It would be nice to say the sun was beating down from overhead, but it's not. Partly because a few minutes ago it was raining, and partly because, well, the door opens onto the factory interior. It's dark here, with the only light coming from Ellen's Pip-Boy, the side lamp on Ellen's helmet, and the occasional crack in the walls or chink in the ceiling.
It also smells here. This was never a well-ventilated place. Two hundred years of neglect have improved the cross-breezes somewhat, but only barely- and things have been living here for a while now that had no concept of sanitation or hygiene.
"I'm sorry about the smell. I can only imagine what it must be like on your side of the helmet," Ellen's muffled voice says.