fateandfortune

The mattresses had been Rogue's idea.

The last few days had been spent exploring the mansion. Knock Out had been both surprised and fascinated by the level of tech hidden away in the garage and the various areas. He'd also been taken aback at how much of the mansion had heavy-duty shielding built right into the construction. Most of it was buried in the foundations and the walls, hidden behind expensive wood paneling and plush carpet in the household areas, but it was certainly there.

His sensitive scanners had protested; too much interference meant that he had trouble tracking Rogue when she left his line of sight, and even his communication with the holoform was tenuous, causing it to glitch in and out of solidity from time to time when he accompanied her through the areas he couldn't fit in his native size. But with her blessing, he'd dismantled some of the technology and stripped it down to components, pursuing a vague line of thought that he might be able to re-purpose it.

For her part, Rogue had been a hard read since arriving to Xavier's. More than once he'd turned around and she was just not there, causing his spark rate to jump up in worry and send the holoform zipping through various areas until he located her again. When he'd tried to ask her what about this place was so obviously causing her stress, she hadn't wanted to answer and, uncertain how to address it, Knock Out had not pushed the topic.

Still, he worried.

But at night, Rogue hadn't wanted to be away from him, not even in as guarded as place as Xavier's was proving to be with its technology, its security, its shielding. Even the promise of a real bed could not entice her to stay in the living spaces of the grand house. Instead she'd brought a mattress down to the garage where there was a comfortable expanse of room for them, even with him in root mode.

Except she hadn't stopped at one — determinedly dragging one after another down the levels with help from the holoform, until a pile of them rested on the concrete floor.

He should be comfortable too, she said. They'd since been laid out in the middle of the garage, bunched and pushed up together to create a padded area big enough for both of them. After a week of sleeping sitting upright in an old factory, this new alternative was sublime.

Knock Out is curled loosely on his side, optics dark, biolights dimmed in slumber. In the factory they'd been at risk of being stumbled upon even on the abandoned property, so he'd never fully powered down there. Here, he feels assured that they're safer, and the difference in his recharge is plainly evident. Whereas before he'd simply gone still and quiet, like a machine going into standby, now he seems genuinely asleep and peaceful, quiet save for the muted purr of his engine behind red chestplates.

Edited 2020-07-02 07:36 (UTC)

Being back at the mansion... To say it was bittersweet would be an understatement of exponential proportions. The drive up to the building had her heart in her throat, the grounds overgrown but still beautiful beyond measure. By the layers of dust they found in the garage and throughout the rooms, it had been years since anyone set foot inside, but by some miracle, the security measures were much the same in this world as her own. She'd guided them inside and shown Knock Out as much as she could—

But it was so hard. The comical stories of her teaching days mixed with memories of fleeing in the night, taking only what they could carry, the students crying in fear as they lost their home. The familiar halls she knew like the back of her hand were dotted with furniture she didn't recognize, rooms were rearranged, and she had no place here. And, above all else, a pervasive dread and thread of terror crept through her veins with every second that passed, all centered around the one room she purposefully avoided.

Finding small joys became her lifeline in the days they spent there. With security still in working order, they were able to relax without fear of being ambushed, and it was good to see KO working with technology again. And truthfully, she did enjoy sharing these glimpses of her past with him, trying to her best to focus on the good times before the war had ruined everything in sight. But those dark moments still threatened to claw their way to the surface, again and again pulling her attention from her friend and causing her to wander off while lost in her own thoughts — she felt immeasurably guilty for causing him to worry, but she couldn't bring herself to explain. Not yet.

It was the comfort she found in his presence that brought her to drag that first mattress to the garage, suddenly appearing with it from the connecting hall. But the moment she'd seen him there, she'd decided, and she was grateful for his holoform's help. There were no pillows quite big enough for him, though she did drag down quite a few larger couch cushions as a substitution. For her part, she has just one blanket and pillow; it's far more than she had the last time she was in the mansion.

In the dim light of the garage, she wakes slowly, the bad dreams chased away by the quiet sounds of his engine that she's come to associate with safety. She can see his dimmed lights, a subtle reassurance that he's still alive and well. After spending a few minutes watching him in such a peaceful state, she doesn't even think before moving, wrapping the blanket around herself and slowly crawling across the sea of mattresses to the hollow space beside his curled form. That quiet purr is louder here, soft and soothing, and she lays down on her side to listen to it.

Up close, Knock Out smells faintly of polishing wax and sweet, clean oil with an almond-like bitter undertone, and something less definable that might be his metal itself. He doesn't move much in recharge — the occasional position shift or flicker of expression, as if he dreams no differently than humans — but never enough that his frame would be in danger of doing her harm. While sleeping on his side was the most comfortable position for him due to his kibble, it also makes him look smaller and somehow, that much more human.

It's a while longer before he wakes, giving Rogue a chance to enjoy the tranquility, and he comes online with an indulgent slowness that he hasn't felt since Jeopardy. He knows she's there almost immediately, even before his optics come back on, sensor feedback informing him of her placement. His systems do an auto-check, realigning small platelets that have been pressed out of their optimum positions during sleep, and his armor seams expand briefly like a stretch, then settle into their normal placement.

Knock Out's optics light, diffuse and warm, and he offers her a drowsy smile. "Good morning."

She watches him while he sleeps, peering up at his large form while listening to the sounds of his slumber. Even when he does shift slightly, she doesn't feel even a flicker of fear that he would move so much as to hurt her — she trusts his systems to sense her there, whether or not that trust is misguided. So she notices when he begins to wake, and when he finally gives her that drowsy smile, she can't help but give him one back.

"Good morning," she replies, thinking that she should move away so she might better see him but far too comfortable to actually do so. "You slept well."

It's an observation, not a question.

Nor does Knock Out seem bothered by her closeness. "I did," he agrees, flexing his limbs a bit to loosen them. The mattresses did a good job of cushioning them from the concrete floor, but sleep stiffness was apparently universal across species. A hot solvent shower and a steaming cube of energon would have been perfect additions to the morning routine, but neither was possible, so he'll content himself with being able to wake peacefully and in good company.

"Yourself?"

Edited (word) 2020-07-05 01:48 (UTC)

She just nods, curling up further in the big blanket she'd wrapped around herself in a sort of cocoon. Yes, she'd slept miraculously well, all things considered, and she feels especially cozy in that particular spot. Being so close to Knock Out... Where she used to be terrified of him, she now feels safest by his side.

"You purr when you sleep."

"Mhm," he concurred lazily, unsurprised when she said he purred, like he'd been previously informed of this fact.

Knock Out chuckles a little, poking her blanket cocoon with the tip of his claw. "Going to undergo metamorphosis, all curled up like that? Something with wings, perhaps... you'd look good in a Seeker frame."

And then, after another few moments, "What's on the docket for today?"

Something with wings... She'd always loved whenever she was able to borrow a mutation that allowed her to fly. It's one of the things she's missed most over the years, that freedom and strength that she'd never had on her own. It makes her wonder what a Seeker is, though, and she makes a mental note to ask about it later.

She's quiet for a little while, partially hiding her face beneath the edge of the blanket, her eyes shifting from one thing to another without really focusing on any single one while she thinks. When she finally does speak, her voice is quiet but steady.

"There's something I need to do, but... I need to do it on my own." There's something in her tone that almost feels like she's asking for his permission or acceptance.

Knock Out cycles his ventilations once, twice, but his expression doesn't change. "On your own..." he repeats slowly, like he's sounding out the idea.

"Can you tell me why?" The question is posed calmly, neither refusal or accusation. Help me understand, it means.

She sinks a little further into the blanket, only her eyes up exposed now, but she recognizes that he's not standing against her. He's curious, and of course he would be. Time and again, she's avoided telling him why she's been so distracted here, why at times she's more a ghost than a living person, and he's been so accepting of her silence that now she feels like she owes him something.

"I have demons I need to face," she finally explains. "From during the war. I know this isn't the same place, but it's the closest I'll ever get."

The way she continued to shrink into the safety of the blanket would have been adorable, if not for the concern making his spark feel tight at her words. It wasn't that he didn't get the concept -- Pit, he could use more than a little resolution from his own war demons, and probably would when his was finally over -- but her behaviour over the last few days was hard to put from his mind.

(But if their positions were reversed, would he want help? An audience? He was inclined to think not, but he'd never shied away from being hypocritical before.)

"If that's what you want," he said finally. "But if you change your mind..."

His agreement loosens something inside her and she tugs the blanket down, tucking it under her chin and offering him a grateful, if slightly sad, smile. "Thank you, sugar. I really do appreciate it."

Scooting a little closer to him, she leans against him properly now, his smooth metal at her back. It's one of the most comforting things she's ever felt. "What will you do today?"

Knock Out settles one arm outside where she sits, creating a loose alcove around her, and hums consideringly. "Take another pass through the workshop," he decides.

"I'd like to have an external scanner, one set up for geochemical analysis. I think I can get everything I need for one if I dismantle some more equipment there."

There's a moment where she has the fleeting thought that perhaps they could just stay like this all day and put off their tasks until tomorrow... but she's already put this off for so long. Today has to be the day, she can't run from it any longer.

"Take whatever you need for it," she tells him, knowing full well that he's not building these things just for the fun of it. Much of the equipment in the mansion can be done without and still maintain an effective level of security.

As nice as lazing through the day would have been, eventually they resign themselves to tackling the day's tasks and split off. Even though he heads to the workshop, Knock Out keeps his sensors on Rogue as best he can, losing her sometimes when she moves in and out of the mansion areas that have different shielding layers.

He deconstructs several electronic units in the workshop, sidelines to the science lab classroom to hunt for some additional supplies, and settles into the garage with his finds at a "table" he's made out of an upturned shipping box.

(Oh but he misses his work lab in Jeopardy...)

Methodically Knock Out begins stripping wires and connecting circuit boards, sinking into the repetition of it. He's never built one of these before — they were not a particularly rare piece of equipment back home — but he's familiar enough with how it functions that he's willing to make a go of it.

In theory, it should give his mind something to focus on while Rogue attends her... resolution.

That doesn't stop him from pinging his sensor net deeper into the mansion at regular intervals.

The hardest part of this process should have been finding the courage to walk down the hall and open those doors. To step into that round, metal-covered room and face the memories that haunted her every moment. But somehow, in between her nerves and struggling to find her resolve, she hadn't realized what her true obstacle would be: gaining entrance.

If she existed in this world, it was not as part of the X-Men. The iris recognition scan had failed, her handprint hadn't been registered in the system, and none of her personal passcodes got her further than the initial screen prompt. Nothing worked on the surface, so she'd pried loose the main access panel and tried calling upon the psyches in her head for advice. Wires were untangled and reassigned to no available, the automated voice declaring "Access Denied" yet again. With each failure, her anxiety and frustration grew, both at war with her stubbornness to finally handle this.

Hours passed as she tried everything she could think of, two or three or four crawling by as she started to lose her grip on her emotions until finally all she could do was stalk her way back through the halls to the garage. She doesn't say anything to Knock Out as she enters, hardly even notices him as she frantically begins searching through the various tools and equipment stored there. She's determined and distracted, but there's something in the way she moves that more than hints at her general state of being as Not Okay.

Knock Out opens his mouth to welcome her back, initially too relieved that her undertaking is done when she goes past him without a word, straight to the tool chests used for vehicle maintenance and rifling through them.

And then, with a sinking in his spark, realizes that such an easy outcome was nowhere near the truth. "Rogue," he began, setting down the tools he'd been using and standing. One of the metal drawers clangs shut, too loud and echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

"Rogue, what happened?" he tries again. His hands come close, like they want to pull her back from her frantic searching, but he doesn't touch.

Edited 2020-07-05 05:46 (UTC)

The clanging causes her to flinch, bringing her abruptly back to the present, but she doesn't cease her searching. In fact, she becomes even more manic as she pulls out drawer after drawer, the tools sliding as she shoves them shut again. But she doesn't look at Knock Out even when he comes closer to her, too focused on what she needs to do.

"I have to try again," she finally offers absently before grabbing a toolbag and a crowbar and heading for the door again.

It's far more reaction than thought as he crosses the room in mere steps what it took her several strides to, closing both hands around her. He doesn't need to use both — she wouldn't be able to break his grip even if he'd only used one — but two feels safer. More secure. Less like she might vanish if he's unwise enough to let her continue. His grasp is unyielding, but not unsafe; he knows (has experience) just how fragile humans are and how much their bodies can take.

Later, he'll realize it was probably a poor impulse. That there were other just as effective methods he could have employed. He could have sat in front of the doorway, and made himself an immovable obstacle.

But in the moment, all he thinks is warning, warning and acts accordingly.

"Stop, please... you're not yourself..."

She doesn't see it coming. How could she, when it's been so long since he reminded her of the monstrous machines that still make up her nightmares? But suddenly the two overlap in her mind as his hands close around her, and it's all she can do not to scream. Her body goes still but for the tremors that start and her breath rasps in her throat as her pulse skyrockets from terror-fueled adrenaline. She knows this is her friend and he would never hurt her, but even a lifetime of healing could never fully erase her ingrained fear of the Sentinels.

Knock Out doesn't need an built in sensor suite to recognize the instant change that takes over her. As soon as she goes rigid in his hands, more logical reasoning prevails — medic coding, designed to prioritize critical decision making, to assess risk versus reward. An error made.

Knock Out's fingers unfurl from their protective... but restrictive... grasp on her.

"I'm sorry," he says, distressed. Retreating several meters away, his hands curl uneasily against his thigh plating, but he makes no move to reach for her again. He thinks about her kneeling on the side of the road in Kentucky.

"I won't do that again..."

Breathing becomes easier the second he releases her, but there's no lasting calm. Her hands still tightly grip hold of the tools she's haphazardly selected and, after a few moments, she shakes her head and begins moving toward the door again. Each step wavers between steady and sure but she can't stop now. She has to keep hold of her momentum and resolve or she'll be haunted by the lost opportunity for the rest of her life.

It's what she should explain to him but the words are too hard. The world keeps closing in around her and if she strays from this path, she'll never find it again.

The sound Knock Out makes when Rogue resumes her path toward the door isn't one a human could have made, an upset, electronic warble.

That she still hasn't said anything beyond the dazed statement that she has to continue has him aching with conflict: does he try to stop her again? She's clearly not in her right state of mind. Or does he respect the wishes she made so clear that morning, and disregard the changes between the quiet determination from then to the erratic behavior now?

There are no good, or right, answers.

The holoform materializes in front of Rogue. It's less roadblock than detour — there is enough space for her to step around it to the door. "Please let me help you."

Some part of her registers that sound he makes, one that she instinctively recognizes as being upset, and it gets to her more than anything else has. So when his holoform appears, she stops and thinks, everything in her head a mixed-up emotional jumble of static and pain, but after a few seconds she just nods her approval and then steps around him.

The walk to Cerebro's doors is a blur, each turn taken without thought until she's back in front of that circular door. The panel to the side is still open and exposed, and seeing the source of her anxiety just sends it rocketing up again. She drops the bag of tools and moves forward the last few steps with the crowbar in her hands, resorting to the brute force method of entry. But try as she might to slip the end into the cracks of the X-shaped opening, she just scrapes the metal surface.

The deeper they venture into the subbasement of the mansion, the more the holoform is more apparently just a construction. Ignoring the pounding ache in his processor that it causes, Knock Out sacrifices as many of the topographical management buffers as he can manage: the 'material' of the clothes becomes fixed, and the cool overhead lighting no longer reflects in real time, making the holoform's angles and edges look like they're permanently painted on. But the aesthetic hallmarks aren't what he's after in the moment, when he cares more about solidity for the avatar in case Rogue needs him.

When she attacks the large circular door with the crowbar, he doesn't really have much to offer. But that whatever is behind it means so much for her to act like this, only further spurs his desire to help.

Whatever the metal door is made of, it's clearly resisting her attempts. He uses the holoform to look up speculatively, silently measuring the dimensions of the subbasement hallways. It would be a tight fit — he wouldn't be able to stand up straight — but...

The scraping of the crowbar against the door brings him back to attention. "Rogue... let me come up to this level. I could be a lot more effective than that toolkit."

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