You glance across at Nathan. He is sat rigid in the seat, starring intensely at the headrest infront, his fingers clutching the digging into the armrests, as though terrified his death grip on the seat is the only thing keeping him in the plane. His face an impressive shade of green. He's a worse flyer than you.
You tell him to take his Adaptive Transformation Travel Confectionary, but he remains rooted in place. You pull it from his shirt pocket and eventually manage to force it between his grimmacing lips. A few minutes later, he seems to relax a little.
"Hey, I think it's worki-BLEEUUURRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHH."
There are cries of disgust and some light applause from nearby passengers. He manages to catch most of it in a sick bag. After a few minutes of running on empty, he finally stops. He peers into the bag, reaches in a hand, and pulls out the vomit-covered TF sweet.
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