rubric

Jonesy had wondered, sometimes, if she was the only one who had noticed him standing in the corner.

She hadn't known he was even a he at first. Or even if he was alive.  But during that brief period of time, where Del was in the surgeoneering bays and the Operatives lurked outside, she thought that she was the first to really notice him. He'd stood in the corner, unmoving. Not even a twitch. The other bargoers flowed past him, too busy with their own issues and enemies. But his eyes glowed like the gut of a volcano, watching everything.

He hadn't responded when she'd tried to talk to him. What the hell, it was a stupid idea in any case. Statues didn't talk. But she'd needed someone, something, to dump her worries on. And he looked like he was listening, in any case. So for a few days, she tried to talk to him. Simple greetings became short, awkward one-sided chats, became her pouring her heart out to the weird statue in the corner of the bar. People thought she was crazy. Nothing new there.

One day, she'd been telling him - it - about the Operatives. How they were faster, stronger, smarter, without morals or conscience. She bitterly joked that she needed a better weapon.

She might have heard a grinding noise in the night. She didn't remember. But when she woke up, there was a weapon on the table next to her cot. The recoil nearly ripped her arms off if she wasn't in the suit, and anything it hit died like living was a bad habit.

The statue didn't appear to have moved, but some of the dust had fallen off.