"So living myths are part and parcel of this... reality." If McCoy looks perturbed, it's less about the notion of myths being real than his being supremely unhappy about the whole, being-yanked-through-space-and-time. He had enough of alternate universes five years ago, when Nero carried out his rampage.

Settling down into a proper seat on the floor, he watches Little Cato a moment longer, but decides not to press him for the reason his ears are drooping. It isn't as though he's ready to discuss the finer details of his own life, besides.

"Mine's a similar story as yours. I was minding my own business, then I was on Earth again, under the moon. Then ambushed by these fools, and woke up with this around my neck." The collar gleams faintly in the low light, horrible matching triplet to Hellboy and Little Cato's. Come to think of it, he hasn't had a decent glance at the restraint until now – no mirrors in the cell they'd shoved him in – and he touches it, looking this time to Hellboy.

"You said this place feels a little closer to home. Any chance you know what the gibberish on them means?"