ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
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Description
Our captain is very particular about his mechanics. Due to a rather 'special' condition, he is frequently in need of repairs and limb calibration. He's tough on new crew members. Few can withstand his scrutiny for long, and in this time of war it has become very difficult to find qualified engineers. However, the new hire seems to be a good fit so far. The captain has given her a hard time, as expected, but she is confident in her abilities and holding her ground. I think the captain is really quite pleased with her performance, especially after his squeaky arm socket was fixed. He's just bit reluctant to express gratification too openly.
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© 2013 - 2024 Wildweasel339
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I wrote a short story based on your image, a few years ago (www.facebook.com/2826373218500…) :
Calibration (Lane Brown aka wildweasel339)
She sighed in exasperation.
— I can't do it, she muttered to herself.
The screwdriver slipped and she sprained her wrist against his armor. The chiseled edge of the metal cut into her skin. She swore.
Ashamed, she turned away and tried to hold back a cry of rage, but could not. Her brief shout was heavily tainted with frustration. The screwdriver flew through the room, bounced off the wall and smashed into a pot full of screws and bolts which spread noisily to the ground.
He turned towards her as she left the shop, blood on her hand, and dared not call loud enough for her to hear:
— Julie…
When she came back, a few minutes later, calmed and her hand bandaged, she could not help but feel that mixture of conflicting emotions she felt every time she saw him like this, since he had returned from the Hospital Workshops. She felt pity for him, anger too and… disgust he unwittingly caused, and of which she was so terribly ashamed.
She kept a neutral voice when she announced her diagnosis:
— The gyroscopic controls of the parallel decoupler no longer work. There's nothin I can do.
He looked at her. These eyes, half-mocking, half insolent. Ironic eyes, aware of the absurdity of their situation but which, paradoxically, always calmed her. He smiled:
— But as usual, you'll work out a solution.
She suddenly wanted to weep. Why did he always press on like this? Could he not ask to be reformed, like many of his compatriots did? Why keep fighting this stupid war? Why this obsessive perseverance that bordered on madness? Did he not see that he was hurting her? That his casual attitude scared her? That his desire to win, that seemed everyday closer to suicidal, terrified her? That she just could not accept the risk of losing him, too?…
— You can't go on like this, Dad, it's just not possible…
Calibration (Lane Brown aka wildweasel339)
She sighed in exasperation.
— I can't do it, she muttered to herself.
The screwdriver slipped and she sprained her wrist against his armor. The chiseled edge of the metal cut into her skin. She swore.
Ashamed, she turned away and tried to hold back a cry of rage, but could not. Her brief shout was heavily tainted with frustration. The screwdriver flew through the room, bounced off the wall and smashed into a pot full of screws and bolts which spread noisily to the ground.
He turned towards her as she left the shop, blood on her hand, and dared not call loud enough for her to hear:
— Julie…
When she came back, a few minutes later, calmed and her hand bandaged, she could not help but feel that mixture of conflicting emotions she felt every time she saw him like this, since he had returned from the Hospital Workshops. She felt pity for him, anger too and… disgust he unwittingly caused, and of which she was so terribly ashamed.
She kept a neutral voice when she announced her diagnosis:
— The gyroscopic controls of the parallel decoupler no longer work. There's nothin I can do.
He looked at her. These eyes, half-mocking, half insolent. Ironic eyes, aware of the absurdity of their situation but which, paradoxically, always calmed her. He smiled:
— But as usual, you'll work out a solution.
She suddenly wanted to weep. Why did he always press on like this? Could he not ask to be reformed, like many of his compatriots did? Why keep fighting this stupid war? Why this obsessive perseverance that bordered on madness? Did he not see that he was hurting her? That his casual attitude scared her? That his desire to win, that seemed everyday closer to suicidal, terrified her? That she just could not accept the risk of losing him, too?…
— You can't go on like this, Dad, it's just not possible…