Saturday bites at one drone, breaking whatever passes for a fingerbone. She's too busy to snark back: the drones with bats are busy trying and failing to break Loken, but the ones without are grabbing at her with hard fingers and ah, fuck, that was something metal slicing across her ribs - scissors, fuckitty fuck.

They sink into her side and she howls in pain, donkey-kicking back at whichever of the three holding her down she can reach. Something crunches behind her and a wave of boiling coffee pours over her ankle.

"Motherfuck - " But she feels one set of hands slip away and twists, digging her metal nails into a drone's arm until she feels its false skin pop. Green ink wells up, nice and slippery, and she's able to yank her hand free.

'Ni-chan had sunk inside her arm when she was grappled. Loken may have assumed she'd dropped her blade in all the chaos. But as she scampers back out of the crowd and resets herself, it's hard to miss that her sword grows from the palm of her hand. Organically, not mechanically; it's not stored in her arm, it's part of it.

Saturday stomps her burned foot once, to check that it's steady. Then she gets back to work.