[ Absently, she puffs a little air at a stray curl flopped down over her forehead — a futile effort on any number of fronts, not least of all because that side of her head is still matted in blood from the broken bottle and is now smudged with a bit of soot too. That and charred uniform — she's kind of a mess, but she doesn't seem to mind much. ]

You know, at my age? [ With a casual kind of wryness: ] You've tried a lot of shit, and you're into a little of everything.

[ Her age being almost seven thousand years old, of course.

Mildly then, like she's more amused than anything else: ]

What the fuck makes you so sure you can take me?