Meet the Medic and then hide your wounds.
I could write a book about how busily busy I’ve been lately, which would contain an inhumane amount of grammatical errors, captions, which, when read backwards would destroy the very fabric of existence, and the secret ingredient in my recipe for homemade tiffin (and it’s not yeti blood this time!). But I won’t do that, because nobody would read it, which is why I’m writing this blog post, so nobody can read that, too.
Here’s the medic. He needs a name, so for all intents and purposes, he’s called Glob. Glob likes long bike rides on a Sunday morning so he can feel a cool breeze whoosh through his ventilation fans. He also likes to feed geese and to hack the limbs and flesh off live humans so he can figure out what components they keep inside their shells. So far he’s discovered that his oil tank cannot be filled with human blood, saliva or feces, but when all mixed together with corrosive acid they make a disgustingly powerful cocktail he likes to call Liquid Life. Death is almost imminent upon consumption.
Here are my initial bodily sketches for him, which, if you look carefully, don’t look carefully. He has a very similar body type to the ranger, but I don’t need to tell you that because you’re not even reading this, and if you are, the sensation of feeling slightly less smart and reading this blog post are completely uncorrelated. Maybe. Probably not. There’s a slight chance that… I’m sorry.
Glob did try to synergise some his body parts with human parts, which is how he acquired this brain. Long story short, it turns out brains need something called oxygen to function. Who’d have thought, eh? Not Glob. He died within fourteen minutes of making the connection, to be found seven minutes later by the Fembot who smashed his body onto the face of the nearest robot. Glob was grateful. I won’t detail how robots express that emotion (there’s a corkscrew, a whisk and seven wooden spoons involved).
Glob liked the body the Fembot patched him up with so much that he decided to keep it and get a paint job. He thought green looked good. He thought green looked good.
Heading over to the Outfitters and Glob knows style if it punched him in the face. Because it did. Repeatedly. The Fembot wasn’t there to repair his face this time so Glob has to hide his scars with this mask. Stylish, right? The mask also punched him in the face.
Being £176.98 lighter and 176.98lbs heavier, Glob ventured into the world a free, careless and foolish robot. For there is no freedom out there, only death. Oh, and also his companions: the ranger, the dembot and the fembot, who would fight cog and bolt beside him, until every last enemy lay broken and written-off in the wasteland before them. And for that, Glob was grateful. We’re going to need more wooden spoons.
Lucy Anna Lowe 