Bishop stepped solemnly off the boat, nodding to the captain as he made his way down the busy dock. Most of the workers paid him no attention, while others merely chanced a glance. It wasn’t surprising. Most people wanted to get out of Cuba, almost no one ever wanted to be smuggled [i]in[/i]. But that was exactly the situation Lucas Bishop found himself in. It didn’t bother him as much, finding himself in this strange land. Hell, it was all strange to him, the land, the people, the time, merely being able to walk where he wanted, do as he wanted. It was exhilarating. But he hadn’t lost sight of what was important, his mission. The Mission, and now that he was here, he felt something he didn’t think he’d feel. He felt calm.

Striding down the dock, Bishop felt the high Cuban sun beat down against his neck and face. He pulled open and pushed up the sleeves on his worn black-grey hoodie, revealing his black tank-top. He stopped for a moment, just a moment to take it all in. He felt his skin soaking up the sun’s rays and, more importantly, the solar energy being stored up in his system. He hadn’t used his powers much since arriving, not wanting to draw attention to himself or disrupt the natural flow of time by changing things too early. Not that it would matter soon. He was about to make the biggest impact on the time flow he could possibly make and he hoped to God, Osiris and Thor that it would shift everything for the better.

He made his way off the dock and into the streets of the city, his eyes wandering over everything they could see. The lights, the colours, the people. It was hard to believe that this would all be turned into a prison island for high level mutants by the Sentinels. According to the Elders, the natives had been shipped off to other countries or given free housing in the States in exchange for employment in the factories. The old images of those daunting buildings flared in Bishop’s mind’s eye, the red eyes in the distance of the huge behemoths. Then Bishop began wondering of his evaluation of the thoughts. They were old for him, but a possible future for those around them. They may even soon be nothing more than a figment of Bishop’s imagination, never to be experienced by anyone. Bishop smirked, despite the nature of the grim thoughts. Temporal causality messed with his head sometimes. He continued on toward his destination.

A short time later…..
Bishop stood at the end of the road, surveying the wreckage. The beachside house had been completely demolished, with police, firefighters and construction workers all present. Some of the local media was around, trying to get the scoop on what had happened. A younger officer was near Bishop, about a head smaller than the massive 6’11’’ mutant. He gingerly approached the suspicious officer. 
“Perdone, ¿qué ha pasado aquí?” (Excuse me, what happened here?) Bishop had learned Spanish in the camps as a kid, seeing as he lived near the Latino quarter of the camp and many of his “childhood” friends had been Latinos.

“Fuga de gas. Eso es todo lo que estamos dispuestos a decir, señor.” (Gas leak. That's all we're willing to say, Sir.) The officer put his hand up and beckoned him away.

“El propietario?” (The owner?) Bishop asked, beginning to make his exit. 

“Tony Stark.” The officer shrugged, indicating he did not know his whereabouts.

Bishop smiled a thank you and made his way back down the drive, his face now one of pure worry. He didn’t believe for one moment that it had been an accident. This was not supposed to have happened. In preparation for the jump back, Bishop had gone on a fact finding mission around the camp to find out all he could about the events of the past. One old man he’d found knew the details very well, knowing names, places, dates, everything Bishop needed. It was all too good to be true. When pressed as to how he knew, he’d merely waved away the questions, simply telling the younger mutant to trust him. He’d described the events leading up to the execution of Fury vividly, including where the Avengers and other heroes would meet before for the rescue. This house, Tony Stark’s house. But the old man had not said anything about there being an attack. Why wouldn’t he have? He’d been right about other events so far. What was different now?

It hit Bishop as he reached the main road. He was different. His presence in the past had shifted things just enough that things were beginning to occur slightly differently than the past had recorded. It was like he was a stone dropped in a still pool. Even though it was but one action, his jump back, it was enough to cause ripples along the timeline. That’s why he had stayed hidden until now. He couldn’t risk causing further changes until the lynch point, Fury’s death. He hurried into town, now on the trail of the hero, The Iron Man Tony Stark.

It didn’t take long to find out. While asking in a souvenir shop, he’d overheard a couple saying that the famous Tony Stark had come in and bought up their hotel to another vendor. They couldn’t believe it was really him. He casually asked them where it was as he was a big Stark fan. They pointed him to the large beachfront hotel and Bishop made a beeline for it. A few moments later, he stepped into the lobby area, the other tourists coming and going on their holiday, unconcerned by Bishop’s presence. A maître di stepped up to Bishop and politely quipped, 

“Is there something I can do for you, Sir?”

Bishop sized up the smaller gentleman and was bemused at being called Sir twice in one day. He looked down at the smartly dressed man and urgently as he could, requested, 

“I’d like to see Tony Stark, if he’s in. I’ve got a future investment that he may be interested in…”