Almost before she's had a chance to take in the appearance of the room - less upsetting than the one shared over the network last week, at least, that's something - Amanda is aware of the smooth curve of the Tailight Eyelights being pressed into her palm, unasked for. She looks down, surprised, as her fingers instinctively curl around her keystone memento; Roadrash folds an incorporeal hand around her very corporeal one, his fingers disappearing into the back of her hand as he misjudges how close to hold them. "Mine," he hisses at her, eyes even wider than usual. She nods, and settles the goggles over her hair, pulling the strap snug around the back of her skull.

Weeks ago, Amanda might have been more inclined to investigate: the furnishings, the drink, the music. But she's been waiting, and though she's more or less been told what's going on - at least, as far as her fellow travelers can explain it - she's still been getting increasingly antsy as the unmarked side gets more and more sparsely populated. So now that she's here, she steps into the middle of the room, crosses her arms and plants her feet. "Aight, our nerves are about shot," she says, to the room at large. "And he ain't even got any nerves. Come at us, bro."