The Cascading Signal
A public health official's attempt to quell a misinformation wildfire about the town's water supply is met with algorithmically amplified hysteria, forcing a confrontation with the man fanning the flames.
INT. TOWN HALL - ANTEROOM - NIGHT
DR. PAULA VILLENEUVE (40s), sharp and professional, holds a sheaf of LAB REPORTS. The paper feels flimsy in her hands, a pathetic shield.
CLOSE ON the reports: neat columns of data, parts per million, chlorine levels. All greenlit. All safe.
A nervous TOWN CLERK (20s), face pale with sweat, approaches without making eye contact.
TOWN CLERK
> They’re ready for you, Dr. Villeneuve.
Paula gives a tight nod, smoothing her blazer. A useless gesture.
SOUND of an anxious CROWD MURMUR from beyond the doors.
She takes a breath, a general preparing to fight a phantom army.
INT. TOWN HALL - MAIN HALL - CONTINUOUS
The lights are harsh, fluorescent. The air is hot, thick with anxiety. The room is packed with RESIDENTS, their faces tight. A sea of smartphones held aloft, recording.
Paula walks to a lectern at the front. The distrust in their eyes is a physical force.
PAULA
> Good evening. My name is Dr. Paula Villeneuve. I’m the regional Public Health Officer. I want to address the concerns circulating about the town’s water supply.
She lays out the facts. Explains protocols, safety checks, geological surveys. She holds up the lab reports, pointing to the columns of numbers.
PAULA
> ...as you can see from three separate, independent labs, the water in Havenwood is perfectly, boringly safe.
For a beat, it seems to work. A few people nod, lower their phones.
Then a MAN (50s) in the third row stands up.
MAN
> So if the water’s so safe, why did my neighbour’s dog get sick? Corey said the animals would be the first to go.
PAULA
> Sir, I can’t speak to an individual veterinary case. But there has been no increase in reported animal sicknesses at any local clinic. We’ve checked.
A WOMAN (60s) shouts from the back of the room.
WOMAN
> Because you’re covering it up! Corey warned us you’d do this! He said you’d have your ‘official’ data!
The name—Corey—hangs in the air. The murmur swells into angry shouts. Accusations fly. Her voice is swallowed by the noise. She stands alone at the lectern, her data useless, her authority gone.
INT. PAULA'S CAR - LATER
Parked across the street from a tidy suburban bungalow. Rain streaks down the windshield. Paula stares at the house, defeated.
The garage door is slightly ajar. A strip of bright, artificial light cuts through the rainy dark.
Her phone BUZZES on the passenger seat.
INSERT - PHONE SCREEN
A livestream notification.
CHANNEL: Havenwood RealTalk
TITLE: **LIVE: The Town Hall Deception - They’re Lying to You**
Paula’s jaw tightens. A flicker of frustration turns into resolve. She kills the engine.
EXT. SUBURBAN BUNGALOW - CONTINUOUS
Paula gets out of the car, pulls her coat tight against the drizzle, and walks with purpose across the wet asphalt toward the glowing garage.
INT. COREY'S GARAGE - CONTINUOUS
A chaotic DIY studio. Wires snake across the floor around audio equipment, lighting rigs, and a green screen.
COREY (30s), earnest and intense, sits at a desk. He speaks with righteous fury into a professional microphone, facing a CAMERA on a tripod.
COREY
> ...and she stands up there, folks, with her doctored papers and her condescending tone, and she tells you not to believe your own eyes. She tells you that poor Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses dying on the vine is just a coincidence.
Paula steps out of the shadows and into the harsh glare of his studio lights.
PAULA
> The Gable property uses a private well, Corey. It’s not even connected to the municipal supply.
Corey flinches, spinning in his chair. A flash of genuine panic crosses his face, quickly replaced by a shark-like grin. He points a finger at Paula, then turns back to his camera, his voice booming.
COREY
> Well, look what we have here, folks! The source herself! Dr. Villeneuve, come to shut down the truth. You’re live on Havenwood RealTalk, Doctor. Got anything to say to the people you’re poisoning?
He gestures to a large MONITOR mounted on the wall. It shows his livestream, and beside it, a live chat.
ON THE MONITOR - A torrent of comments scrolls past at an impossible speed.
Paula steps forward, ignoring the camera, her focus entirely on him.
PAULA
> This isn’t about truth. This is about fear. You’re terrifying people for clicks. You have no evidence, no data, nothing but vague anecdotes you twist into a conspiracy.
COREY
>>(into the mic)
> The people have the evidence! They see the discoloured water in their tubs! They smell the chemicals!
PAULA
> They see it because you told them to look for it. It’s tannin from the autumn leaves, the same as every year. The smell is the seasonal increase in chlorine, a standard and perfectly safe procedure you’ve framed as something sinister.
She glances at the monitor.
ANGLE ON THE MONITOR - The scrolling comments are a blur of rage.
`Liar!`
`Get her, Corey!`
`She's glowing! Look at her skin! She's radioactive!`
`Recall the whole council!`
`#HavenwoodPoison`
Corey sees her looking, a smirk playing on his lips.
COREY
> They don’t believe you, Doctor. Why is that?
PAULA
>>(voice dropping, tired)
> Because you’ve given them a simple story with a clear villain. It’s easier than understanding water treatment protocols. It’s more compelling than parts per million.
COREY
>>(leaning into the mic, a performer)
> Or maybe they’re just smarter than you give them credit for. Maybe they know when they’re being lied to by the so-called experts who’ve failed them time and time again.
Paula stares at the monitor. The cascading signal of hate-filled text. A digital guillotine.
CLOSE ON PAULA'S FACE - Illuminated by the scrolling comments. A profound, chilling despair washes over her. She hasn't just lost the argument. She's lost the war for reality itself.
SOUND of the scrolling text seems to grow louder, overwhelming everything, until it's the only thing we hear.
DR. PAULA VILLENEUVE (40s), sharp and professional, holds a sheaf of LAB REPORTS. The paper feels flimsy in her hands, a pathetic shield.
CLOSE ON the reports: neat columns of data, parts per million, chlorine levels. All greenlit. All safe.
A nervous TOWN CLERK (20s), face pale with sweat, approaches without making eye contact.
TOWN CLERK
> They’re ready for you, Dr. Villeneuve.
Paula gives a tight nod, smoothing her blazer. A useless gesture.
SOUND of an anxious CROWD MURMUR from beyond the doors.
She takes a breath, a general preparing to fight a phantom army.
INT. TOWN HALL - MAIN HALL - CONTINUOUS
The lights are harsh, fluorescent. The air is hot, thick with anxiety. The room is packed with RESIDENTS, their faces tight. A sea of smartphones held aloft, recording.
Paula walks to a lectern at the front. The distrust in their eyes is a physical force.
PAULA
> Good evening. My name is Dr. Paula Villeneuve. I’m the regional Public Health Officer. I want to address the concerns circulating about the town’s water supply.
She lays out the facts. Explains protocols, safety checks, geological surveys. She holds up the lab reports, pointing to the columns of numbers.
PAULA
> ...as you can see from three separate, independent labs, the water in Havenwood is perfectly, boringly safe.
For a beat, it seems to work. A few people nod, lower their phones.
Then a MAN (50s) in the third row stands up.
MAN
> So if the water’s so safe, why did my neighbour’s dog get sick? Corey said the animals would be the first to go.
PAULA
> Sir, I can’t speak to an individual veterinary case. But there has been no increase in reported animal sicknesses at any local clinic. We’ve checked.
A WOMAN (60s) shouts from the back of the room.
WOMAN
> Because you’re covering it up! Corey warned us you’d do this! He said you’d have your ‘official’ data!
The name—Corey—hangs in the air. The murmur swells into angry shouts. Accusations fly. Her voice is swallowed by the noise. She stands alone at the lectern, her data useless, her authority gone.
INT. PAULA'S CAR - LATER
Parked across the street from a tidy suburban bungalow. Rain streaks down the windshield. Paula stares at the house, defeated.
The garage door is slightly ajar. A strip of bright, artificial light cuts through the rainy dark.
Her phone BUZZES on the passenger seat.
INSERT - PHONE SCREEN
A livestream notification.
CHANNEL: Havenwood RealTalk
TITLE: **LIVE: The Town Hall Deception - They’re Lying to You**
Paula’s jaw tightens. A flicker of frustration turns into resolve. She kills the engine.
EXT. SUBURBAN BUNGALOW - CONTINUOUS
Paula gets out of the car, pulls her coat tight against the drizzle, and walks with purpose across the wet asphalt toward the glowing garage.
INT. COREY'S GARAGE - CONTINUOUS
A chaotic DIY studio. Wires snake across the floor around audio equipment, lighting rigs, and a green screen.
COREY (30s), earnest and intense, sits at a desk. He speaks with righteous fury into a professional microphone, facing a CAMERA on a tripod.
COREY
> ...and she stands up there, folks, with her doctored papers and her condescending tone, and she tells you not to believe your own eyes. She tells you that poor Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning roses dying on the vine is just a coincidence.
Paula steps out of the shadows and into the harsh glare of his studio lights.
PAULA
> The Gable property uses a private well, Corey. It’s not even connected to the municipal supply.
Corey flinches, spinning in his chair. A flash of genuine panic crosses his face, quickly replaced by a shark-like grin. He points a finger at Paula, then turns back to his camera, his voice booming.
COREY
> Well, look what we have here, folks! The source herself! Dr. Villeneuve, come to shut down the truth. You’re live on Havenwood RealTalk, Doctor. Got anything to say to the people you’re poisoning?
He gestures to a large MONITOR mounted on the wall. It shows his livestream, and beside it, a live chat.
ON THE MONITOR - A torrent of comments scrolls past at an impossible speed.
Paula steps forward, ignoring the camera, her focus entirely on him.
PAULA
> This isn’t about truth. This is about fear. You’re terrifying people for clicks. You have no evidence, no data, nothing but vague anecdotes you twist into a conspiracy.
COREY
>>(into the mic)
> The people have the evidence! They see the discoloured water in their tubs! They smell the chemicals!
PAULA
> They see it because you told them to look for it. It’s tannin from the autumn leaves, the same as every year. The smell is the seasonal increase in chlorine, a standard and perfectly safe procedure you’ve framed as something sinister.
She glances at the monitor.
ANGLE ON THE MONITOR - The scrolling comments are a blur of rage.
`Liar!`
`Get her, Corey!`
`She's glowing! Look at her skin! She's radioactive!`
`Recall the whole council!`
`#HavenwoodPoison`
Corey sees her looking, a smirk playing on his lips.
COREY
> They don’t believe you, Doctor. Why is that?
PAULA
>>(voice dropping, tired)
> Because you’ve given them a simple story with a clear villain. It’s easier than understanding water treatment protocols. It’s more compelling than parts per million.
COREY
>>(leaning into the mic, a performer)
> Or maybe they’re just smarter than you give them credit for. Maybe they know when they’re being lied to by the so-called experts who’ve failed them time and time again.
Paula stares at the monitor. The cascading signal of hate-filled text. A digital guillotine.
CLOSE ON PAULA'S FACE - Illuminated by the scrolling comments. A profound, chilling despair washes over her. She hasn't just lost the argument. She's lost the war for reality itself.
SOUND of the scrolling text seems to grow louder, overwhelming everything, until it's the only thing we hear.