It takes a different value system if you wish to change the

Host: The rain had ended, but the world still shimmered with its afterglow — puddles reflecting fractured neon, the streets breathing the clean, metallic scent of renewal. Somewhere in the distance, a train howled, its lonely cry cutting through the night like the echo of something ancient — something yearning for change.

Inside an abandoned warehouse, lit only by the soft hum of string lights, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other at a makeshift table of rusted metal and wooden planks. Around them, blueprints were scattered like fallen leaves — drawings of impossible cities, floating structures, and energy systems that existed only in dreams.

A single candle flickered between them, throwing their faces into shifting relief — one framed by the hard lines of realism, the other softened by idealism’s glow.

The silence between them wasn’t emptiness. It was potential.

Jeeny: (gazing at the candle) “Jacque Fresco once said, ‘It takes a different value system if you wish to change the world.’” (She leans forward slightly.) “He was right. You can’t build a new civilization with the morals of the old one.”

Jack: (dryly) “That’s the problem, Jeeny. Everyone wants to change the world — no one wants to change themselves.”

Host: The flame trembled as if reacting to his words. Jack’s eyes, pale and sharp, reflected the light like steel catching dawn.

Jeeny: “Change doesn’t start with systems, Jack. It starts with values. With what we decide to care about. Fresco saw that — he didn’t want to fix capitalism or communism. He wanted to replace them with something human.”

Jack: “Human?” (He chuckles, low.) “The minute you add humans to a system, you get corruption, greed, ambition. You can change the architecture, the currency, even the energy source — but you can’t rewrite desire.”

Jeeny: “You can redirect it.”

Jack: “You can’t even define it.”

Host: The rainwater dripping from the ceiling hit the floor rhythmically — plink, plink, plink — a metronome of decay and persistence. The air was damp, heavy with the ghosts of old industry.

Jeeny: “You sound like one of those men who believes the world runs on the same laws as machines.”

Jack: “Doesn’t it? Input, output, feedback. That’s how you keep civilization running.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you keep it functioning. But running isn’t living, Jack. We built a world obsessed with motion — and forgot where it’s going.”

Host: The flame wavered again. Jeeny’s eyes caught it — soft, reflective, resolute. Jack leaned back, folding his arms, his shadow stretching long across the cracked concrete floor.

Jack: “You talk like Fresco — dream big, talk bigger. Circular cities, resource-based economies, machines that eliminate poverty. Beautiful ideas — until someone has to implement them.”

Jeeny: “You think idealists are naïve because you’ve forgotten what hope feels like. Fresco didn’t fail because his ideas were impossible. He failed because we didn’t have the courage to imagine something different.”

Jack: (pausing) “Different value system, huh? You mean one where profit doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “One where life does.”

Host: The wind found a crack in the wall, whispering through it — a ghostly sigh that carried the weight of everything unsaid. Jack looked away, his jaw tight, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “I used to believe in that, you know. When I was younger. Thought we could make things fair — build systems that cared about more than numbers.”

Jeeny: “What happened?”

Jack: “Reality. The bills, the compromises, the meetings where people talk about ethics while calculating margins. Idealism doesn’t survive long in a quarterly report.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it’s not idealism that failed — maybe it’s comfort that won.”

Host: Her words landed like rain on cold metal — quiet, but persistent. Jack’s hands curled around the edge of the table, the old wood creaking beneath the tension.

Jack: “You really think a new value system can fix all this?” (He gestures toward the crumbling walls, the flickering light, the distant hum of the city outside.) “We’ve been through revolutions before — political, industrial, digital — and every one just found new ways to exploit the same people.”

Jeeny: “Because every revolution stopped at the surface. We changed tools, not hearts. Fresco was talking about something deeper — an evolution of thought. A shift from ownership to stewardship, from profit to purpose.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But try selling that to Wall Street.”

Jeeny: “You don’t sell it. You live it. You teach it. You pass it on until it becomes natural. Values aren’t traded — they’re inherited.”

Host: The candlelight flickered wildly, then steadied — as if catching its breath. The warehouse seemed to listen.

Jack: “You know what scares me about people like Fresco?”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “You talk about changing the world like it’s a blueprint. But the world’s not a design problem — it’s a wound. And you can’t heal it by drafting another utopia.”

Jeeny: “Then what would you do, Jack? Let it bleed?”

Jack: “Maybe some wounds teach us more than the cures ever will.”

Host: Silence again. Outside, the faint hum of electricity from distant streetlights merged with the whisper of the wind. The world itself seemed caught between exhaustion and awakening.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s stopped believing in anything that can’t be measured.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t fix supply chains, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No — but without it, we forget why we fix them.”

Jack: “So what? We tear it all down? Start from zero?”

Jeeny: “If that’s what it takes. Every civilization that outlives its compassion deserves collapse.”

Jack: “And who decides what compassion looks like?”

Jeeny: “Those who still have it.”

Host: The tension between them thickened, but it wasn’t anger — it was the heat of transformation. The kind that doesn’t destroy, but refines. The flame on the table stretched taller, defiant, alive.

Jack: (quietly) “You think people can change their value system? After centuries of greed and fear?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But one by one — yes. It starts small. A child learns empathy instead of competition. A company values well-being over growth. A leader admits ignorance instead of selling certainty.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred.”

Host: A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the city — not threatening, but awakening. The candle flickered but refused to die.

Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the light like twin orbits of conviction.

Jeeny: “Fresco believed that the future wasn’t a place we reach. It’s something we build — every day, with every choice.”

Jack: “And what if we never get there?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Then at least we’ll have moved the direction of history by one heartbeat closer.”

Host: The camera panned slowly outward — revealing the warehouse walls now covered in sketches and maps, the dreams of civilizations unbuilt but not forgotten.

The candle burned lower, but its light seemed stronger, defying the dark that waited at the edges of the world.

Jack reached across the table, his hand brushing against the blueprints.

Jack: “Different value system…” (He sighed.) “Maybe that’s not a theory. Maybe it’s a choice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain began again — softer this time, rhythmic, forgiving. The candle flame danced in time with it.

As they sat there, surrounded by sketches of impossible tomorrows, the world outside turned quietly, unaware that somewhere in the heart of its decay, two people had already begun rebuilding it — not with tools, but with belief.

Fade to black.