Anyone who calls fighting Satan's houseplant "nice" has got to be a little insane, Marty thinks. But it does make his mouth quirk up into a slight smile, if only because insane people are the ones he seems to get along with most anyway.

"I just got here, too," he admits. "To be honest, I still don't know if I dreamed all this up." A beat. "And you, too. No offence.

"Kind of leaning towards it not being a dream, though. I don't think my brain could pull off your accent."

He purses his lips, brows furrowed. "Did you see that lady before you found me? The one who talked about... um, tokens." Marty knows she said more, but he doesn't remember all the names she'd listed. There was something about zombies, certainly, but the undead sound more absurd than tokens-- better to ask about something a little more sane.