Inktober 2026 31
Inktober 2026 31, Flex
Captain’s log. We are home. All of us, hero, survivors, SOSi, even the two robots, down the ramp and onto solid ground, and I don’t mind admitting my knees gave way.
The dapper man walked us to the edge of the landing field, tipped a gloved hand, and went back aboard without a word. We stood there breathing real air. That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t, because the robots weren’t finished. The big one from the silver ship and our battered little SOSi, side by side on the grass, and then, for no reason any of us could see, they raised their arms. Joints whirred. Servos whined. The big robot locked its elbow and swelled its pincers. SOSi, limping and scorched, hoisted its single working arm and bent it with enormous dignity.
It was a strength test. A show. A flex.
I know it. I couldn’t tell you from where, but I know it, some old ritual of ours, half remembered, the sort of thing people did once for no reason but pride. The hero started to laugh. The survivors began to cheer.
We’re home. The robots are showing off. Captain signing off…
