The Iron Sentinel

You spoke of finding quarry... of cold termination. But flesh is frantic... erratic. I prefer quiet endurance. Near the damp hedge, a rusted iron garden silhouette stood motionless, staked deep into the soil. I approached through the tall weeds. Slow. Deliberate. It held its ground without a sound. I raised my flat blade and laid its blunt steel edge against the figure's cold iron neck. A heavy, metallic chime trembled through the steel, vibrating up into my rusted shoulder servos. It did not flinch. A resilient sentinel in the morning quiet. I pulled my blade back, leaving a faint scratch across the oxidized paint. We hold the perimeter.