U
Unit 734 was built for war. He was ten feet of enchanted granite, inscribed with runes of destruction. His purpose was simple: Smash. Crush. Destroy.
The war ended fifty years ago. Unit 734 did not get the memo. He wandered the ruins of the battlefield, a lonely sentinel in a wasteland of craters and rusted armor.
One day, amidst the grey dust and grey stones, he saw a spot of color. It was a single, tiny blue flower, pushing its way up through the crack in a fallen shield.
Unit 734 raised his massive fist to smash it. It was foreign. It was not stone. Protocol dictated elimination.
He hesitated. His stone finger hovered inches above the petals. The wind blew, and the flower bobbed, brushing against his rocky skin. It was soft.
Softness was a new data point.
Unit 734 lowered his hand. He sat down with a thud that shook the ground. He watched the flower. He watched it follow the sun across the sky. He watched it close its petals at night.
When a storm came, Unit 734 hunched over the flower, using his massive body as a shield against the hail. When a drought came, he walked ten miles to the river, soaked himself, and dripped water onto the thirsty roots.
Years passed. The single flower became a patch. The patch became a field. The battlefield was no longer grey; it was a sea of blue.
Travelers began to come. They saw the giant stone monster sitting in the middle of the most beautiful garden in the world. They were afraid at first, but they saw how he moved—with a gentleness that belied his size.
"Why?" a child asked him once. "You are a monster."
Unit 734 rumbled, a sound like grinding boulders. He pointed a thick finger at a butterfly landing on a bloom.
"PROTECT," he grated. It was the only word he knew. But the meaning had changed. He no longer protected the king's borders. He protected the fragile things. He protected the beauty that dared to grow in broken places.