When the Child unwrapped me, he didn’t even smile. This was the welcome I received to his nation: The Child ripped off the paper. I stared out at him from within my plastic casing. He frowned. He looked up at his father. “Thanks, dad.” He didn’t fake it well.
Then again, I was trained to find secrets. They created me, molded my plastic, to be a ninja. I suppose I might have seen what his father didn’t.
I think his father knew his disappointment, though.
“It’s OK if you don’t like it, son.”
“No, dad. It’s fine. Really. I like it.” And here the Child faked a smile.
I could train him in the art of deception. I could train him how to hide his truth in shadows. That was weeks ago, though. He has refused to tell my story. He’s set me in a bin, in a pile of figures. I’m forgetting what I was created to be, and the Child hasn’t told me my role here.
Each of the others has a story. Each one knows how he fits into the Child’s nation.
Me, though? I’m not even forgotten. I have nothing for the Child to forget.
Not much longer, and the creature of the closet will come for me. I would rather serve the Child, but first his imagination must give me life.
He hasn’t learned the secret.
We’re not here to protect him from the monsters. He’s here to protect us.
You can read more of the Nation of the Child here.