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Blackstone Foundry and Forge; Tuesday [05/02].

Even with the interruption of having been a rabbit on a rampage for a few days, the hammer for Margo was nearly finished, but it was going to take a little bit of a backseat for a day or two, as Amaya had a slightly more pressing matter to attend to, one that was sprawled over one of her worktables. The torn-up and tattered remains of the Squishy Machine was laid out before her like a corpse on an operating table, and she, the mad scientist tasked with the challenge of finding a way to bring it back to life.

She'd fixed it dozens of times before, even managed to almost get it to produce something other than red out of that third line in one instance, but, shaking her head, she wondered if the damage done in the attack was too great for her to surmount, and wondering just how to tell Shunsui (well, how to tell Summer, let's be honest here) that they might be better off just investing in a new one.

In between also wondering if there was anything that could be done, some sort of card or standard apology gift, that effectively could tell a person 'sorry I bit you on the butt when I was a rabbit'...which definitely felt a bit more personal and offensive than, say, destroying a dresser or annihilating a make-up collection.

The Forge is open!

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Well, speak of the makeup-collection-haver and she'll appear.

(Irene was, in fact, still mourning the loss of several red lipsticks that she would insist were distinct, irreplaceable shades.)

"Amaya," she called in her sing-songy, affectionate way as she sahsayed her way into the forge, armed with the now-standard coffee and a tea for herself. "What are we wor -- oh no."

Her eyes, of course, had fallen upon Amaya's patient upon the table, and while Irene would sooner throw herself into the ocean than admit she had ever enjoyed something like a Squishy herself, she still felt the moment deserved some gravitas. "Casualty of last week?"

"Mmm." Amaya's confirmation came out as a faint, thoughtful grunt, her head shaking as a wrench sort of waved futilely at the wreckage. "And possibly a lost cause. Though, while part of me thinks that may be an overall net-positive for the world at large," who ever even got Squishies? What was even the point? All she'd ever really used the damn thing for was a convenient excuse for a hook-up, after all, "now I'm also faced with a challenge, and you know how I can't just leave that untackled..."

There was a small sigh, before her attention finally drifted up from the mess of wires and parts, and she greeted with the customary nod and rigmarole. "Irene. What can we do for you?"

"Entertainment," Irene replied easily, figuring that was at least enough of a change from, 'I'm obviously here to pester/flirt with you.' But the poor Squishy machine still had her attention, for the most part -- save for how she delicately slid that coffee onto the corner of a table within Amaya's reach, discreet as ever. "End of an era. I think that thing was around the first time I was here."

It was. The Squishy Machine had possibly been there since time immemorial. (Or at least, like -- what, 2009?)

"You think it's truly beyond saving?" she asked, doubtful. (Mostly due to confidence in Amaya, of course.)

"I guess we'll find out," said Amaya, with a sigh, setting down the wrench and replacing it with that coffee, as smooth as could be. "And it being around that long just confirms that, by machinery standards, this thing's practically an antique, and I half wonder if they're not better off just getting a new shiny one, but you better believe I'm going to try and do what I can."

Which meant there was a good chance this current one would just be revived to have a decidedly steampunk vibe to it, which, if you asked her, would still be an improvement.

She did considered the mess of it as she sipped that coffee, though.

"If anything," she noted, "if I do get it back on its feet, maybe I can finally get that third line to pump out something other than Red. I did get Pink, once!"

A fact mentioned for no reason at all, mind you, certainly not at a bid to be particularly impressive to any current company.

"So there is that."

"Did you?" Irene asked, recognizing that for the feat it was. (And privately wondering if that meant the Red line had maybe just been running a little thin, but there was no way she would rain on Amaya's accomplishment with something like a logical question.) "The consistency of having that third, rather generic flavor is sort of nice, but not if it's not actually by design. And you know -- there's something of a...trendy little market for restored machines like this."

Irene sometimes liked the History Channel, in addition to Bravo, when it came to her trash TV viewing habits.

"Antique Coke machines and petrol pumps, at least," she amended. "But I imagine it's mostly all new guts and the...aesthetic and patina is what's desirable, there."

"It was a weekly battle," Amaya assured Irene, just to emphasize just how momentous of an occasion it truly was, "back when I ran the place. Which I think is why I'm partially leaning toward just letting it die already. Sort of feels like, in the end, we'll both know who was victorious and who was just a bucket of scrap metal. But there's a certain power there, too, isn't there? In showing that, but by the grace of my own wrench, it'd be rusting away in the junkyard...."

"It'd be indebted to you," Irene pointed out with a lift of her brows. "If you're into that sort of thing."

Irene had made a whole life off of that sort of thing, really, but who was counting.

"But is there anything you could salvage to sort of...put forward into its replacement?" she suggested. "Squishy Machine 2.0? Squishy Reborn?"

Amaya was definitely into that sort of thing. At least, when it came to machines.

Could be useful, in any potential robotic uprisings, really, to wield a wrench and know precisely what to do with it.

"Squishy Redux?" she offered, with a snort. "Really, the exterior's all fine, save for a little scruff and scratch, but it's the insides that really took the hit. It seemed as though they were all trying to gut the damn thing like it was animal. Think they all might have gotten a bit confused, which...having been one myself, seems....fair."

You know what? That's what she was sticking to, to explain any bum-biting that may have occurred. Clearly a bit confused, not of a sound mind, couldn't be helped.

"I wondered about you," Irene noted, and if you knew to look for it, there was a trace of concern that flitted across her features for just a breath. "Rabbit again, or did you get to take something else for a test-drive?"

Irene, of course, had holed up and stayed put. The occasional fancy-weaseling was enough for her, and there were plenty of hero-types in the town to handle these sorts of things while she drank her wine and took naps with her dog.

"Rabbit again," Amaya confirmed. "A bit more vicious, than the other iterations, I will say that much. You should have seen me, I'm not even sure how a leap like that is even physically possible, but I was zipping around the park like a fuzzy little bullet. The greenhouse is a total mess; that's where it happened, they just busted right in through the glass. Might have to see Nell across the way about a little recovery on some of my plants, but I figured I'd get this behemoth out of the way first..."

There was a slight hesitation, before both brows and eyes lifted with maybe a touch of that aforementioned concern making its way to her, as well.

"How 'bout yourself? You keep yourself out of trouble? Any werebeasties rampaging their way through your shop?"

Destroying all the dildos? Bothering all the buttplugs?

"They left me entirely alone, actually," Irene replied, fighting the urge to feel vaguely left-out (though that trace of concern actually bolstered her a little, even in light of her own immediate pang at the idea of Amaya's greenhouse.) "Lucky me, this time. I'm probably due for something awful, sooner than later."

Just practical to plan on that sort of thing, around these parts.

"No actual casualties amongst the plants?" she checked, maybe a little more concerned about certain carnivorous, tropical inhabitants than others. "Just in need of a little -- help, maybe?"

"Oh," said Amaya, with a certain amount of definitiveness, "the begonias are done for, the syringa unsalvagable, and RIP my parsley, but they might have done me a huge favor in mitigating the mint. The snapdragons managed to hold their own, too, and, surprisingly, they didn't even touch the carrots!"

She shrugged a little.

"Everything else, though,might just need a little resuscitation or managed to go by entirely untouched. Might need to refit the place with some stronger glass for next time, too."

"Not a bad idea on this island, anyway," Irene offered, worrying her lower lip a touch as she glanced at the not-long-for-this-world Squishy machine and back at Amaya. "Well, if you find yourself in need of another set of hands setting things to rights, you know where to find me."

Irene Adler, offering to get her hands dirty, literally.

It was just because she liked flowers, obviously.

She did know where, and something about that made the corner of Amaya's mouth pull up in an expression that she was, quite frankly, utterly unaware of.

When it grew into a more fully-formed smirk, though, that was entirely intentional, as Amaya shook her head and clucked her tongue a few times.

"And what of your nice manicure, Irene? Willing to put it to the test for the sake of my moringa?"

Smirk or not, intended or not -- that expression inspired a sort of...warmth in Irene's chest, all the same.

"They do make gloves, you know," Irene pointed out, maybe making a little point to keep her eyes on Amaya's on gloves, since everyone here knew all about very nice work gloves, didn't they? "And besides -- if I've survived blacksmithing, a bit of dirt is hardly going to end the world, is it?"

Irene was going to have a dreadful surprise when she found she was not, in fact, signed up for ~~flirting class~~ blacksmithing again this summer. But at least camping, instead, would be good for character-building. Or something.

It could certainly come in handy one day, no doubt, should Irene ever find herself whisked off somewhere that didn't have, say, electricity, by chance, for whatever reason.

"Gloves?" asked Amaya, giving her own a very pointed tug as she did a poor imitation of innocent cluelessness and shook her head. "Never heard of 'em."

The gloves in question, of course, were not even remotely fancy. Those gloves would be saved for occasions when she knew for a fact their presence would be noted. Such as, say, future recuperative gardening.

"But I'll keep that in mind," Amaya assured...warned?...her, "especially since it's hardly a bit of dirt."

Um, that sounded terrible and implausible. How would she dry her hair, Amaya? Of all the ideas.

"Dirt, loath as I am to admit it, washes off," Irene pointed out with a coy little lift of one brow. "And nails can be repainted. Your begonias' recovery can occasionally take precedence, I suppose."

"My begonias," Amaya stated, "will no doubt appreciate your valiant sacrifice, Irene."

And, maybe a slight pause, an almost...stubborn sort of hesitation.

"Suppose," she added, "I will, too. More hands make less work, after all."

Had to appreciate that kind of...efficiency!

"Got any jasmine in there?" Irene asked, a little too-casual. "They're my favorite."

Everyone on earth liked roses, and so did she, but it was jasmine that found its way into most of Irene's favorite perfumes.

And if Amaya did not already have jasmine in her greenhouse -- well, maybe some would have to be planted this year, then, wouldn't it?

The forge knew firsthand precisely what Amaya thought about roses.

"No jasmine," Amaya admitted,and she might have even sounded a little rueful about that. "But who knows? Once the casualties are counted and cleared away, there'll probably be some room for some new arrivals."

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Blackstone Foundry and Forge; Tuesday [05/02].

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