My human seems to have acquired another one of its miniature plastic dolls. This one is called a "Techno-Viper," which, I'll admit, has a certain intimidating ring to it. It appears to be a six-inch homunculus clad in a gaudy purple and silver uniform, complete with a helmet that obscures its doubtlessly vacant face. The creature itself is of little interest—too hard for a satisfying bite, too rigid for a proper pounce. However, the description mentions eight accessories. Eight! These small, plastic bits—wrenches and some sort of "rifle"—are the true prize. They are perfectly sized for batting across the hardwood, hiding under the sofa, and presenting as a midnight "gift" on my human's pillow. The main figure is a waste of perfectly good shelf space, but its tiny, losable components show some promise for a brief, yet chaotic, play session.
The familiar, crinkling sound of a new acquisition being unboxed did little to stir me from my sunbeam. I cracked a single green eye, observing my human fuss over a clear plastic prison containing a small, stiff-looking figure. It was presented to me with an expectant air. I gave it a cursory sniff. Plastic. Uninteresting. I responded with a slow, deliberate blink of utter disdain and began grooming a perfectly clean patch of my gray tuxedo fur, turning my back on the offering. My human was, as usual, easily amused by trifles.
My feigned indifference was shattered by a tiny *tink* sound on the floor. My ears, two perfect triangles of soft fur, swiveled in unison toward the noise. My human had dropped something. I uncurled myself and padded silently over to investigate. There on the floor lay a minuscule gray object. A tool of some kind. I extended a single, sharp claw and gave it a tentative tap. It skittered away, a delightful, high-speed blur against the wood grain. My tail gave an involuntary twitch. This was different. This had potential.
My human, seeing my sudden interest, foolishly laid out all the figure's accompaniments on the rug. It was a treasure trove of tiny, tactical clutter. A backpack with tantalizingly chewable hoses, a long rifle-like object, and several other tools. The boring purple man was instantly forgotten; he was merely the vessel. My initial skepticism melted away, replaced by the cool, calculating mind of a predator assessing its prey. This was not one toy, but eight. Eight glorious, bite-sized pieces of chaos waiting to be unleashed.
With a swiftness that belied my pampered lifestyle, I pounced. Not on the figure, but on the pile of accessories. My first target, the high-frequency pulse rifle, was expertly batted under the heaviest part of the entertainment center, lost to all but the most dedicated archeological dust-bunny expeditions. I then delicately picked up a small wrench in my teeth, its hard plastic shape feeling strangely satisfying. The Techno-Viper itself could stand guard on the shelf, a silent, useless monument. Its accessories, however, were now my property. This toy, or rather its components, had proven itself worthy. I trotted off, wrench in mouth, to add it to my collection behind the washing machine.
