She arrives in her chair, both hands pressing a spot just above her nose. A Liminal Space, then? But one cut off from the others.

Madoka Mawaru looks out over the constantly changing landscape, then at the truck, then at the choice of drink, and frowns. She curls her left hand over the armrest for reassurance, closes her eyes, than thinks out loud:

You aren't much for subtle, are ya, Chariot?