He nods, as that about makes sense. Not for the first time, he wonders if what he's hearing - English with something uncannily like a Scottish accent - has any kind of similarity beyond the audible ones to Earth's languages. "That alphabet seems to be the standard here," he observes. It's pretty lucky, really; well done universe, at least something manages to tie most things together.

Their tea arrives and Bruce holds his cup between his hands despite the heat, liking the feel of it against his palms, which might border on discomfort for someone without callouses and soreness like he's got. (Someday much sooner than he should, he'll have awful arthritis.) He smiles faintly at their server, and orders a plate that, close as he can figure, has something dead and protein-like in it.