He loved to play with his toys more than he did other children.

"Not everyone has to be a social butterfly," his mother would point out to her friends. There would be murmurs of vague agreement from pastel painted guests as they nodded over cups of weak tea.

"Keeps the boy out of mischief," his father would affirm, jowls flapping comically. As those around him agreed, he would take the opportunity to lead into a story from when he was a boy. He climbed up a tree on a dare and broke his arm, but embellished enough and told right it made for an amusing tale.

The other boys would sometimes tease him. "Going to go play with your dollies," they would mock. At first some of the girls defended him, but his blank-eyed stare made them uncomfortable and they left. To his bullies he'd just smile and they soon left him alone as well.

So while the other children hit the ball to each other and divided into teams to play good guys and bad guys, he went up to his room and took his figures and toy soldiers off the shelf. He always played this game, his favorite, by himself.

The other children were stupid, he'd often muse. When you played with others you couldn't predict what they were doing, couldn't control them. Or at least, he couldn't do so yet. He was already a skilled dejarik player, capable of maneuvering the holograms to win against those twice or three times his age. In school his teachers found him a gifted, unassuming boy, an image he worked hard to cultivate. He sat out in sports even though he could always make the ball go where he wanted. Most people looked over him, which was just what he wanted for now. If he did join in the children's games someday he would be the leader, not a simple soldier. For now though he played with his toys.

He took the pieces out one at a time, barley registering their smooth feeling against his skin so often had he played with them. Soon the armies were divided up; all that was left was to put the heroes in place. He smiled at the preparations. Sometimes he found this to be the best part, just watching, knowing that all those on the field were doomed and they just didn't know it yet. Then the boy turned a speculative eye to his heroes, deciding who to place where. The other children were wrong, there were no "good guys" and "bad guys" in a game of war, there were just different sides.

With a wave of his hand the soldiers and heroes, hand painted wood, flew into the air. He maneuvered the pieces, watching them play off each other, watching one die and their friend take their place. Having another kill and believe he was doing the right thing, the noble thing. He set up the heroes to clash, already knowing who would come out of their fight to the death alive. He had heroes on both sides pretend to be the leaders. They weren't of course. He was the leader. He was the true commander of both sides. He knew the winner before the first shot had been fired. He had decided the loser before the first man had fallen.

It was almost over, time to begin the endgame. He moved the major pieces into place…

"Sheev, dinner," his mother's voice came from downstairs.

He ignored her. Only a few moves more.

"I'm not going to call you again."

One of the heroes abruptly turned on his own side, destroying them. And he could almost hear the screams and feel the betrayal.

One by one the floating toys fell to the ground as they "died". Then there were just two left, one hero/villain and him, the leader. And he smiled.

"Sheev Avish Palpatine get down here." So he dropped the last soldier and raced away as it fell.

He never looked back at the broken soldiers or scattered pieces he left in his wake, their sightless eyes forever fixed and staring.

They were just toys.