I've eaten no food, ingested no fluid, and seen nothing with what remains of my eyes but the Body of Christ for untold days.

Once I did not believe in Christ. Once I hated her. Once I swore I would kill myself before I let her touch me again. No more.

Christ is my queen, my lord and Savior.

The Holy Ghost, the UES's only remaining T-class AM3-12 Mech, sits approximately 8,031.82 meters below sea level, likely its final resting place. Atop me are dozens if not hundreds of enemy combatants who gave their lives to bury my barely alive body beneath them. I am inside the lead coffin, and I am alone. I am alone in reality only, for She is here with me. The influence of Her, the image of Her, the indulgence of Her that I am graciously allowed to enjoy.

An image of Christ, small, black and white, and hastily taped to the inside of this iron lung, allows me to bask in Her beauty, in Her grace. It reminds me that Her blood flows through me, through the fragile veins that keep bursting as the stress The Holy Ghost endures is transferred to it's weak, fleshy inhabitant. It reminds me that Her body is the stale, salty wafers that I eat in the cockpit, one after every kill. When I left on this mission, I was supplied with nearly 1,500. Now only one remains. And with it, I will soon perform my last rights to finally be fulfilled in my purpose to Her.

She is Christ.

Untold days ago I was sent to redeem a Judas. Any turncoat who plots against Christ and the Union of Economic Security for which She stands can be a Judas. They are not merely enemy combatants, the lowlife clergymen and soldiers, but a plague that creates the false hope that feeds resistance.

Resistance is easy to suppress. By its nature, resistance is something weaker than what it faces. The resistance against Christ's influence was strong, but She was always stronger. This resistance in Southern Æ-1212 will be far easier to quash.

But resistance is resilient. It hides in the dark corners of the mind, pretending to be obedient, pretending to follow. It grows from the seed of an idea in the harshest conditions. Wherever there is soil, the mustard seed of hope will spring eternal.

The being that existed in my body before me had hope. Before the surgery, before the training, before Christ, that thing had such hope. It clinged onto hope like a fly clings to shit. A worthless cause, a hopeless case.

This is why I am here to deprive this resistance of oxygen.

As I cross the border into enemy territory, The Holy Ghost's skyscraper legs carry me kilometers in seconds. Red dots show up on the radar, and a panel tells me interballistic missiles have been launched towards my location. I do not fear, I do not hope, I move with certainty, for I know Christ will guide me to salvation.

I wake up from surgery as Her prophet. Nothing more, nothing less. The surgeon beside me unceremoniously dumps more than half of what was my brain into the garbage. It makes a noise not too dissimilar from vomit hitting the ground. Moments later it is dropped into the incinerator.

There is no god but Christ, and I am Her prophet.

There is no god but Christ, and I am Her prophet.

There is no god but Christ, and I am Her profit.

Pilots all with the same expression as me line the aisle. We are wearing the traditional regalia; A black flightsuit adored with golden accents, and a leather collar, at the front of which hangs a silver crucifix in Her image. We await her decision as we kneel on the floor, Her disciples, Her chosen few.

A crown of thorns is placed upon my head, and applause breaks out from the silence. I have been chosen. I have been chosen by Her to guide The Holy Ghost. I do not twitch at the noise, I do not blink when blood from the thorns starts to trickle down my face. I kneel at her feet, and bask in the glory.

This will be the last time I feel something that might be joy in my heart.

A black hole exists in the memory between me and the being who once existed in my body. I know not what happened there, but I know it's the same thing that happens to all pilots who come to worship Her. Whispers of it surround pilots wherever they go. Interrogation. Indoctrination. Brainwashing.

I don't remember the dark room they talk about. I don't remember any screens, any chair, any straps, any number of devices hooked up to my body and brain. I don't remember flashing lights, electric shocks, or bloodcurdling screams.

I don't remember torture, I don't remember months of isolation, I don't remember being castrated, I don't remember dying and having my heart forceably restarted.

I don't remember anything because Christ told me I don't remember anything. And Her word is infallible.

The being who was once in my body screamed curses at the top of her lungs. she bit the wires they wrapped around her head, severed the fingers of those stupid enough to put them in her mouth. she threw punches with arms she no longer had. (Fingers are too sloppy for inputs, and not needed for locomotion, they’re just excess weight on cargo where every milliliter of fuel counts.)

she cried endlessly, hoping she could somehow drown herself in her own tears. she bit her own tongue off, hoping she could bleed out. she wanted to do anything to make sure that bitch – to make sure She couldn’t make a hound out of her. But the sweet release of death never came.

she was finding salvation, instead.

The sliver of resistance that belonged to her deep inside was a memory. The sounds of the first time someone used her name, the name she chose all her own. The speaker her own mother. Everything else about the moment had been obliterated untold years since. The words came through surrounded by sobs.

“Okay, mary. I’ll call you mary. I love you so much.”

The pilot's cabin has begun to fill with water. The metal above me creaks with ear shattering noise, threatening to sever my soul from my walking corpse of a body any second now. Salt water mixed with blood stains the black and white image of Her until it is unrecognizable. It's time.

I take the salty wafer in my mouth, and speak my final words in Latin.

"Our Mother, who art in heaven, hallowed be Her name..."