Overcomplicated
(a tale out of Breaking Benjamin)
Copyright Brent Meske 2013
(originally published by Authorhouse 2007)
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Dedication
I wrote this story for all the people that felt good about what they were doing, but couldn’t end up coming in first. We’re the majority.
Overcomplicated
Some Time After the Academy
Scope felt along the ridge of hair behind his ear, closing his eyes while he did so. There, just behind and below his right ear, was a small rectangle of metal. He traced over it while he brought another object in. It resembled the old computer ports for attaching extra hardware. Scope didn’t know his technological history well enough to call them USB ports. His concern for this vanished when he plugged a small device into the slot, into his own skull, and pressed a button. Hormones, steroids, adrenaline and a mixture of all manners of chemicals rushed into his brain. The right side of his neck turned to ice, and a chill shot straight down the middle of his back. His back arched itself in response, a deep and powerful spasm that shook him once, then twice. He took in a deep breath and withdrew the spent cartridge from his head.
Every dark demon from his past, all the shadows and haunts, ghosts and shambling corpses fled from the rush. The muscles in his face twitched, voluntary and not, until his face smiled. His eyes opened, with tiny motors whirring to let in the appropriate amount of light.
In a few hours he’d remember again. Until then, work beckoned.
Near the End of Summer Semester, Second Year
“Scope!” Glen yelled “Wait up!”
Scope groaned. “I can’t believe you’re still calling me that.”
“Whatever. What’d you get?” Glen came rushing up to meet Scope.
“What’d you get?” Scope asked back. The parade field disappeared underfoot, from Mess to The dorm buildings. Kids walked or ran everywhere in the morning mists that always settled near the lake.
“Art! I can’t believe they even have art classes here. They even have music and singing and stuff. God, after that Drafting class I thought they’d want me to go to Beginning Tactics. Yuck.” Glen made a face, and they laughed together.
“I went for Intermediate Rifling,” Scope said. “But Mr. Gray said that would free up another slot, ‘cause that was my firearm this semester. So I took Beginning Tactics. I was thinking about another firearm-”
“You’re such a dork,” Glen said.
“No way! What did you take?”
“Beginning Sub-machineguns. Headmaster Jennings said they’re totally easy, and you hardly have to hit the targets. And yes, you’re a huge dork. Beginning Tactics.” Glen made it sound like a disease.
“Am not,” Scope said. They went through Am not, am too for a while, before forgetting how exactly the conversation took the turn. Then Scope said, “Anyway, Mr. Gray said somebody in the squad had to take it, even if they’re not a leader.”
“Tactics schmactics,” Glen said, and punched Scope in the arm. He ran, and they raced their way back to the dorms to get ready for their martial arts.
They found Monica almost as soon as they rushed in. Scope pulled himself away from staring at her, with her black hair up in a little ponytail, and her thin, no longer delicate frame in her white martial arts garb.
“Hey Scope,” she said.
“Hey,” he said, and looked away. God but his cheeks burned even if he wasn't looking directly at her. He raced away from her, and glanced back only once to see her ponytail bobbing away from him.
“You are so lucky, you know that?” Glen said, and went to his room to get dressed. Scope went to his own room, kicking the green metal box aside, and got ready to get thrown around.
Fall Semester, Second Year
“Before you is a Hallstead Mark IV, ladies and gentlemen, a respectable weapon. Each of you will name your weapon. I don’t think it necessary for you to talk to it, but many consider the rifle their friend and compatriot. For instances where you must work alone, this weapon can be your solace, your only friend.
“You will know your friend inside and out. I will not allow you to fire a shot without first knowing the capabilities, strengths and weaknesses. We will tailor each weapon to its user, and none other. You will come to understand every intricacy of your scope, your weapon, and your ammunition. I’ll make marksmen out of every single one of you.”
Captain Whitby walked up and down the concrete slab that made up the rifle range here, hands behind his back. His black boots made a thunk with every careful, measured step. Scope alternated paying attention to the large metal briefcase lying before him, and the Captain going through his speech.
“You’ve proven your ability using more conventional rifles on this range. Many of our assignments will take us away from the campus and into the forests, the fields.” He waved to the targets only fifty meters off. “I’ll give you one round of pulverizing these targets before we have some real fun, boys and girls. But before you can touch your weapon, you need to know your weapon.”
The rest of them looked about as interested in this as Scope felt. Fourteen of them knelt on the mats, facing away from the targets, ten boys and four girls. He wondered if they all felt the same itching in their hands to open the case, assemble the weapon, and take it for a spin. He’d give anything for that right now.
“Two classes from now, I expect full mastery over the theoretical side of your weapon. Therefore I’m assigning a thousand word paper on the uses of the sniper rifle by next Tuesday.” Half of them groaned, but Scope loved the idea of looking at the diagrams and reading about famous snipers. “Read carefully, ladies and gentlemen. I trust you know how to navigate the Curriculum well enough by now, yes? If you find any information on the Matrix, cite your sources. And I shouldn’t have to tell you about plagiarism, boys and girls. Don’t do it. You have four days; feel free to write one page per day. Write it all tonight if you like.
“I don’t have to tell you, but if any of you don’t write these papers, every day it’s late is another page added on. Plus, you won’t be allowed to touch your weapon.”
But Scope wasn’t really listening. Whitby lost him at ‘by next Tuesday’. His rifle already had a name, and it was Monica.
Fall Semester, Second Year
“Stand your ground, Bartleby! If you let your weapon push you around, you will be dead before you leave this school, do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Sir!” Scope shouted back. He hated his last name. He hated Captain Whitby, and this stupid exercise. Shotguns were nothing like rifles. He held the miniature twenty gauge shotgun and felt clumsy doing it. He didn’t have the strength yet to boss the gun around, and why should he? Shotguns had spread in their shells, rifles didn’t. Shotguns had no real sights, rifles did. You shot a shotgun standing up, and a rifle lying down. Captain Whitby was off his rocker, as his old matron used to say, back at the old orphanage.
‘Sometimes you’ll think to yourselves that you have a hard life,’ she’d said. ‘But it’s not nearly as bad as the homeless, the destitute, the insane. If any of you were even considering running away from here, I’d tell you you were off your rocker.’
Still, he sighted along the barrel and followed the orange clay disk as it was flung into the open air. He squeezed, and squeezed-
-and felt his arm kicked backwards about a foot as the gun went off. His shoulder already hurt, and he could just imagine what it would mean for his ju
do and aikido class. Still, the little orange disk exploded and fell to the ground. Scope smiled.
“Better, Bartleby. But we’re going to have to toughen up your scrawny little arms. I’m going to put in a notice to the rec. facility for you to get some ten pound dumbbells. You are to use these as the instructor there tells you, twice a day for at least twenty minutes each. We’ll have you fit to bird hunt in no time.” Didn’t he know Scope was only twelve? But the Captain walked off, leaving him alone to this ridiculous misery.
He heard Whitby as he strolled away. “No Rogers! You jerk your rifle like that and you’ll spend a week realigning the scope, damnit. Slow and smooth, like this.”
Scope shook his head and tried pulverizing the next clay pigeon.
Fall Semester, Second Year
October was the month, it seemed. One cold, unremarkable day in late October, Gideon appeared. Nearly two years later to the day, Glen disappeared. And just about Halloween of year six, Monica broke down.