8116/Welcome to Hell... fire

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Welcome to Hell... fire
Date of Scene: 30 June 2019
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Psylocke gives Lucifer a guided tour
Cast of Characters: Lucifer, Psylocke




Lucifer has posed:
The doors to the Hellfire Club swing open as a dapper and debonair man steps forward. Those doors are heavy, and don't normally swing like that. He effortlessly opens the button holding his jacket closed, doing it with a single finger. "All right," he calls out to any of the guests loitering around the front, "everyone can relax, I am here, now, who do I have to talk to about membership in such a fine institution as this?"


Psylocke has posed:
    Standing at what counts for both a coat check and reception desk is a woman of severe yet striking features. The sort within whom the words 'beautiful' and 'terrible' tend to blur the line. She shrugs a furred stole from her bare shoulders, passing it across the counter to the young lady who tends it. As the doors open, a single violet eyebrow raises and she speaks quietly to the coat check girl: ?It's alright. Allow me."
    She turns, moving on high heels as though she could well turn cartwheels in them if she so chose, and approaches the new arrival.
    "Do you have an appointment, Mister ... ?"
    She leaves a pregnant pause, allowing him to populate it with whatever name he might choose to give.

Lucifer has posed:
When set up, he replies to her question along the lines of that famous movie spy, "Morningstar, Lucifer Morningstar," and gently takes her hand in his own, leaning in to press his lips to the top of her wrist, "and colour me enchanted. Appointment to the Hellfire Club; I rather thought none would be required. I am the devil after all."

Although an actual celestial being, he did have a mind, and it was possible to peek into it. If only looking at surface thoughts, they would be, well, quite erotic, given the stimulus on display, but he truly seemed to believe the things he was saying. "Whom do I have the unending pleasure of greeting today?" As he asked that, he stared directly into her eyes, locking contact. Although he hadn't yet asked for her deepest and darkest desire, it was the move he so liked to do when seeking answers.


Psylocke has posed:
    The arch of the violet woman's eyebrow is the very substance of incredulity, and she exercises the most restrained and surface-level of telepathic scans as the man - the Devil, he says - introduces himself. She's careful not to probe too deeply, as her telepathic control is more iron fist than velvet glove and she doesn't want to do any damage to what may already be a delusional mind. She doesn't blush at the risque thoughts she uncovers, although the corner of her darkly painted lips curves in a half-smile.
    "Elizabeth Braddock," she introduces herself, politely extracting her hand but allowing it to linger just long enough, "A pleasure, Mr. Morningstar. And I suppose we must yield at least somewhat for the Prince of Darkness, though I hope you'll appreciate I have no say in a membership. To be honest, I'd have thought you were already a member given our establishment's name."
    She doesn't quite believe his story, but her confidence prevents her from seeing any real danger that may or may not be present.

Lucifer has posed:
"Elizabeth Braddock?" He repeats, knowing that name. He gave her a further look, as if he needed the incentive, but he was wondering if this was the same Elizabeth Braddock he had seen in so many catalogues, on billboards, and the like. She was most certainly stunning, but decidedly more Eurasian than the woman he was familiar with.

"The pleasure is all mine for now, though I would be happy to spread the wealth at your earliest convenience." He walks with her, stepping away from the entrance way. Security seems to have appeared, ready to react, but less interested when it appears Ms. Braddock has things well in hand. "Sorry, afraid not. My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. But easily rectified. So, tell me, what do here? What manner of fiendish delights do you get up to?"


Psylocke has posed:
     Betsy only locks eyes with the Devil, catching snippets of his thoughts equating the name to a former life in every sense of the term. Though if she thinks anything of it at all, she doesn't say. She only inclines her head in a nod, indicating he heard her right. A hand is waved at the security gentlemen without so much as looking in their direction, dismissing them out of hand. They know her well enough to know she is neither helpless nor guileless.
    "It's better to find that out for yourself," she says plainly, "better to discover what sort of immoral debauchery one can engage in than just hear about."
    She tilts her head slightly over her shoulder, back towards the doors that lead to the outside world: "'Hearing about it' is for the people who can't get in - and never will."

Lucifer has posed:
"That is usually best," he agreed as he walked with her through the hallowed halls of the Hellfire Club, admiring the art on the walls, nodding and smiling to any people he observed along the way. "Immoral debauchery you say? I think I might grow to like this club. You should come see my own, Lux, at some point, though, alas, that one is open to the public at large. Well, the drinking age public."

While agreeing with her at every turn so far, he had to remind her gleefully, "you mustn't forget how alluring a simple sound can be." As if to demonstrate this, he let out a low sound, barely audible, but there was sound there, a whispered phrase, a very naughty phrase, shared between them and no others.


Psylocke has posed:
    "Lux?" Betsy asks, eyes still forward as she leads the way in a poised manner, "I've heard of it, though I've not found the time to visit. Perhaps if you can arrange complimentary bottle service?"
    Her mouth curls once again, not afraid to press the advantage when she feels she has it. Her demeanor is one of abject mystery, whatever thoughts or emotions she may feel not playing out on her face save for the occasional amused half-smile that seems entirely manufactured and practiced. The whispered phrase, however, prompts her to splay her fingers across her chest and give him a look of faux shock.
    "Mister Morningstar," she says, though her tone is still the even Received Pronunciation of a British aristocrat sans anything but polite amusement, "I believe that may have been the 'magic membership password.' Good show."

Lucifer has posed:
"I'm certain that we can arrange that, do you have a favourite vintage?" He was ready to commit whatever she asked for to memory, ensuring that a bottle was on hand. He moved around to face her when she splayed her fingers across her chest in faux shock. "Ah, that's the password, so what would that make this?" And he moved into her personal space, doing it slowly, calmly, but confidently, and whispered something more into her ear. He pulled back, to look her in the eyes, lingering for a moment, before moving to her other ear, where he whispered an entirely new and incredibly unfit to be printed comment.


Psylocke has posed:
    "Dom Perignon," Betsy answers without missing a beat, expensive champagne obviously never too far from her thoughts, "And anything younger than ten years isn't fit to be let out of the bottle, of course."
    She pauses when he steps into her space. She does not back away nor shoo him, but neither does she do anything more than incline her head as though listening to some particularly droll anecdote. She duly tilts her head the other way to allow her to whisper in the other ear, raising her eyebrows at him again before responding in a smooth, dry tone: "I may call it too forward," she begins, "but then, coming as it does from the fellow who invented impropriety in the face of the moral status quo I can't help but be flattered."

Lucifer has posed:
"Consider it done," he said with a simple nod of his head and smile regarding the beverage of choice. He actually had several bottles of 1921 champagne, and 1959 rose, in his private cellar. "And you're quite right, though I never open anything younger than 18 years myself."

He meant to flatter her and was glad she took it that way, "is there such a thing as being too forward? Wouldn't you naturally circle around and end up back where it all started? I like flattering you Betsy, and I would like to go on flattering you. Though I'm afraid my dreadful lawyers, I seem to accumulate so many of them, have suggested that I first ask if you have any heart or other medical conditions that might impede your full and total enjoyment?"


Psylocke has posed:
    At that, Betsy actually laughs. It isn't mocking or harsh, despite her general demeanor suggesting any sort of mirth she might show would be dry at best. In reality, the effect is quite a charming one. She places a hand over her mouth, a polite gesture built into the body language of the body that isn't hers but that she has come to call home.
    "If I do, I've yet to discover it," she admits, although she had gone through more than her share of physicals in order to ensure Kwannon was not living with any particularly debilitating medical conditions. The clean bill of health was a welcome relief when she learned she would not be re-occupying her old body any time soon.
    "The only impediment I can foresee," she says this pointedly, "Is my own respectability. You'll find I need more than some flattering words to truly win me over."
    She pauses before an ornate wooden door, secured by what appears to be a keycard reader. Her hand rises to her decolletage to clasp a slim silver chain, fishing a small golden pendant from its resting place somewhere decidedly more cozy a little lower down.
    "Now, get thee behind me, Satan."
    With that, she steps forward and passes the ?key' over the reader. The door swings open, revealing one of the plush lounge areas of the Hellfire Club proper.

Lucifer has posed:
"I find respectability to be highly overrated." He does appear to be respectable himself, a night club owner, a law abiding citizen, well, the laws he agrees with. "And to paraphrase an old saying, if you something despicable in seclusion, did it really happen?" He's not sure of her answer, but he does get behind her, and follows her into the lounge area of the Hellfire Club proper. He had heard of the place, it's why he came, but he was curious to know if the rumours were true, or greatly exaggerated. "Perhaps we could find a private room to discuss philosophy, and whatever else we can imagine?"


Psylocke has posed:
    "Oh, I couldn't possibly," Betsy says with a shake of her head, "Not with your being an unsanctioned /non/-member." If her tone does or does not suggest that his being a member might make it an entirely different matter, she provides little hint either way. One thing about her is that she is remarkably difficult to read. The benefits of a mind and body language not completely enmeshed, with a good helping of aristocratic reserve and poise.
    "I will, however, offer you my endorsement, Mr. Morningstar. Which should allow you a more streamlined entry into our organisation should you choose to pursue it. Look me up when you're a dyed-in-the-wool member and, well," she laughs lightly, "One never knows."

Lucifer has posed:
"Unscanctioned non-member? Oh, you would me Betsy." He his hand to his chest in mock surprise, "though I thank you for your endorsement, and look forward to the day when I can slide into your organisation, should it have me. Though I can't for the eternal life of me understand why any organisation would have me as a member." It was at this point that he decided to play a little less than fairly, by making eye contact with her and asking, "but what about you, Betsy, what is that you really desire? What do you bury, deep inside that British heart of yours?"


Psylocke has posed:
    Betsy freezes momentarily, although she remains statue-like save for a passing glimmer of concern briefly knitting her brow and prompting her to frown. But it passes, and it seems for a moment as though she may not have heard the question. If her inhibitions had suddenly lowered, she makes no outward sign. Despite her occasionally provocative way of dressing and her way of speaking, there is a great deal about her that is now revealed to be locked away, buttoned down, and concealed from the world at large. But the eye contact is made, and she does answer him.
    "To go home again," she says simply, leaving it at that. Whatever it means, she leaves it up to the gentleman to discover. Even in the face of supernatural cohesion, she is able to send him on a merry dance should he choose to go.
    That said, she reaches into the small clutch purse she holds and produces a richly printed business card. It bears only the emblem of the Hellfire Club and its address with no extra words nor symbolism. She passes it to him with a faint smile and then, without another word, she walks away.