Welcome to the Queue

A fluorescent oubliette. Cubicles. Cold coffee. A motivational poster: **“LISTENING IS FREE!”** Someone has taped over it: **“SO ARE COMPLAINTS.”**

JAX MALLORY, headset on, dead-eyed, stares at a phone console labeled in Sharpie: **CIVIC PANIC HOTLINE (DO NOT TOUCH).**

The phone light BLINKS like a heartbeat.

Brixley Civic Panic Hotline. If this is an emergency, hang up and reconsider your life choices.

The line instantly EXPLODES—every button on the console lights up. It’s a Christmas tree of doom.

Oh cool. It’s sentient now.

A wall-mounted TV clicks on. MAYOR TILDA GRUME appears mid-smile in a press conference, hair shellacked into a weapon. A banner behind her: **“ONE NUMBER. ONE TOWN. ONE DREAM.”**

MAYOR GRUME (ON TV)

Today, Brixley leads the nation with an innovation called— and I’m thrilled to say this slowly— the Civic Panic Hotline.

JAX looks up, horror dawning.

No. No, no, no— that’s my line. That’s my— you can’t rebrand a phone.

The phone BEEPS. Another line breaks in without waiting.

CALLER #1 (V.O.)

I’m in Tampa and my neighbor’s iguana is judging me.

That’s not a—

CALLER #2 (V.O.)

My lasagna is still cold in the middle and I’m furious at the concept of heat.

CALLER #3 (V.O.)

I saw a cloud shaped like my ex and I want it cited.

JAX’s eye twitches. He toggles between lines like a doomed air-traffic controller.

Okay. Great. America found us.

The TV continues. Grume points like she’s launching a missile.

MAYOR GRUME (ON TV)

Any problem. Big or small. Panic is now streamlined.

Panic… is not… a service.

A door SLAMS open. SABLE ORTIZ strides in wearing a tactical vest that says **FIELD RESPONDER** in duct tape. She carries a clipboard like a weapon.

I heard we got upgraded.

We got cursed.

Same thing. Where’s the first target?

JAX gestures to the console—lights flashing, alarms chirping, a tiny fan wheezing like it’s also calling for help.

The United States of complaining.

SABLE leans in, thrilled.

Give me a mission. Give me coordinates. Give me a vibe.

JAX clicks a line at random.

CALLER #4 (V.O.)

There’s a raccoon on my porch and I think it has opinions about my marriage.

Domestic espionage. Copy.

No! Wait— we don’t dispatch for— we don’t dispatch at all!

SABLE is already backing out, talking into a walkie that is not turned on.

Ortiz moving to contact. If I don’t make it, delete my browser history and tell my enemies I forgive nothing.

She exits.

We don’t have enemies. We have… residents.

A chair squeaks. DEPUTY HANK LORR is there, somehow, holding a stack of forms like they’re life rafts. He wears a uniform that looks freshly apologized for.

I was told to observe and document. For liability.

We’re already liability. We’re a phone number with ambition.

The TV switches to a CLOSE-UP of Grume, beaming.

MAYOR GRUME (ON TV)

And because transparency builds trust, our calls may be monitored for quality!

Monitored by who? God?

The console emits a new, cheerful CHIME. Hold music starts— a peppy, soulless synth loop. The wall of blinking lines grows. It’s beautiful in a horrifying way.

What category is… “iguanas being judgmental”?

Religious.

And “cloud resembles ex”?

Harassment.

And “cold lasagna”?

Treason.

JAX slams the HOLD button. The music plays louder, trying to smile through the apocalypse.

CUTAWAY - EXT. BRIXLEY CITY HALL - CONTINUOUS

A shiny new billboard is being unveiled: **CALL 1-800-PANIC-NOW** with Grume’s face giving a thumbs up.

The billboard instantly gets hit by a SWARM of carrier pigeons dropping tiny complaint forms.

The hold music is now layered— like a choir of elevators. JAX stares at the blinking console, resigned.

Thank you for holding. Your panic is very important to us.

Is it?

No.

A new line cuts through— the only one not on hold. It’s calm. Too calm.

MAYOR GRUME (V.O.)

Jax! How’s my little civic miracle?

JAX looks at the console, then at the camera like he knows we’re there.

Mayor… I think you just gave the entire country our number.

Beat.

MAYOR GRUME (V.O.)

Yes! National engagement. So… good, right?

We have… forty-seven active panics.

HANK checks the console, pale.

One of them says “Volcano, maybe.”

And— and a lasagna.

MAYOR GRUME (V.O.)

Perfect! Keep them on hold. It creates anticipation.

We can’t hold—

MAYOR GRUME (V.O.)

Jax, remember our motto: One town. One number. One dream.

Our dream is a lawsuit.

SABLE bursts back in, hair windblown, triumphant, holding a RACCOON in a tiny pair of sunglasses.

Target secured. It had a ring.

The raccoon hisses like it’s auditioning for Congress.

Sable! Why is it wearing sunglasses?

Witness protection.

The console suddenly emits a DEEPER ALARM— a RED LIGHT labeled **ACTUAL EMERGENCY** flickers on for the first time. Everyone freezes.

JAX slowly presses the line.

Civic Panic Hotline. Please state your—

CALLER #5 (V.O.)

Hi. There’s a car on fire on the highway.

Beat.

The hold music continues, relentlessly cheerful.

Okay. That one’s real.

What do we do?

JAX looks at the phone, then at the raccoon, then at the TV where Grume smiles like a shark in a campaign ad.

We do what Brixley does best.

He presses HOLD.

A car is fully engulfed. A driver stands beside it, phone to ear, listening to the chirpy synth hold music.

Oh good. Someone’s finally helping.