Original subtitles

Oh.

What the fu...

Hello?

Hello?

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday to you.

Happy birthday, dear Kate. Happy birthday to...

Wow, your French is sounding amazing.

Putain.

Kate. Hello? Kate, are you there?

Putain.

Yep, yep.

Relationships. Yeah.

Yep.

Help.

Help. Help.

Help. Help.

How on earth did you get down here, Eddie?

What do you think of that one, Eddie? It's a classic.

The lesser known king of smooth jazz.

Poor

taste

in music.

Subject shows no improvement.

It is therefore my opinion

that nothing more can be done with the treatments available.

Therefore, I request.

I strongly suggest best course of action

to send a relief team to assess further usage.

What's up, Eddie?

What have I told you, Eddie?

This is not for you.

This belongs to me. This is special.

Night, Eddie.

Jesus Christ, Eddie. Scared the shit out of me.

How did you get?

What's all this?

What have I said about other people's things?

Oh.

Eddie. Eddie.

Other people's things.

How many people have been stuck down here with you, Eddie?

This is Dr. John Fenton.

Personal log, tape number 114.

Subject Eddie shows few signs of progress.

Response to stimuli is minimal,

and my belief is that the subject

is in fact deteriorating in condition.

Whilst hemorrhaging and tissue decay appear stabilized,

basic motor skills manifest only as muscle memory

triggered by specific personal effects.

Though ostensibly conscious,

caring for Eddie is increasingly and frustratingly

akin to following a sleepwalker through their home,

unable to arouse him from whatever tedious dream or memory

he's fumbling through.

Daily, he requires more and more basic care,

struggling to chew or swallow

without encouragement or assistance.

Frankly, a skeleton crew of one is highly inappropriate

for a facility so large and remote.

I barely see daylight.

When I do, the endless valley seems to me

increasingly hostile and unfamiliar.

My headaches continue to worsen.

In the windowless fluorescence of the facility,

I seldom achieve any meaningful rest.

Communications from Overhead HQ are nonexistent.

In truth, I'm beginning to doubt the real objective here.

Of my purpose in all this.

I've decided I don't care about you, Eddie.

I don't care how long you've been here or why.

I don't care if you're getting better or worse.

I care about why I'm here,

about how long I've been in this place.

I would rather be in prison.

Anywhere.

If you would just speak to me.

Just show me a sign of anything.

Do you even know that I'm still here?

Is there even a point?

What happened to the other guy that was here?

Did he work out what happened to you? Is that it?

Is that it? What happened to you?

Eat. Get better.

Heal thyself.

Come on. Come on.

The pen.

The pen. It's the pen, huh?

Get it yourself.

I'm sorry, Eddie.

I really didn't want to have to do that.

Oh shit.

Eddie.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It was an accident.

Ah. You must be Eddie.