|Title||Genetic Arms Race|
Transcript: 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...
Location: Lower Heat Loss Monitoring, on a desk in the flooded area.