If Knock Out notices anything amiss in the ungloved touch, he doesn't comment on it. Once she's reseated in the driver's side, a thin cord of supple mesh extends from the dash, and as she watches, the end shifts and reshapes itself, altering in micrometers until it perfectly matches the charge port on the phone type she's purchased.
"I'm not a comms mech," he offers by way of explanation. "Or Spec-Ops. And unlike Soundwave -- who can decrypt something just by existing in its general vicinity -- if I'm to get any kind of access to the satellite networks, I'm going to need a back door in. This will probably take a few hours, but in the meantime..."
His radio clicks on, the dial spinning digital numbers on the dash. He flips though stations almost too fast to catch what they are -- although there's a lot of country music even in that short span, but this is Iowa -- until he settles on a news channel recounting the day's events. There's a recap of the same story that she read in the newspaper about the holding facility in Des Moines, a few local crime stories, sports scores, a weather forecast. Knock Out spins the dial again, impatiently.
"Where's the police band? Mm, no, that's CB... here we go." Radio chatter, idle and unhurried, crackles across the speakers. "You know for a species that needs external hardware to detect RF bands, you have surprisingly good spectrum management, grouping everything together the way you do."
He pauses, quiet except for the radio, red lighting from the dash muted. He feels her agitation, her turbulence... both physically because of his sensors, and something deeper. She's afraid.
"Rogue... I won't let anything happen to you. Whatever the Porter's done--" Whether this was some trick, or whether they were really in her world. "--we'll deal with it."
no subject
"I'm not a comms mech," he offers by way of explanation. "Or Spec-Ops. And unlike Soundwave -- who can decrypt something just by existing in its general vicinity -- if I'm to get any kind of access to the satellite networks, I'm going to need a back door in. This will probably take a few hours, but in the meantime..."
His radio clicks on, the dial spinning digital numbers on the dash. He flips though stations almost too fast to catch what they are -- although there's a lot of country music even in that short span, but this is Iowa -- until he settles on a news channel recounting the day's events. There's a recap of the same story that she read in the newspaper about the holding facility in Des Moines, a few local crime stories, sports scores, a weather forecast. Knock Out spins the dial again, impatiently.
"Where's the police band? Mm, no, that's CB... here we go." Radio chatter, idle and unhurried, crackles across the speakers. "You know for a species that needs external hardware to detect RF bands, you have surprisingly good spectrum management, grouping everything together the way you do."
He pauses, quiet except for the radio, red lighting from the dash muted. He feels her agitation, her turbulence... both physically because of his sensors, and something deeper. She's afraid.
"Rogue... I won't let anything happen to you. Whatever the Porter's done--" Whether this was some trick, or whether they were really in her world. "--we'll deal with it."