"Are you sure this will work? It'll be hard to keep things under wraps if we jump onto the stage tonight!" Arven asked Dave, as they sat into the Team's subtle black SUV. (The one with the blue flashing LEDs in the front grill).
"If we fail, it'll hardly matter, and if we succeed, you'll think of an excuse! And no, I'm not sure. It's a hunch based on an intuition,based on an oral myth. But it's the best idea we have."
"It makes sense though." added Susan. "This Banshee is twisted and decayed, because she feeds on more negative energies than the mythical image of her kind. Sort of like how too much sugar and junk food is horrendous for your health. So, starving her of her food supply should help."
"So we have to somehow keep this party going, while little miss shrill unleashes waves of psychic fear. Yeah, good plan. Great plan. Totally going to work." With that, they sped off towards the city centre.
As they arrived, the first band was already taking to the stage. The MC had just finished his professional pandering patter to the punters, and the show was about to begin. Rain continued to fall, dampening the crowd, but not their spirits. Nobody even appeared to notice, lost in the moment as they were. All worries and cares from the past few days forgottwn, all of the needling, pervasive doubts and memories of bad dreams were pushed aside. There was no past or future woes to consider, as the band played, only the present mattered.
"Hey, it actually seems to be working!" exclaimed Dave, in an uncharacteristically upbeat tone.
"I'm not so sure... Where is she? Don't get cocky until she plays her hand" Arven cautioned. They were now wandering about backstage, feeling only marginally guilty about the fake press passes they had used to enter. Arven found himself uneasy. He had a dull pain in the back of his head, and couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Everywhere he glanced, eyes seemed to be fixed on him, but if he looked closer, realised it was purely paranoia. Wasn't it? In the corners of his vision, he saw flashes of white, that he could not identify if he turned to look directly. He wondered if all this was in his head, the product of his subconscious, or was the Banshee causing it? He couldn't tell if his fears were truly his, or artificial. He didn't know if it even really mattered. Either way, how could anyone hope to fight against the whispers in their mind? That subconscious voice, that disapproving disappointment that speaks in your quietest, private moments...
"Snap out of it Arven!" Sue said firmly, grasping him by the shoulders. "I can see you zoning out. Stay with us, there's plenty of time for tortured soul searching later. All you're doing now is making her stronger."
"You're right. Sorry. Of course you're right... That must be why she's still hiding! If she waits long enough, she knows we'll run ourselves ragged just thinking about her!"
Meanwhile, the crowd was beginning to grow uneasy. The band seemed a little distracted, not quite playing in harmony and occasionally letting discordant notes slio through the melodies. As the band struggled, the crowd grew restless, and as the crowd grew restless, the band struggled. Some jeering and hissing began to emanate from the crowd, rising in volume to compete with the music, like stags fighting for dominance. The moment was lost. Distracted from the beat, some realised how perishing the precipitation had become, others began to regret wasting their time. The disparate discordant pockets in the crowd began to spread, rippling outwards. Above it all, the Banshee watched in smug glee. She could sense the anger, the rage, the discontent below her. Over each of the hotspots she waved her arms, conjuring darkness from the void, stoking negativity and pain. Soon, the flashpoints would turn into a wildfire, and she would feast. She laughed, a deep, demonic howl, which became thunder. She glowed with mirth, releasing waves of lightning. The crowd, now practically a riotous mob, became aware of the storm overhead. Instantly, they were struck with an unbearable feeling of inadequacy, feeling the full insignificance of there position in the universe. A total moment of clarity against the enormous infinite void. Total despair horizon.
"We're too late!" Arven cried from the edge of the stage. Below him, the crowd static, caught in the cusp of fight or flight, unsure whether to lash out, run away or give up. Either way, hundreds would die. Above him, framed impossibly large against the chaotic background of sound and fury, was the figure of a woman.
"We've come too far to stop now! ALLONS-Y!" Sue shouted a battle cry, running for the microphone. Simultaneously, Dave made his way a bank of controlling equipment. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed, finding the panel labeled "Pyrotechnics". He pressed everything he could find, as Susan began to sing. Woken from his mental fugue, Arven made his way to the instruments, picking up a saxophone, and tried to rouse the band into action.
In the sky, the raging storm of thunder and lightning was combated by bursts of multicoloured light. The fireworks lit up the clouds in intense, swirling primary colours. In the crowd, a handful of people noticed the action, raising their heads to look for the source of the explosions. Slowly, but surely, the crowd began to reassert itself. On the stage, Arven and Sue began to perform "The Power of Love". After a few bars, the rest of the band began to play along, hesitantly at first, before picking up the tempo. The crowd began to follow along to the beat. More and more began to dance and sing along. As the fear and anger had spread rapidly, so did the joy and elation carried by the music.
Above them all, the Banshee continued to wail, increasing through instead of a cry of victory, it was now a cry of pain. She had expended much of her energy, but was losing control of the crowd! She poured more energy into the crowd, trying to draw a veil over the gathered again. This time, she found the veil patchy, with frayed seams and torn patches. Impossible! Then, the truth dawned on her... She had spend so long feeding on negativity, on forced, inflicted pain. Her people had once found this sort of energy toxic, that was why they fed on guilt or grief instead. She had spend so long consuming toxins, that she had become allergic to positivity. As the crowd grew in confidence, forgetting their moment of rage and dancing in the light of the music, the Banshee howled one final time. Drained of her stored energy, plans foiled, and surrounded by an abundance of exuberant joy, she was overextended. With a final, agonising wail, an ironic howl, she sounded her own death knell...
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