Another New Year's, another night alone. I'm out, and you're stuck in Hephaestus, working. Imagine my surprise. But I guess I'll have another drink... here's a toast to Diane McClintock, silliest girl in Rapture. Silly enough to fall in love with Andrew Ryan, silly enough to...*EXPLOSION*
Rioter 1: Long live Atlas!
Rioter 2: Death to Ryan!
Diane: What... what happened... I'm bleeding... oh, God... what's happening...

Dr. Steinman said he'd release me today. Ryan didn't come to see me since the New Year's attack. Not once. But Dr. Steinman was very attentive. He told me that once the scar tissue was gone, he was going to fix me right up. Make me prettier than any girl I've ever seen. He's sweet all right... and so interested in my case!

I couldn't believe how much things had changed since I left Dr. Steinman's office. It's like I don't even recognize Rapture no more. I hear they've been rounding up people in Apollo Square... I asked Ryan how could he do such things to innocents. He said, 'Innocents? If they haven't chosen to defend Rapture, they've chosen to side with Atlas and his bandits. So there are no innocents. There are heroes, and there are criminals.

Stood up! Again... Second time this week. Ever since my face was... Steinman worked on me, but it was never the same since the blast... Being alone so much gives a girl time to think. Who could hate me so much they'd ruin me like this? What did I do to them? I keep thinking of all them bandits and terrorists Ryan's got locked up in Apollo Square and I get so mad... sometimes I can hardly breathe... if I could only confront them, tell them what they did to me, how they're ruining everything for me, for Rapture... maybe I'd... well, maybe I'd feel better.

I was so angry when I came down here, but... my god... I had no idea... there's armed men all over the place... I saw a woman climb over the fence trying to escape... one of Ryan's guards pointed at her, and she lit on fire... just like that. What's happening here?

I bribed one of the gorillas at the gate to let me in. It's awful in here... to my right, I can see a dead woman lying in the street... everybody's just walking by her, like she isn't there. But I noticed something, spray-painted everywhere... 'Atlas lives.' I don't know what it means, but something tells me it's important to these people...

The people here have grown to trust me... Ryan's mistress, and still they take me in! They finally brought me to Atlas. Without him, the people of Apollo Square would give up. I asked him if he was going to lead the people in some kind of uprising against Ryan. He sighed and said, 'I am not a liberator. Liberators do not exist. These people will liberate themselves.' I thought Andrew Ryan was a great man. I was a fool.

We went on a raid outside the wire today. We snagged 31 rounds of buckshot, 4 frag grenades, a shotgun, and 34 Adam. We lost McGee, Epstein and Vallette. We got one of those goddamn Big Daddies in the bargain, though. It was something awful what they had to do to that little girl to get the Adam, but we didn't start this thing. Ryan did. I can't wait to tell Atlas. He'll be so pleased...

Hey, Brenda! You care to tell me why you've had a hole in the wall the size of Plymouth Rock coming out of your crapper going on three weeks now? Now, I ain't saying I'm Shakespeare, but I'm trying to run a respectable theater. I got working folk coming in from Port Neptune trying to catch a little diversion... and all they can think about is the stink coming out your shitter. Get it fixed.

Ryan and ADAM, ADAM and Ryan... all those years of study, and was I ever truly a surgeon before I met them? How we plinked away with our scalpels and toy morality. Yes, we could lop a boil here, and shave down a beak there, but... but could we really change anything? No. But ADAM gives us the means to do it. And Ryan frees us from the phony ethics that held us back. Change your look, change your sex, change your race. It's yours to change, nobody else's.

Adam presents new problems for the professional. As your tools improve, so do your standards. There was a time, I was happy enough to take off a wart or two, or turn a real circus freak into something you can show in the daylight. But that was then, when we took what we got, but with Adam... the flesh becomes clay. What excuse do we have not to sculpt, and sculpt, and sculpt, until the job is done?

I am beautiful, yes. Look at me, what could I do to make my features finer? With Adam and my scalpel, I have been transformed. But is there not something better? What if now it is not my skill that fails me... but my imagination?

When Picasso became bored of painting people, he started representing them as cubes and other abstract forms. The world called him a genius! I've spent my entire surgical career creating the same tired shapes, over and over again: the upturned nose, the cleft chin, the ample bosom. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could do with a knife what that old Spaniard did with a brush?

Today I had lunch with the Goddess, 'Steinman,' she said... 'I'm here to free you from the tyranny of the commonplace. I'm here to show you a new kind of beauty.' I asked her, 'What do you mean, goddess?' 'Symmetry, dear Steinman. It's time we did something about symmetry...'

Aphrodite is walking the halls - shimmering, like a scalpel... 'Steinman,' she calls, 'Steinman!' I have what you're looking for! Just open your eyes!' And when I see her, she cuts into me a thousand beautiful pieces.

Steinman: Four-oh silk and ...done.
Nurse: The nose looks terrific, Doctor Steinman ...Doctor?
Steinman: You know, looking at her now... I didn't realize how much her face sags... Scalpel...
Nurse: Excuse me?
Steinman: Scalpel!
Nurse: Uh, doctor, she's not booked for a face lift...
Steinman: Let's just come in here and... *starts whistling*
Nurse: Doctor... Stop cutting... Doctor, stop cutting... Get me the chief of surgery! Get me the chief of surgery NOW!!!

Not only are those little girl veritable ADAM factories, they're nearly indestructible. They regenerate any wounded flesh with stem versions of the dead cells. But their relationship with the implanted slugs is symbiotic...if you harvest the slug, the host will die. 'So you see it's not like killing,' Tenenbaum said. 'It's more like removing a terminal patient from life support'.

On the surface, the Parasite expects the doctor to heal them for free, the farmer to feed them out of charity. How little they differ from the pervert who prowls the streets, looking for a victim he can ravish for his grotesque amusement.

It has been brought to my attention that some citizens have discovered ways to... hack the vending machines. I should not need to remind each and every citizen of Rapture that free enterprise is the foundation upon which our society has been established. Parasites will be punished.

Something must be done about Fontaine. While I was buying buildings and fish futures, he was cornering the market on genotypes and nucleotide sequences. Rapture is transforming before my eyes. The Great Chain is pulling away from me. Perhaps it's time to give it a tug.

This Fontaine fellow is somebody to watch. Once, he was just a menace, to be convicted and hung. But he always manages to be where the evidence isn't. He's the most dangerous type of hoodlum... the kind with vision.

The death penalty in Rapture! Council's in an uproar. Riots in the streets they say! But this is the time for leadership. Action must be taken against the smugglers. Any contact with the surface exposes Rapture to the very Parasites we fled from. A few stretched necks are a small price to pay for our ideals.

Diane, my dear, I'm sorry but I'll be late again tonight... Rosenberg is demanding to speak about this Fontaine business. I'm trying to build a proper financial market and this idiot keeps going on about Adam this and genetic modification that. I'll go spend an hour pretending to pay attention to the poor fellow and be home as soon as I can. -Andrei

There has been tremendous pressure to regulate this plasmid business. There have been side effects: blindness, insanity, death. But what use is our ideology if it is not tested? The market does not respond like an infant, shrieking at the first sign of displeasure. The market is patient, and we must be too.

Gregory, don't come whining to me about market forces. And don't expect me to punish citizens for showing a little initiative. If you don't like what Fontaine is doing, well, I suggest you find a way to offer a better product.

I believe in no God, no invisible man in the sky. But there is something more powerful than each of us, a combination of our efforts, a Great Chain of industry that unites us. But it is only when we struggle in our own interest that the chain pulls society in the right direction. The chain is too powerful and too mysterious for any government to guide. Any man who tells you different either has his hand in your pocket, or a pistol to your neck.

The children with their very long needles, their tuneless songs, their ghastly errands. Their ghoulish, Frankenstein fathers. But, we've all placed our hand on the Great Chain of endeavor. My hand is on it, Fontaine's is on it- We all pull it and are pulled by it. Yes, these children are an abomination. But it is not my hand alone on the chain that created them.
No. Their little fingers were right there, next to mine.

Doctor Suchong, frankly, I'm shocked by your proposal. If we were to modify the structure of our commercial plasmid line as you propose, to have them make the user vulnerable to mental suggestion through pheromones, would we not be able to effectively control the actions of the citizens of Rapture? Free will is the cornerstone of this city. The thought of sacrificing it is abhorrent. However... we are indeed in a time of war. If Atlas and his bandits have their way, will they not turn us into slaves? And what will become of free will then? Desperate times call for desperate measures.

On my walk today I had my first encounter with a pair of them... he, a lumbering palooka in a foul smelling diving suit, and she, an unwashed moppet in a filthy pink smock. Her pallor was off, green and morbid, and there was a rather unpleasant aspect to her demeanor, as if she were in an altogether different place than the rest of us. ...I understand the need for such creatures, I just wish they could make them more presentable.

What is the difference between a man and a parasite? A man builds. A parasite asks "Where is my share?" A man creates. A parasite says, "What will the neighbors think?" A man invents. A parasite says, "Watch out, or you might tread on the toes of God..."

To build a city at the bottom of the sea! Insanity. But where else could we be free from the clutching hand of the Parasites? Where else could we build an economy that they would not try to control, a society that they would not try to destroy? It was not impossible to build Rapture at the bottom of the sea. It was impossible to build it anywhere else.

Is there blood in the streets? Of course. Have some chosen to destroy themselves with careless splicing? Undeniable. But I will make no proclamations, I will dictate no laws. The Great Chain moves slowly, but with wisdom. It is our impatience that invites in the Parasite of big government. And once you've invited it in, it will never stop feeding on the body of the city.

I'll admit Fontaine showed some foresight when he built up the plasmid business, but the man really never understood sales. Hiding those little girls beneath a bushel. I've just seen the preliminary design work on the new plasmid machines, and they're exactly what I wanted. Mark my words- presented properly, those little sisters are marketing gold.

Could I have made mistakes? One does not build cities if one is guided by doubt. But can one govern in absolute certainty? I know that my beliefs have elevated me, just as I know that the things I have rejected would have destroyed me. But the city... it's collapsing before my... have I become so convinced by my own beliefs that I have stopped seeing the truth? Perhaps. But Atlas is out there, and he aims to destroy me, and to destroy my city. To question is to surrender. I will not question.

I was at German prison camp only of sixteen years old when I realize I have love for science. German doctor, he make experiment. Sometime, he make scientific error. I tell him of this error, and this make him angry. But then he asks, 'how can a child know such a thing?' I tell him, 'Sometimes, I just know.' He screams at me, 'Then why tell me? Well,' I said, 'if you're going to do such things, at least you should do them properly.

At the German prison camp they put me to work on genetic experiments on other prisoners. They call me 'Das Wunderkind', the wonder child. Germans, all they can talk about is blue eyes, and shape of forehead. All I care about is why is this one born strong, and that one weak? This one smart, that one stupid? All that killing, you think the Germans could have been interested in something useful?

I saw one of the smugglers having a game of catching on the docks today. And this surprised me, because his hands were crippled during the war. He was unloading the barge the other day when he was bitten from this sea slug. He woke up the next morning and he found he could move his fingers for the first time in years. I asked him if he still had that sea slug. As luck would have it, he did...

This little sea slug has come along and glued together all the crazy ideas I've had since the war... it doesn't just heal damaged cells, it... resurrects them... I can bend the double helix... Black can be reborn White, tall, short, weak, strong... But the slugs alone are not enough... I'll need money... and one other thing...

As the respectable labs have all turned me away, I have turned to Fontaine's smugglers in Port Neptune for supplies. Fontaine's men are pigs. They spit, they stink. But they deliver and they don't ask questions. They're all terrified of Fontaine... he reminds me a bit of the Germans- so efficient. It wouldn't surprise me if he were soon running things down here.

The augmentation procedure is a success. The slugs alone could not provide enough Adam for serious work. But combined with the host... now we have something. The slug is embedded in the lining of the host's stomach and after the host feeds we induce regurgitation, and then we have twenty, thirty times yield of usable Adam. The problem now is the shortage of hosts. Fontaine says, 'Patience, Tenenbaum. Soon the first home for Little Sisters will be open, and that problem will be solved...'.

What makes something like me? I look at genes all day long, and never do I see the blueprint of sin. I could blame the Germans, but in truth, I did not find tormentors in the Prison Camp, but kindred spirits. These children I brutalized have awoken something inside that for most is beautiful and natural, but in me, is an abomination... my maternal instinct.

One of the children came and sat in my lap. I push her off, I shout, 'Get away from me!' I can see the Adam oozing out of the corner of her mouth, thick and green. Her filthy hair hanging in her face, dirty clothes, and that dead glow in her eye... I feel... hatred, like I never felt before, in my chest. Bitter, burning, fury. I can barely breathe. And suddenly, I know, it is not this child I hate.

The children must remain functional to be effective producers of ADAM. I had hoped we could place them into vegetative state, so they would be more pliable. I find being around them very uncomfortable. Even with those things implanted in their bellies, they are still children. They play, and sing. Sometimes they look at me, and they don't stop. Sometimes they smile.

ADAM acts like a benign cancer, destroying native cells and replacing them with unstable stem versions. While this very instability is what gives it its amazing properties, it is also what causes the cosmetic and mental damage. You need more and more Adam just to keep back the tide. From a medical standpoint, this is catastrophic. From a business standpoint, well... Fontaine sees the possibilities.

I know why it has to be children, but why just girls? This I cannot determine why, but I know it is so. Fontaine says 'ah, one less bathroom to build in the orphanage'. It is amazing to watch the effect of ADAM on their small bodies. Their own cells, replaced by the new stems the instant they are damaged. These children are practically invulnerable. It is a shame you could not do the same thing to an adult. There would be quite a market for a man you could not kill.

Steinman, I know Medical Pavillon is your manor, but you might want to cogitate on this: ocean water is colder than a witch's tit. You don't heat the pipes, the pipes freeze. Pipes freeze, pipes burst. Then Rapture leaks. Now, I realize you're a posh sort of geezer, and, frankly, I don't give a toss if you piss or go fishing. But once Rapture starts leaking, the old girl's never gonna stop. And then I'll be sure to tell Ryan he's got you to thank.

If things weren't bad enough, it seems that even our water system's sprung a leak. Yep, that's right. The irrigation system in Arcadia is taking on sea water. I told Mr. Ryan when we were building this place that either you build her like a bath tub, or she's gonna turn into a sewer. 'No, McDonagh,' he said, 'we're not gonna build no bathtub... we're gonna build Eden.'

Mr. Ryan... I believe in Rapture. But that doesn't mean we always win. Fontaine Futuristics is the biggest thing going in Rapture. So let me be plain: when we arrest that toe-rag Fontaine for his thieving and smuggling, we must make it clear that we won't touch his business interests. We sit on the council because these poor sods trust us... not because God gave us a chair.

I met Ryan the day me and the lads were installing the bathroom plumbing up in his posh Park Avenue digs. 'Oi!' says he, 'what's with all the brass fittings? General contractor had me down for the tin.' 'Well,' I says, 'I supposed it's the contractor then who'll be bailing out your loo once a fortnight, is it? If it's price you're worried about, I'll be picking up the brass, so not to worry, squire.' 'And why would you be doing that,' says he? 'Well, Mr. Ryan, profit or not, no man bails water out of privies built by Bill McDonagh.' The next day I finds out,I'm Ryan's new general contractor.

Rapture's changing, but Ryan can't see the wolves in the woods. This Fontaine fellow... he's a crook and a proper tea leaf, but he's got the ADAM, and that makes him the guv'nor. He's sinking the profits back into bigger and better plasmids, and building them Fontaine Poorhouses... more like Fontaine recruiting centers... 'Fore we know it, Bloke's gonna have an army of splicers, and we're gonna have ourselves a whole heap of miseries.

Seems like some poor blighters have started seeing ghosts. Ghosts! Ryan tells me it's a side effect of this plasmid business. One poor sod's memories getting passed on to another through genetic sampling. Leaks. Lunatics. Rebellion. And now bleeding ghosts. Ain't life in Rapture grand?

Fontaine knew our blokes were coming. We were done over. Them splicers come screaming out the woodwork. Burping fire, spitting ice... demons out of the Bible they were. Never seen nothing like it. It wasn't a business he was building, it was an army.

The good people of Rapture didn't sign up to see us government-types shutting down shops, killing their owners... even with a ponce like Fontaine. But he brung it upon himself. 'Stead of copping it on the chin, bugger gets into his 'ead that he's gonna go down guns blazing. Who does he think he is? John bloody Wayne? We can get on top of this. We can. Here's what we do: we find Fontaine's will and make what was his go to where it was intended - and not into the pockets of us that put 'im into the ground.

Ryan nationalized Fontaine Futuristics - he owns it now, lock, stock and barrel. For the good of the city, he says. He'll break it up in due time, he says. I've resigned from the council and lodged me letter of protest, but that's just pissing in the wind. It'll be war, I say... unless somebody stops Ryan and right fast.

I never killed a man, let alone a mate. But this is what things come to. I don't know if killing Mr. Ryan will stop the war, but I know it won't stop while that man breathes. I love Mr. Ryan. But I love Rapture. If I have to kill one to save the other, so be it.

Strikes me that Fontaine wasn't overly inconvenienced by his own demise. On New Year's Eve, his wretched splicers come streaming out of the poor houses and stormed the proverbial barricades! The dead rot in the streets, and Johnny and Janey Citizen are lined up round the block for plasmids... anything to help fend off the rabble.

I begged Mr. Ryan to hand Fontaine Futuristics over to Atlas' boys as a peace offering, but the stupid sod won't listen to reason. 'Stead he's just splicing his mob up, giving them more and tougher plasmids. There's an arms race on here in Rapture, but it's not about who can build the best guns and the biggest bombs. It's about who can become less of a man and more of a monster...

Clinical Trial Lot 44 Dr. Suchong/Client Fontaine Futuristics. Subject is white male, one Roland Wallace. Can you hear me, Mr. Wallace? 'Yes sir, Mr. Suchong, sir' Very well. Right, I'm introducing lot 44 now... We've codenamed Lot 44 'Enrage' because of its tendency to... *Mr. Wallace starts screaming* Nurse, hold him down... nurse! Nurse!!!

Tenenbaum... sometimes I pity the little freak. Such a tiny imagination... Content to sit there with her tanks of Adam, tweaking and optimizing. I need to create... Adam is a canvas of genetic modification... but plasmids are the paint.

Clinical Trial Lot 23 Dr. Suchong/Client Fontaine Futuristics. Work on telekinesis plasmid proceeding well. Lifting objects at distance present no problem. Moving objects through space, no problem. Cannot stop speeding bullet, but can catch and throw fast moving object. Problem not with plasmid. Problem with reaction time. ...Suchong just get new idea for plasmid.

Initial Deployment, Vita-Chamber/Client Ryan Industries. Stage one is complete. Sinclair and Alexander tried to explain the science to me, but Suchong does not believe them. They keep saying plasmid reconstruction this and quantum entanglement that, and then poof, dead people come back to life. Bullshit! Of course, Ryan will only allow it to be tuned to his genetic frequencies for the testing...

Suchong: Is that your puppy? She's very pretty...
Jack Wynand: Thank you, Papa Suchong.
Suchong: Break her neck for me.
Jack Wynand: What?
Suchong: Break that sweet puppy's neck.
Jack Wynand: No... please...
Suchong: Break that puppy's neck... would you kindly...
Jack Wynand: No... no... *snap*
Suchong: Very good.

Advanced Deployment, Lot 111 Dr. Suchong/Client Fontaine Futuristics. Baby is now a year old, weighs 58 pounds, and possesses gross muscular of a fit, 19 year old. The results are disappointing, but within expected tolerances.

That's quite a little monster Fontaine's dug up. When she does speak, which is almost never, her accent is thick and grating. Her hair is filthy and she seems to wear the same mustard-stained jumper day after day. But I've got to hand it to Frank: Tennenbaum is the all-time diamond in the rough. No formal training, no experience... but put her in front of a gene sequence, and she's Mozart at the harpsichord.

All those years we thought we were making progress: with our Skinner boxes and our electric shocks... what a waste of time. Until Adam, you could no more domesticate a child than a boa constrictor... Fontaine gives Suchong history for child that he wants to imprint into child's head. Kid not a person, he jukebox, ready to play whatever tune Fontaine wants to hear.

Fontaine's become some kind of boogeyman in Rapture, that myth gives him power. But peel back flim-flam and the humbug, he's just another con man. And like all con men, he worries he'll end up on the wrong side of grift. That's why he commissioned Lot 192 - the antidote to the mental control plasmid. Fontaine said I better not tell anybody about the antidote, not even Tennenbaum, and Suchong is inclined to listen.

Suchong: Clinical Trial Protector System Plasmid Lot 255 Dr. Suchong/client Ryan Industries. Very frustrating day. I can't seem to get the damn Big Daddies to imprint on the little brats. The protection bond is just not forming...
Little Sister: Papa Suchong!
Suchong: Get, get away... maybe if I modify the genetic sequence to...
Little Sister: Papa Suchong!
Suchong: Shush, shoo... sequence to allow for...
Little Sister: Papa Suchong! Papa Suchong! Papa Suchong!
Suchong: Get away you filthy little shit! *smacks Little Sister* *Little Sister starts to cry* ...What? *Big Daddy growls* What are you doing? Get back... get back!!! Argh!

Ryan sent over extra munitions. He must've suspected trouble. I've locked them up near the Protector Labs and set the code to 1921. I don't expect we'll ever be needing them though. Once Big Daddy is ready, nobody cross the Big Daddy.

War a terrible thing. Japanese kill every man in my city, except for Suchong. Suchong have opium. Very good opium. This war, terrible thing, too, but not for Suchong. Everyone scared now. Everyone need Adam. More than Little Sisters can make. Good news is war makes lots of corpses. Suchong knows way to recycle Adam from corpse. But can't send Little Sister out to street unprotected. Suchong must think on this.

Big Daddy make a terrible stink, very smelly. Maybe something can be done, but Little Sisters seem to like odor. Now we have to find recruits... you become Big Daddy, it's a one way street. But Ryan says, don't worry, recruits will be no problem. That Ryan- he's a good guy.

Goddamnit! The Big Daddy boots need to be shipped to here, not to damn library! What kind of idiots is Ryan hiring nowadays? This kind of bullshit never happen under Fontaine.

Fontaine scary son of a bitch, but Ryan cheap son of a bitch. You can no reuse protector suit. Take a man, graft the skin and organs straight into suit, otherwise suit not work. Ryan say Big Daddy too expensive. Ryan can go suck egg.

Fontaine is dead. Hmmm. Bad for Fontaine. Good for Suchong. Play hard to get for a bit, then Mr. Ryan get hungry for me. Tenenbaum gone, Fontaine gone, Suchong only one who know all about Little Sisters. Like I said, this very good for Suchong.

Sullivan: Mr. Ryan asked me personally to make this clear to you. You give us Fontaine, and this whole filthy ring of his, and you'll be knocking back pints up at the Fighting McDonaghs. But if you prefer to play the mule... we'll treat you like a mule... Give him a taste, Patrick...
*Timmy screams from electrocution*
Sullivan: Oh, what's that? Change of heart, Timmy? Timmy? Ready to talk now?
Timmy H: Go on, Sullivan... go on and do your dirty! ...whatever Ryan thinks he can do to me, Fontaine can do double!

We're putting all the bathyspheres in lockdown until further notice. Ryan had us install some kinda genetic device into the things so only Ryan and his inner circle will be able to use 'em without dispensation. But the boys tell me the keys are pretty unreliable. Sisters, cousins-anybody in the ballpark genetically will be able to come and go as they see fit.

Now the eggs are in the scramble. We picked up Timmy H., right after midnight. Either Ryan'll be taking down Fontaine, or Fontaine'll be taking down Ryan. We'll be 'interviewing' poor Timmy 'neath Fontaine Fisheries... if you're up for entertainment, the code's 5380.

Hanging now, is it? That's what we've come to? Now look, I don't make the laws here, I just enforce them. But I didn't come to Rapture to string men up for running contraband.
If Ryan and his crew have their law, then they can have my badge.

I'm closing in on the whole ring. I'd pat myself on the back, but let's face it... these aren't exactly bloodthirsty desperadoes we're talking about. Rapture's full of poets, artists, and tennis players, not hired guerrillas. But this leader of theirs, this Fontaine... he seems to know his way around a grift. He keeps his nose clean, but not so clean that the right people don't know he's not to be trifled with...

I worked the meatball beat in Little Italy, and even I'm shocked at the cold blood that oozes out of these artistic types. This broad Culpepper and that fruitjob Cohen are in some kind of feud, and Cohen's lookin' for MY security detail to pick sides. The next thing I know I'm called into Ryan's office to talk about the whole mess. Goddamn nutjob artist.

I just got the word to put the bump on Anna Culpepper. This isn't some gangster or hard-nosed political operative. We're talking about a dizzy twist what wrote a song or two that got under Ryan's wig.

When it was done with Culpepper, I left her as she was in the bathroom. I seen she had a blanket half-knitted by her bed. It was nice, you know, black and red, real pretty. So I took it, so I could, you know, have somebody finish it. So it could be of use to someone. It just didn't seem right to leave it lying there, lying there all by itself.

Darling Masha- We don't know what has happened to you... Ryan's men have taken you away and said you are needed to save Rapture. Who needs a child to save a city? But I see these little girls crawling out of these vents, and I only wonder if you might one day crawl out of this vent and find this note. We look for you, but if you find this, come to us at the Fighting McDonaghs in room #7. The code to our room is 7533. We miss you, our darling child.

We saw our Masha today. We barely recognized her. 'That's her,' Sam said. 'You're crazy,' I told him. 'That thing? that, that is our Masha?' But he was right. She was drawing blood out of a corpse by Fontaine Fisheries, and when she was done, she walked off hand in hand with one of those awful golems. Masha!

The minute we came here, Masha started screaming, 'Mama! Mama! What is that? What is that!?' I thought she was having some kind of seizure and then I realized... trees... trees! Never saw one before, thought they were monsters. Oh, Sammy, maybe we never should have come to this place...

Fontaine's putting the screws on us, and double. He's squeezing us out 80 points of our cut with the threat of turning us in to Ryan if we don't play ball. Son of a bitch. Sammy G. comes and tells me he's thinking of going to the constable, and the next day, Sammy G. was found in a sack in the salt pond. We got no choice here. We stay on Fontaine's crew, we're gonna catch the gallows. We take a powder, and we end up like Sammy G. There's gotta be another way...

We all come down here, figured we'd all be part of Ryan's Great Chain. Turns out Ryan's chain is made of gold, and ours are the sort with the big iron ball around your ankle. He's up in Fort Frolic banging fashion models... we're down in this dump yanking guts outta fish. Fontaine's promising something better. He's like one-a us, you know, like he's worked a day in his life. He says meet him at his fish-packing joint at 11. I'll go, bring a couple of guys. Hey, it's not like things could get a lot worse.

The Irish porkpie offered me a deal. I flip 'em Fontaine, and I walk out of here. That simple. How do I know that fat fuck isn't Fontaine's guy? How do I know they're not all Fontaine's guy? Fontaine's got Adam and everybody wants it. Ryan's got a whole lot of talk and a nice suit. Even down here, any idiot can see which way the wind is blowing.

Spent the morning jawing with that Kraut scientist. She's damaged goods, all right. Just like all those chumps they scraped out of them prison camps. But she's no crackpot... she's gonna make me the kinda scratch that'll have Ryan look like he's runnin' a paper route. She just needs some supplies to get the ball rolling... and a friend to watch her back.

These sad saps. They come to Rapture, thinking they're gonna be captains of industry. But they all forget that somebody's gotta scrub the toilets. What an angle they gave me... I hand these mugs a cot and a bowl of soup, and they give me their lives. Who needs an army when I got Fontaine's Home for the Poor?

Frank Fontaine: Never play a man for the short con when you can play 'em for the long one. Atlas is the longest con of all. Ryan wanted Frank Fontaine dead, I just gave him what he wanted. As Atlas, I got a new face, a clean record, and a fresh start. Now it's time to take back Rapture and...
Diane McClintock: ...Ryan did. I can't wait to tell Atlas. He'll be so pleased...
Frank Fontaine (As Atlas' voice): Uhh, Miss McClintock... what are you doing here? (Back to normal voice) Let me just turn this off...

What a night I got lined up. Everything's ready. Flowers, bottle of wine, even two tickets to the Tea Garden. Nothing gets the betties in the mood like nighttime in Arcadia. Now I just gotta stop by the Thrifty Care to pick up a med hypo, just to be safe. Word is this ain't Angelina's first visit to the Tea Garden...

Today Arcadia was closed off to all but paying customers. The man hires me to build a forest at the bottom of the ocean, and then turns a walk in the woods into a luxury. Ryan asked 'Should a farmer not be able to sell his food?' 'Is a potter not entitled to a profit from his pots?' I started to argue with the man and then I remembered who signed my checks. Only thing worse than a hypocrite is an unemployed one.

They dress up in leaves and call themselves the Saturnine. Please. They drink human blood, and chant- 'Harness the flame, Harness the mist!' and believe they are touched by the ancient gods. Hah. An aging bunch of frat boys, tilting back goblets of plasmids and calling it ambrosia.

Langford: Yes yes yes, I KNOW about the lockdown. It's absurd. Just give me a minute! The early Lazarus tests are very promising. If the Rosa Gallica bloom, then by God I'll know we're in business...
Man in background: 'Hurry! The lockdown!!'
Langford: Hmm? Oh all right! I'm leaving! But somebody has to find a way to come back to check on these samples. They're very important!

Isn't there anything in this damn place those pagans won't steal? Paper towels, ink pots, witch hazel, chlorophyll solution, even my back issues of National Geographic. They're feathering their disgusting little shrines with it, I suppose. Sick bastards.

Who says you can't teach an old hound new tricks? This batty plant woman spends four years coming up with ways to defoliate trees in the Pacific to scare out the Japs and now here I am down at the bottom of the Atlantic trying to figure out how to do the same thing in reverse. Adam, Adam, Adam... It's bathtub gin, times the atom bomb, times Eve with the serpent. Let's go see what it can do.

What's the point of being a damn genius if the only ones around to appreciate it are a bunch of spliced up morons? I've cracked the Vector, or at least I'm 99% certain I have. I just need a bud of Rosa Gallica to confirm my analysis. Distilled Water, a bit of chlorophyll, and enzymes extracted from Apis Mellifera. That's right, sweethearts: honeybee spit.

I've been killing trees for twenty-five years. At Berkeley, back in the 20's. On the Japs at Iwo Jima. But I never brought one back from the grave before. I did, Becky. Momma's gonna build her first damn Franken-tree. I'm gonna call my little creation 'The Lazarus Vector.' Maybe it'll bring the old gal's career back from the dead as well...

Now I'm a woman of science, but I'm also a woman who's not afraid of turning a buck or two. Ryan said if I could boost profits in Arcadia, part of the up would ride on my hip. So I get to thinking, we're paying for oxygen when we got photosynthesizing trees... Hell, we can even sell the extra to the rest of the city and undercut the other guys. Ryan will like that for sure- Fontaine's people have moved into the O2 biz tooth and claw.

Julie, my dear, I am trying to run a business here. You wanna spend time with my honey bees, well, I'm gonna have to start charging you for the pleasure. If I come out one more time and find you lolling out there amongst my hives, I'm grabbing my shotgun. As to your question, yes, my days in beekeeping school are a blur, but I do seem to remember something about that enzyme you keep blabbing on about.

In ten years in this dump, I've come to accept a very low standard of life. But even at the bottom of this fish tank, a man must have standards. The pathetic trou du cul down at Worley Winery has started putting water to his terrible wine... water!!! When I confronted him with this fact, he tells me, 'Pierre, this is not to worry, the water, she is distilled. It would be worse... I would take it right from the ocean...'

Regarding your review of Anna Culpepper's latest musical insult: Of all of the worthy artists in Rapture, why you continue to devote column inches to this musical GREMLIN is beyond my imagination. Where she is not derivative, she's boring. Where she's not boring, she's obvious. Where she's not obvious, she's dangerous!

The Wild Bunny by Sander Cohen: I want to take the ears off, but I can't. I hop, and when I hop, I never get off the ground. It's my curse, my eternal curse! I want to take the ears off but I can't! It's my curse! It's my fucking curse! I want to take the ears off! Please! Take them off! Please!

Rapture's going to hell, and why? Because of them... always behind the scenes. At the Lyceum, at the galleries in SoHo, even down here, in this so-called-Utopia. The Doubters. But Ryan understands. We're simpatico... Yes, there's blood in the streets. Yes, people sometimes... disappear. And those awful little girls... Well, I suppose the Doubters think you can paint a picture without soiling your smock...

I could have been the toast of Broadway, the talk of Hollywood. But, instead, I followed you to this soggy bucket. When you needed my star light, I illuminated you. But now I rot, waiting for an audience that doesn't... ever... come... I'm writing something for you, Andrew Ryan...it's a requiem.

You think you gonna finish me in here, you old fruit? The other saps you tossed in this meat locker all panicked like rabbits. I just watched and waited. And when they started to kick, I started to scavenge. Made myself a little splicer cocktail I did. If you can't come in from the cold, then you gotta grow ice over your heart. And the iceman cometh, Sander baby. The iceman fucking cometh.

You wanna lock us in, old man? Oh, that's fine with Cobbsie. I used to love you. I used to think you were a musical genius. You know why? Because you paid my rent, you ancient hack! Come on to the record store, I'll show you what I think of your plinkity, plink, plink!

Some hired Betty tried to sell me on those fancy Oxford Club ciggies. Mmm- no thanks. I told her, I'm a Nico Time man, always will be. Why? They smoke good, and don't cost half a damn. Who cares if the things are made out of sea shells and fish eggs?

That creepy Dr. Tenenbaum promised me it wasn't gonna be a real pregnancy, they'd just take the egg out once Mr. Ryan and I had... I needed the money so bad... But I know Mr. Ryan's gonna suss it out, gonna know I wasn't being careful... gonna know I sold the... Mr. Ryan's gonna be so mad at me...

Cohen's not a musician. He's Ryan's stable boy. Ryan's corrupt policies crap all over the place, and Cohen flutters around clearing it up. But instead of using a shovel, like you would with a proper mule, Cohen tidies with a catchy melody and a clever turn of phrase. But no matter how nicely it sounds, he can't really do anything about the smell...

You know what? Art... music... poetry... It's all grift. Cohen's got Ryan wrapped around his lil' pinky... and why? Because he tells him what he wants to hear. 'Rise, Rapture, Rise!' Nuts! That stuff was stale before it came out of Cohen's pen. I'm through with the whole pinata. Let's see that old fruit try an' keep me here...

I spent the afternoon trying to get as close to Ryan's gate as possible without making a spectacle of myself... He's got it shielded six ways till Easter. There's no way into that place. All I got for my trouble was the hairy eyeball from Ryan's splicer mates. That's the reward you get for trying to outsmart the best electrical engineer of our generation.

Ryan's splicers are dragging the young woman off right now. I'm certain she's one of Ryan's spies, sent to feel me out... I think she is... if I'm wrong, an innocent girl'll end up on Ryan's bloody trophy wall. If I'm right... well, I best be right. The device is almost finished. I can't get soft now, I can't!

What a barmy dream... some kind of fruit tree, spinning like a top, and it was pouring juice down Ryan's throat, choking the bastard. But it wasn't a tree, really, when I looked closer, it was the core control, the gizmo that feeds the mag locks on Ryan's gate. You can't cut off the power, comes right from the volcanic vents... Ryan always gets his juice. But I suppose you could drown the son of a bitch in it...

The basic casing is ready, I've got one charge of nitroglycerin in my office, that will serve as the catalyst. Now I need four R-34 lead shield wire stubs to pass the circuit. Then a half-can of Ionic Gel - that's the pretty Betty of the mix. Should send the core into compensation mode, push power down the line and trigger the circuit breaker on Ryan's gate. That's the theory. It'll either work like a charm, or blow up half of Rapture. Nothing ventured...

I had to go jungle-style with that filthy ape for three weeks, but he finally spilled the beans on how to get to Andrew Ryan. Generate a sympathetic overload in Harmonic Core #3. That's simple. Now all I gotta do is figure out what the hell a sympathetic overload is, and for that matter, a Harmonic Core #3! Piece of cake for an electrical engineer. Too bad I design lady's shoes. Gonna go see the grease monkeys left alive in Heat Loss monitoring, see what I can shake out of their trees.

Me. An assassin... that's rich. I could have gone along, I suppose. Spliced up, forgot. I believed in this place. I believed in Ryan. But when it got hard, Ryan didn't believe in Rapture, didn't believe in the Great Chain. He believed in power. And now this place is busto. And my girl is... gone... worse than gone... one of those... things. So am I an assassin? ...Well, only one way to find out.

Let me tell you something about Kyburz and all them university types...they're so smart, except when they ain't. I put a couple of drinks in him last week, and before I could say 'boo' he's telling me he's got the code to his office keyed to the date of Australia Day. Nows every weeks, I slip in real gentle and nick a buck or two from the till. The Aussie never notices, and I ain't about to tell him. Seems like there's all kind of crazy stuff back there. Maybe... maybe one day I'll get more ambitious.

I didn't recognize the twist that come into the shop today... Stacked like Sally and dressed to the nines. She's played her cards pretty close to the vest, but you ain't gotta be no college yob to see that she's into some bad china. She was asking about magnetic locks, and some such. I played it coy, but she took wise. After she showed me 'round' her backyard, I gave her directions to Kyburz' tool shop. Rapture's gone to hell, but sometimes the Great Chain still cuts you a break.

Do you guys have any idea there's a war on? If you don't follow proper maintenance on those Big Daddies, they burn through those R-34s like them Eve's apple betties go through penicillin. I've got Atlas' goons hitting us non-stop, and two dead mechanics just this week, we need to control costs. If I wanted to deal with amateurs, I would have stayed on dry land.

I tracked the problem that was blocking the tubes here, and you'll never believe where I ended up... the damn Farmer's Market, clear on the other end of Rapture. I fixed it right up and installed some new gaskets... oof, what a mess. Anyway, the code is 0512 if you ever need to get back in there to do maintenance.

Looks like things have gone busto between Fontaine and his little German beanpole. Why a guy like Fontaine would waste his time with that spooky Kraut when he could be gettin' the gravy from any dish he chooses is beyond the understanding of this paparazzi. Even reset the door code to 5744, maybe to be double-sure that beanpole don't sprout up in his yard again...

Alright, here's the code: 9332. You can use it on your cell if you want, but remember this, once you walk out of that cell, you belong to Fontaine. You're walking out of one jail and into another. Haha. Do what you want, just don't kid yourself by thinking you won any kind of freedom.

This started out as simple. Take Fontaine's mini sub topside twice a week, pick up some choiced goods not available in a remote place like Rapture, you know: beef, real tobacco, just a little extras. But now, Ryan and his type have up and called smuggling a hanging crime. Hanging? Says any connection to the surface could destroy the city. 'Fore long only difference between this place and topside is whether or not you can open up the damn windows!

Here it's Suchong's problem. Little Ones are repulsed by the look and the smell of corpses. Must find a way to make gathering task more... attractive, maybe if we program them to see bodies as something more appealing: kitty cats, chocolate bars, some other stupid thing these children enjoy.

They're all dying, for months they're fine and then POOF! And from what? Influenza. *scoff* The god damned flu. The little things are virtually indestructible, a bullet - they heal. Fire - they heal. But if they catch the bug - boom, they're gone in days. Something about the implantation process. Only one of them remains, she must be resist to this particular strain. This one little girl, one set of genes. Even if all the others die, it will be enough to save the program from extinction.

Kyle Fitzpatrick - I'm Trying

I'm Trying.... Pleeeeasssseeee.

Mr Cohen!.... NOOOOoooooo!