Transcript

Elizabeth: There's the graveyard, where my mother's buried.

Booker: It's locked.

Elizabeth: Really? That little old lock? There.

Booker: Where are you going?

Elizabeth: Come on.

Booker: What are we looking for?

Elizabeth: There it is. There. Here's some cash.

Booker: Go ahead.

Elizabeth: Done.

Booker: It's your mother's grave.

Elizabeth: They have her preserved in an airtight chamber. Her fingerprints will get us into Comstock House.

Booker: She's your mother.

Elizabeth: A mother who abandons their child doesn't draw a lot of sympathy in my book.

Booker: Take a moment to think about what you're doing.

Elizabeth: There. Will you open the door or do I have to go in without you?

Booker: Elizabeth.

Elizabeth: It's her. How are you, mother? All locked up in there, huh? Looks like you and I have some common ground.

Booker: Let me do it.

Elizabeth: No.

Booker: Let me do it.

Comstock: You see, child? You chose to follow a false shepherd, and he has led you astray. What I do, I do for love. What lion does not cringe to see their cub in pain?

Elizabeth: Make it stop! Booker, make it stop!

Comstock: But spare the rise, spoil the child. If you won't listen to me, perhaps you will listen to your mother!

Booker: Elizabeth. Are you all right?

Elizabeth: Where did she go?

Booker: Just hold on, you need to rest for a minute.

Elizabeth: No. I'm getting that hand.

Booker: Elizabeth? Why is your mother a ghost?

Elizabeth: She's not. He used me to power the device. He opened up some kind of tear.

Siren: Child! Child! You are the lie that spewed from my womb. You are the lie, the lie, the lie.

Elizabeth: What's happening?

Booker: It would seem your mother is raising the dead. Open it.

Elizabeth: You bet. I need more time. Salts. Catch! That's all I have. Booker, rockets!

Booker: What is she?

Elizabeth: I don't know. What am I? My god. Is she the source of my power?

Booker: But what is she? Alive or dead?

Robert Lutece: Why do you ask "what?"

Rosalind Lutece: When the delicious question is "when?"

Robert Lutece: The only difference between past and present...

Rosalind Lutece: Is semantics.

Robert Lutece: Lives. Lived. Will live.

Rosalind Lutece: Dies. Died. Will die.

Robert Lutece: If we could perceive time as it truly was...

Rosalind Lutece: What reason would grammar professors have to get out of bed?

Robert Lutece: Like us all Lady Comstock exists across time.

Rosalind Lutece: She is both alive and dead.

Robert Lutece: She perceives being both.

Rosalind Lutece: She finds this condition disagreeable.

Robert Lutece: Perception without comprehension...

Rosalind Lutece: Is a dangerous combination.

Elizabeth: Look! Footsteps.

Rosalind Lutece: She goes to unfinished business.

Booker: We have to follow her, convince her to open the gate to Comstock House.

Robert Lutece: It's a shame you have need of her to enter Comstock House.

Rosalind Lutece: Frankly, she doesn't seem all that cooperative.

Robert Lutece: There is a way to bring her to reason.

Rosalind Lutece: Three truths you must discover first.

Robert Lutece: Truths which, in this world, Comstock has destroyed.

Rosalind Lutece: If only one of you had the power to alter time and space.

Robert Lutece: That would be a blessing, wouldn't it?

Booker: Well, they're sarcastic.

Elizabeth: There's something off about Lady Comstock.

Booker: Yeah, I noticed.

Elizabeth: No, you don't understand. She doesn't belong here. I brought something through. I'm not so sure it was her. I know that place. That's Albert Fink's house. I love his music. I wonder if he's in there. You hold on to this.

Jeremiah Fink: Hey, dear brother. These holes in the thin air continue to pay dividends. I know not which musicion you borrow your notes from but if he has half the genius of the biologist I now observe, well, and you are to be the Mozart of Columbia.

Soldier 1: Come out where I can see you.

Soldier 2: There he is!

Elizabeth: Catch, Booker!

Booker: That will do.

Elizabeth: Catch, Brooker!

Booker: That'll do.

Elizabeth: I'll try to keep you slocked. What is that? Lockpicks. We can always use more of them. Need money? Catch.

Booker: Could you take a look at this lock?

Elizabeth: Ah, child's play. Done.

Booker: It's a tear.

Elizabeth: There's something in there. Should I open it?

Lady Comstock: You whore!

Elizabeth: That's my mother.

Rosalind Lutece: I assure you, madame, my sexual interest in your dear Prophet is non-existent.

Elizabeth: And Madame Lutece.

Rosalind Lutece: Furthermore, the man is quite sterile.

Lady Comstock: That's a lie. Come and get your little bastard. I want her out of my house.

Booker: Sterile?

Elizabeth: They weren't my parents.

Booker: What? Then what were you to them?

Elizabeth: A child that they decided to imprison. She deserved whatever Comstock did to her.

Booker: What did you mean before when you said Lady Comstock didn't belong here?

Elizabeth: She's almost fera. It's like she's a reflection of... I don't know.

Rosalind Lutece: Comstock seems to have been made sterile by simple exposure to a contraption. A theory. Just asexual reproduction can de-emphasize the traits of each parent. So goes the effect of multiple realities on our own. Your trait dissipate until they become unrecognizable or seized to exist.

Booker: I feel better already.

Rosalind Lutece: Comstock has sabotaged our contraption. Yet we are not dead. A theory. We are scattered amongst the possibility space but my brother and I together, and so I'm content he is not. The business with the girl lies unresolved but perhaps there is one who can finish it in our stead.

Woman: Stop trying to ruin me!

Elizabeth: I see a lockpick over there. I found some money. Want it? Fireman, Booker.

Booker: It's locked.

Elizabeth: Sure thing. There you go.

Booker: Got a lock here.

Elizabeth: I'll see what I can do. Ready.