Beltfire Conclave

Script

INT. CERES CONCLAVE CHAMBER - “BELTFIRE” NIGHT

A repurposed ore silo turned parliament: ringed seats, floating dust motes, banners stitched from old pressure suits. A holographic MAP of the solar system pulses—Sun icon flickering like a heartbeat.

JAX RENN stands center on a magnetic dais, suit seams patched, eyes sharp. Around him: BELT DELEGATES in mismatched habitat colors. Security drones hang like insects.

MARSHAL TAMSIN KORR watches from the perimeter, helmet under her arm, distrust in her posture.

JAX
(to the room)
You’re hearing “preemptive strike” like it’s a shield. It’s a match. You light Mercury, inner habitats answer. Then the Sun’s pulse becomes a trigger instead of a question.

A DELEGATE from PALLAS, severe and impatient, cuts in.

PALLAS DELEGATE
And if we do nothing, they point their collector arrays at us anyway. We die politely.

Murmurs. The MAP flashes: inward arrows, outward arrows—threat predictions.

JAX
We don’t win a straight burn. We win by being unreadable together.

He taps the dais. A HOLOGRAM BLOOMS: convoy routes, shared transponders, a proposal marked ACCORD EXTENSION.

JAX (CONT’D)
Unified lanes. Shared early warning. No habitat stands alone when the inner system starts looking for scapegoats.

A low laugh from the back.

BELT RADICAL
“Unified.” You mean “led.”

Jax doesn’t flinch. Korr’s eyes track the speaker.

JAX
I mean alive.

A thin, harmonized CHIME threads the chamber—subsonic, wrong. Jax’s gaze flicks up.

KORR
(low, into comm)
I’ve got interference—

A SNAP-HISS. A MICRO-DRONE, no bigger than a coin, darts from the rafters toward Jax—its belly flashing with an arming glyph.

Korr MOVES—too late.

The drone SLAMS into the dais and BURSTS—

—into a cloud of SPARKING FOAM and black confetti. No shrapnel. No fire. Just a violent, humiliating POP.

The chamber erupts: screams, delegates ducking, drones swarming, fingers on concealed weapons.

JAX staggers back, coughing. Foam drips from his collar like melted insulation.