[b]pick up the phone:[/b] [i]Dojo Aerospace; an hour before [url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/241277880/0/0/1]touchdown:[/url][/i] Drake scowled in the cockpit of his repulser-craft, both annoyed and frustrated with his current situation. For one thing, he’d gotten the lat./long. coordinates wrong, and the Arrowhead had let him go a few hundred kilometers from where he’d planned on being. Next, and perhaps more pertinently, he hadn’t put enough gel in his now-unkempt hair, which flopped around on his forehead now, despite his attempts to angrily blow it off of his face. Catching a glimpse of his reflection in the cockpit glass, Drake’s frown deepened. The stubble that he’d stylishly grown for Damien Lordan’s party had grown slightly rampant, to the point where it didn’t quite qualify as a 5’o’clock shadow anymore. His hair was messed up, failing to meet his lofty standards of excellence. Oh, and he’d also seemingly betrayed one of the more dangerous people that he’d come across in recent years. That sucked too. But then, inexplicably, something other than his face caught his gaze. A beat-up SAT phone, wrapped in a band of green duct tape, had found itself lodged in a nook of the cockpit behind his chair. Reaching back with his prosthetic arm, he grabbed the odd device, and decided to call the phone’s only contact: the one and only Winchester. [spoiler]Open to Xeno [/spoiler]