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\ Thursday, February 22nd, 2007 /
\ 10:45 am est. - 7:45 am pst. / “Forgive me for being optimistic, but I don’t think this is such a bad thing” Bruce remarks, the only occupant of Vickers’ office seated other than Taylor, “now that we know what she wants, we’re able to think of counter offers.” Stood half the office’s length away with his arms crossed, Grant debates his manager’s proposal with an appalled expression. “What makes you think she wants a new deal? The old one was perfect for her” Grant retorts, the rest of the group, rounded out by Aiden and Vickers, coupled closer together than him. “Because this wasn’t our choice” the agent explains, his left arm resting along the back of his seat, his body turned in Grant’s direction, “but we know what she wants. There’s a chance we’ve got nothing to worry about as long as we give her something she likes just as much.” “Bruce, I’m begging you to tell me what’s more valuable than non-stop, twenty four-seven ass-kissing straight to the White House” Grant responds, his attempt at continuing the line of dialogue thwarted by his employer. “A stable, consistent platform- that’s what’s more valuable” Vickers interrupts, meeting Grant’s eyes when approached with their focus, “have you all forgotten that we’re still the news? It’s our job to cover these candidates.” “Kelsi didn’t just want us covering Giuliani, she wanted us to make him look good” Grant argues, slowly rejoining the group, “he’s the Republican front-runner, we’d cover him with or without her inclusion.” Swiping at the bow tie around his neck, the gesture doing little to shift it in any noticeable direction, Vickers steps around Aiden, closing the remainder of the divide between himself and his anchor. “We don’t necessarily need to cover them equally” Vickers replies, his hand resting on Grant’s left shoulder, “all Giuliani needs is the platform. Flash a few campaign rallies, throw on a few speeches and it’ll be like the network never even got involved.” “How do we pass that off to Kelsi?” Taylor inquires, crossing her right leg atop her left, “she still expects staff interviews, live coverage from the rallies, subtle favouritism- the works.” With a smirk, Vickers pulls away from Grant, answering the woman’s concerns as he pulls his work chair away from his desk. “We tell her the network doesn’t like the integration of interviews and weren’t willing to pay for it” Vickers replies, rolling the seat up to Taylor’s side. “Robin told you to drop the Giuliani promos, not Giuliani entirely” Vickers clarifies, almost able to fully hold back a chuckle, “I think she’d throw a fit if we didn’t mention him at all- though, it would be funny.” Though they remain reluctant to the proposition, Grant and Taylor pass each other a glance, their passing looks eventually including Aiden. “I don’t think Kelsi was expecting us to outright tell people to vote for Rudy” Vickers remarks, “we can still mostly give her what she wants.” Quiet, Taylor and Grant think to themselves, the floor opening for any other voice to speak. “When’s the next time you’re supposed to have one of his spokesmen on?” Bruce inquires, retrieving his sidekick from the pocket in his coat. “We’re running an interview with his political consultant on Tuesday, and we’ve got a mock interview on Monday” Taylor replies, her attention set upon Bruce, just the same as those she shares the room with, “why?” “Because you’re gonna tell that person that you’ve been forced to cancel” Bruce replies, his thumbs dancing across the keyboard on his phone, each individual button presenting a satisfying ‘pop’ sound, “say the network decided against the interview, decided to reschedule it to a time yet to be determined.” Sending off an email just as he leaves the chair, Bruce reclaims the suitcase he’d entered with, it’s case still strong enough to survive a gunshot. “I’m going to meet with Kelsi, inform her of the network’s ruling, and ask what she needs in return” Bruce replies, effortlessly returning the phone to his jacket pocket, “remember, we still have the extortion recording. I know Grant wants to make things right, but we have our ‘big red button’ just as she does. We can use it if we have to.” Quickly becoming the centre of the room’s attention, Grant crosses his arms, a displeased look taken within his facial muscles. “We use it if we need to” Grant replies, standing straight, lacking an eagerness to bend the decision he’s made, “it’s a last ditch resort only.” The discussion already lasting longer than he’d like, Bruce raises his hands in surrender, the briefcase in his left returning to his hip as he departs. “No one would blame you if you used it, Grant” Vickers remarks, drawing the man’s eyes away from the exiting manager, “we wouldn’t think less of you.” Equally appreciative and disheartened, Grant bows his head mutely, arms still folded atop each other as he follows Bruce’s lead, quietly excusing himself from the conversation. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Thursday, February 22nd, 2007 / \ 9:53 pm est. - 6:53 pm pst. / “Both primaries seem to be filled with a short headlining-list, and cap off with plenty of depth” Grant remarks, tapping the cap of his pen against the newsdesk’s glass top. “For the Republicans, Mayor Giuliani seems to lead Governor Romney, though the potential inclusion of Senator John McCain has the chance of shifting opinion” Taylor leads off, “and for the Democrats, Senator Hillary Clinton seems to lead Senators Biden and Edwards, though Senator Obama is keeping it close.” Watching his client’s broadcast on the television nearest his booth, Bruce sits patiently, his Thursday evening drawing to a close in the food court of his local mall. After a few minutes pass, the programme begins to reach its conclusion, tapping footsteps starting to approach from the mall’s entrance upon Grant’s closing remarks. “I really wish I didn’t hate him as much as I do” Kelsi murmurs, sitting her purse in one of the two vacant seats opposite Bruce, “he’s a fine newsman, but I just can’t get through his show without getting angry.” His hands already folded on the table, Bruce looks to Kelsi with squinted eyes, thoughts obviously floating through his head before they can be voiced aloud. “It’s ironic that you say that after choosing to team up with a literal rapist to blackmail him” Bruce replies, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “I dropped him the moment I didn’t need him anymore, didn’t I?” Kelsi corrects, hanging her jacket over the back of her seat, “even if Grant owned up to his mistake, he still did the same thing as Howard.” “Grant’s penis has never entered anyone by force as far as I’m aware” Bruce counters, folding the napkin near the table’s edge, “and even if he was just as involved in, well, that incident, you still chose to conspire with Howard.” Her face straight, Kelsi’s eyes fall a few inches, Bruce more than happy to offer her a silent moment to reflect upon. “You’re right. I’ll own up to my wrongs” Kelsi replies, passing another glance at the television just before Grant and Taylor’s faces are replaced by the follow-up programme, “but it got me what I needed.” “So, in your eyes, the ends justify the means?” Bruce responds, his back hunched forward just slightly. “In this instance, yes” Kelsi answers, leaning in her chair with one leg tucked over the other, her left foot bouncing as it hangs mid-air, “I used Howard just as he used that lady, and I used Grant just as he used me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the least-guilty party here. It’s a win-win-win.” “You’re the least guilty party?” Bruce repeats, his genuine, open-minded expression twisting into one of doubt and curiosity. “Well you’ve got anchors scrambling to make a presidential candidate look good to keep a scandal under the rug, and what Howard did is already well-documented” Kelsi replies, “all I did was get even with someone that froze me out of a producer gig with CSN. If you took a partisan look at this, it’s hard to argue I’m not most in the right, no?” Occupying the woman’s assumed opposition, Bruce shakes his head, hands raising from the table to couple just beneath his chin. “No, I don’t see things that way. I don’t see this situation as anything other than simple” Bruce replies, answering calmly and without malice, “you’re either in the right or you’re in the wrong in my eyes. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all in the wrong- myself included.” “You don’t think any of this deserves context?” Kelsi quickly retorts, genuinely interested in the man’s stance, “you don’t think-” Interrupted before she can proceed, Kelsi closes her mouth, letting Bruce answer the question already raised. “I don’t think anything needs context. We all want something, and we all took very different journeys to get there” the manager replies, the buttons on the sleeves of his dress shirt undone, “we’re all in the wrong, some just more than others.” Looking at the man with a squint, Kelsi’s leg ceases its restless hop, the man’s answer settling in slowly. “What’d you call me down here for?” Kelsi inquires, the lights in one of the many eateries nearby powering off, ushering her to change topics before the night grows late. With a hush for a moment, Bruce’s head falls, the woman watching his posture change as the revelation is revealed. “The network wants us to scrap the weekly interviews” Bruce replies, earning a less-disappointed look from his guest than anticipated, “they don’t like the format and they’re not willing to pay for it.” Her bottom lip sitting between her top and bottom teeth, Kelsi’s eyes pull away, staring at empty corners of the court’s colourful, tiled walls. “I’m going to assume there’s more to this than just ‘the network doesn’t like it’” Kelsi replies, not needing long to digest the wrench in her plan, “you could’ve sent that in an email. There’s more to it if we’re meeting in person.” With a sigh, Bruce shares the woman’s glance toward the mall’s empty corridors, a second and third establishment turning out the lights for the evening. “We want to know you won’t go back on the deal-” the man replies, the change in the woman’s expression noticeable, though unable to be read effectively, “-that neither of us will have to use our failsafe.” The fourth establishment of eight to close shop for the night, Bruce and Kelsi sit alone, the food court having emptied nearly half an hour before the woman had arrived. “It doesn’t have to be” Kelsi replies, her prolonging of the conversation drawing Bruce’s ire, a response she revels in. Taking a lack of interest in the enticing of raised stakes, Kelsi’s intrigue relocates, a sudden thought dawning upon her mind. “Why not ask me himself?” Kelsi suddenly inquires, again using an unexpected twist in the dialogue to catch Bruce off guard. “I’m sorry?” the man responds, as of yet unsure over the woman’s query. “Grant. If he’s so concerned about this, why not come here personally?” Kelsi reiterates, the man’s fingers beginning to tap the table’s surface unintentionally, “why send the manager instead of getting his hands dirty?” Though he does well to maintain the composure of a man in control of the conversation, Bruce’s inadvertent mannerisms give away the worries he hides, the tapping fingers implying anxiety, his small facial twitches insisting uneasiness, both easily manipulated by his guest. Noticing Bruce’s hesitance to answer the question, Kelsi begins to concoct her own conclusion, airing it out and inspecting the man’s reaction to judge its validity. “You handle most of these things for him, don’t you?” Kelsi wonders aloud, the small, almost unnoticeable ease in the man’s neck muscles observed effortlessly, “it’s just the ‘default’ option, isn’t it? He’s got trouble and, before he can even get the ball rolling on a response, you swoop in and cover the damage.” “I’m his manager, of course I swoop in- it’s my fucking job!” Bruce responds, his hands having returned to the table. Shaking her head with a laugh, Kelsi turns away, almost insulted at the discovery. “I’m sorry if that’s insulting to you, but that’s the business we’re in” Bruce explains, reaching for his cell phone as it begins to buzz in his right pocket, the fifth establishment going dark at the court’s front, “do we have an understanding or not?” Watching Bruce return the phone to his hip as the sixth establishment darkens, Kelsi senses her power waning, Bruce’s preparation to leave allowing the dialogue’s end to be brought upon by his choice. “No, we don’t” Kelsi replies, her sudden refusal surprising Bruce, who’d already slid one arm through the sleeve of his jacket. “Why not?” Bruce replies, his calm demeanour having dissipated upon the agreement’s termination, the woman’s exit from her seat only furthering the confusion brought upon her answer. “I get that your job is what it is, but I’m not accepting Grant’s terms as long as they’re coming out of your mouth” Kelsi replies, getting close to Bruce as she looks him in the eye, her hand holding the second sleeve back from occupying his right arm. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Grant is going to meet with me in person, mano a mano, and he’ll tell me everything you just did himself” Kelsi warns, the seventh establishment dawning a dark, powerless display, “and if he doesn’t, I’m taking that recording to police the second he no-shows.” Guiding her hand to the sleeve already worn, Kelsi removes Bruce’s coat fully, the manager doing nothing to direct her otherwise. “Wave the extortion clip over my head all you want, I don’t mind” Kelsi confesses, watching the man’s jacket tumble to the ground as the eighth, and final, establishment goes black, “I’m sure the police would much rather strike a deal with me if it meant nailing Howard just as bad as he nailed that chick.” Her threat vocalised, Kelsi walks away, her business with the man settled in a way she’s satisfied with. The breakdown in their shared communication sapping the energy from him, Bruce stands in silence, hearing the doors close behind Kelsi’s exit, his jacket left collecting dirt on the floor as many of the food court’s lights power down, entrenching his table in darkness. | \ Friday, February 23rd, 2007 / \ 11:04 pm est. - 8:04 pm pst. / “I’ll wait outside” Vince remarks, throwing a bag over his shoulder as he advances toward the bureau’s exit, a pat on Shane’s back given as he pulls away. “I’ll meet you by the fountain” Shane responds, turning toward an office near the newsroom’s rear, both Taylor and Grant’s office lights still lit as he passes them. The ball on his index finger tapping against his intended door, Shane waits for the audible hum he frequently considers inaudible permission to enter. “You still at it?” Shane exclaims, entering Aiden’s office to find the man sitting behind a wall of stapled reports and three separate laptops. “I’ve got plans this weekend and don’t want to spend my days off slaving over next week’s stories” Aiden replies, a pair of cheaters worn over his face, a folded paper held before them. “We’ve lived together for two and a half years, Aiden” Shane replies, stood in the open doorway, “the last time you had plans on a weekend, Bush was in his first term.” “I definitely needed a change of pace, wouldn’t you say?” Aiden replies, no longer pulling his attention away from the articles in his hand before speaking, “it’s sort of refreshing, I guess.” Though having entered sceptical to the thought of his roommate having plans, Shane begins finding himself more convinced, unable to understand why, the gut-feeling that builds within him prompting a change in response. “What exactly are these plans you have?” Shane inquires, fully immersing himself in the man’s office before opting to make himself at home, the seat in front of Aiden’s desk occupied by him. “Carly and I are going to the Rangers-Blue Jackets game tomorrow” Aiden replies, passing a second-long glance to Shane amidst the pause in his reply, “then we’re going out to a bar to meet up with some of her friends, and then we’ll probably call it a night.” “You- you’re- you’re going out with Carly?” Shane repeats, almost incapable of mustering any words beyond that, “going out as in on a date?” With a laugh, Aiden flips his note with one hand whilst reaching for his drawer with the other, two sets of tickets tossed toward Shane’s side of the desk. “We’re going to the Izod Center to watch the Knicks play the Nets on Sunday-” Aiden replies, his shoulders shrugging, “-I’ve been told that’s more like torture, but you can call it a date if you want.” “I- I will! Of course I’m calling that a date!” Shane shouts, his eyes widened, unable to fully process his friend’s plans before he speaks, “you’re spending the weekend with Carly-fucking-Carpenter!” Not sharing anything close to the stupefaction Shane suffers from, Aiden holds his nearest article closer toward his roommate. “Did you know Canada let terrorism suspects be detained indefinitely?” Aiden wonders aloud, trying to change the subject as Shane rips the paper from his hand. “Will you drop the fucking Canada stuff!? You’re dating Carly Carpenter!” Shane shouts, tossing the paper across the room, his hands extended, “that’s like if I walked in here and told you I was going to dinner with Keira Knightley and then shoved a piece on toaster-strudels in your face!” “I like toaster-strudels, what’s the problem with that?” Aiden replies, his relaxed posture almost tired in a way, as if what Shane finds awe-inspiring is nothing of importance. “Toaster-strudels aren’t the main topic of discussion in that conversation, that’s the problem!” Shane exclaims, watching Aiden pull another article from a stack of many, “you’re going on a date- two dates!- with Carly Carpenter!” “Can you say that again?” Aiden requests, adjusting his glasses as the next report takes his eyes, “I don’t think the couple that own the laundromat four blocks down could hear you.” His loud tone subsiding, Shane goes quiet, his outstretched arms falling to his side, the man completely unable to comprehend his friend’s nonchalant reaction. “Why are you not leaping out of your seat over this?” Shane quietly wonders, Aiden’s eyes rolling as the man’s questions resume, “isn’t this one of the things you’ve been waiting years for?” Dropping his glasses into the same drawer he’d left the tickets in, Aiden entertains Shane’s inquiries, unable to focus on his work as long as the man is in his presence. “Shane, we’ve been friendly ever since I started working here. We’ve gotten to know each other more in the last year” Aiden responds, finding room between stacks of copy paper to rest his arms, “in a way, we’ve done the friend-equivalent of dating for a while now- I’m just more numb to it.” His eyes pressing closer together, Shane’s suspicion ascends, the expression made impossible for Aiden to not notice. “Okay then” Shane responds, giving the man a nod as he leaves his seat, retrieving the man’s Canadian report before preparing to leave. “You say ‘okay then’ as if I’m hiding something” Aiden retorts, something neither man refuses to refute. “Maybe you are” Shane playfully mocks, stepping through the man’s door before Aiden has the chance to respond. His head hung, Aiden lets the discourse end there, amused with where it’d left off enough to leave it be. “That’s because I am” Aiden murmurs beneath his breath, turning back to his work without a second thought, pretending the altercation had never occurred. | \ Saturday, February 24th, 2007 / \ 3:49 am est. - 12:49 am pst. / Awoken by the sound of a balled fist slamming against his penthouse’s front door, Vickers staggers out from his bedroom, not a moment of pause between each knock offered. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, give me a fucking minute!” Vickers exclaims, glasses lifted over his eyes, blue and white-striped pyjamas adorning his body. “Might I fucking help you!?” Vickers exclaims as his door opens, Robin’s small, suit-laden body pushing past him the moment the blockade between them swings open. “Why the hell is Grant’s agent having a sit down with Rudy Giuliani’s campaign staffers!?” Robin exclaims, the strap to a small purse hanging upon her right forearm. “Bruce is Grant’s manager, first off” Vickers responds, wiping the exhaustion from his face. “I don’t give a damn what the fuck he is!” Robin shouts, advancing toward Vickers’ kitchen and helping herself to his liquor cabinet, “the question stands!” Little choice left but to follow the woman through his spacious, view-friendly, New York suite, Vickers continues the discussion, offering answers to whichever questions are raised. “I wouldn’t have any idea- I’m not Grant’s babysitter, and I’m not his manager’s employer” Vickers responds, certain to maintain some sarcasm to his answers, “if I had to guess, they’re setting up a game of high-stakes checkers.” Rolling her eyes, Robin reaches for the nearest bottle of tequila, the cap unscrewed in as much time as it takes her to prepare a single shot glass. “Quit fucking around, Sam” Robin remarks, a half-glass of tequila poured just three seconds before it’s taken down Robin’s throat. “I told you to drop the Giuliani promos, and-” Robin recalls, her tone dropping once the alcohol is taken down. “We did. We took them down the same night you ordered us to!” Vickers interjects, his common, youthful enthusiasm slowly returning to the elderly body he’s trapped within. “Then why the fuck are my employees still in contact with his staffers!?” Robin exclaims, her finger raised as she interrupts Vickers’ reply, “and don’t tell me his agent isn’t my employee.” Bobbing his head from one side to another to mock the woman, Vickers replies, “manager” he corrects, leaving his unintended guest no room to rebuke his amendment, “and, for the second time, I’m not Grant’s babysitter- I wouldn’t know.” “Well maybe you should be!” Robin shouts, pouring herself another glass. “That’s not what I’m paid to do-” Vickers quickly responds, interrupted almost as quickly. “You’re paid to do whatever the fuck I want you to do!” Robin exclaims, finishing her thought before taking back her second shot, “as long as our names are on the same legal documents, I own your ass!” “That’s funny- my second wife said the same exact thing” the man grumbles, stubborn enough to use the woman’s pause for humour. “Grant is a grown man, and he was involved with Ms. Dolin long before he came onto our airwaves” Vickers hurriedly shouts, not wishing to leave the woman room to outmatch his voice, “whatever their conversations consist of is business that precedes LMC in all facets.” “Except, that’s not how it works when she’s involved with an ongoing presidential campaign!” Robin retorts, “do you know how bad it would look if we got caught potentially getting inside-information from Giuliani’s camp? It’d be a target on our backs and on his!” “That kind of shit’s been going on for years!” Vickers replies, his head shaking as he responds. “Sure, but not in the middle of a fucking food court!” Robin exclaims, pouring herself a third, and final, shot. “Robin, I’ll tell him to be careful, that you don’t want LMC caught up in all of this, and I’ll tell him it’d be safe to cut Ms. Dolin out of the picture” Vickers pleads, unsure of what else he could offer to satisfy the woman, “other than that, I don’t know what you expect me to do.” “I expect you to uphold the integrity of this company- both privately and publicly!” Robin remarks, throwing back her final shot before reclaiming her purse. “You hired this man when his reputation was already unstable, then he became America’s newsman, and now he’s a pain in my ass” Robin remarks, stepping close to Vickers before preparing to leave, “if he keeps stepping on my feet, I’ll cut this little dance short and make sure he never steps in front of a camera again.” Her shoulder pushing past Vickers, Robin exits the way she’d arrived, her balance as graceful as it was before the trio of shots. His kitchen bleeding light into the larger, night-shaded flat, Vickers waits for the sound of his front door slamming shut before turning out the lights. With a huff, Vickers returns to his bedroom, the adjacent bathroom door closing as he steps inside, “FUCK!” the man howls, slamming his fists against the counter in a moment of frustration, nothing more to add. == Tonight at 9 ==
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\ Wednesday, January 10th, 2007 /
\ 9:21 pm est. - 6:21 pm pst. / “Alright. Thank you for joining us tonight, I’m Grant Haste” the suited man remarks, pulling back from the newsdesk and surrendering the lead to his cohost. “I’m Taylor English, and those were President Bush’s comments on the current status of the war in Iraq” the woman proceeds, concluding the intro as Grant takes assumes the lead, their broadcast delayed twenty minutes by the President’s address, “welcome to ‘Tonight at Nine’.” “What we’ve expected for the better part of the last year has now been confirmed” Grant begins, his hands coupled atop the desk, “twenty-thousand troops are being sent to Iraq, the majority of whom, are headed directly to Baghdad.” The broadcast continuing, Aiden listens from within the control room, Grant’s continuation overshadowing Vickers’ entrance. “Of those troops, four-thousand will be deployed into the Anbar province- Iraq’s largest governorate” the man, wearing a red tie, white dress shirt and grey blazer goes on, “in addition, Iraq is putting ten-billion of its own dollars toward funding the endeavour.” Though his eyes attach themselves to the royal blue dress Taylor adorns, Aiden’s attention is stolen from her prolongation by the tap on his shoulder. “I need you to gather your troops after the show, pun intended” Vickers remarks, turning for the exit almost immediately. “Hey, hold on!” Aiden calls back, discouraged by the haste in which Vickers attempts to leave, “is something wrong?” Before he chooses to answer, Vickers’ eyes take to the broadcast’s feed, both of his hosts preparing to conclude their Iraqi coverage, already forced to scrap their ‘D Block’ segments. “I’m sure there’s going to be” Vickers replies, again making an attempt at retreat, this time successfully. \ Wednesday, January 10th, 2007 / \ 10:11 pm est. - 7:11 pm pst. / “Fuck the gutless coward!” Grant exclaims, his cheeks flushed red with anger, arms flailing outward, enraged. “Oh, he’s not that bad” Aiden retorts from across the room, Taylor disappointedly sat in the middle, head held in her hands. “Did we not just cover Iraq? The dude’s such a cheerleader for this shit that he’s got pom-pom’s surgically sewn onto his fucking fingers!” Grant shouts, his tone less rigid when directed at his producer, “but his politics aren’t the point!” “I’m not gonna tell you to kiss ass, I just don’t want you stepping on toes!” Vickers retorts, reciprocating the man’s tone. “I told you giving him air time was practically handing him the nomination!” Grant shouts back, the vein to the left of his forehead clearly defined, “what the fuck do you think making him prince pretty’s gonna do!?” “Everyone shut the fuck up!” Taylor screams, slicing through the various opinions with vigour, both her employer and co host hushed. “Arguing this is pointless. We knew covering Giuliani was going to be messy, and we knew it could damage our unbias ‘image’” Taylor remarks, a truth not one of the office’s occupants can disprove, “at some point, we all realised there could be more consequences to this- here we are.” “This isn’t just campaign coverage anymore, it’s borderline propaganda” Grant quickly responds, stood near the room’s corner with his arms folded. “The borders you draw don’t matter. I’ve given you my decision, and that decision is final” Vickers interjects, sliding a pack of darts from his blazer pocket, “we don’t have to like it in order to do it.” Though trying to keep his poise in line, Grant makes the choice to leave, surrendering the victory to Vickers without a word. “Grant!” Taylor exclaims, soon to follow the man upon noticing his withdrawal, the black heels she walks in unable to slow her. “If you’re gonna lecture me on consequences, save the speech. I don’t like it, but I get-” the man warns, giving into the woman’s hurry to catch up with him. Her reaction different from what Grant had anticipated, Taylor wraps her arms around the man’s neck and pulls him in for a brief kiss. “We both hate this equally” the woman sighs once their lips separate, Grant’s hands having taken a hold of Taylor’s hips. “I know we do” Grant relents, recognising his tendency to envision problems as responsibilities he, alone, must address. “This Giuliani shit is so not our show- but it’s what we’ve gotta do” Taylor whispers, her chin raised to look Grant in the eyes, “let’s just see what good we can make of it, okay?” His breathing calming, Grant’s tongue runs over his bottom lip, the agreement one destined to permanently reside within the back of his mind. “Fine” the man replies in a breath, joining Taylor their return to the newsroom, both of their minds flooded with questions and doubt. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Friday, January 12th, 2007 / \ 10:33 pm est. - 7:33 pm pst. / The handles squealing as he turns them outward, Grant lets the final drops trickle out from his shower head, the back of his neck pelted with the pin-like drops of hot water. Letting his head hang, Grant presses his arms against the tile walls, steam having coated each pale square. “You almost done in there?” Taylor wonders audibly, the knuckles on her left hand tapping against the door to the man’s private bathroom. “Just about” Grant responds, his eyes closed, head resting on his coupled hands, the warmth his washroom is filled with serving to lull him into a blissful relaxation. Unwilling to move just yet, Grant remains leant forward, his warm body relieved of the filth, grime and muck of the past two weeks. Each breath sending a warm gust of air back into his face, the man begins to space out, too enraptured in the calm, almost other-worldly tranquillity to care about the world around him. Minutes passing without another word from her co-anchor, Taylor lets herself into the bathroom, the man’s toned, glistening back the first sight to greet her. Hearing the woman’s entrance, Grant’s eyes open, the room descending into splotches of transparent green and red colours. “You’ve got to let your eyes readjust to the light, hun” Taylor remarks, one hand resting on the man’s shoulder, the other swiping the hairs away from his face. “I was in here a lot longer than I thought, wasn’t I?” Grant inquires, his violent perception of light leaving little other assumption to make. “Yeah, about ten minutes” Taylor replies, the minutes having seemed like seconds from Grant’s perspective. Letting out a sigh, Grant slumps to the floor, his naked body already having begun to air dry. Her friend’s tired demeanour uncommon, yet understood, Taylor lowers herself to the man’s side, her hair in wet strands from a shower of her own. “You can’t keep beating yourself up like this” Taylor remarks, jumping past the light-hearted banter in favour of the point, a gesture that, whilst he appreciates, Grant brushes off. “We get the rare privilege of being happy to come into work” Taylor continues, her left arm wrapping around Grant’s back, “you’re just going to ruin that for yourself.” His knees pulled against his chest, Grant’s head tilts back, resting against the shower’s wall. Taking a breath, Grant uncluttered his mind, the mental junk drawer opened and relieved of the various baggage hidden within it’s sheltered confines. “I was fine with the coverage, y’know? It was annoying to give the guy a platform, but it was worth keeping you and Vickers out of trouble” Grant confesses, “but practically begging people to give the guy a vote makes my stomach turn.” Her head bowed, Taylor lets the man speak, not wanting to interrupt his process of thought. “I don’t even hate the guy as a politician, he’s just like the rest. Give me any of those candidates and I’ll find things I agree or don’t agree with” Grant continues, “but- ugh.” Stopping himself before his thought can be finished, Grant lets the air grow silent, no longer wishing to finish his thought. “What?” Taylor queries, her oversized sweatshirt-laden arm rubbing the man’s back, “what were you gonna say?” Reluctant, Grant stays quiet for another few seconds, his shower having ended long enough ago for the fog on his mirror to dissipate entirely. His head shaking, Grant takes a moment to retreat from his earlier thought, questioning whether or not he’s willing to voice it aloud. Caught up in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, Grant forms his own conclusion, pushing himself to voice it despite the urge to keep quiet. “Am I overreacting?” Grant finally inquires, unable to shake the feeling that his passion has stretched past acceptable. “Your work is more than a paycheck to you. You care about it, and someone’s trying to make you do something you’re opposed to” Taylor replies, her voice soft in a calming way, “it’s a perfectly normal response.” “But it does nothing” Grant immediately cuts back, his face turning to Taylor’s, their eyes meeting as he pursues, “what does complaining about the Giuliani-fluff change?” Unable to conjure a pleasant answer, Taylor opts to stay silent, the only option obvious enough to not warrant a response. “I just didn’t see this coming. I was sure the network would be fine as long as I wasn’t going after him” Grant further explains, “but essentially cake-walking him to the nomination is disgraceful.” “We aren’t the be-all and end-all!” Taylor wastes no time in countering, “CSN skews left just as FN and ACN skew right. We’re still far from national news’ biggest disgrace.” The puff of air that leaves his nostrils almost forming a laugh, Grant’s bleak view into the future falters, Taylor’s words guiding him to more hopeful paths. “I just wanted us to be different” Grant finally replies, his arms leant atop his knees at the forearm, “I wanted us to do the news, not these puff-pieces painting politicians as celebrities.” Their faces both turned toward the door they’d entered through, their conversation continues, neither anchor paying mind to Grant’s nudity, nor Taylor’s casual attire. “When I was in school, my dad kept calling me ‘Kronkite-to-be’ with his friends” Grant muses, a smile naturally emerging upon his face. “I remember this one time where, I’d flown in from D.C to be with family in Tucson, and my dad and I went out to his favourite pub- just a few blocks from his work” the man recalls, “we’d ran into his friends- well, most of them- and this one guy, Chucky, made some off-comment about how they don’t do news like Kronkite did.” Though her eyes take to the mirror across the room, Taylor’s ears hold upon Grant’s reminiscence, more than happy to hear the man speak. “I don’t know what it was- maybe it was the implication that I wouldn’t do it- I’m not entirely sure” Grant admits, his left arm falling from his knee, “but ever since then, I wanted to do the news. Not the ‘here’s my opinion, take it as fact’ program that calls itself the news, just- just the news.” A subtle nod coming over her head, Taylor’s lips part slightly, her mind set upon a response that soon falls aside in favour of a better reply. “And all of this goes against what you wanted to be?” Taylor inquires, watching the man answer with a simple nod, not desiring any further explanation. Her eyes squinting, Taylor’s head drifts to her left, seeking comfort in the cradle of Grant’s arm, unsure of how to continue the conversation. | \ Monday, February 5th, 2007 / \ 4:12 pm est. - 1:12 pm pst. / “It strips money from healthcare and throws it into defence spending” Taylor remarks, her left foot kicked atop the long, ashwood table. “So, we’re opening the show with that? Is that a safe assumption to make or?-” Aiden responds, stood across the table from the network’s premier anchors, Shane and Vince sat closest to him, Keith, Abby, Marcus and Olivia occupying various seats along the table’s length. “It’s the federal budget, of course it’s opening” Grant replies, the black sleeves of his shirt rolled just below his elbows, the cap of his pen resting against his bottom lip, “aside from more Super Bowl talk, what else do we have?” Left off near the centre of his list, Vince considers the loose bullet points to himself, allowing the rest of the room to share their own opinions as he surveys the page, reaching out for a pitch of his own. As he nears the end, little prevails, speculatives of Pentagon research and Iraqi-exit dreaming all the man can muster. Unsatisfied, Vince turns his page around, grouped-together squibbles disguising themselves as words served as cannon-fodder to intelligence. Though nearly all jumbles can be discarded as fruitless and unimportant, one catches Vince’s eye, sticking out like a hand in a graveyard. “Rudy Giuliani filled out a statement of candidacy today, so it’s all but official that he’s running” Olivia offers, unsure as to why she’d be met with the silence her executive producer and program’s hosts respond with. “We’ll talk amongst ourselves about that one later” Taylor swiftly replies, leaning closer toward the table in preparation for the meeting’s conclusion, “any others?” Spotting Vince’s hand out from the table’s end, Taylor calls the man’s name aloud, unable to avoid the uncertain tone in his voice. “Well, it’s not so much a piece as much as it is food for thought” Vince clarifies, the correction prompting Taylor to rest further into her chair, “I have a friend who, for the last few months, has been trying to tell me that we’re about to hit a recession.” The pen cap now reaching his canine tooth, Grant takes a moment to take in Vince’s proposition, adjusting himself in his seat before beginning to entertain the concept. “Vince, if I had a nickel for every time someone said the economy was about to crash, I’d have retired before I ever took a job with CSN” Grant replies, though sceptical, not willing to disregard the man outright. “The bank’s have dished out subprime mortgages for years- now they’re losing capital” Vince remarks, though aware of the cynicism he’s surrounded by, is comforted by Grant’s refusal to neglect his point. “She thinks that the housing bubble is gonna pop, the government will have to bail out the banks, and less money is gonna get shuffled into the economy as a result” Vince concludes, “the banks have been loan-happy over the last years. This kind of thing is already inevitable.” “It’s only inevitable if the banks collapse, Vince” Grant replies, his subordinates beginning to follow the lead he, Taylor, and Aiden have set, respecting the pitch with their attention. “You don’t think the banks will collapse when the bubble pops?” Vince replies, his conversation’s opposition quick to respond. “Tell me how Citi Group, JP Morgan, Goldman- fuckin Lehman are gonna collapse” Grant replies, though his tone raises a few notches from calm, taking ownership of his role as the adversary, “they’re too big to fail!” His finger raised, Vince matches the speed of Grant’s response, “nothing is too big to fail” Vince replies, his paper set to the side, no longer needed, “as for your answer, if the market plummets, those mortgages don’t get paid, and the banks are bled dry.” “Who’s your friend?” Grant asks curiously, flashing the man a smile as he reclines in his chair, the pen cap returning to his lip, “it sounds like she’s got you in the planning stages of a doomsday bunker.” A pen of his own cradled between thumb and index finger, Vince scrawls a phone number in the corner of his pitch sheet. “Sherry Roth, she’s a credit analyst in New Rochelle” Vince proclaims, handing the small paper to his anchor. “And you’re convinced this is going to happen?” Grant clarifies, pressing the tiny paper between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers. “I didn’t say I thought it would happen, I said it was certainly possible” Vince answers, his pen left to roll atop the table’s surface, “there may not be much reason to believe the housing market is gonna fold beneath itself, but if it does, we’re looking at more than just trouble cashing our checks.” “How much trouble?” Keith replies, every pair of eyes aside from Shane’s moving in his direction, “I don’t follow the economy as much as I should, I get it. The question remains.” “The dollar is the default trading currency throughout the world- it has been since Nixon” Vince replies, “if the banks fail, the dollar fails- which means the markets crash, and economies internationally will hurt… bad.” “Which, again, is all just speculation off the concept of the big banks tanking” Grant replies, holding the small note toward Vince, “this isn’t a story now, but you have my attention.” The meeting adjourned, Vince departs feeling satisfyingly fulfilled, both Grant and Taylor watching him exit with a look of intrigue. | \ Thursday, February 15th, 2007 / \ 8:54 am est. - 5:54 pm pst. / “Giuliani is announcing his bid for the presidency tonight” Vickers proclaims, Aiden stood between the chairs that Grant and Taylor occupy, none of the man’s guests reacting with surprise. “Sam, you told us this- like- three months ago” Taylor replies, sharing in the confusion Grant and Aiden are overcome by, “you said he was doing it on Larry King.” “He is, but we’re not out of the woods yet” Vickers swiftly replies, sliding a pair of rocks glasses across the table, “he wants the trail started off right, so you’ll be interviewing one of his staffers live on air.” “When?” Grant interrupts, considering Vickers’ request for a private discussion as a reason for dread. “Tonight, at the top of the hour” Vickers replies, both hands calmly laid upon his table, his palms pressing into the mahogany desk, “our show goes on earlier, so they’ll hint that he’s making an announcement, and you’ll let them run with that.” “There’s something you’re not telling us” Grant interjects, his employer slowly guiding his focus fully onto the woeful anchor, who corrects himself, “there’s something you’re not telling me.” Lowering his eyes, Vickers takes in a steady breath, the room silent, waiting for his response. “You’ll be interviewing Kelsi Dolin on the show tonight” Vickers informs, Grant’s expression unchanged from how it had been moments prior. “Alright, what else?” Grant responds, having spent the last near-minute staring into Vickers’ eyes, witing for the follow-up. “There is nothing else, that’s all” Vickers replies, as surprised by the man’s demeanour as Taylor and Aiden are, “you’ll dance around the topic, she’ll tease it, you’ll end it after eight minutes.” His right arm sat upon the chair’s back, Grant puckers his lips, a subtle shake of his head all he cares to respond with. “Is that all?” Grant further inquires, unphased by the news in the slightest. “Y- yeah, that’s it” Vickers replies, earning himself a nod as Grant stands up to leave, uttering nothing further as he steps through the door, returning to work. “He took that a lot better than I thought he would” Vickers confesses, Aiden and Taylor still present in the moment, neither truly certain on how to respond. The first to follow Grant’s lead after a few, quiet seconds, Taylor makes for the nearest elevator, already certain she’d reconnect with her co-anchor along the way. “You took that awfully well” Taylor remarks, keeping a quick pace to her step as she closes in on Grant, the man’s concern having disappeared. “I know I’ve asked this before, but what good does the arguing do?” Grant replies, slowing his walk in order for Taylor to draw near, “it won’t get the segment done any faster. It’s just wasted breath.” The hallway’s towering marble walls giving their voices an echo, the couple retreat to the nearest lift, occupying the large box with their presence alone. “You’re right. I just expected you to put up more of a fight” Taylor responds, the doors closing as quickly as Grant’s reluctance had. “I’ll save the fight for things that deserve it- and those things are not Rudy Giuliani” Grant assures, his hands coupled behind his back, “with our luck, he’ll get bounced before we even get to New Hampshire.” “Who the hell is gonna beat him? Duncan Hunter? Ron Paul?” Taylor quips, a short chuckle earned from the man she shares the ascent with. “Mike Huckabee and John McCain might put up a fight-” Grant responds, soon correcting his ambitious desires, “-well, hopefully.” | \ Wednesday, February 21st, 2007 / \ 9:57 am est. - 6:57 pm pst. / “One has to wonder if the public support for our presence in the middle east is on the verge of waning” Taylor remarks, “today’s decision by United Kingdom Prime Minister Tony Blair to withdraw nearly a fifth of the country’s forces out of Iraq may be the start of a national talking point.” “Alternatively, it could be fuel to push further toward our efforts in the middle east” Grant continues, “we’ve not only deposed Saddam Hussein, but we hanged him no more than two months ago. Our efforts in Iraq, whilst questionable, are no longer able to be hidden beneath the guise of national security.” “Instead, it appears clear that we have begun the process of ‘nation building’ in the middle east, a future one can only imagine would be duplicated in Afghanistan if given public support” Taylor pushes on, the show’s conclusion now near, “the question now is, do the American people agree with President Bush’s concerns that an undemocratic Iraq would bring about further national tragedy than what we’d seen five and a half years ago?’” “Thanks for joining us this evening, I’m Grant Haste” the man concludes, the show rolling to a close with Taylor’s sign-off. Little consideration paid to the newsroom that surrounds them, the anchors remove their ear pieces and begin to walk off the stage, a singular, slow applause drawn from an eerily silent bureau. “Bravo, wonderful work!” an older woman exclaims, stood in the room’s centre just a few feet away from the hard camera, her tone neither sarcastic, nor genuine. “If I’m being honest, I don’t pay the two of you for your on air chemistry” Robin further clarifies, her applause ceasing once both Taylor and Grant have placed their eyes upon her, “I always wondered how good your show must be to pull in thirteen million viewers a night- now I know!” “I’ve never met you before, but I’m gonna assume your name is on my paychecks” Grant replies, cautiously stepping off the glass platform his desk sits upon. “In the flesh” the woman responds, her tight grey top and skirt blending in well with the floor’s carpet. “By your wonder, I’ll also venture to guess that you aren’t too keen on watching your own network’s evening broadcast” Grant persists, his co-anchor soon joining beside him. “If there’s trouble in the kitchen, I rely on the waitstaff to pass the news along while I sit in the dining room” Robin cleverly paints, her voice’s tone growing confrontational, “and it seems the two of you haven’t just 86’ed half the menu- you’ve started a grease fire!” “Oh, we have?” Grant replies, not shying away from sarcastic mockery of the woman, the viewership he and Taylor produce making him almost untouchable, “does that make this visit your attempt at throwing baking soda on it?” With a smile, Robin hoists her hands high, resting them on each side of Grant’s face with a chuckle. “Okay, enough of these stupid metaphors” Taylor remarks, hands seeking comfort upon her hips, “we have plans to get ready for, so cut to the chase or move out of the way.” Taylor’s eagerness only assisting in Robin’s maintaining of the humoured grin, the room goes quiet, her employer’s hands fall from Grant’s face. Obliging with Taylor’s request, Robin gives her command, heart set on entering the newsroom with one objective in mind. “These packages you’re running on Giuliani- end them” Robin caves, the expressions on both Taylor and Grant’s faces immediately shifting. “What the hell!? Why!?” Grant shouts, his arms extended outward, his head jutting forward. “Because our sponsors don’t trust the two of you to make any of these candidates look even remotely pleasing” Robin responds, matching Grant’s irate inflection, “it’s not worth the money spent on it, so it’s canned.” “Please, Mrs. Lloyd” Taylor attempts to speak, her calm voice not winning her over any more than Grant’s does. “No to whatever it was you were about to say” Robin shouts, leaving just as suddenly as she’d arrived, “if I so much as hear a peep in the negative on any of these candidates, I will personally hand you your walking papers.” With that statement, Robin vanishes beyond a set of transparent doors, the newsroom unsure of how to react, the same uncertainty lingering over the pair at the newsdesk. After a few seconds, Grant’s composure is forced back upon him, his hands plastered atop his head, coupled together at the fingers. “What the fuck do we do now?” Grant questions beneath his breath, neither he, nor his co-anchor, able to take their eyes away from the newsroom’s exit. == Tonight at 9 == \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 /
\ 10:38 pm est. - 7:38 pm pst. / Sat at an empty desk with a glass of champagne in hand, Taylor observes the newsroom and its increasingly-buzzed staff, undone ties and discarded blazers scattered throughout the room. The televisions that line the walls tuned to various new year’s programmes, the environment is chipper, her coworkers taking full advantage of the fun, casual evening. “You waiting for the party to come to you?” a man wonders aloud, approaching Taylor with a glass of champagne in each hand. “I’m just laying low for a bit, Vince” Taylor replies, graciously accepting one of the glasses the man offers her, “Monday mornings are bad enough without a hangover.” “So says the woman sat beside three empty glasses that used to contain champagne” Vince charmingly responds, his desk adjacent to the one Taylor occupies. Having raised Vince’s glass to her mouth, Taylor pauses, looking at the man with a subdued smirk. “I don’t have a problem, I swear” Taylor murmurs, offering light-hearted humour to the relaxed conversation. “You say that now, but how long is it gonna be before you’re slinging dope on the corner?” Vince retorts, nearly prompting Taylor to spit her drink in laughter, “that’s how that sort of thing progresses, right?” Covering her mouth as she shakes her head, Taylor sets the glass down, its shapely rim joining the empty three beside her. “”In all seriousness, why are you just sitting around?” Vince inquires, reclining in his chair as one leg is hoisted over the other, “you may get younger by the hour, but the night certainly doesn’t.” Though flattered, Taylor hides her appreciation behind an eye roll, her left arm pressing into the desk she sits at as she reclaims her beverage. “I’m not really sure” the woman responds, the chatter of her workmates making it impossible for the newsroom’s mood to be anything less than chipper. Her colleague leaving her the air to speak, Taylor sets her sights on the small groups of people that huddle together, her eyes inevitably drawn to the office beside her own. “I’ve just had a crazy year. I guess it’s just difficult to see it end with everything that’s happened” Taylor continues, finally looking back to Vince, “maybe it’s nerves, or maybe I’m just too fond of this whole year in general, but I don’t think I’m ready for 2007 yet.” The glass lowering to his lap, Vince nods with Taylor’s response, able to share the feeling. “You’re not as alone as you’d think” the man responds, scratching at an itch on his neck, “I’m in the same boat. I got hired here in May, bought a house in July, and got engaged in October. I’m not ready to say goodbye any more than you are.” Letting her face fall, Taylor smiles, another sip from her glass taken. His phone buzzing atop the wooden desktop, Vince answers the call, his brief preoccupation leaving Taylor to survey the bureau a second time. “I’ll be up in a minute. It’s foosball, not the World-fucking-Cup” Vince replies to his friend on the other line, the top to his flip phone closing as he ends the call. “I take it France is looking for his Italy?” Taylor quips, earning a chuckle from Vince as he stands from his chair, returning the favour in a humorous way. “I’m the champion in this scenario? Nice” Vince jokes, collecting Taylor’s empty glasses as he finishes his first, “I must bid you adieu for the moment- Shane seems real eager to win his ‘runner-up’ ribbon.” Another sip lifted from her glass, Taylor bows her head toward the man, silently gesturing her appreciation for his company. “I should probably start writing my eulogy to 2006 anyway” Taylor remarks, doubling down on the joke by grabbing a piece of loose-leaf paper, “would ‘dear year, see you later, bitch’ be fit for an opening line?” The huff of air through his nose servicing as a laugh, Vince reclaims the jacket draped over his seat with his free hand. “If it doesn’t, you know where to find me” the man replies, beginning his way for the elevator, “I’ll save a spot for you- y’know, in case you get choked up.” Just as she had been prior to Vince’s arrival, Taylor sits alone, eyes wandering through the bureau once more, again finding their way back to her co-anchor’s office. The frosted glass wall of Grant’s workspace dimly lit by an orange glow, all that Taylor can make out is the man’s seated figure, his arm leant over his desk with a handset pressed to his ear. Another glimpse at the intermingling groups that surround her, Taylor lifts the glass to her lips once again, its frigid bowl fogged by her breath as the final drops it holds coat her tongue. With a deep sigh, Taylor removes herself from the seat, the glass carried between her fingers as she journeys across the newsroom. Carson Daly’s face plastered across the nearest set of televisions, Taylor taps her knuckle against Grant’s door and enters, the staff left to talk amongst themselves. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 / \ 10:47 pm est. - 6:47 pm pst. / “Wow! He takes all this time to show up and doesn’t even bring beer!?” Shane jokes from his lawn chair, Vince cracking a smile as the pair share a high five. “Shane, you live off sweating, sex, and running- sometimes all three at once” Aiden jokes, stood across the foosball table from Abby, his eyes following the small, dice-sized ball from one end of the table to the other, “I can’t picture you drinking a soda, let alone a beer.” Moving over to make room for Vince to join him on the increasingly-deteriorated bench, Shane rubs his hands in anticipation, eager to occupy the table his roommate commands. Flipping the wooden figures on each individual rod, Aiden drives the painted sphere down the table’s length, his defence having barely stopped Abby from scoring. His centre midfielder resting on the ball, Aiden presents himself with an opportunity, his figure tapping the ball toward the near wall, where his striker claims possession. Waiting for Abby to over-pursue, Aiden jumps at the first opening, his figure’s peg pushing the ball straight past his opponent’s defender, where it disappears beneath the table in Abby’s goal. “That’s game!” Keith remarks, hoisting his hands high in triumph, “Aiden’s victory, 7-5.” As Vince applauds, Shane leaves the bench, prepared to duel his good friend just as they have many times before. “Here we go again!” Keith proclaims, earning a laugh out of the rooftop’s occupants as they jumble together, all eyes on the exhibition game for the personalities that take part in it. “Ready to crumble, health kick?” Aiden playfully jabs, “taste defeat, fuck-weasel” Shane responds, both men laughing off the intentionally-pathetic insults as the ball rolls into play. Luck residing in his favour, Shane’s nearest right-fielder makes first contact, a lucky shot propelling the ball past Aiden’s defencemen for the game’s first score. “Series of seven, Shane commands the lead, one-nothing!” Keith proclaims, the split reaction from the crowd that follows implying a divide in support. “The king abdicates the throne to no one!” Shane exclaims, the fun he and the crew have with the game unable to change his genuine propensity to win. | \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 / \ 11:02 pm est. - 8:02 pm pst. / “I don’t know whether to be glad or annoyed” Grant says, the uncertainty clear in the way he speaks, “we go through all of this to strike a deal with Kelsi, and Giuliani decides to announce his bid on Larry King?” The hem of her emerald green dress cut off just above the knee, Taylor sits upon the chair across from Grant’s desk, mostly quiet to allow the man his opportunity to vent. “Honestly, my biggest worry is that we’ll be the reason he gets elected” Grant continues, his blazer draped over the back of his chair, arms crossed behind his head, “are we wasting our time?” Before answering, Taylor takes in a deep breath through her nose, eyes wide as she prepares to respond. “Yes, but that’s not really the point- is it?” Taylor replies, her suspended leg bouncing, “we’re cleaning out our closet. We’re going back to doing the news with a clean conscience.” With a huff, Grant leaves his chair, drawn to the book shelf that occupies the wall behind him. “It’d be nice if that conscience didn’t need to be cleaned by an equally-gross stain masquerading as an American hero” Grant replies, letting Taylor respond, his fingers finally grazing the book he’d sought after. “He’ll be a front-runner with or without our coverage” Taylor retorts, watching Grant lay the book on her side of the table, “we’re not really doing much of a favour.” Taking the hard-cover publication into her hands, Taylor sifts through the first few pages as Grant sits quietly, the woman unsure of the reason behind his gesture. “I’m not really in the market for reading material” Taylor remarks, returning the novel to Grant’s side of the desk. “How old were you when Perot ran? The first time, versus Clinton and Bush Sr?” Grant inquires, Taylor staring at the ceiling as she recalls the answer, “I was born in ‘78, so- fourteen?” “Do you remember those ads he ran? The ones about the N.A.F.T.A deal and the federal budget?” Grant quickly responds, “those were what got him to the debate stage.” Hands folded in her lap, Taylor squints at Grant, trying to understand the point being made. “I’m interested in how you’re gonna tie this all together” Taylor replies, crossing her arms in anticipation. “The ‘92 election wasn’t a fight because Perot was on your screen, it’s because every second of those ads was him flushing out his agenda” Grant remarks, “he told you what he thought was bad, told you what his plan was, and had the platform to do it on.” The cross in her arms loosening, Taylor lets herself settle as Grant continues, pacing from one side of the room to the other. “We’re giving Giuliani the same platform Perot had for free, and that doesn’t sit well with me” Grant confesses, reclaiming his seat opposite Taylor, “we’re practically punching his ticket to the nomination.” Without warning, Grant’s door swings open, Vickers’ cheerful expression the first thing to greet them. “Happy new year’s!” Vickers remarks, his older age unable to keep him from dancing to the unoccupied seat beside Taylor, a pep in the spring chicken’s step. “Happy new ye-” Grant begins to reply, Vickers’ words interrupting him. “Grant, if you spend one more minute talking about Rudy Giuliani or anything else I pay you for, I’ll punch you in the face and force you to take a pay cut” Vickers threatens, lowering himself into the chair as he adjusts his sport coat, “it’s a party damnit, go be part of it or go home.” “We have a show tomorrow and an interview with a Giuliani staffer Friday” Grant counters, lifting his feet atop the desk, “and if you’d ask me, hosting a party at the workplace on a Sunday night sends mixed messages.” Sharing a chuckle, Vickers hunches forward, his hands coupled atop his lap. “Grant, you missed one thing with your Perot analogy” Vickers responds, “Perot’s a billionaire businessman, and Giuliani married his second cousin- one of these is not like the other.” Bobbing his head, Grant lets the humour subside before making another attempt to speak, too tired of the topic to resume the persuasive vernacular. “All he needs to do is say the right things on the big stage” Grant reiterates, leaving his chair with a grunt, “I don’t like the fact that we’re that big stage- that’s all I’m saying.” “Well, you’ve said it plenty for one lifetime” Vickers responds, patting the anchor on the shoulder as he rounds the desk, “now stop wasting breath and go live a little.” Relenting, Grant nods his head, “alright” the younger of the two men replies, patting his employer on the shoulder. | \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 / \ 11:29 pm est. - 8:29 pm pst. / “Hey stranger” Carly remarks, depriving herself of the building’s warmth to join Aiden on the terrace, not a peep able to be heard from the melting pot of culture and life stories below. Turning back to return the woman’s greeting, Aiden is silenced, the sleek red dress Carly wears catching his eyes, reflecting the moonlight in its curves. “Wow” the man mumbles, incapable of saying more as the woman approaches, a smile appearing through her dark red lips. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost” Carly jokes, occupying the space to Aiden’s left, her hair blown by the winds of New York’s winter. “Well, to be fair, you are pretty pale” Aiden blurts, earning a shocked expression from the woman as his subconscious takes over, the first joke that comes to his mind immediately noticed upon being spoken. “Shit, I- I meant-” Aiden stutters, the worry brought on by Carly’s initial reaction settling as she laughs. “It’s fine, I get it more often than you’d think” Carly replies, still chuckling the statement off, “it usually comes from my parents instead of people that want to sleep with me, but I still get it plenty.” “Sorry” Aiden quickly responds, looking back to the skyline as the conversation persists. “It’s fine. Seriously, it was funny” Carly reassures, leaning against the platform’s concrete lip, “we haven’t talked in a while. How’s work been?” Climbing down from his panic, Aiden partakes in the discourse, his eyes taking to the bulbous strobing light just a few blocks away, the magical number they patiently await their arrival to be basqued in grey. “It’s not too bad I guess” Aiden rejoins, sharing Carly’s lean over the barrier between themselves and the building’s drop, “we’re transitioning to guests with this Giuliani project, so that’s a fun little aggravation.” Retrieving a pack of darts from her clutch, “what, you don’t like him?” Carly inquires, accepting the lighter Aiden offers. “He’s pro-choice, pro-death penalty, he keeps cutting taxes and is in favour of the war- I’ll probably vote for him” Aiden answers, “it’s just another hoop to jump through. The show isn’t broken, I don’t get why we’re trying to fix it.” Striking the lighter, Carly sets the dart’s end aflame, dragging a puff as she responds. “You know it’s more than that, right?” Carly replies, the curious look she receives implying otherwise. “Grant and Taylor struck a deal with that Kelsi chick” Carly replies, passing the butt to her colleague as a cloud of smoke escapes her lungs, “she canned the invasion piece and they gave her a Giuliani segment weekly.” His head pulled back, as if surprised, Aiden stares into the night, taking a drag as a strong inquisitiveness clouds his mind. “Why wouldn’t they just tell me that?” Aiden replies, returning the dart to its owner, “why pass it off as an experiment, or whatever the hell they’re disguising it as?” No solid answer to offer, Carly just shrugs, another puff of her smoke pulled. “Maybe that’s what they’re hoping to get from it?” Carly ponders aloud, the silent speculation Aiden conjures affording her the freedom to form her own assumptions, “maybe they’re using it as a test run for incorporations into other shit?” “Then why not just say that?” Aiden questions aloud, the inability to discover a plausible reason sitting poorly on his mind. “Does it really matter?” Carly replies, a second pull taken before she returns the cigarette to Aiden’s hand, “it doesn’t change the fact that it’s happening.” Able to see a few angles of Times Square from above, Aiden remains stoic in wonder, quietly taking another drag as his thoughts assume precedent. | \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 / \ 11:47 pm est. - 8:47 pm pst. / “Hand to god, I’d never seen anything like it!” Vickers exclaims, stood before two men of similar age with a glass of scotch in his hand. “The nation stopped! It was like we’d entered an entirely new era!” Vickers details, stripped from the conversation by the hand of a young woman, her palm resting on the pad of his right shoulder. “Mr. Vickers-” the woman remarks, watching the man turn to her, a smile on his face. “Yes, Nicole?” Vickers gleefully replies, forced to lean close in order to hear the woman over the grand piano and boisterous crowd of well-dressed folks. “-Mr. Vickers, there’s someone here to see you in your office” Nicole informs, already having expected her employer to brush off the visitor. “Remind them that I’m not entertaining meetings until tomorrow afternoon” Vickers responds, his attempt at patting the woman’s shoulder thwarted, her hand catching his mid-air. “It’s Robin Lloyd, sir” Nicole replies, the surprised look on the older man’s face falling to distress at the woman’s name. Walking at his own pace, Vickers descends the hall to his office, a bounty of New Year’s Eve broadcasts displayed on the televisions that line his route. “To what do I owe this surprise?” Vickers remarks, feigning pleasantries as best as his slightly-inebriated self can. “Oh, perhaps it’s the half-bottle of scotch I can smell on your breath from here” Robin answers, speaking as if such a scent were common. “There’s no such thing as a New Year’s Eve without a little alcohol” Vickers replies, lowering himself into the seat by his desk. “There are places for people like you, Sam- notably, rehab” Robin quips, opting to remain stood, “do it on your own time, however- I’m gonna need you keeping charge of this place.” “I always do, that’s why you pay me” Vickers responds, more than coherent enough to offer the woman her first drink of the night with a perfectly-steady hand. “Mhm, well you’re gonna have to do a little more to earn that check now” the woman replies, speaking over the sound of single malt pouring from Vickers’ rim. “How so?” the man answers, sliding the woman’s glass across the table. “I’ve got the Lehman Brothers up my ass about your Giuliani promos” Robin replies, taking down all that Vickers had poured in her glass at once. “I would’ve thought they’d be all over this sort of stuff” Vickers replies, yet to raise the glass to his mouth before his employer finishes her own, “they are throwing money behind Rudy, correct?” “Of course they’re throwing money behind Rudy” Robin replies, her point yet to resonate with Vickers. “I’m sorry, Robin- I don’t see what you’re getting at” Vickers remarks, returning his drink to the desk without a sip, “he’s getting free coverage and national exposure, what’s their problem?” “They’re less concerned with the free coverage and more concerned over the kind of coverage” Robin reiterates, the look on Vickers’ face again implying a disconnect. “Ugh, do I have to spell it out for you?” Robin quips, returning the glass to Vickers’ desk, the ruffles on her purple shirt’s sleeves shaking as her arms extend, “I need you to kiss his ass!” “Rudy?” Vickers repeats, his head jutting forward as his eyes squint, “they want us to kiss Rudy ‘cousin-fucker’ Giuliani’s ass? No.” Turning her head in the direction of the exit, Robin waits for her preferred time to interrupt. “The man’s only political position is ‘boo 9/11’, looks like a raisin left in a bottle of bleach, and do I need to remind you that he fucks his cousin!?” Vickers exclaims, unable to hold back laughter, “the man’s dumber than a paper boy in Atlantis!” “Well, as long as you’re running these promos, you’re gonna make him look like a sexy Stephen Hawking!” Robin exclaims, her voice reverberating off the man’s office walls. “How do you anticipate I do that!?” Vickers shouts back, unafraid of the conflict his opposition stands a chance at bringing. “I pay those two anchors of yours over three million dollars each” Robin answers, her voice having calmed, “if they can’t figure out the ‘how’ part, what the fuck am I paying them for?” “Oh, I don’t know- could it be the thirteen-point-three million viewers they bring in nightly?” Vickers ripostes in an equally-calm tone, the opposition he faces disappearing. “Sam, I’m not going back-and-forth with you on this any further” Robin explains, claiming the untouched glass of scotch Vickers had poured for himself. “Either do what I’m telling you, or call it a career” the woman strong-arms, downing the second glass without trouble, “this isn’t a request.” Leaving as abruptly as she’d arrived, Robin walks herself out, the choices left clear. “Hey! Who says I’m ready to retire!?” Vickers jabs from afar, aware his words add nothing to the discussion, “seventy-six is the new forty-three!” | \ Sunday, December 31st, 2006 / \ 11:57 pm est. - 8:57 pm pst. / “Fancy meeting the two of you out here” Grant remarks, holding the door for Taylor as they brace the cold outdoor terrace. “I guess we can say the same” Carly responds, her eyes inspecting Taylor, the woman’s salon-curled hair intact, “I guess the two of you haven’t gotten busy yet.” “Put emphasis on the ‘yet’ while you’re at it” Grant warns, sharing Taylor’s appreciation as Aiden extends a cigar to each of them. “You can kiss when the ball drops, or you can light an Ashton” Aiden quips, accompanying each cigar with a cheap, plastic lighter. Lifting the tobie to her nose, Taylor takes in the tobacco scent, the potent aroma practically singing to her. Having done the same, Grant locks eyes with his co host, their silent agreement choosing to delay the kiss in favour of their high-quality smoke. “The two of you a thing now, what’s going on here?” Taylor jokes, repeating Carly’s speculative gesture from before. “Farthest thing from it” Aiden replies, Carly stood to his left whilst Grant occupies his right, “we haven’t talked much in a few weeks.” “Yeah, and the two of you just so happen to find each other minutes before every couple in the country swallow tongues, right?” Grant replies, nudging Aiden’s arm with his elbow. “At least when we say we’re just ‘coworkers’, we’re not lying about it” Aiden blithely mocks, earning Grant’s nod of approval. The pairs beginning to run low on topics to discuss, the air grows quiet, few intentions set on disrupting the moment they’d waited all night for. “Did you guys at least have a good night?” Grant inquires, the minute and a half that separate them from the new year appearing remarkably long. “I got swept in foosball” Aiden groans, his lips pressing against the cigar as the clock beneath the strobe-covered ball counts down from sixty. “How about the two of you?” Carly responds, the question prompting the hosts to turn toward each other, almost unsure of the answer. “In a way, yes. In another way, no” Taylor answers, both women looking to each other from opposite sides of the group. “Fifty seconds” Aiden murmurs, refusing to remove the cigar from his lips before his declarations. “The Rudy stuff?” Carly inquires, the only answer she needs concealed behind Taylor’s nod. “Forty seconds” Aiden mumbles again, a few further seconds passing in silence, the year’s end somehow feeling less important the closer it comes. “Thirty seconds” Aiden hums, his thumb pressed against his lighter’s tip, prepared to strike a flame the moment four small numbers glow in the deep, golden light. “Why does it feel like this countdown is pointless all of a sudden?” Grant wonders aloud, the quiet response he gets allowing him to elaborate, “like the work we had in 2006 isn’t done yet?” “Twenty seconds” Aiden purrs, Taylor the only person with an answer somehow fitting. “It’s like we’re just getting started” the young blonde replies, her eyes trailing off to look into her partners’, “like the year’s only new in name only.” “Ten seconds” Aiden whispers, watching the double digits fade into singles, Grant and Taylor soon joining their friends in silently counting down, the flashing graphics saying what they refuse to put in words. In a second, the dark ‘2007’ glows brilliant gold, their collective flames striking life into their cigars at once, the distant tune of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ filling the streets as their collective puffs of smoke fill the air. To the muffled sounds of celebratory cheers in the offices just below them, the four friends stare blankly at the spouts of confetti ascending through the skies, ringing in a new calendar year. Silent, the four remain leant forward, Grant the first to lower the cigar from his lips. His face void of much celebratory cheer, Grant parts his lips, his breath a cloudy white when colliding with the frosty air, “happy new year” he says emptily, answered by his friends with only an incomplete nod. \ Monday, January 1st, 2007 / \ 12:00 am est. / == Tonight at 9 == Season 2 Premiere.
\ Monday, November 13th, 2006 / \ 3:14 am est. - 12:14 am pst. / His dark hair ruffled, grey t-shirt wrinkled and right arm outstretched upon his chair’s armrest, Grant’s eyes take to an empty corner, no movement, nor emotion held behind them. “Grant” a familiar voice murmurs from close by, the man who’s called for leaving the source unanswered. Not spiteful, nor bitter, Grant refuses to offer a response by accident, his mind too preoccupied to digest the sounds around him, too rudderless to care. His face exhausted, mouth slightly agape and the knuckles on his right hand propping his chin up, Grant’s back sinks into his seat, no comfort, nor pain caused as a result of his stationary position. “Grant” the familiar voice bellows again, receiving a similar treatment from before, Grant’s mind paying them no care. Not angry, nor enraged, Grant’s eyes never drift from the corner, too tired to move elsewhere in the room, too strained to find a point. His foot tapping, left index finger scratching his pant leg and the corner of his lip pressed between his teeth, Grant’s body starts to feel light, almost as if he were no longer occupying it, no pressure, nor control over his movement. “Grant” the voice grumbles once more, shut out of Grant’s empty mind entirely. Not despondent, nor weak, Grant feels the air thicken as the floor leaves his feet, suspending him in the air, gravity having waved goodbye as it walks through the door to leave. “Grant!” Taylor repeats, her voice louder the fourth time around as she slams a rolled up magazine on the conference table they sit behind, reestablishing reality. His attention stolen back, Grant returns to himself unphased, looking to the coworkers he shares the conference room with, all eyes plastered upon him. “Are you alright?” Taylor whispers, Grant’s eyes taken into her own, an obviously worried look worn in her face. Inhaling through his nose, Grant takes a glance toward the clock near the room’s rear, the digital clock’s ‘3:14’ turning one minute ahead as soon as his sights set upon it. “None of us are” Grant finally responds, eyes casually strolling across the well-attended room, “and at this point, I don’t see much of a reason to keep meeting like this.” “That’s exactly what I like to hear” Bruce sarcastically replies, his arms crossed as he leans in his seat, “a woman threatens to jeopardise your journalistic integrity- maybe tear down the company you work for? All the people that work for it too?- who cares, it’s no big deal!” “I never said it wasn’t a big deal” Grant reiterates, letting his knuckles fall from their place beneath his chin as Bruce cuts him off. “Your body language would suggest otherwise. Slouched back in your seat like there’s a hundred more important things you’d rather be doing” the young, well-dressed manager assumes, “couple that with the fact that it takes us hours to get in touch with you, and you show up here looking like you just got off vacation- I mean, where the fuck even were you!?” “”Let’s not get off subject” Vickers interrupts, sharing a lack of interest in Grant’s appearance just as his subordinates do, “we have nine hours to save our collective livelihoods. Let’s not waste time over unimportant matters.” The room silent, Vickers folds his hands atop the oak-finished table, face shifting toward Aiden and Carly, neither of whom recognize this change at first, their attention laid on those the rest of the room is inhabited by. “Aiden, Carly- I’m going to ask the two of you to leave the room, please” Vickers requests, the two employees turning to him in confusion upon this request. “I trust the two of you greatly, but just as you’ve helped me, I’d like to do the same for you now” the older man clarifies, sweeping grey hairs away from his eyes, “whatever is going to be said from now on can possibly be considered incriminating, and the best way to protect you is to make sure you aren’t present to it, understand?” Accepting, though disappointed, the pair offer each other a silent glance before taking Vickers on his offer, quietly leaving the table. “Thank you, Mr. Vickers” Aiden responds, his attempt at reaching the exit thwarted for a moment upon the sound of his employer’s voice. “It’s Sam, Vickers or both to you-” the news division’s president replies, watching the duo turn back to him, standing in the open doorway, “- to both of you.” Appreciatively nodding, Aiden and Carly take that note to depart upon, re-entering the newsroom without another word. Beyond their tower’s windows, New York City sleeps soundly, the sky as dark as night was intended to be, and the towers that encompass the skyline lit just the same as LMC’s own. Their own newsroom chaotic, Aiden and Carly find themselves pulled to the nearest window, the pillars of lit windows that scrape the sky serve the perfect illustration of a city that never sleeps. “For a city of eight million people, it sure does look peaceful” Carly purrs, the man she’d exited the room with stood to her left, sharing the same sentiment. “Sometimes, when I look at the city from up here, I forget how loud it is” Aiden remarks, his left hand pressing against the painted-over wall of concrete that separates one window from another. “It’s deeper than that. Sometimes I forget how chaotic it is from up here” Carly replies, “like we’re safe from it behind these windows.” As a smile appears from behind his lips, Aiden pulls his face toward the newsroom, eyes setting upon the glass-encased conference room. Too distant from the conversation to hear what’s said, all Aiden can do is watch those inside, a defensive Grant and irritated Bruce the first thing Carly sees when she follows the trail her friend’s sights leave behind. “Not always” Aiden finally responds, unable to pull his focus away from the heated debate happening across the floor. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Monday, November 13th, 2006 / \ 12:09 pm est. - 9:09 am pst. / “Thanks, Nola” Grant concludes, lowering the phone back to its receiver as his attention redirects, “they’re on their way up.” Sat on the couch in Grant’s office, Vickers remains seated, not deeming their guests important enough to leave his seat for. “I think this warning bears repeating” Bruce proclaims, becoming the first to stand as he adjusts his suit jacket, “the ball is not in our court here. I don’t want any of us giving them leverage they don’t already have.” His own expectations crafted over the duration of the prior nine hours, Grant disregards Bruce’s warning, believing it to be just another pointless omen he holds no responsibility to. With the back of his head pressing into the leather cushion of his chair, Grant finds a soft touch rest upon his left hand, fingers sprawled along his work surface, using the platform as an armrest. “You gonna be alright?” Taylor whispers, her skin the only warmth Grant concerns himself with embracing the sensation of. “As long as you are, I am too” Grant responds, overturning his palm to meet Taylor’s own, their hands squeezing each other’s just as the newsroom captures Grant’s ear. “They’re here” Grant mutters, just loud enough for the room to hear, his back turned toward the larger studio. “How do you know that?” Bruce inquires, watching Grant’s sleep-deprived face turn to him. “Do you hear that?” Grant replies, waiting for Bruce’s ear to share the same sound as his own, absolute silence emanating from the office’s outside. “No, I don’t” Bruce answers, shaking his head as half of a smirk appears upon Grant’s face. “Exactly” his client speaks, releasing Taylor’s hand from his while he leaves his chair. Taylor following just behind him whilst Bruce and Vickers follow in that order, Grant exits his office, the open floor his workspace sits at the end of affording him an unimpeded view of those he’d awaited. The glass door slowly closing behind them, Kelsi and Howard stand across the bureau from their hosts, each employee, regardless of the task they’d been amidst, stopped in their tracks, all staring at Howard with widened eyes. “Not bad, New York” Howard exclaims, hands tucked into the pockets of his brown winter coat, “you seem to have done pretty well for yourself, Grant.” Though impressed by the panopticon he’s stepped into, Howard’s true intentions stand at the opposite end of it, refusing to move first. “What the fuck is this guy doing here!?” a voice exclaims, putting the subdued thoughts his colleagues think into words, a gesture received with audible support from the rest of the crew. “Everyone just get back to work-” Vickers replies, hushing the room as various employees peer over the railings above just as Howard interrupts. “No, no! Doing the news is a job designed for teams!” Howard shouts back, visibly pleased to instigate the station beyond his presence alone, “I’m happy to give you that answer, good sir!” “That won't be necessary-” Grant replies, the latest of LMC’s employees interrupted by Howard. “I insist! As a matter of fact, whoever asked that question, come on over here!” the disgraced anchor orders, motioning for a young, black man in a chequered shirt to approach. “Victor, stay at your desk” Taylor commands, ending the game of statue between Howard and Grant by pulling away from the LMC group. “Oh, it’s fine! I insi-!” Howard cuts through the tension to say, himself now on the receiving end of an interruption. “Victor, I told you to stay at your desk- now stay at your fucking desk” Taylor exclaims, the finger she’d centred upon her subordinate now finding its way in Howard’s direction, “now you- get in that fucking office right now.” His expression insinuating he’d not anticipated such treatment from Grant’s co-anchor, Howard lets a moment pass before relenting, purposefully strolling across the room slowly. Remaining quiet through the ordeal, Kelsi matches Howard’s pace, each step taken in stride with her accompanying business partner until they reach Grant’s office, where she enters first. Continuing to enjoy the treatment he’s earned, Howard stops in the doorway, his attention turned toward his former co-anchor. “It’s nice to see you again, old friend” Howard remarks, lifting his hand to rest upon Grant’s shoulder, the recipient unable to hold off the disgusted look that springs upon his face. “I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time” Howard concludes, sliding his hand off Grant’s shoulder as he finally steps into the office. Raising his right hand in an effort to wipe the feeling of residue on his shoulder, Grant discovers a second hand having beaten him there. “Even if he controls whatever this meeting is, he doesn’t get to control you” Taylor whispers, wiping Grant’s shoulder on the man’s behalf whilst Vickers quietly watches over, holding the door for his dear friends, “don’t give him what he wants.” For a moment, Grant’s mind strays from the pair that contaminate his office with their existence, a relief emerging as he and Taylor lock eyes, their companionship comforting each other. His lips pressed together, Grant bows his head and steps through the door. Not too far behind, Taylor follows Grant’s lead, Vickers’ glare toward the larger newsroom prompting his employees to return to work, the afternoon returning to just another Monday as he lets Grant’s door shut. | \ Monday, November 13th, 2006 / \ 1:28 pm est. - 10:28 am pst. / “It doesn’t matter much, does it? The Republic of South Ossetia will never be a thing” Carly replies, coating a chicken wrap in pesto sauce. “I can’t help but agree, though crazier things have happened” Aiden replies, rolling the sleeves of his button up shirt as he dips a handful of fries into ketchup, “it’ll create a war regardless, and that should be fun for us to cover.” “You say ‘us’ as if Grant won’t be back by the time the first shots ring out” Carly replies, guiding loose strands of dark brown hair over her ear. “As of yesterday, I produce a show hosted by Taylor English and Carly Carpenter, that’s all I can plan around” Aiden replies, taking a salt shaker to the inside of his burger’s top bun, “until Sam tells me otherwise, I don’t have any plans for ‘Tonight at Nine’s’ future that involve Grant.” “I get that, but you don’t actually think Grant’s going to be gone for any significant amount of time, right?” Carly quickly wonders aloud, laughing off the idea until she notices the silence Aiden replies with. “Right?” Carly repeats, Aiden still yet to answer. “Do you remember the reason Sam gave for telling us to leave last ni- this morning?” Aiden inquires, apologising for the misspeak, “I don’t even know if he’ll be a free man in a month’s time.” Though Aiden’s teeth dig into his meal, Carly grows further away, her hands letting the sandwich fall slowly back to the paper it was wrapped within. “I’m not gonna get ‘Tonight at Nine’ full time, am I?” Carly wonders aloud, a mixture of doubt and concern beginning to hover above her head. “Who else is gonna take it on?” Aiden responds, wiping the grease from the corner of his mouth, “Frost’s ratings are dipping, Bernard’s contract is up, and Scott’s getting sent to L.A.” “Aiden, I’m not ready for ‘Tonight at Nine’!” Carly immediately retorts, speaking in a hiss-like whisper. “Of course you are!” Aiden replies, visibly surprised by the woman’s reluctance, “When Grant got shot, the president of the news division himself put you on solo-air. If you could do that, you’re ready for any time slot.” Hanging her head, Carly’s hands cover her face, her foot bouncing on the floor beneath their table. “Aiden, I don’t want ‘Tonight at Nine’” Carly reiterates, letting her hands fall long enough to look the man across from her in the eyes, “even if I was ready for it, I don’t want that kind of spotlight. I’m more than happy being the lead in, once that clock passes 8:59, I want my face off air for the night.” Putting his burger down, Aiden wipes his hands on a towel as the conversation continues. “I don’t get it, Carly. You were on election coverage, you had time at the top of the show for a few months- what’s changed?” Aiden questions, unable to decipher the reason behind Carly’s reaction. “I just don’t want it anymore!” Carly quips back, speaking over the bell that rings above the diner’s entrance, “I’ll step in if the show needs a stand in, but I’m not interested in being a permanent host.” Without the words to speak with, Aiden stares at his friend blankly, both arms crossed atop the table, the meal that waits to be eaten almost forgotten about. Beginning to sense the silent staring Aiden holds on her to be brought about by doubt, Carly relents, her shoulders dropping along with her anxiety. “Juno left me” Carly confesses, Aiden’s eyes lighting up as he’s made privy to this information, having waited to hear such news, though is unsure how to react. “He packed up and left after Mr. Vi- after Sam threw him out” Carly clarifies, pushing her wrap toward the centre of the table as she sinks into her booth. “I’m sorry to hear that” Aiden replies, sliding his own burger aside whilst Carly’s frown turns into a smile. “Yeah right” the woman jokes, crossing her arms over the soft, purple dress shirt her chest propels outward, “you’ve been waiting to hear that since the first time you got me naked.” Letting out a laugh through his nose, Aiden takes the towel to his face again, letting the humour subside as his face is cleaned. “While you’re right, that doesn’t mean I’m not sorry” Aiden corrects, the middle of the table cleared as he slides Carly’s wrap beside his own, “I know you liked him. If him leaving makes you sad, then I’m sorry that he left.” Less opposed to Aiden’s apology the second time around, Carly lets her chin tilt, only able to voice the thoughts she’s usually too scared to say aloud. “He wasn’t wrong to” Carly responds, her left leg kicked over the right, “I always complained about his jealousy, but I’ve never honestly been able to admit that he had every reason to be- at least, not until now.” His own eyes falling, Aiden’s attention remains on Carly, his pupils darting back toward her the moment she begins to speak again. “I think I need to just do what makes me happy. My contract’s up in two years, and my numbers keep steady around eight million” Carly remarks, a slight smirk beginning to creep along her face as her eyes take to Aiden’s, “I don’t know what my future with LMC is, but I know I want to enjoy the time I have in New York before it can end on me.” Giving Carly a subtle nod, Aiden pulls back in his seat, letting the steam of burgers flipped on the grill close by and pots of coffee brew fill the air that holds them apart. | \ Monday, November 13th, 2006 / \ 1:49 pm est. - 10:49 am pst. / “It doesn’t matter if we’re willing to, the network won’t stand for it” Vickers refuses, the only participant in the conversation standing. “For the fifth time, this network would rather give Rudy fifteen minutes a week than have their premier anchors sent to the slammer” Kelsi replies, sharing the seat beside Howard, her feet crossed atop Grant’s desk. “Oh please, the network would send a hitman after you before they let Rudy-fucking-Giuliani on our air” Vickers refutes, kept from continuing further by Grant’s hand. The room quieting, Grant opens his mouth for the first time, stood near the back of his office as Taylor occupies his seat. “As long as I can fairly and impartially conduct the interviews myself- we’ll make it work” Grant decides, shunning the attempted rebuttal Vickers prepares to hand him. “We’ve argued about Rudy Giuliani for the last two hours, anything past ten minutes is too much” Grant remarks, his calm demeanour coaxing Vickers into an agreement. Crossing his arms over the grey t-shirt, Grant returns his sights to their guests, the smug look Howard and Kelsi stare at him with truly challenging his composure. “Come on-” Grant ushers, releasing a sigh as he stares toward his window, New York’s skies dull and sad, “-I know there’s more.” Hands folded in her lap, Kelsi pulls her face toward Howard, the man’s attention never once falling upon her, his vision solely dedicated to the man whose office he resides in. His body leaving the chair, Howard now stands across Grant’s desk, his tall frame forcing Taylor’s eyes to trail upward. “I want my name cleared” Howard responds, the tone of his voice never wavering, just as controlled as it was when he’d arrived. Tempted to intervene, Vickers follows the example set by Taylor and Bruce, keeping to himself so as to allow Grant the opportunity to make his own decision. Almost frozen, Grant’s posture goes unchanged, his arms still crossed, his face still tight. Though he breathes steadily, his chest begins to tighten, every muscle forcing his body to keep from exploding into a horror-induced rage. Silent, Grant just locks his eyes onto Howard’s, the thoughts of shattering each bone in the narcissistic antagonist’s face firing through his mind, however physically-improbable such an encounter would be. Yet to blink since the demand was made, yet to open his mouth since Howard’s voice emerged, yet to lower his hands since the man entered his premises, Grant makes his decision, offering it in a low, subtle tone. “No.” His expressionless face turning pale, Howard’s stoic stance is maintained, his best efforts put into converting his outrage into humour. “Come on, you don’t want that tape getting out” Howard sympathises, trying to lower the guard Grant has erected, “your friends here don’t seem too bad. You wouldn’t want them getting brought down with-” Interrupting Howard with his voice, Grant makes his defence, still yet to move a muscle in any direction. “We each know Gerry Spence’s number by heart. Our names may be in the papers, but we won’t serve time” Grant disrupts, finally letting his hands fall, “but the four of us know that- being dragged through the mud by tabloids, watched in the courtroom by millions, whatever the cost is- it’s worth every second that you spend ostracised from society.” “Why negotiate then?” Kelsi responds, her legs kept crossed, though they lower from Grant’s desk, “why entertain anything that we say?” Finally breaking away from his tidy corner, Grant returns to his desk, Taylor vacating his seat as he answers. “For a start, it keeps this out of the tabloids” Grant replies, letting his arms rest on his chair’s supports, “more than that, however, it helps make us even. You get the things you want, and we get rid of the two of you.” “It sure doesn’t seem like that” Howard retorts, unable to hide the look of displeasure on his face. “If you wanted a payout? Fine. A second house? Fine. Forgiveness for the hitman? Fine. Anything else? Fine” Grant clarifies, sliding into his desk comfortably, “but your freedom? I don’t care what kind of hell you throw at me. The only person that can give you freedom is me, and I will never let you walk free.” “Kelsi can have her weekly dose of Giuliani, we can make that work” Vickers quickly proclaims, both guests turning to face him, “but Howard, your freedom already burns in hell- you’re not getting that back.” Seething, Howard turns his face toward Grant, the man beneath him cracking a smile, more amused at the deal’s conclusion than he’d anticipated being. “You’re making a massive mistake” Howard warns, still towering over the man’s desk, a subtle, almost indistinguishable shadow cast over Grant. “How so?” Grant challenges, leant back in his chair, hands coupled atop his lap. “I’m not demanding a free slate! I’m not demanding some ticket back to primetime!” Howard shouts, his calm disposition vanishing. “You’re not demanding anything” Grant counters, the chair gliding away from his workspace, allowing him to stand. “Have you even taken a minute to think- just a minute out of all these years- to think about what you did?” Grant inquires, nothing louder than a hush given by Howard. “You came here to get your name cleared, which- to me- makes it sound like you’re starting to see just how the world looks at you” Grant continues, “you’re beginning to realise that your actions have consequences. Maybe this is the first time they ever have, too.” Stifled, Howard remains quiet, just listening to the words that escape Grant’s lips, his frustration having reached its ceiling. “That pedestal- the one that let you think you were above everyone else- is gone. Now you’re seeing things from everyone else’s level” Grant persists, now confidently rounding his desk, descending upon Howard, “now you’re starting to see reality differently than you have in years. You’re seeing things from a different perspective than before.” “Stop talking” Howard finally interrupts, his shout having quelled into a near-whisper, voice lowered almost beneath his breath. “Why? Is it too much for you to handle?” Grant prods, gladly alleviating Howard’s shoulders of the antagonistic persona he’d entered with. “Take advantage of your new vantage point, Howard” Grant implores, able to see the effect his words have on his once-friend, “take a step back, and think about how Jessica feels. Think about how you changed her world.” Simmering, Howard pulls himself backward, shaking his head as he reaches for the handle to his door. “You’ve done it now, Grant” Howard warns, departing with no further words, silencing the newsroom upon his re-entry. Unable to control his breathing, Howard peers at the countless faces, all staring at him from the coverage of their desks. The eerie silence impossible to miss, Howard stands at the door to Grant’s office, able to hear the blood in his neck as well as he could a pin dropping across the bureau. Without a word, Howard walks for the exit alone, his shadow the only thing seen behind the frosted glass of Grant’s station. “I only gave you Giuliani because I owed you” Grant clarifies, turning his attention back to his once-fling, “we’ll do Thursdays in the ‘B’ slot, take it or leave it.” Surprised at the return of Grant’s composed presentation, Kelsi pans around the room, not a face out of line. “He’s given you the offer” Taylor reiterates, earning Kelsi’s attention further, “you’re either walking out of here with it, or you’re leaving with nothing.” Suspicious, Kelsi cracks a smile, unable to look away from Grant, who stares at her as if she were any other guest. “I want the ‘A’ slot” Kelsi responds, her answer coming in the form of Grant’s hand disappearing into one of his many drawers. “You take ‘B’ or you’ll take nothing” Grant replies, placing a recorder at the centre of his desk, its red light big and bright, “and you’ll keep to our deal. You’ve got us on home invasion, we’ve got you on extortion- I see no reason for either.” Her smile lowering into a smirk, Kelsi looks Grant in the face, no further offer intended. “Deal” Kelsi accepts, throwing her expensive bag over one shoulder and making for the newsroom, the confrontation ceasing upon her withdrawal. Left to their own, the foursome pass looks at each other, the uncertainty of what lies ahead leaving most at a loss for words. “Now, let’s get back to the way things were” Vickers declares, not an ounce of refusal to be found, “let’s do the fuckin’ news.” == Tonight at 9 == |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2024
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