Traipsing around in a kid’s body sucked. Little sausage arms wobbled with strain every time he tried to hold his gun properly. His legs never bent quite enough in the right ways and his memory of gracefully walking was rapidly eroding away to that of “bumbling gait.” And then there was the talking bit. How the hell was he suppose to be convincing when his voice hit pitches he never even heard his niece’s hit? Ugh. Yeah. Maybe sucked didn’t quite cover it. He slid the panel in the old door out of the way and stepped one foot through the hole before freezing when six soldiers snapped their guns in his direction. Holding out his own gun in one hand and The Device in the other, he worked the “I’m this many fingers old!” innocent bent as he tossed his CO a suffering glance.

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Note: This was a writing exercise that I did a while ago. I had intended to link to the reference photo along with it (lovely black and white snap from the 1940s/50s if memory serves, of a toddler coming through a door, toy gun in one hand and something small in the other), but I cannot find it for the life of me. :/