[In that moment she feels suddenly young, despite knowing on some distant level that that dynamic is subtly wrong. It's not as wrong as it felt around Michael, but something is off about feeling so very small in front of him- and not for the reason she thinks. Some subconscious part of her that has lived and watched and waited and slowly starved to nothing over the long countless centuries is protesting that she should ever feel less experienced than the one of their number who has truly seen nothing- but it's so subsumed that it manifests as nothing more than a feeling of unease.

And a feeling, one she allows herself to experience, with more emotional freedom than she's had in centuries- though she doesn't know it. To her it just feels uneasy, and simply so.]

Under the event I find myself thinking very simply. Those around me are either my kind or not my kind.

[A pause that seems to go on forever.]

Only you are like me. [Maybe only you can understand.] Michael did not understand. Gabriel is flippant. I suspect he always is.

[It's left unspoken: but you are different.]