Frames: 8 x 9

DATABASE COMPUTER MONITOR The Words: MODELS and DEVIANTS,  appear on the Screen. INT. DATABASE CONTROL ROOM EXTREME CLOSE-UP ON A MAN'S MOUTH: LIPS Deviants. The screen populates with names, alphabetical order. LIPS (CONT’D) Caston Harding. The name CASTON HARDING fills the screen. FILE UPDATED on 5.20.2057 3 HOURS AGO Criminal Record: NEURAL IDENTIFICATION: BRAIN COMPUTER INTERFACE: ACCESSING BCI Sessions: Information populates the screen 6.12.2049 6.26.2049 Modified 3 Hours AGO 7.01.2049 8.12.2049 8.13.2049 Modified 3 Hours Ago LIPS (CONT’D) 6.26.2049 ABRUPT CUT TO: EXT. SPACE--INSIDE THE VACUUM NO SOUND: At a glacial pace, an ORANGE SPACE SUIT sails through the vacuum. Far from the bulky explorer suit, this one is streamlined, flimsy, not the ideal protection from the unforgiving black void. The suits limbs rest frozen stiff. The helmet, even in the vacuum, looks to way a ton. If there’s life inside thi...

FADE IN: INT. LIVING ROOM-NIGHT Family photos decorate the walls. It's an eerie room of eyes. Old pictures, people in everyday life: prom night, family barbecues, Christmas  day. CONNIE, maybe 37. Her face is bare, no makeup...sitting at the table.  Scribbling red lines on papers in-between banging on a calculator. BERNARD, six-years-old, a diligent worker, places the papers in neat stacks. BERNARD There isn’t one good grade. CONNIE No, here’s one. BERNARD (excited) I bet it's Christina. CONNIE Yeeup! Once again, she set the curve. I want to stop curving exams. What do you think? BERNARD I say let them hang out to dry. Connie smiles and takes a glance at an aging portrait:  a woman, brown skin, deep penetrating eyes. CONNIE You have so much of your grandma in you. A voice rings out, "RAAAAAAAAAAA!"  It rattles the nerves of Bernard yet bounces  off Connie’s unyielding concentrat...

For the first time, Douglass recognized the lure of Carmine’s Pub. He never drank like the others and relished being a silent observer. Now he felt submerged with everyone else as he sipped his drink—his glazed eyes surveying the atmosphere. The fading photo’s draping the walls, the crackling from Carmine’s record player, and the worn furniture revealed itself. He sat with a half simile, clutching a withering picture. His eyes were running over every detail. Carmine’s father, the late Martin Colon, was captured in the pinnacle of his drum performance—his mouth gaped open, his eyes sealed shut. From behind the bar, Carmine peered over his shoulder, flashing Douglass a friendly smile. “I think that shot was taken in '69,” said Carmine pouring a drink. “He was the biggest drummer nobody ever heard of; h e kind of reminds me of you," he said controlling his smile. “He didn’t talk much and was addicted to his work.” Douglass’ face crinkled; he always conjured hi...