The soldier sat on the wooden floor, alone in the dark. His plastic arms were bent in the usual position, rifle clutched tight. He had no eyes, no face, just a hard, unmoving shell that looked almost like a man. He had been waiting for years—maybe longer. His mission had never changed. He was meant to kill.
It had been a stupid thing to think, that a toy could kill. No matter how much he wanted to, no matter how many times he tried, the plastic limbs were weak. His rifle had no power. The sharp edges of his joints couldn't slice. But he had tried. Again and again. Each time, a little more desperate, a little angrier.
He had witnessed so much. People walked past him, unaware. Sometimes, they even knocked him over, and he'd have to sit up again. It was humiliating, but they never saw. They never saw the anger, the hatred that built inside him. He was small, no more than a few inches tall, and there was nothing he could do to change that.
Until Mason came along.
The little boy had always been fascinated by toys. He loved them. Every night, after his parents tucked him into bed, Mason would sit on the floor and play with them. There was always laughter, always the sounds of tiny plastic pieces moving and falling.
That's when the soldier started watching him. Every night, Mason picked him up and stared at him like he was special. The soldier couldn't understand why, but it didn't matter. He was ready.
One night, Mason set him up in the middle of a battlefield. He was surrounded by other plastic soldiers, but Mason always seemed to give the toy soldier a special position. He was front and center. The soldier hated it.
The boy didn't notice the slow change. The toy soldier began to feel different. He didn't need to wait anymore. He didn't have to make a plan. His mind was sharper now. Stronger. Every part of his tiny plastic body pulsed with energy, anger, hunger. He could taste the future now. He could feel Mason getting closer.
Mason knelt down, eyes bright with excitement, his tiny fingers about to pick up the soldier. But something happened. The soldier, driven by a feeling he couldn't explain, suddenly moved. His legs jerked under his control, making him stand. He didn't know how, but he knew what he had to do. The rifle in his hands was flimsy, but it didn't matter anymore. He wasn't going to shoot.
He would stab.
Mason's hand reached out, and the soldier charged.
His plastic foot scraped the floor, making an awful screeching sound as he sprinted toward the boy. Mason laughed, not even seeing it coming. He was too small, too weak, right? But no—no, this time was different. This time, the soldier wasn't weak. He wasn't small. He was a hunter, a soldier.
The toy plunged itself forward, his sharp plastic edge stabbing right into the boy's finger.
Mason screamed, a high-pitched cry. The soldier's hand tightened around the small wound, holding on with everything he had. His plastic fingers dug into the flesh. He felt the blood, warm and sticky, as it coated him.
The soldier wasn't small anymore. He wasn't weak. He was strong now, pulling the boy's finger down, making him fall. Mason tried to pull away, but the soldier clung to him with all his might.
Mason's eyes grew wide. The boy's voice was thin, strangled as he tried to scream again, but the soldier didn't let go. He couldn't stop. The little soldier was in too deep. Blood dripped from Mason's finger, pooling on the floor around the toy. It wasn't enough, though. No, the soldier needed more. He needed to win.
Mason's breath grew shallow, but the soldier kept twisting, digging deeper. The boy's hand jerked, his small body shaking, trying to break free. It didn't matter. The soldier couldn't stop now. He had finally done it. The boy's struggling turned to weakness, the strength draining out of him.
Mason's small body slumped forward. His fingers fell away from the toy soldier, limp, dead.
The soldier stood over him, blood still smeared on his plastic form. He had done it. He had finally killed. He wasn't weak anymore. But Mason's body lay still, blood staining the floor. The boy's eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling, no longer full of life.
The soldier had won, but there was nothing to celebrate. The room felt colder. The silence felt heavier. And the soldier, now covered in blood, stood there, alone once again.
He had no one to show his victory to. Nothing but the dead boy on the floor.
But it didn't matter. He would wait for the next. And the next. Until there was no one left.