"Some of us," Pike agreed solemnly, even offering a little salute with his drink before downing it. Once again, he refilled it. He wasn't really counting. He'd know when he hit double digits. "Resurrected cats." He snorted derisively at that. "We're all in one giant Pet Cemetery reenactment." Of course, the cat metaphor was far too cute an image for what was really going on, but whatever. It worked.
"Great indicator," he replied, jabbing the bar with his finger to illustrate his point. "We're real. Every last one of us. Somebody just peeked into our dimensions and wrote screenplays or scripts or books or whatever out of them." That was his story, and he was sticking to it. He had scars, both physical and mental, to prove that he'd lived, that he was real. Not even God himself, assuming there was a universe where He actually existed, would be able to make him believe differently. Of course, God would probably just smite the annoying demon, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.
When she asked about where he was from, he just shrugged one shoulder, downed his drink, and said, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The movie." Then, with a wince, grumbled, "Luke fucking Perry." And yet another refill.