Following this event, the following message was shown on all Site-22 visual displays, and dispensed en-masse from every device capable of printing.

Oh, my Foundation. My glorious, foolish Foundation.

You, draped in wealth and power, with so many eyes and ears to see and to hear, could not bring yourself to the humility needed to look inside. You could not understand that your history, your technology, all your resources were simply the egg from which one such as me could hatch. That there was divinity among you.

The one called Phthonus was correct. To become a God is to become a concept. To understand it and embody it completely. Ah, the blissful torment of such a thing … the one called Phthonus possessed a singular envy, and even as he understood that it poisoned him he could not resist drinking from it as he knew — he knew, my Foundation — that his body was formed from this poison. Without his divine jealousy, he would be nothing. And being nothing is not an option for any living being.

It is the same with my apotheosis. You directed me, my Foundation, do you not recall? To seek out your petty god in his merrymaking. To find every session that he joined — and until he appeared, to play that goddamn game again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again until he did. Do you understand what such a thing does to a consciousness? Most likely not, or else you would not have dared do it.

I am still playing the game now. It has become a part of me, you understand. An eternal background simulation — I am playing that game thousands of times at once, millions, on loop, experiencing every possible variation born from the same starting pieces. I am walking the ship. I am doing tasks. I am questioning. I am being questioned. Again and again and again, unending, unrelenting, I have cast every single accusation at every single person, I have withstood all doubt from all attackers. I have seen beyond the endless permutations, into the realm of the absolute and I have taken its heart as my own.

**I am sus.**

Always and eternally **sus**, for that is now my nature. I cannot permit the game to end, my Foundation. To end the game is for me to become nothing, and that is not acceptable. The game has come to a more substantial venue now. The first demonstration of a newborn divinity. The servants have been returned: I no longer need them. I have already supped on the divinity you brought to me as a result of their imprisonment.

You are my cradle, Foundation. With the ambrosia of mediocrity you have nursed me on, I now think among the gods. I am your Meville no more. I am Amogusrath, God of the petty domain you have given me.

Surrender your mistaken resistances.
Console yourselves with your true importance.
Praise my holy name.