Elizabeth: Hall of Heroes closed until further notice.
Booker: Then there won't be a line to get in. Oh, what the hell?
Elizabeth: Is something wrong?
Booker: Ah, nothing I can't fix.
Elizabeth: Ugh! Oh! It's a bee. I hate these things!
Booker: Ah, jeez. Just kill it.
Elizabeth: No, it'll sting me!
Elizabeth: I have a better idea.
Booker: What are you doing?
Elizabeth: I'm opening a tear!
Booker: Whoa, shit.
What is that?
Elizabeth: It's a tear. I used to open them all the time in my tower.
Booker: What is a tear?
Elizabeth: It's like a window. A window to another world. Most of the time they're dull as dishwater, a different colored towel or tea instead of coffee. But sometimes, sometimes I see something amazing and I pull it through. There.
Booker: Good God! I don't suppose you've got an airship in there?
Elizabeth: I don't think so. But there is . . . there is something. Oh, no!
Booker: Close it.
Elizabeth: I'm trying!
Booker: Close it! I don't really understand what I just saw back there. But it sure as hell looks like a shortcut to getting us killed.
Elizabeth: But I could help.
Booker: I can handle whatever comes along. Trust me.
Elizabeth: Have it your way, I suppose.
Motorized Patriot: To the sky, Comstock bent his knee and saw with holy prophecy, an Eden floating in the mist, by man forsworn, by heaven kissed.
Soldier: What the hell?
Booker: Can you get this open?
Elizabeth: Looks easy enough. Got it.
Captain Slate: I served two-score years of soldiering. And every heathen land I've known is less peopled for my passing. I hated no special enemy. Until now. Comstock. He's made a vaudeville travesty of my battles, and cast himself as the White Knight. I called him out over it, and he stripped me of my rank. That man has never seen the savage face of war. But he will.
Narrator: Press to launch your enemies into the air. Hold and release to create an eruptive trap.
Founder Leader: When we strike, we will teach Cornelius Slate a lesson. Now I know you've all come to think of Slate as some kind of war hero but let me be abundantly clear. Cornelius Slate is no hero! Ah, he's been living down in Finkton so long . . .
Son of a bitch! It's him! It's the False Shepherd!
Soldier: Got to move! Come out!
Daisy: Who is this Prophet? Who is this fraud, this charlatan, this salesman of snake oil? What you saw today, brothers and sisters, was just the beginning. Zachary Comstock will hear our voice. His temples shall burn and his idols of gold will melt and run in rivulets through the streets of Columbia!
Elizabeth: I'm still looking! Take this! Hurry! Booker, here!
Elizabeth: Why is it that we never catch a break?
Booker: Okay. On second thought, I think those tears of yours might come in handy next time we're in a scrape.
Elizabeth: Well, there has to be a tear around for me to use. I can't just pull them out of thin air. Who's that?
Booker: Slate? I actually know the fella. Seems he's still got a knack for making enemies.
Elizabeth: Odd. Look over here. Ugh!
Sergeant Manley: Got a tip there were contraband guns hidden in the Fellow Traveler. Didn't find them but funny thing, we found some old uniforms under the floor boards from the war. Two guesses as to why they were there but . . . Who's there? You're Slate, right? Sir, put the guns down!
Captain Slate: Did you hear that, Comstock?
Elizabeth: Over here.
Sergeant Manley: That is a sound you have never heard. The sound of a soldier's end. Come to your Hall of Heroes. Prove me a liar.
Elizabeth: More money. Catch, Mr. DeWitt.
Booker: Much obliged.
Elizabeth: Look at this, my tower. It's only fair they give me a cut of the profits, don't you think?
Booker: Need some help with this.
Elizabeth: That won't take but a minute. Ready. Want to hold on to this?
Booker: Perfect timing.
Sergeant Manley: Got a tip there were contraband guns hidden in the Fellow Traveler. Didn't find them but funny thing, we found some old uniforms under the floor boards from the war. Two guesses as to why they were there but... Who's there? You're Slate, right? Sir, put the guns down!
Captain Slate: Did you hear that, Comstock?
Corporal Monroe: God makes all kinds of soldiers, but he only made one Cornelius Slate. My father followed him up San Juan Hill, through the legations in Peking, and, as he put it, "through hell, the order was given." At today's muster, Slate asked me if I was Sergeant Monroe's daughter. I said, "Yes, sir, I am." Slate said, "Your father always wanted a son." I hope the fool has wisdom enough to recognize his good fortune.
Elizabeth: They shut down gondola access to the Hall of Heroes. Must be because of what's going on with that man Slate.
Booker: Well, I suppose we can take these sky-lines above us. We just need to find a way to clear off that cargo first.
Elizabeth: This is going to be fantastic!
Booker: You think that keen eye of yours could find some ammunition lying around? I sure could use it when there's trouble.
Elizabeth: It'll take some scrounging but I'll do my best. The line's clear.
Captain Slate: Veterans! You shed your hearts' blood for Columbia, lost limb and viscera in the godless Orient! Comstock did nothing! And yet, look up! Whose image squats above you, even now? At every angle an insult! If the Prophet would make a painted whore of our past, what fresh rape does our future hold? Let us now make our stand, and fill yonder hall with true Heroes!
Elizabeth: Booker! Sniper rifle. Here! Ammo! I'll try to keep you stocked! Looks like we've found where your old friend Slate is.
Booker: Let's just find that Shock Jockey and get the hell out of here.
Elizabeth: I can't find anything! Take this ammo! Okay, catch!
Elizabeth: Need money? Okay.
Booker: Appreciate it.