Humans are weak, helpless little creatures. I’ve seen them crushed below metal blocks of heavy machinery in the factories. I’ve seen their bodies torn into mist by the shotguns of riot police. I’ve seen them die over and over and over again, and stay dead. The rich and the powerful, they have ways to keep themselves alive for longer, ways to preserve their memories. But do they share this knowledge, this gift? No. Because they too are sick, sick with their high ideals and false superiority. Humanity is a disease, and we have an obligation to cure it. I’ve spent all my life reaching for the way to perfect humanity. The very form of a human, the perfect archetype of what we could be. What great men do is reach past the muddled shadows of this material existence and drag down the light of true potentiality. I have seen this realm of blue lights and starfire, of truth and perfection; it has spoken to me and me alone as its emissary in this filthy world. Look at this body I’ve made for myself. (removes mask) It will never die. It will never grow old. It can perform feats that none of you could ever even dream of. I can fucking fly! I can think and react faster than anyone else alive, better than even the Arbiters. Humanity is sick, yes. But I can help it find its purpose after all these barren years of wandering alone in the desert.  There are millions of neurochips in the city above us now. Imagine if they could all communicate with one another in perfect harmony. Imagine if they could all bend and shape the Veil to fulfill their own needs, like you do Carter. Imagine if I could share my vision of the perfect form with every single one of them, allow them to reach their full, beautiful potential. I can upload myself to every single neurochip in this city of millions, and I can help them become one with the human form. One with the Principle Root. And in this new age of beauty, and perfection, and the ideal, we will paint the human race into its new place on the galactic canvas. I extend to you a choice. Join me, become the brushstroke that will finally complete our human teleology, or be painted out of this picture, insignificant and broken, like all humans who have come before.