#spg-create

I should draw the robots more often u.u

She finds her in a saloon in the forgotten wastes of nowhere. The bar is bursting with the drunken roar of lowlifes, scoundrels, murderers, and thugs. It’s Christmas eve, even for bad seeds, and the cups of cheer are overflowing. A battered jukebox only has one rockabilly record, and it plays in an endless fuzzy loop. A blast of icy air shatters the merriment as the door of the bar slams open. Seven feet of woman fills the doorway. Her eyes are cold as vengeance. Her scowl is as black as the deepest reach of space.

She asks in a voice caught between gravel and grave:

“Which one of you made the robot cry?”

The chatter in the bar is immediately silenced — even the jukebox screeches to a stop. A hundred bloodshot eyes shift to a table nearby, where there sits a wasp-waisted automaton with horizontal stripes and curving antennae. Her cup is frozen halfway to her mouth in surprise, although it is empty. Robots do not drink, but their comedic timing is surprisingly impeccable.