15880/Fundraising and Hell raising

Fundraising and Hell raising
Date of Scene:	09 December 2023
Location:	East End, St. Martin's Island
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Satana, Superman

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Satana has posed:
It's that time of year again. Satana gazes moodily out the window of her vintage Bugatti as it makes its way, driven by her imp driver (bundled up so its inhuman nature can't be seen, though it does look shorter than you'd expect of a driver) in the open cockpit, down the street to the Metropolis Coral Gables Ballroom Centre.

"Every year," she growls, loudly enough that her long-suffering imp servitor can hear it through the window that separates them, "mortals pretend they're virtuous and suck up to the Whoreson Upstairs by doing 'good deeds'. It's sickening!"

The car purrs its way to the venue, crawling up to the entrance. Upon arrival the short driver clambers out of the cockpit and shuffles around to the passenger door facing the entrance, opening it up for Satana to make her entrance.

And make her entrance she does. The first anybody sees of her is the long, bare leg that goes on forever, unclad to risque heights, and just as the male (and some female) gaze is promised to see something truly tantalyzing and titillating, the red gown causes the anticipation to be disappointed, frustrated even. And then the rest of the body follows suit.

She is wearing an evening gown. It is legal by all obscenity laws. It also matches the dress code of the Metropolis Orphans Society to the letter. (They really never stood a chance once Satana cast her baleful glare upon them. Hell has all the lawyers, after all...)

"Oh, this is so WONDERFULLY decorated!" Satana enthuses to the doorman. "I simply must hire the person who did this." *To obliterate their soul for such ... false piety!* she adds in her internal dialogue.

"Invitation, Ma'am?" the doorman asks.

Satana looks at the man, staring him in the eye. "Oh, you don't need my invitation. You know who I am."

"I don't need your invitation, Ma'am. I know who you are." The man steps aside and Satana enters, both legs bared in an evening gown with slits that go up her side all the way, barely held in place by thin, strategically placed straps, and a plunging back that reaches the danger zone without quite crossing the line.

Behind her the servitor imp returns to the car and drives it over to where the rest of the limousines are parked, and when approached by the other drivers intrigued by his ride, ignores them stoically.

Superman has posed:
Christmas time is rapidly approaching. Another fundraiser at one of the smaller art galleries. it's dedicated to Nancy White, a distant cousin to Perry White. She's known in the art community as a philanthropists and fan. She often organized fundraisers like this one decades ago. While th dress code has changed, it's now a black tie affair, the intent is the same. Raise money for the orphanages of the city.

Clark pushes up his glasses as he stands there in a tux. Notepad in hand, he's trying to interview the various local politicians, movers and shakers, and big art names, if they'll give hm a good five minutes.

Clark tries to approach one with open mind and he gets brushed off. Another. Again and again he'll try. Before long he has to push himself into a group of them just to talk.

"My name is Clark Kent and I want a moment of your-," he looks to see where everyone else is looking. Satana's trying to get in and is already turning heads. "Huh?" he thinks to himself.

Satana has posed:
"Before I drink too much and get tipsy and forgetful," Satana says out loud, "where do I put my donation?" She pulls a chequebook from somewhere (it's unclear where she could be hiding it, and she's not carrying a purse...) and then produces a pen (same issue, not that anybody's looking at the chequebook or pen). "What's a good amount? Would five million do, or would ten be better?"

That causes more than a few gasps. So far nobody has publicly donated more than 200 thousand.

"And where's my champagne?"

She heads to the bar, brushing past Clark along the way, stumbling into him accidentally as she evades a waitress carrying a tray of canapes.

"Oh, excuse m..." She stops as she looks at Clark. "My, aren't you the delicious one...?" she purrs.

Superman has posed:
People just stare at Satana in disbelief. There are no shortage of reasons why from the cheque book to the pen to the actual check to the outfit. The circle around Clark are staring. Some it's a good stare and others look aghast. It's just a question if that look is for show or not.

Satana bumps into hm and he's solid, but still staggers a little bit. However, the comment disarms him and he blushes bright red. A second later it fades, "Thank you for the donation,' he says if no one else will. That's a lot of money and a fashionably controversial source s still a reputable one. That's his stance and people will watch her go to the bar.

After a bit one of the people at Clark's circle and goes to the bar. "What's the meaning of this?" no introductions just the thoughts that this is some kind of stunt or prank.

Satana has posed:
Satana, working on Clark, seems to not appreciate the interruption. A brief flicker of anger crosses her face, and as she turns her head, as if symbolically, it seems that some piece of lighting catches her eye at the right angle to make it look like there's a red spark in her pupils.

"I'm not certain what you're asking," she says in a dangerous voice to the interlocuter, "Mr. Alton."

The man, taken aback at the fact she knows her name blinks and is about to talk when she talks over him. "I'm Satana Hellstrom. Of the Boston Hellstroms. I trust my family's pedigree is, when paired with my donation..." She waves the chequebooks. "...which I may note nobody has yet directed me to the right place to deposit it, will past muster with your oh-so-high standards? You know. Like the nearly-impossibly high standards you set for your Russian mistress. What was her name again...?"

She stares at Mr. Alton, who blurts out, without seeming to want to, "Olga." Mr. Alton's wife, standing next to him and staring with unabashed distaste at Satana, stiffens and glares at her husband instead.

Turning her back on Alton, Satana faces Clark once again with a pleasant, smiling face. "So, Mr. Kent..." She knows people by name apparently. "...can *you* direct me to where I put the cheque?"

Superman has posed:
Clark just stares at the interaction between Alton and Satana. He knows something non-human is happening. Whether it's a mutation power, a metahuman skill or magic is the big question. With a name like Hellstrom, he bets on magic, but wonders if that's a red herring. Like being a little -too- obvious.

People will stare at Alton now that his secret is out. Yes, about a quarter of the guest knew, but thy either lacked proof or had secrets of their own to protect.

Clark tries not to gulp when she calls him by now. "Ummm. Right here Miss Hellstrom," and he will guide her t one of two areas. This one a little more to the back. "What did you learn about? I mean we've never met and you're well connected." Yes, he's a little intimidated. "You're like Krampus in designer clothing," and he will point to the box. "Cheques can go there."

Satana has posed:
"Oh, Krampus is a darling. And a far more tender lover then you'd expect given how he treats badly-behaved children," Satana says, winking broadly and grinning at Clark. She then leans in to him, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial hush. "He's VERY good at whipping with his birch rods, though. Quite ..." She shivers in a way that makes it seem her gown is about to have a wardrobe malfunction ... but again doesn't deliver. "... enticing."

She straightens up and giggles. "Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. That's a joke done in poor taste given we're speaking at an event for orphans. Now should I donate five or ten?"

She purses her lips as she ponders. "Jospeh," she says, referring to Alton behind her in a vague, over-the-shoulder gesture, "treated me badly so I'm tempted to make it only five, but this is for the orphans, so I'll make it ten."

The fact that she's just put a room with the cream of Metropolis to shame is just added bonus. There will probably be record-breaking donations tonight just as the pride of a bunch of 'elites' won't let themselves be so badly overshadowed by an interloper with the clothing sensibilities of an expensive call girl.

"And, Mr. Kent, did you really think I wouldn't know who you were? I *do* read the Daily Planet, sir."

She writes out the cheque with grand flourish on her signature and hands it across. "Don't cash that for ..." She looks at the clock at the end of the ballroom. "... about twenty seconds." And now that same lascivious wink is tossed at the cashier. "Kidding. You can cash it now if you like. It's set up for EFT." She helpfully points to the scan codes at the bottom of the cheque.

Turning her attention to Clark once more, she asks, "What brings you to this place with..." Her voice rises, developing a bit of a harsh edge. "...banal and tedious stuffed shirts..." Her voice drops and becomes pleasant again. More than pleasant, really. It's like her thrilling contralto slithers its way into Clark's ears to wrap itself, purring, around his reptile brain. "...Mr. Kent. Surely none of these people are interesting enough to actually interview!"

Superman has posed:
"Oh!" Clark is starting to recant thoughts about magical powers in play. Especially when she talks about reading the byline. "Right," he gives a soft smile.

That wink comes about time and cashing it. "You should attend a gala in Gotham. You'll probably turn more heads," he says thinking she'd like that kind of thing. However, it's not like he's shooing her off. It's like he's making her aware of another community event she should look at in the future.

Clark clears his throat. "Some of the readers find these people interestng. So, I'm trying my best," t's hm not putting personal feelings f it into play. To him, this sis the assignment.

Satana has posed:
Satana's fingernails walk up Clark's chest as she steps in closer. "So," she asks, voice lowered a few tones into the husky, "would your readers find someone like me more interesting perhaps?" She looks meaningfully into Clark's eyes and ... something, like a sort of pressure that eases when he does what she wants and increases if he resists, induces him to agree with her. "I'm sure you could find many interesting things out about me."

And now she's in body contact.

"I've never been interviewed ... well, not by a household name ... before."

Her voice falls even further into something that's a breathy whisper.

"Or would you rather interview the stuffed shirts?"

Superman has posed:
The power lashes out at Clark, but it's only half-effective. Satana can tell it's not taking full root, but it's trying. Clark tries to fight who he should interview. But then he will ask a question. "Why should Metropolis care about you?" he says and he's not exactly stsopping. The pen and paper are at th ready. It's honesstly the question that may ntrap him or break the power.

Satana has posed:
Satana, still pressed lightly against Clark, snorts, then chuckles. Her head turns in the direction of the cashier, then back to Clark. "The fact that I think I've just donated more than the scions of Metropolis put together should be a source of interest, no?" Her head turns toward the crowd where there's still more than a few people staring at her, even despite the bombshell she'd dropped on Alton.

"And they," she adds with a sidelong whisper, "seem to be fascinated by me as well." Her body shakes against Clark in a silent laugh. She then turns back to Clark. "Wouldn't your readers want to know why a socialite from Boston is in Metropolis and donating to Metropolis causes?

Superman has posed:
That last question does it. The power starts to take hold and it feels really good to ask. "Why Metropolis Miss Hellstrm?" he asks her and then pen gos to aper. Clark's no longue fighting that magcally laced attack. The part of him already swayed just convinced the other half to go with it.

Satana has posed:
"Well, let me put it this way. When Hell needed to expand because it was too full of evil souls, it annexed Boston." Satana giggles, shaking against Clark again. "And as much as I enjoy Boston when I go back to my home, I do think of possibly ... having a home in other places. And Metropolis is a place I'm considering."

Beat.

"And of course there's your flying knight. He fascinates me. He seems so ... perfect. And in my experience where there is the picture of perfection, there's secrets that tarnish them. And I do so enjoy tarnish."

Superman has posed:
% Clark doesn't take that litrally. However, he will just make a nt of various home. Then that line of thinking gives pause. "Don't you read the byline. He comes from tarnished up bringing. Nearly last of his race, the homeworld gone," he says honstly letting her see that. He'ss not a knight, but something that ccame fom death and sacrifice.

Satana has posed:
"That is the storybook knight, though, isn't it? He comes from darkness to spread goodness and light. And far be it from me to put a stop to that; I genuinely adore genuinely good people." The smile that crosses her lips pairs with a strange intensity in her gaze. "And yet, I meet so few genuinely good people. Most people hide things. And I have a little hobby of finding those things out."

Like Russian mistresses?

"I'm a wicked woman, Mr. Kent. Ask onewho knows me if I'm really so bad. I am." The final part of that she says in a sing-song voice like she'd reciting lyrics from a song. (She is.)

She pairs a brief licking of her lips with the wink this time. "But I'm so much **fun** when I'm being wicked. And I have so much fun with people who hide their wickedness. Metropolis has its shining knight in the skies. A man of impeccable virtue. And I would like to meet him. To find the wickedness he hides. And to revel in it. Because I do so adore the wicked. Even Alton."

Her smile turns predatory, now. And the wickedness she mentioned shows in her eyes.

"I will be taking Olga's place with Alton, I think."