The invitations to Bruce Wayne's house masquerade had gone out mostly to the social elite and family friends, but that was hardly any excuse to cop out on a possible inside story for the next morning.
You had to be capable of a certain degree of infiltration to be an investigative reporter, and so here Vicki Vale was, dressed to the nines in midnight blue. Redheads were standouts, so she'd opted for a blond wig to hide her tresses. Hopefully, she could count on good, old-fashioned grace and manners to prevent any accidental bumps or pushes to dislodge the wig.
There was just one problem: everyone in attendance, it seemed, had a date. Vicki had been working all week on a mob story, and so there hadn't been time for a trip to any of the few high class bars in town -- which, all told, was probably just as well for her wallet. She'd have to improvise.
Behind the mask, green eyes scanned the crowd until their owner spotted the first single male in line. She straightened her shoulders and walked confidently toward the figure, an inviting smile already in place. One hand slipped into her evening purse to remove a piece of paper about the size of the circulated invitations, then extended it toward her quarry.
"There's a few free drinks in it for you," she promised in an undertone, her face close enough to the man's ear, "if you pretend to be my date until we cross that threshold." She nodded toward the doorway, where invitations were being checked against the guestbook. Her smile hadn't faltered.