A Script for The Winter Broadcast

**THE WINTER BROADCAST**

**SCENE 1**

**INT. NCTV CONTROL ROOM - DAY**

SOUND of a low, urgent murmur from down a hall

The room is a tomb of obsolete technology. A bank of MONITORS glows with a universe of STATIC, a soft electronic HISS filling the silence. Cables snake across the floor like dead roots.

JOHN (22), thin and tired, stares at a blank screen. His breath PLUMES in the frigid air. The concrete walls sweat with cold. He rubs his hands together, a useless friction.

He traces the dusty outline of a FADER on the audio mixer. The plastic is smooth, cold. He looks out a grimy window at a dull grey watercolour of a sky, bruised purple at the edges. Promising snow.

The floorboards CREAK as he pushes away from the console, stretching a stiff back. His gaze drifts over the decay: a half-eaten bag of crisps, a stack of outdated manuals. A place lived-in to the point of exhaustion. He runs a hand through slightly greasy hair.

A sharp RAP on the door makes him jolt.

KARI (22) stands in the doorway. She’s bundled in a thick, colourful scarf that’s an act of defiance against the station’s muted tones. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright behind wire-rimmed glasses. She radiates an energy the building can no longer contain.

<center>KARI</center>

> Brenda needs us in the meeting room, like, five minutes ago.

She steps past him, her boots thudding on the worn linoleum. She moves with a purpose that feels alien here.

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

> She's really on edge today. More than usual. I think it's… the number.

She gestures vaguely towards the hallway, as if the number itself hangs in the air. John pushes off the console, nodding slowly.

<center>JOHN</center>

> Yeah, I figured. What's the number this time? How many weeks until we're living off old episodes of 'Northwood’s Got Talent'?

It’s meant to be a joke. It lands with a thud in the cold air.

Kari offers a tight, almost imperceptible smile. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s already rummaging through a nearby box of props—a faded banner, a plastic microphone—a nervous habit.

John watches her for a beat, then follows her out. The door swings shut behind them with a tired SIGH.

**SCENE 2**

**INT. NCTV HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS**

The hallway is dimmer, colder. Exposed wires droop from the ceiling. A faint, electrical tang of old wiring and dust.

Ahead, OWEN (60s), greying beard, hands that know every button and dial, meticulously coils a camera cable. His movements are slow, precise, like he’s defusing a bomb.

He gives them a weary nod as they approach, his eyes not quite meeting theirs. His face is a roadmap of failed ventures and grim realities.

<center>KARI</center>

> (softer)

> Morning, Owen.

Owen just GRUNTS, his focus unbroken. He’s seen this all before.

**SCENE 3**

**INT. NCTV MEETING ROOM - DAY**

A cramped, cold space. A single fluorescent tube above the chipped laminate table FLICKERS intermittently, casting shifting shadows.

BRENDA (50s) sits at the head of the table. Her grey hair escapes its bun in straggles. Her purple cardigan droops around her shoulders. In front of her, a stack of printouts is fanned out like a losing hand of cards.

Owen sits to her left, arms crossed, a statue of stoicism. John takes a seat opposite him, next to Kari, who is already tapping a pen against a legal pad.

The HUM of the light is an incessant, irritating buzz.

Brenda clears her throat, a dry, rasping sound. She pushes a printout across the table. A single page of numbers. Stark RED INK jumps off the page.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> We're down fifty-seven percent on local sponsorships. The provincial grant, as we all know, is gone. Completely. And our reserves… well, they’re almost non-existent.

Her gaze sweeps over them. A challenge, or a plea.

<center>KARI</center>

> Okay, but this isn't news, Brenda. We knew this was coming. That's why I've been pitching… my proposal. The 'Northwood Unfiltered' concept. More raw. More relevant. We could get people watching again. Attract new sponsors who want fresh content, not…

She gestures vaguely, indicating the entire dying station.

Owen shifts. The chair springs CREAK.

<center>OWEN</center>

> New content costs money, Kari. We don't have enough to keep the old content running. We're talking about basic operations. Electricity. Heat. Replacing that camera lens that got cracked last month.

<center>KARI</center>

> But it’s an investment! If we don't try something radical, we’re just… dying slowly. We need to be bold. People are tired of town council meetings and bake sale promos. They want real stories. Hard stories. Investigative pieces. The opioid crisis on the reservation, youth homelessness…

Her passion is a desperate heat in the cold room. John feels a pang of admiration mixed with deep unease.

Brenda lets out a sigh heavy with exhaustion.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> Kari, our mandate is to serve *all* members of the community. We can't just pivot to sensationalism. And as Owen said, where is the money? We barely have enough to keep the lights on for another two months. Two months, if we're lucky.

John clears his throat. His own voice sounds hoarse, foreign.

<center>JOHN</center>

> What about… co-producing? With the local paper? Or crowd-funding?

The words feel weak, thin. Brenda shakes her head slowly.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> The paper is struggling worse than we are. And crowd-funding… it's a bandage on a gaping wound, John. We need a sustainable model. Not a prayer.

> (leaning forward)

> The board is meeting next week. They want a concrete plan. They want to know how we can survive, or if we should just…

The unspoken word—*close*—hangs in the air.

Kari SLAMS her pen on the table. A sharp CLATTER. They all jump.

<center>KARI</center>

> Close? No! We can't! This station… it's all some people have!

> (turning to John, pleading)

> John, you know how important this is. We learned everything here. We can't just let it go.

A knot of pressure tightens in John’s chest. He knows. But the reality feels so much heavier.

<center>OWEN</center>

> (low, gravelly)

> It's bigger than us, kids. Always has been. The world's changed. Everything's online now. Free. Nobody wants to watch local access anymore.

His words are a splash of cold water, extinguishing Kari’s fire.

<center>KARI</center>

> (quietly)

> So, what? We just… give up? Let it turn into another abandoned building? Like the old cinema?

The winter wind HOWLS outside, as if in agreement.

Brenda pushes the papers away, gathering them into a messy pile. She won’t look at them.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> We have until the board meeting. I need… something. Kari, put together a detailed outline of 'Unfiltered.' Cost projections, the works. John, look into alternative funding again. The provincial arts council, maybe. Anything. Owen, keep the basics running. Just… keep us on air for as long as we can.

Her voice CRACKS on the last sentence.

**SCENE 4**

**INT. NCTV MEETING ROOM - LATER**

The meeting breaks up. Kari grabs her notepad, a determined set to her jaw, and marches out. Owen gives Brenda a sympathetic look before heading for the equipment room.

John lingers.

Brenda just sits, hunched over the table. The flickering light makes her look ancient, vulnerable.

John walks to a relic of a coffee machine in the corner. Pours a cup of lukewarm, bitter brew that smells like rust. A necessary ritual. He turns back to Brenda. The silence is crushing.

<center>JOHN</center>

> (softly)

> Brenda?

She flinches, then slowly raises her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. She stares past him, out the narrow window where the first flakes of snow have begun to fall.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> It’s hard, John. To build something… and then to see it just… fade.

> (a whisper)

> I just don't know if I have any more fight left in me.

The admission hangs in the air, raw and exposed.

John takes a sip of the foul coffee.

<center>JOHN</center>

> We'll try, Brenda. Kari's got some good ideas. Maybe there's something with the arts council.

The words feel hollow, even to him.

She finally looks at him, a faint, ghost-like smile touching her lips.

<center>BRENDA</center>

> You're a good kid, John. Too good for this place, maybe.

> (a beat)

> Go on. Just… don't give up on trying to find a way.

It’s a dismissal, and a burden, all in one.

He nods, feeling the weight of it settle on his shoulders. He leaves her alone in the flickering light.

**SCENE 5**

**INT. NCTV CONTROL ROOM - CONTINUOUS**

John walks back down the silent hall. He passes Kari’s desk; she’s already hunched over her laptop, typing furiously, a small island of furious energy. From the equipment room, the faint METALLIC CLINK of Owen’s tools.

John settles back into his chair in the control room. The cold seeps back into his bones.

The monitors still hiss with static. A universe of unreceived signals.

He pulls out his phone. The screen is dark, reflecting his own tired face. He scrolls through his contacts. Pauses on KARI’s name. Then on a handful of others—friends who left Northwood for bigger cities, brighter lights.

He stares at the screen, a desperate urge to reach out, to ask what to do when the world you know starts to crumble.

SOUND of the low, constant HUM of the old equipment

It’s the only answer. For a long moment, John doesn't know if it’s a promise or a warning.

He lowers the phone. His gaze drifts back to the static on the monitors. A blank screen. A faded dream.

**FADE TO BLACK.**