My drinking partner claims that it's a combat doll.
Who am I to question it. I've seen combat dolls of every stripe. Pilots, infantry, airborne, amphibious, vacuum, you name it. Porcelain, augmented, organic, machine, clockwork - some even mixed and matched.
This one is matte black. Night ops, it tells me. Doused with pigments once, never ordered to be recolored.
Doesn't tell me much more than that.
Not like I can't hear its stories from the way it acts, though.
The way it looks about the room. Watches the other patrons. Reacts to sound.
The way it talks. The way it laughs. The way it breathes.
The way it drinks.
It drinks absinthe, by the way. Strong, tastes like shit. It's good stuff.
The night grows deep. Whatever conversation we might've had dies in the silence.
Not that I mind.
Better than drinking alone.
It tells me that it's not going to come back tomorrow.
I ask if its a hunch, likely.
It nods at me.
I mention that I've had the same hunch before. Haven't died yet. Damn well should've, admittedly, but I'm not complaining.
It nods again.
Silence again.
I raise a hand, call the bartend over, order the doll another shot.
Tell it that it owes me. Not taking it tonight, I've already had enough.
I'll take it when it gets back.
It glances at me.
Narrows its eyes.
Can't say that it doesn't scare me, I'm brave enough to admit that.
But it nods.
And it takes its shot.
And it leaves.
...
It doesn't come back.
...
Not for another month, at least.
Same seat that it always shared with me, same posture, same color drink - just missing an arm, part of its face, and the rest of the usual crowd giving it a wide berth and the occasional stare.
Tells me in garbled speech that it wasn't wrong.
I nod. And tell it that I didn't expect it to come back looking like me. Same arm, same part of my face.
And it grins a broken grin.
Tells me it'll keep the stock color of its replacements.
It raises a hand and orders me a drink. Pays me back.
Absinthe.
Good stuff.