I am Andrew Ryan, and I’m here to ask you a question. Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow? ‘No!’ says the man in Washington, ‘It belongs to the poor.’ ‘No!’ says the man in the Vatican, ‘It belongs to God.’ ‘No!’ says the man in Moscow, ‘It belongs to everyone.’ I rejected those answers; instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose… Rapture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality, Where the great would not be constrained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well.”
He once had an accent (he’s a Kansas farm boy or, er, he thought he was), but he lost it gradually after learning the truth about himself. Truth be told, he’s not really a talkative sort, so nobody really notices.
Despite the fact he’s been bred to be a cold calculating killing machine, when left to his own devices he’s a big softie. He loves animals, especially dogs, and he likes to draw and take pictures (shutterbug, as Cohen said). He’s a good kid.
Sometimes he misses his fake “Ma and Pa”, even though they never existed. His implanted memories were nice, comforting ones and it can be hard to realize that they were never real.
Brigid Tenenbaum kind of becomes a surrogate mother to him. She kind of becomes a surrogate mother to everyone, actually.
He’s a papa wolf. Don’t even think about looking at those little sisters the wrong way, or he’ll curbstomp you and then electrocute you with his fuckin’ hands.
He smokes like a chimney, and he likes a glass of rye. He’s hardcore for a four-year-old.
He totally has an ugly Christmas sweater collection.