They're in the workshop. It's more cluttered, more chaotic, somehow, and it's dark out. Moxie is older, Marley sits across from her, pale and drawn, his arm clutched against his chest and his eyes haunted. Moxie herself doesn't look that great, a little roughed up, and uncharacteristically serious.

". . .Are ya sure, pally?" she asks, trying to keep her tone steady, but it wavers a little. Somehow, it only strengthens the boy's resolve. He replies almost gently, "I'm sure, Wren. Ya got Matty's specs still, yah? The ones what ya pulled fer Jan?"

Her expression twists at the mention of the name, pained and guilty and angry, but she shakes her head as if shaking those thoughts off. Now's not the time.

"I do. His notes and my notes –– all of it. But Marl. . ."

"I ain't no good like this, yanno? But –– but if I do this, maybe I can hunt again. Maybe I can keep up with 'em. Maybe I can fight."

She watches him a moment, still somber, still unlike her –– and then she nods.

"Okay, Marl. Okay. If yer set on this, I'll help ya. I'll do what best I can."

He musteres a smile for her, and she turns to rummage, pulling down a schematic of her own -- wildly complex and detailed, but clearly meant to be an arm.