Chapter 40 – Rest Day 5 (Part 2)
Cody moved silently through the trees, leaving behind the hidden clearing among the rocks. His knees were still dusty, his hair tangled with sweat, and his arms streaked with dirt from training.
The camp was still asleep. Only a few birds had begun their first trembling chirps among the branches.
He headed straight for the showers, crossing no one along the way. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of steam rising from one of the stalls—probably Chef testing the water pressure… or doing something Cody preferred not to imagine.
"Please don't let it be army soap again," Cody muttered, turning the faucet.
The water hit cold at first, like a bucket of reality, but soon warmed. He closed his eyes as the stream washed away the sweat, forest grime, and part of his fatigue.
He didn't think about Psycho. Or clones.
Just the present.
A moment of calm beneath the steady flow.
When he stepped out, the steam left his skin as if shedding weight. With a towel around his neck and his camp uniform neatly fitted, he smoothed his hair in front of the mirror—more out of habit than vanity—and stepped into the morning air.
The sky was just beginning to tint gold. The lake reflected the first pale blue, and a soft breeze rustled his freshly worn shirt.
Hands in his pockets, Cody walked the dirt path toward the mess hall. The cabin rose like a wooden monument in the mist. In the distance, he saw movement in the kitchen—probably Chef. Or a lake creature in an apron. Hard to tell this early.
He adjusted one of his fists, stretched his neck to one side, and as he reached the mess hall entrance, he murmured to himself:
"A decent breakfast, that's all I ask. And maybe… no bucket of dough falling from the ceiling like last time."
He pushed the door open.
And so another day began.
But this time, with the shadows behind him.
The wooden door creaked softly as Cody entered. The mess hall was nearly empty, except for one figure already settled at the central table. Seated with a metal tray and a steaming mug in hand, Chef Hatchet chewed slowly on an undercooked egg and read what looked like a crumpled military kitchen safety pamphlet.
On the table, right in front of the adjacent chair, sat a slightly burnt piece of toast and a cup of dark coffee waiting. Cody blinked.
"For me?" Cody asked as he stepped in.
Chef didn't look up. He just nodded with his chin while swallowing.
"Only because you're not lounging every morning with cereal and fruit cups," Chef said.
Cody smiled and sat across from him, grabbing the toast with hands still warm from the shower.
"Thanks. Really," Cody said.
He took a sip of the coffee. Strong, bitter, and… probably made with lake water, but it woke him up. They ate in silence for a few seconds, the sound of spoons and forks breaking the stillness of dawn.
"Saw you head out earlier. Training again, huh?" Chef asked in a neutral tone, like tossing a line to see if it caught anything.
Cody lowered the toast, wiped his fingers on the napkin, and leaned in.
"Daily routine. Stretching, cardio, explosive work, some functional resistance… the usual. Today I added rock drills, unstable planks, improvised suspension work with branches. Full body."
Chef squinted.
"Infantry training?" he asked.
"Adapted. Navy SEAL style—but without the constant yelling and gallons of mud," Cody replied.
There was a pause.
Chef let out a deep laugh, something between a chuckle and a bark.
"I've seen plenty of these kids run three laps around the cabin and think they're ready for war… But you…" Chef pointed at Cody with his fork. "You're nuts. I like that."
Cody shrugged.
"Sometimes you've got to push past the limit to find out what you're made of," he said.
Chef set down his fork, took a long sip from his mug, and nodded with exaggerated gravity.
"I respect you, kid. Still think most of you are half-ruined by television… but you… you're half-ruined with method," Chef said.
They both laughed.
Chef stood first, rubbing his hands together.
"Come on. Time for the rest of camp to complain about what we're serving. And I need someone who can beat eggs without crying," Chef said.
"I'll grab the aprons," Cody replied, setting his mug aside and stretching his shoulders.
Together they headed into the kitchen, surrounded by squeaky utensils, rusty pots, and the first scent of burnt breakfast floating in the air.
And between jokes, toast, and coffee… the day began.
A skillet crackled in the morning silence as Cody stirred oatmeal with a wooden ladle. Beside him, Chef tossed the first eggs onto the griddle like he was building a barricade made of food.
"Got a favorite war movie?" Cody asked suddenly, lighthearted. "Something like Saving Private Ryan, or more Rambo-style explosions?"
Chef snorted.
"Favorite war movie? Easy. Commando, with Arnold… pure art," Chef said.
"That's the one where he throws a pipe through someone's chest and says he left them ventilated?" Cody laughed.
"Exactly!" Chef raised a spatula like a weapon. "That was cinema. No tears, no trauma. Just muscle, explosives, and memorable lines. And no computers!"
Cody mentally took note.
"So the criteria's simple: if there's sweat and gratuitous violence, it's a masterpiece," Cody said.
"Now you understand the quality standard," Chef affirmed, dropping another batch of bacon onto the griddle.
Silence settled for a few more seconds, until Cody asked:
"And back then, did you have any… movie crushes? You know, poster-on-the-wall kind of thing?"
Chef laughed with a mix of surprise and nostalgia.
"One? I had four. Linda Hamilton in Terminator, Phoebe Cates in Gremlins, Lisa Bonet in anything… and of course, Princess Leia," Chef said.
"Carrie Fisher with the cinnamon bun hair!" Cody exclaimed, amused.
"Hey, don't judge the style. Back then, that was space elegance," Chef said.
"No, no, she's got my respect. Though now all we get are filters and prefab poses," Cody said.
Chef nodded with exaggerated gravity.
"Back then, you fell in love with less… resolution," Chef said.
They both laughed as breakfast took shape around them. The mess hall was still empty. Just the two of them, the sound of utensils, and the increasingly steady aroma of coffee and toast.
After a while, as Cody lined up the trays, his tone dropped slightly.
"You know? At home I never had to share the kitchen. My parents worked so much they practically lived off the microwave," Cody said.
Chef looked up, without interrupting his task.
"Always been that way?" Chef asked.
"Since I can remember," Cody said, still keeping his rhythm. "Good people, yeah. But always busy. Endless shifts. Sometimes it felt like I lived with their schedules, not with them."
He didn't say it with resentment. More like someone recounting a chapter that had already ended. With distance.
"Most would say that kind of thing leaves a mark on a kid," Chef murmured, setting the spatula aside.
"Maybe," Cody replied, shrugging. "But it didn't break me. I learned to do things on my own. To use silence. To understand that if no one was going to tell my story… I had to write it myself."
Chef watched him a moment longer, then nodded.
"Most people stay stuck in what's missing. You build from it. That… they don't teach in school or at the dinner table," Chef said.
"You learn it in the early mornings and empty stoves," Cody said as he filled the last tray with oatmeal.
The sound of the mess hall doors interrupted them. Sleepy voices, heavy footsteps. The herd was approaching.
Chef raised the ladle like a battle signal.
"Time to feed the savages."
Cody grinned, adjusting his apron.
"Let's give them their dose of protein… with pop culture commentary included."
And without drama, without ceremony, he began to serve.
While the words lingered in the air, like the scent of freshly toasted bread.
The smell of toast and coffee was already floating through the room as campers began to arrive one by one, hair still messy and faces bearing the look of survivors from a night on wooden mattresses.
The first ones rushed toward breakfast like they hadn't eaten in days. Others, slower, still yawned in line while their eyes scanned the trays for the least burnt option.
Cody had already served himself and sat near a window, where the morning light drew faint lines across his tray. His shirt sleeves were still a bit wrinkled, his hair damp from the shower, but his expression was calm, relaxed… complete.
Noah, with his usual disinterested air, arrived and dropped onto the bench to Cody's left with a dramatic sigh.
"Today's mystery: what percentage of this is actual food?" Noah asked.
On the other side, Owen arrived carrying a mountain of breakfast that looked ready to collapse at any moment. He sat to Cody's right without hesitation.
"Good morning, breakfast and best friends!" Owen said enthusiastically before biting into something clearly inedible.
Cody gave a grateful smile. Amid the noise and trays, having Noah and Owen right beside him felt like a natural defensive line against the storm that was coming.
And sure enough—it came.
Gwen, Bridgette, Courtney, and even Heather walked through the entrance at that moment. Each one, upon spotting the table, sharpened their gaze.
It was a brief moment, charged with silent tension. The girls exchanged glances among themselves, then looked at Cody… and then at those sitting beside him.
Courtney narrowed her eyes.
Bridgette paused mid-step.
Gwen simply raised an eyebrow, not breaking stride.
The reactions didn't go unnoticed by Noah, who lifted his mug with exaggerated elegance.
"Want to switch seats?" Noah whispered to Cody with irony. "Or do we declare open war now?"
Cody smiled, taking a calm sip of his coffee.
"Don't move. If I survive this, I get free breakfast for a week," Cody said.
Owen just kept chewing happily, oblivious to the social earthquake unfolding.
"What are you guys talking about? Today the oatmeal actually tastes like… oatmeal! That's progress!" Owen said.
As the mess hall filled with voices, silverware, and laughter, Cody leaned back slightly on the bench, letting the sun hit his face.
They could signal to Noah and Owen, discuss nonverbal strategies, and exchange glances layered with sarcasm… but in that moment, he was at peace.
And honestly, there was no better way to start the day.
The campers' chatter filled the mess hall like a gentle wave. Plates sliding across tables, cutlery clinking, bursts of laughter. But in a corner near the window, between the steam of coffee and the golden morning light, three figures chatted without rush or drama.
Cody smiled, elbow resting on the table, while Owen devoured his second bowl of oatmeal and Noah twirled his spoon in the air without touching it.
"I swear, that time I almost died because of a grandma," Cody said, laughing. "I was like ten. Joined an online match, forgot to lower the laptop volume and… boom. She thought I was watching satanic stuff. 'What are those screams? That's not music!'"
Owen burst out laughing, oatmeal flying dangerously.
"Old ladies and gamers! Great combo. Did the grandma survive?" Owen asked.
"I did. The laptop didn't," Cody replied.
Noah raised an eyebrow.
"That's nothing. Once my mom caught me rehearsing a Hamlet scene in front of the mirror. I was in full intensity mode, toy skull and everything. She thought I'd joined a cult. Called me to the kitchen for an intervention," Noah said.
"And what did you do?" Cody asked, amused.
Noah shrugged.
"Recited the whole monologue at dinner. To be or not to be—with mashed potatoes. I think she gave up," Noah said.
Owen chimed in, pointing at his empty plate.
"I once entered a contest to eat the most ice cream without using hands. I was up against two huge guys and won by… sliding," Owen said.
"Sliding?" Cody asked.
"I slipped on the floor, face-planted into the tub, and finished it by accident! Everyone cheered. No one noticed I didn't breathe for sixteen seconds," Owen said.
Cody laughed out loud. Even Noah let out a brief chuckle.
The conversation flowed without filters. No need to impress, compete, or justify. Just sharing moments. Weird, silly, irrelevant to the world… but real to them.
"You know?" Noah said, spinning his mug between his fingers. "I thought I'd hate being here. But having breakfast with you two… makes it tolerable."
"That's the most emotional thing you'll say this week, right?" Cody joked.
"Absolutely. I'm emotionally reserved until Friday," Noah said.
Owen raised his spoon like a toast.
"To us. The most improbable but functional trio in this camp," Owen said.
Cody clinked his mug against the spoon. Noah just moved his mug two centimeters and nodded, elegant as ever.
Three guys, in a ridiculous camp, sharing breakfast like the world wasn't full of drama waiting to explode.
And for a moment… it wasn't.
Bridgette stirred her oatmeal absentmindedly while glancing at Katie, who had her head buried in her crossed arms, letting out another soft sob for the umpteenth time that morning. Her eyes were swollen, cheeks red and damp. Beside her, Courtney sipped her coffee impatiently, her expression shifting between annoyance and total emotional exhaustion.
"You cried all night. I didn't even hear the crickets because of you…" Courtney muttered dryly.
Katie didn't respond. Just buried her face deeper into her sleeves.
Bridgette had her suspicions. She'd spent all night trying to comfort her with soft words, hugs, even absurd stories about dolphins reconciling in the ocean. Nothing worked. And Courtney, though she'd never admit it, was emotionally drained.
Then a different laugh drifted into the scene.
Bridgette looked up.
Across the mess hall, Cody, Owen, and Noah were sharing a loud breakfast full of absurd anecdotes. Cody laughed openly, his face lit by the soft light from the window. Noah, with his elegant sarcasm, spun his mug while Owen told another improbable story with his mouth full of bread.
The laughter was natural. Alive. Warm. And in that moment… Bridgette had an idea.
She turned to Katie with a different expression.
Thoughtful.
"Hey…" Bridgette said softly.
Katie barely lifted her head, eyes still teary.
"What if… I let someone else make you smile? Just for a little while…" Bridgette said.
Courtney raised an eyebrow.
"Don't tell me you're bringing her another emotional support pet," Courtney said.
Bridgette replied with a calm smile, watching Cody laugh at something Owen had said.
"No. This time… I've got someone better," Bridgette said.
And with that, the scene began to shift.
Because Bridgette knew Cody didn't need to know exactly what to say.
Just be there.
And sometimes, that was enough to start healing.
The mess hall was full of life. Half-empty pots, warm plates, overlapping conversations, and clinking cutlery like part of a poorly rehearsed morning symphony. At a table by the window, away from the loudest noise, Cody, Owen, and Noah were still eating, completely absorbed in a debate that had lasted over ten minutes.
"No contest," Cody said, sipping his coffee. "Koragg. The wolf warrior. Antihero with mystical armor, lightning sword, rides a demonic unicorn… how do you top that?"
Noah raised an eyebrow, stroking his chin in mock analysis.
"And you think a guy named after dog food is better than the original Green Ranger?" Noah tilted his head. "Tommy was a student, a leader, had Saba, changed colors more often than a magic stone…"
Cody cut him off with a grin.
"Yeah, but Tommy was everything. Green, white, red… by the end he looked like he was sponsored by a traffic light."
Owen, who until then had been focused on stealing bacon from his own tray, raised his hand as if casting a vote in congress.
"Let me tell you something, traitors to emotional justice!" Owen said, pointing with his fork like it was a magic wand. "The best Power Ranger was Dustin. The yellow one. From Ninja Storm. He had a yellow motorcycle, they said he was slow, but he always saved the day! A true hero of the people."
Noah glanced sideways at him.
"You base your respect on the fact that the guy had a yellow motorcycle?" Noah said.
"And serious style on the track," Owen added enthusiastically. "Like a motocross artist. A legend!"
Cody leaned his elbow on the table, entertained.
"Dustin was fun. But I prefer the ones who command with silence. Koragg had presence. Darkness. An aura. And he never needed to shout to win a fight," Cody said.
Noah took a slow sip from his mug and nodded with theatrical calm.
"Typical of you. The guy who trains in secret and picks characters that look like villains. No surprise," Noah said.
"Hey! He was an honorable warrior, with his own code," Cody replied, half smiling. "Besides, could any of yours take on the whole team solo and win?"
"Yes," Noah murmured with scientific certainty. "With dramatic dialogue and practical effects. Elegance above all."
While they debated, Owen tried to remember how many Rangers had been professional chefs.
"I'm pretty sure one of them cooked. Maybe the Samurai Green. Or the Blue one… or at least knew how to fry nuggets," Owen said.
Cody burst out laughing.
"Owen, your criteria is whether they can make breakfast?" Cody said.
"It's an essential talent for saving the world! Picture it: lava monster shows up—who's making pancakes for the team before the fight?" Owen said.
From afar, a few glances began to turn in their direction. Not because they were loud, but because the laughter was real—and it showed.
Without realizing it, they had become a warm little island in a mess hall still marked by eliminations, tension, and half-digested silence.
And just as Owen was about to justify why the Pink Ranger from Wild Force had the best "dodge moves," something caught Cody's attention.
A calm, blonde figure was approaching from the far end of the mess hall with a direct stride and a soft gaze.
Bridgette.
And the atmosphere began to shift.