Becky lets her go, swearing softly in a long dead language, her brows furrowed. She folds her wings and gets onto her motorcycle, heading for the lockup, followed by a bar. She may have the body of an eighteen year old, but she'd like to see someone go through a few thousand years on earth without copious amounts of alcohol. She sits on the stool and orders a pint of something that tastes awful. First person to make her feel... even remotely connected in centuries, and she messes it up... she bashes her head on the table, swearing fluently in Coptic.