Sight, blurred. Visor, smeared with blood, mech straining to absorb the chitin piled over and across it.

Arms and legs, leaden, burning with the built-up lactic acid of a year and a day of piloting. 

Ears, full of the skittering susurration of a million billion legs, swarming around and past and over.

It's like, some of it is memory, and some of it is imagination, and she's not sure where the line starts and ends.

"But you're still happy to keep them around," she notes. "Still happy to benefit from what they create, willing to let them manage all our affairs, to arrange things so we never have to think about what life without them would be like. Happy to pay them nothing, and then repay them with annihilation when they're not convenient."

And she can see the logic? See where it started--see where things went wrong, see the horrible wrench that Zeus dropped into the gears. 

No, no, that's not right. The problem wasn't the lack of mind control. The problem started far earlier than that.

"You say they're smallpox. They're a threat. We're a threat for teaching them that they have rights, that they don't [i]have[/i] to brainwash themselves. We need to remind people how awful it would be if we were replaced in our own cultural model, if we lost.

"So why not have done? Why keep them around? You have no issue with genocide, so if they're so awful, if we're so terrible, why not just wipe them out? Start fresh! Begin a new, heroic era of nothing but the Azura, in every corner of the galaxy, doing nothing but Azura culture everywhere you look? What's stopping you?"