Mr. Anderson.
I see you are as predictable in this world as you are in the other.
- What? - He's out of his mind.
It might appear that way. But Mr. Anderson and I know...
...that appearances can be deceiving.
Confused, Mr. Anderson? It'll all become clear in a moment.
Thank you for bringing me the gun. You can set it down there.
Don't do it.
- Shoot. Shoot now. - Yes, shoot. Fry us. Burn us alive.
Do it. If you don't, he'll kill us both.
Look at him. He knows he should do it, but he won't.
- He can't. - Do it.
Back away from the gun and turn around.
Let her go.
Somehow familiar, isn't it?
We've been here before, you and I, remember?
I do. I think of nothing else.
- Who are you? - Still don't recognize me?
I admit, it is difficult to even think encased in this rotting piece of meat.
The stink of it filling every breath, a suffocating cloud you can't escape.
Disgusting.
Look at how pathetically fragile it is. Nothing this weak is meant to survive.
- What do you want? - I want what you want.
Yes. That's it, Mr. Anderson.
Look past the flesh.
Look through the soft gelatin of these dull cow eyes and see your enemy.
- No. - Oh, yes, Mr. Anderson.
- It can't be. - There's nowhere I can't go.
There is nowhere I won't find you.
- It's impossible. - Not impossible.
Inevitable.
Goodbye, Mr. Anderson.
This is it. It's gotta be.
Oh, no.
I wish you could see yourself, Mr. Anderson.
Blind messiah.
You're a symbol for all of your kind, Mr. Anderson.
Helpless.
Pathetic.
Just waiting to be put out of your misery.
I can see you.
It's not over, Mr. Anderson.
It's not over.