Right on cue, the valet rolled up in a gold Maserati that had Tony coyly swinging to face Bruce with an inquisitive pout. The kid seemed to like it well enough, anyway, and delivered the keys with a dopey grin, almost forgetting to help the others load their bags before staggering away. "No really my style," Tony admitted. "Thought I'd try it out, but..." Not that it was the worst thing to happen. He was happy to take the wheel and peel them away from that hotel, heading out of the city and toward the cliffs.
"Sal Kennedy," he reported to Jessica, because she could use the brief before being thrown into the fire, "is a futurist. Got all his papers in biology, but don't hold that against him. He's a hoot, you're going to like this. Met him at this conference, actually, how's that?" It felt like it had been just as long since Tony had attended, but it didn't seem like he was missing much.
That introduction could hardly prepare anyone for the cabin, tucked away into the woods and hidden from the city, and the man that answered the Grateful Dead doorbell with a shout to come on around back. "Not smoking inside," Sal had insisted when they made their way around the deck, then gave a bow to Tony with a lofty, "Your highness."
"That's one of us," Tony replied. "Sal, Jessica Drew. Jess, Dr. Sal Kennedy. You know Bruce, don't you? Does this mean you're feeding us?"