Augustus Sinclair is what happens when spineless moral relativism is spun into a business ethic. The man has a dirty finger in each and every pie... but, I admit his little firm has its uses. I'm having him use the Sinclair Solutions brand to conduct clinical trials in the field.
If there are any incidents with side effects of newer, less stable plasmids, no one will associate Ryan Industries with the death.

Why do I survive - when others do not? First the prison camp, then Rapture. Both times I become the right breed of monster to continue my work. They called me "girl who is flash light." Shining brightly on one thing at a time, but blind to the world around me. The ADAM slug we implanted inside the little ones is similar. It samples the DNA, it adapts. We thrive, even as the world is drowning.

I hear often, "Mister Sinclair, you just got a heart of stone, don't you wanna share with your fellow man?" And I tell 'em, "Listen, I hail from sunny Panama, and my grand daddy - he got himself drowned building the big ditch, went on and on about 'doing it for the people, for the world entire.' Well, not for me - thank you. I came to Georgia to strike it rich, and Rapture all the more so, you won't catch me blowing my last bubble for any other personage - plural or singular.

Sofia Lamb's had her eye on Rapture for years - and now she's got it. She started preaching unity and brotherhood for the downtrodden right here in the Drop. This movement springing up around her is almost a kind of old time religion. Now these "governors" Lamb's got in charge would never have seen power in Ryan's day, they're nobodies really. But I used to raise spaniels, and the only thing meaner than the top dog was the underdog, when he had just plain had enough.

If a smart fella' wanted to talk some bankrupt fat cat into moving to a slum, he'd call the place a "hotel overnightly". The tenant dries his eyes and tells himself "It's only temporary," and the smart fellow shaves a dime a day off his drinking wage. Now, a smarter fella' might also bankroll the local gin joints, and take him for the rest.

Little Sisters are all gone. I ain't seen one since hell knows when. Big Daddies still wandering around, keeping busy. I see a leak spring in a window, then one of the big oafs wanders on by and seals it up. Like clockwork! It weren't for them, Rapture would'a been completely flooded for years, I figure. Big, dumb animals! Why can't you just let it end?

What happened here? Under the crust of grime, I can see what this place used to be. An absolute marvel of human accomplishment, kept a secret all this time — a secret hidden from the rest of the world. My daughter's here, somewhere, but I'm on my own finding her.
The trains still work, mostly. I'll see where they lead. Cindy, honey, Daddy will find you.

Today, Ryan asked me to give a back stage tour to a few consultants who will be working with him on designing the ride. I recognized some of 'em... but there was that composer, Cohen "This ride has all the acoustic qualities of a back alley hobo jamboree!", he says. Lovely person. Doc Lamb was a real treat too, she looked at the exhibits like she was an owl with her eye on a titmouse. These freaks are gonna cook up some real fun for the kiddies of Rapture, I can see it now!

Imagine you are a child - born here, under water. You've never seen the sun... but Rapture is a secret. Contact with the surface is forbidden. So, your parents bring you somewhere to feed you ice lollies and terrify you out of ever leaving the perfect city all around you. That's Ryan Amusements - and I consulted on it. This concludes my business with Ryan Industries... permanently.

Working security at this park should'a been a breeze. Point some old ladies towards the john, listen to the radio, maybe pull down the brim of the cap and catch a few Z's. Turns out, I'm on my feet more than a peacock. Teeny bumpers jumping off the ride, kids throwing ice creams at the exhibits - I've got someone in the holding cell everyday! Brother, this park really brings out the best in people...

My God! It was only three years ago that I was considered among the preeminent pantomime artists in France. My countrymen held the artform in high esteem; but in Rapture, I have been reduced to a simple clown, humiliating myself for these cackling little brats, ushering them snot-nosed into this wretched amusement park. I stoop so low as to speak while performing. On the surface, I may not have been rich, but I had my dignity.

Do you find yourselves afflicted - my friends - with the plasmid blues? Dizzy? Nauseous? Seeing things that aren't even there? Dr. Hollcroft's Cure-All and Pick-Me-up: All the restorative power of genuine ADAM, at half the price! (oohhh!) Step right up!
(Crowd rustles in background)

Ten gallons of desalinized sea water - 'buck eighty-five. Fifty pounds of remnants from Fontaine's Fisheries - ten-fifty. Twenty bucks and change for a gross of Sinclair's wholesale hypos. Two ounces of pure ADAM, that's forty-five dollars to Ryan. Put 'em together and what do you get? A cool grand's worth of Doc Hollcroft's Cure-All and Root Maker. Placebo effect - I tell ya, it's a capitalist's best friend!

The situation is getting dire. Splicers are so desperate for ADAM that they're ganging up on Big Daddies and killing them, quite methodically. In response, we've started stocking the vending machines around Rapture with protector munitions so that our agents can resupply Big Daddies in the field. Frankly, this is all so tedious. The end may be nigh, but for me it's just more paperwork.

Well, that's another protector done and dusted. The Alpha series. We're up to, ah... Sigma now. The human candidates come up with Sinclair. I know their faces; we've tested hundreds of plasmids on them. Now, of course, they are the product. I modify the diving suits with simple electronics. Privately though, I find them unsettling. There's no procedure observed, no template. Every man was spliced in a different way before induction, and Ryan wonders why we're having behavioral problems.

Hearken unto me, my children... I must tell you of the Demiurge: The proud and blind architect of all creation. The Demiurge was the dream of the one true god, cleaved apart from him as he slept. It held a part of the Lord's energy, and took the shape of a worm with the head of a lion.

Ignorant of the one true God - and believin' itself to be the sole Craftsman of the firmament - the Demiurge breathed life into the Earth. And so it wrought the crude and base design men call Natural Selection. Life was cast in movin' clay, one inevitable spark of the sublime creator - thrust by the Worm - into imperfect flesh, and ascending only over eons of ignorance, pain, and sin.

Too late did the one God wake - and saw what the Demiurge had done. The Lord - then - cast the worm into the sea, where it lay for thousands of years. Now, let us speak of today, my children. The Demiurge tempted Andrew Ryan, and I was his disciple - A blind architect, myself. Arrogant of my gifts, I raised this shrine to the pride of man: Rapture.

Then we, the slaves of Ryan, discovered the Worm where the Lord had cast it down, right here in the ocean. And, in envy of the Lord, we didst take its dread power into our blood, naming it ADAM in mockery of the one true God. And lo! As we bent our shapes to suit our purpose whims, our false church of Rapture was beset by flood and war. And in the folly of my pride didst I weep.

But hark! For a secret son was born unto Ryan: The immaculate begat of the profane. Then, though he spake not a word, the son of Ryan smite down the father in sublime judgement, and the dynasty of sin was as dust. The son of Ryan went hence from Rapture after the death of the father, but he will return to save us from the Demiurge within.

Brothers and sisters, the temptation to languish in self-pity is great. Who can deny it, beleaguered as we are by the sins of our past? But self-pity is no more than a tricky shade of pride, freezing us up when we should act. The Lamb's Path leads us beyond the reach of the self, obliterating the ego. But we must work for it, we must not lie caged in our bones, groveling at the ego's alter.

I was on my way to a new badge. High-and-Mighty Lieutenant Asshole in Ryan's Private Forces. But Doctor Lamb showed me that I got a duty to the common man... not Ryan. I feel like praying, and I ain't said two words to God since I was in short pants. And I'm not alone anymore - there's lots of us wearing her Butterfly Pins, now. So what if it looks a little bit- you know... twinkle toes?

This Scout plasmid is great! Be somewhere ya ain't - Tough to get your head around, huh? But the old skin-and-bones takes a load off while the mind goes for a stroll. I can see whatever I want, wherever I want. Gonna splice up with Scout, and head down to the ladies' dressing room at the Adonis Resort. *chuckle*

Oh... You'll never guess what your boy did today! We were leaving the carousel after a day at Dionysus Park and he was staring at one of those terrifying Big Daddies. When I asked him what he was looking at, he wouldn't answer me. Oh, Harold, why did you leave us?! Billy needs a father!

Christ... Rapture. City's a house of cards in a kiddy pool. Lambs out of the picture now, and Ryan wants me to finish off "The Family". Shouldn't be hard, the shrink was the lynchpin, now they're just... lost, but Ryan isn't exactly the Rock of Gibraltar these days. This "Atlas" character's got him way back on his heels. What is gonna be left of this town when the fur stops flyin'?