“Well... haven’t figured that out yet.” Drake scratched his head with his prosthetic hand, unbeknownst to Winchester. He was making a steady approach to the landing site Alpha had marked out for him, and his nerves were rising once more. “If I don’t get shot in a minute, I’ll give you some better instructions, fish up the coordinates of the Arrowhead, [i]*’cause they gotta be lyin’ around here somewhere.*[/i]” He looked back, and idly rummaged through a compartment in the back of the cockpit. He trailed off at the end, preoccupied with his redundant task—Drake was making busywork because his nerves were killing him, and that probably wasn’t a good sign. “.‘Til then... I dunno, pray for me, do some oriental witchcraft, I dunno.”