8980/A Tasty Morsel

A Tasty Morsel
Date of Scene:	07 December 2021
Location:	The Narrows - Miagani Island
Synopsis:	Black Panther catches Satana in the aftermath of a feeding.
Cast of Characters:	T'Challa, Satana Hellstrom

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T'Challa has posed:
T'Challa had to get out sometimes. Tonight, the destination was Gotham City to see a show. He did so while in disguise, or at least not advertising just who he was. This was accomplished with a leather jacket, black jeans, and a baseball cap. Much easier to blend in this way, and he stressed he would not need the Dora Milaje on this evening.

As it lets out, he walks away from the place until getting in a car, intentionally meant to blend in with most any other, leading to him driving through the Narrows before long.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"You did well, yes. You've served me well."

The sultry, purring voice from the dark alleyway is feminine. Oh-so-feminine. It escapes the alley and sweeps out into the street, covering it in velvet and sin.

"I felt it when you used that claw. You made me think of you, my darling little follower."

More sin than velvet, really. It's like the voice was designed specifically to capture suitably-oriented people like a web of dreams and barbed hooks.

"But now ... I'm hungry. Who will feed me?"

"I...I...I... will, mistress." The second voice couldn't be more different. Rough. Deep. Cracking on the higher notes, like someone who's been punched in the throat too many times. "It will be an honu...uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"

The noises sound at first like pleasure. Intense pleasure. A low moan of pleasure that gets louder and louder. And then turns to fear. And pain. And ...

Thud.

Something light. Dry. Hits the ground as the ghosts of a light show leak out of the alley. Then more sounds of pleasure--feminine in nature--and ...

A figure steps out of the alley. A figure that is decidedly feminine and decidedly unconcerned with showing that off. Impressively tall (though the 4-inch block heels have something to do with that) and shapely like a Hellenistic statue. She pauses and adjusts clothing, dabbing at her lips with a tissue that she subsequently tosses over her shoulder into the alley behind her.

"That was nice..." she purrs to herself.

T'Challa has posed:
It's the scream he hears, even with the windows up on a cold night. Enhanced senses, heightened hearing? Comes in handy. T'Challa's attention diverts toward the alley in question as he passes it, and there's a strange glow he /thinks/ he sees, but he can't be sure. Could be a trick of the streetlights, where they aren't busted.

Turning down the next street, he immediately parks the car and exits it, ducking into an alley of his own. Seconds later, the Black Panther emerges in full costumed regalia, his steps silent as can be thanks to the dampeners in the feet. If there is a crime to respond to, well, Batman might just have to give him a disapproving look later. He was here first.

Turning the corner, that's when he spots her. Almost the same height with the heels, but is she involved with whatever happened? Solid white eye slits in his mask center upon her, and for the moment he is silent.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
The enhancements of the suit let T'Challa see clearly the scene the woman is leaving. It's an oddly ... sterile scene. There's no blood. No gaping wounds. Just a person sprawled on the filthy alley floor, leaned up against the rough bricks of a nearby building.

Eyes opened.

Body unmoving.

Horror-filled expression on his face ... mixed in odd ways with expressions of pleasure.

And, above all, though it may take a moment for this to register, shrunken and desiccated like a mummy.

The woman looks left and right casually and turns to walk away from the alley ... toward where T'Challa waits.

T'Challa has posed:
Night sight, as well. It gives Black Panther enough to see the results of whatever must have caused that scream, and without knowledge of just what caused it, he's left to question the woman on her way from the scene. "There was a scream just a moment ago. Did you hear it, or see what happened?" he asks, giving her a closer look, up and down.

The frown behind the mask is hidden, for he has seen the shriveled-up face and body of the apparently dead victim, something that places him on guard. It might be a bit much for her, seeing someone such as him standing before her. Not Batman, either. But, one never knows when they will bump into someone famous, someone known for heroism.

He returns his attention to her, while moving for a better look into the alley. Yes, nimble like a cat.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"Oh, my!" the woman exclaims, laying one hand on her (ample, almost obscenely displayed) chest, fanning herself with the other. "You startled me!"

In the darkness of the Bible black street, standing just outside of the halo of a street lamp, it's hard to make out much about her eyes. Like their colour. But they're open wide. As if in surprise. Or mockery thereof.

"I heard it too. I just assumed it was some lucky guy getting his happy ending from a streetwalker."

Says the woman whose looks would make a streetwalker go "bitch, PUHLEAZ!".

"Oh, that must be very handy," she adds as T'Challa manoeuvres into a better view of the alley. "I wish I was that nimble." Her teeth light up in the night. "I mean outside of the bedroom."

T'Challa has posed:
Black Panther's head turns to take another look at her, as if there's something that seems off. An act, or an embellishment, or..something. To say she is easy on the eyes would be one way of putting it, but he did not reach the point he has in life by tripping over his own words or feet every time a pretty woman came into view.

"It sounds like he was startled more, and paid for it. As if the life was sucked right out of him," he observes, crouching close by what's left of the poor guy. "What happened to him is not normal, that much is clear." Her words come off as teasing to him, and there is a scoffing sort of sound that rises from within the stoic visage of the Panther mask. "I will take your word for it."

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"Oh really?"

Reactions here are off. She's just heard that a man's life was sucked out of him and ... she's curious, not afraid.

The woman walks over to the alley, making a big show of peering into the gloom. "I can't see much. Wait a second..."

A few motions and a flick of her thumb causes a flame to light up and fill the alleyway, making the obscenity that T'Challa could see with his technology look stark and open. The sprawled mummified figure stares accusingly at the sky.

"See? Look at that face and tell me that's not at least half-way an O-face! Looks like he got the happy ending. Then something more tragic."

This is probably about the time that it registers the flame is coming from the woman's thumb, not a lighter.

T'Challa has posed:
"Yes. Really." Black Panther's response is flat, lacking emotion. Maybe it's something about Gotham City. Or, it's him when he's on business. The way she acts, no - it doesn't quite line up, and one of the reasons for this becomes apparent when the light begins to flicker and grow more steady, casting illumination on the dark interior of the space between buildings.

As a result, the fate of the unknown victim becomes momentarily secondary to the woman herself. "This is no laughing matter. And you? A metahuman?" Another way of saying 'mutant,' because 'metahuman' covers more than just that. "Did you have something to do with this?" Now the questions turn more suspicious as he faces her upon rising.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"I guess that would depend on what you mean?" Satana says with a slow smile creeping over her face, lending, with the twin horn-like cowlicks at her hairline, a distinctly demonic look to her visage. "Do you mean 'Did you kill this man?'" If so, I can unequivocally state that I did not kill this man. His choices killed him."

She gestures dismissively at the corpse. "Leroy here was a really delicious morsel. His soul was positively marinated in sin." The black eyes with the coal red glow swivel to look at T'Challa. The new coal red glow. "He was an arsonist for hire, you see. And he didn't care who got hurt when he burned places down. He was good at his job. An artist at it. And he has the weight of dozens of deaths on his soul."

A tongue makes an appearance, licking her lips with obvious relish. "His soul made for good sustenance. I won't have to feed for two weeks from this meal!"

Then the smile vanishes, the face growing hard, the coal embers staring at T'Challa. "You? You wouldn't feed me a day!"

T'Challa has posed:
Black Panther squints behind the mask, and the eyes themselves appear to narrow slightly as well. Oh yes, there is a certain way about her that now feels more threatening, even menacing, but he is not so easily intimidated just by a look or a few words.

As she speaks of sin, as the eyes begin to glow, a subtle shift of the hands results in claws extending from the tips of each finger, metallic-looking and sharp. However, he does not use them. Yet. "An arsonist? He killed that many?" If she could see the grimace. But, it translates through his tone, a sudden disgust. Toward whom? The man? The woman? Both? "You..consumed his soul? He might have deserved a death sentence for his actions, but this?" His arms cross then, as she seemingly taunts him about the difference in 'meals.' "I will take that to be a good thing, then." Searching through his recollection of legends and tales, myths and stories, he figures it out.

"You are a succubus. This explains much."

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"At your service..."

Satana's smile returns, easier, friendlier. For a demonic bitch from Hell.

"I am called Satana Hellstrom, daughter of Marduk Kurios, styled 'Satan'..." The sarcasm dripping from her voice at that final word is off the charts. "...and a Lord of my own domain in Hell as well."

The salute is ironic.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance."

The hand waves at the body dismissively again. "An arsonist, yes. He was a useful little tool, but his habit of burning things..." She shudders fetchingly. Like she was staging it and acting in a low-grade horror movie that would soon feature full frontal nudity. "...reminds me too much of home. I got hungry. He was there. I ate his soul with only a small wisp left to get sent to Hell for his eternal reward for sin. Everybody's happy: He got a climax like nothing he's ever had, not even that time he burned down the tenement cluster and listened to the screams. I got fed and a climax."

A wink, then at T'Challa, with a tongue snaking around her lips.

"We enjoy what we do. Really enjoy it. If you get my drift." Her voice turns serious again. "The police are spared having to restrain themselves from violence in dealing with him. Defense attorneys are spared the moral quandary of defending a monster. Prosecutors are spared the stress of possibly botching the case and letting a monster go free."

Satana gives an elegant shrug that ripples through all of the most attractive, exposed portions of her body.

"I don't see a down side. Do you?"

T'Challa has posed:
As always, things just have to be more complicated than they need to be. Is nothing ever simple any more?

The concept of a succubus existing, of Satan himself being real? He possesses gifts from Bast. Given that, how strange, truly, is what she tells him? "I assume you know who I am. The Black Panther," he returns, leaving the remains of the man behind. She is the one worth paying full attention to now.

"I do not need to know all the details," he tells her, leaving out which of them he needs to know the least. "And yes, you look like you enjoy it, considerably. There are times that call for more immediate justice. I will acknowledge that." The question then becomes, what to do about her? Something? Anything? "Tell me, then," he adds, after she's given him that shift in place to witness, "You only do..that," a gesture toward the body, "to ones like him?"

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"Do ... what? Eat? Consume sustenance so I may continue existing?" Satana looks mildly offended and miffed at the way T'Challa said it. "That is what I do, you understand that, right? It's no different than your eating..."

She takes in a deep breath with her nostrils, eyes closed.

"...beef, am I smelling? Cows? That are slaughtered so you may consume them to stay alive?"

The eyes open, glowing brighter.

"I try to restrict my prey animals to creatures like this, yes. The fallen. Whose souls have long since been forfeited to Hell." Tight-lipped smile. "Not because of your morality nonsense, I should stress. They just taste better and sustain me longer."

The succubus takes a step closer to T'Challa, as her hard features melt into an inviting smile, eyes turning white with black irises (at least in this light). "For those like you, there are other ... entertainments available. Ones that do not harm you."

Beat.

"Unless you want to be harmed. Some do."

An arm reaches out, hand flat, to be placed on T'Challa's chest lightly.

T'Challa has posed:
Black Panther raises a hand. "I am not so naive as to think every criminal deserves a day in court. Where I am from, at times more efficient measures are warranted. But that..is not a thing I have seen before." Again, he means the shriveled, mummified remains from the soul-sucking. "And I must trust that you are being truthful with me about his crimes."

Then she is closer by the time he's thought about it, glancing past her eyes, listening to her talk of eating beef as if it's the same as eating a soul. To her, perhaps it is. To him, the comparison is not immediately made or acknowledged. There is a sound from behind the mask, like a grunt. For someone who professes to those close to him to never freeze, he is doing just that right now, enough that the hand can find the material of his suit, the musculature beneath it. The texture of the suit itself is a strange weave, likely nothing she can compare to. "I prefer to avoid harm," he deadpans, and she might sense there is something coiled in him, ready to move at the earliest need.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
"I... prefer to cause pleasure." Satana purrs as her hand moves over T'Challa's chest. "It is, after all, what I am made for."

The inviting smile stays in place as she steps up closer, to press her form against the Black Panther's.

"The reputation isn't true, incidentally. Not every kiss..." She winks. "...or naughtier results in your soul's consumption. I've had lovers who stayed with me for years who didn't get consumed."

Her body is ... very warm ... against the suit.

"Maybe you could be numbered among them. You look ... delicious."

Her face freezes a moment.

"That was probably the worst possible word for me to use right now. Delightful."

T'Challa has posed:
The suit does not hide much. Black Panther's head tilts as a sign of him glancing down at the hand, then she takes advantage by trying to get against him. Warmth or not, and he can feel it, he clears his throat as his hands are guided to circle her wrists and create some space between them. "If that was meant to tempt me, you will have to do better than that," he says, and it is said chidingly. A tough nut to crack, it would appear.

"Whatever you think I look like, I think it best you find another place to be. I will need to summon the police, and I have a feeling they will not want to report this on account of the disbelief they will face." All the same, there is a small part of him that might stare a moment longer than he's realized.

Satana Hellstrom has posed:
She pouts, but the pout is playful, not disappointed. Like she expected the reaction she got. And the second thoughts being signalled.

"Well, if this is farewell, then," she says regretfully, ironic glint in her eyes, "let's make it a good one."

Which she does in the form of an all-encompassing embrace that somehow manages to press every available portion of her body from neck to ankle against T'Challa, one thigh raised to rub along the outside of his own thigh.

He may be in a mask, but she kisses him nonetheless, letting him feel those lips through the suit, like the rest of her body against the rest of his. And ever so quietly, a sharp fingernail pierces her thumb behind his back and a small trace of blood smears into the suit's fabric. Blood she can use like a beacon to find the suit later. For a more private visit without the distraction of mummified human remains.

"Goodbye, my watchful ... future lover."

And with that Satana rises into the air, reaching the top of the building and walking away on its roof.

T'Challa has posed:
For a moment, then another, the Black Panther is caught in place. Frozen again. He begins to speak, but it stalls out. There is warmth again felt through the suit, and she can feel him moving to lean away, though she is able to steal the kiss to the mask. Not returned, but it is there. He may or may not even find the evidence of the blood she's left behind, later.

Then she is gone, with his eyes following her, and under his breath he mutters, "What was that?" With thoughts distracted, he shakes his head to clear them before calling in the police who, up to this point had been completely unresponsive.