maladroit
[mal-uh-droit]
1. lacking in adroitness; unskillful; awkward; bungling; tactless:
to handle a diplomatic crisis in a very maladroit way.
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Recruit Killman’s hands shook as he took aim. The readout of his targeting array blinked chaotically
as it tried in vain to correct for the shaking. His breath came in short, fast bursts as he pulled the
trigger. The shot went wide, missing the stationary training target by several feet. He sighed and
lowered the rifle.
“Recruit! Who told you to lower your weapon?”
The loud, rough voice sent shivers down Killman’s spine. He felt like his spine would jettison itself
when he stood straight.
“Nobody, sir!” Killman shouted.
“Then why did you stop?” The Drill Sergeant asked. The large man stood far too close for comfort.
“I...was catching my breath, sir.”
“Catching your breath? This is target practice, not a marathon. Or are you telling me you’d rather
be running laps?”
“N-no, sir!”
“Oh no? Because if you aren’t shooting, you’re running. Is that clear, recruit?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. Get back to it.”
Killman raised his training weapon and took aim. Or at least, he tried to. Once again, his nerves
took over and his shoot went even farther off target than his previous attempt.
“My god, that was the saddest, weakest attempt at shooting I have ever seen.” The Drill Sergeant
said. “How can you miss a stationary target so badly?”
“I...I…”
“Well, speak up recruit.”
“Well, speak up recruit.”
“I can’t shoot, sir.”
“That’s obvious. Have you hit the target once?”
“No, sir.” Killman said weakly.
“What was that?”
“No, sir!”
The Drill Sergeant tapped on his wrist consoul. He brought up Killman’s training records and read
over them.
“You have got to be the single worst recruit I have ever seen.” He said. “No weapon skills, no
vehicle skills, not even basic physical ability. Son, why the hell did you join the army when you’re so
pathetic?”
“I...I…”
“Stop stuttering. You’re not a machine. Although I wish you were. Maybe there’d be some use to
you then.”
“Yes, sir. My worth is less than an auto turret, sir.”
“Well, at least you have a functioning brain. Now spit it out, why are you here recruit?”
“I...didn’t want to be, sir.” Killman said. His voice became quieter, so the other recruits would have a
hard time hearing. Although, with their sensory boost gear they probably could anyway. He would
probably be the focus of every prank and insult for the next week, if not longer.
“Is that so? Well too damn bad! You’re here, and you’re going to damn well act like it, you hear me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. Now, get back to it, recruit. And I want to see some actual hits before you leave, understood?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
The Drill Sergeant leaned in close, whispering in Killman’s ear. “We’ll continue this conversation in
my office after training tonight. Don’t be late.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for god sake, remember to breath when you pull the trigger. If you can’t figure that out here,
then you don’t stand a chance on the battlefield.”
The Drill Sergeant backed off and headed towards the next recruit, already shouting at the man.
Killman struggled to calm his nerves took a deep breath and slowly pulled the trigger. His shot hit the
target of a different recruit.
*******************************
Okay, yeah, there was no real reason for this to be sci-fi, I admit. But I wanted it to be, so it was. Got
a problem with that?
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