Narrator: The last fragment of a once-living planet.
Its body blasted into dust
by the madness of its own inhabitants,
while its head was cursed to roam aimlessly
through time and space,
screaming in pain and in sorrow.
In legend and in fact, it is known as
Metal Hurlant.
( ragged breathing )
Man's voice: It never turns off.
Never flickers.
Never dims.
It just stays on...
forever.
I've heard others say it's to keep us complacent.
It neuters our desire to fight...
to even think.
I can't stay focused on one thought
for more than a few seconds.
Hard to remember anything at all.
The only time I can concentrate...
( coughs, vomits )
is when I close my eyes
and try to remember what it was like
when I lived in a world full of color,
before the colonists from the stars came,
promising our leader unimaginable firepower,
weapons that would end the great war and violence.
They said they believed in our noble cause,
but there was one problem:
The colonists gave the weapons to both sides.
We nearly wiped each other out.
And they came in, picking up the pieces,
after they covered our planet in blood.
I'm gonna die here.
I know that.
But before I do, I just want to see something else,
something other than red.
I'm tired of red.
But to do that, I gotta get outta here.
One second,
one mistake.
It's all I need.
( pipe creaking )
Not yet, but soon.
I want to see the sky again.
Not just for me, but for all the others.
I have to stay strong.
Never give up.
( grunts )
This is it, now or never.
( speaks alien language )
(alarm beeps)
( speaks alien language )
(speaking alien language)
( speaks alien language )
( grunts )
Hunh!
( speaks alien language )
Hyaaah!
( grunts, struggling )
( gunfire )
( speaking alien language )
( clang )
( speaking alien language )
( gunfire )
( door opens )
Man's voice: At last...
Colors.
( gunfire )
( mechanical suit speaking ) Translation automatic deactivate.
( speaking native language ) Ne arckta...
Ecta er.
( exhales sharply)
If you ask me...
This planet isn't worth the trouble.
Narrator: Hope and courage,
fading memories of a civilization
that once inhabited the raging planet.
However, the dream machine never stops.
The very heart of Metal endlessly searching
to change the destiny of another soul.
By the year 2312, no one knows exactly how large
the city of Los Angeles has become.
With the population of Earth now reaching 37 billion,
its cities all blend together into a single web
of concrete and steel.
This is Heritage Police Chief of Staff Trez Tarpoon reporting.
A team of archaeologists stumbled upon
an old Earth organics lab,
the sort used in the 20th century,
where several bodies have been placed in frozen storage.
Unfortunately, most of the cryonic canisters
were heavily damaged.
And their occupants are now nothing
more than lifeless husks.
But apparently there was an exception.
( electronic scanning )
This cryo tube seems to be intact and fully functional.
But I'm getting no heartbeat,
no brain activity at all.
Narrator: Tearing across the tormented skies,
the living Metal overflows with sadness.
Tarpoon: Our autopsies might tell us something about...
- ( beeping ) - Hold it.
Narrator: And as in other times and places...
Tarpoon: I'm getting life signs.
Narrator: ...it yearns to share that sorrow
with another conscious being.
( beeping )
This man is still alive.
( beeping continues )
( inhaling )
We had no trouble reviving the man inside the canister.
And a few simple injections cured him of the disease
that led him to be frozen in the first place.
Uh-huh.
Modern medicine, it allows people to live
and breathe for ages.
No wonder the world is in a state of social meltdown.
I suppose our ice man is in perfect health now.
Not exactly, sir.
Something has impaired his memory.
He can't even recall his own name.
What memories he does retain
have been duly recorded and stored.
Beyond that...
Beyond that, he really has no value to us at all, does he?
I'm afraid not, sir.
Our world's just not the same as the one he left.
Our technology's at a level beyond his capacity
to comprehend.
There's little chance he'll ever become
a useful, productive member of our society.
And this world doesn't have room for the unproductive.
You know what has to be done, Mr. Tarpoon.
So...that's it?
That's our only option?
You know it is.
Give the orders.
Dispatch an execution squad to his chambers at once
and make sure they harvest his organs.
We might as well get some good out of the poor devil.
It's just as well, I suppose.
I suspect he may be brain-damaged anyway.
Ever since we revived him, he's done nothing
but sit around drawing stupid little pictures.
( chuckles )
Pictures. ( scoffs )
Well, there you have it, Trez...
Tarpoon's Commander: Pictures don't erect new buildings
nor plant hydroponic gardens or build new machines.
They don't serve much purpose.
We're probably performing a public service
by getting rid of this old fossil.
Sounds to me like the world will be a better place without him.
Narrator: And burdened with the sadness of this world,
it continues its journey,
drowning its sorrow in the future destinies of encountered souls,
a scream of anguish endlessly echoing.
For it is and always will be
Metal Hurlant.