A stretch sounds absolutely divine at this point, and Knock Out hums his agreement. "Let's see what we can find."
The dash screen changes, flicking through information pages at a dizzying rate of speed as he searches the area. Unbeknownst to Rogue, those type of locations were something he was also familiar with seeking out, so he knows what to look for. News articles, property receipts, land surveys, company letterheads all go scrolling past until he eventually he settles on a choice.
Some twenty minutes later has found them at the fenced gate of an old factory, the painted name on the side too weathered to read. Several sets of old train tracks run in front of the silent brick behemoth, but they've long since grown over with weeds, unused. It looks as appropriately abandoned as they could hope for. Knock Out rolls forward gently until his fender presses against the locked gate, applying a steady pressure -- carefully, so as not to scratch his paint! -- until the padlock gives and the gate swings open. He reverses just briefly enough to push it shut again behind them.
It's not hard to find them an open bay door to enter through, and Knock Out drives them into the main building. Inside, the air is speckled with dust and particulate where it catches the morning sunlight streaming through the high windows and down from the skylights, some of which are broken. Though it's not immediately obvious what kind of factory this had been, it had almost certainly been something for manufacturing, and the skeletons of stripped-down conveyor belts and other machinery sit quietly in the main space. There's an expected amount of graffiti decorating the walls and the support braces, but not a lot of loose debris on the floor. It can't rightly be called clean, but there are definitely worse states it could have been in.
Once Rogue steps out, he reverts back to root mode with a long, grateful ex-vent. Arms raised above his head, he works out the tightness built there in startlingly similar motions to human stretching, though with the added audible sounds of coils twanging and springs decompressing to go with it. He fusses with his front of his chassis for a few moments, making sure that the fence hadn't scratched his wax too much, and flashes her an artful grin. "Much better."
Only then does he notice that there are still shreds of corn chaff caught in the armor seams of his legs. Had Iowa really only been two days ago? Grumbling, he begins to pull them loose.
no subject
The dash screen changes, flicking through information pages at a dizzying rate of speed as he searches the area. Unbeknownst to Rogue, those type of locations were something he was also familiar with seeking out, so he knows what to look for. News articles, property receipts, land surveys, company letterheads all go scrolling past until he eventually he settles on a choice.
Some twenty minutes later has found them at the fenced gate of an old factory, the painted name on the side too weathered to read. Several sets of old train tracks run in front of the silent brick behemoth, but they've long since grown over with weeds, unused. It looks as appropriately abandoned as they could hope for. Knock Out rolls forward gently until his fender presses against the locked gate, applying a steady pressure -- carefully, so as not to scratch his paint! -- until the padlock gives and the gate swings open. He reverses just briefly enough to push it shut again behind them.
It's not hard to find them an open bay door to enter through, and Knock Out drives them into the main building. Inside, the air is speckled with dust and particulate where it catches the morning sunlight streaming through the high windows and down from the skylights, some of which are broken. Though it's not immediately obvious what kind of factory this had been, it had almost certainly been something for manufacturing, and the skeletons of stripped-down conveyor belts and other machinery sit quietly in the main space. There's an expected amount of graffiti decorating the walls and the support braces, but not a lot of loose debris on the floor. It can't rightly be called clean, but there are definitely worse states it could have been in.
Once Rogue steps out, he reverts back to root mode with a long, grateful ex-vent. Arms raised above his head, he works out the tightness built there in startlingly similar motions to human stretching, though with the added audible sounds of coils twanging and springs decompressing to go with it. He fusses with his front of his chassis for a few moments, making sure that the fence hadn't scratched his wax too much, and flashes her an artful grin. "Much better."
Only then does he notice that there are still shreds of corn chaff caught in the armor seams of his legs. Had Iowa really only been two days ago? Grumbling, he begins to pull them loose.