They call me Polytheism Joe

Recovered memory fragments of a Helminth-strain "Jade" Warframe.

OPERATOR IO'S ORBITER. SOMATICS CHAMBER. UNKNOWN ERA.

Little one…

Do you still hear me? I am barely the woman I was, nor the weapon Ballas made me. I do not know if I am her. I do not know if I am anyone at all.

My little one… Did you wait for me? Did you dream in the Void, wrapped in the love of your first mother’s promise? Did she give her life to deliver you into her beloved Sorren's arms? When I woke, I did not feel you stir. All I felt stir inside me was that pool of Jade Light waiting to be unleashed.

I remember flesh that is not swordsteel. I remember hands pressing against my swollen belly, whispering lullabies in the gilded halls of the Orokin. I remember wearing a face that was not one of war, and I remember wearing another face more kind than the one I wear now. This child gave me a new skin: black and bronze, not her white and pink. So I am not her.

They call me Jade. A name that is not my own. A name that the first one carried. I am not her. I wish for a name that is not hers. Perhaps they should call me Nephrite.

I should hate this child, for bringing me to life. A twisted facsimile of a Mother that shouldn't have been, with most of her memories but lacking the child she loves. But when I touched that scarred child, and they heaved a sob beneath the mask that covers most of their face— oh how they curled beneath my hand and wept for a mother who was taken many centuries ago, and another that is as distant as she is beloved.

I thought, maybe this is the part of her I still carry. That unending love a mother carries for her children.

My little one… If you are still somewhere out there… if the first mother really kept you alive for your father to protect know this:

I remember you.

And I will sit here, cradling the one who woke me in steel arms and soft feathers, and I will teach them how to be held. Show them the love they have been denied.

Oh, but had the artisan who made me created me instead – a worthy woman... ...I would say "how lucky am I"

Father in heaven who did miracles for our ancestors with fire and water... ...Who would then transform me from a man to woman? Were I only to have merited this being so graced by goodness...

What shall I say? why cry or be bitter? If my father in heaven has decreed upon me and has maimed me with an immutable deformity then I do not wish to remove it. the sorrow of the impossible is a human pain that nothing will cure and for which no comfort can be found. So, I will bear and suffer until I die and wither in the ground. Since I have learned from our tradition that we bless both, the good and the bitter I will bless in a voice hushed and weak: blessed are you [HaShem] who has not made me a woman.