[It's the day after a trial, and Rosalind's been dodgy. It's been hard to find her at all, beyond maybe a brief glimpse of her grabbing something from a storage closet and running off. But when Dokja finally comes upon her, she's muttering to herself and tinkering with some weird machine cobbled from a coffeemaker, some nails and screws from the closet, and something from the arcade.]

You can't just tell me "this is never going to work." What evidence do you have? It's nowhere near the final week? Please. Narrative convention was meant to be broken.

[She stops and turns her head to Dokja, sparing a wave.]

Good evening, sir! I'm building a bomb.