You are still inside her loop. It's like the course of her mind is interrupted; no words, no resistance, not because she's not capable of it but because she can't do it elegantly. Without costume, rhythm, momentum, control - power wasn't something to debase yourself seeking. If someone else was doing it better there was nothing to do but let it play out. 

That's what it was. You are backstage. 

She steps up onto her robotic leg wrong and would immediately faceplant if you didn't steady her. She is still dressed in the clothes of the previous day, so she wordlessly goes through her ritual oblations; shower, teeth, passionlessly but diligently cleaning the network input ports where her leg joins. Stretches, calibrations, ten seconds balance left and right, star jumps. She was moving but she wasn't awake, but the pattern was a machine for delivering a functional person to the midday. Any words said at this interval disappeared into the thunderhead of her consciousness to return when the conditions were right for lightning.

The path was leading to a stumbling non-decision regarding breakfast. Give her enough time and she'd fumble her way to clothing and keys to go out to the requested cafe - unless she was intercepted with omlettes beforehand.