The Difference Between Life and Death

The man fought to harm, to injure, maybe even break bones. But Cody fought to kill. Ignoring the pain in his broken arm, dealt by the far more experienced fighter he faced, Cody sunk his teeth into the man’s fingers. The sensation was no different than biting into a carrot as he tore through the flesh. An adult male’s jaw can exert around 235 pounds of pressure, and Cody unleashed every ounce of it. As he tore into the man’s face and neck, headbutting relentlessly to beat the remaining fight out of his enemy, he felt the cold, limp body slump in his jaws. The helmet kept the body upright even as life left it.

A suicide gun was found in the man’s pocket. Apparently, Vatican members were more trusted than American soldiers by their own military, allowed to carry whatever weapons they desired as long as they didn’t interfere with their machines.

Cody emerged from the pod, covered in blood, holding a measly pistol in his uninjured hand. His broken arm hung limp at his side as he aimed skyward, firing futilely at the M.U.s flying above him. The Vatican forces seemed more numerous, but every so often, he caught glimpses of his allies zooming by to challenge their dominance. Death surrounded him on all sides—a horrifying spectacle that made Cody hate himself all the more.

He cursed inwardly as his beliefs resurfaced. Cody believed in a higher power—a God, though he wasn’t sure which one. He tried to follow the rules of multiple religions, never knowing which was true, but wanting to show respect to all. Yet murder was a sin, at least in Christianity-based beliefs, while suicide was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Vatican. Kill or be killed—a contradiction Cody despised but could never escape.

Falling to his knees, he looked at his blood-soaked hands and screamed until his voice was hoarse. Kill or be killed. No matter how hard Cody tried to avoid violence, that phrase followed him everywhere, like an unavoidable curse. And now, he was good at killing—too good. He hated it, hated himself, and hated whatever higher power allowed it to continue.

But as the temporary madness subsided, Cody stood, cursing the heavens and begging for forgiveness all at once. He retrieved his bag from the pod, preparing for the possibility that his allies might have to flee. His conscience gnawed at him relentlessly.

War. A life Cody knew all too well. But all he wanted was to follow the one belief he held dear—a belief he always fell short of achieving. Cody…strived to be a pacifist.

When the skirmish finally ended with the Vatican retreating, two of Cody’s allies retrieved him. They carried long rifles at their sides and wore empty bandoliers across their waists and shoulders. Tattoos of wings adorned their shoulders and feet.

As they approached Cody’s M.U., they discovered something unexpected. Not only was his M.U. still functional above water, connected by its one remaining arm, but a cord beneath it dragged another. Backup was called in, and a tank-tracked transport arrived to assist. With the help of the three soldiers, they managed to haul the wreckage closer to ships in the distance—aircraft carriers where the M.U.s could be repaired.

Nearer to the carriers, a new discovery was made: Cody’s M.U. was connected to not one, but fivedisabled enemy M.U.s. Two had been destroyed by a pilot Cody thought was named Stephanie, while Cody himself had taken out three, including the one still attached to him.

“What’s your damage? You fishing for M.U.s in your spare time—?” one of the men started but stopped mid-sentence when he saw Cody, blood-soaked and battered, climbing out of the wreckage.

The soldier waved to the others and said, “Let’s get you a shower, soldier.”

The three escorts were the silent twins—pilots Cody had never heard speak—and Ashley, who climbed down her M.U. without so much as a glance in his direction. The twins only nodded at Cody as he looked up at them.

In the distance, other ships came into view. M.U.s were landing on them while mechanics scurried about to assess damage. Cody couldn’t see the shoreline yet, but he knew they were headed home.

In the meantime, pilots were given showers, but Cody was escorted to a private room for questioning. He sat before a one-way glass window, still covered in blood and wounded.

A nearby speaker crackled to life. The first voice was calm, almost unnervingly so.

“Hello, soldier. How was your day?”

“It was eventful. Killing usually is,” Cody replied, wondering why no one had treated his injuries yet.

“Are you feeling alright? Anything concerning you?”

A screen lit up, replaying footage of the battle from cameras mounted on Cody’s pod. It showed the skirmish from multiple angles, ending with Cody emerging from the enemy pod, blood-soaked and screaming in rage as he fired his pistol into the air. The footage froze on his face—a contorted, deranged expression of hostility.

“Yeah, what can I say? War brings out the best in people,” Cody shrugged.

The next question came in a softer voice: “It says here you’re from a fishing village in Washington called Vancouver. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Cody confirmed.

“And can you tell us your name…and where you think you are currently?”

“I’m Cody Ello Fin. Um…I’m on a big aircraft carrier ship, hopefully American. We’re headed home, in the Pacific, just got done with a battle with the Vatican. Rest in peace to all those who lost their lives on both sides,” he finished.

Silence followed for a moment before a new voice spoke.

“You can go, Mr. Cody. If you have any concerns or would like to talk about anything—even if the food isn’t to your liking—we’ll be here to listen.”