A Script for A Fading Signal

[SCENE START]

**INT. TV STATION OFFICE - LATE AFTERNOON**

SOUND of an ancient air conditioning unit whirring, a low mechanical sigh.

The office is a museum of affectionate decay. Piles of documents and old broadcast tapes threaten to swallow a massive metal desk. Low, golden autumn light filters through a dusty window, illuminating the chaos.

OWEN (50s), thinning grey hair, face etched with exhaustion, is hunched over the desk. He wears his frustration like a second skin.

<center>OWEN</center>

> (a low growl)

> …and what exactly is ‘community value’ when the community itself is watching cat videos on their phones?

He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure habit. His weight settles into a groaning office chair, its vinyl armrests cracked, exposing yellowed foam.

JESSIE (23), earnest and wiry, stands by the window, his back mostly to the room. He stares out at the rust-coloured maple leaves clinging to their branches. His scuffed trainers shift on the floorboards, which give a faint, familiar SQUEAK.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> It’s about giving people a voice, Owen. Stories they won’t get anywhere else. Like Mrs. Peterson’s prize-winning dahlias. Or the council meetings no one else bothers to cover.

His voice is steady, but a tremor builds in his chest.

A sharp, disbelieving SNORT from the corner.

KAREN (23), sleek dark bob, sharp and pragmatic, is perched on the edge of a filing cabinet. A legal pad is balanced on her knee.

<center>KAREN</center>

> Jessie, with all due respect to Mrs. Peterson’s dahlias, they pulled three viewers last week. Three. And one of them was Mrs. Peterson.

Her pen taps a staccato rhythm against the pad. A nervous beat.

<center>KAREN (CONT'D)</center>

> We are bleeding money. The board is looking at a hard cut. We need to be realistic.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> Realistic?

He pushes off the wall, peeling paint cool against his palm. He turns, his eyes flashing.

<center>JESSIE (CONT'D)</center>

> So we just… become another YouTube channel? A glorified blog? Is that the future, Karen? Selling out the only independent voice this town has?

He scrapes a hand through his own close-cropped hair, a nervous tic. The air is thick with the scent of old paper, damp moss, and stale coffee.

Owen shoves a hand through a pile of papers. A few flyers for the annual pumpkin festival flutter to the floor.

<center>OWEN</center>

> (softer, tired)

> It’s not about selling out, Jessie. It’s about surviving. The board wants a viable proposal for the next fiscal year, or they're pulling the plug. End of story.

He picks up a crumpled sheet of paper, smoothing it out. His eyes, usually sharp with dry humor, are shadowed with defeat.

<center>OWEN (CONT'D)</center>

> Our budget is being slashed by another thirty percent. Thirty. Do you know what that means?

The chair GROANS as he leans back.

Karen leans forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

<center>KAREN</center>

> It means we adapt. We go hybrid. We find sponsors. We push for interviews with the new mayor, the businesses that are actually doing something. Not just…

> (a glance at Jessie)

> …quiet community pieces. We need engagement. Viewers who aren’t already our grandmothers.

A hot flush creeps up Jessie’s neck.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> So, we chase numbers. We become everything we tried not to be.

He looks at Karen. His best friend. It feels like a betrayal.

<center>KAREN</center>

> It’s not selling out, it’s evolving! It’s making sure we still *exist* to tell any stories at all. Do you want this place to shut down? Because that’s the alternative.

> (beat)

> Next meeting, they want a new direction. A new pitch. And that’s in two weeks.

Two weeks. The words hang in the air. Jessie’s stomach clenches.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> (almost to himself)

> We could do a segment on the new cider mill… Good visuals. That appeals to… everyone, right?

His voice sounds weak, desperate even to his own ears.

<center>OWEN</center>

> (a long sigh)

> Good visuals don't pay the hydro bill, son. The board wants a concrete plan for revenue. Not just a pretty picture of apples.

<center>KAREN</center>

> We could run ads for the mill.

Her pen is already scribbling on the pad. She’s electric with the idea.

<center>KAREN (CONT'D)</center>

> Native advertising. Integrate it into a feature on local agri-tourism. We brand it ‘Port Blossom Flavours.’ We charge them a fee, we expand our social media, we show them real data…

Jessie stares at her, a cold shock running through him.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> Sponsored content? Are you serious? So our ‘local voice’ becomes… an infomercial?

<center>KAREN</center>

> (voice rising)

> It’s a stepping stone! A way to keep the lights on so we can still do the stuff we care about! How are we going to interview the local fisherman if we don’t have cameras that work? It’s pragmatism, Jessie, not a betrayal.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> (muttering)

> Pragmatism has a price.

He turns back to the window. A gust of wind tears a few leaves free, sending them spiraling down to the damp pavement. He can’t stay here. He walks out, leaving the argument hanging in the air.

**INT. TV STUDIO - CONTINUOUS**

Jessie pushes open a heavy steel door. The CREAK echoes.

The main studio is a cavernous, dark space. The massive lights suspended from the grid above are like sleeping giants. The air smells of old plastic, electronics, and faint stage makeup.

He walks past the main set—a hand-painted, slightly chipped backdrop of Port Blossom’s harbour. A behemoth of a studio camera from the early 2000s sits under a tarp. He runs a hand along the cool metal of its tripod, feeling the distant, low HUM of the station vibrate through it.

He moves into the adjoining control room.

**INT. CONTROL ROOM - CONTINUOUS**

A smaller, darker space filled with the ghosts of blinking lights on dead monitors. The main mixing board is a relic, its sliders sticky.

Jessie leans against the console, the storm brewing inside him. He remembers sitting here late at night, Owen patiently showing him how to cue music, how to bring a story to life. This place gave him everything.

A soft voice cuts through his thoughts.

<center>MARY-ANNE</center>

> Jessie?

He nearly jumps. MARY-ANNE (18), an intern with wide, enthusiastic eyes, stands in the doorway holding a stack of freshly labeled tape cassettes. She looks so young, so hopeful. It feels like a betrayal of that hope to even let her be here.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> (forcing a casual tone)

> Oh. Hey, Mary-Anne. Just… checking the equipment.

<center>MARY-ANNE</center>

> Owen said to label these for the archives. Old ‘Community News’ segments. There’s one from 1998 about the town bridge.

> (she hesitates)

> My nan always used to watch ‘Local Lens.’ Said it was the only way to know what was really happening.

The simple words hit Jessie like a physical blow. A warmth spreads through his chest, fragile and unexpected. *My nan*. He remembers his own grandmother, her rapt attention as he stumbled through his first on-air report. It wasn’t just Mrs. Peterson. It was generations of them.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> (voice rough)

> It was. It still is. Or… it should be.

Mary-Anne offers a small, uncertain smile.

<center>MARY-ANNE</center>

> I think it's important. To have something like this. Something that's just… ours.

She clutches the tapes a little tighter, as if protecting them.

*Just ours.*

The phrase cuts through the noise in Jessie’s head. It’s the core of it all. A sudden burst of energy sparks within him.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> You're right. It is important.

He pushes himself off the console and walks past her, back towards the office, a new urgency in his step.

**INT. TV STATION OFFICE - LATER**

The low, golden light has softened, stretching long shadows across the dusty carpet. The streetlights outside have flickered on.

Owen is at his desk, scrubbing his temples. Karen is still on the filing cabinet, staring at her now-closed legal pad. The air is thick with weary silence, punctuated only by the HUM of the AC.

Jessie appears in the doorway, gripping the frame. The splintering wood is rough and familiar under his fingers.

<center>JESSIE</center>

> Alright.

Karen and Owen look up. His voice is clearer now, more resolute.

<center>JESSIE (CONT'D)</center>

> Two weeks. Fine. We come up with something. Something that works.

> (he looks from Karen to Owen)

> Something that’s… us. But also something they can't say no to.

He offers a challenge, but also a plea. A desperate hope.

Karen meets his gaze, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t move.

Owen lets out a long, slow breath.

The silence stretches. The three of them, a fractured unit, suspended in the deepening autumn twilight. The station seems to hold its breath with them, waiting.

The signal is weak, but for a moment, they are all on the same frequency.

[SCENE END]