6536/Charity begins at Occam's Fund-Razor

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Charity begins at Occam's Fund-Razor
Date of Scene: 12 June 2021
Location: NYU Conference Hall
Synopsis: Kyle finally makes a friend. Aspen gives out a telephone number.
Cast of Characters: Aspen Matthews, Kyle Porter




Aspen Matthews has posed:
It was the usual deal. A bunch of rich, privileged, chiefly white, upper middle class to lower upper class types decided they needed their names in the papers for their 'generosity' so they held a 'Save our Oceans' event. Part scientific-symposium, part speech-delivery engine, part gala dinner with thousand-dollar plates for raising funds for the various organizations whor... ah... REPRESENTING themselves there, it was, as is to be expected, a mostly ghastly affair.

But it got names in papers, so that part of its job was effective.

It also got some paltry sums of money in organizational pockets. So that part was effective as well, albeit limited.

The symposium part was, by all accounts, actually considered a well-arranged one. While open to the public, the papers presented and the panel discussions were highly technical and thus largely avoided by any but fellow scientists, some die-hard laypeople, and a small scattering of cranks easily ignored and shuffled off when they got disruptive past the point of amusement.

No, the deadly part was the speeches. Row after row of ignoramuses with millions interspersed with scientists who had no public speaking ability whatsoever turned that into something that in wartime would be against the Geneva Conventions.

And one person stood out. The person in tan cargo shorts, a khaki short-sleeved shirt, and a naval baseball cap with the name U.S.S. Hannibal embroidered into it. The one who stood patiently, almost stoically, as one of the more ignorant of millionaires yapping about aquarium facilities pointed her way in specific.

Then the loudmouth paused in her bleatings to take a sip of water, only to have, somehow, the entire glass drench her face and torso, causing shock, consternation, and in the case of the aforementioned tan and khaki-clad woman, a giggling fit, blue eyes lit up with mischief.

Kyle Porter has posed:
Shaking hands and making donations aren't Kyle's favorite activities, but they serve an important purpose.  They help maintain his social status, without which his business as a tailor would wither and die.  Not to mention the guest lists for his extravagant parties. 

Which brings us to something he can only remember as being aquarium-themed and not serving nearly enough alcohol.  The tallish, leanish, youngish man is doing his best to remain patient while he listens to the droning voices and endures overbearingly friendly hands on his shoulder. 

When he finally manages to disengage from a knot of too-loud attendees, he smoothes a hand down the front of his maroon-on-white suit.  Then, abruptly, he chuckles.  Someone just got wet.

A quick glance around is enough to verify that there aren't many people laughing.  He is, though, and so is the casually dressed woman standing next to him.  "That's the most exciting thing I've seen happen since I got here," the tailor admits.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Oh, yes, yes it is. And it couldn't have happened to a nicer woman," Aspen replies, eyes still taking in the drama as the woman is hustled off stage by people while others ineffectually try to dab her dry with cocktail napkins. "She was deriding aquariums as if they're all the same, showing me in specific, which is rather upsetting considering that my aquarium is specifically a release aquarium."

She takes a glance at Kyle, then, finally. "I'm Dr. Matthews of the Metropolis University Oceanographic Institute," she says, sticking out her hand after a moment's pause. (Apparently glad-handing isn't her favourite activity either.) "I'm also the director of the aforementioned aquarium, and designer of its release program. You might understand why I took the windbag's speech a bit personally and such joy from her mishap."

There's two reasons why someone might come to a gala dressed like she's dressed. Either she's so wealthy she doesn't have to care, or she's ... well ... what she is, it turns out. A scientist without a lot of experience navigating the upper crusts.

The eyes flick once more at the woman, almost evacuated out a side door now, with a slightly cruel glint of victory in her eyes and that momentary grin of pure vindictiveness. Then her more natural-looking face returns as she turns her full attention to Kyle.

"I'm going to assume that you're not one of the scientists who presented today," she says, "because I know most of those who did in person, and the rest by name and reputation. This leaves you one of the people I'm expected to emotionally extort funding from." She narrows her eyes in an exaggerated peering at his face. "And given the frightful yawning you were showing earlier, and the oh-so-polite applause, I'm going to guess you're not one of the self-important organizers. So this means I can safely just ask that we pretend I've done due diligence and 'won't anybody think of the DOLPHINS!' and stuff like that so we can talk more openly."

Beat.

"Am I close?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Closer than close, you've got me thoroughly pegged."  Kyle seems more than a little amused by the declarations and estimations.  Now his smile is small, almost secretive, unlike the slightly less authentic ones he's been wearing for most of the night.

When he takes the offered hand, his grip is firm without being overbearing and his shake lasts exactly the appropriate length of time.  It's an action so casual it has to have been performed on countless occasions.  "Kyle Porter, of Porter House.  I sew numbers like these--" he pauses and gestures to his suit.  "--for people like them."  Another wave, this time at the assembled crowd.  "Among other activities.  Lucky for both of us, I've already made my donation.  Some baby seals are about to get a new habitat, I'm told." 

Despite his casual airs and dismissive words, he seems interested in the final results of the event.  Perhaps less so in the actual execution of it.  "You're doing good work, Doctor.  Keep it up."

Frome somewhere, some pocket, some sleight-of-hand, he's produced an ornate, antique silver flask.  Most people would hesitate to drink publicly, especially from their own stock, but he's not most people.  Once the cap is removed, he first offers it to his companion.  What a gentleman.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Amused to the point of actually grinning, something that lights up her face like a video game when the final boss is defeated, Aspen takes the proferred flask and tips it back, coughing a little and doing those little facial twitches people who don't drink hard liquor very often do when faced with the real stuff.

Then she takes another sip, and this without any reaction whatsoever.

"OK, I thought I was calling a bluff. I wasn't. Mental note: don't call bluffs, Aspen. You suck at it."

She hands back the flask after carefully wiping the spout with a cocktail napkin for Kyle's benefit.

"Oh, that's the full name. Aspen Matthews. I do the 'Doctor' thing when I want to impress the easily-impressed or intimidate the easily-intimidated. Just call me Aspen, please."

She pounds the top of her chest briefly with her fist while coughing slightly.

"And maybe call me a taxi when this is over 'cause that's really strong stuff."

Strangely, when Kyle takes his shot, it does seem to be more alcoholic than he'd remembered this one being...

Kyle Porter has posed:
For his part, Kyle swigs with the casual ease of a long-practiced alcoholic.  After two swallows, his eyes widen slightly and he clears his throat.  "Hrm.  Blanton's is getting spicier.  I think I like it." 

He can't completely stifle a smile at the sight of Aspen's antics.  "You're a treat.  That whole routine is very fetching." 

While the sarcasm is evident, there's something in Kyle's tone and bearing that takes any sting out of his words.  He's lighthearted and friendly in a composed, cosmopolitan way. 

"The timing of all this is awfully convenient for me," he muses.  "I can't abide boredom and these self-important tools had more or less filled my monthly quota.  At least now if I smile, I'm not being forced to do it."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Your routine has its charms too," Aspen says dryly, suppressing a grin (badly) as she mocks a severe look. "And, frankly, though I was comped one of the dinner plates, I really didn't come dressed for one of these things. Silly me thought my job would be over once the symposium was. I didn't realize that the penalty for presenting a paper was being scolded by an ignoramus."

She pauses a moment, frowing as if deep in thought.

"I guess that's me asking if you want to blow this joint and find something interesting to do instead. I understand there's a building being refurbished just down the road and that the painters just finished. We could go and watch the walls dry."

Or cause them to dry. But she's not going to say that just yet.

"I don't come out to New York a lot. What's a good thing for a sea-obsessed girl to look at? Or, if you think obsession is unhealthy, what's a good thing to distract a sea-obsessed girl? Or we could, you know, split the difference and go to an art gallery that specializes in seaside landscapes."

Pause.

"Or, since we'd be skipping out on the dinner, a seafood restaurant? You know, just to mix it up and not make it all on one theme like some kind of lunatic."

Kyle Porter has posed:
As quickly as it appeared, Kyle's flask disappears again.  It's sleight-of-hand accomplished unceremoniously, and it isn't immediately apparent if it ended up in a pocket, up a sleeve, or somewhere else. 

"I consider myself a man for all seasons.  A bridge between pastures."  Faux-demure, he briefly bows his head and spreads his arms innocently.  After a moment, the expression is broken up by a grin.  "And even I'm already sick of this place." 

He gestures toward a side door with a spidery, long-fingered hand.  "Let's get out of here, I think I know a spot you'll like.  Go on, ladies first.  I'll cover you."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
A quick trip to the cloakroom for her purse-well, more accurately, her canvas messenger satchel with stylized west coast native orca badgework on it-preceeds the rapid exeunt before Aspen, once outside the door, pauses briefly to make sure that Kyle has kept up.

"I'm sure there were a lot of daggers being glared my way from people watching me leave," she says affably, "so thank you very much for acting as my meat shield."

Blinking a bit as her eyes adjust to the different light, she looks around at the landscape. "Not a bad campus. So where are we headed?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Christ, I'm glad that's over.  Nah, I should be thanking you for rescuing me."  Regardless of who rescued who, they've made a successful escape.  Kyle always considers that a win.  

He points again, this time up the street in a vaguely northern direction.  "There's a restaurant a few blocks up.  Amazing scallops, and they have one of the nicer saltwater tanks I've seen.  I think it'll hit enough of your bullet points, and the walk isn't bad. Better than trying to find parking twice in one evening." 

As they start to move, he shucks his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. "I'm a tailor, you'd think I'd like wearing a dinner jacket." His tone says otherwise.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"As a marine biologist you'd think I'd like eating seafood," Aspen counters. Pauses. Puts her finger on her chin, tapping thoughtfully. "Which I do. So that might not have been the best rejoinder."

She shrugs easily and starts walking along with Kyle. "Saltwater tanks are a pain in the ass," she says. "If they've got a good one, that will be impressive." She snorts, adding, "I've set up more than a few of those in my life!" Because, you know, aquarium.

"More seriously, though," she continues as they walk, "as a tailor I think you know exactly why dinner jackets are painfully uncomfortable." While walking she reaches across to start undoing his tie. "And these strangulation devices are part and parcel of it. When I was younger I always wondered about the kind of people who always wore these to the point of feeling naked without one. In university I finally figured it out."

A few steps of quiet ensue before she adds, "It keeps the foreskin out of sight."

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle lets out an unabashed snort of laughter.  Still chuckling, he tilts his head back so Aspen can work her fingers around the knot in his cravat.  Once she's removed it, he looks suitably relieved.  "I'll admit that I've never thought of it that way before.  Now I always will."  

It isn't long until the restaurant comes into view.  It has a tastefully decorated exterior with blues very much in evidence.  The sign above the door reads 'The Submariner' and features a stylized swordfish.

He pauses at the threshold for a final snicker.  "You're refreshingly crisp.  Come on, let's find a table." 

Inside, tanks of various shapes, size, and description are built into the walls that separate the dining room into smaller areas.  The foyer features the promised saltwater tank, which seems to be well tended and cared for, at least to the uninitiated.  It's populated by an array of sea life in vividly contrasting colors.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Surfer culture, dude!" Aspen says with a very natural-sounding California accent. "Can't waste time hinting 'cause that means you miss the big one when it passes by!" She chuckles, eyes dancing in the lights. "I was a surfer and a swimmer long before I was a marine biologist. That ... didn't pan out so well." Her face clouds briefly, but clears so quickly it almost feels like the cloud was an illusion. "So I put my mind to studies and got a job that kept me in the water more times than not. I think right now I spend about a third of my waking life in a half-body or full-body wetsuit. One of the perks of th..."

Her voice trails off when she sees the inside of the restaurant.

"...I'll be right with you," she says, voice distracted as she makes a beeline for the tank, peering carefully at it. "Someone does nice work," she murmurs. "Well landscaped. Nice rock selection for the species mix. Only..." She frowns and looks at one of the rocks very closely. As close as she can get, in fact, without her face being pressed up against the glass. She brings out her hand and points her finger at the tank, moving it in a curious motion while staring unblinking at the problematical rock she's found. And animal shoots out from under it.

"You!" she says, grabbing the nearest employee (who happens to be the maitre'd), "Get whoever does your aquarium on the line stat. You've got a mantis shrimp in there and if you want there to still be fish in this tank by the end of the week you're going to have to get it out!"

Kyle Porter has posed:
From the way he moves around the lobby, it's clear that Kyle has been here more than one or two times.  He approaches the tank in the foyer and lets out a slow, quiet breath.  "They're sort of calming, I think.  Tanks.  Sea life.  Most of it, anyway.  I'm not what you'd call a Shark Week fan...  What just... ? Oh, and we're moving."

He raises an eyebrow, but makes no move to stop Aspen.  In fact, he steps up behind her and crosses his arms over his chest.  "I'd listen to the lady.  This is Dr. Aspen Matthews.  She has some experience with these matters." 

He's concealing laughter, among other things, but he's doing a good job of it.  Out of anyone else's sightline, he gives Aspen a gentle, approving nudge at the small of her back. 

For his part, the maitre'd is unaccustomed to being addressed this way.  All the same, the sound of titles being thrown around is more than he feels like dealing with.  He releases a resigned sigh.  "Thank you for bringing this to our attention.  I'll make a call.  Thomas, get these two a table and a bottle of something."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"It's not the fault of your guy, just to be clear," Aspen says. "Mantis shrimp are masters of hiding and can be found in the most ridiculous of spaces. He correctly put living rock in the display, and mantis shrimp are a hazard of that."

She gestures to the little creature now scuttling back into the rocks from whence it came. "If you get leftover shrimp or lobster or anything like that, put a packet of it in front of that rock until your designer comes in and removes the shrimp. It will keep the rest of your fish alive for a while. Hopefully."

She smiles back at Kyle, and as they're led to their table she murmurs, "Thanks for the support. Loads of people don't take people like me seriously and it would have turned into a pointless scene. Now their fish will live." Then in a louder voice she adds, "Nice restaurant. It's kind of restful as you say having those tanks everywhere. If the food is as good as the decor, I may move from Metropolis into an apartment just above the place."

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle dips his head in a nod so low it qualifies for an abbreviated bow.  It's an old-fashioned gesture, but somehow it suits his unique demeanor.  "Glad to be of service.  I generally don't take any variety of people seriously, so I guess you lucked out today." 

And again, somehow, his dismissive comment sounds more like a compliment.  Once they've reached their table, the waiter leaves menus behind, then reappears a few moments later with an ice bucket and a respectable bottle of chenin blanc. 

"They always move fast around here," Kyle muses approvingly.  "Where are my manners?  Come, sit."  He draws out a chair for Aspen, then takes his own.  "I swear by the seared scallops.  Amazing crab cakes, too.  I hear they have a nice lamb and risotto dish, but I've never tried it.  My heart already belongs to another."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Well, I will obviously have to order the scallops," Aspen says with a smile. "But for main course I find the best test of a seafood restaurant is how well they can serve just a plain fish dish. So a tuna steak, grilled." She pauses, closing her eyes, spreading her nostrils and taking a few sharp breaths.

"Is that a lobster bisque, I smell?" she asks, opening her eyes. "Maine lobster? I'll have that for soup for certain!"

She pauses, then dissolves into giggles.

"And show of palate aside, I just read the specials on the way in before the tank distracted me."

She leans back in her chair, regarding Kyle curiously. "You're not just a tailor," she decides. "It may be how you started or what you enjoy most, but you hang out with people that are about fifteen pay grades over me with aplomb and comfort. And enough disdain for you not to really be a part of them. What's the Kyle Porter story?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"I'm a crown prince of crime.  Retired, of course."  Kyle spreads his hands and shrugs in a grand display of helplessness.  "People in those pay grades--" now a pause for some disdainful finger-wiggling.  "Consider me a dangerous novelty.  These days, I take great pride in being known as an excellent thrower of parties and a holder of no strong opinions on any particular subject.  Wearing one of my outfits to one of my gatherings is considered a social victory for the wealthy.  Hmm.  I'll have what the lady's having."

Once the wine has been poured and they've placed their order, he sums himself up with a short statement.  "I drink, I gamble, and occasionally I make someone a dress.  And a few hobbies, of course.  Sleight of hand.  I enjoy a good medical drama. What about yourself?  I imagine drinking bourbon at the back of your own event and escaping with a stranger comes with a story.  I like people who make questionable decisions."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Think back a few years. Come with me into the wayback machine and visit the long-distant, nigh-mythical past year of 2008." Aspen pauses, tilting her head to see if Kyle puts the name "Aspen Matthews" and the year "2008" together. "Olympics? Medal stripped? National disgrace?"

She makes a wry face, looking away a moment.

"Yeah, that's me, the one and only national disgrace, age 15." Her shrug is dismissive. "They were wrong. Their tests said I'd done Erythocythemia. Blood doping. But if you did that test on me right now I'd still show as doing it. I just ... have a stronger metabolism than most with a higher concentration of platelets. It's natural, not doped. But that ship sailed."

She gestures to the tanks. "I've always loved the sea, though. And if I couldn't be pro swimmer, I decided to be pro something else sea-related. I swim, still. I surf. I snowboard." She looks up sharply. "It's frozen water. Cut me some slack!" Obviously a point that's been commented on before. "I sail. I dive. Oh, and I'm one of the top marine biologists on the planet."

She shrugs again, but this time in better humour, her face lighting up with a bit of mischief. "As for the questionable decisions, nothing questionable about them. If I didn't escape I'd have done something regretable like using the wrong fork to stab some ignoramus who tries to explain marine ecosystems to me because they read a colour supplement. Nothing worse than using the dessert fork instead of the meat fork to stab someone in the neck. You saved me from a serious faux pas of the pretentious crowd."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"I was raised to believe that one should use the oyster fork when stabbing someone's hand, but that could be regional."  Kyle's reply is demure, even serious, but it's betrayed by half a smile.  "We'll consider ourselves even.  One of my clients is one of your larger benefactors, she invited me.  You could see how thrilled I was to be there." 

He pauses for a sip of the wine, followed by a small, approving expression.  "You must've really got their attention, this is a good bottle." 

Finally, he addresses the elephant in the room.  "Would you be offended if I said I'd never heard of you?  I enjoy a good swim, don't get me wrong, but I don't think much about me screams 'televised sports' or 'prioritizes current events'.  Besides, I used to work for my dad.  Objectively speaking, he's a very bad man. I think it's your recent accomplishments that matter more.  We could compare our old shames, but I've been told it's not the size that matters."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"Whoever told you that lied," Aspen delivers smoothly between sips before winking. "But it's actually sort of refreshing not having the doubtful looks thrown your way. That woman that spilled the water-she's one of the ones who thinks that it's fine to treat an accomplished twenty-mumble year old woman badly over something that happened to a fifteen year old girl. It's entirely personal. She doesn't even know the differences between kinds of aquaria. She just wanted to signal that she was more virtuous than me."

She raises her glass up in a toast.

"To refreshing ignorance," she says. "The rarest form of that all-too-common condition."

The wine tears on the sides of her glass are far more prolific and active than those in Kyle's.

"Now truth be told, I'm rather intrigued by your past shames. It sounds terribly romantic. That's probably where you get half your customers from: that, likely imagined, feeling of danger they get from being in the presence of a bona fide (if self-proclaimed) 'crime lord'. There's something about that hint of excitement such stories generate. I will be very disappointed to discover that you're really a tax accountant with a very vivid imagination."

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle's eyes narrow briefly, then he chimes his glass against Aspen's.  "Some say knowledge is power.  I say ignorance is bliss." 

As to his background, he's more than happy to elaborate, albeit with a curious look on his face.  "I find that being very grandiose about it tends to defuse potential situations.  How seriously can you take a guy who just called himself a prince of crime?  I do play to the romantic nature of it all, of course.  The dashing rogue with the mysterious past."

He strikes a pose befitting the cover of a tawdry novel, then chuckles at himself.  "Most of what I did was find things.  I'm pretty good at finding things, finding people.  Not so impressive as being a leading marine biologist, that's quite an accomplishment. Is there something wrong with your glass?"

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"No, why?" Aspen peers at her glass, rubbing her fingers on the outside, looking for a crack or a leak. "Is it dripping? I'm not seeing any drips?" She holds it partially sideways, spinning it, causing more wine tears to form when she sets the glass back down. About the level of tears you'd be expecting from a fortified wine like a port, not a straight-up standard wine.

And certainly noticably more than equivalent tears forming in Kyle's.

"And don't knock finding things. That's about 90% of the job of a scientist: finding things. We've just taken a lot of time to learn a specific field's specific approaches to finding things."

She thinks a moment and then opens her courier satchel bringing out a beaten-up spiral notebook. Turning to a blank page she draws a crude circle. "OK, let's say this circle is everything we know. You go to school. You graduate high school. She fills in a small circle in the middle. "That's how much of all the knowledge in the world that you know. So you now go to university and get a baccalaureate." A thin wall is drawn around the earlier circle with a bump in it. "You learn a bit more in general and you get a speciality. That bump is your speciality. Now you go to post-graduate studies." She sketches in an extension to that speciality that goes half-way to the rim. "There's your Master's. Now you obsess. You read everything you can find about your area of expertise. You learn it in-depth. And finally..." She extends the speciality all the way to the rim, and a bit beyond. "...see that little bump there at the edge? No? Let me pull out a magnifying glass."

Which she does. She carries a magnifying glass-a pretty fancy one-with her. She'd taken it to a fund-raiser.

Holding the magnifying glass so that the tip fills the image for Kyle, sure enough the tip of the extension breaches her original circle. "See that bump? That's a Ph.D. That's where you've added a miniscule outcropping in the sphere of all human knowledge. And it looks oh so very impressive when you're focused on the bump."

She removes the magnifying glass to show the whole picture where that bump is almost invisible.

"But if you look at the whole thing it's not so impressive anymore. It's an accomplishment, but a very narrow one. There are other ways to learn that don't make big spikes and tiny bumps. And me, personally, I'd argue they're important too."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"That's a clever illustration of a complex concept," Kyle muses, trailing a finger along the curves and angles of the drawing.  "I like it.  The accumulation of knowledge is a noble pursuit.  Contributing to it even moreso." 

He pauses when the scallops arrive, six enormous, beautifully seared pieces.  Once the waiter has turned to depart, the tailor elaborates.  "Don't undersell the importance of your tiny bump.  My bump consists of knowing cotton from blends in the dark by how they feel.  And a firm grasp of the maximum recreational doses for far, far too many kinds of party favors.  That one's a gift, really." 

Another pause, then a rich, quiet laugh.  "I can't believe you actually carry a magnifying glass.  That's outstanding."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen freezes at the mention of the magnifying glass. The one she quickly secrets back into her bag. "It's weird, isn't it?" she asks, a bit embarrassed. "Most women carry lipsticks and compacts. I carry a magnifying glass."

She roots around momentarily and pulls out a tube triumphantly. "OK, it's not lipstick, but it's for the lips! Sometimes salt water is pretty nasty on the skin." Another rooting and ... sunscreen. "See? I can be vain too!"

It's hard to tell if she's being genuinely defensive or self-deprecatingly so. It's quite plausible from her body language to guess it's a blend.

"Glad I only took out the glass," she adds to 'herself'. "Hate to see the reaction if I'd pulled out the microscope!"

Then her eyes roll up from her downcast face, glinting with mischief and amusement.

"Don't undersell the cotton thing." She pops one of the scallops in and blinks, eyes widening. "Oh my God this is so spectabulous I had to invent a whole new word to describe it!" she says, train of thought firmly derailed. "Whatever they're paying the chef it's not enough, even if it's 100% of their gross income!" This spoken past the food in her mouth, so ardent was her desire to express that praise she didn't complete the whole 'chewing' and 'swallowing' cycle. Sheepish expression on her face, she then proceeded to complete those. "No, seriously, this is really, really good!" she finally says with a clear mouth.

Then back to cotton.

"What you call 'telling cotton from blend' I call 'materials science' and I work with materials scientists all the time as we try to set up experiments or make gear that can cope with the rigours of underwater life. Only difference between you and them is they know the fancy latinate words and you make things that are useful to 99.44% of the population instead of only 0.56."

She washes down her scallops with another mouthful of wine before stabbing another one and this time taking it apart, knife and fork, and admiring its textures and the cookery that went into it before popping the smaller pieces one at a time in her mouth.

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle is amused.  Who wouldn't be?  He holds up a hand, stalling further conversation while he works out his laughter and collects himself.  "First of all, yes, it's very weird.  I positively adore it.  I'm allergic to boring people, they give me hives.  You're anything but boring." 

His reply to her thoughts on the scallops is quieter.  In fact, it involves no words at all.  Just a wink and an 'I-told-you-so' shrug from the connoisseur of fine things. 

It's the speculation on materials sciences that really attracts his attention.  He slices himself off a delicate bite and chews thoughtfully.  "You'd be surprised at how specialized some of my outfits can be," he admits when he's finished and had another sip of wine. As he elaborates, his eyes stray back to Aspen's glass.  "I've never created anything pressurized.  Armored, sure.  Hmm.  I'll have to take that idea back to my workshop and see what happens."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"I wasn't joking about the microscope. I have a handheld digital that can display or hook up to a phone too," Aspen says with faux sullenness, eyes twinkling. "I just ... well sometimes you just need to SEE things, dammit!"

Apparently it's been an issue judging, once again, by her body language.

"But wait, armoured? Who gets armoured gowns made?" The confusion is genuine, written across her face. As is the subsequent dawning awareness. "Oh, my. You make outfits for the spandex brigade, don't you?"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Occasionally," Kyle acknowledges.  "Mostly, I sew kevlar linings into suits for musicians and athletes.  That football guy who survived the drive by?  My work.  On rare occasions I invent things." 

He waves away the idea, as it's not one of his specialties.  "Outside of clothing, my area of expertise is what I call containment fabrication.  I take things and hide them in other things.  Usually ironic ones.  A fire extinguisher that's actually a flamethrower.  A lighter that's actually a one-use fire extinguisher.  I once hid a pocket-sized rebreather in a pack of cigarettes, I was particularly proud of myself for that one. And hey, I have a measuring tape wherever I go. You never know when you'll need to take in a pair of trousers."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Aspen looks. She actually looks. Checking to see if her cargo shorts need taking in. Catching herself in the act she winces and pinches the bridge of her nose. Wisely she chooses not to say anything about it.

"So retired crime lord who calls himself a tailor who makes equipment for celebrities, the spandex crowd, and spies. If this is just a very convoluted pick-up line I'm going to be VERY disappointed!" A good natured chuckle follows, after, "What's next. Is some guy going to walk up now and say 'Hey, doll. Is this guy boring you? Come with me. I'm from outer space!"

She looks down at the scallops. She looks across at Kyle.

"The scallops win over outer space, just so you know."

"As for the fire extinguisher, isn't that just a British-made fire extinguisher in action?"

Someone watches the classics.

Kyle Porter has posed:
A long, nimble finger is raised to Kyle's mouth, wetted, and then used to draw a tally mark on an imaginary scoreboard.  "Well played, miss.  Well played.  And all this is only a pick-up line if it's working.  Hold on...  Let me see."

He makes a great show of patting his pockets.  On a second pass he produces a slim leather case.  Inside are three pens, all silver, but with narrow, colored bands around the caps.  Green, red, and black.  Removing the cap and nib from one reveals a pressure-activated needle.  "The black one is epinephrine.  Never know when that might come in handy.  Between the green and the red, those injections will counter about eighty percent of the most common poisons.  I call the kit 'The Honeymooner'."

As if this is all very normal, he takes another bite. "You're right, they really are excellent tonight."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"What kind of honeymoons do your clients go on?" Aspen asks, wide-eyed, at the contents of the case. "I ... you know ... I was planning on marrying at some point, but if I have to have an epipen to get through the honeymoon, maybe I'd be better off just being a cat lady. Or, rather, I don't know, a guppy lady."

Seemingly uncertain of how to react, but still very visibly curious, she eyes the case while polishing off her scallops.

"Oh, wait. Is that an OD kit?" she finally asks, penny dropping. "You'd mentioned recreational chemicals earlier.

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Get the girl a prize," Kyle replies, grinning.  "Yes, I keep one around.  Mostly for when my party guests get overzealous, I'm aware of and comfortable with my own limitations.  I did get poisoned once a handful of years ago, not an experience I'd care to repeat. Anyway, consider yourself privileged. I don't share my more curious sklls with the general public, so I hope I can trust your discretion." 

The arrival of the tuna is fortuitous.  Like the scallops, it's served simply; seared, and there's a salad tossed with sliced serrano peppers and a mild vinaigrette.

"Sometimes less really is more," he observes.  "This was a good idea, I haven't had tuna in ages.  Sushi notwithstanding, of course."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"I would have ordered sushi, only doing so in a place that seems to specialize in grilling would have had the waiter give me that pained look. And sometimes, you know, it's alright to actually cook your food!"

Conversation is stalled a moment as she expertly picks off a line from the tender tuna, captured so closely to the bingo point that no knife is needed, yet it retains enough cohesion that it doesn't collapse into mush. First one piece of tuna, eyes closed, appreciative noises. Then another, washed down with the wine, and followed by a palate cleansing from the salad.

"This is a magnificent place. That kitchen must be run by a veritable food Nazi!" she enthuses. "I swear even the pepper grind was obsessively measured to get just the right amount of subtle crunch and flavour burst!"

And more wine until she's got the glass almost drained but for a small pool at the bottom, about 15% of the original serving, which is ... badly faded. Like it's been horribly watered down by now, even though it started off normal.

And the wine tears are just a waterfall now.

"Yeah, I don't do most of the chemicals. I was really popular in college as the designated driver. I went out on nights out getting comped meals, snacks, and non-alcoholic beverages so while all my classmates were perpetually broke, I actually turned a profit. In GRAD SCHOOL!"

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Yeah?  I tried college.  Wasn't for me.  I opt to obsessively read while I should be sleeping.  Would you excuse me for a moment?" 

Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out for Aspen's glass.  It's raised to his nose and he sniffs delicately.  "Intriguing," he murmurs.  "Most intriguing."

His tuna forgotten, he sets the glass back down with the same deliberate care.  As a semi-professional alcoholic, he knows what wine smells like.  He also knows what it doesn't smell like.  What's left in there is basically grappa, but stronger. 

And so he steeples his fingers into a thoughtful triangle as he considers his dining companion.  With his eyebrows raised and a politely curious expression on his face, his question is implied.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
It takes Aspen a while to catch on when Kyle does his little dance with the glass. She stares curiously first at him, then at the glass, seemingly unaware of its nature.

Then she catches on.

"Oh..."

That's the start, trailing off as her brain catches up to the situation.

Then, with widened eyes, "Oh!"

She looks across at Kyle. "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I ... didn't do that deliberately. This isn't me saying anything bad about you. Just my brain and you know, drinking with a stranger in a strange town. It ..."

She pauses, realizing what she's just confessed to. Another deep wince, paired with a pinching of the bridge of her nose ahead of closed eyes.

"Oooh..." A little expression of frustration. "Look, I'm a bit of a freak is all. It's nothing special."

Says the woman who just distilled near-perfect Everclear. While drinking.

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle's eyes remain on the wine glass for a few more seconds.  "Fascinating..." he says, his voice still very low. 

To his credit, it doesn't take him long to acclimate to the idea.  "No, no apologies.  I approve of your caution and care. I'm a strange man who offered you liquor at a party, the only thing missing is a van with tinted windows.  And that's an amazing trick.  Believe it or not, I can think of a few situations where being the only sober person in the room would be an advantage.  Especially if other people didn't know." 

There's a lengthy pause, but this one seems to be him considering something.  Then, with a now-or-never sort of swiftness he mutters, "Fuck me, why not?" 

It's an exclamation, not a request.  He holds up a finger to indicate that Aspen should wait while he pushes his sleeves back.  In the space between them, Kyle holds up both hands, palms and fingers flat together as if he's in mid-prayer.  When he extends them toward her he spreads them apart like he's opening a book. When they're flat, he's holding a long-stemmed rose that's a bright, summery yellow.  Sleight of hand is one thing, but the laws of physics dictate that what he's just done shouldn't be possible.  "What's wrong with being a freak?" he queries innocently.  "I've always thought it was pretty special."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"You're David Copperfield?"

Aspen reaches across for the rose, inspecting it closely. No, not a fake. No collapsible.

"That's a pretty amazing trick. Where were you hiding that?"

It's not registering. She's now thinking Kyle's the kind of guy who does magic tricks to pick up chicks.

And given the admiration and fascination in her voice, it might even have been something that worked (she being a nerd herself, after all, if not stereotypical of such) were that the case.

"Yellow is also such an unusual colour for this. The standby is red, sometimes white. Yellow is a touch of class."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"One tries, but it's nice to be appreciated.  A single rose, though?  What am I, taking you to junior prom on a budget?"

There's a quick glance around to ensure they're alone and unobserved.  Then, to better accentuate his point, he holds out both hands, loosely closed into fists, palms facing up.  He opens his right hand first, and three more roses pop into view.  When he unfurls his left hand, there's two more.  All five are set down between them on the table.  "I keep a vase in my workshop.  Runcer, my majordomo, makes sure it's always stocked for occasions like this.  For flirting, I mean.  I don't show just anybody...  you know.  That part."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
The subsequent arrival of a torrent of roses bring laughter and applause from Aspen who is enjoying the show greatly. (She appears not to need alcohol to make a public scene of enjoyment.) It takes her, as a result, a few moments for the rest to sink in.

"Wait, you're telling me ...?"

She pauses, eyes widened, staring at the rose in her hand by appearances both flabbered and gasted.

Then, aware of the eyes on the table now she settles down and looks more like a normal kind of date (though badly underdressed for the venue as she's beginning to be self-aware about). "That's very interesting," she says.

Reaching across the table, she slides Kyle's wine glass in a way that shields it from casual view. "Some more wine?" she asks, pouring without waiting for his answer. The wine then lifts out of the glass, splitting three ways: one branch perfectly transparent. The other a far, far deeper red like all of the colourants had been shunted into that small segment. While the pool left behind, also transparent, clearly smells of alcohol.

"Or just some of it?" she asks.

The three segments stand there a moment to punctuate the point before they all flow back into each other and mix evenly.

"I ... I am very good with water," she says by way of explanation.

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Damn right you are."  The reply is quiet, and Kyle is clearly fascinated by the display.  "It may not seem flashy to you, but the scientific implications are...  well, about as significant as being able to make roses appear from thin air.  Which, yes, is exactly what I'm telling you."

With the base of his glass held between two fingers, he swirls the contents without lifting it from the table.  "I'll confess, this is not how I expected this evening to go," he says without taking his eyes off of the wine.  "I figured it'd be boring.  This is anything but." 

The remnants of his scallops and the majority of his tuna are long since forgotten.  This is far too interesting.  Besides, he can have a nice meal anytime.  Now he does look up, but only to peer curiously into Aspen's eyes.  "Definitely not boring."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Apparently this is Saturday for Aspen. Or she's really hungry. Or the food is really good and of a calibre she's not used to having so she's not wasting the opportunity.

It's the last one. I mean you can talk around food consumption.

The tuna vanishes at rather a staggering rate under her assault while he talks. Along with the bisque which arrives and fills the table with the scent of exquisitely prepared giant sea bugs.

"The scientific implications are staggering, yes," she agrees. "And I haven't even really worked through them all myself." She looks up from her food to see how curiously Kyle is staring at her eyes. "This ... uh ... well it's kind of a recent development and ..."

Yep. Now she's a bit spooked at how much she's given away.

"There's ... complexities involved. So until I work it out I'm trying not to ... Well I don't want to wear spandex for starters. Outside of swimsuits."

Kyle Porter has posed:
"Nah.  You have the figure for it and then some, but as a look? It's all a bit much for my tastes."  Kyle flicks a hand, casting the idea aside.  "If you want an outfit, I'll get you a proper one. You'd look smashing in plum." 

Making light of things isn't just how he processes, it's how he handles all of life.  Perpetually irreverent but always inquisitive. It seems to work for him, though. 

Absently, he picks up his spoon and tastes the soup.  Despite his distraction, he makes a small, approving sound.  "Mmm.  Relax, dear.  I'm not here to spill your secrets.  I'd worry about you spilling mine, but nobody would believe that there's more to me than a drunk with a checkered past who knows how to sew.  I'm feeling pretty safe at the moment, so should you. After all, this has got to be one of the better dates you've been on lately. It's not as if things like this happen every day."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
And that causes laughter which makes built-up tension starting to form at Aspen's shoulders and the edges of her eyes practically explode into non-existence. "Well, it's certainly the second most self-assured date I've ever been on!" she laughs, teasing, grinning so broadly there's a spooky moment of wondering if that grin will stop before the top of her head falls off or opens up to reveal another set of jaws or something.

It stops, though.

"And the food is fantastic," she adds. "Each time I think something was my favourite, the next thing comes along and proves me wrong."

The smile fades, or, rather, transforms. Less hilarity, more just general pleasance. Almost fondness.

"The company's been very interesting as well," she adds. Constitutionally incapable of not adding a quip, she adds a quip. "Bonus points for not thinking that spandex is a good look."

She calmly sips at the bisque.

"You know," she adds, "people drop 'better than sex' all the time. Chocolate is better than sex. Sleeping in is better than sex. Hot foods are better than sex. What was that phrase? 'A bit much for my tastes.' I always thought that was nonsense."

She taps her spoon on the edge of her bowl.

"This is making me rethink my stance."

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle winces theatrically.  "That just makes me want to weep for your level of hardship and deprivation.  I admire you for enduring.  So unnecessary, so easily fixed.  I'd offer to demonstrate, but that seems ungentlemanly." 

As usual, he takes something that virtually no one would consider saying and turns it into a light-hearted quip.  Lest she think he's serious, he holds both hands out and waves them in a clear sign of surrender.  It comes coupled with a lopsided smile.  "Couldn't resist.  You'll forgive me, I'm sure.  Most people do.  Eventually." 

This cycle doesn't seem to concern him very much.  He shrugs and settles his slim frame more comfortably in his chair, still thoroughly enjoying himself.

Aspen Matthews has posed:
Well, whatever she is, scientifically speaking, Aspen blushes still. And in this case a whole lot.

"Did you just...?"

The voice incredulous. The face completely baffled. "You totally did!"

And tinged with more than a little admiration for the sheer chutzpah put up on display. What's a girl to do?

Laugh. Laugh whole-heartedly. Not at, but with. Hopefully. Because the laughter is musical and spontaneous, not cruel and directed. She's laughing at what she'd opened herself up to. At the sheer size of the foot she stuck in her own mouth. With the second on standby.

"Oh God, I deserved that one leaving such a perfect line lying around in the open for you like that!" she says between giggles. "Most guys wouldn't have the guts to say what they were thinking. You just spill it out there, sticking your head into the guillotine and grinning!" She shakes her head in disbelief, rueful expression on her face. "I can see I'm going to have to be super-careful around you. You're good at weaving little webs."

Did she just suggest that there might be other times? If so, she's being far more subtle about it than Kyle's cheeky advances. She's probably just being clumsy again.

Were it not for that slightly raised right eyebrow.

Kyle Porter has posed:
Falsely modest, the young tailor bows his head.  It's a far more dramatic gesture than is necessary, which suits him.  "Normally, I never tell the truth unless it's so outlandish that no one would believe it anyway.  Which, around you, seems to be most of the time." 

This clearly pleases Kyle.  "I'm used to being around so much social posturing.  I swear, I hope I never take another selfie with a model.  Here, now, it's refreshing to have someone who's willing to just laugh with me when I'm acting foolish.  That's why I do it." 

She's clearly right, he has no difficulty when it comes to speaking his mind.  His default demeanor is somewhere between casually confident and dryly self-deprecating. Exibit A: "I hope you find it as entertaining the next time I see you."

Aspen Matthews has posed:
"I'm sure I will."

That eyebrow is raised again.

"I started off the late afternoon wondering how I would get through the rest of the day without a rap sheet. And now I'm here laughing, eating some of the best food I've had in ages, and trying to come up with reasons why I shouldn't give you my phone number."

Beat.

"And I figured it out. It's on the Institute site anyway."

Smug grin.

"Well, at least reception's is. Getting to me might be a bit harder with that number."

Aspen's hands delve into her satchel again, rooting around until she finds a beat-up looking plastic box with little white cards in it, the Institute's livery all over it. The pen clipped inside her notebook gets seconded into service as she hand-writes a number above the official contact number. Slipping the card across the table.

"Texting that is best. I spend a lot of time underwater so I don't carry my phone a lot. Calls go missing. I check texts religiously every time I come up for air."

Not that she needs that anymore, but ... can't spill everything on the first date. Leave room for discovery...

Kyle Porter has posed:
Kyle accepts the card gravely, as if it were an award, or perhaps a family heirloom, and tucks it into his breast pocket.  Then, in that way he does, he snaps his fingers and produces a card of his own.  The front reads, 'PORTER HOUSE' and has a stylized bull in the center, while the back has only a phone number. 

Unsurprisingly, someone has a sense of humor. 

"Don't be shocked if an old man answers.  That's Runcer, I'd be lost without him."  He says this as if everyone has a live-in manservant.  "I'll let him know to expect you.  Soon, I hope. It's been a while since I made a friend."