I’m currently running on instruments, as it were. Sonic screwdriver got a bit overloaded with everything going on here; so I’m just letting the universal residue trick do its thing. It’s a bit like a constant audio-tour, just creepier given the location.

Still, the sonic did help re-pipe a vending machine earlier, so I’m well stocked on pep bars and medi-kits (only nine per customer). Should be enough to survive the rest of this trip.

I’m just checking out the office of Mr Andrew Ryan. Any residue in here has got to be worth investigating. Have to say, there sure are a lot of shut-down mini helicopters lying around here. I wonder what…

Oh, hell. It’s like I’ve descended into a nightmare, one worthy of the definition. The red emergency lights in here aren’t helping, either. All possible residue traces have been wiped over; an event dominating all others. I’m picking up…a speech, something about separations, and memories (A farm. A family)false memories, created ones…a ‘simple phrase’…and men, or slaves. And choice.

Through an invisible fog of truths and accusations, I see the body. One of the world’s most definitive thinkers; brought down by…three letters (WYK), a golf club…wrists of a prisoner…

I hate this ability sometimes. Knowledge can so often be such a curse. I see it all now. Ryan’s son, genetically engineered by his rival, created solely for this kill. And even mind control thrown in as well.

The child and I even had the same taste in wrist tattoos. Rapture’s full of nightmares, I knew that. But this one…

I vaguely hope Womble isn’t too close nearby. No one, least of all a friend, should ever see me like this.



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