Monday at Meyers Studios Building
Martin stretched with a satisfied sigh, eyes gleaming at the thick stack of scripts neatly arranged on his desk.
He had finally completed the script for District 9. It had taken seven full days.
Most of that time had been spent painstakingly drawing storyboards.
He picked up the landline and dialed Drew's office.
"The script's ready," he said. "And the crew is almost assembled. While Iron Man is still tied up in post-production with special effects, let's shoot this one first and make good use of the downtime."
Drew came in personally to collect the script. After a quick, friendly chat with Martin—customary by now—she returned to her office, sat down, and opened the binder.
To her, Martin's scripts had always stood apart—idiosyncratic, sharp, and structurally unique. That much was recognized even by the wider Hollywood circle.
His scripts weren't traditional. They often contained "2-5-7" branches, multiple endings, and even seemingly contradictory threads.
Most movie scripts aren't confined to the 90 or 120 minutes that make it to the screen. What ultimately gets shown to audiences is largely shaped by the director or the editor, scissors in hand.
Especially when working from early drafts, directors often transform a script beyond recognition during shot planning.
This is one reason screenwriters are rarely revered in Hollywood. Not only are they considered lesser than directors—they're sometimes treated as secondary even to editors.
But Martin's work broke that mold.
His scripts were clean.
Especially the shot-by-shot breakdowns—no offshoots, no ambiguities.
There was no need to film a mountain of footage just to sort through it all during editing.
Shoot exactly what the script says, and the film would be 90% done. The rest? Simple polish.
That's why people in the industry joked: "Even if you tied a dog to the director's chair, Martin's films would still come out well."
Directors who wanted full creative control might grumble at Martin's rigid structure. But studios? They loved it.
Everyone knows: more footage means higher costs.
It's one reason big-budget blockbusters burn through tens or even hundreds of millions. Special effects are one factor—but over-filming is another.
Martin's scripts saved money. Frankly, it was like he did the director and editor's jobs for them.
Drew loved his scripts—especially the storyboards. They felt like reading a graphic novel.
Before long, she was completely immersed in the story of District 9.
In 1980, an enormous alien spacecraft suddenly appeared in Earth's skies.
It hovered above Los Angeles County, sparking worldwide panic.
At first, no one dared approach. There were fears it might unleash devastation on the city—or worse, the entire planet.
But after days of waiting, nothing happened.
No movement. No contact. No aliens.
Eventually, a task force was sent into the ship.
What they found wasn't a fearsome invasion force—but millions of alien refugees.
They were grotesque—like a cross between lobsters and humans—and frail, no more intimidating than African war refugees.
The government evacuated them from the ship and relocated them to a makeshift camp called "District 1."
Twenty years later, the aliens had bred prolifically. Their settlement had expanded and become "District 9."
By now, it was a sprawling, walled-off slum. A no-go zone.
The aliens' society functioned like an insect colony—elites at the top, drones at the bottom. But the elites had died out, leaving only low-IQ, volatile drones.
They killed. Robbed. Fought.
Crime in Los Angeles surged. Clashes with humans intensified. Sympathy turned into resentment.
Of course, the government had secretly been studying both the aliens and their ship all along.
But funding ran thin. Eventually, the government outsourced alien management to a corporation called Multinational United (MNU)—one of the world's leading weapons manufacturers.
MNU's true goal? Cracking the alien weapon systems.
But those weapons were DNA-encoded. To use them, one had to be alien.
As public outcry in L.A. grew louder, the government and MNU decided to relocate the aliens further away, to a remote area: "District 10."
The man tasked with executing the relocation? The protagonist: Wikus.
Wikus was the senior administrator of District 9—and, conveniently, the son-in-law of MNU's president.
Though most aliens lived in poverty, some "alien gangsters" still held wealth and resources. It was, ostensibly, an easy job.
But as the saying goes—misfortune often follows fortune.
While on the mission, Wikus was sprayed with a mysterious fluid: the result of 20 years of work by an alien named Christopherson and his allies.
Wikus began mutating. Slowly, painfully—into something inhuman. Something like them.
His new DNA allowed him to activate alien weapons.
In an instant, Wikus became the most wanted man on Earth.
Hunted, mutating, desperate—he was forced to flee.
All the while, he clung to one hope: reversing the transformation.
Isn't this... a sci-fi retelling of Kafka's Metamorphosis?
Or is it something deeper?
A commentary on racial segregation? African immigration? Slum violence?
Drew sat back in her chair, lost in thought. The script's existential bleakness had left her heavy.
Especially the ending—when Wikus, fully alien now, lives alone in District 10, still thinking about his wife, still waiting for Christopherson's promised return in three years.
It was brutal. Quiet. Heartbreaking.
"Drew! You in here? Let's go shopping!"
Cameron Diaz's voice rang out, followed by the office door swinging open.
"Geez, why is it so dark in here? Didn't you think to turn on the light?"
"The light?" Drew blinked and looked at the clock.
Six o'clock in the evening.
"Where's Martin?" she asked reflexively.
Cameron gave her a look. "Are you dumb? Didn't he say yesterday he was going home tonight?"
She waved a hand in front of Drew's face.
Drew batted it away, stood up, and declared, "Let's go shopping. I need to get therapy. A lot of it."
She had to drown out the bleakness in her heart with credit cards and couture.