Scene 1: Termination

INT. PRESIDENT’S OFFICE – OKLAHOMA UNIVERSITY – LATE AFTERNOON

The late afternoon sun slants in through tall windows, casting warm, golden rectangles on the polished hardwood floor. The atmosphere inside the President’s office, however, is far from warm.

PRESIDENT FLETCHER, mid-sixties, with a trimmed beard and thinning hair, sits behind a massive mahogany desk. His shoulders are hunched forward, hands clasped as though praying for patience. Across from him, Maya Rosenthal sits with perfect poise on a leather sofa, legs crossed, hands resting calmly on her lap.

A tray of untouched coffee sits on the table between them.

PRESIDENT FLETCHER (tense):

“This is your sixth warning, Maya. I’ve gone as far as I can to shield you. But the situation has reached its limit.”

MAYA ROSENTHAL (evenly):

“I understand.”

Fletcher rubs his forehead and exhales through his nose.

PRESIDENT FLETCHER:

“If you were speaking at Democrat or Republican forums, the patrons would’ve tolerated it. Maybe even respected it. But Liberty Daughters Party?”

(He leans forward)

“You’ve aligned yourself with a group that most of our alumni board considers radical. You’ve gone viral, Maya. Three times in the last month alone. Those clips are circulating in national conservative networks, international leftist journals… everywhere. It’s no longer a question of academic freedom. It’s about optics, funding, and institutional survival.”

Maya maintains her serene demeanor, her green eyes unblinking.

MAYA ROSENTHAL:

“My contract was up next semester anyway.”

PRESIDENT FLETCHER (softly):

“Maya… it’s not personal. But your services here are officially terminated. Effective immediately.”

He slides a formal letter of termination across the desk. She doesn’t reach for it. She just smiles politely and nods.

MAYA ROSENTHAL:

“I’ve given twenty speeches in the last six months. CBI and LDP have been very generous—fifty thousand dollars a speech.”

(She shrugs slightly, brushing her dark brown hair back into a messy bun)

“Being unemployed... is more symbolic than consequential.”

Fletcher stares at her, baffled. She’s not flinching. She’s already gone further than he can imagine.

Scene 2: A New Message

INT. IVY THOMPSON’S APARTMENT – SAN ANTONIO – NIGHT

A small, cluttered one-bedroom apartment in a faded brick complex. The kitchen light flickers above as Ivy Thompson, 29, sits barefoot on the floor, leaning against her couch with an empty ramen bowl beside her. Her long, wavy hair is slightly damp from a late shower, and her sweatpants are faded at the knees. A stack of overdue bills and two half-filled notebooks lie scattered around her.

She glances at the cheap plastic clock on the wall. Nearly midnight.

Life has been hard since she walked out on McKenzie Urban Strategies, refusing to work another day pushing gentrification disguised as development. Since then, she’s scraped by freelancing—writing city plans no one reads, data consulting, leftist analysis for blogs that don’t pay. And the occasional odd job—editing socialist zines, moderating Discord panels on eco-feminism.

Her phone buzzes on the table beside her. She frowns, picks it up.

UNKNOWN NUMBER (WhatsApp):

Hi, good evening. We met recently at the Left Economics roundtable event.

Her eyebrows raise. She remembers that event. Her comment during the Q&A caused quite a stir. She replies cautiously:

IVY (typing):

Hello. May I ask who this is?

A reply comes within seconds.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

This is Morgan Yates. From the Civic Balance Institute.

Ivy's heart skips. She knows that name. One of the key speakers behind the event. CBI had sponsored the gathering—but Ivy hadn’t expected to be remembered.

MORGAN YATES:

I’m in San Antonio for a few days. Would you be open to meeting in person? I’d like to discuss potential collaboration. Your comments left an impression.

Ivy stares at the screen. It’s late. She’s exhausted. But suddenly, something electric moves beneath her skin—curiosity, opportunity... or danger?

She types her reply slowly, fingers trembling slightly.

IVY:

Sure. When and where?

***

SAN ANTONIO MARRIOTT – UPSCALE HOTEL RESTAURANT – NIGHT

Crystal chandeliers gleam above the velvet-lit dining space. Polished waitstaff in tuxedos glide between linen-covered tables. The silverware clinks gently, conversations are hushed—refined, distant.

IVY THOMPSON, in a thrift-store blazer and scuffed ankle boots, shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She tugs at her sleeves, regretting not brushing her hair twice. Her eyes dart across the room, noting the elegant clientele, the soft jazz, the fifty-dollar appetizers.

Across from her, seated with natural command and luxury in her bones, is MORGAN YATES—tailored ivory blazer, lips painted a perfect matte rose, her every gesture smooth and calculated. She sets down her wine glass and leans forward with a disarming smile.

MORGAN:

“Let’s skip the flattery. I didn’t bring you here to celebrate your ideas—I brought you here to use them.”

She lifts a black duffle bag from beneath the table and places it with care on the empty seat beside her. Then, casually, she pulls it onto the table and unzips the top—just a few inches.

IVY’S POV – a peek inside reveals bundles of hundred-dollar bills, crisp, bound, undeniable.

Ivy’s mouth goes dry.

IVY (low, stunned):

“What is this?”

MORGAN (evenly):

“Front payment. Fifty thousand. Your monthly salary will be ten grand—direct deposit. Start tonight.”

Ivy blinks hard, as if trying to wake herself. Her voice shakes slightly.

IVY:

“What… what kind of job are you offering me?”

MORGAN (leaning back, folding her arms):

“Your mind, Ivy. I want your mind. Analysis, strategy, planning. You know cities. You know leftist ecosystems. You know how radicals think and what they’ll buy into. You’re the bridge between chaos and control.”

IVY (wary):

“And the deliverables?”

MORGAN:

“Propose ideas. Assess what works. Shape the narratives. I’ll send you briefs, you send me maps, memos, recommendations. We’ll bring you into a few discreet strategy calls.”

Ivy stares at the bag again, then back at Morgan’s composed face.

IVY:

“And if I say no?”

MORGAN (smiling faintly):

“Then I leave, and we never meet again. But you’ll still wake up tomorrow in the same apartment, heating the same instant ramen, scrolling past other people’s revolutions.”

Ivy says nothing. She looks down at the table, then back at the bag—then back at herself, reflected faintly in the restaurant’s wine-dark glass.

Something cracks inside her. Or maybe clicks.

IVY (quiet):

“I’ll need a laptop.”

MORGAN (already texting):

“It’ll be delivered to your apartment tomorrow morning. And Ivy?”

Ivy looks up.

MORGAN (firmly):

“Don’t tell anyone we met. Not even Maya.”

***

INT. LOUISIANA STATE CAPITOL – 30TH FLOOR – EXECUTIVE STRATEGY SUITE – DAY

The 30th floor is a far cry from the bureaucratic drudgery Ivy expected. High ceilings. Minimalist concrete-and-wood interior. Floor-to-ceiling windows spill golden sunlight across polished stone. Down below, the capital stretches out—a city being reshaped by new dogma, quiet order, economic clarity under a theological regime.

IVY THOMPSON stands near the glass, heart hammering. She still hasn’t processed the security escort, the fingerprint access, the unspoken reverence of the building’s staff. No one ever said the words "6C," but everything around her screams it: the hushed efficiency, the modest luxury, the posters in the hallway quoting "The Righteous Ledger"—an economic doctrine coined after the takeover.

She adjusts the ID badge now clipped to her thrifted jacket.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

The door opens, and in walks PRIYA VARMA, radiant and unbothered. Late 20s, fair mocha skin, sharp eyes behind librarian-style glasses. Her maroon kurta and tailored slacks exude intellectual chic. She walks with calm authority.

Ivy freezes. Her mouth parts slightly in disbelief.

IVY:

“You’re… Priya Varma.”

PRIYA (warmly):

“Ivy Thompson. I’ve been following your ideas since your Gentrification & Gender Ecology thesis. Your lens on spatial redistribution? Sharp. Needed.”

She extends her hand. Ivy shakes it slowly, still stunned.

IVY:

“I thought you were… independent. You published with Dissent. You debated against national religious councils...”

PRIYA (smiling):

“I still am independent. But independence doesn’t mean irrelevance.”

The handshake lingers. Then footsteps approach. MORGAN YATES enters through the side door, clipboard in hand, already mid-conversation with someone through a Bluetooth earpiece. She clicks it off and gives a nod to both women.

MORGAN:

“Perfect timing. Ivy, welcome to the forward deck of national theology-led economics. Priya’s the architect of the current 6C economic vision.”

Ivy stiffens. The words land like a thunderclap.

PRIYA (stepping back, amused):

“Guilty. I designed the transition model they now use across 20 states. Femme Trust zones, Shared Marriage-Based Households, Male Asset Reprioritization, The Wages of Modesty—all mine.”

IVY (half-whispers):

“You’re the reason the Louisiana river districts got rezoned into polygynous communes?”

PRIYA (nodding):

“And why debt forgiveness is tied to household moral contracts. I matched economic risk pools to ethical conduct. Theology became a fiscal modifier. We call it the ‘Virtue-Backed Credit Framework.’”

Ivy’s brain sprints in every direction.

MORGAN (firmly):

“Now we need a counterbalancing construct. A second-tier system. Modular, but frictionless with Priya’s. Think… urban application. Post-industrial zones. Think of the class that almost resists but not quite.”

PRIYA:

“People like you used to be. Brilliant, suspicious, reformist. Not loyal, not subversive—just… usable.”

Ivy’s hands tremble slightly. She looks again at the skyline outside. So much of the old order is gone. She can see it now in the shadows of new architecture. And yet, somehow, she’s here, inside the new cathedral, being asked to design.

IVY (softly):

“You want me to make a supplement to your economic theology.”

PRIYA:

“No. We want you to make its next layer.”

Morgan smiles tightly.

MORGAN:

“You’ve already been paid, Ivy. But this—this is legacy.”

***

STRATEGY SUITE – 30TH FLOOR – NIGHT

The brainstorm freezes.

A heavy silence settles like fog. Ivy’s hand, holding the marker, lingers mid-air. Morgan Yates straightens, instantly poised, eyes flashing something between reverence and fear.

DOOR OPENS.

A presence enters before the man himself. HEZRI. Tall. Charismatic in a terrifying, effortless way. Every motion he makes seems designed to signal power without aggression—like a lion that doesn’t need to roar to remind you what it is.

Ivy’s breath catches in her throat. Her mouth opens slightly, as if to confirm his reality.

IVY (stunned):

“No... I can't—this—”

(whispers)

“That’s him.”

HEZRI (calm, cutting through the tension):

“No. I can't accept the idea.”

He walks in, hands behind his back, his tone not angry—just final. A man who reshapes empires with edits.

HEZRI (to Ivy):

“Miss Thompson. Your proposal has elegance… but it threatens to orbit outside the gravitational core of 6C. I will not allow that.”

IVY (still absorbing):

“You—this entire operation... It’s you?”

(then realizing, her voice quieter)

“The money. The structure. LDP… CBI... all of it?”

HEZRI (with a cold smile):

“Of course. Did you think a shattered system could fund you with such precision? No. This movement needed your genius—but harnessed, not autonomous.”

He approaches the whiteboard, glancing at MASCEP. Then wipes a portion of it clean with his handkerchief.

HEZRI:

“Three things are non-negotiable.”

He raises three fingers.

HEZRI:

“One: Polygamy—man as the axial figure, no more than four wives and two concubines. This cap isn’t symbolic—it’s designed for emotional equilibrium and material manageability.”

HEZRI:

“Two: Femme Groups—women must live, labor, and believe in clusters. Sisterhood, loyalty, spiritual interdependence. It's both social scaffolding and ideological firewall.”

HEZRI:

“Three: Concubinage—the silent economy. They don’t marry, but they nourish. Offer surplus comfort, fill gaps, inspire rivalry among wives. And they carry no marital cost.”

Ivy’s face twists slightly, as if the word concubinage is both archaic and radioactive.

HEZRI (turning to Priya):

“Priya. Remind our friend here about your Distributed Fulfillment Gradient.”

PRIYA VARMA (a little tense):

“The DFG is the flowchart we use to assign emotional, sexual, domestic, and intellectual responsibilities across polygamous units. Each woman fulfills a gradient role—no one redundant, no one overburdened.”

HEZRI:

“Exactly. When Ivy proposes economic clusters, she must ask: how does the DFG map onto them?”

He points again.

HEZRI:

“And the Male Access Index. Say it.”

PRIYA (quietly):

“MAI calculates how much communal resource—whether sexual, emotional, or financial—each male must provide in order to qualify for polygamous leadership. It ties masculinity to measurable responsibility.”

HEZRI (to Ivy):

“So. Your clusters. Your ‘subscription model patriarchy.’ It must be a 6C app. Not a renegade.”

He steps closer to her, almost conspiratorially now.

HEZRI (softly):

“I didn’t summon you to reinvent the wheel. I summoned you to weaponize it.”

IVY (defiant, but cornered):

“I’ll need to rework the model.”

HEZRI (smiles):

“You’ll need to submit it.”

He turns and walks away just as silently as he came.

DOOR CLOSES.

Priya exhales. Morgan blinks hard.

Ivy stands there… in front of her whiteboard, now half-erased, the words femme-led smudged and fading. Her heart pounds, but a strange clarity dawns in her eyes.

This isn’t just economics anymore.

It’s theology in architecture.

***

HOURS LATER – NIGHT

The lights have dimmed. The digital whiteboard glows softly in front of Ivy. Everyone else is gone. Priya offered her tea before leaving. Morgan gave a polite nod, said, “Sleep on it.” But Ivy stayed.

She didn’t sleep.

Ivy sits alone, ramen in her gut and $50,000 in her backpack. The adrenaline is fading. Her logical brain takes the wheel.

At first, it all felt surreal. 6C. Hezri. The core tenets—polygamy, femme groups, concubinage—so far removed from the urban planning vision she had for a better world. But now the numbers are talking to her.

She stares at a blank space on the board. Then she begins typing.

New Slide Appears:

“Socio-Economic Modules Within Constrained Theocratic Parameters”

Subtitle: Adaptation Blueprint for MASCEP under 6C

She doesn’t like the words. But she writes them.

IVY (voiceover):

“If I can’t erase the foundation… I’ll rearrange the furniture.”

She sketches out three nested diagrams:

Polygamy Unit as Economic Microcell

→ Housing allocation through shared labor quotas

→ Tax credits tied to emotional labor roles (mothering, caretaking, teaching)

Femme Groups as Economic Unions

→ Shared savings accounts

→ Collective bargaining within 6C's religious framework

→ Emotional redundancy buffers: built-in peer therapy systems

Concubine Economy: Shadow Value Layer

→ Performance-based benefits

→ Placement algorithm to prevent emotional volatility

→ Integration into fulfillment gradient

She works fast now. Detached. Clinical. Almost surgical.

IVY (muttering):

“If I make it elegant, they’ll trust it. If I make it efficient, they’ll fund it.”

She opens her laptop and begins coding a spreadsheet simulation model. She calls it “Masculine Efficiency Gradient” (MEG)—a tool to calculate how the presence of each female role optimizes or destabilizes a household economy.

The name disgusts her. But again: $10,000/month.

She whispers to herself:

IVY:

“Survive first. Dismantle later… maybe.”

She stares out the window. The Capitol’s spire glows.

From the 30th floor, Louisiana looks like a spreadsheet—rows of lights, columns of traffic. Obedient.

She goes back to work.

***

STRATEGY SUITE – MOMENTS LATER

The room remains still as Ivy's final slide fades from the screen. She lowers the clicker. A few nods from around the table. But Hezri, unmoved, leans forward with a quiet precision that chills the room.

HEZRI:

“You are intelligent, Ms. Thompson. That is not in question. But let me ask—where is your discipline?”

(beat)

“You were hired as an urban planner. Not a theorist. Not a speechwriter. Not a consultant in soft metrics.”

Ivy stiffens, caught mid-exhale.

HEZRI (cont’d):

“Priya Varma built a model that reshapes national structure. She did so as a macroeconomist. You? I want you to apply pressure on cities. Make our structures spatially real. Physical. Walkable. Inescapable.”

PRIYA VARMA:

“Your framework was elegant. But theoretical. We need material implementation.”

(she looks at Ivy directly)

“Can you translate my abstract DFG model into land, zoning, infrastructure, citizen flow?”

HEZRI:

“I want 6C’s economic theology to be experienced on street level—by posture, by proximity, by regulation. Can you make cities enforce ideology without speaking it?”

Silence.

IVY (processing, slowly):

“You want urban planning as behavioral containment. Spatial obedience.”

HEZRI:

“And freedom. For those aligned. We want cities that reward alignment as tangibly as they punish deviation.”

MORGAN YATES (leaning forward):

“Imagine Femme Group districts, Ivy. Economic zones coded by loyalty. Mobility pathways determined by household stability and Male Access Index tiers. Urban fabric shaped by belief.”

PRIYA (with quiet intensity):

“Can you design cities where dissent gets lost in the architecture itself?”

Ivy’s eyes flicker. She’s not scared anymore. She’s intrigued. Slowly, a grin threatens the corner of her lips.

IVY:

“Yes. But I’ll need data. Street maps. Power infrastructure. Commute behavior by gender and role.”

HEZRI:

“You’ll have them. Start with Baton Rouge.”

IVY (nodding):

“Then I’ll build you the first ideological smart-city. A real, living extension of 6C’s model.”

NAOMI CHEN (already noting the PR angle):

“We can call it ‘The Covenant Grid.’”

HEZRI:

“Good. Begin today.”

**"

BATON ROUGE – LATE MORNING

The Louisiana heat simmers off the pavement as Ivy Thompson steps out of a black state-issued SUV. She squints against the sun, pulling her satchel closer. Baton Rouge is eerily orderly. The trees are neatly pruned. Roads are smooth. Murals show men in white robes, families arranged in tiers. Everything looks curated.

A man waits for her near the curb. Late 30s, former military posture, simple beige shirt tucked into fitted khakis. His ID tag reads: "Harun Vale – 6C Urban Compliance Liaison."

HARUN:

“Ms. Thompson. You really did leave McKinsey for all this?”

IVY (dryly):

“I’ve had enough glossy reports. Now I want to build things that function—even if they frighten me a little.”

HARUN (walking beside her):

“Frighten’s good. Frighten means it works.”

EXT. BOULEVARD OF PROVIDERS – CONTINUOUS

They walk past a large public square. Women in identical lavender hijabs sit in trios beneath shade structures—Femme Groups in their designated zones. A billboard glows above them:

“One Man. Four Wives. Order, Not Chaos.”

Men in navy sashes stroll between zones with priority lanes.

IVY:

“These zones. What dictates spacing? Proximity to what?”

HARUN:

“To paternal structures. There’s a Male Access Index station every two blocks. Higher-MAI households get closer to commerce, transit, healthcare.”

IVY (nodding):

“Priya’s Fulfillment Gradient made spatial.”

HARUN (smirking):

“Exactly. You’ll see the 'Widow & Wandering Zone' later. Lower-MAI groups. Half-hour walk to anything.”

They pass a "Concourse of Heirs"—a vertical housing block, twelve stories high, shaped like a semi-pyramid. Ivy pauses.

IVY:

“This building? Who lives here?”

HARUN:

“Men with at least three wives. Preferably with pregnant concubines. They’re part of the Fertility Incentive Tier.”

IVY:

“So this entire urban code is a pressure machine. A filter.”

HARUN:

“Exactly. The city doesn’t punish you for being out of line. It starves you. Slowly. Elegantly.”

Ivy stops, pulling out her tablet. Begins sketching something.

IVY (softly):

“What Baton Rouge is… it’s not just a city. It’s an interface.”

HARUN:

“And you're the next update.”

***

LOUISIANA CAPITOL – THINKTANK STRATEGY ROOM – NIGHT

The room is dark save for the glow of digital blueprints. Ivy stands before a long touchscreen panel, hair pulled up in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed. Priya Varma sits nearby with arms crossed, watching carefully. Morgan Yates sips from a glass of white wine in the corner. Naomi Chen is half-engaged, typing on her phone.

Ivy Thompson clears her throat.

IVY:

“Okay. I’ve restructured the urban node to function as both reinforcement and incentive mechanism, within the bounds of Priya’s DFG and Hezri’s trinity pillars—Polygamy, Femme Groups, and Concubinage.”

She taps the screen.

SLIDE 1 – TRIAD CLUSTER ZONES

IVY (cont’d):

“We start with Triad Cluster Zones. These are designed for one man, four wives, and two concubines. The model mandates shared child-care courtyards, a rotating matriarchal management system among the wives, and auto-linked FemComm units—communication pods only accessible to registered Femme Groups.”

PRIYA (raising eyebrow):

“You’re giving them group communication independence?”

IVY:

“Only internally. Externally, it’s filtered through MAI thresholds. If they deviate from reproductive or cohesion metrics, their comms degrade in function.”

SLIDE 2 – MAI-DRIVEN MOBILITY

IVY:

“Second, I integrated Male Access Index thresholds with Transit Mobility Algorithms. Zones with high fertility, harmony, and obedience ratios get faster public routes. Those below threshold have to walk or wait for delayed loops.”

NAOMI CHEN (smiling):

“So social discipline now has a travel speed.”

IVY (flatly):

“Yes. But also, choice fatigue. I limit the number of destinations low-performing households can access in a day. Fewer choices. Fewer failures.”

SLIDE 3 – CONCUBINAGE INTERFACE VILLAS

IVY:

“Now the concubinage system. They’re placed in separate Interface Villas—equidistant between elite polygamous zones and artisan housing. These villas act as fertility reservoirs and informal loyalty testing sites.”

MORGAN (leaning in):

“Meaning?”

IVY:

“They’re mobile across family networks. But their transfers are tracked. If a man mismanages his concubines, he loses his Interface rights. That means—no more lateral mating transfers, no more movement upgrades.”

SLIDE 4 – “CHASTE AXIS” CORRIDOR

IVY:

“This is experimental. I’m proposing the Chaste Axis: an elongated civic corridor reserved for men under 25 who’ve pledged abstinence and civic labor. These zones are surrounded by Femme-only microbazaars to test for restraint and ambition. It’s an ideological farm.”

PRIYA (smirking):

“You really are a planner. You turned virtue signaling into literal architecture.”

HEZRI (from behind the dark glass, voice crackling through intercom):

“And you disguised eugenics in zoning law.”

Everyone turns. Ivy pauses, deadpan.

IVY:

“You wanted urban order, economic incentive, and symbolic compliance. This is all three. Your system lives in concrete now.”

PRIYA (smiling faintly):

“She’s dangerous. I like her.”

HEZRI (softly):

“So do I. Proceed to phase implementation. Baton Rouge will be the prototype.”

CUT TO: Ivy staring at the screen…

Numbers flicker. Zones animate. Metrics tick upward.

The city is no longer just a city.

It’s a behavioral machine.

***