she knows how to act like she isn't aware of this fact. She simply steps out to the middle of the runway and lifts her wireless mic up to speak, "Good evening, Philadelphia. Welcome to the Lux Obscura 2020 Penn Charity Fashion Show to benefit YouthBuild Philadelhphia!" She pauses for applause. Mercifully, she gets it from all corners to varying degrees.

Jack doesn't clap, but finds an out-of-the-way corner to watch instead. To watch the audience as well as the show, and to keep an eye on the doors if he can. Presumably if he's needed to work, someone will find him and tell him what to do. But until then, he's just observing.

Aaron spots Jack and excuses himself from his present and no doubt riveting conversation to make his way through the crowd and Jack's person. He turns to watch the stage with Jack and comments aside to him quietly, "You ever get the feeling you're in the wrong place?"

The woman on stage continues, "My name is Taylor Jennings, and I'm with Fox Rothschild LP." More applause, and a single loud boo played for laughs. She comments of it, "Oh, you've faced me in court, I see." That joke gets more laughs. "I'm tonight's emcee. I've had the incredible luck of being able to see some of what our designers have in store for you this evening, and I can't begin to describe what a treat you all are in for. We'll be starting shortly, so if you could finish your drinks and find your seats, I would be appreciative. Thank you." She dips her head and then turns to retreat back up the catwalk.

"Yep." He's quiet, but emphatic. "Job's a job, but...eesh. Felt like I was crossing a picket line just to get in here..."

"Yep," Aaron agrees with equal quiet emphasis, "you can say that again. This is one situation my work in the mayor's office doesn't help in any way. Anything I might say out there right now would probably make things worse." His eyes watch the crowd as he takes another tiny sip of his wine. If he actually had any at all, and wasn't just miming it. "It's a shame the designers are stuck in the middle of it. It's not their fault."

"Union hands for events at the museum's a good goal, but...not like this. Were they brought on before it was announced who the money was going to?" Jack's watching the crowd too.

Just before the show begins, Wren slips in from outside. She's wearing a rather nice suit, well-cut, and fits in rather well, if you set aside her height. She gravitates towards Jack and Aaron- familiar faces, after all.

Jack pulls his phone from his pocket, checking something, and taps out a quick text back.

"It's not the union's fault, either. Labor is never to blame for the crap management pulls," Aaron is quick to assure Jack. "But if you all decide to pull up staked and walk out, I promise to only post the good bits of the resulting video to my instagram." He takes another quick sip and shrugs his shoulders, "Honestly, I don't know the timeline. My hunch is the union didn't really think about the implications if they DID know."

"Honestly, 'f I could get all of us together..." He frowns, thinking. "I'm not quite bottom of the barrel, but I don't have the clout that some of these guys do..."

A man in a fine black suit and polished shoes with greased back hair and a beady eyed face steps through the doors of the Dorrance Galleries, adjusting his cufflinks as he does so. He waves off receiving a program and plucks a flute of champagne from a passing caterer. He has the presumptive arrogance of someone who is well accustomed to his wants being made other people's desires, and he's heading for the crowd of mingling money near the ersatz bar.

Closing on Aaron and Jack, Wren lifts a hand in greeting. She's got floppy ears like a saint bernard just now, which- well, Aaron can't see and Jack doesn't know better yet. "Evening, gentlemen- Aaron, right? Mind if I hang around with you two? Kinda short on familiar faces."

"You're welcome to join us, of course. Wren, may I introduce Jack Martingale? He's with the IATSE Local 8." He pronounces it very near to Yahtzee. Whatever other social lubricating he was about to do is derailed when he spots the suit step in, grab champagne, and waltz right past them all. His jaw hangs open. A rare day a rabbi is rendered speechless. "That's. That's Joey Merlino."

"Oh, hey, Jack." She offers her hand up to the twin. "Nice to make your acquaintance." She pauses at Aaron's reaction, blinking a couple times. "Who's Joey Merlino?"

"Wren, nice t'meet you." Jack nods at her. "...Who?" He asks Aaron, eyeing the the man as he walks by before sending another text.

"He's." Aaron stops short of saying anything at first, eyeing Merlino's back to make sure the gossiping won't catch the notice of the man in question. He leans closer to both and whispers, "The mooooob." Apparently he's not keen to delve into much greater detail with the guy nobbing hobs with the people Aaron just introduced himself to.

"Oh." Wren blinks, peering at the guy discretely for a moment. Marking his appearance but not much else, lest she draw attention.

"Huh." Jack frowns again, filing the knowledge away. "I'm...gonna go see if I can talk to some of my coworkers. About..." he trails off, giving Aaron a look. "Might be back? We'll see." (how do I...go about trying to convince the other hands to walk out??)

Wren looks up at Jack as he speaks. "Do you want some help with that? I can be pretty convincing if you can help me find the people in charge of the crew on-set."

The lights change color from white to a muted blue, which announces it's time for everyone to take their seats. People begin to oblige the house in doing what was asked of them minutes prior by the emcee. Seating in the front row is assigned, and the cream of Philadelphia's elite are soon milling around to find their names to seat themselves. The hoi polloi are catch as catch can, or else it's good old SRO.

Jack looks Wren up and down. "How much can you act like you're one of us? They can be pretty...in-group out-group, 'f you know what I mean." "But if you can...I think I could take any help you can give."

Adosinda of the Visigoths makes her entrance wearing her full social battle gear, a long red dress with a plunging neckline, a tasteful black choker, and the barest hint of makeup that accentuates her features. She is currently Blushed, and cloaked in disdain for all near her. As the lights blue she makes her way to a seat near the front.

"Pretty darn good, I'd say. Here, gimme just a minute or two. Show me where we're going."

"I'll hold the fort here. Good luck, you two." Aaron, for his part, takes his seat. For now, a passive participant in tonight's events.

Back stage, models are queuing up for the first walk of the evening. Taylor is chatting with the stage manager and the mood is energized and expectant. Clearly, nobody back here has the faintest clue what is going on either outside or even out in the audience. Black clad IATSE members mill about doing their best to be unappreciated because all the things that could possible go wrong never do.

Jack makes his way toward one of the more seasoned members, casually, and quietly gives them a rundown of what this whole event is actually supporting. He makes sure to include Wren as someone who let him know what's going on, and suggests that maybe the best thing to do is to add the union's voices to the protest, rather than be complicit in taking boatloads of money away from the schools that actually need it.

Wren adds some bullshit as to who she heard from what (accurate info, falsified sources) to help Jack's case and ensure that blowback doesn't fall on him. Basic social engineering to obfuscate fault without diluting intent.

Jack seems to have the magic sauce tonight. Because he manages to convince the crew-- really, the stage manager --that this is bullshit. All of it. She takes a bit of convincing, to be honest. This close to curtain, and he wants to call the whole thing off? But with the mention of Merlino out there, that's the icing on a very well baked cake. She speaks into her mic, "Wildcat, folx. We're out." Literally everyone not dressed in black from head to toe looks utterly bemused as spots are dropped, mics are killed, house lights are raised, music cuts out abruptly, and people begin heading for the exits.

"...Holy shit," Jack mutters. He's a little surprised that it actually worked, and he looks to Wren, gesturing with his head toward the exit. "Let's go?" As he walks, he pulls his phone out again.

"... go on. I got one more trick to pull." Wren pulls her vest without her jacket, intentionally leaving it a little askew to enhance the image of her being stressed- she ruffles her hair to fit even better- to fit in better as a member of the modeling agency the show's using. What worked once might work again, and she slips into the confused, milling models, spreading the word that the stage crew walked off and that it's just a matter of time before a lot of very rich, very angry people storm backstage and nobody wants to be here when that happens.

"Good plan." He clasps her shoulder in solidarity, and starts to get the fuck out. But not before taking stock of what's going on in the audience. (also - was the "wildcat" thing something he'd have been aware of as a "shut everything down" call, or would that have been unexpected as well?)

Out front, as the house lights rise and the music cuts out, Aaron can be seen smiling quietly to himself. He mumbles a shehechiyanu to himself and quietly rises from his seat to begin heading for the exit, himself. Everyone else seems quite confused as to what's going on, not the least being Taylor Jennings, the emcee. She begins chasing after the retreating stage hands, "Wait. Where are you all going? We're about to start!"

Lethia snorts in amusement at this scene, but stays where she is to wait for the finale.

"Walking out -union's not gonna support a 'charity event' that puts more money in coroporate pockets while abandoning the public schools that actually need the money." Jack's voice is calm, and even, and clear. (though i dont know, do i need to roll for his voice to be those things? this is a pretty stress-filled situation)

"Bit late in the game to start making demands, isn't it?" Taylor is now more annoyed than angry. It's as though she gets it, but is genuinely angry they didn't make this a bone of contention literally any other time before now. She just lifts both hands and turns to walk away. Not going to waste her breath. "We're pulling your paychecks, for the record." It's called over her back as she starts walking towards the curtain to the runway.

Wren ducks out of sight long enough to pull her suit jacket back on and rejoin the audience discretely, sending a quick text as she does.

Lethia applauds from her chair. "Great party darling, I haven't seen this good of a show in ages! When's the next one going to be?"

Taylor steps back out onto the runway and has to use her natural speaking voice because the mics are out. "Ladies and gentlemen. I regret that tonight's event is going to have to be postponed. Members of IATSE Local 8 have just informed me they're performing a walkout. We chose to use union labor for tonight's event, a decision we will be revisiting in the future due to tonight's events. I hope you will all consider continuing with your donations regardless of this disappointment. Our apologies to all the designers and models, and to you all." Murmurs of disappointment and outrage begin rumbling from the crowd long before she finishes speaking.

No reply to her text. Wren takes a deep breath and rubs at her face, ostensibly in frustration- but in truth enacting a shift from cosmetic to true, Riddle-Kithing herself fully into a Chatelaine instead of just appearing to be one. The change made, she casts her eyes around the room, seeking out the chief of police. She doesn't need to approach- she just needs to find him.

The chief isn't present, but a dress uniform for the Philly PD bearing a Captain's bars is presently rising from the front row, probably a bit relieved that he doesn't have to pretend to care about ready to wear women's fast fashion for ninety minutes. He's already heading for the exit, himself, short on the heels of Aaron Cohen, in fact.

Close enough. Wren pays the Wyrd for the privilege of the Captain's position and follows him out the door as well. If he hasn't got the balls to make the right calls himself, someone else is going to have to make them for him.

Don't worry, sir.

You'll get full credit.