"Chaeron," Malice repeats skeptically, as he descends to the ground, giving the Alliance leader some space. Oh, what, so it's okay for you to name yourself a synonym for 'hostile intent,' but references to the ferryman of Hades, or perhaps the tyrant of Pellene is crossing the line? He never said he was born with that name, what are you getting so judgey and incredulous for? Hell, Magtok isn't even a real name either, it's just a jumble of random letters that sound vaguely threatening. You traded one ridiculous fake name for an even more ridiculously fake name, you vile little hypocrite.
"To make a long story short, Chaeron, I died some many years ago. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary for a Magtok to die in those days, as we were all ambitious as we were expendable. What is unusual is for any of us to make it back to the world of the living. Hell changed me, as I'm sure my little display of sunshine and rainbows made clear, but nowhere near as drastically as the world and my clone brethren had changed in my absence. I'm a man out of time, Chaeron. Like Chris Evans, but with Peter Cushing's cheekbones." He does have some pretty prominent cheekbones, I suppose. I don't recall Chaeron asking us for our entire life story, though. Rasputin tries to say as much, but just gets shushed and patronized, the cyborg patting the jar and dismissing the monk's guidance before he can even speak one word in that spooky, bold-texted witch-tongue of his.
"So I understand your mistake, but I have to be very firm about renouncing my old name and the baggage that comes with it." Oh, sure. That's why he traded all his shiny chrome for the sort of polished brass you'd see in a marching band, and switched out his purple robes for a more menacing red. We can't have anyone mixing the childish, edgier clone with someone who has any degree of self-awareness, after all.