Marcus is late. His truck didn't start, he nearly got run over trying to hail down a bus, and then he ended up in a conversation with a street preacher. He comes through the door twenty minutes after they agreed to meet, straightening a battered leather jacket and scowling distractedly.

It takes him a moment to work out who in the bar is most likely to be the man he's looking for, but when his eyes light on John his calculations simplify slightly. Natty blonde hair, fidgety. Makes a lot of sense.

He hops up onto the barstool next to him and says, "Alright. I'll have whatever lager's on tap." He's got a thick Midlands English accent, rough and deep. After a heartbeat's pause, and the realisation that if he's wrong, this could be an opener which'll get him in trouble, he adds: "Uh, assuming you're who I think you are, anyway."