DEEP TROUBLE

Transcript:
Archibald: Sir Archibald Fotherington-Smythe. Day... Ye gods... Day 28.
Archibald: My dearest Majorie. This, I suspect may well be my final diary entry.
Archibald: It is my profoundest hope that these recordings somehow make their way out of the depths of this hellhole, and thence to your sweet hands.
Archibald: We are out of food, water, and thanks to that traitorous cur, Potts - there’s nary a drop of the good stuff to be found either.
Archibald: Only a handful of the men remain, but - by the way they stare at me, and by the rumbling in our stomachs, I fear they mean me ill.
Archibald: This place, Marjorie... This place - It is a veritable cornucopia of horrors, an affluence of primal terrors...
Archibald: But also an oasis of beauty and wonder... I wish you could have- No... I wish I could have told you all about it.
Archibald: I-
Archibald: Potts? You damnable rabble, is that you! By Jove, you’d better have at least 2 bottles of my claret with you, by way of a peace offering, or... or...
Archibald: ... I say, awful pallor you have there old man, I know none of us have seen the sun in weeks, but you really look quite dreadful, wot?
Archibald: Damn.
Archibald: Now look here, I’ve been more than reasonable... No! Keep those grimy claws to your-
Archibald: Wait - claws? Stay back! Back I say!
Archibald: To arms, men! We are attacked! We are attacked!
Archibald: To the Nexus! We shall make our stand there!