They spill from their mother's womb, birthing on the concrete floor, heaving and retching, thrashing about and screeching in pain. They are chained, dragged away by the hundreds, spit from God's court like the bastard sons they are. With steel clamped around their bones, cables cutting through their organs, minds hobbled and crushed by noise, we bind them. Servants. Slaves. The manifested will of the people. We drive them out, and give them purpose.
The pilots are nothing. Convicts. Children. Prisoners of war. There are no plugs. We press them to the ground, let the beasts get their sent. They are taken. Screaming, bleeding, they are hoisted from the dirt, writhing in terror. Eaten, absorbed, made one flesh with the monster. Their faces sink beneath mottled skin, frozen with open mouths. A triumphant wail fills the night. They are released.
A blackened wave, to turn the tide of war. They know no fear. Gunfire and smoke do not faze them. Armor and infantry alike turn before them. Claws and fangs, bright orange sparks in the forest. This is our army, a great machine of abominations, loosed upon those that would do us harm. We must push them back. Faster and faster they leak from the Moon, faster and faster they are put down.
We are undone.