[i](Collab featuring Cap, Tony, Natasha, and Jean.)[/i]

How Jean Grey managed to escape the San Marino Bay Resort, was mostly a matter of luck. It was almost inappropriate, and bordered on superhuman, the way in which Jean was standing from the table as was all others one minute, before simply being gone the next. It wasn't magic, nor was it mutation; it was simply a matter of slipping into the hall, then, when no one had been watching, taking the stairs . 

Jean's suite would sit dark and empty, her beach bungalow already paid for and moved into, it made no sense to move into the same floor and take up the same suite as all the rest of the 'rebel heroes' took up. She had a feeling, while navigating isolated and echoing concrete and steel stairs towards the bottom, that the rest of the group would eat and drink and make merry within the walls of the Resort itself. 

Generally speaking, it was a good, and safe, choice. The kind of wise decision and group activity that Jean Grey was known for in the past. Inevitably, that made it exactly the thing Jean needed the very opposite of now. Seeing as how it was dinner and she'd never had her lobster, it was food that came to the woman's mind. And outside of hotels and resorts for foreigners of means, most food in Cuba could suck from an outsider's palette. Except for local farmer's markets where basic veggies and fruits could be found, there wasn't much in the way of variety even for wealthy Cubans. Seafood was a rarity, and shellfish was reserved for the upper most and the afore mentioned resorts and hotels. 

Most Cubans worked from the same ration book that they'd been working from for nearly sixty years, meaning most Cubans had been playing with the same handful of ingredients in their extremely limited kitchens for about sixty years. Most didn't have working ovens, nevermind a microwave. Aside from a few private residences along the shore, there wasn't much outside the San Marino resort in San Marino Bay. 

Not unless you wanted to walk twenty minutes to the village of San Marino, on the far side of the San Marino Bay from the resort. When Yasil, the young Cuban bell hop at the Resort, informed Jean of this just off the front desk of the Resort, she knew she was about take a walk. The power of telekinetically powered movement meant she could sneak in some fast floating and cut the trip down from twenty minutes to ten minutes, but finding where Yasil had pointed her was more a matter of luck.

According to the native, the best the village had to offer was a suprisingly good paladares called Nina's. So long as Jean had pesos, and she did, she'd have no problem. Even if there might be some attention to a tall red haired white girl in the village, Yasil admitted, trying not to grin as he said it. The paladares was a private, family run restaurant. Nina's was it's name, though there was no signage to be found once she arrived in the twilight of San Marino bay, having escaped the resort using the staff parking garage exit to avoid media. It was more or less a wood hut on the sands of the beach that bordered the water's edge of the village itself; and it was crowded. 

There wasn't a location on Earth that Jean Grey didn't speak the language for thanks to her mutation, and in Nina's paladares Jean quickly found out the language was laughter, beer, and some incredibly pan fried pork cutlet. Nina was an eighty year old grandmother, her son Alfonso holding court behind the wooden block counter and taking orders, his wife and two daughters doing the cooking in the kitchen tonight. Decorated with Christmas lights and baseball memorabilia, the sport was Cuba's national religion, it was only a minute before Jean was ushered to a plastic table with plastic chairs and offered her choice between Cristal and Bucanero; the two most popular native beers. 

Yucca, rice, and beans accompanied the pork. Between Cristal and Bucanero, it was the large bellied and sweaty polo shirted Alfonso who picked the stronger, full flavored Bucanero for Jean before sitting next to her and conversating between puffs of handrolled cigar even as she ate with plastic knife and fork upon paper plate. Alfonso told her that they were happy to have her, even if they were charging her four times as much as any of the locals eating and drinking within Nina's walls. The price, he told her with a belly full of laughter and beer, was out of his hands.

In a heavily government controlled industry, as with every Cuban industry, only family was allowed to work at a restaurant. So every native restaurant she'd find, every paladares, was a 'family thing.' It had to be. Just as there had to be a two-tier pricing system; one of natives, one for tourists. Alfonso explained a handful of tourists found their way to Nina's due to word of mouth at the resort each day, though rarely did they come after sunset, like she did. Though spicy, the pork cutlet was tender and moist and washed down with the strong Bucanero even as Alfonso told her about the local youth baseball champions celebrating their championship game victory. Alfonso's nephew, a Cuban boy ten years old and mostly skin, bones, and a shy grin, was paraded in front of her to recount his hitting of the game winning run earlier in the day.

By the third Bucanero, a beer held strong at 5.4% alcohol content, conversation swayed to the newest investor to San Marino: Tony Stark. Cubans liked Iron-Man, even if they had their 'doubts' about Tony Stark himself. The prior ownership group of San Marino Resort were second generation, the first generation there for the days when Cuba was the Caribbean playground for the likes of Mobsters and Rat Packs. Alfonso, himself, had once served cigars to Frank Sinatra as a kid. So while Stark had a reputation, it was in Alfonso's nature to hope he would pause and take a look at the people of San Marino village, as most of the resort staff came from the village itself. 

Even Jean's skin had a slight sheen of sweat to it after the fourth Bucanero, Alfonso having gifted several of his own hand rolled 'cigarillos' to her and a bottle of local Rum that, to Jean, tasted like a fine Cognac. Both gifts fitted nicely into her oversized handbag, laughter echoing as Jean forced a farewell, taking a 'Perros' team baseball cap, just faded and worn earlier in the day by Alfonso's nephew, tilted upon her head as she made the twenty minute walk along the shore back towards the resort. 

It was dark when Jean got back to the bungalow and opened it up to beach breezes and the constant sound of waves crashing in the distance again, and again, and again, until the sound just faded into background, Jean struggling to use the bungalow's phone to have the front desk relay a message to Scott to meet her at the bungalow. Her bar was where she unpacked the clear glass bottle of native rum, a glass of it already in her hand, the hand rolled cigarillos put aside--for now. Seated in the sand in front of her bungalow under moonlight, the cool night breeze taking that shine of sweat from her skin as Jean allowed native rum to push her from the realm of Bucanero buzzed to flirting with the realm of, maybe, a little drunk.

A warm, fuzzy, happy feeling to her in that moment. It could've been her last night on Earth, and Jean would be okay spending it just so. Especially since, she knew, it very well might be her last night on Earth. A fact that left her smiling, one stomache burning sip after another. 

The cool sea-breeze air was just what Steve needed to be able to wrap his mind around things. It seemed that ever since he arrived here in Cuba, it was always one thing after another. The mutant registration, which had always been on his mind even before arriving for Stark's little meeting, Nick Fury going missing, and now Agent Romanov's latest news. It seemed that both of his Avenger friends coped with the news drastically different, Thor with his drinking to honor his ancestors, and then Tony with...well...whatever that was with Domino.

A soft gust of wind blew through his golden mess of hair, though despite having swam for hours in the ocean earlier and unable to yet have the oppertunity to 'clean up', his hair had dried remarkably well, looking as if he had styled it purposfully. He quietly ran his fingers through his hair as the breeze died down and looked over the setting sun over the ocean. It was remarkably breath-taking really...the calm before the storm. Steve knew that feeling all too well, and that unsettling feeling in his stomach never seemed to lessen with each time he experienced it.

Having been wandering the beach for quite some time, his Captain America shield strapped to his back, he hadn't even noticed that he had wandered off of the hotel's beach and passed a series of smaller bungalow's, though as he finally stopped to look at his surroundings, he spotted a familair blur of red hair. Jean Grey. He tried to smile as he then changed his course and walked up to the deck of the bungalow where Jean was standing, but in his heart he couldn't find much reason to smile anymore.

"Evenin' ma'am." He said with a slight salute of respect.

For a girl from the world old world prestige and class, there wasn't a more curious sight in the world than that of Steve Rogers. Jean Grey had been a Daughter of the Revolution before her death; and still claimed to be. Whether she was on Earth, or not, she would always claim the DAR.

For a daughter of the storied New England elite, it was like seeing Santa Claus on Christmas. But Rogers made a poor theatrical figure in the darker hours of the Cuban south shore, black water shining silver under a nearly full moon above. 

When Jean smiled at the man, it was not without it's hint of cheer. "Captain America, you may the least worldly super hero I know. 'A boy from Brooklyn'," Jean recited the legend, rising her glass in the air to him. "I'd say never change, but no: definitely change. Ingratiate yourself with the world. And start with a smile."

The young woman nearing thirty nodded firmly, underscoring her words. "Fury lives. Natasha believes this, I believe this." Then as if she'd spoken it her entire life, Jean Grey continued in military terms. "Inbrief was fun, tomorrow' s outbrief will be brief and succint. Recharge however you want tonight. Just make sure you muster in the conference room on time. If I have to hunt people down in their rooms, the wraith of a telepath shall be severe."

Her glass raised to that, too. Her lips matching with a playful,if devilish, grin.

Steve couldn't help but to widen his half-hearted smile if just a bit by her militairy jargon...it was really the first time he felt like he belonged anywhere in a long time.

"I believe he's alive too. We'll find him, and get this whole mess cleaned up." He said with a voice of not only confidence, but promise. His eyes then wandered to the glass in her had, and his smile faded slightly. "You plan on recharging with a headache in the morning?" He asked, somewhat teasingly. Having approached the woman fully now, he rested his elbows ont he bungalow's deck railing, though kept on the opposite side of Jean and a couple feet to her left.

That...just stiffened her smile into something hard, and unforgiving; even as a smile it remained. "Steve, you cannot imagine my world." She meant it. She meant it well, if not sweetly. But she meant it. "Hangovers are a matter for those less equiped than I. Much like sex."

Steve had opened his mouth to reply, but then found his mouth clamping shut rather quickly at her added comment. He stood there, stiffly, and blinked a few times before opening his mouth once more to say what he had intended to say earlier.

"No...I suppose I can't." He said letting out a soft sigh. "I apologize for that remark, I meant no harm by it. But you and I...more or less we are in the same boat. I feel the calm before the storm just as you do. Though we may come from different backgrounds, our stories are more or less similar, and our goal is also the same...something I wish I could keep such a beautiful and delicate woman such as yourself from having to bare, though I don't doubt you can hold your own out there."

The sound of 'delicate' made her smile. "No need to apologize, Steve. Seeing as you and I have saved the world roughly the same amount of times, I think we're due for some selfish hours. Keep a sentry on alert long enough, and he begins to lose focus. Needs that time to recharge. Maybe some of us have had more time for recharging than others, but all of us begin tomorrow on a suicide run. We're just trying to bring everyone back safely...so I've no doubt we've got the same goal."

Then Jean smiled at him; big and bright and genuine. Even as a worried woman came out of the bungalow door, a look of curiosity written across her beautiful pale features. She looked prime to speak, her red hair dark and straight and slicked for once, a dark silken blouse flowing down past her hips, where hem brushed with thigh, just covering the naturally black bottoms 'the Black Widow' wore. 

But instead of speak, Natasha quickly turned her head to face Steve Rogers. And offered him a little smile in greeting. "Hey, Cap," before just as quickly losing the smile and regaining the questioning look as she turned back to the other red head. There were no words spoken...although the way Jean Grey turned her head from Rogers to the Widow behind her, it could not have been more clear words were exchanged silently. 

Telepathically, maybe.

"Yes ma'am." Was Jean Grey's verbal response to the femme fatale, words dripped equally in honey and sass. 

After a brief exhale, Natasha looked back to Cap. Her green eyes softening in expression only slightly as she took the measure of the man, her head nodding upwards. "You good?"

Steve found that his throat had gone rather dry as Natasha came out from the bungalow, his eyes again blinking repeatedly as words had yet again failed him for the moment. He then took the slight silence to move his hand to the back of his neck and scratch it, if a bit awkwardly due to the shield strapped to his back.

"Natasha! It's uh...good to see- I thought you were...what?"

It was one of the few times that Natasha would smile, free and genuine as the other red head on the scene. When something as free and genuine as Steve Rogers presented itself to her. If Captain America hadn't understood the difference between a spy and a soldier yet, that appearing when she was least expected was exactly what the Black Widow did, than all she could do for him was smile. 

"Jean did some work for SHIELD years ago. We were doing psysec, and Fury delegated testing to me. Xavier told Fury to see if we could crack Jean first, before trying Xavier himself. We never got past Jean. No effective way to keep her out indefinitely. It's like trying to keep a talented and resourceful hacker out of a secure database...it's a matter of time."

Natasha settled herself into the still warm sand just past the wooden deck of the bungalow, her eyes taking in the Cuban shore in moonlight before moving back to Rogers. "She helped me out after New York with Hawkeye. We kept in touch after that."

There the Widow stopped, the phantom of a secretive smirk on her lips as she choose that point to stop at.

"Oh..." Steve said simply. He wasn't even going to begin asking what she was talking about with the whole hacking and database thing...as it could only lead to more confusion. "Well...well it's really good to see you again. Really." He said sincerely, seeming to have completely forgotten about Jean for the moment. "You...you look good."

Seeing Natasha was a lot like seeing a very close friend after a very long time, which was really exactly what it was, and he was still unable to comprehend just how he had heard her voice in the meeting room and then have here here in the flesh, but he wasn't complaining. The more Avengers on this mission, the better.

"Where is Hawkeye anyway?"

"The Rocky Mountains." 

It was like asking a lawyer if they knew the time, in asking Natasha a question. Any good lawyer would simply say, "Yes." Yes, they knew the time. In asking where Hawkeye was, all Steve Rogers had gotten in the knee jerk reaction of a spy was exactly the information he asked for and nothing more. Because information was a valuable thing; a matter of life and death to the likes of a spy. 

A normal person, however, would respond like Jean did. "He's hunting. Laying low, keeping safe." 

One heartbeat later, the two redheads turned to face each other. It lasted only a heartbeat longer, then Natasha's eyes returned to Cap. "Yes. Although the US and Europe think he's climbing the Alps with a pair of Swiss swimsuit models." Information delivered with the same controlled, relaxed, tone in which she revealed the location in. 

"Spies are weird," Jean said it to Steve, looking to him as Natasha resisted the urge to look at Jean.

"We should talk about the narcotic 'cigars' your friend in the village gave you."

Immediately, Jean let slip the barest slips of a gasp before catching herself. Her face a measure of conflicting sensations; that the spy could violate her privacy without trying and the outrage Jean felt from it...and the dark amusement she felt in someone giving a telepath as good as they got. "Spies are worse than telepaths. I'm warning you now about this 'Natasha'. She seems very shady to me."

Natasha ignored the woman, happily. "I wouldn't expect him tomorrow. Maybe if you go on the team heading to the US you'll run into him."

"If you can believe her," dryly added Jean, and under her breath at that.

"Well the more help, the better." Steve said interjecting his voice between the two red-headed women. He had to stop to think though, that given the circumstance...had he been anyone else...say, Tony Stark, tactical planning would have been the last thing on his mind.

"I plan on staying here, and persuing the hellicarrier. I'm much more familiar with that scene than the other, however if I'm needed somewhere else, Miss Grey...I will go where I am needed." He decided to not remark about the cigars, it was bad enough that he was already in semi-hot water with the comment about her drink.

"If we form a good enough divide between those of us who have arrived here for this mission, then thing's shouldn't look as bad. The challenge is getting the right balance for the right mission. That being said, I think it would be a good idea for both of you to travel to Britain while Stark and I take down the hellicarrier."

"Is there a target in Britain?" For a second, Natasha looked uncertain, before exchanging a quick look with the telepath and nodding again. "Targets alpha and bravo are equally matched in their level of danger and difficulty."

Silently, Natasha's hand brushed Jean's in the Cuban sands as the Boston girl spoke the words Natasha seemed unuable to speak just then. "Someone will be walking into a death trap, tomorrow."

Steve took that remark rather gravely, but he couldn't stand to see the same grim expression of the two women before him. "And someone will also give us a lead as to the wereabouts of Director Fury." He said, trying to sound optomistic, but the fact that someone was going to potentially die tomorrow was inevitable, and the sinking feeling in Steve's gut had returned with a vengence. He wouldn't wish death on anyone in this new group of Avengers, and so he said a quiet prayer in his mind to God that if anyone had to have been taken, that it would be him.

Natasha shrugged, the hint of humor edging into her voice. "Nothing new."

Again, Steve frowned. He was beginning to understand why Tony and Thor drank so much, as he could absolutely go for a drink at that given moment. The one draw-back of being America's super-soldier. He knew Natasha meant it as a type of joke, but Steve found no humor in it whatsoever.

"Have you decided where you will be going tomorrow then?"

High above, from the top of the hotel, there was a brief flash of light, and a 'whoosh' both of noise and force, a streak of smoke and heat leaping into the night, before disappearing from all but the keenest of sight. Those with military experience, but little in the way of technologcal understanding might mistake it for the path of a rocket, but to any who knew, the two blasts that blurred into one ran on something far more advanced than even the US could afford to put in its weaponry.

Far out to sea, the light dipped, dropping thousands of feet each moment, before seeming to disappear below the horizon, the slight noise that could still have been heard right up until that point disappearing behind the gentle crash of the waves.

Without words, just watching the two, communication could be worked out. Natasha turned to Jean, as if to whisper something between them. Then Jean paused in thought, her shoulders bouncing a moment with a little shrug--both of them looking to Steve Rogers. After a moment, Natasha spoke. "Jean can get you drunk, Steve, if you want."

Jean nodded, adding, "All I do is turn 'on' certain pathways. It's nothing, really."

Steve found himself distracted from the two females as he craned his neck upwards, at hearing what he at first thought was going to be a missile barrage, but then as his mind began to think about it, he realized that he recognized that sound almost immediately.

"Hmm? Oh...no, no thanks." He said half-heartedly as he kept his eyes on the puff of smoke that was once Tony Stark.

Natasha found herself watching Steve as he watched the sky in response to the flash and the force. Jean, on instinct, looked up. It simply made the spy aware of her different training, her different mindset, than the others on the team.

It was instinct to look up. Only someone trained intensely in behavioral modification would so carefully watch others when others watched the bright and noisy distraction. A strange feeling, she felt herself feeling with the linked mind: [i]Usually it was combat where that training came into play.[/i] 

[i]Work, not,[/i] Natasha thought to herself, looking then at Jean for half a heartbeat, [i]play.[/i] 

"No, no decision made. Probably Alpha, given Hawkeye might stop by."

Of it, Jean semed to just shrug at. She either didn't know, or didn't want to share that thought aloud tonight. "I don't know, myself."

He nodded to the two women, but his face remained firm.

"The worst thing you can do in this situation is wait until the last minute to decide. Doesn't make for good tacticle planning." He sighed, suddenly wishing that the meeting would be held now instead of later. He wasn't sure how he was going to survive the night knowing what was to come tomorrow.

The roar, if it could be called that, of prepulsor tech returned, coming in low over the tide, it was clear it was being pushed to its limit, a bright spark becoming visible on the horizon before, moments in advance of when the suit itself might have become visible, the lights went out.

They returned in odd spurts, the sound of the suit phasing in and out, before a loud, metallic voice suddenly became audible.

"Oh Fuck."

The sound was shortly followed by the sight of the Iron Man suit 'skipping across the water' before with a sporadic bursts of prepulsor tech, it flung itself towards the group on the shore.

"JARVIS eject."

"But Sir, the chance of personal injury is well above..."

"JARVIS eject now!" His voice came a little faster, more urgent than would be expected of his communication with the artificial intelligence, dangerous as it was for him, it would be worse for the suit to crash into the individuals ashore, especially as it had built in defences to prevent itself from being halted by all three of them. It paid to be prepared, but not now.

In the next moment, the suit seemed to deconstruct itself around Tony, the different elements of it flying off in a shower of mechanical parts, before flying away on their own trejectory, eventually depositing Tony in the sand, about a foot away from them, on his back. After a moment of silence, he managed to smirk.

"Callibrations."

"Are you always this profficient?" Steve asked, raising an eyebrow at his ally as he looked down at him on the sand. It was only obvious that Steve thought Tony to be drunk still, he had seen how much he had consumed with Thor and Domino hours ago, and he was sure it didn't stop there.

"Well, I've only managed the exact angle required to 'skip' myself a few times before...highly entertaining." Tony jumped to his feet, brushing the sand from him as he looked back out to sea, seemingly trying to recall something for a moment, before speaking again.

"The US Navy has mobilized, in full it would seem, or at least, within striking distance of Cuba, they shot at me, a little bit." There was slight tone of indignation to his words, although, after the events of the day, a few missed rounds was hardly anything to complain about.

"Again?" Steve asked, though not sounding too surprised.

"I think there's going to be a hell of a lot more firepower pointed at us shortly...but tonight isn't about those thoughts." He turned back to the trio, a grin on his lips, the influence of the alcohol all but entirely gone, a brief flash from the reactor visible beneath his shirt registering the end of the detox session.

"How are we all?" He noticed Natasha with a look of clear suprise, but didn't speak on it. Despite worrying for her safety, he'd be lying to himself if he were to suggest they were particularly close out of the Avengers, he somewhat doubted the worry would be mutual, vice versa. "Seems you've found yourself quite the pair of companions Steve, maybe modern women aren't so alien after all."

"And unlike you, I have shown these women nothing but respect. I didn't think anyone would have seen you until you were late for tomorrow's meeting." Steve crossed his broad arms across his chest, the light jesting aside, the fact that the US Navy was lying in wait perplexed him more than he externally showed.

"You wound me, Steve. I would never disrespect a woman...perhaps I'm just better at appreciating them?" Stark's eyes remained solely on Steve's, almost as if he was ignoring the fact two of these very women were beside them, even if the latter half of his response was rather more serious;

"I wouldn't do that...tonight may be the last night before the end, but that doesn't mean I'd shirk tommorow, well, not anymore."

"I really can't see Stark a shirker." Though it was Natasha finishing the last of the glass of local rum, it was Jean who took the glass as she rose from the sand and started back inside the bungalow for a refill. 

Natasha kept her face muted, her lips curved upwards and crimson, freshly painted with the expert hand of a beautician--or a marksman. "Don't worry about the Navy, Stark. They're in a stance of non-aggression."

A beat, before a small allowance, and shrug. "Well. Except for those on the kill list. The Judge for the secret US court has yet to be approached on account of your case. The Judge found that curious."

The woman flung out of the fact as casually as she'd shrug, as if the matter was a bit of gossip. Little more.

"Kill list?" Steve's once narrowed eyes towards Tony Stark suddenly widened, his attention back on Natasha. She wasn't serious was she?

"You wouldn't believe how easy it is to land one of us on the list of persons threatening the US or it's interests. Stark is on it because of system security concerns, and because Tony Stark became too big a risk to US interests following that time he sued the government over drone technology cutting in on creative property copyrights."

Jean came back with two glasses instead of just one, handing the spy her drink before sitting down with her own once more. "Technically," Jean felt the need to explain, as if someone had forgotten she was a genius mind besides. "he already sued them after Rhodes was allowed the Mark II. He's already lost that one, the first time."

And as in all legal things, explanding on the issue only seemed...to make it sound all the more confusing. "You're not on it," Natasha reassured Steve. "I'm not on it. Only Tony, right now. Maybe Jean."

"I think it was probably those times I embarresed them...really. Legality falls second to ego. I should know, I've been an awful offender in my time." Tony watched Jean provide the drink for both herself and Natasha, although felt no desire to source his own, he'd drank more than enough for the evening, even if it was their last night as members of a state, rather than its enemies, he'd done the hard partying element of things, now to relax.

"Although, I wouldn't worry, association with me probably accounts for something, that bastard 'terrorist' trying to sue the states for stealing his property, I'm a dangerous man."

Jean had to laugh, working on her third drink, after her four Cuban beers earlier. "He's terrifying."

"Can they even do that?" Steve interjected. If they could...then times really have changed...in more ways than Steve even realized. A terrifying thought in it's own.

Jean stopped laughing. "...yeah. They wouldn't have done it if they weren't going through in full with the Sentinels. The US has been killing people, even their own citizens, using these secret legal loops, for years. Using drones. The Sentinels are just escalation; a response due to all of us."

"Well, not all of us." Jean had to doubt Steve was in it for any other reason than his own personal values. He was on no target list. Although even Jean wished she could see the thoughts a secret court Judge would have on the Department of Justice bringing up a case against...Captain America for terrorism. 

"They did everything but give us forty eight hours to hand ourselves over to authorities."

A direct reference to Iraq, and the actions of the US, from the Boston girl.

Why that made Natasha Romanoff chuckle, was the Widow's secret, and her's alone as she stood and brushed sand off her back side. "Sounds like we might want to make the most out of the night."

The Black Widow's amusement ran twisted as she finished the last of the rum in her glass. "I'll be back. You boys don't let Jean get too crazy."

Despite herself, Jean grinned. 'Too crazy' sounded just crazy enough, for tonight.