Physical Prowess Does Not Extend to Pens

The greatest military weapon makes life difficult for administration.

Physical Prowess Does Not Extend to Pens

Beth idly tapped at the keyboard, the clacking the only sound in the small alcove. She glanced at the scruffy handwritten report she had been handed, backspaced, and tried again. The man’s writing was illegible. Most of the men’s were, but this in particular was a taxing enigma of not only generic spelling but also punctuation and occasionally the confusion of whether a sentence was travelling down or across the page.

She sighed. It seemed to her that a man in control of his mind and body in the direst situations should be able to handle the fine-motor activity of a pen, but the skill just seemed to evade him. Maybe she could get him a voice recorder. It would save her the headache that was coming on now, about the same time every week when he threw the scrap pages across the desk and expected her to magically transcribe them for their boss.

Six weeks she’d been piecing together reports from barely legible information. Reports filled with code words and times and locations that made no sense. Six weeks scraping by with barely an idea of what anyone in this building actually did. Well she had a job to do and she couldn’t do it when no one gave her any information.

“Wacarimasen when X fled…” she muttered to herself. He couldn’t even stick to one language. She was sure he was more comfortable with Japanese but he insisted on these spurts of English. Whether it was for her benefit or his habit she didn’t know but she’d had enough.

She grabbed a fistful of the dirty papers he called a report and marched through the heavy double doors that lead to the gym.

The room was filled with pairs engaging in some grappling drill. Beth weaved through the groups and approached the drill Sargent, or whatever he was called. He wasn’t on her report list so she’d never bothered to learn his title.

“Johnson, I need Maxwell.”

The man glanced at her. “We’re training, Miss Idle.”

“You’re always training, sir. Or on a mission. I need to speak to him about the reports.”

That got his attention. “What about them?”

“They’re appalling. I can’t make out head or tail of the last mission. The only way I even know what happened to give you a synopsis is from his partner’s report, and they’re barely adequate.”

“Miss Idle, Maxwell is a prized member. We don’t need to be worrying him with all this written work.”

“With all due respect sir, it’s in his contract. I can’t deliver a report if I can’t even decipher its contents. For all I know this could be his grocery list. There’s certainly enough references to Gummi bears.”

Johnson sighed. “Oh very well. If you can find him you can speak to him. But don’t interrupt the others. This is important. We’re down two members in three days.”
“Perhaps you should stop sending them on suicide missions sir.” She blurted out before she could stop herself.
“Oh but then the terrorists would have the advantage.” He grinned ruthlessly.

Beth walked away before she really put her foot in it. She scanned the room until she spotted the distinct braid of the young brunette in the grasp of another darker man determined to strangle him with it.
She ducked a wild punch from a nearby pair and darted through the throng to the corner where the two men had ended up.

“Mr Maxwell, I need to speak with you. Urgently.” She said tartly.

The man had a finger hooked under the rope of hair and was taking shallow breaths while he tried to take out his attacker’s legs.

“Now, Mr Maxwell.” She demanded.
He grinned a humourless grin and with the ease of a gymnast he back-flipped over the man and drove him face-first into the floor. Naturally the man released his grip on the braid, followed by his grip on consciousness.
Maxwell unwrapped his hair from around his throat and patted the man on the shoulder. “Take five.”

He grabbed a towel that was hanging on the windowsill and mopped the light beading of sweat from his tanned face. “What’s up?”

She thrust the report in his face. “Read this.”

He squinted at it and gave a placid grin. “Wa-… ma? Waca-”

“It’s indecipherable!” she exclaimed. “And you expect me to give this to the Captain?”

He cocked his head and took the sheet from her. “These are mine?”

“You gave them to me! No one else has trouble deciding if they’re writing in Japanese or English and decide to go across and down the page simultaneously!”

“Hm.” He acknowledged, giving them a long considerate look. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Re-write them. In plain English. Or Japanese. Just make it plain and simple so I can type the damn thing.”

He let out a short bark of laughter. “Yeah, not happening.”

“How am I supposed to pass on your report if I can’t even read it?”

He shrugged. “Do what you always do. You haven’t complained before, so the reports must be getting there.”

“That’s because I fashion some horrible piece from whatever your partner has recorded, except this time you decided to ditch him so my report is hopelessly inaccurate!”

“So make it up.” He threw the report back at her. She caught it with a nasty crackle of ripping paper.
“This is an official report!” she hissed indignantly.

“Can’t help ya.” He turned back to his partner who had regained consciousness. “Looks like our five minutes are up.”
She grabbed at his arm. “I can’t do this.” She began, and froze when she’d realized what she’d done.
The man was tensed, staring at her hand with wide eyes. His pupils were pin-pricks.
“Don’t. Touch me.” He breathed.
Beth withdrew her hand slowly and clasped it to her chest. “S-sorry.”
The man continued to stare at the place where her hand had fallen, but his eyes weren’t seeing the present. Every muscle in his body was twitching.
“Mr Maxwell?” she asked timidly. He breath came in short sharp bursts. His eyes widened, a sea of cobalt engulfed by a sudden blast of black pupils as the adrenaline raced around his system.

“Don’t f*****g touch me!” he roared and punched his partner straight in the face. The man’s nose broke and his head flung back, spurting blood across the polished wooden floors.
Maxwell stood still, the pulse in his throat throbbing.
“Medic!” screamed one of the nearby fighters.
“Morgue.” A woman behind Beth stated.
Her hands flew to her mouth, horrified. The man on the floor was still, the blood draining from his face onto the floor.
“Someone get him out of here!” a black woman snapped and pointed at Maxwell.

Beth turned away from the horrible scene and followed two petite women as they led Maxwell through the heavy double doors and down the hall to the medical bay.

“He smashed it right up into the brain-“
“-freaking psychopath-“

“-aumatic stress disorder.“

The mutterings from the crowd followed her out into the blissfully quiet reception area.

She sat down at her desk, numb.
After a few minutes, she began to type. She knew exactly what the report said now.

His partner had been left behind.

And everyone who touched Maxwell had died.

She felt the shiver travel from her toes up to her head along the length of her spine, shocking each and every vertebrae along the way.

Everyone except her.

He’d controlled himself long enough to redirect his attack to another trained killer.
That should have been her on that floor, cooling in the afternoon light.
She swallowed and opened a new empty report.
She’d just make it up. And keep it vague. Vague was good. Vague was very good.

Sometimes you were better off not knowing the truth.