((ooc: Continued from Meet Leila. Tell me if there's anything I need to mod. )

December 17, 1770: the day upon which Ludwig van Beethoven was baptized, at a small church in Bonn, Germany. In honor of that historic event in the history of music, the Club House Orchestra was putting on a month of shows in the renowned composer's honor. Tonight's performance would be no exception. The tickets had not been trivial to either come by or to purchase--particularly at such a late date--but the orchestra is what Slate had blurted out, and so the orchestra it would be.

The building itself was worth whatever symphonic pain his eardrums were about to be subjected to. It was stunning: built only two years ago, the Orchestra's private donors had allowed for some of the best architectural minds to be hired. The Orchestra had already been in possession of a breath-taking piece of real estate; now it had the building to match. Three wide levels on the outside turned into five playfully arranged, mildly labyrinthine floors on the inside; the building was famous for having several staircases that lead to nothing but a remarkable view of the lower level, and several doors that opened only to wide windows. There was a certain sense of humor and adventure behind the design that could not be missed; nor could these qualities overshadow the classy, tasteful arrangements of color and composition that were the true pinnacle of the building's virtues. A few museum-quality antique chandeliers rather helped; one rather felt that they had walked into the world of the Phantom of the Orchestra, and that anything was possible.

It was built atop a solid cliff, overlooking the gray ocean. A steep staircase carved into the stone itself many years ago and recently updated with a steel railing allowed patrons pre- and post-show access to an undeveloped beach. The best shows at the Club House, it was said, were those in mid-winter: when storms roared out over the Atlantic, crashing and buckling against the windows of the orchestral hall. Tonight, however, was quite fair.

Slate parked the car into a spot near the cliff, and circled around its front to open the door for the blonde woman in the passenger seat. He was dressed stiffly in a steel-colored dress shirt, tucked into his black pants; a navy blue tie stood out against the rest of his grayscale composition, and a black suit coat completed the set. His dark brown hair tingled with the foreign sensation of having been combed, though the curls had promptly come back with exactly the same tousled appearance as ever. The car itself was a black Nissan of some relatively new model or another. He had borrowed it from the Mondragon Labs vehicle bay; if the woman had asked, he would have told her it was borrowed from a friend.

"Shall we?" He asked simply, as he opened her door. If he had beaten her to opening it, that is.

Leila smiled all the way from the Mansion to the building where their date would be taking place. She couldn't beleive Slate was actually going through with this; he didn't seem too much like the musical type, nor did he really like her when they first met. Imagine that though, a few dozen minutes later the two were going on a date together the next Saturday! Well, that saturdau had come, and, although there wasn't much talk on the way there, Leila was sure this would be amazing.

Today the young blonde was wearing her hair in a messy high ponytail with a lilac T-shirt and some faded jeans. Her black jacket was buttoned up half way, slightly warming her up. It wasn't that cold though, the snow hadn't yet started sticking to the ground, so that was good. The sun wasn't showing itself however, hopefully it would by the time the two got bored and decided to go to the Beach nearby.

The building itself was splendid, not to mention that it was atop a cliff, surrounding it was the actual Ocean. Leila could imagine herself spending hours below with Slate, simply talking. They had so much to talk about, so little things they knew about each other, yet Leila was drawn to this man as if they were made for each other. Ahem. Leila was startled out of her thoughts as her door was opened, she watched Slate for a quarter of a second before undoing her seat belt and getting out of the handsome car.

"This place is beautiful, isn't it?" she asked him, gazing over at the Building where the Orchestra would soon be playing.

>> "This place is beautiful, isn't it?"

Slate followed her gaze to the building and its location, and gave an agreeable nod. "Yes," he said, because he judged that slightly obvious question to be more of a dialogue promoter than an inquiry; "I think so." Slate shut the door gently behind her as she got out, his gaze still on the building. "Are there people who would not find it beautiful, in your experience? Does beauty have an externalized truth, or does the judgment of beauty have internal origins?" It was a curious question. Perhaps a bit more philosophical than her own simple prompt had been aimed for, however. Slate's face gained a slightly reddish flush.

He offered out his arm to her as they walked towards the Club House's double doors. An old-fashioned gesture, he knew, but he had been told that women liked 'chivalry'. He had been told a lot of things by the wiry, nervous boys in his Calculus class, when they had sniffed out the news that he had a date. Though it had been quite disruptive to his notes on indefinite integrals, he had made sure to listen to what they had to say. Therefore, Slate offered his arm; he wore a suit; and you had better believe that when they reached the doors, he held them open for her.

Leila nodded at him, "Um, I don't really know what you just said," she giggled slightly, "But from what I can make out, I don't think anyone I know would of ever think this place as ugly." she admitted, looking at him for a brief second before turning back to the Building, but her gaze was upon the Ocean now. "And this," she said, feeling a little too romantic with the words she'd been about to say. "The Ocean, it's the beginning of Winter, yer the Ocean looks apealing right now." she said, wondering what it would be like to walk along it.

What would Sam do, would they have their first real kiss? A kiss that wouldn't be so quick, so sudden, so tense? She wondered if she'd ever bring Sam here after this date. She wondered if she'd even love Sam after Slate and her were done with their date. Sam was an amazing guy, so why had she agreed to date Slate today? Why had she suggested that they go out? Sam had kissed her the day before, she had kissed him back.

Before she could think anything else, she saw Slate offer his arm and she gladly took it, smiling at him as she did so. Let's just forget about Sam for today, and concentrate on having fun and making Slate happy. She'd think about all this later. The two walked alongside each other, Slate holding the door for her. Who knew he was so polite? "Thanks," she said, smiling at him again.

"So, when does this start?" she asked him, striking a conversation again. Was it this hard speaking to every other guy she dated in her life? She didn't think so... Not that she remembered. The guys she dated were usually muscular, non-mutant jocks. Truthfully though, now that she thought of it, there was more kissing then talking.

>> "Um, I don't really know what you just said, but from what I can make out, I don't think anyone I know would of ever think this place as ugly."

Slate blinked over the young woman as she... giggled. An 'um'-ing statement followed by a giggle. Somehow, this new data did not help to dissuade his current idea that the intellect of women fell short of the intellect of men on the average. Then again, he did tend to speak in a rather confusing manner. It probably came from only having himself to talk to, most of the time. Literally. Calley was currently quiet in the back of their mind; he'd been persuaded to stay there with ample promises of not having to actually listen to any of this 'classical music'. Though it was an understatement to say he'd been unhappy to find that Slate was taking their body on a date. Their body already had a girlfriend. Her name was Isabel Duskmoor, and she stabbed people for a hobby. ...Fortunately, she didn't seem like the type to come to the orchestra.

Leila's attention span did not seem geared towards architecture. She only glanced at it while she responded; then her eyes were back on the ocean. From the way she stared at it, one would almost expect her to be capitalizing it in her head; not the ocean, but the Ocean.

>> "And this, the Ocean, it's the beginning of Winter, yet the Ocean looks appealing right now."

Slate stared out over the cliff, likewise contemplating the scene with a small creasing between his eyebrows. Below them, the gray waves of the Atlantic broke and rolled onto a white sand beach. The wind off of it was cold, and tousled. It was not unpleasant. His blue eyes showed his slight confusion as he looked back at the blonde standing at his side. "Yes," he agreed; "it does. ...Should it not?" Did Winter somehow detract from it? What was its proper season, then?

Apparently, both his offering of his arm and his opening of the door were appropriate for the situation: she smiled at each action. It brought a brief flash of focus to eyes that seemed somehow distracted. Slate stood awkwardly in the Club House's spacious entry hall, a beautiful young lady on his arm, yet feeling somehow alone. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Her mind and her body seemed to be curiously distinct entities. While the latter was non-offensive to look at, it was the former he was interested in. Unfortunately, that part of her seemed to be continuously drifting elsewhere.

>> "So, when does this start?"

Ah. It was back, for the moment. He straightened like a soldier at attention: while her mind was with him, he had best seek to engage it. His strategy was two-fold. First: answer her question in a prompt and timely manner. A quick glance at the large, modern clock hanging along one wall revealed the answer. "We have approximately sixteen minutes." And twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seven--

Second: draw in her interest, like a fish to a lure. His readings had turned up an urban lore-esk rumor that subsequent observations had seemed to confirm: people liked to talk about themselves. With this in mind, he launched into his own question. "What made you chose Marine Biology for your major?"

There was a slight dampness in his palms. ...Why was he sweating?

Leila stood there, watching Slate from the corner of her eye. He seemed thoughtful, taking in everything she did, everything she said. Leila didn't really mind this, but she did hope he'd ease up and be more like Sam. Sam... She remembered the night of Raina's birthday, the last time she had seen the man. Why had she decided to go out with Slate, if she had very openly kissed Sam two times? Well, maybe Slate would end up winning her. She wondered a bit, how Sam would take it. Or how Slate would... She didn't know who's heart would take it better, and who wouldn't come after her.

Finally Slate's voice brought her back to earth, her gaze had been fixed upon the ocean all this time. "Well, I mean, during this season, people don't normally go swimming in the cold ocean do they?" she asked, "But I guess my Dolphin Body doesn't really notice the cold." she said thoughtfully. She had never really noticed it before, but maybe her Dolphin body wasn't respondant to cold as a Human was.

As the two entered, Leila's mind was quickly drawn back fully to the current time and place. The building was so beautiful, it made Leila blink a few times. She loved this museum type look. As Slate answered her question, her eyes traced hisa glance to a clock. The clock itself was magnificent. A very beautiful clock for a beautiful place. Leila felt oddly out of place. Sure, she loved this, but it wasn't her usual type of date.

"Why I chose Marine Biology?" she asked, looking at him straight in the eyes. They reminded her a little of Sam's with the blue. They weren't as intense though. "Well, I guess it was just my abilities. I could converse with the Sea life, and turn into a Dolphin... I guess at some point Marine Biology became obvious. At some points in life though, I was sure I'd become an Artist. I really love art, you know?" she said.

She swallowed lightly, a little nervous. "And you, what do you plan on doing with your life?" she asked, wondering for a minute if he was still in High School or not. This was a little awkward, she was on a date with a High School student? But he really didn't seem like one, he was too mannered, to artsy. She liked this about him though, but those were some traits she had never really liked in guys before.

>> "Why I chose Marine Biology? Well, I guess it was just my abilities. I could converse with the Sea life, and turn into a Dolphin... I guess at some point Marine Biology became obvious. At some points in life though, I was sure I'd become an Artist. I really love art, you know?"

She met his gaze as she spoke, her own eyes again showing her to be somewhere else; somewhere closer this time, and quick to return, but still... not altogether here. When they came back, it was almost with a slight tinge of judgmental disappointment. She approved of the interior of the building, but not of his eyes. It was somehow... unappealing. He nodded simply as she spoke. Her answers made sense. Somehow, they even reminded him of the answers in the back of a math text: they made perfect sense in their perfect place, as they were wholly and entirely constructed to.

>> "And you, what do you plan on doing with your life?"

His own mind seemed to wander slightly as she returned his question. His gaze, as well. Her clothing complimented her figure: at the same time, however, it was a discordant note. They were at an orchestra; everyone around them was dressed similarly to himself, in formal attire. Though his was, admittedly, somewhat at the extreme end of the spectrum--it was not out of place, however. Leila had swung to the other end of the pendulum, though--she was dressed for a movie or a coffee house, not for their present upscale location. Other things about her were equally at odds. She attended college, yet she socialized with--and fit in quite nicely among--mere high schoolers. If he had any way of knowing her fondness for incorrectly labeling all sea life as "fish", it would have likewise fit the strange contrasting image she seemed to create around herself--a Marine Biology major, a dolphin shifter, and an adult who still called dolphins fish was a tri-fold rarity. Most bewildering, however, was this: she had chosen to go on a date with him--had instigated it, in fact--yet she was not truly with him.

Why had he agreed to this in the first place? Pride. That aside, what had made it more than a joke of an idea, something easily scoffed aside?

She had irritated him. Her mind had been present during that childish spar on the couch--her personality, as well. It was that person he had agreed to go on a date with. He would rather like for that person to be present.

It was with this in mind that he answered. They were close to a wall; he put out one arm in front of her and leaned heavily against it, both blocking her path and allowing himself to quite easily encroach deep into her personal space. His baby blue eyes--which might not be as intense a shade as some, but which held a certain sharpness of presence that their childish color was at odds with--locked on hers, trying to draw back out the person he had first spoken with.

"My life," he answered her question of his future, in a manner more confrontational than she may have wagered on; "will not be lived on autopilot. How about yours? Do you always treat your dates this way? Tell me what you are thinking of." It was not a question; it was an order, voiced as their noses were nearly touching. Assuming, of course, that she was not the type of woman to back down or shy away as he came closer. Physical proximity was something she had seemed to respond to, in the past.

Leila could see that her question had created a little distance between the two. He seemed thoughtful, almost in a daze, perhaps? She didn't really say much however, thinking about what he couild possibly be thinking of, now that she had brought his future up. Was he, like her, interested in the Gang that named themselves 'Order'? After last week's events, she was definately intrigued by this sudden, unexplainable attack. And all for Golden Doors. The talk in the Mansion had been focused on the Attack most of the week too.

She watched him closely as he placed himself in front of her. She stared back into the eyes that reminded her so much of Sam. A sudden longing washed over her. No, not of Sam, but of feeling if Slate's lips were as close to heaven as Sam's were. She shook the thought away, not exactly sure this was a good idea. They should just go their seperate ways now, before this little joke of a relationship gets any further. She didn't really think the two belonged together! It had just been someething that seemed to be interesting, back then. Somehow, they both seemed to have changed since their first meeting.

They had changed, and she could feel that Slate felt the same way. That this wasn't working out. She waited for him to speak, his words shocking her out of the strange longing. "What?" she asked, truly confused as they stood so close to each other. Her mouth was dry as she kept herself from staring down at his lips. She kept her gaze locked with his. "I'm sorry," she said sencerly. "I have a few things on my mind. That's all." she added, her voice slightly off, as if she was on the edge of tears. She pulled herself together now, looking upwards at the clock on the wall.

"And do you really want to know what's on my mind?" she asked him, a little bit cheerful as she leaned forward and kissed him briefly on the lips, not allowing him time to kiss her back. "I was just wondering if your as good of a kisser..." but she trailed off, not allowing Sam's name to ruin this date. "You know, I think it's time for the Orchestra to begin." she told him, a smile on her face as she took his arm again.

>> "What? ...I'm sorry, I have a few things on my mind. That's all."

Yes: yes, he had gathered as much. This was a less specific answer than Slate had hoped for.

>> "And do you really want to know what's on my mind?"

"Yes, I--"

There was something pressing against his parted lips. It was warm, and it yielded softly even as his own lips yielded to it. By the time his mind processed the sensation; attributed it to Leila; attributed it to Leila kissing him, she had already moved back. Slate was left simply blinking where he stood. Still leaning against the wall with his tough posturing, but not quite remembering why he was there anymore. Was that... his first kiss?

>> "I was just wondering if you're as good of a kisser..."

His lips closed into a line, attempting to press the feel of her off of them. Yes, that had been his first kiss. And, apparently, it had been a means of comparison with a former--or current--lover. He felt somehow... used.

>> "You know, I think it's time for the Orchestra to begin."

Arm in arm again, they went into the orchestral hall itself; he silently produced their tickets for the usher to check. The seats were good; slightly off center on the first balcony, overlooking the main floor. The ceiling above was a masterpiece of flat planes set at angles that looked to be chaotic, but which served to amplify the sounds from the stage to the point where the orchestra did not need to employ the use of microphones. The seats were a posh red fabric that imitated velvet.

On stage, in front of those famous windows that looked out over the gray ocean, the musicians were warming up; chords of disjoint melodies rose into audible hums in the air, then fell back in volume, replaced by another rising sound. The conductor had not yet stepped onstage. Programs and coats rustled and entire rows stood to allow fellow patrons access to inner seats.

As Slate stood, graciously waiting for Leila to take her seat first, he asked one simple question: "What is his name? Is there a particular reason that I am competing with him?" Two questions, actually.

Leila was startled at Slate's reaction to her kissing him. It looked as if he'd never been kissed before. Well, now that she remembered it, he had said he'd never gone out with a girl. Pity washed over Leila, he was what? 18, 19? She smiled a little however, not exactly knowing what he felt like right now. She wished she could of let him kiss her back, to really know how good he was. It would be kind of weird to kiss him again, maybe wait until the end of the date?

Then they started walking again, she could feel slight tension in the air. As if Slate had taken offence to what she had done. Or maybe what she had said. She felt horrible, he definately seemed hurt. What should she say? Leila was about to take her seat, when he spoke up. Relief, that was what she felt. Why however, she did not know. She bit her lip, "Sit down first," she said, her voice sounding as if she was on the verge of tears, though she obviously wasn't.

She watched his face carefully. "His name is Sam." she said softly. "Look, there's nothing going on between the two of us. It's just, when I looked into your eyes... It's nearly the same color and I just..." she drifted off. "I'm really sorry Slate. I don't mean to hurt you or anything. But there's nothing going on between me and Sam. You don't need to compete with anyone." she bit her lip again, hating the fact that she was the trophy two Wrestlers would be fighting for if Slate ever met Sam.

>> "Sit down first."

The young woman sounded teary. Alarmingly teary. She did not look it, and yet, Slate sat down as suggested--one did not wish to disobey a potentially teary woman. An obnoxious woman on a couch, he could deal with. A day dreaming woman in an entryway, he could manage. A teary woman? That was outside of his experience, and he did not truly wish to put himself through such a test. According to the literature on the subject, such a situation was the antithesis to every male's natural intrapersonal skills.

>> "His name is Sam."

Slate blinked. Sam? From the Mansion, he presumed? It was not an uncommon name, but mutants did have a tendency to travel in their own circles, he had observed. Witness their current date.

>> "Look, there's nothing going on between the two of us. It's just, when I looked into your eyes... It's nearly the same color and I just..."

Nothing at all. Yes. Clearly, he could tell. One eyebrow raised in a mildly cynical manner as she drifted off.

>> "I'm really sorry Slate. I don't mean to hurt you or anything. But there's nothing going on between me and Sam. You don't need to compete with anyone."

The way she bit her lip, the way she had chosen the words 'I don't mean to hurt you'; these did not hearken well for his chances at winning her heart. The way she looked into his eyes and was reminded of the ice user's was an added piece in the data set. His chances of winning her were slim, indeed.

...Was relief the appropriate emotion to feel, in this situation? Somehow, he suspected it was not. Yet he could not seem to prevent his shoulders from relaxing. He went with the motion, and curved it back up into a shrug. For the first time that night, he smiled.

"Would you like for this to not be a date, Leila?" He asked, not entirely certain what the etiquette was, here. He was not breaking up with her; he was merely... acknowledging a mutual mistake. "Friends are allowed to go to the orchestra together, as well." He gave another shrug, his baby blue eyes watching her reaction to see if that threat of tears she had carried in with her from the hall would finally dissipate. "Friends also have the option to become something more at a later time and place, if neither is taken, and they find they have more in common than a couch cushion."

For tonight... no, he would not particularly mind if they were simply here as friends. At the least, he would stop having to see the comparisons behind her eyes at his every gesture and word. Slate's entire life had been spent in the shadow of another. He was quite ready to be his own entity, thank you. He had only just met Leila; she was pretty enough, but he still did not have a feel for who she was; he only knew that she liked Twilight, she had a stubborn side, and she did not feel the same curiosity about him as a person that he did about her. Perhaps that was because she already, on some level, had decided on who her love interest would be. Perhaps if he removed himself to the friend category, she could look at him as what he was, rather than who he was not.

Leila couldn't really think straight as she waited for him to speak up. Was he angry with her? He really hoped he wasn't. It would be really bad if a Mutant was angry with her and she wasn't angry back. She couldn't make an enemy now, this was to early in her Mutant life. What if they could just be friends? Ah, the good old 'Let's just be friends' how she hated that. They'd say it, but then never actually speak to each other in any friendly manner again. This was terrible.

"Unless you don't want it to be." she muttered. "I do, I really like you Slate, I told you there's nothing going on between me and Sam. Were just friends." did she really like Slate as much as she loved Sam? Did she really feel as if she and Sam were 'just friends?' actually, she just couldn't bare leaving a date like this. It was just painful, feeling this way. They'd go through the day, and it would be a date. Then he pointed out that friends were allowed to go to Orchestras together. Maybe they would always remain just friends afterall. Well, truthfully Leila had never expected going into a serious relationship with this man.

Leila laughed, "Yeah, well at least our Couch Cushion will always be the link that brings us together." she laughed some more as she put a hand on Slate's shoulder. "Just friends, and we'll see where it goes then?" she asked. Her voice was normal now, a little exited too. So maybe he wouldn't be mad at her. Maybe he understood! She could feel her stomach bouncing as she felt the happiness in her. She put her hand back on her lap as the rehearsing music died down completely. It was beginning, just as the date had ended, turning into a friendly hang out.

She continued her attempts to convince him that there was nothing between her and Sam. A phrase came to mind, though he did not know where it was from: Methinks the lady doth protest too much. Every word out of her mouth only made him more certain he had made the right choice. With every word, as well, she seemed to relax--whatever had been going through her mind seemed put at ease, with his words.

And then, all at once, she was actually back with him: she was there again, mind and all.

>> "Yeah, well at least our Couch Cushion will always be the link that brings us together. Just friends, and we'll see where it goes then?"

He gave a solid nod. Indeed: that was a good plan.

As the orchestra silenced its warm-up, the crowd's attention was drawn back to the front of the hall. The conductor strode out, and took his position. To a backdrop of an ocean stained with the colors of sunset, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony began.

It was not entirely unpleasant. The manner in which each individual instrument, carrying a raucous melody of its own, yet somehow contributing to a sound that crashed through the hall with distinct order, was outside his prior experience. He found that he did not mind it.

The sky outside darkened; segmented lines of clouds were broken by strips of black with flashes of white pricked through. How curious it would be if the black night sky was a lining, and stars simply holes; if starlight was merely something much larger and much brighter shining through.

The conductor's baton stilled with one last sweep, coming to a vertical stop that seemed to quiver with energy. Intermission.

Slate rose from his seat, and stretched upwards; balancing briefly on the tips of his toes as his spine arced. It was a motion not unlike a cat's. He landed back on the balls of his feet silently, and turned towards Leila. Not his date; simply his friend. He did not have many of those, either.

"I believe they had cookies in the entry way. Would you like to split one?" Not to suggest that either of them could not finish a cookie: merely to point out that the cookies had been approximately the size of his face. He was not usually drawn to food as Calley was, but the chaotic manner in which the large blocks of chocolate they had used as chips rippled and broke the dough's browned surface somehow asked to be put into proper order in his stomach.

Truthfully, Leila did not know any of Bethoven's work. She didn't really know much Classical music. Why had she thought she'd like this place anyway? Sure, she was Artsy, but not exactly the musical Artsy. She sung, but the songs she sang weren't exactly those kinds. She was more of the Pop, R&B, Hip Hop type. This wasn't right. She listened however, a smile upon her face. "I think I should give you a heads up, I don't really know many of Bethoven's work." she told him in a whisper.

As she listened harder, the music begun to sink in. It wasn't all that horrible. Even if she didn't know the melody, she still felt soothed and relaxed by it. "It's nice though." she said aloud. She listened as a few more songs were played, but after the 4th one, her mind was drawn back to Sam, and what he'd be doing if they were here now. Probably bored out of his mind, begging Leila to go. She smiled at the thought, ending the date and going on the beach nearby. Having fun on the moonlight beach... That was what Leila loved.

After a while, she noticed Slate rising, then it came to her. The music had ended. She did the same, watching him stretch. She grinned, reminded strangely of a cat she had when a teenager. Before her mother had died. Then he spoke up, Leila nodded. "Sure, cookies are good." she said and then waited for him to lead her out into the crowded Halls again.

>> "Sure, cookies are good."

They followed the crowd out into the entryway; the line for intermissions snacks was as incoherently put together as one would expect from a group of art patrons. Slate approached the counter from the side, and was served nearly immediately. He attempted to lead Leila towards the edge of the crowd, towards the windows. He split the cookie roughly in half as they went--the lack of precision was irksome, but unavoidable, given the circumstances. The larger half, still in the paper wrapper it had come it, he offered to Leila.

Intermission was ten minutes. Slate stared back at the doors into the orchestra hall, and the clock above it. He was not the fidgeting type. He was, however, the type to wonder if the sound of the second hand was comparable to that of a prison cell door shutting.

"It occurs to me," Slate said conversationally, "that given the volume of the music here, we may very well be able to hear it from the beach." Given her mutation and aforementioned assessment that the ocean looked appealing tonight, he presumed she may wish to go there. Given that the music was nice, but he was eighteen and had not been particularly inclined towards classical music when he first set foot in the building, he would very much not mind accompanying her. Out of here. Before they were settled in their seats for the next hour of the performance.