Twelve monkeys

Five billion people died in 1996 and 1997. Almost the entire population of the world. Only about 1% of us survived. Are you going to save us, Mr. Cole? How can I save you? This already happened. I can't save you, nobody can. I'm simply trying to gather information to help the people in the present trace the path of the virus. We're not in the present now, Mr. Cole? No.

I don't really come from outer space. Oh, L.J. Washington, he doesn't really come from outer space. Don't mock me, my friend. Get out of my chair! It's a condition of mental divergence. I find myself on the planet Ogo, part of an intellectual elite preparing to subjugate the barbarian hordes on Pluto.

They're protecting the people on the outside from us when the people on the outside are as crazy as us.

During such an attack in the French trenches in October of 1917, we have an account of this soldier, who during assault was wounded by shrapnel and hospitalized, apparently in a state of hysteria. Doctors found that he had lost all comprehension of French, but that he spoke English fluently, albeit in regional dialect they didn't recognize. The man, though physically unaffected by the gas, was beside himself. He claimed that he had come from the future, that he was looking for a pure germ that would ultimately wipe mankind off the face of the earth starting in the year 1996. Though injured, the young soldier disappeared from the hospital, no doubt trying to carry on his mission to war and others and substituting for the agony of war, a self-inflicted agony, we call the Cassandra Complex. Cassandra, in Greek legend, you recall, was condemned to know the future, but to be disbelieved when she foretold it. Hence, the agony of foreknowledge combined with the impotence to do anything about it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.