u/slmamin

Obviously there are some complaints about the movie as a whole, like for one how on earth did Starbuck survive that whole time? But my biggest complaint is the ending. I really think I would’ve liked the movie better as a whole if either:
-Greg stayed dead
-Greg stayed alive the whole time
I don’t think the Platt’s should’ve returned to 20 minutes before the disaster happened because it pretty much voids any events of the movie since everyone is just alive again. They really should’ve just returned to their present time with or without Greg.

A clearing cuts into the forest, wide enough for the large, concrete structure in the middle. Rust bleeds down in long orange streaks and moss clings to the corners that had started to chip away. Bolted to the roof are a cluster of antennas, discs and other strange plates. The bristling mass of cables that connect to them snake into the building through sealed conduits. Pine needles and fallen leaves stop just short of the doorway. I approach, flashlight raised, entering the structure.
The air inside hits warm and damp, it weighs on my lungs. I head straight for a stairwell and drop onto the top step, shrugging my backpack from my shoulder. I pull out a pair of cutting pliers.
“Let’s hope nobody else got to this place before me.” I sling the bag back over my shoulder with a sigh. The fog from outside sways lazily through the hallways. My flashlight sweeps over the cracked walls, slick with condensation. I stand and begin my descent.
My footsteps echo through the building as I start across the ground floor. Rusted pipes sweat above. Water drips somewhere in the darkness. Most of the rooms had been picked clean. Broken shelving, empty wall panels, open conduits stripped to the bones. Whoever was here before me knew what they were doing.
I kill my flashlight when turning corners. Squatters tend to panic when they see light. And panicked people tend to attack first. Eventually I come across a vending machine, tilted against the wall. The broken glass crackles beneath my feet. The emptied coin trough sits on the floor, mocking me.
“Of course.”
I keep moving.
The deeper I go, the more the building stops making sense. Corridors twist in on themselves with no signs, no markings, nothing indicating where anything lead. Weird for a mill. Usually places like this still have maps somewhere.
 At the end of the floor, just as I’d started to abandon all hope of any valuables, I spot it, a rusted panel set in the wall. Jackpot. I scurry over and pry at it. With a metallic screech, it opens to reveal the wiring stripped down to the last inch. I stare at the empty cavity for a moment.
“Bastards.”
I slam the panel shut and turn around, the beam from my flashlight flickers for a moment, and I notice graffiti on the wall that I hadn’t before.
“WHEN YOU SEE IT,” in faded yellow paint.
I frown.
“Cute.”
But I linger for a moment longer. I’m sure that wasn’t there before. Graffiti did mean people were here recently though, maybe they missed something deeper down. I move on.
Near the end of the hallway, I spot a trapdoor embedded in the floor. A thick metal handle protrudes from the center. I walk over and grab the handle, pulling.
Nothing.
The thing is rusted shut.
“A few swift kicks and it should give.” I raise my boot.
THUMP.
The hatch shifts slightly.
THUMP.
The ground splinters around it.
CRASH.
A deafening roar erupts as the trapdoor collapses. A plume of dust shoots up from the crevice; I stumble back coughing. Then, a breath of cold air from somewhere deep below washes over me. It smells wet. Ancient.
I shine my flashlight into the hole; a rusted ladder reaches into the darkness below. I clip the flashlight to my belt and lower myself onto the ladder. The rust grinds against my hands, and it smells oddly sweet, almost floral. The deeper I descend the quieter the building above becomes, until only the sound of metal groaning under my weight is left.
My boots hit stone.
Not concrete.
Stone.
I unclip my flashlight and scan the room. Dust hangs thick in the air. Rebar juts from the ceiling like exposed ribs. Dark cobblestone stretches across the floor, uneven and worn smooth with age. Wooden crates and rusted barrels sit scattered throughout the room, most split open and empty. It was like the mill had been built on top of something else.
I crouch beside one of the closed barrels and pry the lid back.
Nothing.
“Damn.”
Still, my pulse quickens. Places this old always have hidden rooms. Locked doors. Valuables people miss.
And assuming nobody else made it this far down.
Maybe I just got lucky.
I scan through the dungeon-like structure, going room to room. The cobble is cracked and uneven, roots claw their way through the gaps like fingers. Rotting cloth lies in heaps against the walls beside desecrated furniture and old shattered bottles. The rooms twist and turn, even more maze-like now. Eventually, I come across what appears to be a cell. Iron bars sprout from the ground to the ceiling, blackened by age. The cell door has been torn from the hinges and left leaning against the wall.
Inside of the cell my flashlight catches something. I step through the opening and crouch beside it. A porcelain vase, covered in blue patterns; mountains, strange figures and towers worked into intricate detail. The gold trim around the top has barely tarnished.
Inside of the vase are a bundle of yellow lilies. The floral smell cuts through the thick dust in the air. Above hangs a bronze plaque, strange symbols are engraved on the surface, but they mean nothing to me.
I whistle softly.
“Well, well, well.” I scoop the vase up and sling my bag to the front, unzipping it. The smell of lilies follows me. Sweet. Fresh.
I pause.
My eyes drift back to the flowers. I reach out and feel the soft petal brush my finger.
They’re perfect. This building is long abandoned; it probably has been for decades. Yet it’s as if these were placed here this morning. A chill claws its way up my spine. Then I shake my head.
“Well, not my problem. I’m sure whoever put these here wont miss ‘em.” I shrug, tossing the flowers onto the ground and stuffing the vase into my bag. As I leave the cell I glance back.
The flowers are dead. I stop. Blink.
“Getting tired.” I laugh quietly to myself, trying to rationalize it. I continue down the corridor.
Soon after, a very faint noise echoes out behind me.
I spin, flashlight raised, and on the wall in the hallway is another burst of graffiti, again scrawled in yellow paint.
Fresh yellow paint. A crude looking eye stares at me.
I freeze; a nauseating feeling swallows me.
There was nobody in this hallway, I’m certain of it. I sweep my torch through the corridor, nothing. Nowhere for someone to hide.
“Real funny.” My voice sounds smaller than intended. “I know you’re out there! Just come out and I’ll give your vase back or whatever!”
I stare back at the eye. It may sound silly but,
It feels as if it’s watching me. I shake the feeling and move on.
A few rooms later, I spot a small painting hanging crooked on the wall. The frame is ornate, covered in twisting golden spirals. The painting itself is probably the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. It depicts a pale, bloated man standing against a dark background. He is swollen and soft, as if he was held underwater for too long. His skin is the colour of old wax, and his eyes are barely open. He almost looks like a plump, white grave worm.
“Christ.” I grimace. I take a step left. His eyes seem to follow. I step right. His eyes follow again. I step closer. “Ugly bastard.” I pull the painting from the wall and slide it into my backpack. Maybe the frame is worth something.
I continue deeper, and the terrain begins to change around me. The stones become more cracked, the ceilings get lower, and cobwebs start lining the corners. My hands are dirty and coarse, and my eyes feel heavy.
Rusted candleholders cling to walls. Fragments of pottery crunch beneath my boots. The remains of wooden furniture sit collapsed against the stonework. Then, I find an open safe built into the wall.
Finally.
I hurry over, though inside is not gold, not money, not jewels.
“Christ’s sake.”
Inside of the safe lies a pile of neatly folded yellow cloth. I reach out and feel it. Smooth, and possibly expensive. It catches the light of my flashlight and seems almost luminous.
However, it wont fit into my backpack. I kick some dust onto it and continue.
At some point I realize I haven’t seen anything resembling a maintenance room in a long time. No equipment, no storage closets, just galleries. Rooms lined with pillars. This place was meant to be seen, not used.
Somewhere deep below me, a sound drifts through the darkness. I stop. The noise isn’t some terrible monster, or machinery. It sounds like singing. A single mournful note stretched impossibly long. The hairs on my neck stand up. My flashlight flickers, and I give it a few taps to get it working again. It finally hits me that whatever valuables are left here aren’t worth it. I need to leave. I turn back into the winding hallways and try and retrace my steps.
Eventually I reach a wide, open chamber that I haven’t seen before. In the centre there is a small, black leather drawstring bag.
“Why not? I’m already here.” I sigh.
I approach cautiously and kneel beside it, pulling the bag open.
Gold.
A grin spreads across my face immediately. I pull one of the small coins into the light. On one side is a crown formed by jagged spires, on the other is a city with tall towers and strange architecture.
I don’t recognize either symbol.
I don’t care. Gold is gold.
I dump the coins into my pocket. I stand, then ahead at the end of the room, I notice a doorway. A broken wooden frame built into the stone. I slowly approach. Beyond it, the floor slopes downwards. The air drifting up smells damp and slightly metallic. I shine my flashlight down the incline.
No end in sight.
I could turn around and leave with what I have.
“Eh.” I shrug.
“A quick peek wouldn’t hurt.”
I slide down. Loose dirt scrapes against my clothes. The metallic smell grows stronger. I hit the bottom.
Dim sodium bulbs hang overhead. I stare upward. The bulbs are glowing. They’re working. Thick electrical wires disappear into the ceiling of the tunnel. My mouth goes dry; this shouldn’t be possible, not this deep. The dirt walls are strangely smooth. There are no tool marks, no support beams, no rocks. Ahead, gold coins litter the floor. At the centre stands a black marble pedestal; resting upon it is a golden mask. It’s smooth, featureless, perfect.
“Holy shit.” I hurry forward. Coins clatter into my backpack by the handful.
The mask catches my eye again. I pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected. It’s warm, too, as if somebody had been wearing it moments ago. I stare at it.
POP.
The light above me shatters. I flinch
“Huh?”
POP.
Another.
POP.
The tunnel grows dimmer. I pace my breathing.
POP.
I turn around to run.
POP.
The slope is gone. In its place lies a smooth wall of dirt.
POP.
The last light flickers, and for a brief moment, I see movement beyond the pedestal. A figure, tall, watching.
POP.
Darkness swallows everything.
I awake in a hallway lying on my back.
For a moment, I just linger there, clutching my chest.
Gold glimmers beneath the marble walls like veins. A patterned red and yellow carpet stretches down the hallway, untouched by dust or age. Ornate banners hang from high above, stirring gently by an unfelt wind.
The air is freezing.
I sit up slowly. How did I get here?
Unintelligible patterns embed in the pillars. My eyes slips away when I try and make something of them. A dull ache pounds behind my eyes. There is a doorway ahead. I stand and begin my descent. The carpet makes a dull thump as I shuffle along. At the end of the corridor hangs a curtain in place of a door, almost as a stage would have. I stand and breathe for a moment.
“Shit.”
I back away from the curtain. I then stop.
Every instinct in my body is telling me to run, but I am drawn to the room. Curiosity creeps in. I stare at the curtain for a moment longer before finally pushing through it.
The room is beyond enormous. Not just that, it is boundless. High overhead, beyond the vaulted ceiling, black stars flicker in a sky that should not exist. Tall towers loom in the skyline of an ancient city.
In the center of the room, there is a throne. In that throne sits a figure.
It is draped in flowing yellow robes, folding and unfolding. They are stirred by a force that does not touch the room around it.
Upon its head rests a crown, it looks forged; hammered into jagged brass spires. Like the silhouette of distant mountain peaks.
Finally, there is the face. Or rather the mask; smooth, featureless, perfect.
I gaze.
My thoughts stumble.
A pain sharpens in my skull, and my knees buckle.
The room seems to bend inward around the throne. The pillars lean at impossible angles. The stars above jitter. The banners twitch like living things in the corner of my vision.
My head is almost bursting. I can feel my mind splitting around the edges. It is watching me. It knows me.
I can’t look away.