The problem does not lie with me. No indeed.

The problem lays with her. Oh yes, her.

You see, she's always whispering in my ear, in my head, telling me to let go and let her take over. She's always taunting, cajoling, sniping at my thoughts. There are times I don't think I can take another moment, another breath with her purring voice in my ears.

But still…

I hate admitting it, but the Bible says to pay Caesar what is due Caesar.

I admire her for her strength, her decisiveness. She never hesitates to do what is needed to get a job done. She inspires respect in the eyes of my good friend Heinkel, something that I still have difficulty in doing at times.

Sometimes I think that we are two sides of a person, separated by that car crash back when I was twenty. I remember waking up and being afraid of doing anything, hearing a voice like mine, yet not mine purring in my skull.

It was shortly after that when Father Maxwell approached me about serving the Vatican directly. I had been raised in a Catholic boarding school, my parents having died in the incident over Lockerbie. I took the position, serving as a researcher and cleric at first.

Then she reared her head, taking over my body. It was then that Maxwell transferred me to Section XIII, under his direct command, partnering me with Heinkel. He liked the fact that my meekness made me fit in perfectly with the nuns, all of us having taken vows of non-violence. I took to wearing glasses so people would know to whom they were talking to, which only served to help control her and heighten the illusion of meekness.

After all, who'd expect a nun to be the assassin after you?

But the hell of it is she doesn't live with the guilt of her actions. It's as though a conscience was ripped from her when she was formed. She revels in the violence, a true fanatic. Between her and Heinkel, there have never been survivors in the missions we have been sent on.

And for all that, I still envy her. Everyone in Iscariot respects her. No one respects me. After all, I'm just timid little Yumiko. Don't worry, she's harmless, wouldn't hurt a fly.

It makes me so angry at times; angry that I suffer in the eyes of my comrades because I don't lapse into killing rampages like Alex or Heinkel, that I'm not as fastidious as Maxwell, or as sly as Father Renaldo.

Sometimes I let her take over just so I can escape the pain. So I can escape the perceived dishonor of not matching the exploits of my compatriots.

Yumie, if you only knew how good you have it.

The problem does not lie with me. No indeed.

The problem lays with her. Oh yes, her.

You see, she's always afraid to do what's required by our doctrine, our dogma. She always wants to keep me under wraps, bound like a rabid dog. Sometimes I consider smashing those damned glasses that she wears, taking part of the control she has away. It was easier to slip free in those days before.

But still…

I guess I should give the devil his due. I envy her sometimes.

You see, if not for me, she would have lived a quiet life somewhere, possibly settled down and had a family now. She takes such joy in the simple things in life. A beautiful sunrise is all it takes to make her smile. Sometimes when I'm on a mission I'll catch myself staring at something or another just because she manages to take control long enough to see it, to admire it.

She is so laid back, so friendly that not a single person can dislike her. Yet she believes that everyone in Iscariot ridicules her for her lack of what makes me and the others such great assets.

She doesn't realize that all of us wish that we could have been like her.

There are things that she should hear, but when I am in control, she hides. If she were just to sit in the back of my mind like I do with her, she would hear so many things that would surprise her.

There are times that it strikes me that she isn't truly a member of Iscariot. That is my post, that I've just drug her along, involving her in my sins. And for that I am truly saddened. I don't give a damn about my soul. I don't know if I have one, really, being a separate personality of a pre-existing person. I don't suppose it really matters.


To be as carefree as she was before Section XIII, before Maxwell.

Before me.

Yumiko, I am sorry.

To thee I ask aloud, who art thou?

I am of the Legion of Jude Iscariot, I am an Iscariot.

Now I ask thee, Iscariot, what is it thou hast clutched in thy right hand?

I'm clutching the poison, I'm cluthcing the dagger.

Then Iscariot, I ask of thee, what doth thou grip firmly in thy left hand?

I'm grasping thirty pieces of silver, I'm grasping a halter made of straw.

Lo and behold, if that's the case, what are thee, Iscariot?

I am an apostle, yet not. A diciple yet not. A Believer yet not a believer. I am a traitor yet not a traitor. I am death, the minion of death. I humbly bow down and ask for forgiveness from my Lord, submitting myself in reverence of God, I shall vanquish all His foes. I am he who swings his dagger on a moonless night, who laces your dinner with poison. I am an assassin, one who has embraced the ways of Judas Iscariot. For my sins, when the time comes, I will cast the thirty pieces of silver into the temple and hang myself with the halter of straw. We shall band together, cabals, and plunge into the depths of Hades. We cohorts of the cloth, in ranks of five, shall form an agmen quadratum desiring to do battle with the 7,405,926 demons of Hell.

Of which I hold one within.

Apocalypse now.