Inktober 2026 24
Inktober 2026 24, Bake
Nobody had eaten properly in days. Ration bars, warm water, the dust in everything. So when the robot ducked back into the silver ship and came out carrying a loaf tin, we just stared.
It set up in the lee of the wreckage, using a slab of torn bulkhead as a counter, and went to work with those blunt pincer hands, surprisingly delicate. Dials ticked on its chest panel. Something warm hummed inside its torso. The dapper man stood by with his hands behind his back, looking quietly pleased with himself, as if this had been the plan all along.
It took less than an hour. The tin came out of the robot’s belly gold-crusted and steaming, and the smell crossed the plain faster than any of us could walk. Someone laughed, a cracked, rusty sound, and then half the survivors were crying.
Real bread. The first thing since the crash that felt like home.
Bake.
