[KOMPANIONS STADIUM – BOTTOM OF THE 9TH INNING]

DAN POPLIN (on-air announcing):
Crowd is restless here in Kent County.
Kompanions still trail 10-7 --
but three consecutive singles have loaded the bases, with two outs.

P.A. ANNOUNCER:
Now pinch-hitting… number 39…
Hect-orr Dwy-errr.

Booing ripples like thunder.

Cutaway: close-ups—beer cups raised, fans shaking heads.
MADAME ZELLA in her row, muttering prayers into her scarf.

DAN POPLIN (on-air):
The 31-year-old, switch-hitter has slumped badly since being acquired by the Kompanions at the trade deadline.
They call him the ‘Ugliest man in baseball.’
But God never said grace had to be pretty….

HECTOR DWYER (whispering to himself):
Lord, just one more perfect swing.

Count full, tension knife-sharp.

CROWD: 
BOOOOO!

Hector digs in, lips moving.

HECTOR: 
For You, not me.

CRACK—ball explodes into the night.
Camera follows the arc.

DAN POPLIN (on-air, screaming):
It is outta here!! Grand Slam!! 11-10 final!! Walk-off victory!! 

Kompanions Stadium in rapture.

MADAME (weeping in her box seat):
I guess ugly’s just God’s disguise for beauty.

* * * * *
[CLUBHOUSE – POSTGAME CHAOS]
Champagne spray. Reporters shouting.
Manager, soaked, raises bottle:

MANAGER: 
We clinched, boys!
Who cares about tomorrow’s game?
Have fun.

Players cheer — pour more, and more.

TV REPORTER (repeated question to various celebratory players):
So, who do you think is gonna get the most drunk tonight?

MADAME (watching on TV, disgusted with the lack of urgency): 
But … if we lose tomorrow, then we won’t have home-field advantage.
Duh!
You can’t take spirits on the road, gentlemen.

To be continued…

[CONRAD’S HOME -- MAY 2028]  

Conrad Wells has finally embraced solitude — new phase of life, dog by his side, four modest bird feeders in front yard.

He tells himself:
CONRAD:
You start feedin’, you gotta keep feedin’.
Math don’t apply to grace.

JESUS (off-screen): 
That’s My boy — don’t do the math, just fill the feeder.

First warm morning. Conrad vows, this will be the summer of the back deck:
hot-tub bubbles, stereo dusted off, coffee mug steam rising.
He fires up the leaf blower—BRRRRRRMMM—and instantly gets dive-bombed.

Discovery: Robin’s nest wedged in the hose rack beside the sliding door.
The robins have claimed the deck.

Conrad phones a lady friend:

CONRAD (on phone):
They built their nest on the hose rack.
I thought the Taliban moved to Michigan!
Dog barking, tail wagging, clearly entertained.
(laughs)
Am I legally allowed to evict?

LADY FRIEND:
Too bad, old man. They own the mortgage now.
Love Wins … remember?

Beat of resignation.

CONRAD:
Fine. I’ll pay rent in mealworms.

NARRATOR/LUNDY (Voice-Over):
Conrad proceeded to spoil those robins — berries, water, mealworms.
The front-yard colony thinned out, however.
When the heart plays favorites, the flock notices.

**Flashback 1** 
The fallen nest from last spring. Conrad remembers tugging a dead branch, the crash, the two chicks tumbling under the deck, dog circling like a cartoon villain, dive-bombs raining from above.

CONRAD:
I didn’t know it then, but I’d already been drafted into the war.

**Flashback 2** 
Memory of his late wife: the red cardinal that smashed into the window every spring, mistaking its reflection for a rival.

CONRAD:
That bird kept losing to himself.
Took me years to realize I was doin’ the same thing.

The omen lingers—unread until now.

Conrad watches from his bedroom window,
three feet from the robin’s nest on the hose hanger --
narrating feedings like play-by-play:

CONRAD:
Mama Robin comes flying in, wielding some type of large treat—
enough for all of them to share …. But Junior #3 is laggin’ again… 
Sooo cute.

* * * * *
One long writing night turns into a missed morning.
Next day: Silence. Nest empty.

CONRAD:
They were there, and then they weren’t.
Like a chapter that forgot to say goodbye.

Dog whines softly at the glass door.

Conrad stands on the porch holding his coffee, watching the front-yard feeders erupt in chaos—sparrows battling, cardinals refereeing.

CONRAD (whispers):
All right then. Lesson received.

NARRATOR/LUNDY:
From that day forward, Conrad started naming, logging, interpreting.
The notebooks now begin.

***MUSICAL NUMBER***
”Three Little Robins”

Fade out on the lyric of the same name playing under the credits.

To be continued…

OFF-CAMPUS SPORTS BAR – NIGHT]
Two college kids, half-drunk, hunched over cheap beer and a flickering TV.
On-screen: the Kent County Kompanions mob Hector Dwyer at home plate, after his grand-slam miracle in the 9th inning.
Champagne sprays. The crawl reads:
“Ugliest Player in Baseball Still Looks Beautiful in Kent County.”

BLAKE (grinning):
Man, I’d trade faces with that dude in a heartbeat.
Ugliest man in baseball—yeah — but he’s in baseball.

THOMAS:
Yeah, right.
You wouldn’t last a week —
not lookin’ like that.

BLAKE:
Try me. I’d do it in a New York minute.

A bar-light flickers. A shadow slides into the empty stool beside them.

GENE DJINN — blazer, faint whiff of brimstone-and-aftershave.
Holding a folder of papers, he sets down a silver business card that reads:
“Player Development / Deals.”

GENE DJINN (pleasant):
Then congratulations, kid. You’ve still got time to make Spring Training.

BLAKE (snorts):
Ha, sure. Where — Heaven’s farm system?

DJINN (grinning):
Close by.
Toledo.

—POOF—
Empty stool. Empty beer.
The silver card now smolders, logo morphing into a ball-and-pitchfork emblem.

Cut to -- the overhead TV:
Hector Dwyer rounding the bases in slow motion.
In the reflection of the screen, for just a second, another face appears beside his—uglier, newer, hungrier.

NARRATOR/LUNDY (Voice-Over):
Some kids chase the show their whole lives.
Some just sign the wrong contract.

[FADE OUT — organ riff, crowd roar.]

To be continued….

[SEATTLE – WILDCARD PLAYOFF]
Montage — plane delay + rain + extended ‘hangovers’ + dull faces.
Scoreboard: Game #1: SEA 12, KENT 1.
Scoreboard: Game #2: SEA 12, KENT 2.

DAN POPLIN (on live TV, grimly):
Sometimes the champagne tastes —
like prophecy.

Cut to — TV glow in the Zeller living room.
Frank snores in the recliner; Madame Zella sits forward, hand on the screen.

MADAME:
I told you, Frank. They left the Kompanions at home.

She turns off the set.
Silence.

JESUS (Voice-Over, gentle):
Baseball’s a faith that ends in winter.
But faith itself? That goes to Spring Training.

Camera drifts over her stat notebooks, the scarf, the champagne cork she pocketed.

JESUS (softly):
But even the defeated get home games in heaven.

[FADE OUT] –-
[ORGAN VERSION OF “TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALLGAME.”]

[WRITERS ROOM – AFTERNOON]
Everyone’s restless. Stacks of drafts and half-full water bottles litter the table.

RICKLES:
(throwing down a page)
Oh c’mon. Clancy gets two episodes in a row? What is this—Nepotism Fires?!

CLANCY (blushing):
Hey! They’re good ideas. And I turned mine in on time! For once!

LUNDY (dry):
Rickles, the only thing you’ve submitted this month is a list of reasons why you’re behind schedule.

EKO (chiming in):
Honestly, I kinda want to do one.
I  just don’t know which story
counts as “Signal Fires.”
(beat)
Also… what are Signal Fires? Like… officially?

Everyone turns to Casey and Lorenzo. They exchange a look: We never defined it.

CASEY:
…we don’t have an official definition.

RICKLES:
(arms up)
Exactly! You two geniuses keep telling us to “go deeper,” but nobody knows deeper than WHAT!

KAT:
Maybe that’s because “deeper” means different things for all of us.

LUNDY:
I’d submit something, but you all would be traumatized.
(beat)
Actually, maybe that’s the point?

They all pause. A little ripple of recognition moves around the table.

CLANCY (soft):
My Dearborn piece… I was terrified to show you guys.
Thought you’d laugh. Or think I’m nuts.
But you didn’t.

EKO:
That’s why I want to try one.
If Clancy can do a doomed librarian story without getting roasted…

RICKLES (interrupting):
Are you saying I don’t have trauma?!
I’ve been BETRAYED more than ANYONE here!

LUNDY (amused):
Then write it, Rickles.

Rickles freezes. He wasn’t prepared for someone to call the bluff.

RICKLES:
…I don’t wanna be the first one after Clancy.
Too much pressure.

LUNDY (smirking):
Rickles, nobody said you were going next.
This isn’t a lineup.

CASEY
(into the silence, calm)
Maybe that’s the point.
Signal Fires aren’t assignments.
They’re invitations.

Heads turn.

CASEY (Cont’d):
They happen when someone has a story that scares them just enough…
to be worth telling.

Kat nods, moved by how naturally this landed.

KAT:
It’s not therapy.
It’s storytelling born from honesty.
Which is scarier.

LORENZO:
(quiet, leaning back)
And nobody’s going to be forced into anything.
If you’ve got a story you want help shaping, you bring it.
If not, no pressure.

EKO:
So it’s more like…
a bonfire?

CLANCY:
Yeah. Somebody throws on a log when they’re ready.

LUNDY:
And we all warm our hands around it.

A long, comfortable pause. Something clicked.

CASEY:
Then it’s settled.
Signal Fires isn’t a project.
It’s a choice.

LUNDY:
And we just chose it.

They sit in quiet unity.
For the first time, the Writers’ Room looks like a tribe.

LORENZO:
Your hiatus starts now.
Next time we meet… bring outlines.
Bring courage.
Bring something you’ve never told anyone.

KAT:
And don’t come back safe.

RICKLES (to Lorenzo):
Buddy…
Season Two’s gonna be wild.

NARRATOR/LUNDY (turns to look into camera):
They thought they were writers.
They were wrong.
More like witnesses.

[FADE OUT]

[CONRAD’S PORCH — TWILIGHT]
A quiet Michigan evening. Conrad Wells steps out with his chipped mug, expecting peace.

He gets… a vibration.
Not sound. Not movement.
A feeling in the air.
He looks up.

The front yard is tense — sparrows, wrens, finches perched stiffly on power lines and on the ground and up in trees, frozen like statues watching the horizon.

The backyard robins sit, chest feathers puffed, glaring straight ahead like a militia waiting for a signal.

CONRAD:
Oh no… Boys…
don’t you start this again…

He steps off the porch.
The birds instantly soften — all of them —
They love Conrad.
They chirp softly, affectionately.

But when he steps back up onto the porch—
the tension snaps back into place like a rubber band.

He frowns.

CONRAD:
You’re not fighting me.
You’re fighting each other.
And I don’t like it.

A single robin hops closer, almost frantic, chattering toward him.

Then— a sparrow dive-bombs the robin, but brakes hard at the last second, refusing to hit Conrad’s space.

CONRAD (startled):
All right now!
Time out! TIME OUT!

The birds freeze again — but not from fear.
From… respect?

NARRATOR/LUNDY (V-O):
Most wars start for territory.
But this one?
Started for love.

Suddenly the backyard bursts with a flurry of wings —
dozens more robins landing on branches like reinforcements.

The front yard responds —
clouds of tiny birds rise into the air, as if answering a call-to-arms.

Conrad steps back, trembling.

CONRAD:
Oh Lord… this is gettin’ Red-Hot.
I ain’t built for supernatural poultry politics…

Both armies stare at each other across his lawn.
No sounds. No chirps. Just cold, organized, unnerving silence.

Then— a feather floats between them, landing exactly between factions.

A warning line.

CONRAD (disbelieving whisper):
This isn’t Backyard Mythos anymore…
This… this feels like Signal Fires.

Lundy whispers like a ghost behind him:

NARRATOR/LUNDY (V-O):
Some stories stay small.
Some stories grow teeth.
And some…
we gotta take to darker ground.

The two armies suddenly tense—
like they see something Conrad doesn’t.

CONRAD:
Uhhh… If y’all about to escalate—
do me one favor:
Keep me OUT of the casualty report, please.

A robin hops forward. A sparrow mirrors it.
Both face Conrad.

NARRATOR/LUNDY (V-O):
They weren’t warning him.
They were inviting him.

[FADE OUT]
TITLE CARD:
COMING SOON IN SIGNAL FIRES:
THE BIRD WARS —
BEGINNING WITH A MAN THEY REFUSED TO LET GO.

[WRITERS ROOM — LATE NIGHT]
Warmth. Laughter. Contracts signed. Coffee replaced by fizzy energy drinks.
It’s been a good night.

LORENZO:
We’re agreed then — Season Two goes raw.
Write what you know.
Write what scares you.
Write what you’ve never said out loud.

RICKLES:
Hell yeah.
Let’s bleed on paper, babies.

KAT (smiles sweetly):
Then… may I offer one observation before we break?

Everyone turns.

KAT:
If we’re telling truths…
each of you should ask yourselves:

“Why would you even HAVE an idea like Bird Wars in your heads?”

Or, really any of those half-warped ideas for Signal Fires.

Silence.
A bomb goes off.

LUNDY:
ARE YOU KIDDING ME??

He slams his notebook shut so hard a pen bounces off the table.

LUNDY:
Bird Wars came from STORYTELLING, Kathleen —
NOT a psych evaluation!

KAT:
I’m saying it came from somewhere inside—

LUNDY:
Oh I KNOW where it came from:
IMAGINATION.
You should try it sometime!
Stop turning every damn thing into pathology!

He grabs his laptop, knocking over a cup.

LUNDY (unleashing):
Season of Truth?
Looks like Season of BS to me!
Creative strangulation!
Straight-up emotional throttling!

Lundy storms out, still yelling down the hallway.

EKO (stammering, flushed):
Y-yeah!
Wh-why even say that, Kat?
Bird Wars was brilliant!
It wasn’t… it wasn’t some diagnosis!

He points at Lorenzo.

EKO:
Lorenzo loved that story! Casey loved that story!
We ALL loved it!
I thought we were writing Signal Fires here?

His voice cracks.

EKO:
You don’t get to decide what’s “healthy.”
That’s… that’s messed up!

He storms off after Lundy, tripping over a power cord on his way out.

Rickles hasn’t moved. 
He is grinning like a man who lives for this exact environment.

RICKLES:
Oh this is GREAT.
This is the good stuff.
Conflict is CONTENT, baby.

He leans back in his chair.

RICKLES:
Wow, she dropped that grenade like a champ.

Clancy freezes, hands folded, lips tight. He glances at Kat. 
Then Lorenzo. Then Rickles. 
Then the door where chaos fled.

CLANCY:
I… uh…
should… probably…
uh…

He just sits. Motionless.
Like a 1970s substitute teacher in shock.

Casey calmly slides his chair closer to Kat like he’s positioning a shield.

CASEY (to Kat, low voice):
You’re not wrong.
But your timing was surgical.
And not in the “successful operation” way.

KAT (defensive hurt):
We said — truth.
I told truth.

CASEY:
Yes. But we also said “don’t scare the patients.”

Lorenzo stands there stunned — jaw slack, eyebrows halfway to the ceiling.

LORENZO:
Kat…
that was—
I mean—
I get your point but…
Lundy’s point is right too.

He rubs his face.

LORENZO:
Bird Wars … Signal Fires is not therapy.
It’s… you know… a story.
Fiction.

He looks toward the door where Lundy and Eko vanished.

LORENZO (soft):
Dammit… this might be bad.

RICKLES:
Where the hell’s Elliott?

Casey checks the doorway.

CASEY:
Gone.
Out the side door.
Didn’t say a word.

RICKLES:
Probably stealing material for his Signal Fires monologue.

The room is now silent. 
Tense.
Fragmented.
Everyone staring at each other through emotional smoke.

LORENZO (quietly):
This was supposed to be a celebration…

KAT (soft regret creeping in):
I… didn’t mean—
I thought—

Rickles claps his hands once, loudly.

RICKLES:
Welp!
Gonna be one HELL of a Season Two, folks.

Clancy still sitting like a statue.

CLANCY:
Do we…
go home now?

[FADE OUT]

LORENZO (V-O):
Backyard Mythos will return — Next Season!! —
After we find out who still wants to work here.

Hector Dwyer, a 31-year-old switch-hitter, has slumped badly since being acquired by the Kent County Kompanions at the trade deadline.

CUT TO -- [WRITERS ROOM]
Lorenzo jots a note, Kat wipes a tear.

RICKLES (muttering): 
Jesus, even the birds get better character arcs than us.