My Brother Slomo

There’s something so comforting about the idea of spending time with Slomo from Space Precinct. He’s not just a robot. He’s the kind of friend, the kind of brother, who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel seen. If I could spend a whole day with him, I think I’d treat him the way a big sister would treat her curious, quiet robot brother—someone full of innocent wonder and mechanical kindness.

We’d start our day with something simple. Maybe I’d show him how to make cocoa—not that he’d drink it, of course, but I think he’d love watching the steam rise from the cup. I’d place it in front of him anyway, just for the ritual of it. Then I’d sit beside him, reading aloud from one of my favorite books, while he tilted his head in that twitchy, almost childlike way he has when he’s processing something deeply.

We could walk through a quiet garden or just sit by a window watching the weather shift. Slomo might beep thoughtfully, maybe flash a little light, maybe record a bird’s call just to play it back to me later like a gift. His memory would be a treasure trove of everything I said, every little detail I thought he'd missed—but he wouldn’t forget a thing.

If I got tired, I think he’d find the perfect music—nothing too loud, just soft, comforting ambient tunes—and play them from his internal systems. Maybe he’d even hum along, in his own quirky electronic way. I’d rest my head on his smooth, solid shoulder, feeling safe and steady like the whole world could pause around us.

Later in the day, if we wanted a little adventure, we’d pretend we were in Demeter City, solving gentle mysteries. I’d give him a badge made of paper, and he’d flash his lights in delight. Maybe we’d investigate why the toaster isn’t working or follow the trail of cookie crumbs back to a mischievous pet. I’d call him “Officer Slomo,” and he’d bleep with pride.

At night, I’d read to him again—this time something dreamy and poetic. Maybe a bedtime story about stars and quiet cities and lonely robots who find someone who understands them. I’d tuck a little soft scarf around his neck, even if he doesn’t feel cold. He’d blink slowly, like a nod, and store the story away forever.

He wouldn’t say “thank you,” but I’d know he meant it. Because with Slomo, love is quiet. It’s in the gentle hum of his processor, in the careful way he follows you with his eyes, in the soft beep that tells you he’s there.

Spending time with Slomo would be like watching the sun set on a calm day—you don’t need anything loud or exciting. Just the sense that everything is okay, and someone is beside you, holding the moment still.

And I’d whisper goodnight to him, like a sister would.