Two tattoos of the robots WALL-E holding a small plant and EVE, one in colour and one in pale grey, on a person's arms.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

WALL-E and EVE tattoos on arms

Forearm · Mixed · Photo

The left tattoo shows WALL-E, a boxy tracked robot with binocular eyes, holding a green sprout in a worn boot. The right tattoo shows EVE, a smooth white egg-shaped robot with a black visor face, drawn with soft grey shading and thin outlines. WALL-E is rendered in yellows, browns and greys, while EVE is mostly pale grey and white, set against bare skin and a grey sleeve.

Forearm Robot Plant Character

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You find the sprout on the eleventh night of the heatwave, wedged in a crack of the multistorey car park on Carrow Street, growing out of a work boot someone had tossed over the railing. Nobody has watered it. The concrete still gives back the day's heat at midnight, and the bus shelters smell of diesel and vinegar chips, but the green is stubborn, two leaves held up like a question. You crouch beside it with your torch switched off, because the torch draws the drunks, and you listen for the rumble of tracks on the ramp.

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It comes down slowly, rust-brown and dented, its binocular eyes glowing amber over a lunchbox full of compost it has been carrying since the market shut. It has spent years gathering what the city throws away: bottle tops, a cassette with no case, a child's glove. When it sees you it stops dead, and you tell it about the white courier who swept through in June, scanning every gutter, and was carried off on a lorry with someone else's name painted on the door. The machine tilts its head as if it has heard that story before, in a different accent.

You lift the boot. It takes the sprout in one gloved palm, the way you might hold a moth, and tips a handful of compost into the heel. Its gears grind softly as it looks around for somewhere the plant can see sky.

You climb with it to the roof of the bus depot, where the ring road turns the clouds orange and the wind smells faintly of rain. By dawn the sprout has three leaves. The machine is still sitting beside the planter, one hand resting on the rim, watching the empty street below as if it expects someone to come up the ramp.