Interior Captain’s Cabin.
SABRE stands at the edge of the table, breathless, holding the TUBE. Glaring at it. Hair mussed. She’s clearly been trying all manner of means to open it, to no avail.
1. SABRE: Open, blast you!
All at once, a flurry of action, as SABRE bashes the TUBE repeatedly against the side of the table. Hair flying about.
3. SFX: WHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMPWHOMP
4. SABRE: OpenopenopenopenopenopenOPEN!
Past SABRE, tight FG, if we’re putting her in panel at all.
Focus on the DOOR as it flies open, an alarmed WESTFIELD THANE entering.
5. SABRE/off: Stupid blistered maggot-fed—
6. WESTFIELD: Captain?
Reverse, past WESTFIELD, to SABRE. Hair in her face. TUBE in her hand – she’s been bashing it against the table trying to get it open, though that may not be apparent yet.
It’s that moment of pause after exertion. Her jaw is set. She does not like being vexed by this tube, and aye, she is vexed indeed.
1. WESTFIELD: There a reason to tell for the commotion
2. SABRE: Westfield.
3. SABRE: Why, yes. Yes, there is.
SABRE holds up the TUBE, smiling. Brushing hair out of her face with her free hand. That smile has wattage.
WESTFIELD is taking the TUBE.
4. WESTFIELD: That’d be the case you stole from the
5. SABRE: One does not steal that which was ill-
acquired at the first, West.