The-- the right, yeah, I got it! [It's a nightmare. It's taking a pop quiz on lightspeed physics when you've spent your whole life stacking scrap: every box has a fleet of tools every bit as menacing as their metal roommates, and from what Finn can make out, 'fusing pen' could describe at least ten different pieces of rusted out garbage that rattle under the push and pull of his fingertips.

So he takes them all.

Rushes back over, holding a fan of them between his fingertips as the best array of options he can manage: if he still gets it wrong after all this? Screw it, he'll take the risk of getting knocked across his own ear.] Here you go, General. Solo. Mister Solo.

Figured I'd get the jump on things. Give you some options.