"Yeah, space fairie, that makes total sense," he said to Errol.  "Right.  A faerie.  From space.  Because that's where people keep the faeries, between the Martians and Klingons."  Then: "I'm being a sarcastic jackass, ma'am, make nothing of it.  Thanks for the straight shot, even if I'm not sure any of it makes any sense to me, and I still have no proper idea why the fuck I'd be in a place of magic, except that I'm not who and what I think I am.  Which is strange to learn at my age."<br/><br/>Though he had to admit that usual places were just as weird.  He grew up on a steady diet of Irish folklore, where most of the Good People (so named not because they were good but because they were touchy and you were currying their favor) lived in barrows or mystical lands like Tir-Na-Nog, which could be found through barrows, or crossing the Western Ocean (called the Atlantic nowadays), or going under the waves.  It wasn't consistent from story to story.  Space?  Not so much, but he wasn't apt at metaphors.<br/><br/>He shifted his focus on Chance.  "Maybe she's not Irish enough.  And the Gentry do have a way of provoking strong reactions in we mere mortals, and I've heard tis better to spend a night with the Good People than all the whiskey in Ireland," he said, laying on a bit of a plastic Paddy accent.  He dropped the accent, because it was good only in small doses.  "I might not mind seeing magic.  I don't think anyone has ever taken me as whimisical in my whole fucking life.  I think it'd be interesting.<br/><br/>"But... sure, I have a job out there.  I don't keep bankers hours, though, and my bosses are lenient so long as I get my work done.  Which, I have.  I was looking to get considerably more hammered than I am and I was hoping to meet a sweet thing impressed by my badge to help me pass the time - but the folks in here are aggressively not interested in such frippery."