I take a breath as I am released onto the battlefield. My higher-ups wish for me to demonstrate to the rest of the soldiers what it means to kill. All I’ve ever been ordered to do was kill. I soar over my enemies, camouflaged in the jet black sky. Kill them all, they say. Don’t leave any left. Even if one is incapacitated, kill them. I feel uncomfortable in my skin. Is it even my own anymore? I can’t think about that right now. Remember what the master told you. Solidify your strike to finish the job with no loose ends. As the last enemy falls to their knees, I feel an uneasy feeling in my chest, all the blood soaked into my wings. Am I only alive to kill others?