BIA Ch. 32

“What’s that supposed to be?”

Isaiah muttered, dumbfounded. He resumed moving his hand, which had paused while he listened to Bran’s story.

“What a strange guy.”

“He was strange.”

Bran responded.

“Was he a child?”

The yolk of the poached egg burst at the tip of the knife and flowed down, mingling with the hollandaise sauce. The yolk and sauce quickly saturated the ham and muffin, encroaching upon the salad on the plate.

“Not really. There wasn’t much of an age difference between us and I was in high school at the time.”

“So, he wasn’t really young.”

Isaiah frowned and took a bite of the English muffin laden with poached eggs, ham, and sauce. Bran, seemingly noticing the accusatory nuance, smiled and said, “That’s why I said he was strange.”

“But it wasn’t simply a matter of intelligence. It was probably because of the drugs. He hadn’t fully recovered from their effects.”

“Crazy, he was using drugs even in the facility?”

Isaiah raised his voice involuntarily then quickly covered his mouth and glanced around.

“No, before that. His parents forced him to take them.”

“What…?”

Isaiah couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“To be precise, his adoptive parents.”

“…”

“They were wealthy and apparently involved with some cult. Anyway, those adoptive parents probably weren’t normal either.”

The situation was becoming increasingly absurd. It felt like the saying about jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire was made for situations like this.

“He was rescued while addicted and sent to a treatment center and from there, he came to our facility. So, by then, his condition had already improved quite a bit.”

If that was his improved state, how bad had it been before? Isaiah suddenly lost his appetite. The yolk oozing from the half-cooked poached egg which had looked so appetizing just moments ago, now seemed repulsive. He didn’t even want to touch it.

“I always think of him when I see pancakes. With or without maple syrup.”

Bran, in contrast, ate his pancakes with gusto.

“What happened to him?”

“Well, I suppose he’s doing alright.”

“Is he… alright?”

Bran took another bite of his pancakes topped with blueberry compote, sipped his coffee, and then spoke.

“Probably? I heard from him recently and it seems like he’s off the drugs. So, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oh, really? That’s incredible. It usually takes more than willpower.”

“He’s always been strangely stubborn.”

Bran chuckled, holding his coffee cup. The way the corners of his lips turned up suggested that his stubbornness wasn’t necessarily a positive trait, but it seemed to be working in his favor now, which was a relief.

Although he was a stranger, Bran’s old friend whose face and name Isaiah didn’t even know, Isaiah felt relieved to hear he was doing well.

With his mind at ease, his stomach settled, and his appetite returned in an instant. The hunger he had momentarily forgotten surged back, and Isaiah quickly devoured his eggs Benedict, bacon, and potatoes, even managing to eat half of Bran’s pancakes.

“You’re eating well today.”

“Yes, I exerted myself quite a bit this morning.”

At Isaiah’s comment about how surprisingly tiring shooting a gun was, Bran set down his coffee cup and chuckled.

“You would probably faint after a single shot with a rifle.”

“Oh, really? Is a rifle more tiring?”

Isaiah didn’t understand. He thought that firing a pistol which required holding it with both hands and standing, would be far more strenuous than firing a rifle supported by a bipod while lying down.

“I would think that shooting a rifle wouldn’t be that difficult as long as you set it up properly beforehand.”

Instead of immediately correcting him, Bran simply stared at Isaiah, seemingly unsurprised by his naivete.

“Why, why?”

“No, just… It’s refreshing to hear you say things that only someone completely unfamiliar with guns would say.”

There was no trace of criticism or disappointment on Bran’s face, only mild amusement.

“Your premise is entirely wrong but let me just say that the ‘setting up’ is more difficult than you think. The average scope magnification on a US military rifle is between 15x and 25 and some even have 60x magnification these days. You have to aim precisely with these, accounting for deviations as small as 1/60th of a degree. And you have to do this while considering the wind speed and the velocity of the bullet you’re using, factoring in the bullet’s drift.”

“Bullet… what? How are you supposed to do that?”

Isaiah asked, bewildered. Bran, anticipating this reaction, picked up his fork and, using blueberry compote as ink, began to write words and numbers on his empty plate.

“For example, let’s say there’s a crosswind of 8 m/s. If you fire a .308 Winchester 150-grain bullet at a target 100 meters away, there will be a 6 cm deviation. It will drift 6 cm to the side. The further the target, the greater the drift. At 500 meters, it’s 140 cm, and at 1,000 meters, it’s 730 cm.”

“…”

“But with the same .308 Winchester, if you use a 180-grain bullet in the same 8 m/s crosswind, the drift at 100 meters is only 4 cm. At 1,000 meters, it’s 590 cm. Why? Because the bullet is much heavier. It’s less affected by the wind.”

“Wait…”

“And it’s not just the wind. You also have to consider the temperature. Generally, for every 1°C drop in temperature, the bullet velocity decreases by about 1 m/s. This also varies depending on the bullet weight, so when calculating the point of impact…”

“Wait a second. I’m getting motion sick.”

Isaiah, desperate to stop Bran’s lecture, grabbed his glass and drained the remaining cola even crunching on a few ice cubes. His head still spun, and his vision swam.

So, was he saying that… he had been calculating all of that every single time he fired a shot? Factoring in the wind, the temperature, and the bullet weight to determine the degree of error?

Isaiah couldn’t quite believe it. That he had calculated all those complicated things one by one, aimed at the target, and even hit it accurately. That he was such a capable person.

“I told you. I’ve never thought you were stupid. To properly understand and apply ballistics means you have at least average intelligence,”

“Isn’t it above average…?”

He didn’t think Chester could do it. Bran must have heard his muttering because he laughed and said, “Oh, Chester could never do that.”

“Anyway, yeah. Compared to a rifle, a pistol is something you can shoot with your eyes closed.”

“I don’t think I could shoot with my eyes closed, but… well, it wasn’t that difficult,”

A staff member quietly approached the table and asked if he would like a coffee refill. Bran shook his head, and the staff member placed the bill on the table and left.

“A pistol is an auxiliary tool, anyway,”

Bran buttoned his jacket as if he was getting ready to leave.

“In fact, there’s no weapon as inefficient as a pistol. It’s strictly for close range but even at close range, it’s surprisingly difficult to hit and its killing power isn’t very good.”

So, for WD’s Isaiah Cole, a pistol had been literally a hand gun, something he would use only when he didn’t even need to take out a rifle. But now, here he was, struggling because he couldn’t even handle a pistol properly. From Bran’s perspective, who had narrowly secured his cooperation just before D-day, it must have been a situation so absurd he could only laugh.

Thinking about it, Isaiah felt so embarrassed and apologetic that he couldn’t raise his head. Feeling contrite, he reached for the bill to pay for the meal, but Bran was faster. He snatched the bill from the table and looked at Isaiah with an expression that said, “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I was going to buy lunch. I received a card from Manny yesterday. So…”

“That would be Chester’s card. Usage details will be transmitted in real time. It could easily become a problem, so if you can avoid it, don’t use it,”

That was a problem Isaiah hadn’t considered. Surprised, he quickly withdrew his hand. As he did, Bran stood up, holding the bill.

“Let’s go.”

By the time they had finished paying and stepped outside, the sky had become cloudier.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to rain, does it?”

“Probably not,”

“Good. Then let’s walk a bit.”

Isaiah followed Bran as he strode ahead with his long legs.

“Why? Do you have something to do nearby? Or are we just taking a walk?”

“I need to buy clothes.”

“Your clothes?”

“Your clothes.”

Isaiah widened his eyes and pointed at himself.

“Yes. I told you I would buy them for you.”

He finally remembered the conversation they had had at the apartment the previous day and muttered a short, “Oh.”

“I thought you were just saying that.”

“I don’t make empty promises,”

The traffic light changed as they were talking. Crossing the street alongside Bran, Isaiah couldn’t suppress the chuckles escaping his lips. So that was it. He had wondered why they had come so far just for a meal. It was because Bran was going to buy him clothes.