Ibuki blows into the mouth of the bottle, and - as expected on both counts - up comes a lowered, barely-tuned whistle... and a cloud of beer-scent that billows up in her face.
Her nose wrinkles, and as they're wont to do, the corners of her lips curl up at something mildly offensive - at the degree of audacity of it all!
Lucas, who is something mildly (orrrrr perhaps not-so-mildly) offensive himself, begins to cluck a series of clucky chuckles; he sways in front of her, and all the bottles dangling from the stick in his hands like planets and planes on a mobile begin to swing and clang in piercing glassy clangs, that make Ibuki think of someone sharpening their kitchen knives on the very rings of windchimes as she shudders back, shaping an "oooooooh...!" and then tugging it back into a grin.
"Nah, I know it's rough, and all," he says, eyes flashin' bright in the nearby cast of the white streetlight, heartiness fed out in controlled piping doses from somewhere in his upper stomach on up into the back of his head, "but we just gotta get another batch together, get somethin' to hold the whole thing together with, get ourselves a few more pipes, and combined with the stuff we already got - " He sets the bottle-mobile down, grabs one edge of the sack between them, and shakes it; many types of metal and plastic shift and jingle together. " - and we oughta've got everything we need for the organ..."
She likes the sounds he gives that word. Oah-gin.
He slides himself off the roof of the car, emitting a grunt when his shoes hit the dirt; she snickers through teeth shown like a raccoon's at the sloppiness of an easy dismount, figuring she'll do him one better and vaulting herself off with one hand while he's busy straightening up and brushing himself off and making a face like he only just now smelled all the garbage surrounding them. The jarring in her legs when the thin soles of her sneakers, too, hit the dirt, knock an "oof!" out of her; she appreciates the irony, swaying and snickering again as she stretches the sting out, as meanwhile, Lucas has his mouth open in an open crescent as he looks her up and down.
It sure is hella nice for someone to acknowledge that the party don't start till you walk in, even if that party happens to, in fact, be yet another round of scrounging in the night's dump run!
She poses to signal that she, too, is all good after her respective landing, fists on her hips - more for the joy and satisfaction of showboating than anything else; he scurries off towards one of the assorted mountains of stuff and things, half-turned in his gait to watch her, and she doesn't keep him waiting another beat before she's off after him like a rat after a rat, each of them hopping here and there over an errant rock or can or chunk of broken granite.
"And! - And after that!" She tosses her hair as she runs to thin the bangs in her eyes; lifts her head with a hand raised and forward to flag him down, should he look back again, which he does, with a stumble. "We can roll right into working on the drum kit, right?"
"Yeah, yeah!" Two quick, hard bobblehead nods; after them, he jerks his chin into the air, teeth showing as close-to-locked as they can be with every further word. "That part's gonna be easy-peasy...!"
She hums and nods back in satisfaction and the utmost approval - the Queen of Rock is pleased to hear this...! - as he shuffles to a stop; scoots up to the junk pile on his knees, squints his eyes, licks his lips in little darts, tosses his hood up, and begins to go all Jenga speedrun on the bitch: moving miscellaneous components and putting them to one side or the other, each removal shifting or not shifting the tower.
She'll join him! She'll join him.
But it's the shifts that have her attention first. Her eyes blink round at each scrape; she swings her weight settled onto one leg, crossing her arms, half-expecting she'll need to get braced really fast to watch a trainwreck.
A trainwreck, however, continues not to unfold.
Meanwhile, she sizes the piles up with each addition as they keep getting bigger, and wider...
She titters such that it bounces in her chest; beams. "You're really going to town on this pile, huh...!"
She catches Lucas's eyes narrow, and the line of his mouth tug into a smirk.
Her eyes, in turn, narrow; her smile draws wider. Her inflection lengthens. "It sure does show that Lucas does this all the time, the regular trash-hunting expert that he is...!"
"Mmmmmnnn, I wouldn't say all the time...!" He trails off, and the look on his face drifts blank before he bites his lip and scrunches his nose; he grabs some jutting metal thing with two hands, growling and putting his back into it. It pops loose, if you can call anything that makes a banging noise popping; sends him rocking backward with his limbs thrown up as it goes flung through the air behind him.
He rolls over to get it, eyes dazedly-big; scampers over spiderlike. The mirth behind the extra-toothy grin she's tucking down towards her chest warms up into something churning, and she races him to it. Gets there first, picks up the doohickey, and offers it to him, face-lightened.
Still crouched and dumb-faced, his eyes rise and fall between it and her a few times. A couple of hard blinks, and another couple of passes...
...before his eyes snap onto the thing and he grasps it. He shuffles forward, coughing into his free fist, before turning the grin of the world's most stoked jack-o'-lantern back up onto her.
"...Like I was sayin', I don't know that I do dump runs all the time...!" His uppermost lilts practically crack; his middle ones curve and trail easily. "I'm good at makin' do with whatever I find around, you know?"
The metal doodad passes between them; he shrugs, free palm up and thingy held up like a wand. His head is tilted.
"...But we got a full-blown project on our hands, eh...?!"
Two days later, Ibuki stands before a counter of computers, chopping and dicing and looping waveforms - clicking and expanding and shrinking and smoothing. She plays them back, once, and again.
Each time, in the set of big earmuffy headphones clamped to her head, an engine chunks and grinds and scrapes and screams, and over it, glass organ notes whistle and percussion clashes metallic and clockwork mechanisms click-click-click-click and and pop and alarms beep and beep and howl and strings twang and screech, playing themselves.
She can think of a few musicians who would be proud.
But instead, her trailing mane of hair swishes behind her like an animal's tail as she wiggle-toss-dances and moves her arms, thinking of her and Lucas in that dingy park a few blocks away where no one but them goes after dark, pulling levers and pushing pedals under strobe lights.
Her face aches downright good as she scats every twshooooo! and eek-keek-keek-grrraaaAAAAGH to herself and grins the way they grinned, eyes locked to hold the gratification between them at getting the song and dance just right and big and loud and smooth-yet-pumpin'.