Colour tattoo of the BB-8 droid in orange and white with a Resistance emblem behind it, on the inner forearm, shown beside a close-up detail.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

BB-8 droid with Resistance emblem on a forearm

Neo-trad · Forearm · Colour · Photo

The tattoo shows the BB-8 droid from Star Wars, drawn with bold black outlines, with its orange and white dome and a small head panel. A faded orange Resistance emblem sits behind it, with soft orange wash shading around the edges. The left photo shows the full design on a forearm, and the right photo is a close-up of the droid's body and panels.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The wagons had been sinking into the mud of Harrowgate Common since the spring the lions were sold, and by October Mr Tobias Ferrow could count his performers on one hand with the thumb left over. Only the little machine still worked properly. It was round as a winter apple, white where the paint had held and orange in three bands, with a head no bigger than a teacup that turned to face whoever spoke. The company called it Pim, though nobody remembered who had named it.

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Each evening before the lamps went up, Pim rolled the length of the empty ring, stopping at every pole to chirp, and the village children pressed their faces to the fence to watch it. Ferrow repainted the old banner every Sunday, a faded orange bird with its wings raised, the sign his father swore meant something worth following. The rain took it off again by Wednesday.

On the last night the rain stopped and fog crept up off the common. The lamps guttered. Ferrow sat on an upturned crate with the account book open, and when he looked up the whirr behind him had gone quiet. Pim had left its mark. Wet tracks led out through the flap of the big tent to the field's edge, where the droid sat with its head tilted toward the village. One window there had lit up, the first in a month, as if someone had been waiting for a signal.

Ferrow lifted the banner from the pole and folded it over the droid's dome like a shawl. The orange bird glowed through the damp cloth. Pim chirped twice and rolled towards the village road, and Ferrow, with nothing left to sell, walked after it into the fog. Behind them the tent stood empty, its canvas still bearing the faint orange of a sign that had outlasted the lions, the wagons and the man who painted it.

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