Martin spend a tender night at his parent's home at No. 222 Tremblon Street.
The next day, Martin went to visit the special effects production team working on Iron Man.
Robert Downey Jr. was fiddling with a life-size suit of red and gold armor. When he saw Martin arrive, he greeted him with a smile and gestured at the suit.
"Good thing I don't actually have to wear this during filming. It's insanely heavy."
"Careful, man. They said it took four months to build that thing."
"It's okay. We've got a backup,"
Studio co-founder Josh Rosengrant walked over, smiling, and shook Martin's hand.
"Welcome, Mr. Meyers."
Robert added with a laugh, "So in the movie, I'll be suiting up in this. How exactly are you planning to get it on me?"
"Don't worry," Josh joked. "We've got software for that. The armor will practically put itself on you."
After the studio tour, Martin and Robert Downey Jr. left together.
On the way to the parking lot, Martin suddenly said, "Robert, I've got a new project. You interested?"
Robert looked curious. "You haven't even finished Iron Man and you're already onto the next thing? You really are a workaholic. Are you playing the lead?"
The last part was clearly a joke.
Martin had helped him in the past—Robert was more than willing to return the favor, even for free.
"Yes," Martin nodded. "Lead role. Salary's two million."
"Two million? Damn. When do we sign?"
Martin laughed. "Anytime. We share the same agent. I'll have Jeff draft the contract."
"Easy enough."
That same night, they headed to CAA and signed the deal.
Martin was clearly taking advantage of the fact that Robert hadn't exploded in popularity yet.
Once Iron Man hit theaters?
Two million?
Add another zero, and you'd be getting close.
"Catch you later, Robert. I'll send the script to your email tomorrow."
"Looking forward to it. Bye!"
———
After parting ways with Robert, Martin drove back to the family mansion in Beverly Hills.
The moment he stepped inside, he felt the heavy atmosphere.
Only Drew Barrymore greeted him with a smile. The others—Diaz, Jessica, Lindsay, and Scarlett—looked glum.
"What's going on?" Martin asked, confused.
Drew's grin grew even wider, like a mischievous little fox.
Martin instantly suspected she was behind it all.
"I showed them your script," Drew said proudly. "There's an old saying, 'Misery loves company.' See? Now we're all suffering."
"So happy!" Diaz jumped up. "No wonder you looked like that when I saw you at the office. It was this damn script! Now you've shown it to all of us just so we can join you in your depression?!"
"Heh, depressed? I'm not depressed anymore. I spent $100,000 on this. I'm excited now!"
Martin finally understood.
That little gremlin Drew had shown them the script for District 9.
How to describe that story? Bleak. Hopeless.
Aside from a tiny flicker of comfort in the protagonist's love for his wife, the rest was just pain—racism, refugees, humanity's cruelty, class conflict. The entire film dripped with irony and despair.
Honestly, Martin didn't know how the original timeline's version had ended up making so much money.
Maybe audiences had just grown tired of happy endings and needed something different?
"Martin," Lindsay asked, eyes red, "Why you didn't turn Wikus back into a human? His wife loved him so much. Why not let them reunite?"
The poor girl was so upset she didn't even call him "Daddy."
Martin walked over, picked her up gently, sat down with her in his lap, and hugged her.
"Because," he said softly, "Tragedy leaves a deeper impression than comedy."
Cameron Diaz came closer. "Martin, the core of this script—it's based on Kafka's The Metamorphosis, right?"
Martin kissed her on the cheek and smiled. "Exactly. And if we're talking bleakness, Kafka's Gregor had it worse than my protagonist. At least I gave my guy a name, a personality, and someone who loved him. Gregor? He's just a symbol. No appearance, no character, not even a real presence—just waking up one day as Gigantic Insect."
"And at least my guy had a wife who stayed loyal. Gregor's own father looked at him with nothing but rage. Threw an apple at him. It lodged in his back. Started rotting. That rotten apple stayed with him—literally—until the day he died."
"After he died, his family was relieved. His father said, 'Thank God!' His mother smiled. There was no sunshine in his life."
Martin chuckled. "So... still think my protagonist has it bad?"
He added in a whisper, "Kafka is the true king of despair."
Scarlett snuggled in beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "In the script, the humans call the aliens 'prawns.' Is that a metaphor for the Rwandan genocide? I remember during that time, the Hutus called the Tutsis cockroaches."
Martin patted her gently. "Exactly. That's where the idea came from."
Not to be outdone, Jessica chimed in, "And the alien refugees—are they a stand-in for apartheid in South Africa? Or maybe America's inner-city slums?"
"So smart!" Martin said, tapping the tip of her nose.
Their moods were clearly lifting.
Drew, however, pouted.
Seeing everyone crowd around Martin, she ran over, arms open. "I want in, too!" She hugged the whole group—then leaned in and bit Martin's lip.