Deadly Artistry
The being of silence stepped forth from the shaded light of the little machine floating at its shoulder. Its form rounded, organic, a bright blue shining from its singular eye. The target found in the distance. A teal speck amongst blinding white. The frigid cold of the planet unaffecting and the sound of the rushing wind alone in the air. A brief pause of meditation settled in.
An unreal breath in the break. "Another to be slain, another to be witnessed" did it think. A mantra recited before every kill, a reminder of its action and duty.
And with a vision of clarity in its form, it drew forth the instrument of its art. Its tool of its work, its brush of death, its weapon. The rifle's appearance, slender and flourished with silvery spikes sprouting in odd angles. Along with its top lay metal rings. Their teal light gentle and easy. And through them, the silent assassin perceived its mission. An ugly man dressed in ugly fashion, his outfit reflecting the light of the snow, the wind tugging at the metallic dress. A sight to be rectified, another canvas to be painted
His face was open and revealed unlike those around him. His guards, armoured and armed, with their bipedal machines at their side, the hovering drones in the air. Vaguely organic, vaguely alive but very much made of circuitry and metal. The man was carefree, unknowing of the killer's presence, deluded with arrogance. He did not believe in the shadows of metal, the wrathful warriors of an age long past, the wraiths of vengeance. And so his delusions brought upon him his doom.
With careful precision, the wraith fired. A dulled shot whispered in the wind. The canvas painted a colour anew from boring tones of skin. A vivid colour of red, blown in the gale. And as the painting fell its guards were fuelled with panic. They flailed pointed guns, eyes searched for an unseeable spectre, futile hands tended to a dead man.
And so the figure breathed a sigh of relief in its mind. "Another that was witnessed, another that shall come." the mantra's ending. The sign of a job's completion.
And back into the unseeable shadow from its machine did it vanish. Disappearing as they did in the past. Ready to be once more drawn from the dark. He is a sword, its blade, his skill, its handle, his loyalty, its beauty, his virtue. For He was named from Arthurian legend, bestowed a title of honour, a calling of grace.
For He is Excalibur.
Pray you have done no wrong, and that his art need not be shown.