The layered clothing says more to Maine about how long Frank's been here, comparatively, than it does anything else. Of course, Maine's running on the assumption that everyone shows up in scrubs. No one has given him strange looks for wearing them. Just the usual wide-eyed looks at his size.

1920. Maine looks up and to the side, trying to recall why that time in Earth's history sounds familiar. Something about a World War, he thinks. Maybe the first one? He's more familiar with the weapons than the dates — but unfortunately, he's yet to find any proper weapons here.

After nodding in acknowledgment, the Freelancer belatedly holds out a big, calloused hand to shake.

"Maine."