Tucked away on Acoma Street, between Arden Way and Del Paso Boulevard but past enough turns and side-streets as to avoid casual traffic, Nos' garage sits baking in the Sacramento sun. It is a simultaneously ugly and nondescript building, with a pale tin roof and walls that are a little faded and a little rusted, toeing a miraculous line between being unpleasant to look at but no features so truly unappealing as to give a clear answer as to just what inspires such dislike. It isn't even unique, as it sits at the end of a row of nearly identical buildings in the same parking lot. Empty, of course, save for Nos' outlandishly obtrusive purple Dodge Viper with its lime green wheel rims and decals. The "grassy" field next to the lot was little more than a large patch of dust with a couple tenacious, cantankerous weeds growing in it. A wheelchair ramp leads to a brown, heavy fire door on the side, a pale illusion of invitation if there ever was one. What is ostensibly a fence but can truly only be described as a cage wraps around the left side of the building, sealing of the electrical and water systems from the public. The only thing that can be considered decoration is a traffic light that seems to have been hung up front... still working, apparently, and shining a familiar bright green color. Underneath the green light, a sliding hangar door is currently open to reveal the garage interior.
It isn't aesthetically any better than the outside, with one large, open room and a small, sequestered office in the back visible through its one window. The floor is a single slab of concrete, fairly smooth but stained with various brown-to-black fluid. Like the exterior, the walls are sheets of thin, corrugated metal. The ceiling is nothing more than sheets of plastic holding up the insulation, apparently suspended by the wooden support beams. Industrial lights hang by cords. Even brighter floor lamps are placed strategically around the edges of the room to aim inwards, with only about half on at the moment. The rest of the walls are lined by markedly new and modern tool cabinets, all painted in bright, solid colors and possessing wheels instead of legs so as to be easily moved around. To her credit, aside from some stains on the floor, the inside is remarkably clean, a stark contrast to the woman herself. No visible tool is out of place or left lying around, each precisely placed where it belongs on its rack. A single, bright red cabinet has been wheeled closer to the center of the room, where a lot of disparate vehicle parts seems to be scattered on the floor, and the aforementioned, grease-stained Nos is just standing up from. She shuts one of the drawers of the cabinet, having just put away whatever tools she was using, and wipes the back of her filth-covered glove across her forehead, removing the sweat up replacing it with something more obvious. Whatever she was working on appears to be taking some kind of shape... an engine, perhaps? At the very least, it looks more like Nos is building something from scratch than performing repairs.
The Sacramento heat inspires Nos to strip off her overalls and gloves for her break, down to a pair of athletic shorts and a sports bra. She glares at an apparently defunct AC unit set into the right side wall, before looking down at her abdomen and legs. Spotting seemingly impossible grease stains where her skin had been protected by her clothes, Nos exclaims, "What the fuck?!" before stomping over to roll of paper towels and ripping a wad off, angrily scrubbing at the stains and making no progress except to dirty up the towels as well.