15419/kate

kate
Date of Scene:	03 August 2023
Location:	A charity ball?
Synopsis:	Illyana and Kate.
Cast of Characters:	Batwoman, Magik

---

Batwoman has posed:
If there's anything the old money of Gotham love, it's a good charity.

'Good,' in this case, means a charity that's run through a private foundation or can have a good donor-advised fund set up for it. It combines the thrill of good press with the benefits of having an unaccountable buffer against taxes with no oversight or responsibility for disclosure; what more is there to love?

Of course, a good charity needs -good- press. Something like a fundraiser for construction projects in New York City's deeply controversial Mutant Town is a very mixed bag in that regard -- more to the point, it's much harder to avoid oversight for something that inherently has the brightest spotlight turned on it.

As such, it goes without saying that there's not many Gothamites here at this fundraiser being held - ironically - at Gotham Hall on Broadway, formerly known as the Greenwich Savings Bank.

It also goes without saying that one of the only Gothamites in attendance is the black sheep of the Kane family, Katherine Rebecca Kane.

What can she say? She's drawn to contention like a moth to a flame.

If there's anything that Kate can say about her step-mother it's the fact that she, despite everything, was supportive of Kate's decision to be here today -- pushed for it, even. It's far from the response she expected from the scion of a family that made its living profiting off the arms market, but then... it really was just like her, too. She had, however, requested that Kate wear something nice for the occasion. Preferably a dress. Doesn't she remember, the very nice number that Catherine bought her, maybe she could try that for once and--

So anyway that's why Kate Kane is here at the prestigious, well-appointed Gotham Hall as people take to talking and drinking after introductions and talk of hope for tomorrow and a safe space for mutants was made; the planned construction projects - a series of living spaces and shelters to be set up in Mutant Town - are showcased in model form at the center of the Hall, like a centerpiece of promise for everyone to talk about other deals around. Kate herself has sequestered herself to the bar area for now; as promised, the pale, short-haired heiress is wearing a dress instead of a suit today.

That it is a sleeveless, backless affair with a deep, wine red body and a plunging neckline only salvaged by the sheer black lace that offers semi-transparent cover from her chest up to her neck that perfectly puts all her tattoos on prominent display is no nevermind to her.

She's followed the letter of Catherine's law, if not the spirit of it, and that's good enough for her to have a self-congratulatory drink or three at the bar as she watches the familiar sights and sounds of the wealthy and their cohorts pass her by, glass of scotch in hand and a smile dancing on dark red lips.

It looks like a sincere deal and the scotch is good. That's all she could really ask for.

Magik has posed:
Less familiar is the woman with long, blonde hair and blunt bangs who leans against the bar, having appeared there out of nowhere-- figuratively, anyway. Most of her night has been spent haunting the margins of the fundraiser; whatever sympathy she might have for the cause it represents - and there's plenty - Illyana Rasputin simply isn't a charity gala kind of person.

This hasn't stopped her from dressing the part, though: a sweetheart neckline flows down into a stretch of sheer, webbed lace through which there's a peek of her toned stomach; several inches lower, a skirt with a mid-thigh slit flows from her waist all the way to her feet and their two inches of wine-dark purple heels. The The top and skirt were woven from the same black fabric, which - depending on the precise angle at which it's seen, the light, and other such factors - shimmers subtly with variously coloured undertones-- as if the compressed spectrum comprising it is trying to escape. A silver filigree comb dotted with tiny, red gemstones sits on the right side of her head, wrapping towards the back; smoky kohl and deep scarlet shadow around her eyes, and crimson lips add a touch of drama to the look.

For a second --

-- two--

-- -- three--

-- -- -- Illyana studies Kate at the periphery of her vision, waiting for the bartender to arrive.

"You don't belong here either," she finally observes, loud enough for Kate and low enough to keep it private. Her tone is even; her voice is unmistakably cut with a hint of a Russian accent. The woman who is only here because she drew the short straw in dropping off the Xavier Foundation's donation personally flashes a small, brief smile; a rotating array of immaculately groomed faces gives its contributions a human face that's all the more vital when giving money on behalf of a mutant-run and -focused NPO.

"Not that you don't - mostly - look the part," she then adds, leaning slightly nearer for a beat. To underscore her point, she flicks a trimmed black nail across one of Kate's tattoos, an inch (if that) from making contact with her skin.

Batwoman has posed:
Someone's looking at her.

She's aware of it the second those eyes fall on her, even if she doesn't make that awareness known. It's not unusual; Kate's reputation precedes her in many ways in circles like these, and she's graced enough tabloid covers in her heyday to catch a stray glance from a lover of gossip as much as she is from some Old Money scion with a centuries long Kane-centric grudge. But she's gotten pretty good at feeling them out even before she changed her life around, and one thing she knows for sure: every look has a certain -feel- to it. It's hard to quantify; more of a gut thing.

And three seconds in, Kate Kane can tell, this isn't the standard, gawking fare. This--

    You don't belong here either.

Is something different.

It isn't until the aftertaste of a Russian accent reaches her ears that she looks the way of her new, blonde-haired companion. Dark brows climbing, green eyes are all the more striking for the dark eyeliner that underscores them as they turn to take Illyana in with a considerate look. It's a look that straddles that fine, poker-faced line between the possibility of haughty rebuke and dry amusement, and straddles it for a good second --

-- two--

-- -- four--

-- -- -- before dark lips flash pearly white teeth in a brilliant, lopsided-grin.

"You think so, huh?" wonders Kate to her fellow stranger in not-so-strange places; she lulls forward against the bar, head dropping to prop sideways on her upright palm, considering Illyana from that fresh, sideways perspective as bright scarlet-red bangs spill forward, obscuring a single green eye.

That visible eye turns towards Illyana's hand as the other woman leans forward and flicks a black nail towards the Green Beret tattoo decorating her alabaster-pale shoulder.

"I guess an appreciation for the not-so-fine arts is a dead giveaway," she remarks, with an effortless kind of nonchalance. She tips her head forward, a gesture towards Illyana's hand. "Sort of like black nails and an attentive eyeliner game."

Her visible brow quirking, Kate leans forward, voice dropping towards a conspiratorial whisper.

"So where -do- I look like I belong?"

Magik has posed:
Illyana's not much of a tabloid girl. She tried for a while, when she was a teenager -- part of throwing herself headlong into sculpting a mask of normalcy to cover a myriad scars from her childhood education in Hell, as if scrolling blind items at 3 AM instead of facing sleep or diligently, half-heartedly catching every episode of Dancing With the Stars could somehow separate her from the gnawing pit within. Without an infamous reputation looming overhead, the main thing that got cold blue eyes stuck on the red haired scion is the distinct combination of military tats, a special ops physique, and steady scotch consumption with dark, observant eyes.

That silent spell of studying green is both fair and expected. After the first couple, Illyana turns so she can lean against the bar sideways, one arm stretched along its surface while her other hand plants just above the slit. The slight tilt of her head, the cock of her hip -- even the neutral face she wears with her eyes fixed firmly on Kate's: it's all deliberate. If Kate is going to stare, then Illyana may as well give her something to look at.

It helps that this is the closest thing to entertainment she's had since stepping foot in Gotham Hall.

"I do," she replies, still even -- still neutral, as pearly whites flash her way. Her eyes shift slightly to accommodate Kate's new posture, which she starts to mirror now that there's no longer any need to pose. The compliment on her eyeliner gets briefly lidded eyes, an appreciative head bob; and a tiny, casual curtsey.

Once Kate has leaned as far as she's going to lean, Illyana leans in too, just a little; she takes her time in looking Kate over once more, head to toe and back again.

"A dive bar on the heels of your good friend's disastrous wedding," she murmurs once her eyes have settled back on Kate's.

"In some fighter's suite for the afterparty of a mixed martial arts pay-per-view," she offers with a quiet voice and slow, conspicuous reach.

"Somewhere more receptive to the idea of you being you," softly comes with a black-tipped index finger approaching Kate's hair, intent on trying to nudge it aside for a glimpse at the redhead's full face, "rather than some tedious performance of such...

"... but that's just a hunch."

Her lips quirk; it's not much of a smile, but it counts all the same.

Batwoman has posed:
Illyana has a way of drawing the eye.

This is especially true when she is just shy of literally drawing the eye with the way the fall of her hand calls great and immediate attention towards the way the slit of her dress widens and spills around her thigh with the cock of her hip.

With all these things in mind, it's only natural that Kate accepts the open invitation in her study of the subject of Illyana Rasputina, green eyes dropping before drawing gradually back up to the blonde's impeccably detached poker face that brings the whole look together impeccably.

She lifts her glass in silent, appreciative salute, and drinks. Tiny, and casual.

If Illyana's a woman if comfortably unassailable neutrality, than Kate is one of easygoing confidence. She's practically liquid, the way she so smoothly leans her side against the countertop; her own dress, slit along both thighs, parts away from her long pale leg to reveal the strappy black, silver-heeled pumps beneath. She's grinning again as Illyana leans in, a daring spark in that sole visible green eye when the blonde's gaze meets it once more.

And as Illyana starts to go through the possibilities after proper assessment of the Kane heiress, Kate sees fit to casually interject, here and there:

A dive bar on the heels of your good friend's disastrous wedding...

    "--do semi-casual acquaintances count? What if they try to stab you with a fork after for reasons outside your control--?"

In some fighter's suite for the afterparty of a mixed martial arts pay-per-view...

    "--surprisingly pretty tame most of the time, but there was one where I woke up and found out someone stole all my clothes; that was an interesting ride back to my apartment--"

Somewhere more receptive to the idea of you being you...

But it's here Kate quiets as that index finger stretches forward, pushing lightly at silky red locks to pull them away from one green eye like one might part open a curtain. The redhead sets her drink aside as her pale features are fully revealed. Her expression stills towards something thoughtful; the interest that flickers in both revealed eyes is apparent in the seconds before Kate's free hand lifts, index finger pressing just against the underside of Illyana's wrist to push it up and away; her bangs fall back into place with a buoyant little bounce.

And a smaller smile touches on darkly-painted lips.

"Not a half-bad hunch there, though," she compliments, hand lingering near Illyana's. "This isn't my first choice to spend my time, but... duty calls."

One pale, tattooed shoulder lifts in a hapless shrug, as if to say, 'what can you do?'

"Now you, though... I get the feeling you're a lot more comfortable when things aren't quite so quiet. You've got the look of someone who needs to be where the action is. Doing something that catches your interest, rather than having to suffer through the things you're obligated to do."

She quirks one scarlet brow, slowly.

"... But here you are, suffering the same fate as me."

Magik has posed:
Illyana's hand only lingers a few moments, suspended near the heiress' head like a guillotine-- as if she might, at any time, dare encroach on Kate's space again, even with a hand waiting to deflect hers.

"I would imagine," she says as her hand falls between them on the bar, "that you're a woman with an awful lot of practice at doing her duty, no matter how distasteful it may be."

A beat passes; Kate shrugs, and Illyana contemplates.

"Why the fork?" she wonders with a slight upward flick back to Kate's eyes. "Did you win...?"

Soon enough, Kate's telling her about herself. The bartender comes close enough to be waved over and briskly slipped a vodka order while she listens, eyes set on the redhead throughout.

    '... But here you are...'

Dark, red lips soften and spread a little wider.

"Sometimes, obligations and interests happen to line up," she notes, leaning half an inch closer. The bartender returns and Illyana scoops the glass up. She lifts it in Kate's direction, toasting their shared suffering. "Losing a bet -- having to spend my night here so that a very rich, very old man may have the satisfaction of knowing that someone was here to give his money to a good cause without it having to be him is the sort of obligation that's hard to sketch a silver lining around, though."

Most of the drink vanishes with a quick toss back, after which Illyana drops her elbow back to the bar and rests her cheek against her knuckles.

"Not that I'm opposed to trying," she muses. "Life is too short for needless suffering, and too full of the inevitable kind."