Scene 5 – The Pantheon
INT. PANTHEON BAR – RECREATION SATELLITE – ORBIT OF ROGIA
The door opens with a dull tone. The bright interior lighting blinds at first, and shapes begin to emerge. Only the soundscape hints at a lively atmosphere. The figure pauses in the doorway - its hood casts a shadow on its face; only the tip of their nose catches the light - scanning the room. The camera sweeps the room, following the figure’s gaze.
The camera sweeps the room, following the figure’s gaze.
CENTER
Immediately, the eye catches what’s happening ahead: A man sits at the bar, as much as his condition still allows. The number of empty bottles suggests how inebriated he is - if his slumped posture and his torso laying on the counter, hadn’t already made that obvious. Judging by the lab coat and his tousled, static-frizzed hair, his recent experiments must have been catastrophic failures. Before a half-full glass can slip from the researcher’s grasp, the stout bartender lifts it and sets it somewhere safe. He pats the now dozing fellow lightly on his bent back, takes a rag from his shoulder, and with a grin begins to polish the stains. Above the bent back, a dartboard is visible on the wall bearing the image of a woman. She wears formal bluish attire with a collar, shorter wavy light-brown hair, and a determined, piercing gaze. Numerous projectiles and bullet holes can be seen around the dartboard, but the image itself remains untouched - as if she were untouchable.
LEFT
Two people are playing chess. One of them, formally dressed in a blue military uniform with several awards and decorations, is visibly horrified by his opponent's moves. The other one is in the middle of explaining his next chess move, beginning by slapping down a hand of cards (yes, it’s supposed to be chess). His victorious smirk is fed by the many pieces in Thrumbo- and Centipede-Shapes alongside the classic pieces—some completely out of place (both bishops on the same color, a rook standing upside down), dice, and a grenade he’s still hiding with his left hand under the table. Its pen already lies on the floor. His opponent’s hands are sunk helplessly in his lap as he thinks sarcastically:
ADAM CHAMPION (a bead of sweat at his temple):
„ “Of course he goes that far. What else..? He’ll pull a hat out of the rabbit if he has to. Oh well…”
RIGHT, BACK
Almost panicked, the gaze of the figure wanders to the seating area in the back, right next to the dartboard. Two people are laughing in each other’s arms. The one on the left is formally dressed, shoulder-length gray hair, a proud mustache and goatee, and a striking eye prosthesis. The one on the right has a red skin tone, black hair, and horns on their skull, carrying a baby in a sling at their chest. Opposite them, a young woman with longer dark-brown hair, glasses, and rugged clothing desperately -almost manically- tries to explain the meaning of a golden die she’s holding up in her hand.
METOCYNEX:
„ You know she tried to prove to me yesterday that the die can predict the future? “
REGINALD:
„ And? Was it right, Metcyx?”
**METOCYNEX: **
„Well, it said I’d lose interest any second now… and guess what - it was right!”
Cutting through the laughter, the BARKEEPER calls out:
„Isabelle! Can I do you a favour?”
But all that’s visible beyond the room divider is an outstretched arm adorned with gold bangles and a raised thumb. She seems unable to get a sound out.
RIGHT, FRONT
Amid the hubbub, the figure realizes it has been observed the whole time. Lounging casually on a Thrumbo-fur sofa and yet unmistakably dominant, he emits a presence that is compelling and inescapable. At that moment he has just drunk the nectar of a whole ambrosia fruit and now rests his right arm on the leg propped on the sofa. His trousers are a striking green, and his belt buckle bears a distinctive monogram.
From the fruit loosely held in his right hand, the gaze moves over his magenta shirt to his other arm, where he presents a formless, ring-like matter.
On the table in front of him is a bowl of ambrosia fruits and his green jacket, set aside.
A pronounced chin, a well-groomed beard, and sharp cheekbones enhance the impression of charm and calm composure. His eyes are half-hidden beneath a green bowler with a magenta hatband, but they portrait a blend of calculation and mild cynicism - as if he’s always two steps ahead. Everything about him - especially his extravagant style - screams theatrics, and his mesmerizing gaze, broken by a charming smirk, makes it hard not to be drawn in.
The figure (noticing the monogram on the belt buckle):
“So you must be my contact with the initials ‘M’M,’ yes?”