Michael Drake strolled into the bar with some haste, his crimson jacket flapping around in the cold breeze as he shut the door behind him. He had rather large accomplice with him, whose features were shrouded by the dim light of the bar, that went over to a table and sat down immediately. Likely backup, in case this was some sort of trap. As Drake strolled over to Booker, the pirate has the chance to get a good look at the man. For the most part, the bounty vouchers didn’t lie—he looked sharp, as was his trademark, but his icy blue eyes exuded a cunning intellect that his appearance wouldn’t necessarily suggest. His face was slightly flushed from the cold, and when he sat down next to Booker, he let out a deep sigh that he’d evidently been holding in. “Captain Booker,” he nodded with some respect, “I got your message, and I appreciate the head’s up, but I don’t think we’ve met.” Drake held out his prosthetic hand to shake, “I’m Michael Drake, Captain of the Arrowhead. Pleasure to meet you.”