Saturday looks up briefly. "Looks good. I'd grab armor, too, these jumpsuits don't protect shit."

Then, with an irritated huff, she sheathes her blade. Which she does by thrusting it directly into her metal right arm; the metal parts, organic and woundlike, to receive it.

"Sorry, 'Ni-chan," she murmurs, still holding the hilt, and then pulls the blade back out. It comes out clean and shining; a wad of hard putty is expelled shortly after. Saturday puts it in the garbage.