Like in the souvenir shop at the service station, Knock Out is clearly taking all the small details in for the first time. While he knows better than to openly stroll around with a look of wonderment plastered on the holoform's face, it's the small things: the quick flit of fingertips over the material of a hanging sweater, the quiet examination at the shelves of canned goods and sundries.

Not because it's new to him, but because it's familiar.

He's not a warbuild; his spark wasn't brought online during the war like others had been. Knock Out had been alive almost a million and a half years before Cybertron fell into strife, and lived on two different planets in that time. He'd had a full range of civilian life. And even though this was nothing like the sprawling markets of Tesarus and Praxus, it evoked the same reaction. It was strongly, startlingly domestic.

Something that Knock Out had wondered, more than once, if he'd ever get the chance to feel again.

Scrap. He had no time to be maudlin, not in their current predicament. It seemed disingenuous in any case, when Rogue was so obviously struggling to come to terms with being here. Outside, undetected, Knock Out's EM field wavered in something like chagrin.

He spots a rack of backpacks on the wall, picking one in a neutral colour and bringing it to her in mute suggestion. "Will this help?"