Hold My Hand

Thoughts on robots and people and how maybe the little rituals we do to show we care don't have to actually mean anything, brought to you by Sprocket and Alonze.

Worldbuilding notes: Under normal conditions, you wouldn't be able to see the stars from the surface of Deslotair. However, this takes place during drop season, when the skies are cleared of storms. Since Deslotair is a planet that's somewhat behind developmentally and lacks a lot of big cities, it's fairly free of light pollution. Scavengers traveling the deserts have an especially nice view. The planet is also in a fairly... cluttered(?) solar system, so there's a lot of comets passing by and bits of space debris burning up in the atmosphere. Most of this is natural rock and mineral, although some is space trash from neighboring planets. But hey, that's a bonus if you're scavenging, right??

Taglist: @glacierruler

I think it's funny when robots in fiction are just,,, super old and they outlive multiple generations of humans and are kinda treated as functionally immortal but irl tech is like "Your car is 20 years old???" or "I get a new smart phone every two years!"

Lemme see old ass bots who are mocked for being all ancient and outmoded and then when someone asks "How old are you??" it turns out they're like five.

Just a girl and her weird ass dog

I looove drawing my characters in my outfits, and I think this is absolutely smth Desmona would wear. Big, flowy pants enjoyer forever and always.

A problem I've been having lately is that while I'm working on a piece of writing, I absolutely love it, and then the moment I'm done it's like a switch is flipped and I can't stand the thing. I feel like it's because you suddenly lose all that potential. While you're working on something, it can be anything, it can be so many things, but the moment it's done all of those alternate routes are gone. In comparison, what you're left with feels disappointing.

"Enough lounging, I need to keep moving." // vikas chander

A note by the photographer:

"In the far north west of Namibia lies possibly one of the remotest and least inhabited places on Earth. Kaokoland is home to the ethnic group known as the Himba, but I came here in search of the Lone Men of Kaokoland. They are not marked on any map and blend seamlessly into the landscape making them, difficult to spot. The Lone men have been wired together using small rocks found in the area by artist, Trevor Nott and each of them has a small tag on them with their number and a small caption. Seen here is Lone man # 5 who says – “ Enough lounging, I need to keep moving”. Rumoured to be in excess of about 40 men of stone, I could discover only 18 of them, during my adventures in Kaokoland. The rest await me and for my next trip into the area."

The terrible indecision of having to name a new document.

Cast your votes now! I personally am a big fan of "one robot teaches another how to be human. their daughter is dying." and "am i a muppet or a man?" This one's just for planning, so it doesn't have to be serious lol. "Exoskeletons and Inner Machinery" might be good for an actual project title.

I think it's funny when robots in fiction are just,,, super old and they outlive multiple generations of humans and are kinda treated as functionally immortal but irl tech is like "Your car is 20 years old???" or "I get a new smart phone every two years!"

Lemme see old ass bots who are mocked for being all ancient and outmoded and then when someone asks "How old are you??" it turns out they're like five.

Saloon

Glass and Sprocket's first meeting, way back when. Added a couple of ports for Sprocket's tubing to flow through, which makes a hell of a lot more sense than them just kind of sticking out at his joints or junctures in the plating. Better for consistency's sake too.

Tags: @glacierruler

glass

The sun of Deslotair burned bright above. Stark white blended into yellow, infecting the sky around it. Rays of light stabbed the sky like burning knives, searing the air, cutting through that which crossed their path. Anything that stood in their way bled shadows, patches of darkness spreading from their touch.

The glass robot did not bleed shadows, ey did not feel the burning heat of the sun. Those deadly knives passed through eir translucent skin, shining off the machinery inside, swallowed by the burbling liquid that flowed through eir body. The tip of a spear was held low at eir side, its point gleaming.

No sun stabbed through the skin of the glass robot, but sharp gazes burned holes in eir back.

Whispers floated in the footsteps of the traveler. Suspicious words accompanied by fleeting glances trailed after the figure like wisps of smoke. The glass robot returned their glances with a blank curiosity, unbothered by the restless murmurs of discomfort. Ey simply observed, and walked.

The wooden doors of an old saloon swung open with whining creaks, announcing the presence of the traveler to those inside. Few heads turned, all new blood (the regulars were accustomed to the creaking of the doors, and to the uninteresting passerby they so often brought). Yet they started another round of whispers, and more heads turned to the glass robot, boisterous conversations morphing into a suspicious hiss at the arrival of the newcomer.

The glass robot turned eir head this way and that, returning the gazes of staring strangers with eir own gleaming eyes. Outside the eerie glow was swallowed up by the sun, but here it cast a white halo around the traveler’s face, surrounded by the gentle green glow of the vitrel  that flowed inside of em.

Ey walked.

The glass thudded against wooden floors, steps going unbroken as the small crowd parted to make room for the traveler. Ey nodded eir appreciation, and approached the bar. The bartender stood up straight. The robot she had been talking to, sitting on one of the hourglass stools with an untouched drink in front of him, remained perfectly still.

“Well,” the bartender started. She set down the empty glass she had been holding, put it upside down on the counter so its rim kissed the wood and left a ring of moisture. “What can I get ya?”

“Nothing to drink, thank you.” The glass robot spoke with eir hands, the fluid inside of them twisting and shifting with each movement.

The bartender eyed em warily. “Uh, sorry, I don’t know what you’re sayin’...”

“Nothing to drink, thank you.” The glass robot repeated the same motions as before, only slower, hands making clear arcs through the air.

“Ey doesn’t want anything,” the robot spoke up, nodding to the bartender before turning to address the glass bot. His eyes glowed a faint blue, piercingly contrasted with the hazy brown light that filtered through dirty glass bulbs above them. Tubes curled around him, jutting out from the fabric of his vest and wrapping around his joints. “What are you here for, then, if not a drink?”

Saloon

Glass and Sprocket's first meeting, way back when. Added a couple of ports for Sprocket's tubing to flow through, which makes a hell of a lot more sense than them just kind of sticking out at his joints or junctures in the plating. Better for consistency's sake too.

Tags: @glacierruler

Scavengers art! I imagine this one would be pretty early after Desmona joins them, before she has the armor and all that. None of them really know what they're doing yet, they're just trying to coexist as best as they can. Glass and her do a lot of the cooking around here, but Sprocket likes to help pick the ingredients. She needs her nutrition, goddamnit!

Tags and text transcript below the cut

Sprocket: It's bone broth, from an aurack. It has calcium in it.

Desmona: Oh cool. That's nice.

Sprocket: Did you know calcium is good for your bones?

Desmona: Uh, yeah.

Sprocket: That's good.

Taglist: @glacierruler