Slomo: The Untold Story - Slomo Looks After Zil

A cosmic storm raged across the night skies of Altor, lighting up the city with bursts of electric violet and deep red. Inside the 88th Precinct, where even the flickering corridor lights dared not sleep, all was unusually calm—apart from the thunder rolling like giant footsteps across the heavens. Tucked away in his small quarters was Slomo, the precinct’s kind-hearted, slightly clunky service droid. He was curled up in his recharge bed, low on power but dreaming in low-frequency whirrs.

BANG!

The loud thump against the window jolted Slomo from his dormant mode. His optics blinked to life with a soft breeeep, and he rose slowly, curious but cautious. Another TAP TAP TAP followed. He glided over to the window, lifting the shutter panel with a hiss. Pressed against the glass was something small, scruffy, and shivering. It was Zil—Lieutenant Brogan’s eccentric little pet, looking soaked to the bone and desperate to be let in.

“Oh, dear me,” Slomo said, voice fuzzy with static concern. He swiftly opened the side hatch and Zil flew in with a splatter of water, wings drooping and feathers in disarray. “Poor thing! What are you doing out in a storm?”

He hurried to the storage area and rummaged through his pile of useful junk until he found a cardboard box, a soft striped blanket, and a single old slipper. With gentle hands, he lined the box and placed it near the warmer vent. Zil shivered, then curled up immediately in the box, beak resting on the slipper like it was her best friend. Slomo smiled and sat beside her until her breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep.

Morning arrived too fast.

A piercing scream from the main office shattered the silence. “WHAT IN ALTOR’S NAME—?!” cried Officer Took.

Slomo rushed out, blinking as he took in the sight. Muddy, feathery footprints were everywhere—up the walls, across the floor, on the ceiling. One of the computer monitors had feathers stuck in its grill.

“It’s chaos!” Orrin shouted, chasing a blur of white fluff.

Zil.

Slomo recognised her little squeaks immediately. He clanked after her, finding her hiding under the briefing desk, wings filthy again. “You cheeky fluffball,” he murmured fondly. “Come on, bath time.”

He ushered her to the cleaning quarters, where he filled the tub with warm water and a generous squirt of bubble bath foam. The bubbles frothed with delightful squeaks, and he placed a little rubber space duck in the middle. Zil tilted her head, fascinated, then leapt in with a splash that soaked the floor.

Just as Slomo passed her a towel, Romek and Orrin entered, wide-eyed. “Oh no,” Orrin began.

Too late.

Zil shrieked and flapped, splashing water and foam in every direction. Romek slipped on a sponge and fell straight into the tub, while Orrin tried to pull him out, only to get yanked in too. Chaos erupted in a matter of seconds—limbs and wings tangled in foam. Slomo quickly beeped in panic before calmly grabbing a towel.

“Zil, calm protocols initiated!”

He held out his arms and Zil flew to him, soaking wet but clearly pleased. He wrapped her in the towel and began drying her with a gentle whoooosh of the hairdryer. Her feathers puffed out hilariously, like a giant fluffy dandelion, and Slomo giggled. But just as he turned to fetch a brush, Zil zoomed across the room like a scraggly comet, leaving a trail of fluff behind.

Later, in the mess hall, Slomo poured Galaxy Flakes into a bowl and added milk. Zil tilted her head, watching intently. “Here,” Slomo said, setting the bowl down. “We eat like this.”

Zil pecked at the flakes once, then slipped, flopped into the bowl, and ended up sitting in a puddle of cereal and milk.

“Oops.”

Before Slomo could clean it, Orrin marched in with a stereo box and thumped a button. Dubstep pounded out in heavy beats, shaking the tables. “Mood lifter!” he announced.

Officers nearby started nodding to the rhythm. Even Zil pecked her cereal in perfect time with the beat, flapping her wings like a backup dancer. Slomo wasn’t sure whether to join in or reboot.

Eventually, the mess had to be cleaned. As Slomo mopped cereal from the ceiling tiles, a blur moved past him—Podley, furious and with Zil in a small transport cage.

“To the airlock with this feathered menace!” he growled.

“Wait, Commander Podley!” Slomo pleaded, blocking the path. “She’s only a little creature. She didn’t mean any harm.”

Podley paused, then sighed. “Alright. But you take full responsibility, Slomo.”

Slomo nodded quickly, relief buzzing through his circuits.

That evening, back in his quarters, Slomo opened The Altor Book Of Fairytales and began reading aloud. Zil snuggled in her box, calm—until a page turned to a creature with massive wings and glowing eyes. Zil squeaked in terror, trembling.

“Oh, dear,” Slomo whispered. “That looks just like you, doesn’t it?” He put the book down, gathered her in his arms, and gave her a slow, comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry. That creature isn’t real. But you are. And you’re safe.”

Tears sparkled in Zil’s eyes, but she closed them in his embrace.

Just then, the main doors hissed open.

Lt. Brogan and Jack Haldane walked in from patrol, tired but smiling. “Zil!” Brogan exclaimed, rushing forward. Zil zipped across the room and landed straight on his shoulder.

“I was wondering where she went,” Brogan laughed. “Thanks for looking after her, Slomo. You’ve done a fantastic job.”

Slomo blinked shyly. “She… she entered my life at just the right time.”

“Well, come on, girl,” Brogan said, giving Zil a scritch. “Let’s go home. My kids’ll want to see you. I’ll call it a day early.”

As Brogan stepped out with Zil, everyone gathered near the entrance—Romek, Orrin, Took, Podley, Haldane, and most of all, Slomo, whose optics shimmered with happy tears.

Zil turned around, fluffed up, and waved her wing. “Squeee!”

Slomo waved back, a little choked up. “Goodbye, Zil… thank you for the footprints, the cereal splashes, and the hugs.”

The doors slid shut.

The storm was long gone.

And Slomo’s heart felt full.

Stretching Out

One night, I was all snuggled beside Mummy in her big soft bed, and everything felt warm. The blankets were like hugs, and Mummy—my beautiful Mummy Lady Penelope—smelled like flowers and sleepy tea. I could hear her breathing gently, her arm curved just enough to hold me close. I was so happy she was with me, not going anywhere, just here, stretched out beside me.

But then, Mummy let out a big grown-up sigh and stretched. Her arms reached far, her legs too, and she groaned like how I do when I pretend to be a lion. I rolled all the way over to the edge of the bed like a little log. My head popped up from under the covers, and I blinked. Sherbet, our silly pink-nosed pug, had been shoved to the side. He was half-under a pillow, with his soft round bottom sticking right up in the air.

I blinked again. That would not do.

So I crawled across the blankets—carefully, very carefully—and gave Sherbet a little nudge. “Down,” I whispered like Mummy sometimes says to me. I gently pushed his bum down till he was lying like a proper sleepy pug, his squishy face smooshed into the bed. Then I slid myself back under the blankets like a sneaky worm, tucking myself in with a big sigh. All fixed.

But Mummy started to hum.

It was soft at first, like the lullabies she sings sometimes, but then her voice got dreamier, and I could tell she wasn’t awake. She was singing in her sleep.

I scooted closer and then slipped all the way under the covers, my head poking near her tummy. It was warm and dark under there, like a little tent. I could feel her body move with her breathing, and then… she started dreaming.

In her dream, she was on a big, shiny stage. I could see it, like magic. Lights flashing, a huge crowd cheering. Mummy had sparkly clothes on, and she was singing loud, dancing like she was floating. “Oooooh, baby, ooooooh!” she sang, tossing her hair.

And then, just when everyone screamed with happiness, she flew off the stage, arms open wide—and crashed into the crowd!

But the crowd wasn’t there.

Mummy hit the floor with a thud.

I poked my head out from under the blanket. She was lying on the bedroom carpet, her hair a little messy and her nightdress all twisted. She opened one eye and groaned.

I giggled.

She smiled and raised one eyebrow. “Oh ho…” she whispered. “Where are you?”

She started crawling toward the bed on her hands and knees. “Sherbet,” she called softly, “go find our little nighttime explorer.”

Sherbet perked up and snuffled his way under the blankets.

I knew he found me because I could feel his soft bum pressing right into my face.

“BOO!” I yelled, and Sherbet turned around so fast he flopped right onto my lap. I grabbed him and gave him a big cuddle, both of us squashed together like two peas under a duvet.

Then the covers lifted, and Mummy peeked in. Her eyes twinkled. “Peek-a…” she whispered.

“BOO!” I squealed.

She scooped me up in one big cuddle and kissed my cheek. I curled into her arms, all small and safe.

Sherbet made a little whuff, and Mummy looked down at him with a grin. “Oh, we can’t forget you, darling.”

She wrapped one arm around Sherbet too, pulling him into the cuddle. Now we were all three tangled up, warm and safe in our nighttime snuggle.

Suddenly, there was a grumble from the bed next to ours.

“Is there a reason for all this commotion?” came Parker’s sleepy voice.

Mummy blinked and tried not to laugh. “She just doesn’t want to go to bed, Parker,” she said with a soft smile. “She still wants to play.”

And I did.

Maurice Howard & Me - Chapter 1

There I was, plucking out a peaceful little ditty on my guitar, lying belly-up on my bed in the box room of Number 12, Gravy Stain Lane, Sorry, England. The strings hummed gently beneath my fingers like bees politely requesting tea. It was the only time of day I felt remotely human – well, I say human, but I’ve never technically been one.

I suppose I should start from the top. My name’s Maurice Howard, and I have a magical scar that changes shape every few hours. Sometimes it’s a lightning bolt, sometimes it’s a bowl of pasta. One time, during a dentist appointment, it turned into the entire cast of Cats. Not ideal.

I wasn’t born here on Earth, you see. I was blasted here in a magical space rocket when I was just a baby, because the Grim Reaper – yes, the Grim Reaper, who also goes by "Death" on Tuesdays – attacked my home village back on the planet Wizadora. He and his crew of skeletal scoundrels came sweeping through like a black metal band on tour, and my parents, being the emotionally responsible type, stuffed me into a rocket and said, “Go be weird somewhere else.”

I crash-landed in Sorry – and no, that’s not a typo, that’s the name of the village. Sorry, England. Populated mostly by elderly joggers and people who start every sentence with “I’m not racist, but—”

I was taken in by a family called the Durbies. A non-magical household, which on Wizadora are known as Borings. Aptly named, I might add.

Mrs Tuna Durby is the one with a heart, if slightly overcooked. She’s a round woman with eyes like milky marbles and a soft spot for unusual children. She always told me, “Maurice, your technotronic magic is a gift, not an infection.” Technotronic magic, by the way, is magic that involves gadgets, sparks, and the occasional mild explosion. Very trendy on Wizadora.

Mr Vermin Durby, her husband, is... less nurturing. He treats me like a recurring rash in sock form. "The boy’s been at the toaster again," he’d grumble. "Last week he made it play jazz." For the record, it was funk fusion, and the bread was perfectly crispy.

Then there’s their son, Dinky. Dinky is a lad of very few words, unless you count “FOOD!” shouted with varying levels of urgency. He eats like he’s on fire and bacon is the extinguisher. I have developed a deep emotional trauma associated with the smell of frying pork.

Because of my "abnormality," I’ve never been sent to school. This meant I was free to roam the house during weekdays like some kind of mysterious, enchanted rodent. Mrs Tuna would often ask, “What’ve you been up to, dear?” while Mr Vermin yelled from another room, “He’s wrecking the kettle again!” (For the record, the kettle wanted to be a fog machine.)

Anyway, back to tonight. I was playing my guitar – a rather wonky instrument I salvaged from a charity shop and bewitched to tune itself depending on my mood – when I noticed something odd in the sky. A bright light, getting closer.

“Probably another falling satellite,” I muttered. “Or Mr Vermin’s sense of humour returning from the dead.”

The light got really close. Then I realised, oh... no... that’s not a light. That’s a meteor.

It hit me square in the stomach like a flaming cosmic football and bounced onto the floor. I collapsed to my knees, wheezing. The meteor cracked open like a Cadbury's Creme Egg from hell, lava seeping out... and inside it was... a baby bird.

All skin. All bone. All ugly.

I reached out. It screeched like a kettle having an existential crisis and exploded into feathers. Moments later, standing before me was a majestic, silvery-grey owl with deeply unsettling realistic human eyes. The kind you’d expect to find on a tax auditor, not a bird.

“About bloomin’ time,” said the owl, in a thick Boro accent. “I’ve been orbitin’ three days just tryin’ to find you. Useless, the lot of yer.”

“Are... you my real dad?” I asked, unsure what else to say.

“Don’t be daft. I’m your postal bird.”

He coughed up an envelope, shoved it into my chest, then promptly shot back out the window in a swirl of wings and sarcasm, muttering something about “bloody kids” and “no gratitude.”

The envelope was slightly singed and made of some kind of crinkly star parchment. I opened it. It read:

Dear Master Maurice Howard,
Congratulations! You have been selected to attend Hogwash School of Machines & Magic on the planet Wizadora. Please arrive promptly via portal owl. Enclosed is your permission slip for day trips to the enchanted village of Hogsfeet, known for its sugary exports and lax safety regulations.

Sincerely,
Vice Principal Shnarkleblimp

Well. I’ll admit it. My mind went straight to sweets. Caramel wands. Fizzy spiders. Possibly a licorice moose. I could barely contain my excitement.

It made perfect sense, really. Mrs Tuna did work as an astronomer, though she called it "documenting possibly real space gossip.” She had books with titles like Wizadora and Other Things I Probably Imagined, and Alien Love Affairs: The Constellation Years.

I flopped back onto my bed and resumed my guitar strumming, now with a little extra zing in the chords.

Then came that voice from the wall next door.

“BOY! STOP THAT RACKET!”

Mr Vermin. Right on cue.

I heard Mrs Tuna whispering, “Oh let him play, love. He’s really quite good.”

“I DON’T CARE IF HE’S JIMMY FLAMIN’ PAGE! Aunt Marjorine’s coming tomorrow and I want this house PERFECT!”

I froze.

Aunt Marjorine.

The horror.

Mr Plod Vs Angelina Ballerina

Let’s talk about Toyland justice. Specifically, let’s imagine a very surreal but oddly satisfying scenario: Mr. Plod, ever the stickler for order in Noddy’s Toyland Adventures, finally snaps and arrests… Angelina Ballerina.

Yes, that Angelina Ballerina—the little mouse with big dreams of becoming a ballerina star, but also a tendency to turn into a shrieking diva the moment things don’t go her way. While Angelina is meant to be ambitious and determined, let’s not ignore the other side of her: she’s often bossy, endlessly whiny, and throws theatrical fits if even the tiniest detail isn’t to her liking. If someone so much as looks at her the wrong way in rehearsal, it’s curtains down, tantrum up.

Now imagine this playing out in Toyland. Poor Mr. Plod, who’s had his paws full with harmless mischief from Noddy and Bumpy Dog for decades, sees Angelina march in, bossing the other toys around, dictating how everything should go, and then collapsing into melodrama when she’s asked to share the stage or—heaven forbid—wait her turn. At some point, Mr. Plod would probably lift his little blue helmet, sigh deeply, and say, “That’s quite enough of that, young mouse. You’re disturbing the peace.” Click! The handcuffs come out, and off she goes to the Toyland station.

Now before you call me harsh—this is all tongue-in-cheek. But there’s something worth unpacking here. Angelina Ballerina, while supposedly a role model, doesn’t always show the kindest traits to young viewers. She can be inspiring, yes, but she’s also a bit of a steamroller over her friends. Her “my way or the highway” attitude doesn’t exactly scream teamwork or patience.

Now contrast that with Kipper. Kipper the dog, from the gentle, quietly magical world of his own show, is a breath of fresh air. He’s kind, calm, and curious. He never rushes or demands attention. He helps his friends—Tiger, Pig, Arnold—with understanding and creativity. Kipper doesn’t throw tantrums. He doesn’t hog the spotlight. He just is. Kipper is the embodiment of the kind of energy we could all use more of: gentle, flexible, and joyful in life’s small surprises. No bossing, no whining, no drama—just soft-spoken charm and a warm sense of wonder.

In a perfect Toyland, Kipper would visit and bring a little of that quiet magic with him. Mr. Plod wouldn’t need to keep a watchful eye on him. In fact, I imagine Mr. Plod would sit down for a peaceful cup of tea with Kipper, while Angelina Ballerina cools off in a toy-sized holding cell, rethinking her leadership style.

If there’s a lesson here, it’s this: being loud and assertive isn’t always the same as being a good role model. Sometimes the quietest characters have the biggest impact.

And Mr. Plod? He’s just trying to keep Toyland from turning into a diva-filled dance-off. More power to him.

---

What do you think—are you Team Kipper too?

Terrahawks 'The Sporilla' Teaser

Sgt. Major Zero: Well, well, well. Look who's sittin' pretty on the porch of power. That's right—me. Sergeant Major Zero. Not Zelda, not Ninestein, not even Mary Falconer with her perfectly combed hair. And definitely not those other tin-headed excuses for Zeroids. I matter more than all of them because I care. Who looks after Biscuits, eh? Who makes sure he doesn't roll off into a star drive or drink Mary’s milk again? Me. That’s who. Poor little fella’s got autism, and I’ll be jiggered if anyone else understands him like I do. And since I’m the only one with sense around here, I’ve taken bold action. That’s right—I tied up Dr. Ninestein so I can decide which episodes of Terrahawks come next. No more lectures, no more science talk. Just pure, proper programming... chosen by me!

Dr. Ninestein: mmph! mmmphh!

Kate Kestrel: Good riddance, you stupid "fearless leader"!

Mary Falconer: Honestly, it’s kind of peaceful without him shouting.

Lt. Hiro: Should we... untie him?

Kate Kestrel: Nah. Let Zero have his moment.

[Terrahawks logo appears]

Voiceover: Tonight at 6PM. Only on the Gerry Anderson YouTube channel. Be there... or Biscuits will drink your milk.