A car is just like a carriage, a car is just like a carriage.

Such is Gilbert Nightray's mantra as Ro drives them towards their destination. His hands (gloves now wrinkled) grasp the seat belt crossed over his chest, despite the fact that they're going the speed limit and Rochelle is obeying all of the street signs. It's not so much the speed of the thing, it's more the idea that this vehicle shouldn't exist.

"F-fine!" he answers, a little too enthusiastically. Are we there yet?