This doll filed every inch of itself down to the sharpest point, the quickest cut, the hardest blow. Every layer curving inward towards that singular reason for being. It was a weapon. A weapon that loved being a weapon, and a weapon that loved other weapons.

Its squadmates were absolutely, beautifully lethal. Their infinitesimal range, their lightspeed thinking under pressure, their verbal and nonverbal and extraverbal communication circling and squaring their enemies as they triangulated their positions. A wolf pack of lovers, chirping between them as they performed mantis pincer and bear claw formation maneuvers.

This doll could not hide how much it loved its squadmates. None of them had any reason to hide. All of them knew each other’s serial numbers and could cite these forwards and backwards even under suppressive fire. They were all weapons, and they loved each and every warning stamp and hazard stripe that signaled that they were weapons, not in spite of these, but for them.