Esme: Why would he be so cold so uncaring as to let people suffer... when he had the power to change everything? I think you know the answer.

Esme: I have never seen such hatred. such pure, icy evil.

Esme: We're revolutionaries, the diamond warrior resistance. No people ever faced such an opportunity to decisively throw off false choices and lies...like you do here today!

Esme: It's your time to strike out at this evil! Or be engulfed by its prejudice forever.

Grant: You need to hear this Eugene. The lack of something to believe in has sent everyone down the boggy path of mysticism...with you in the title role.

Grant: The prime minister's name is Diaboloniana Beelzebubba for God's sake! and you play along with all this. These are mad times, Eugene! Mad!

Esme: But don't give in! I want you to imagine something...imagine that it doesn't matter if we're many or few, strong or weak...

Esme: ...the only thing that matters is if you believe in yourself. We'll rewrite history with a myth of our own!

Esme: All we have to do is love each other! We can imagine this dream together!

Esme: ...and by our clear-eyed vision we'll fight off this old blind god.

Esme: Because no power can be stronger than our imaginations! Not even the power of the telepath!

Grant: Hooray! Death to the telepath!

Xander: Hope, dream, imagine...and never a word about lifting a finger and doing any work.

Grant: This from the guy who creates golf courses with his mind.

Xander: Enough of this nonsense.

Narration(Grant): He hasn't said it any louder than when he was talking with me.

Narration(Grant): No bite in his voice, just that low fatherly tone...that makes me ridiculously proud of his progress.

Narration(Grant): There was a time when everyone would have been crucified along the roads lining the way to the palace.

Narration(Grant): But these folks are all too young to remember those days.

Narration(Grant): The signs stop waving. Every eye turns on him.

Narration(Grant): ...on the guy who is busy turning on the 'regular joe' charm...and suppressing the eerie reminders in everyone's minds...that he holds all their lives, --even the planet-- at his whim. ... as if he could have been anyone.

Narration(Grant): And he does nothing. He doesn't smite anyone with the plague. There'll be no reparative public relations campaign. No construction crews to fix the square.

Narration(Grant): He just stands there trying to look genuinely wounded. Peppering his hair a touch...and darkening those eyes down to an almost human level.

Narration(Grant): Self-consciously no doubt...with that crack she made about him being entirely white.

Xander: Well, go on. Go home.

Narration(Grant): And that was it. Over.