Interview with The War Dog

“Your name is Cody Ello Fin, yes?” the man asked, putting his hands together in prayer. “Ora veniam pro peccatis tuis.” 

Cody spat. “Pray for your own sins, filthy hypocrite! You can keep your heaven!”

The man blinked in surprise. “You know Latin?”

Cody sneered and replied, “Oculi mei solum dolorem vident.” (My eyes see only the suffering.)

The man was taken aback, and his shock was evident. “You know the creed?! Interesting. We don’t have you on file as a Vatican. Where did you learn this?” He scrolled rapidly through a tablet, scanning for information.

Cody tested the restraints holding him to the table. There was no breaking free—his straps were firmly secured.

The man studied Cody intently, his expression darkening as if he’d uncovered something incriminating. An inner hatred leaked into his demeanor. “They said you captured five in your first run. Said there could have been survivors… You must have been very thorough if he revealed that. We shall return the favor when we bring you to the Vatican capital.”

Without warning, the man slapped Cody and grabbed the bag Cody had been searching for. Its contents were already laid out on the table, but the interrogator examined the now-empty bag with disdain. “So this is as far as American trust is worth. Even for a mid-pilot.” He placed the bag back down and began inspecting the other items one by one. When he reached a pair of razors, he paused. “Planning to shave after you defeated all of us?”

Cody glared. “They’re for if I should be captured.”

“And the second one?” the man asked, clearly fishing for a slip-up.

“In case I mess up the first time,” Cody explained flatly.

The man’s hardened face shifted into a grin. “I must admit, the reports of ‘The War Dog’ piqued my interest—at first, purely for entertainment value. They say you cannibalized a pilot when you leapt onto his M.U. mid-air, climbed up it during the heat of battle, pried his helmet free with a crowbar, and fed upon him—seasoning his flesh with the foam.”

Cody nearly rolled his eyes at the exaggeration but kept his composure.

“They said that was your first pilot run. My spies also reported that you were intended to always be in a mid, but a trial run was ordered first. That’s when I became truly intrigued. ‘The War God,’ they called you—a Greek pantheon figure from an outlawed religion. Some still whisper that Ares himself has possessed you, forcing belief to rise again.”

He shook his head, turning to a scanner. “Blasphemers allowed to live—just another sign of how far your country has fallen. But we’ll cleanse it soon enough.”

Changing the subject abruptly, he asked, “Do you know of Acrylium?”

Cody wasn’t surprised by the sudden shift and braced for another long-winded speech.

The man continued, launching into what sounded like a lecture. “A combustible substance; It’s critical for acrylic acids—used in polymerization, medical applications like bone cement and dental prosthetics, and, most importantly, contact lenses. Ken Griffey Jr. unlocked its ocular potential. Red, blue, and yellow—the primary colors of sight. Predators see in red. Owls, the only birds capable of seeing blue hues, use it for night vision. Green is the sight given to prey. Yellow? Rare—only found in a few. Its adaptability enhances the vibrancy of the other colors. This isn’t public knowledge. Our spies in Japan died to provide us with this data—information Japan guards vigorously. That’s how we create mids today—though ours are still pale imitations of their true versions.”

He circled Cody like a predator, his calmness threatening to erupt into violence at any moment.

A scientist rushed in, holding a flash drive. Cody smirked internally at the outdated technology. “The Acrylium in his eyesight is off the charts,” the scientist stammered. “I’ve never seen readings this high before, sir.”

The man ignored him, continuing his monologue. “I sent a hundred of my best men, and you slaughtered them in droves. A hundred mid M.U.s. Where did you learn all these battle tricks?”

“I read manga,” Cody replied with a smirk, earning another slap.

“You read manga?” the man scoffed. “Living teaches more than books ever could, boy. Where have you been to learn what you know?”

“A kid in the West, growing up surrounded by close-minded, ignorant prejudice like you Vaticans. Seventeen years. Then prison—for twenty,” Cody said bluntly.

The man’s face twisted in surprise, then slowly into a grin. He chuckled, then laughed harder and harder, until a maddened edge seeped into his voice.

“Sir?” the scientist asked nervously.

“It explains everything. Everything.” He turned back to Cody. “Mr. Fin, I suspect we won’t be able to break you or make you talk. Prisoners develop a tolerance to mistreatment.” He clasped his hands behind his back. 

“But that doesn’t mean we won’t try. Are you familiar with the witch trials? We have a long history of…” He chuckled darkly before walking away, pocketing Cody’s razors like trophies.

Time blurred for Cody. Days? Weeks? Years? Without windows, the days melded into one endless stream of agony. Torture became routine—burning, branding, drowning, cutting, stabbing, electrocution. Trial by fire. Trial by metal. The methods of the witch trials revived for modern times.

His mouth was gagged, preventing him from speaking even if he’d wanted to. Madness would have claimed most men by now. But Cody had been tortured his entire life. Beaten, broken, abused. Pain was a constant companion.

You could say he’d already broken long ago.

Now, only the monster remained—and it screamed.