Disclaimer: Digital Extremes owns nearly everything.
They know not what they have done. They only know what their actions have done for their selfish, misguided, ill-conceived "cause". Lotus. The bitch lied to them all. Giving orders to a bunch of mindless drones to lead a guerrilla war against warring factions that are on their last limbs. Pathetic and so very cowardly. How those Tenno live and breathe a code of "honor" and "respect" when the enemy is not in a position to protect its own self is beyond illogical and fallacious.
They know not of the hate that consumes me. "Why?" they would ask as my scythe closes around their throat. Hate. Hate for Tenno, Corpus, and Grineer alike. Pawns and ignorance go together intrinsically. The mindless slaughter committed by Tenno, the mindless hate (there is a difference between "hate" and "their hate") of the Grineer, the mindless greed of the Corpus. It is an all-consuming burden being from the Orokin period, with the knowledge of a people far superior compared to a drone, clone, or indoctrinated agent. One day they shall learn and stop this . . . this . . . arrogance! This so-called right to the solar system! It is infuriating and disgraceful to my kind's culture, experience, technology, and wisdom! We built the suits to protect, not to harm! Yet they destroy lives by the thousands (Tenno)! They seek the ability to destroy lives by the thousands (Grineer)! They sell the potency of the suits to idiots who want to destroy lives by the thousands (Corpus)! Only when they can stop and comprehend why this revolting monster—Hate—attacks me, will they understand my despair.
They know not of the despair that plagues me. This feeling of guilt, vengeance, and sorrow that haunts me, pesters me to no end. Do they credit my actions to sinful lust of blood? Do they credit my actions to sinful greed? Do they credit my actions to sinful ignorance? Possibly all? My actions are for justice, nothing more. For if they do not place value on the lives they willingly throw away, who will? Why they kill is idiotic and pointless; it will not assist the cause they attempt to enforce. The woeful burden of justice shall always be left to me and me alone. I do not wish this job of killing ingrates to anyone, even though I despise it with an incomprehensible passion, but it must be done. It is when my scrupulous mind niggles me about the "hypocrisy" of what I do. As if there is any other way to rid them of their erroneous peculiarities. This is why I despair and shall never find solace; for there will never come an end to bodies who believe they are better than everyone else. The dread I command will hopefully proffer bits of insight to their blind reason.
They know of the dread that follows me. Whether the subject in question knows of my exploits or not. The lights flicker. Once, twice. The taunts follow after. Always after and never before. Announcing your presence may alert the enemy, but who said I didn't want them to know? Three taunts. Never more or less than three, lest I become the thing I'm here to kill. Always I am watching, and therefore, have a list of every crime all of them commit. Present the crime to them: "how does he know?" they ask. Fear wriggles in, and if not fear, then apprehension. What comes next? Where is he? Who is he? All these thoughts run through their head and stop at the same conclusion. Stalker. I almost relish in how absurd the term is. A stalker doesn't kill pathetic excuses for life. A Spirit of Vengeance is too high-and-mighty and doesn't encompass every reason. I place no importance on a name or moniker for myself. Smoke and particles of matter—my body—are transported across a distance. I appear in plain sight, unarmed and posed in their own sitting position (mocking the enemy of their pompous ways is good to help belittle them). Slash! Their defenses and orientation are gone. Slash! They drop to their knees, knowing not of what just passed. I walk toward them, slaying interlopers along the way. Crouching, I pause to look at the massive amount of congealed blood pooling around them. "Do you know why?" A simple question for a dying sinner.
". . ."
"Very well, then." Metal meets metal. Metal cuts through metal. Metal cuts through flesh. Metal cuts through bone. Metal finishes the cut. Beheaded, the body collapses to the ground. No rites for the wicked are necessary. Duty performed, I leave. Forgive them, for they know not what they do.
"Yeah, right."
A/N: so tell me how this worked out! Do not worry, I'm not a Stalker sympathizer (the bastard would not give me his Dread forever!), I am merely interested in his perspective.