From the second I was born, I was considered “unnatural.” I was born two weeks early, yet I was still a good three pounds heavier than the average baby and two inches longer, a difference which was anything but normal. The doctors attributed it to a defect that caused my early birth, though, and took no measures to correct it. Had I been born on time, perhaps I’d have been “corrected” by the government officials and turned into the “normal size” by means I’d prefer not to describe for the sake of anyone who just ate. At any rate, after the normal period of time in the hospital wing, I was able to return home with my parents, who spent the first three years of my life with me as any parent would; they fed me, clothed me, played with me our garden, cried tears of joy when I said my first word and cried tears of sadness when I used some of those very same words to talk back and defy their commands. You get the idea. It was a wonderful life for both myself and my parents, but, when I was four, everything changed.
I had invited three kids from the neighborhood over to share cake and, of course, give me presents, since I was as greedy for new toys as any young child would be. There was one toy that I didn’t want, and that was a Barbie doll. The government had tried to eliminate gender norms and make all toys universal, but no amount of assurance from officials that the dolls were “for boys too” made me want to play with a plastic human in a pink dress. After the cake had been split into enough slices for everyone to eat an equal share, I began opening my presents. The first was a Transformer named Bumblebee that Michael Fielding gave to me. I was thankful, as it was the toy I wanted the most since Transformers was my favorite TV show. The next was a model Sherman tank from Jeffery Sinclair, which was quite the wonderful thing, as I’d only had plastic toy soldiers in the past, never another object to accompany them in their battles. Now, one side would have an advantage that the other would have to overcome, which would allow for more entertainment while my parents were at work and I was alone. The final present, however, infuriated me. It was a gift from Hugo Gotschalk, and it was a Barbie doll. My four year old self, even then, had a higher intelligence than others my age, and so I’d already determined that I was not feminine in any way shape or form. My mind, whereas other kids my age may be unsure, moldable, experimental, had been made up; I wanted boy clothes, boy toys, and wanted to be treated like a boy. I didn’t want to braid the hair of some plastic figurine; I wanted to play cowboys and Indians with my friends in a field and assemble Transformers. My mind raced with thoughts it shouldn’t have. Does Hugo think me a fool? Does he think I’m feminine? Does he see me as a weakling who should play with dolls instead of toy soldiers? I settled on all three and, furious that he thought I was anything except a strong, masculine human being, took the Barbie doll out of its packaging and proceeded to beat him violently with it. Alongside my mind, my strength and height were also above-average, and so there was nothing poor Hugo could do as I beat him to a bloody pulp. My friends tried to get me off of him, but I simply shook them off, and it finally took my parents to pull me away from him. The Barbie’s hair was dyed red instead of its usual blonde now, and Hugo was crying and sobbing. Blood streamed down his face as my father helped him up and out the door. My other two friends, scared and in a state of shock, excused themselves and ran out faster than Hugo had. You know what the worst part was of it all? I felt no remorse at all.
Not soon after my little outburst, my parents took me to the town hall to get my restraints. Normally, the law doesn't make you apply them until the age of eight, and yet here I was, forced to be burdened at half of the legal age. Ten-pound weights were applied, which all but halted my mobility. My father took me to a psychiatrist to deal with my, and I quote, "extreme violence." The psychiatrist made a recommendation that changed my life; he said that my parents should buy me a gaming console. Now, I know it doesn't sound like much of a treatment, and I'd have to agree. However, his reasoning did have some truth behind it; he figured that if I was able to get my anger out on a first-person-shooter I'd be less violent in real life. Now, a video game console was a luxury which every kid dreamed of having, but was extremely expensive. Since the psychiatrist insisted on it, though, my parents decided to compromise. They told me I could have an Xbox, along with a used copy of Black Ops 5, so long as I behaved until my seventh birthday. I couldn't believe it! That was three years away. It seemed like an eternity, but I know the reward would be worth it, so I reluctantly agreed.
The next three years went by quickly. I was one of the only students at my elementary school with restraints, and I was made fun of because of it. I held my tongue, though, because I knew that if I acted up the Xbox would be but a distant memory. I studied hard and received good grades on both my tests and quizzes, which helped to make my parents' favor, which had gone down since I mercilessly beat Hugo with a doll, improve drastically. Finally, my seventh birthday arrived, and my parents deemed me fit for the Xbox. It was a great day; I unpackaged it and, without even opening any of my other presents, ran straight to our television, hooked up the controller and console, and began to attempt Black Ops 5. Learning the controls was hard at first, especially since I hadn't had any prior practice with another game, so I began mashing buttons in a futile attempt to get a kill. It seemed as if I'd finally found something I wasn't above-average in, but that soon changed.
After about a year of practice, I found myself dominating the lobbies at the young age of eight. All of the average players may as well have not been there; I carried every single game I played with at least triple the kills of the player behind me. I thought I could never lose; that is, until I got into the middle of a clan war between the two most well-known groups in the entire game; FaZe and OpTic. Apparently, one of the FaZe members had lost connection just as I joined and I was now their substitute. They didn't even ask my consent; they just simply began the match. I knew I was outmatched, but I vowed to try my hardest, and it worked out better than I thought. Although I wasn't first this time, I surpassed one or two of both the FaZe and OpTic members in kills, and was recruited to FaZe directly afterwards. To my knowledge, though, they hadn't had any openings since I first started the game. I asked what happened, and the leader of the clan, FaZe Dank replied with chilling words that made me immediately regret joining the clan. "The government got him," Dank said.
"What?" I replied. Surely he was joking.
"I'm sure that, by now, you've seen that there are skill differences in this game. The government doesn't like that since everyone is supposed to be equal, so the designers of this game created a system that alerts the officials if anyone gets to be too good. However, they have one flaw, and that's that the alert only goes off if the person surpasses the average skill level in the first two months of playing. So, if you're completely trash for the first two months..."
"...then the radar won't pick you up," I finished.
"Precisely. Most of us started out really bad, and were only average at best by the time the two months passed, so we're in the clear. I'm guessing you're included in that group, yes?" I thought back to my first two months and how my only kills were achieved by accidentally knifing someone while trying to shoot.
"Yeah," I replied. "I should be good."
"Then welcome to FaZe. I'd shake your hand, but, well, it's kind of hard to do over Xbox Live."
I chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose." From then on, I was a member of FaZe. Granted, I wasn't the best by any means, so I spent the next three years practicing. By the end of that time period, I'd become a top 10 member, and was regarded as one of the best players in the game. It was only after that achievement that Dank revealed to me the true purpose of recruitment for FaZe.
"Truth be told," he began, "FaZe dates back almost seven decades. Back in 2010, when it was first founded, it began as a simple video game clan for elite players. Back then, the government didn't care who was good and who wasn't. In fact, the only people that cared were the actual players themselves. OpTic goes back just as far, and in those days, they were our foes. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Aren't the two clans still rivals, though?" I asked, puzzled.
"In the game? Yes. Outside of the game? No. You see, once the government instituted the amendment that made everyone equal, both parties recognized that it wouldn't benefit the game nor the country. Therefore, we decided to form an alliance of sorts. We're still enemies within the game and have events like the one that led you to join us, but outside of the game we share the same goal; finding skilled people to help us overthrow the government."
I was thrown aback by what he'd just said. "Did I hear you correctly just now? Did you say 'overthrow the government?'"
"That's correct," he confirmed. "If people are able to perform in this game in an above-average way, then we've made the assumption that they're above-average in their real lives, too. If I had to guess by the way you play the game, you've got some large restraints of your own." I looked down at the iron shackles on my legs, the scrap iron hung on my chest, the iron brace around my neck, and the earmuffs I'd had to take off to put on the equally-heavy headset that allowed me to converse over Xbox live.
"You have no idea."
I could imagine him smiling. "Good. That means you're a viable soldier. In that case, allow me to invite you to join our revolution."
"Aren't I already a part of it?"
"Not necessarily. Not all FaZe members are a part of this. Some are good, yes, but when I asked them if they had restraints, most didn't have very many or even any at all. A lot of our members are simply average people with an above-average talent for Black Ops 5. However, there are also many like you and I who are restrained and need to be unshackled. The government put these chains on us to hold our natural talent back, yet that very same talent could be used to help this failing country. That's why I'm asking you to join us. OpTic already has the 200 members they need, and we've got 199. You could be our number 200, Harrison."
"Dank, with all due respect-"
"Call me Tyler," he interrupted.
"Tyler," I began again, "I'm afraid of dying. And besides, what good are we against the government? We are simply video game players. What difference can we make for society?"
"The way you think on your feet, your ability to aim, your above-average strength and speed, those are the things that will help you." He explained to me how, in three years time, we would storm the arsenal near the Capitol building alongside the other 398 FaZe and OpTic soldiers. We'd grab weapons and power our way into the White House, where we would be televised as we shot the Handicapper General on the spot. From there, we'd assume control of the government and remove everyone's handicaps until every last U.S citizen was free of their restrictions. "We shouldn't have to live this way," he finished. "It's time we used our handicaps to actually do something beneficial."
His persuasive speech had me entranced. I envisioned a life without handicaps, a life where I was able to roam free. It was only when Tyler spoke that I snapped back to reality. "Well?" he asked me. "Are you in our out?" It didn't take me long to agree. "Very well," he said. "For the next three years, your job is to train yourself as best as you can with your handicaps on. When you remove them, your body will be used to the extra weight, and it'll make you even faster." I hadn't thought about that before. There was only one issue, though.
"How am I supposed to find someone who'll teach me to fight better than the average person? Most people have been brainwashed by the government."
"What state do you live in?"
"California," I replied.
"Which city?"
"Sherman Oaks. Why?"
I could hear him gasp, followed by what sounded like laughter. "That's perfect. Give me a moment." I heard him take off his headset and place it down before running into an adjacent room. He returned a minute later and quickly unfolded what sounded like a sheet of paper. "Do you have a pen and paper handy?"
I reached for the pen and paper on the coffee table behind me. "Yep," I replied.
"Write down this address: 3930 Deervale Drive." I did as he asked before tearing off the note, folding it, and placing it in my pocket. "There, you will find an old man by the name of Shia LeBouf. In his prime, before the 211th, 212th, and 213th amendment, he was a movie star and an Internet sensation. He did all of his own stunts and was an excellent fighter, but now he simply lives alone, as hindered as the rest of us. Although he's 89, he's still quite the martial artist, and he will teach you all that you need to know." I pulled out a map to see where Deervale Drive was; to my surprise, it was only a couple of blocks past the Hills, and I thanked Tyler for referring me.
"Any time," he replied. "Just tell him Tyler Poole sent you. Best of luck." With that, he disconnected, and I immediately took off my headset, replaced it with the normal earmuffs that were supposed to block my thoughts but really only served as a pain in my backside, and headed out the door, my scrap iron clanking as I went along. After a half an hour of walking from block to block, hindered by the sheer amount of weight on my body, I finally arrived at Shia LeBouf's house. Or, rather, Shia Lebouf's mansion. At least, that's how it seemed to me, as I'd grown up in a 1300 sq. ft. home and this house had to have at least double the square footage. After another brief moment of observing just how big Shia's residence was, I rang the doorbell, fully expecting some old-yet-burly, jacked up, six-and-a-half foot tall man ridden with restraints to appear from behind the door. Instead, after about a minute's time, a gray-haired, elderly man who looked to be slightly under 5'6" greeted me, asking me what I was doing at his house. He had no restrictions on him. He was simply average-looking; not ripped but not weak, not ugly but not handsome, just plain. How was this guy ever a movie star? I wondered.
"Hello, sir," I began. "My name is Harrison Bergeron. I was told to come here by Tyler Poole. He said you'd be able to help me train and become stronger?"
"Ah, Tyler," he said, looking off into the distance. "My favorite grandson. I haven't heard from him in some time, him being busy with his so-called 'revolution' and all. Please, come in." He motioned for me to come inside and seat myself at the dining room table near the front door. "Have a seat. Do you enjoy tea?" he asked before disappearing into the adjacent kitchen.
"Why yes, I do."
"Too bad, youngster. We're having beer." He placed a cold, unmarked, brown glass bottle on the table in front of me.
"Sir, I'm only 11 years old. I'm 10 years under the legal age-"
"Who cares? This revolution of yours is probably going to get you killed so you may as well enjoy life while you can. Or, you'll lose someone close to you in the raid, and drink away the sorrow later in life, in which case it's never too early to start." He took a long, hard swig from his beer and sighed. "Now, don't get me wrong, here. I approve of the raid and support it wholeheartedly. As someone who remembers what this country was like before they instituted the nonsense we have today, I can assure you that any competition or arguments we had back then is better than the living hell they call 'equalization.'" He took another drink, smaller this time, before continuing. "What do you want to learn to do?"
"You know, I haven't really thought about it. Tyler told me that you could help me learn to fight, but nothing specific ever came to mind. Just the, uh, basics I guess?"
He took one last drink from his bottle and stood up. "Follow me." I left my beer bottle, untouched, on the table alongside his empty one and followed him without any idea of where we were going. He led me down a stairway into what seemed like his basement and then through another door. Once we'd passed through, I saw that we were in a small, black room; the walls were black, the ceiling was black, the floor was black, even the punching bag that hung from the ceiling was black.
"Why all the black?" I asked. It seemed like an odd choice for a room to be working out in, considering the black would trap heat and make it even harder to exercise.
"I think, Harrison, the better question is, why not?"
I sighed. "Fair enough. How do we begin?"
"Judging from the sheer amount of scrap iron the government has had put on you, I can tell you're already strong. That's the hardest part, you know, making one strong, so congratulations, you've already completed the most difficult aspect of our training. Now, we simply have to make you able to utilize that strength." He motioned to the punching bag. "Go on, Mr. Bergeron. Hit it as hard as you can." I did as was told, balling my hand into a fist, bringing it back as far as possible, and swinging as hard as I could. The impact sent tremors through the bag and caused a small rip, and I looked towards Shia, awaiting his nod of approval. Instead, I found him shaking his head in disappointment. "You're strong, yes, and that hit was powerful. You're much too slow, though." He eyed the weights on my legs. "I'm sure that's not something you're accustomed to hearing, but you're going to have to deal with it." With that, he nudged me aside, got into a fighting stance, and hit the punching bag faster than anyone else I'd ever seen. The bag rocked with almost as much force as it had when I'd punched it. I was about to ask why he didn't have restraints, seeing as he was so fast and strong, but he seemingly read my mind and answered before I could even ask. "The elderly don't have to wear them. Above the age of 65, they deem you 'unfit for restrictions' and remove them so as to not affect your health."
"Ah," was all I could manage to say. I was dumbfounded by the speed and strength hidden in his elderly body.
"Well?" he asked, impatiently beginning to tap his foot. "Are you in or out?"
"In!" I quickly responded.
"Very well, then it's time. The training will be hard, but throughout it all, if you ever need motivation, just remember that nothing is impossible. You can make your dreams come true. You simply just have to do it."
"Okay..?" I said questioningly, confused as to what he meant.
Shia sighed. "I guess you're unaware of what I'm really famous for. So be it." He draped a sweat towel over his shoulders and led me out of the room. I will train you every other day for the next three years until the day of the revolution arrives. Any time in the afternoon works for me. Now go, I've got other business to attend to." With that, he practically shoved me out the door, and I had no choice but to walk home and anticipate our next session.
For the next three years, I visited Shia's home every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for training sessions. He taught me how to fight like a true martial artist; how to dodge, how to spar, how to put someone to sleep using pressure points (and using chloroform, if the former failed,) even how to break every single bone in the lower half of someone's body if I needed to extract information. I felt empowered; my strength, which was already above-average, had become even more prominent, and my speed had more than doubled. Finally, the day of the revolution arrived, and I was ready for whatever came my way. The previous day, Tyler had instructed the clan to wait in their front yards at exactly 9:00 a.m PST, during which time an unmarked van would arrive to pick us up and drive us to a designated meeting spot, after which we would be flown to a single destination point just outside of D.C. Following Tyler's instructions, I stood outside in my front yard, glancing nervously at my watch. As the hand struck 9, I watched as a van pulled up around the corner of my street and parked in front of my house. I walked towards it, my confidence returning with every step. It's finally time, I thought to myself. As the side door of the van opened, I barely had time to react as government officials streamed out and fired three tasers at once. The electricity swam through my body, the scrap iron conducting every last watt, and I was out cold in less than three seconds. When I came to, I was inside a prison cell next to an elderly man who I didn't recognize. He had hair that was combed over to the side, and, even though he was old, he had a jawline that looked as if it cut could glass. I guessed that he'd been put in jail for removing the mask that hid his features, but then remembered that the elderly didn't have to wear restrictions, a fact which left me puzzled as to his place inside the prison.
"Hey there, young'un," he said to me. "My name's Justin."
"Justin..?"
"Bieber. Teen heartthrob from about six or so decades ago. They neglected to mention my name in the schools of today, it seems."
"Why are you stuck in here?"
"Well," he began, attempting to look off into the distance reminiscently but instead appearing to stare at the dull brick walls, an action which made him look like more of a lunatic than anything else. "When they initiated the Amendments, they tried to make everyone equal. According to the government, my singing sounded like a 'cat falling off of the Empire State Building,' and, when they couldn't make my singing any less horrible, they decided to just throw me in jail to solve the issue. So, here I am, and here I've been for the past 40 years."
It took everything I had to hold in my laughter. Whereas most people were thrown in here for being too good at something, he was in here for being awful at it. What a loser. I decided it'd be best to say nothing at all and await my first meal, which came within the hour.
Prison life wasn't so bad. The activities that were meant to break us, such as breaking large rocks in the prison yard with a pickaxe, were actually quite fun. Most of the rocks were ones that I was able to break with my hands anyways, so the challenge wasn't there for me. My favorite time of the day (besides lunch, of course; for a group that was trying to make us miserable, the chili was actually quite good) was the thirty minutes we spent in a computer lab, where we were allowed to play video games and surf the Internet. Here, it seemed, they cared not whether or not you were better at another thing than someone else, since this prison seemed to be only. for people who were going to be there for the rest of their life. Naturally, I was better at most every game since my Black Ops 5 experience placed me in a higher rank than everyone else. Nobody challenged me on it, either, especially not after a kid by the name of Jerry Hardwell tried to fight me and I broke his nose and jaw in one, single punch. However, it was this experience with the Xbox that made me remember that I'd been snatched during what was supposed to be the meetup for the revolt, which meant someone in FaZe or OpTic had talked. However, there was only one person that'd know my address to give to the feds, and that was Tyler. However, since Tyler was spearheading this entire operation, I doubt he'd compromise the mission. Also, he'd have never sent me to Shia had he intended for me to be captured, as Shia gave me the skills to singlehandedly defeat every last guard in this facility, let alone anyone else. No, Tyler couldn't have talked, which means that the only logical choice is that the government had very recently developed a way to listen in on our conversations over Xbox Live and taken out the most skilled in FaZe. If that was the case, then Tyler and the other top-ranking FaZe members would be in this prison too. That day, I went to the door that adjoined the two sections of the prison and, knowing there was no other way to bypass him, snapped the guard on duty's neck with my bare hands. Using his keys to open the door rather than busting it down, I calmly walked to the other side of the prison and found exactly what I'd been wanting to see. Tyler, along with the other eight best FaZe members, were sitting at a table playing cards. We used that short time to determine that, in a week's time, we'd escape and follow through with the plan as scheduled.
So, now that day has come, and my week-long journey of writing everything I can on this website is over. As I sit in the computer lab right now, awaiting the last minute of my 3o minute allotment, I am not worried. The ten of us can overpower the staff here with ease. While they rally the others and spread news of what's happened, I will travel to the nearby TV station and interrupt their broadcasting. I will declare myself the emperor of the soon-to-be recaptured America and let the citizens know exactly what they're dealing with.
Who knows? Maybe I'll be lucky and catch the broadcasting network during one of their ballet performances and find a beautiful girl among the dancers. You see, as of late, I've really been considering finding someone to rule at my side...
I had invited three kids from the neighborhood over to share cake and, of course, give me presents, since I was as greedy for new toys as any young child would be. There was one toy that I didn’t want, and that was a Barbie doll. The government had tried to eliminate gender norms and make all toys universal, but no amount of assurance from officials that the dolls were “for boys too” made me want to play with a plastic human in a pink dress. After the cake had been split into enough slices for everyone to eat an equal share, I began opening my presents. The first was a Transformer named Bumblebee that Michael Fielding gave to me. I was thankful, as it was the toy I wanted the most since Transformers was my favorite TV show. The next was a model Sherman tank from Jeffery Sinclair, which was quite the wonderful thing, as I’d only had plastic toy soldiers in the past, never another object to accompany them in their battles. Now, one side would have an advantage that the other would have to overcome, which would allow for more entertainment while my parents were at work and I was alone. The final present, however, infuriated me. It was a gift from Hugo Gotschalk, and it was a Barbie doll. My four year old self, even then, had a higher intelligence than others my age, and so I’d already determined that I was not feminine in any way shape or form. My mind, whereas other kids my age may be unsure, moldable, experimental, had been made up; I wanted boy clothes, boy toys, and wanted to be treated like a boy. I didn’t want to braid the hair of some plastic figurine; I wanted to play cowboys and Indians with my friends in a field and assemble Transformers. My mind raced with thoughts it shouldn’t have. Does Hugo think me a fool? Does he think I’m feminine? Does he see me as a weakling who should play with dolls instead of toy soldiers? I settled on all three and, furious that he thought I was anything except a strong, masculine human being, took the Barbie doll out of its packaging and proceeded to beat him violently with it. Alongside my mind, my strength and height were also above-average, and so there was nothing poor Hugo could do as I beat him to a bloody pulp. My friends tried to get me off of him, but I simply shook them off, and it finally took my parents to pull me away from him. The Barbie’s hair was dyed red instead of its usual blonde now, and Hugo was crying and sobbing. Blood streamed down his face as my father helped him up and out the door. My other two friends, scared and in a state of shock, excused themselves and ran out faster than Hugo had. You know what the worst part was of it all? I felt no remorse at all.
Not soon after my little outburst, my parents took me to the town hall to get my restraints. Normally, the law doesn't make you apply them until the age of eight, and yet here I was, forced to be burdened at half of the legal age. Ten-pound weights were applied, which all but halted my mobility. My father took me to a psychiatrist to deal with my, and I quote, "extreme violence." The psychiatrist made a recommendation that changed my life; he said that my parents should buy me a gaming console. Now, I know it doesn't sound like much of a treatment, and I'd have to agree. However, his reasoning did have some truth behind it; he figured that if I was able to get my anger out on a first-person-shooter I'd be less violent in real life. Now, a video game console was a luxury which every kid dreamed of having, but was extremely expensive. Since the psychiatrist insisted on it, though, my parents decided to compromise. They told me I could have an Xbox, along with a used copy of Black Ops 5, so long as I behaved until my seventh birthday. I couldn't believe it! That was three years away. It seemed like an eternity, but I know the reward would be worth it, so I reluctantly agreed.
The next three years went by quickly. I was one of the only students at my elementary school with restraints, and I was made fun of because of it. I held my tongue, though, because I knew that if I acted up the Xbox would be but a distant memory. I studied hard and received good grades on both my tests and quizzes, which helped to make my parents' favor, which had gone down since I mercilessly beat Hugo with a doll, improve drastically. Finally, my seventh birthday arrived, and my parents deemed me fit for the Xbox. It was a great day; I unpackaged it and, without even opening any of my other presents, ran straight to our television, hooked up the controller and console, and began to attempt Black Ops 5. Learning the controls was hard at first, especially since I hadn't had any prior practice with another game, so I began mashing buttons in a futile attempt to get a kill. It seemed as if I'd finally found something I wasn't above-average in, but that soon changed.
After about a year of practice, I found myself dominating the lobbies at the young age of eight. All of the average players may as well have not been there; I carried every single game I played with at least triple the kills of the player behind me. I thought I could never lose; that is, until I got into the middle of a clan war between the two most well-known groups in the entire game; FaZe and OpTic. Apparently, one of the FaZe members had lost connection just as I joined and I was now their substitute. They didn't even ask my consent; they just simply began the match. I knew I was outmatched, but I vowed to try my hardest, and it worked out better than I thought. Although I wasn't first this time, I surpassed one or two of both the FaZe and OpTic members in kills, and was recruited to FaZe directly afterwards. To my knowledge, though, they hadn't had any openings since I first started the game. I asked what happened, and the leader of the clan, FaZe Dank replied with chilling words that made me immediately regret joining the clan. "The government got him," Dank said.
"What?" I replied. Surely he was joking.
"I'm sure that, by now, you've seen that there are skill differences in this game. The government doesn't like that since everyone is supposed to be equal, so the designers of this game created a system that alerts the officials if anyone gets to be too good. However, they have one flaw, and that's that the alert only goes off if the person surpasses the average skill level in the first two months of playing. So, if you're completely trash for the first two months..."
"...then the radar won't pick you up," I finished.
"Precisely. Most of us started out really bad, and were only average at best by the time the two months passed, so we're in the clear. I'm guessing you're included in that group, yes?" I thought back to my first two months and how my only kills were achieved by accidentally knifing someone while trying to shoot.
"Yeah," I replied. "I should be good."
"Then welcome to FaZe. I'd shake your hand, but, well, it's kind of hard to do over Xbox Live."
I chuckled. "Yeah, I suppose." From then on, I was a member of FaZe. Granted, I wasn't the best by any means, so I spent the next three years practicing. By the end of that time period, I'd become a top 10 member, and was regarded as one of the best players in the game. It was only after that achievement that Dank revealed to me the true purpose of recruitment for FaZe.
"Truth be told," he began, "FaZe dates back almost seven decades. Back in 2010, when it was first founded, it began as a simple video game clan for elite players. Back then, the government didn't care who was good and who wasn't. In fact, the only people that cared were the actual players themselves. OpTic goes back just as far, and in those days, they were our foes. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Aren't the two clans still rivals, though?" I asked, puzzled.
"In the game? Yes. Outside of the game? No. You see, once the government instituted the amendment that made everyone equal, both parties recognized that it wouldn't benefit the game nor the country. Therefore, we decided to form an alliance of sorts. We're still enemies within the game and have events like the one that led you to join us, but outside of the game we share the same goal; finding skilled people to help us overthrow the government."
I was thrown aback by what he'd just said. "Did I hear you correctly just now? Did you say 'overthrow the government?'"
"That's correct," he confirmed. "If people are able to perform in this game in an above-average way, then we've made the assumption that they're above-average in their real lives, too. If I had to guess by the way you play the game, you've got some large restraints of your own." I looked down at the iron shackles on my legs, the scrap iron hung on my chest, the iron brace around my neck, and the earmuffs I'd had to take off to put on the equally-heavy headset that allowed me to converse over Xbox live.
"You have no idea."
I could imagine him smiling. "Good. That means you're a viable soldier. In that case, allow me to invite you to join our revolution."
"Aren't I already a part of it?"
"Not necessarily. Not all FaZe members are a part of this. Some are good, yes, but when I asked them if they had restraints, most didn't have very many or even any at all. A lot of our members are simply average people with an above-average talent for Black Ops 5. However, there are also many like you and I who are restrained and need to be unshackled. The government put these chains on us to hold our natural talent back, yet that very same talent could be used to help this failing country. That's why I'm asking you to join us. OpTic already has the 200 members they need, and we've got 199. You could be our number 200, Harrison."
"Dank, with all due respect-"
"Call me Tyler," he interrupted.
"Tyler," I began again, "I'm afraid of dying. And besides, what good are we against the government? We are simply video game players. What difference can we make for society?"
"The way you think on your feet, your ability to aim, your above-average strength and speed, those are the things that will help you." He explained to me how, in three years time, we would storm the arsenal near the Capitol building alongside the other 398 FaZe and OpTic soldiers. We'd grab weapons and power our way into the White House, where we would be televised as we shot the Handicapper General on the spot. From there, we'd assume control of the government and remove everyone's handicaps until every last U.S citizen was free of their restrictions. "We shouldn't have to live this way," he finished. "It's time we used our handicaps to actually do something beneficial."
His persuasive speech had me entranced. I envisioned a life without handicaps, a life where I was able to roam free. It was only when Tyler spoke that I snapped back to reality. "Well?" he asked me. "Are you in our out?" It didn't take me long to agree. "Very well," he said. "For the next three years, your job is to train yourself as best as you can with your handicaps on. When you remove them, your body will be used to the extra weight, and it'll make you even faster." I hadn't thought about that before. There was only one issue, though.
"How am I supposed to find someone who'll teach me to fight better than the average person? Most people have been brainwashed by the government."
"What state do you live in?"
"California," I replied.
"Which city?"
"Sherman Oaks. Why?"
I could hear him gasp, followed by what sounded like laughter. "That's perfect. Give me a moment." I heard him take off his headset and place it down before running into an adjacent room. He returned a minute later and quickly unfolded what sounded like a sheet of paper. "Do you have a pen and paper handy?"
I reached for the pen and paper on the coffee table behind me. "Yep," I replied.
"Write down this address: 3930 Deervale Drive." I did as he asked before tearing off the note, folding it, and placing it in my pocket. "There, you will find an old man by the name of Shia LeBouf. In his prime, before the 211th, 212th, and 213th amendment, he was a movie star and an Internet sensation. He did all of his own stunts and was an excellent fighter, but now he simply lives alone, as hindered as the rest of us. Although he's 89, he's still quite the martial artist, and he will teach you all that you need to know." I pulled out a map to see where Deervale Drive was; to my surprise, it was only a couple of blocks past the Hills, and I thanked Tyler for referring me.
"Any time," he replied. "Just tell him Tyler Poole sent you. Best of luck." With that, he disconnected, and I immediately took off my headset, replaced it with the normal earmuffs that were supposed to block my thoughts but really only served as a pain in my backside, and headed out the door, my scrap iron clanking as I went along. After a half an hour of walking from block to block, hindered by the sheer amount of weight on my body, I finally arrived at Shia LeBouf's house. Or, rather, Shia Lebouf's mansion. At least, that's how it seemed to me, as I'd grown up in a 1300 sq. ft. home and this house had to have at least double the square footage. After another brief moment of observing just how big Shia's residence was, I rang the doorbell, fully expecting some old-yet-burly, jacked up, six-and-a-half foot tall man ridden with restraints to appear from behind the door. Instead, after about a minute's time, a gray-haired, elderly man who looked to be slightly under 5'6" greeted me, asking me what I was doing at his house. He had no restrictions on him. He was simply average-looking; not ripped but not weak, not ugly but not handsome, just plain. How was this guy ever a movie star? I wondered.
"Hello, sir," I began. "My name is Harrison Bergeron. I was told to come here by Tyler Poole. He said you'd be able to help me train and become stronger?"
"Ah, Tyler," he said, looking off into the distance. "My favorite grandson. I haven't heard from him in some time, him being busy with his so-called 'revolution' and all. Please, come in." He motioned for me to come inside and seat myself at the dining room table near the front door. "Have a seat. Do you enjoy tea?" he asked before disappearing into the adjacent kitchen.
"Why yes, I do."
"Too bad, youngster. We're having beer." He placed a cold, unmarked, brown glass bottle on the table in front of me.
"Sir, I'm only 11 years old. I'm 10 years under the legal age-"
"Who cares? This revolution of yours is probably going to get you killed so you may as well enjoy life while you can. Or, you'll lose someone close to you in the raid, and drink away the sorrow later in life, in which case it's never too early to start." He took a long, hard swig from his beer and sighed. "Now, don't get me wrong, here. I approve of the raid and support it wholeheartedly. As someone who remembers what this country was like before they instituted the nonsense we have today, I can assure you that any competition or arguments we had back then is better than the living hell they call 'equalization.'" He took another drink, smaller this time, before continuing. "What do you want to learn to do?"
"You know, I haven't really thought about it. Tyler told me that you could help me learn to fight, but nothing specific ever came to mind. Just the, uh, basics I guess?"
He took one last drink from his bottle and stood up. "Follow me." I left my beer bottle, untouched, on the table alongside his empty one and followed him without any idea of where we were going. He led me down a stairway into what seemed like his basement and then through another door. Once we'd passed through, I saw that we were in a small, black room; the walls were black, the ceiling was black, the floor was black, even the punching bag that hung from the ceiling was black.
"Why all the black?" I asked. It seemed like an odd choice for a room to be working out in, considering the black would trap heat and make it even harder to exercise.
"I think, Harrison, the better question is, why not?"
I sighed. "Fair enough. How do we begin?"
"Judging from the sheer amount of scrap iron the government has had put on you, I can tell you're already strong. That's the hardest part, you know, making one strong, so congratulations, you've already completed the most difficult aspect of our training. Now, we simply have to make you able to utilize that strength." He motioned to the punching bag. "Go on, Mr. Bergeron. Hit it as hard as you can." I did as was told, balling my hand into a fist, bringing it back as far as possible, and swinging as hard as I could. The impact sent tremors through the bag and caused a small rip, and I looked towards Shia, awaiting his nod of approval. Instead, I found him shaking his head in disappointment. "You're strong, yes, and that hit was powerful. You're much too slow, though." He eyed the weights on my legs. "I'm sure that's not something you're accustomed to hearing, but you're going to have to deal with it." With that, he nudged me aside, got into a fighting stance, and hit the punching bag faster than anyone else I'd ever seen. The bag rocked with almost as much force as it had when I'd punched it. I was about to ask why he didn't have restraints, seeing as he was so fast and strong, but he seemingly read my mind and answered before I could even ask. "The elderly don't have to wear them. Above the age of 65, they deem you 'unfit for restrictions' and remove them so as to not affect your health."
"Ah," was all I could manage to say. I was dumbfounded by the speed and strength hidden in his elderly body.
"Well?" he asked, impatiently beginning to tap his foot. "Are you in or out?"
"In!" I quickly responded.
"Very well, then it's time. The training will be hard, but throughout it all, if you ever need motivation, just remember that nothing is impossible. You can make your dreams come true. You simply just have to do it."
"Okay..?" I said questioningly, confused as to what he meant.
Shia sighed. "I guess you're unaware of what I'm really famous for. So be it." He draped a sweat towel over his shoulders and led me out of the room. I will train you every other day for the next three years until the day of the revolution arrives. Any time in the afternoon works for me. Now go, I've got other business to attend to." With that, he practically shoved me out the door, and I had no choice but to walk home and anticipate our next session.
For the next three years, I visited Shia's home every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for training sessions. He taught me how to fight like a true martial artist; how to dodge, how to spar, how to put someone to sleep using pressure points (and using chloroform, if the former failed,) even how to break every single bone in the lower half of someone's body if I needed to extract information. I felt empowered; my strength, which was already above-average, had become even more prominent, and my speed had more than doubled. Finally, the day of the revolution arrived, and I was ready for whatever came my way. The previous day, Tyler had instructed the clan to wait in their front yards at exactly 9:00 a.m PST, during which time an unmarked van would arrive to pick us up and drive us to a designated meeting spot, after which we would be flown to a single destination point just outside of D.C. Following Tyler's instructions, I stood outside in my front yard, glancing nervously at my watch. As the hand struck 9, I watched as a van pulled up around the corner of my street and parked in front of my house. I walked towards it, my confidence returning with every step. It's finally time, I thought to myself. As the side door of the van opened, I barely had time to react as government officials streamed out and fired three tasers at once. The electricity swam through my body, the scrap iron conducting every last watt, and I was out cold in less than three seconds. When I came to, I was inside a prison cell next to an elderly man who I didn't recognize. He had hair that was combed over to the side, and, even though he was old, he had a jawline that looked as if it cut could glass. I guessed that he'd been put in jail for removing the mask that hid his features, but then remembered that the elderly didn't have to wear restrictions, a fact which left me puzzled as to his place inside the prison.
"Hey there, young'un," he said to me. "My name's Justin."
"Justin..?"
"Bieber. Teen heartthrob from about six or so decades ago. They neglected to mention my name in the schools of today, it seems."
"Why are you stuck in here?"
"Well," he began, attempting to look off into the distance reminiscently but instead appearing to stare at the dull brick walls, an action which made him look like more of a lunatic than anything else. "When they initiated the Amendments, they tried to make everyone equal. According to the government, my singing sounded like a 'cat falling off of the Empire State Building,' and, when they couldn't make my singing any less horrible, they decided to just throw me in jail to solve the issue. So, here I am, and here I've been for the past 40 years."
It took everything I had to hold in my laughter. Whereas most people were thrown in here for being too good at something, he was in here for being awful at it. What a loser. I decided it'd be best to say nothing at all and await my first meal, which came within the hour.
Prison life wasn't so bad. The activities that were meant to break us, such as breaking large rocks in the prison yard with a pickaxe, were actually quite fun. Most of the rocks were ones that I was able to break with my hands anyways, so the challenge wasn't there for me. My favorite time of the day (besides lunch, of course; for a group that was trying to make us miserable, the chili was actually quite good) was the thirty minutes we spent in a computer lab, where we were allowed to play video games and surf the Internet. Here, it seemed, they cared not whether or not you were better at another thing than someone else, since this prison seemed to be only. for people who were going to be there for the rest of their life. Naturally, I was better at most every game since my Black Ops 5 experience placed me in a higher rank than everyone else. Nobody challenged me on it, either, especially not after a kid by the name of Jerry Hardwell tried to fight me and I broke his nose and jaw in one, single punch. However, it was this experience with the Xbox that made me remember that I'd been snatched during what was supposed to be the meetup for the revolt, which meant someone in FaZe or OpTic had talked. However, there was only one person that'd know my address to give to the feds, and that was Tyler. However, since Tyler was spearheading this entire operation, I doubt he'd compromise the mission. Also, he'd have never sent me to Shia had he intended for me to be captured, as Shia gave me the skills to singlehandedly defeat every last guard in this facility, let alone anyone else. No, Tyler couldn't have talked, which means that the only logical choice is that the government had very recently developed a way to listen in on our conversations over Xbox Live and taken out the most skilled in FaZe. If that was the case, then Tyler and the other top-ranking FaZe members would be in this prison too. That day, I went to the door that adjoined the two sections of the prison and, knowing there was no other way to bypass him, snapped the guard on duty's neck with my bare hands. Using his keys to open the door rather than busting it down, I calmly walked to the other side of the prison and found exactly what I'd been wanting to see. Tyler, along with the other eight best FaZe members, were sitting at a table playing cards. We used that short time to determine that, in a week's time, we'd escape and follow through with the plan as scheduled.
So, now that day has come, and my week-long journey of writing everything I can on this website is over. As I sit in the computer lab right now, awaiting the last minute of my 3o minute allotment, I am not worried. The ten of us can overpower the staff here with ease. While they rally the others and spread news of what's happened, I will travel to the nearby TV station and interrupt their broadcasting. I will declare myself the emperor of the soon-to-be recaptured America and let the citizens know exactly what they're dealing with.
Who knows? Maybe I'll be lucky and catch the broadcasting network during one of their ballet performances and find a beautiful girl among the dancers. You see, as of late, I've really been considering finding someone to rule at my side...