Trained for this since I was thirteen. Since I knew I had the power. Dedicated my life to becoming a hero. And only now, years later, do I see the fatal flaw -- the hero I created has no soul. No real reason to be a hero other than that's what I wanted to be. I was working the suit. Using just the right pitch in my voice as I barked orders and took command. Never really understanding that real heroes are often thrust into those roles by some tragedy... some pain in their lives. They don't just wake up one day and decide to put on a costume. The uniform means something to them... it's a symbol... a reminder of the price they've paid to wear it. Amazing how, in death, your vision crystallizes and you see clearly for the first time -- I have no right calling myself a hero. I don't even know the meaning of the word. And now, as death aproaches, I can only beg -- forgive me... please... teach me...
I respect you — admire you — but J'onn, I'm not a kid. Remember ... I was there ... in the beginning — with you and the League.
I don't know. I'm having real trouble imagining a world where he's a nice guy.
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