Atta boy. She grins at the ridiculously Scottish toast and props her elbow on the table to lean her chin on her hand. She's never seen Rush drunk. This is gonna be good. Or, at the very least, informative. Since that's apparently what they're about now.

"I figure we got about twenty more minutes of solid productivity before this gets dangerous," she says, taking the screwdriver to poke around herself. "But to be wholly honest that's probably about all I had in me today anyway."

It's been a real fucker of a day. That dream and now this cat, which is still staring at them from atop her fridge, tail twitching. Whatever. Look at what you have done, you ginger asshole. We were gonna do science but you RUINED IT.

She pulls out a few straggling pieces of the arm's fried mechanisms, leaving a fairly clean working area. This at least will allow them space to get it working like an arm again. Hopefully. That's scary as shit to think about, really. If they can't get it to work mechanically the next logical step would be to scrap the limb entirely and get her a prosthetic that functions as an arm. And that would be the true end of it. No more false hope. No more Rush bravado. She would just be an ordinary person with two working arms.

Fuck, okay. She sets the tool down heavily and reaches back for the bottle.