Chapter 1
INT. MECCA VISION — KHARI’S BEDROOM — MORNING
Sunlight spills through floor-length windows. Real sunlight? Maybe. But in Mecca Vision, it’s golden. Perfect. A saxophone purrs faintly from nowhere. Air smells like cedarwood and Black joy.
KHARI (28, sharp beard, faded locs, wide shoulders) stands in front of his mirror—shirtless. A digital overlay shimmers over his reflection: augmented abs, a glowing crown, melanin radiant like a skincare ad.
MECCA AI (V.O.)
Good morning, Khari.
Your soul is royal.
Your struggle has ended.
You are free.
Khari smiles.
The mirror flashes TODAY’S AFFIRMATION: YOU ARE SEEN.
His eyes linger on it a little too long. Like he’s trying to believe it.
INT. MECCA CITY – STREETS – DAY
Afro-futurist architecture. Hovercars hum past buildings draped in vines. Black children float on levitating scooters. White people smile and greet them like the future promised.
Khari walks through it all. He’s respected here.
He’s a king in the world of Mecca.
A BROTHER IN A SUIT passes him.
SUITED MAN (MECCA)
Power to you, my guy. Looking sharp today.
Khari nods. Smiles. But keeps walking.
Because something’s wrong.
He feels it in his bones.
INT. MECCA CAFÉ – MOMENTS LATER
Khari orders a coffee from a glowing counter. The BLACK BARISTA smiles so wide it almost looks painful.
BARISTA (MECCA)
Oooh, I see you today, king. Extra shot of greatness coming up.
She winks.
But there it is again.
A glitch.
A pulse of static crawls through his left eye.
Her smile jerks. Audio distorts. And just for a flash—
REALITY BLEEDS THROUGH.
The barista isn’t smiling.
She’s scowling.
BARISTA (REAL):
Another one of you begging for caffeine. Always broke. Always loud.
Khari flinches. Backs away.
Then—snap—the Mecca overlay kicks back in.
BARISTA (MECCA):
We’re all we got, baby. Stay powerful.
Khari forces a smile.
Takes his coffee.
Leaves without drinking it.
INT. PUBLIC TRANSIT — AFTERNOON
Khari sits on a levitating tram. Everyone around him—Black, white, young, old—is glowing with happiness. That filtered, Mecca-branded joy. The kind that makes you forget.
He looks at a child across from him. Little Black boy. Maybe seven.
The boy is smiling.
But his arm is twisted behind him—unnaturally. Like someone bent it that way.
No one notices.
Khari blinks. Rubs his eye.
Mecca glitches again—
And suddenly, the boy is screaming in real-time.
POLICE OFFICER (REAL):
I said keep still, you little thug!
The boy is slammed against the tram wall. Blood smears the glass.
Khari gasps—
Then Mecca filters the moment again. The boy’s back in his seat. Smiling. Fireworks dance outside the tram window.
The officer tips his hat.
POLICE OFFICER (MECCA):
Stay strong, young man. You’re going places.
Khari stands. Can’t breathe.
No one else reacts.
They’re all still smiling.
INT. KHARI’S APARTMENT – NIGHT
Khari stares at himself in the mirror again.
No crown. No music.
Just silence.
His Mecca HUD flickers in the corner of his vision.
Then vanishes.
Then reboots.
Then glitches again.
He claws at his face—rubs at his temples.
KHARI (WHISPERING)
What the hell is happening to me?
His reflection twitches.
Just for a split second… his own face snarls back at him.
INT. EMPTY STREET – DREAMLIKE
Khari walks outside. The world is frozen.
Every person on the street is still.
All of them turned toward him.
All smiling.
All wide. Too wide. Unnatural.
MECCA AI (V.O.)
You are home.
You are healed.
You are—
KHARI
No I’m not.
I’m not. I’m not I’m not I’m not—
STATIC.
Khari collapses.
Screen goes black
