the average to good painters from the truly great artists.
He rests his cheek on the rifle butt and looks through the scope. The drones haven’t moved. He imagines what will happen when he takes the shot. At enough of a range, with the right speed of bullet, you could see the round sailing through the air before making contact. Graceful and silent. A brush stroke.
He takes the shot effortlessly, almost without thinking, spontaneously, and as the round whizzes through the air he takes a set of binoculars and surveys the rest of the swarm. There is only a minor reaction as the targets legs suddenly give way under him and he drops to the ground like a sack of bricks. Then just lies there, bleeding into the gutter of the street where children used to play.