|
\ Thursday, May 24th, 2007 /
\ 9:00 pm est. - 6:00 pm pst. / “Alright folks, we’re live in five- four- three- two-” Shane declares, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled to his elbows, voice going silent as the opening credits roll. “Welcome to ‘Tonight at Nine’, I’m Carly Carpenter” the woman introduces, “and I’m Alonso Frost” her co-host follows, the night running just as their past few broadcasts have, script-heavy, story-focused, and issue-free. Alerted to a knock at his door, Vickers lowers the volume on his television, the lamp stationed just beside it bathes his office in a soft, warm glow. “You wanted to see me?” Aiden inquires, poking his head through the slightly-parted door. “No, I wanted to see the news” Vickers corrects, extending his hand toward the empty seats across from him, “I wanted to talk to you.” Letting himself in, Aiden follows Vickers’ hand, hands folded atop his lap as he sinks into the seat. “I’d wanted to give you a few more weeks- maybe see if they’d bounce back naturally” Vickers clarifies, reaching for an unopened bottle of malt liquor that sits beneath his desk, “unfortunately, the rating’s have remained as-is.” “Oh, give me a break” Aiden groans, his eyes rolling as the request is made, “I’ve gotten just over two full months in, and since Carly got called into nine, twenty percent of that has been without her.” Two glasses clinking together between his first two fingers, Vickers nods his head toward Aiden. “You have not found the best luck as of yet, I agree” Vickers replies, twisting the bottle’s top open, “but you knew losing Carly every now and then was part of the job.” “Every now and then- yes” Aiden quickly responds, watching the liquor pour smoothly into the first glass, “but to lose her for a full month before the new format has a chance to get its feet off the ground? that’s completely different.” “Aiden, I empathise with you and I’m sure you know that” Vickers replies, a gentle pour now trickling into the second glass, “but you know how Robin thinks. Context isn’t important, the numbers- and the numbers only- are.” Looking his premier executive producer in the eyes, Vickers guides the second glass across the desk, leaving the post-shift drink for Aiden to do as he pleases with. “You wanted a new challenge, didn’t you?” Vickers inquires, licking the caramel taste the drink has left on his lips, “you wanted a new pace at a new time. This is what you left nine o’clock for.” With a sigh, Aiden’s head falls to his lap, each statement Vickers makes only drawing his chin higher, the glass still left upon the table for him. “I won’t lie, I’m not that into the format- which is good, ‘cause I’m not the target demographic” Vickers admits, “but I believe that you’ll make it work.” Swallowing his pride, Aiden releases a sigh, looking Vickers in the eyes as he accepts the drink, his right leg crossing over his left. “I know it’s risky- I do. But if you could see things the way I do, you’d-” Aiden explains, Vickers’ interruption putting a half-hearted smile upon both of their faces. “I do, which is why I agreed to let my premier E.P leave my premier newscast” Vickers replies, the drink lowered from his lips again, “the younger the audience, the more precious the adspace is.” Taking his first sip, Aiden continues to let Vickers speak, the man’s genuine understanding brings a slight comfort over him. “If you can manage this, Robin might just promote you to the goddamn heavens” Vickers remarks, a gesture Aiden scoffs at, “eight o’clock could trail nine by four million viewers, and as long as the 18-49 remains a central element of your ratings- she’ll promote the two of you as equals.” “That sounds lovely, but the format hasn’t even proven to work yet” Aiden quickly interjects, able to feel the anticipation of something that may never come, “I know you guys just promoted Vince to senior producer, so don’t be surprised if he starts climbing the ladder quicker than you anticipated.” “The news has needed an ‘in’ with the youth for some time now” Vickers responds, eager to do so, “you know where the money leads, you just need to find the sweet spot. Don’t underestimate yourself.” His doubts forced aside at Vickers’ command, Aiden keeps his eyes on the man a few pegs above him on the corporate ladder, another sip taken from his glass. “It’s rocky right now, and it still might take some time to get going- but I believe you’ll get there” Vickers continues, finishing what sits at the bottom of his glass, the cup tapping against the desk as his hand lowers, finger pointed in Aiden’s direction, “I believe in you.” = 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, May 27th, 2007 / \ 7:45 pm est. - 4:45 pm pst. / “I've never lived. I mean really, lived. I've never enjoyed one moment in my whole stupid life” the character on Grant’s television remarks, the movie that plays having run its entire length without once capturing the couple that watch. “Stop shaking your leg” Taylor requests, held in Grant’s arms with her hand atop his knee, keeping it from tapping the wooden floorboards further. With a sigh, Grant pauses the film, gently guiding Taylor aside as he lifts himself off the chesterfield. “I’m gonna go for a walk” the man murmurs, groaning as he stands, the seat he’d spent the majority of the day sat upon imprinted with his rear. “I’ll come with you” Taylor replies, though Grant wasn’t hoping for her to accompany him, he doesn’t much mind her presence. Adorning a pair of shorts and a plain, white t-shirt, Grant steps onto the rocky walkway that leads toward his front door, Taylor following closely behind in a tank top and sweatpants, her hair tied in a messy bun. Purposely trailing behind her co-anchor, Taylor remains mum, listening to water in the nearby creek splash upon smooth boulders, the gravel kicked beneath their feet. “You’re awfully talkative” Taylor swipes, Grant’s hands tucked into his pockets as he stares at the ground, seeing the path that lays ahead before he traverses it. Answered with silence, Taylor continues to spoor, aware of how limited their time is now that the sun begins to make its final descent for the day. “Do you wanna talk about it?” the woman inquires, continuing to tail Grant as he breaks from the path, his lead steering them toward the creek, which grows louder as they approach. “What’s left to say that I haven’t said already?” Grant wonders aloud, seeking out a large enough rock to accommodate his companion and himself. “That’s kind of up to you” Taylor replies, seating herself beside the man upon his discovery of an adequate seat, “I didn’t take a vacation for me.” Hands pressed against his knees, Grant’s face shines beneath the deep orange sunset, the shadows of tree branches that obstruct the descending orb scrawled upon him. “Is it Kelsi?” Taylor inquires, rattling off possibilities the longer Grant remains quiet, installing a worry within his co-anchor that his answer is not to come. “Is it getting suspended?” Taylor proceeds, Grant’s face still held toward the impeded sunlight, unencumbered by feelings, “is it me?” Finally caught by something he doesn’t like, Grant turns around, Taylor’s face equally shaded by sunset-cast branches. “It’s not you- it’d never be you” Grant replies, his bottom jaw hanging open, prepared to follow up, “I just- I can’t stop thinking about the kind of person I used to be.” The answer, though easy to see when mentioned, puzzles Taylor, whose eyes narrow as she leans forward, not wanting to interrupt. “It’s like, when I walked into LMC, that vision I had of myself before just went away” Grant continues, his eyes returning to the running water, “I wasn’t distant. I didn’t give people a cold shoulder at every turn. I didn’t treat my secretary like an errand boy- I didn’t even have a secretary to begin with!” Letting themselves take humour in the lattermost statement, Grant and Taylor return to the conversation’s weight. “I wasn’t the big shot from D.C anymore. I entered the building with that thought, but when I stepped into the newsroom- it’s like a wake up call” Grant recalls, a delighted expression held upon Taylor’s face as he speaks, “don’t get me wrong, I want nothing more than to keep moving forward. But when those thoughts pop into my head, it’s like all I wanna do is make things right.” Her hand resting on Grant’s knee, Taylor shares Grant’s view of the impeded sunset, her head resting on the man’s shoulder. “The man you are now is what matters. That big head of yours is gone- just as the rest of that person” Taylor replies, a gesture that brings Grant’s smile back, this time one he doesn’t have to share, “it wasn’t a wake up call. You said it yourself- you didn’t want to lie when the cops came around about Howard. That ego never made you a bad person- just a pain in the ass.” Sharing a chuckle, Grant leaves Taylor to continue speaking, his mind following the same path hers had minutes prior, not wanting to interrupt. “The person you are now has always been there, he just needed to find the right place to break free” Taylor concludes, her free hand pulling Grant’s face toward hers, their eyes connecting as her head leaves his arm, “there was no ‘wake up call’- it was a cold splash of water at best.” Though his smile remains within his cheeks, Grant’s lips cover his teeth, his hand gently grazing the side of Taylor’s face. “You’ve got such a way wi-” Grant begins to whisper, the woman interrupting his thoughts before they can be voiced, her palm cupping a handful of the water that rushes past them, Grant’s face soaked by her own doing. “Wake up, Grant!” Taylor exclaims with jubilation, leaping back from the rock to create distance, filled with laughter as Grant wipes his eyes. “Oh, I’m wide awake now!” Grant enthusiastically shouts, matching Taylor’s pace as she steps down the river bank, her hand scooping water every few seconds, nothing else that surrounds her of satisfactory defence. “Go ahead!” Grant exclaims, leaping a short distance back at each thrust, side-stepping any further unwanted bath. “You better be careful!” Taylor utters, another handful of water hurled at Grant upon the conclusion to each declaration, “if I beat you to the house, I’ll trade this creek in for the hose!” Having begun playing along out of mutual fun, Grant soon steals all the joy from the banter, his progression having stopped, hands having dipped into his pockets. “If the house is your destination, you’re going the wrong way” the man smugly remarks, the woman's retreat ceasing all the same, succumbing to a look of regret. “Yup, the house is behind me” Grant clarifies, unable to wash the smirk from his face, “you’re heading toward the river- and even then, you’ve got about two miles of whatever this is before you get there.” Crouched near the ground, the fingers on her hand resting just above the waterflow, Taylor’s mind begins to puzzle together her next move, uncertain of how she plans on evading the drenching she’s in line for. “Fuck” Taylor murmurs, her eyes darting from one spot to another, holding out the hope that some strategy can help direct her back to the home entirely dry. “Alright, timeout” Taylor mutters, cautiously ascending her only option for sanctuary, a small hill that a thin, dirt walkway resides atop. “Oh, we’re doing timeouts now?” Grant replies, eyes having widened, hands having left his pockets, the humorous assail resuming. “Sure, why not?” Taylor responds, stood halfway up the hill with her arms extended, the plan working perfectly thus far, “I want a hug!” Giggling like a child, Taylor watches Grant approach, the man doing all he can to conceal the equally-gratified laughter he takes from her reply. “I’ve just been pelted with creek water, why would I want a hug!?” Grant yells through a laugh of his own, his arrival slowing as he draws near, prepared for the counter he knows Taylor’s conjured. “Why wouldn’t you want a hug?” Taylor replies, her tone showing a hint of sass, a gesture she fails to realise snitches on her intentions until it’s too late. “Because you’ve got a plan somewhere in that big, sassy head of yours” Grant replies, each step forward taken slower than the one before it, “but you’ve got your mind set on it too much to notice that it’s pointless. I’m faster than you, stronger than you, and I’m standing between you and the house. You’re going in the drink.” Only able to muster a sigh, Taylor lets her arms drop, peering at Grant with a frown, “I guess you’ll have to catch me first” she replies. With a half-glance over his shoulder, Grant spots the lights in his home through the treeline, the sky too dark to make out a decent illustration of the home’s figure. “Yeah-” Grant murmurs, the home roughly one hundred metres away, the journey it takes to return offering plenty of room to catch up, “-I’m not too worried about that.” Sucking on her teeth, Taylor waits a beat, her original plan having crumbled beneath the weight of its reliance on Grant, the only option she has left now is to make a break. Taking two steps higher upon the hill, Taylor fakes a run, a poor attempt at trying to juke the larger anchor, who keeps in step with her. Her planting foot levelled, Taylor begins to dash the way she’d arrived, hurrying downhill with little success. His arm extended, Grant tugs at the strap on Taylor’s shirt, the woman’s only thought to escape residing in her attempt to lunge forward. Her white shirt stained green, Taylor rolls down the small hill, barely able to evade Grant’s reach for the moment, yet to understand that her last-ditch effort has already doomed her. Just as she climbs to her feet, Taylor’s sights on the house are stolen by Grant, who throws himself off the final few inches of the hill, his arms extended. Embracing Taylor, Grant spins himself with the woman in his arms, his acceleration throwing the pair to the ground, his instinct to ensure Taylor lands on him rather than vice versa presenting itself. Digging her hands, already soaked by the creek, into the sandy, rock-covered riverbank, Taylor attempts to pry herself free, Grant’s grasp proving too great to break from. “Come on, Taylor- why fight it?” Grant jokes, his arms wrapped around Taylor’s hips as he climbs back to a stand. “Unhand me!” Taylor quips, kicking her legs and flailing her arms as her feet leave the ground, the absence of trees and rocks within reach affording her no chance to disentangle herself without a struggle. “Grant! Put me down!” Taylor continues, throwing her weight toward one side as the man carries her away, the sound of splashing water growing closer. “I thought you wanted a hug!?” Grant exclaims, laughing with each word, indulging himself in the mockery, “come on, let’s take a bath!” “No, Grant! No!” Taylor exclaims, the man’s weight suddenly dipping, carrying her with him as she reaches for safety, the house’s porch light the last thing she sees before she’s consumed by the water. “You fucker!” Taylor screeches, slamming the waist-deep water as Grant chuckles uncontrollably, hands pressed to his abs, which ache from the lung-draining laughter. “You look-” Grant remarks, watching Taylor scutter against the waves, forced to pause from sheer elation, “-so fucking good, Michael Phelps!” Throwing her hands out, Taylor shoves Grant back into the water, his body descending beneath the surface for a brief moment, his shocked expression upon re-emerging implying yet another need for revenge. With a leap, Grant latches onto the woman’s waist for a second time, his right hand dunking her head beneath the water for a brief moment, the favour returned. Little else to retaliate with, Taylor pushes against the streambed, her legs wrapping around Grant’s hips as she mounts him, her forward momentum allowing the surface to reclaim them as their own for one, brief moment. Knelt before each other, the water only high enough to reach their chest, Taylor and Grant cease the struggling, their faces taken to one another. “I love you” Taylor utters, the quiet that overcomes them having given her the courage to impulsively reveal her feelings, the banter they share bringing a sense of intimacy that she can’t deny. “I’m not perfect. I have my flaws, and I’m not always the easiest to be with” Taylor explains, free to express herself without intrusion, “but you’re always there. You’ve stuck with me in ways no one else has, and you make me want to be a better person- and everyone has their own definition of what love is, but that- all of that- that’s mi-” Without warning, Grant’s hands emerge from the water, taking each side of Taylor’s face as their pull drags her in for a kiss mid-sentence, her conclusion left unsaid. As their lips part, Grant stares into Taylor’s eyes, his face slowly retreating, their breaths in sync. “I love you” Grant replies, his hands wiping the wet strands of hair away from Taylor’s face, pinning them behind her ears as they rest, the creek they sit within of no more importance than the setting sun. | \ Monday, May 28th, 2007 / \ 5:51 am est. - 2:51 am pst. / “Thank you, driver!” Vickers remarks, his hand raised to the man seated near the front of his town car, the sky just beginning to lighten, though their sun buries itself behind the clouds. “Samuel Vickers” Robin’s familiar voice exclaims, the man’s lifting from the stone-paved entrance to LMC’s tower. “I never took you for an early bird” Vickers quips, as unphased by her appearance as he always is, the woman’s blue blazer adorning her stiff shoulders. “I am when the Board of Directors call an early meeting” Robin replies, stepping out from beneath the building’s awning, her hand reaching for the coffee in Vickers’ hand. “You don’t want to do that” Vickers replies, the hand his coffee rests in pulling away, “you don’t wanna know how much Brandy I’ve poured into this thing.” Her reach extending quicker than before, Robin claims the vessel from Vickers’ hand, “yes the fuck I do” the woman mutters, the cup hoisted toward her lips before Vickers has the chance to respond. “So am I supposed to ask why the board decided to ring you?” Vickers inquires, the woman matching his pace as he steps through the building’s revolving doors. “I was going to tell you anyway” Robin answers, obviously disgruntled by the tone of her voice. “It doesn’t sound like something you’re very pleased about” Vickers replies, his walk stopped amidst the woman’s brief pause. “What!?” Robin inquires, turning back to find the man’s eyes wide, a smile creeping over him. “You’re like a tiny little bottle rocket- always have something up your sleeve” Vickers replies, the briefcase in his left hand swaying as he steps forward, “they told you to reinstate Grant, didn’t they?” The woman’s hung head all he needed for an answer, Vickers steps back, leaping into the air to click his heels like a leprechaun. “Of course they fucking did!” Vickers exclaims, the lobby mostly void of personnel not paid to be present. “Sam, do not make me fire you” Robin warns, her index finger lifting from the coffee cup, the man’s chipper demeanour remaining, though his skippy mannerisms cease at the woman’s behest. “I want Grant back on television tonight- and for that matter, get Taylor off vacation” Robin commands, already leading herself toward the building’s exit, “throw her a few grand and offer to fly her back if you must. Just get them on T.V.” Swinging his arm like a sailor, Vickers lets out a huff, his eyes soon trailing back to the woman, his coffee cup carried with her as her car drives off. | \ Monday, May 28th, 2007 / \ 9:11 am est. - 6:11 am pst. / “I’m not suggesting you strip down for Playboy!” Aiden laughs, his jacket carried in one hand, a caffeinated beverage in the other, “I’m just saying you should get in front of more eyes.” Her own jacket thrown over one of the seats in front of Aiden’s desk, Carly sets her coffee beside the man’s computer, the conversation continuing. “How could I possibly get in front of more eyes?” Carly responds, the implication flabbergasting her, “up until two hours ago, I was hosting the most-watched news programme in the country.” His eyes rolling, Aiden settles in, claiming his seat just as Carly does. “Yes, the most-watched programme where the ‘50+’ demo outmatches the ‘18-49’ by a ratio of six-to-one” Aiden rebukes, “if you haven’t noticed- that’s the thing I’m trying to fix!” “It’s not broken, so you’re not trying to ‘fix’ it. You think we can do better, so you’re trying to ‘improve’ it” Carly corrects, her gesture discarded. “I’m doing both!” Aiden grumbles, arms stretched as if to illustrate his conquering of the argument, a smile still worn on his face, “you need to appeal to the young audience if you’re gonna get that pay hike you’re banking on!” “Why don’t I just loosen a few buttons before the camera starts rolling then?” Carly responds, her right arm leaning over the chair, “why stop there? Why not just take my tits out during a piece on Al-Qaeda? What do you think that’s gonna help!?” “Probably quite a few teenage boys whose mothers are too-talkative for them to get online?” Aiden jokes, his girlfriend’s eyes immediately rolling as she turns to leave. “Wait- Wait!” Aiden shouts, Carly’s hand resting on the handle as she turns back. “I’m not saying- ugh- I’m not saying you should exploit your sexuality. It’s not like it wouldn’t help, but it’s not what I’m suggesting” Aiden explains, the humour put aside, “you just need to break out of the LMC-mould, y’know? Get involved in stuff young people actually watch.” Though she remains annoyed, Carly better understands the point being made, her grasp of the man’s occupational expectations aiding her toward acceptance. “Alright, I’ll see what I can find” Carly replies, leaving the room with that answer alone, her voice softer than it had been before. | \ Monday, May 28th, 2007 / \ 10:53 am est. - 7:53 am pst. / “Grant!?” Vickers exclaims slamming his knuckles against the front door, the opposite hand balled into a fist, which rests on his hip. “Are either of you two gonna pick up the damn phone!?” Vickers inquires, again slamming his knuckles against the door, answered with the same avoidance. Pressing his ear to the door for a brief moment, Vickers waits for something, a sound or movement inside to present any notion that people reside within. Dissatisfied with the results, Vickers steps back, hands hanging by his sides, unsure of what to do next. “Take this-” Vickers whispers to his driver, five one-hundred dollar bills exchanged, “-as far as you know, all I did was knock and no one answered.” Tracks covered, Vickers departs his car for a second time, stepping over Grant’s lawn on his way to the front door, willing to spend no time on hesitancy. Sucking in a deep breath, Vickers throws his foot at the door’s centre, the strike plate torn from the frame, permitting Vickers the entrance he’d hoped for. Adjusting his bow tie and jacket, Vickers steps through the front door, the living quarters he soon enters presented as empty. “Grant!? Taylor!?” Vickers calls aloud, his words bringing a subdued ring as the reverberations travel upward, “are you guys alright in here!?” Though he knows very little of the home, his expectations bring an assumption of where to look, his steps guiding him to a set of stairs. Ascending to the second floor, Vickers’ eyes peer down the nearest hall, a half-opened door displaying an unmade bed and little more. “Grant!?” Vickers shouts once more, descending upon the hall with one point of interest, “Taylor!?” With a gentle push, Vickers gains entry to the master bedroom, the comforter thrown halfway off the bed, multiple drawers partially closed, and valuable belongings left neatly upon dressers and nightstands. Squinting curiously, Vickers approaches the adjacent bathroom, nothing out of the ordinary to be found aside from the lack of dental products, notably a brush and paste. “Oh shit” Vickers mumbles beneath his breath, quickly returning to the larger bedroom, the few drawers he pulls out either near or fully emptied. “Fuck!” Vickers exclaims, ripping one drawer directly out of the dresser in frustration, his hands slamming against the wall. Catching his breath, Vickers licks his lips, the first thing his hand reaches for being the phone in his pocket. “This is Robin Walker-Lloyd’s personal number. I’m unavailable, so please leave a message” the voicemail reads aloud, forcing Vickers to wait a few, anxious minutes before delivering his message. “Robin, it’s Sam. We’re not getting Grant or Taylor back on air anytime soon” Vickers remarks, stepping onto the balcony that overlooks Grant’s living room, his hand leant against the bannister, “I don’t know where they are, but I know they’re not here.” == Tonight at 9 ==
0 Comments
\ Friday, May 11th, 2007 /
\ 11:36 pm est. - 8:36 pm pst. / “Grant Haste, that’s Taylor English” the man remarks, a jacket draped over his right arm as he approaches security. Already informed of the pair’s expected arrival, the guard moves aside, leaving the LMC Tower for the couple to venture. “Wait up! I didn’t opt for the comfortable shoes” Taylor exclaims, quickly losing ground with Grant’s every step, his hastiness unintentionally leaving Taylor behind. “I’m sorry” Grant apologises, waiting for the woman to catch up before pursuing the lift any further. “Don’t be, I get it” Taylor responds, her hair strewn over both shoulders, “I just hope you’re not as worried as I am.” His thumb digging into the call button multiple times, Grant waits for the elevator to arrive. “Why? Are you worried?” Grant inquires, the woman’s face wrapped with the expression of fear. “I’ve been here for eight years. Do you know how many times I’ve been called back into the office?” Taylor replies, answering the question herself amidst Grant’s inability to, “zero.” As the number leaves her lips, the lift’s bell chimes, it’s doors slowly pulling apart from each other, embracing the couple with calming, gentle tones. “Well, if he didn’t want the crew brought along, he either has his own, or we’re not being prepped for airtime” Grant responds, only able to cope with sorting through his checklist of possibilities. “And if it’s urgent, that would mean it’s probably time-sensitive rather than emergency-like, right?” Taylor adds, sharing in her co-anchor’s means of comfort. “Correct. So it could be a news story that we’re not breaking into” Grant responds, the elevator continuing to climb the many levels ahead, “maybe we got Bin Laden?” At first falling in line with the suggestion, sound reasoning prevents Taylor from throwing herself into the answer. “Surely Bush would call an address, right?” Taylor ponders, digging the scepticism further, “I’m sure he’d want to throw an actual ‘mission accomplished’ parade.” Looking to the little black box over the button panel, Taylor watches the number being projected with anxiousness, the digit increasing with each floor the lift passes. “Maybe Vince was right- maybe the housing bubble popped” Taylor suggests, reaching for anything she can describe as reasonable. “It looks like that wild theory of his really wrapped onto your brain, huh?” Grant quips, recomposing himself to make up for the vexation that’s claimed by his colleague. “The market was perfectly fine last I checked” Grant clarifies, his head shaking as the floor number continues to rise, “if that bubble’s gonna burst- it won’t be today.” Dissatisfied, Taylor lifts her chin toward the ceiling, their intended floor finally reached, the lift’s bell chiming for a second time as the doors part. Learning from his earlier mistake, Grant exits the lift first, taking Taylor’s hand into his, a smile brought upon the woman’s face as he keeps from walking too far ahead. The building usually too loud to hear them during the busy workday, Grant and Taylor’s footsteps tap along the marble floors, the sound bouncing from one wall to the next. The lights atop most desks having gone dark, all that guides them down the monolithic corridor are the portrait lights, each face greeting them as they pass. The first few in black and white, each portrait becomes more colourised as they continue, the greater the complexion implying the closer they are to their destination. “Do you think I’ll ever get one of these?” Grant inquires, Vickers’ office resting near the hallway’s end, Taylor’s illustration remaining lonely, sat with no friend to occupy the empty space beside her with. “The space next to mine has been empty for far too long” Taylor murmurs, the door to Vickers’ office left open, “they get it for you when they decide you’ve earned it, D.C.” Looking into each other’s eyes with a humoured expression, Taylor and Grant step into Vickers’ office, the smile they share slowly fading upon the sight they see awaiting them. “Aiden and Carly aren’t here yet, are they?” Taylor inquires, choosing to play her cards carefully, not wanting to disrupt the script-like presentation she’s confident Vickers has prepared. As he sits behind his desk with a commiserative expression and a full glass of scotch in his lap, Vickers ends the conversation with Robin he’d been amidst moments prior. “No, they’re coming down from Upper Manhattan” Vickers replies, his tone less enthusiastic than what’s become expected of him, head bowed just the same as Robin, who remains eerily silent, “classic case of New York traffic” he jokes. As Taylor occupies the unclaimed chair, Grant stands near the back of the room, following Taylor’s example of allowing those responsible for calling upon them to break the ice. “Grant” Robin mutters, his eyes taking to her upon the declaration of his name, the woman removing herself from the chair, “please, sit.” Though his first instinct is to refuse the gesture appreciatively, the speculative side of Grant’s mind digests the offer, the presentation unlike his employer under most normal circumstances. “Thank you” Grant says in a quiet voice, Robin’s head nodding without a verbal response to add, the man’s jacket falling upon the seat’s support whilst he claims it as instructed. “Should we wait until Aiden and Carly get here?” Taylor questions, Vickers answering her question with the subtle shake of his head. “I don’t think that will be necessary” the man replies, setting his glass aside as he leans forward, crossing his arms atop his workspace’s mahogany finish. “Do we have to go on air with this?” Grant inquires, his right hand held out to pause the man before he can continue, “whatever it is, fine- but if we have to go on air with this, let us know now, please?” “You’re not going on air, Grant” Robin replies, stood upright in the space just between the anchor’s chairs, her hands coupled at her lap, the woman remaining silent from that moment. “Sam, just- get this over with” Taylor pleads, trying to maintain herself, though the expression on her face makes that facade more difficult to buy the longer their suspense is kept. Clearing his throat and adjusting his bow tie, Vickers inhales a deep breath, keeping it stuffed within his lungs as he considers his approach. Lips puckered, Vickers continues his silence, subduing a nod as his deep breath is expended. “I- have- erm- I-” Vickers stumbles, his left hand scratching at the scruff beginning to grow on his chin, “I have multiple sources- all credible- telling me- fuck.” “Sam, I really hope this isn’t some big surprise- like some sort of congratulations or something” Taylor interjects, the man waving off such a notion, repeatedly shaking his head. “It’s not- it’s not- I just-” Vickers pauses again, visibly resenting the position he’s found himself occupying, “-I’m just not sure how to say this.” “Well, whatever it-” Taylor swiftly attempts to respond, cutting herself off as Grant takes her hand, his thumb stroking the soft skin from her wrist to her knuckles. Quieted by his touch, Taylor shares a look with her co-anchor, the nod he gives easing her heightened concerns. “Go ahead, Vickers” Grant responds, both he and Taylor remaining patient, sympathetic to the man’s difficulties. Staring the pair in the eyes, Vickers’ arms unfold, his hands coupling together as he sighs, his shoulders dropping as he looks Grant in the eyes, a frown worn on his face. “Kelsi’s dead” Vickers declares, watching Grant’s face drop, his eyes widening mere centimetres. Unable to put words together in coherent sentences, Grant just shakes his head, the apologetic expression Vickers wears doing all that’s needed to convince the anchor of the truth behind his statement. “They found her body in-” Vickers attempts to speak, interrupted by Grant’s remark of “no”, his hold on Taylor’s hand now having reversed, Taylor’s thumb rubbing against Grant’s dorsal. Letting a few seconds pass in silence, Vickers can do little more than watch Grant’s face continue to plummet, the efforts he’d gone through to do right by his wrongs forever left unfinished. “She was floating face-down in a pool, son” Vickers mutters, the fight Grant had began to interrupt him now gone. “How the fuck did that happen?” Taylor responds, her free hand resting on the back of her anchor, whose head now lies in his lap. “I’m not sure. I’ve got credible sources that know who was found, but not what they think-” Vickers replies, forcing himself to conclude the thought Taylor had begun to assume was finished, “-from what I hear, it didn’t look like an accident.” “What?” Grant quickly remarks, his eyes widened upon a defeated face, the last bit of information changing his response. “My sources were at the scene” Vickers replies, already recognising the look in Grant’s face, an expression of vengeful rage he’d seen before, “they said she was in a bikini and her belongings were next to a chair. Of the ways to die- falling in when she was intoxicated, or high on something, or whatever- and not being able to get out wasn’t likely.” “You’re saying she was murdered?” Grant replies, his full body leant forward at the thought. “Not necessarily” Vickers replies, his hands uncoupling to present themselves to the anchor, “it could be murder, but it could be suicide. For that matter, it could just be one big fuck up brought about by a poor chain of events- we don’t know.” “Vickers, this isn’t some random street walker!” Grant exclaims, his face red with anger, “she was an insider! She was working Giuliani’s campaign! She had a job lined up with us if she wanted it! She had the fucking tape!” “And we’re monitoring that part” Robin interrupts, her voice carrying the focus of both anchors backward, “if that tape ends up somewhere, we’ll-” “We’re here!” Aiden exclaims, speeding down the hallway with Carly by his side, both catching the breath they’d expended on the entrance. His face having soured, Grant leaves his seat, powerfully approaching the uninformed group before shuffling past them, Taylor following after him as he descends the hallway once more. “What the fuck is going on!?” Aiden exclaims, he and Carly watching the network’s top pairing walk by, at a loss for words at the display. = 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 = \ Saturday, May 12th, 2007 / \ 12:19 am est. / Cold, dark and stripped of its importance, an apartment built to accommodate luxury sits lifeless, it’s only resident destined to be the secrets shared and stories told within its confines. It’s drywall and insulation stripped entirely, most walls bare their skeleton to the empty floor, cans of paint, wheelbarrows of debris and material-baren accessories adorn its sumptuous carcass. Though each call for the elevator fills the vacant air with the sound of tugged cables, the room remains quiet, at peace with the fate its occupant left them vulnerable to. Its bell dinging, the lift reaches its destination, the result of its many trips over the years brought about once more. For the first time in what can only be described as ages, the doors part within the room’s barren chambers, a brief flow of light spilling onto its naked floors. “HHOOWWAARRDD!” Grant exclaims, one of many wheelbarrows the apartment is home to left in his way, its legs lifting from the ground as the man’s foot pushes it aside. “Get out here you fucking rat!” Grant bellows, so overcome with rage that his mind refuses to process the suite’s frail condition. “Grant, stop!” Taylor exclaims, following the man through the elevator doors, able to recognise what her companion cannot, “look around!” “Howard!” Grant screams, still too clouded by his outrage to take in any semblance of reason, “HHOOWWAARRDD!” Each attempt Taylor makes at pulling his hand back refused, Grant pulls away, storming into the room’s centre as he kicks over another wheelbarrow, the sheer lack of life no longer avoidable. “Howard, you fucking-!” Grant exclaims, unable to finish the thought as he punches the air, his body spinning one hundred and eighty degrees before he throws himself to the floor. “Grant, he’s not here” Taylor pleads, watching Grant’s knees collide with the tile-less concrete. “I know!” Grant shouts back, the rest of his body falling to what’s left of the ground, “I know he’s not fucking here!” Hands swallowing his face just as stains of horrid memories swallow any chance at peace the apartment may yet hold, Grant lays in defeat, conquered by his insufferable need to right his past wrongs. Though displeased with the environment they’ve ended up in, Taylor remains silent, her sympathetic face nearly joined by tears. “I tried” Grant murmurs, the one soul dedicated enough to follow him through the gates of hell resting on her back beside him, “I really fucking tried.” Shoulder to shoulder, the couple are overcome by the room’s subdued residency, unable to escape their inner thoughts without the bustling sounds of New York at its most lively. “I know you did, Grant” Taylor whispers, the tears she now begins to let fall offered in solidarity with her distraught second half. “I just- I- fuck” Grant stammers, tears of his own running down the side of his face, the regret building deep within his core. Having turned onto her right side, Taylor’s tears drip onto the floor, her sights set on the side of Grant’s face, her left hand resting on the hands Grant has coupled atop his chest, fingers interlocked. “This isn’t your burden to carry” Taylor whispers, Grant’s wrath having diminished enough for his perception of reality to return. “I know it will be” Grant replies, his words continuing before Taylor can convince him otherwise, “even if it shouldn’t- this burden’s coming with me.” Shaking her head, Taylor slips her hands beneath Grant’s, her second hand resting atop his knuckles, the man’s hands pressed between her own. “I’ve changed” Grant mumbles, turning his head to face the woman beside him, his lip quivering as his eyes meet hers, “I’ve changed, right?” Pressing her forehead into Grant’s, Taylor nods, “yes” she whispers, the word repeated a few more times, “of course you have.” “What the hell’s going on up here!?” a voice exclaims, stepping through the lift’s doors to re-enter a room familiar to him. Shuffling to their feet, Grant’s fury seeps in for only a moment, Joshua Lane’s turning of the foyer’s corner met with a mixture of disappointment and relief. “We’re- uh- sorry” Taylor replies, wiping her pants of the marks the floor had accumulated, her black jeans coated in a thin layer of dirt. “That doesn’t really make sense of why you’re up here” Josh replies, his shouting tone set aside the moment familiar faces greet his eyeline. “We’re looking for Howard” Grant replies, his eyes red and slightly puffy, his face scrambling for an expression other than overwhelming sadness or fervour, “it’s- I- I’m sorry.” “No, it’s fine- I just thought someone was fighting up here” Josh replies, setting the police stick he’d arrived with against one of the exposed walls. “I figured one of the neighbour’s kids found out about this place” Josh clarifies, calming himself down from the protective state of mind he’d entered with, “you know how kids are. They find a place no one knows about and start doing whatever they don’t want mom and dad knowing about.” “I’m not sure our motives are any better” Taylor replies, her hands swiping at each other, lifting the dirt off her palms, “we’re looking for Howard.” “Why?” Josh inquires, approaching a waist-high wall to lean against. “Because someone we know is dead” Grant interjects, his voice frail, yet assertive, “I’m convinced Howard knows something about it.” His eyes pressing closer together, Josh begins to digest Grant’s response, the matters made easier through Taylor’s correction. “She drowned we think, we don’t know if it was murder or something else” the woman remarks, “but we know Howard had a reason to not be fond of her.” Making Grant’s simple description slightly less vague, Taylor waits for Josh’s response, his arms crossing as he process’ the information. “You’re implying there’s a reason for Howard to have her killed, right?” Josh replies, his curiosity unable to veer elsewhere, “I know he took a shot at Grant’s life, but is this reason worth taking a life for?” “Well, I’m not going to go into details, but she did screw him over in a way” Taylor replies, Josh’s eyes trailing Grant, who wanders toward different, equally-vacant corners of the room. “He’s taken shots at Grant out of revenge- I wouldn’t rule it out of question” Josh replies, passing a few glances toward Taylor, though Grant remains his primary focus, “but if he did, he would’ve had to go through a lot of trouble. Last I heard, Howard packed his bags for Italy months ago.” “Italy?” Taylor replies, Grant’s aimless wandering halting the moment the country’s name leaves Josh’s lips, “why the fuck would he want to go to Italy?” His shoulders shrugging, Josh shakes his head, arms still crossed. “I know he’s been getting hell since Grant dropped that pipe bomb last year” Josh replies, Grant slowly returning to the conversation, “I’m sure he’s looking for a fresh start. I don’t know any celebrities in Italy, why would they know any from America?” “So he’s just- in Italy?” Grant replies, his right hand waving toward the apartment’s depths, a deep wish that the barren walls could talk. “As of about five months ago- yeah” Josh replies, his shoulders shrugging once more, “if you’re really dead-set on finding him, then all I know is that you won’t be finding him here.” | \ Monday, May 14th, 2007 / \ 7:51 am est. - 4:51 am pst. / “Vickers, please don’t tell me that I need to go home” Grant remarks, entering his employer’s office with now intention of giving up the first word, “if I’m gonna get over this, it won’t be by sitting at home watching the news.” Pushing his desk chair back, Vickers steps around his desk, though neither of the two seats ahead of his desk are occupied, he has no expectation of Grant wishing to reserve them. “I’m not going to tell you to go home and cope” Vickers replies, setting his hand upon a momentarily reassured Grant’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes, “I’m telling you to go home period.” With nothing further, Vickers turns away, walking back to his seat as if the conversation was over. “That’s not gonna happen, Vickers” Grant replies, stepping further into the room as the older, though more combat-prepared man reclaims his seat. “Actually, it will” the president of LMC’s news division replies, lifting his feet atop a stool beneath his desk, “either you’ll leave of your own volition, or I’ll call for security. For your own sake, don’t make a scene out of it, will you?” Throwing the door shut, Grant storms further into the office, setting himself down on one of the empty seats. “You brought me here to do the news” Grant recalls, watching Vickers reach for the handset, “now, you’re not letting me do the news.” “It’s not that I won’t let you do the news, it’s that Robin won’t let you do the news” Vickers replies, picking up the handset before Grant pulls the coaxial cord. Rolling his eyes, Vickers sets the phone back upon his receiver and begins to leave his seat, Grant remaining sat by his desk. “Robin doesn’t know what I need, she’s got no decent reason to suspend me!” Grant exclaims, finally proclaiming something that Vickers ceases his attempts at alerting security over. “What you need is not Robin’s job to know. She has only one responsibility- do what the company needs” Vickers replies, “you got involved with Kelsi Dolin, and now that she’s dead, it’s you that’s under a microscope.” Pressing his hands against his face, Grant struggles to accept the orders made, trying to come to terms with the judgement laid out. “I’m sorry, Grant. There’s rare times- only one in a blue moon- where I agree with Robin. This happens to be a blue moon kind of night” Vickers explains, sliding his hands into his pants pockets. “They’re not investigating me for her murder! I’m not a suspect, I’m not accused, I’m not responsible!” Grant shouts, too filled with anger to remain seated for a moment further, “the only reason she’s suspending me is because I defied her orders, and now she wants to teach me a lesson.” “Do you wanna be able to come back to work!?” Vickers exclaims, the obvious “yes!” given from the man on forced-leave, “good! That means you’re learning that lesson!” Unable to stomach executing the order’s he’s been forced to give, Vickers pulls his door open and motions for Grant to leave, fearing that the conversation continuing any further would result in him giving into the demands. “Come on, Grant” Vickers pleads, the man remaining unmoved in his office, providing worry to Vickers that a security-escalated scene is inevitable. “Taylor put in four weeks of vacation so you wouldn’t be cooped up in that fancy-schmancy mansion of yours this entire month” Vickers remarks, his voice raising in hopes Grant will take the hint, “if we’re being honest, the two of you have more than earned some time away from work.” To Vickers’ hope, Grant groans as he marches through the door, no option left but to accept the punishment he’s been dealt. Slamming the door shut, Vickers returns to his desk, less angered by Grant’s display than he is that his prime anchor has been forced off the air. As a few seconds pass, Vickers climbs into his seat at the sound of a knock. “Oh goddamnit, Grant!” Vickers exclaims, having anticipated his secretary’s request would be a continuation to the recently-concluded discourse. “It’s just Nicole!” the woman proclaims, prompting Vickers to ruffle his hands through his hair, hoping to wash away any previous sign of distress. “Come on in, please” Vickers replies, the woman’s hands pressed against the sides of a small box, a tiny piece of paper taped to the bottom of the container. “This just showed up for you” Nicole remarks, her boss throwing on a pair of glasses as the box is left on his desk. “Thank you” Vickers replies, his secretary leaving just as he takes a letter opener to the package, his tongue pressed between his teeth as he slices away at strands of tape. Eventually freeing what’s contained within from its cardboard entombment, Vickers sets aside plastic wrapping in search of what’s been left for him. Though he fails to grab it on the first attempt, Vickers’ knuckles press into the item within, a clattering sound emerging from the object inside. Pausing for a moment, Vickers’ instincts kick in, caution prevailing as he stops to consider what he’s been given. Though he’s curious as to what hides inside the vessel, the man throws his sights upon the folded paper, it’s smooth, white backside stuck to the box via a flimsy slice of tape. No different from traditional copy paper, Vickers claims the note as his own, easily pulling it from the box without as much as a tear. “Had to break it to keep from evidence. Sorry. Take Care” the note reads, each letter scrawled out with a black marker, the paper’s header carrying the symbolism of the New York Police Department. With a grimace, Vickers’ sights return to the present, his left hand retaining possession of the paper as his right makes for a second reach. Plastic shells rubbing together and knocking into each other, Vickers claims the plastic wrapping that covers the gadget, slowly removing it from the wrapping. Contained within the bag are splinters of grey plastic, a small mechanism, though large in comparison to the fragments, left on its lonesome in the corner. Attached to the device is the play button that controls it, a single press required to play what lies within it, a second to pause it. Hesitant to do so, Vickers’ thumb squeezes the button before he can think twice. “I’ll drop the lawsuit! I’ll drop it all and never talk to you again!” Howard shouts, his statements ignored by Grant, who simply demands he stand up. “I swear on my life!” Howard begs, “you can kill me if you ever see me in person again! I’ll leave television and move to another country, I swear!” His thumb squeezing for a second time, Vickers holds the recording’s conclusion off, his eyes pressing closely together. With a sigh, Vickers lingers in his seat, a half-finished glass of whiskey taken into his possession, the plastic bag tossed back into the box. His head shaking, Vickers finishes the glass and returns it to his desk just beside a newspaper, its folds opened to the ‘obituary’ section, where a familiar smile resides within the first column. “Kelsi Antoinette Dolin chose to leave this world Friday, May the 11th” the first line reads, a line written in red pen having corrected the article. “Kelsi Antoinette Dolin left this world Friday, May the 11th” the correction reads, Vickers’ rewrite squeezed between the woman’s photo and description, attempting to right the wrong he knew Grant would want the woman to be honoured with. == Tonight at 9 == \ Monday, February 26th, 2007 /
\ 4:18 pm est. - 1:18 pm pst. / “Hello, ma’am- I’m with the Giuliani campaign, and I see that you are a registered Republican voter?” Kelsi opens, sat behind a common table, its top covered by a black cloth. “That’s great to hear!” Kelsi replies, made privy to a preferable response from the woman she’s phoned, “I was just hoping we could count on you to throw your support behind Mayor Giuliani in next year’s New York primary.” Pressing the headset to her right ear, Kelsi shields the left with her hand, drowning out the sea of voices, all reading off the same call script. “Yes ma’am, Mayor Giuliani is, indeed, pro-choice” Kelsi responds, her eyes beginning to close the longer her call persists, the short discussion she’d anticipated drawn out much longer than hoped. “Mayor Giuliani is, indeed, a supporter of the second amendment, you are correct” Kelsi furthers, unable to hear the footsteps that approach. “Yes, medicaid is a very crucial element of Mayor Giuliani’s-” she continues, stopped at the interruption of dead air, the other line having gone quiet. “I think she gets the memo” Grant remarks, his finger pressing into the handset’s receiver, ending the call on the woman’s behalf. “Why did you do that!?” Kelsi responds, her annoyance undoubtedly clear, “you could get me fired!” “As if that’d be a bad thing for you” Grant responds, turning away from the woman’s table as that statement leaves his lips, their conversation not one belonging in the public eye. “You can’t just barge in here like you own the place” Kelsi hisses, quickly following Grant’s lead, his mouth covered by a neck gaiter. “Your candidate’s electability counts on people like me covering him in a good light” Grant responds, opening an exit near the building’s rear, “in a weird way- I sort of do.” The cloudy afternoon just a few steps ahead of him, Grant stands in the doorway, caught between the building’s inside and patio. “You wanted to see me in person, so here I am” Grant remarks, his head motioning toward the outdoors, their discussion’s progression dependent on Kelsi’s willingness to partake in it. Conflicted, Kelsi stares into Grant’s eyes, his body bundled beneath a jacket and a long pair of slacks, her first thought to take the man on his offer followed through on. “What was that comment back there about?” Kelsi inquires, watching Grant remove his face covering as the door shuts behind them, “the one about getting fired being a bad thing?” Rolling his eyes, Grant steps past Kelsi, occupying a vacant bench chiselled from concrete. “You slept with me when I was at CSN because you wanted to be a reporter,” Grant responds, his left arm casually draped across the seat’s back, “this campaigning- it isn’t what you want, it’s a way to get your foot in the door.” “Gee, it’s almost like it was my choice to get frozen out of your life-” Kelsi responds, watching Grant’s head bow slowly, “-like someone didn’t slam the door on my toes before I could walk through.” “I could have done plenty of things to keep you quiet by now, but I didn’t. I bent over and gave you the coverage you wanted” Grant replies, “I think we both know I’ve done my best to make that right.” Preferring to stand, Kelsi looks down at her once-partner, her left arm cupped over her hip. “Sure- you did something for me. You did what you had to so we could be even” Kelsi replies, the sky darkening just overhead, “but you didn’t do it because you were sorry.” Having agreed until the latter-most statement, Grant’s expression turns, his calm demeanour remains intact, though his expression shifts to one of defence. “I’m sorry- I’ve been sorry” Grant corrects, his upper body beginning to move forward. “No, you apologise because it’s what you think is right” Kelsi rectifies, taking two steps closer toward Grant, “you’re not sorry about what happened. If you could have, you would have cut me out of the picture sooner!” “What do you mean if I could have? I could have!” Grant interrupts, no longer sharing in Kelsi’s hurt feelings, the discussion beginning to amuse him. “Then why didn’t you?” Kelsi quickly retorts, her voice raising an octave, “you came to New York, you started a new job, you met a new toy to fuck around with, you got yourself a new life! Clearly, you wanted a redo- so why did it take you so long to cut me loose!?” “I-” Grant begins, his mouth widening to respond with words that evade him, a truth he holds within beginning to appear on the surface, “-can’t.” With a sigh, Grant rubs the sides of his head, no option left other than to accept his faults. “I used you as a shoulder to cry on. It was wrong of me, and I’d never given it thought until I got here” Grant confesses, Kelsi unable to convince herself to do more than listen. “While I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure I did plenty of things back then that I’d be sorry for now” Grant continues, “it feels, in a way, like who I was back then just- wasn’t me.” Struggling for thought the longer he goes on, Grant leaves his seat, eyes finding a small plot of dirt where deceased flowers lay. “I played with your career, and that was even more than wrong” the man continues, turning back to face Kelsi, “I’m not trying to make us even, I’m trying to make it right.” Her arms crossed, Kelsi watches Grant, her attention never once moving away from him, the words he uses easily discernible from empty gestures. “Trying to get me thrown off Giuliani’s staff doesn’t help that much” Kelsi softly replies, her right leg bent forward, “the gesture is nice, though.” “It’s not a gesture” Grant corrects, his hands pressed atop the elevated garden bed behind himself, “sleeping with me may not have been the most professional way to get started, but this- all this crap is below you.” Her head veering toward the door she’d stepped through to join Grant, Kelsi’s attention is called for, the woman trying to hide the flattery she takes from the man’s compliments. “Like I said before, it’s not like I had much of a choice” Kelsi restates, “I could say the same thing for the blackmail. I used you for something I needed the same way you did.” With a gentle push, Grant propels himself forward, each step drawing him nearer the woman he’d spent much of the year crafting worries over. “You did have a choice, but I can’t blame you for the one you made” Grant retorts, his each step somehow slower than the one before it. From the pouch on his jacket’s side, Grant retrieves a folded piece of paper, a dark, black scrawling barely visible through the layers of sheet. “When you’re done with-” Grant remarks, peering toward the brutalist-designed building her campaign quarters occupy, “-all of this, you’ll have that foot in the door I rudely shut on you.” The man’s statement not lining up, Kelsi unfurls the paper, listening to Grant slowly return the way he’d arrived, the gaiter placed back upon the lower half of his face. “What’s this?” the woman inquires, watching the man spin back toward her direction. “It’s Aiden Redwood’s phone number- he’s my E.P” Grant responds, raising his finger to the note, “like I said- there’s your open door.” Embracing the metaphor, Grant steps back into the building, letting the entrance close behind him. Unsure of how to react, Kelsi just stands were she was left, sharing looks between the folded note and the building’s entrance as the offer weighs itself upon her mind. = 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 = \ Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 / \ 1:18 pm est. - 10:18 am pst. / “Slow news day?” Taylor wonders aloud, scanning a folder stacked with reports as she approaches Shane’s desk, where he, Vince and Keith take turns throwing bunched-up papers into a bin across the room. “It’s a quiet day, almost too quiet” Vince jokes, hurling another paper through the air with great height, it’s landing place coming up ten metres from his target. “The last time I heard that, a few more buildings occupied our skyline” Taylor responds, lifting Shane’s feet away from an empty chair with her foot before descending upon the same seat. “Hey, Shane? Do me a favour and remind me what your degree is in, please?” Taylor inquires, her eyes still yet to leave the folder. “Bachelor’s in journalism, which will become a master’s in a semester-and-a-half, with a minor in English-” the man responds, “-don’t bother getting too into that last part.” “I won’t, but I will focus on that degree” Taylor responds, watching Shane’s next shot take on the distance needed for a score, though the accuracy lacks enough to keep the ball from veering right. “Haha, funny- my ex-girlfriend said the same thing on our first date” Vince replies, swiping his hand in front of Keith’s face, the man holding the shot back before it can leave the man’s hand. “Well my reasons are very different obviously” Taylor replies, her face finally lifting from the portfolio, “wanna be an executive producer?” Having prepared an attempt, Keith’s hand wavers at the last second, the ball sailing toward an empty grouping of desks as his focus is claimed elsewhere. “Uh- you want me to E.P?” Shane replies, caught by surprise just as much as his colleagues are, the offer coming unexpectedly, “wh- what would I-?” “Tonight at Nine” Taylor replies, crossing one leg over the other as she interrupts, a conclusion to the man’s question unnecessary, “Aiden’s leaving to take over ‘On Air’.” Though pleased at the offer, Shane’s joy quickly subsides, his mind travelling elsewhere. “On A-? Wait, that’s Carly’s show” Shane responds, his arms pushing into the sides of his chair. “It is, her E.P’s leaving for CSN at the start of spring” Taylor replies, moving her binder to the unoccupied desk beside her, “Aiden’s moving over to eight, we’re offering you nine.” “But eight’s a lesser show” Keith interjects, readjusting himself in the chair he’d almost fallen out of, “no offence to Carly, but she draws five million fewer viewers. Why is he-?” Before Taylor can answer, Shane breaks away from the conversation, silently leaving his chair and the discussion. “Aiden!” Shane shouts, storming through the newsroom as his friend exits the control booth, the call of his name surprising him. “Why are you leaving nine o’clock!?” Shane exclaims, his arms thrown out. Glancing past his friend’s head, Aiden’s watches Keith and Vince emerge from their seats, Taylor’s seated-frame discovered not too long after. “Keep your voice down and follow me” Aiden responds, the men leaving the bureau in favour of the office near its end. “I live in an apartment in New York, I don’t own a car, and my day consists of coffee, coffee, and more coffee” Aiden replies, “I don’t think the difference in pay is as important as you’d think.” As Aiden climbs into his chair, Shane remains standing, too preoccupied with Aiden’s decision to care about his own. “That’s what last weekend was about, wasn’t it?” Shane wonders aloud, the expression on Aiden’s face doing little to convince the man otherwise. “The friends we were meeting with were her producers” Aiden responds, the animated head roll Shane responds with disappointing him. “You’re leaving one of the best gigs on T.V for a girl!” Shane replies, stretching out the final words for added emphasis, “not even your wife! To hell with that, not even your girlfriend! Just a woman you have a crush on!” “I wouldn’t expect you to understand” Aiden replies, turning his attention to other matters. “What is there to understand? This isn’t elementary school!” Shane responds, struggling to keep his voice at a reasonable level, “you’re not giving up your pudding cup, you’re giving up a lifetime’s worth of job security because you’re horny!” “I’m not giving up anything, I’m taking on a new challenge!” Aiden counters, lifting his voice to the point where it reaches Shane’s pitch, “I practically do nothing at nine! Taylor and Grant have done this for so long they practically run on autopilot!” His head shaking, Shane attempts to turn away, intending on leaving the room before Aiden calls him back. “It’s more than just following Carly to eight o’clock. Don’t you think I’d demand more money in exchange for making a lateral move?” Aiden responds, his declaration beginning to calm Shane. “Carly’s contract expires after the election, and she told Vickers that she wanted a choice over her next E.P is she was going to re-sign” Aiden explains, Shane’s open-mindedness growing as Aiden progresses, “I’m getting full control, minus Carly’s final say, over designing an entirely new format.” His eyes squinted, Shane’s body turns the rest of the way around, the clarification making the step down seem more like a promotion. “I know you said that, at some point, you wanted to try your hand at E.P’ing” Aiden continues, his hands placed knuckle-first against the desk, “as far as I know, there’s no better set of training wheels than nine o’clock. You’ll get to take your lumps without having to suffer much for them. It’s the best present I’ll ever give you.” | \ Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 / \ 3:48 pm est. - 12:48 pm pst. / “I wish I'd known it wasn’t going to rain before I left the office in such a big, bulky coat” Vickers remarks, throwing the jacket onto an empty couch, Taylor following his lead as she trails closely behind. “At least you can leave the house with adequate coverage” Taylor replies, a styrofoam cup of coffee grasped within her right hand as she takes one of two empty seats in front of Vickers’ space. “What? Too afraid you won’t be such a girly girl if you walked out of the house with that lug over your shoulders?” Vickers responds, sipping at his warm beverage. “I may be mighty, but I’m still a few tin cans off from 5’6” Taylor chuckles, resting her drink on the man’s desk, “if I walk out in that thing, it might as well turn into a dress. That thing will be dragging along the sidewalks from here to Albany.” “I thought you lived in Manhattan?” Vickers replies, flashing the woman a grin, “don’t I pay you well enough?” Rolling the long, purple sleeves of her shirt to her elbows, “I said I had an apartment in Manhattan” Taylor responds, meeting Vickers’ grin with one of her own, “I never said that’s where I lived.” “With how high the rent is in this city, what the hell else could you be using it for?” Vickers jokes, the humour only continued by his younger half. “I think you underestimate just how much my salary is, Sam” Taylor quips, sinking into the chair she’d claimed as her own, “I’ve signed three contracts since ‘98, and my ratings just keep going up. How long do you think it’ll be until I buy the Knicks?” “Ha! About as much time as it’ll take them to play a decent brand of basketball!” Vickers replies, the conversation dying with Taylor’s inability to argue the point made. As the air quiets, Vickers settles into his chair, the sight of a happy expression on Taylor’s face enough to bring warmth to his heart. “How’ve you been, kid? Good, I’d hope?” Vickers inquires, the woman’s calm posture bringing a comfortable, home-like air to the room. “For the first time in a while, Sam- I’ve been alright” Taylor replies, a gleam in her eye that hasn’t always been common over the years. “Your folks aren’t giving you trouble?” Vickers continues, unwrapping the clear, plastic wrap his sandwich is contained within. “They’re fine as far as I know” Taylor replies, her answer interrupted by a pause, “they haven’t messaged much. They’re sort of distant, which of course, is nothing new.” Wrapping his fingers around his meal’s first half, Vickers prepares to sink his teeth into the puffy, white bread. “If the family isn’t the source of your ‘alright-ness’, someone else must be” Vickers remarks, his elbows digging into the mahogany tabletop, “Grant treating you well?” With surprise, Taylor’s hand drops from the back of her own head as she looks at Vickers, the man’s question catching her by surprise. “How’d you know that was still happening?” the woman queries, watching for the smile Vickers struggles to hold back whilst mid-chew. “Oh, come on- it’s not like the two of you are very secretive about it” Vickers responds, rubbing the corner of his mouth with his thumb, “I may not know him well enough to see the secrets, but I do know you.” Accepting the discovery, Taylor reclaims her beverage from Vickers’ desk, choosing to answer the question rather than further inquire upon it. “He’s the kindest man I’ve ever been with” Taylor responds, both hands wrapped around her cup as it sits atop her lap, “I haven’t been with many men, though. I’m not so sure how distinguishable that honour is.” “As long as he’s not Barry, that’s the only thing that matters” Vickers replies, pushing the second half of his sandwich closer toward Taylor, already having anticipated her inevitable request for it. “That’s a pretty low bar, to be fair” Taylor responds, setting the cup back upon the desk as she claims the half of Vickers’ meal, “that’s like implying it’d be possible for me to be any worse to Grant than Howard was.” “It’s possible, just not likely in the slightest” Vickers corrects, one finger raised toward the air, “but the two of you work well off each other. You flow evenly, as the kids would say.” Her head shaking, “the kid’s don’t say that” Taylor replies, finishing her first bite before answering the next question, “what do the kid’s say, anyway?” Vickers inquires. “I haven’t kept up with that shit since ‘crunk’ was a thing” Taylor answers, her eyes squinting as guesses flood her mind, “I think I’ve heard ‘totes’ go around at some point, but I’m really not sure.” His head shaking, Vickers lets the question fade, no meaningful conversation expected to come from it. “Speaking of Howard, any news on him?” Taylor inquires, pressing her teeth for a second bite, “I doubt the last we hear of him is when he angrily storms out of our newsroom not getting his way.” Head shaking, Vickers repeats the word “no”, again wiping a dab of mustard from the corner of his lip, “I hope I’ll never half to hear that name go around the news cycle again.” “Of course not, but we can’t exactly go out of our way to avoid him” Taylor replies, “he tried to strip Grant of his entire life in a literal sense. This ‘pretend he’s not our problem’ thing doesn’t sit well with me.” “It doesn’t sit well with me, either. Unless we have a reason to think he’s coming back around, there’s no reason to put our heads on a swivel” Vickers replies, “the last thing we need is to concern ourselves with terrible people of no importance.” With a shrug, Taylor lets the man’s stance prevail, the day continuing to pass as it always has, their presence enough to bring comfort to each other. | \ Wednesday, February 28th, 2007 / \ 10:00 pm est. - 7:00 pm pst. / “-and I’m Taylor English, your local news is next” the anchor remarks, sharing in Grant’s silence until Aiden’s voice cuts in. “We’re out!” the executive producer exclaims, all red lights on the floor going dark, the broadcast’s conclusion having been reached. “Great show, everyone!” Grant exclaims, remaining seated for a few moments longer than Taylor, the woman the first to depart the stage for her office. Hearing out three unimportant voicemails left for him, Grant returns the phone to his pocket, climbing down from his transparent platform. Unimpeded by any of his coworkers, Grant’s ears take to a nearby television, one of countless others lining the walls of their panopticon-shaped bureau. “-nes Industrial dropped an entire four hundred and sixteen points!” the monitor remarks, drawing Grant’s attention further, “there’s a nine-percent plunge in the Chinese market.” With a suspicious look, Grant lets the economic talk move on with their discussion points, the scrolling ticker at the screen’s bottom presenting plenty of downward-facing, red-coloured arrows. “Hmph” Grant hums, the hands that sat upon his hip returning to their sides, his feet carrying him around the abundance of screens as his office draws nearer. Reaching out for his handle, Grant relents, yet to pull the frosted glass door that separates him from his workspace. “You alright, Grant?” Vince wonders aloud, walking past the man on his way to the breakroom, easily taking notice of the man’s suspicious expression. “I never leave the light on when I’m not in my office” Grant responds in a lower tone of voice, a faint glow of orange sitting behind the semi-pellucid divider between the bureau and his confines. “Well, I’m not going to sit in the dark!” an annoyingly familiar voice responds from within his chambers, the concerned look on Grant’s face falling almost immediately. “Hey Vince, if I end up getting thrown through that big window in my office, make sure nothing in my wine cellar gets sold for less than asking price, please?” Grant jokes, entering his quarters to find Robin sat behind his desk, occupying the seat Grant is paid to assume. “I must say, I never took you for an ultrasuede seat kind of guy” Robin remarks, both arms draped over the sides of his chair, each arm rest carrying equal pressure. “It’s the same material as the seats in my car” Grant replies, loosening his tie before discarding of it in a random corner of the room. “That, I’d understand. The office chair, however? Not so much” the woman responds, “I took you- Mr. Bigshot out of the nation’s capital- as an old-fashioned, leather chair kind of guy.” “Yeah, well ‘Mr. Bigshot’ kind of likes being ‘Mr. Big Apple’ these days” Grant responds, loosening the cuffs on his shirt. “Well, if that’s true, you’re not doing much to prove that” Robin replies, pushing her weight back in the seat, the chair moving with her shift in pressure, “I tell you not to contact Rudy Giuliani’s staffers again, and instead, you offer them a job.” “I only offered one-” Grant attempts to respond, the tone of his voice never lifting from the tired pitch he’d entered the room with. “I don’t care what you offered to whoever you offered it to!” Robin fires back, interrupting Grant without opposition, the man remaining stood in the middle of his office without a rebuttal. “I told you not to contact that woman again, and you directly disobeyed my orders” Robin clarifies, leaving the air for Grant to respond, now with permission. “I apologise for my rebellion, Mrs. Lloyd” Grant responds, the woman’s face turning with intrigue as he opts not to leave the reply there. “I was attempting to make right by a mistake I made, and I was doing so to someone I wronged” Grant continues, watching Robin’s face soften, “I’ve done all I need to for that to be accomplished. And with all due respect, not a damn thing you would have said could have stopped me from finishing business that I needed to take care of.” Her lips puckered, the woman eases in her seat, thinking about the man’s response for a few additional seconds before leaving it. “Grant, I’m a hardass to anyone I sign paychecks for. In the last forty years, I’ve learned which people need to be feared, and which people need to fear” Robin clarifies, slowly approaching her second highest-paid anchor, “with that said, while I am very disciplined in the business I take on, I am not without an understanding of noble human quality.” Realigning each side of Grant’s jacket, Robin stares up at the man, giving up a few inches of height to her employee. “I may not agree with your disobeying of me, but I do respect it” Robin explains, making sure to look the man in the eyes as she does, “you were brought into this company with great risk. From what I’ve been able to see, this newsroom has been better off for having you in it than not.” His eyes squinted, Grant gives the woman a nod, “thank you” he replies, his voice softer than it was before. “From now on, I want you to understand that- if you want this newsroom to keep you in it- you ought not to step on my toes” Robin remarks, their serious faces ever-so-slightly graced by a smirk in the corner of their mouths, “I can give you plenty more sleepless nights than Rudy Giuliani could ever fucking dream to- so don’t make me.” “Yes, ma’am” Grant respectfully responds, his shoulder given a pat by the woman as she steps past him, showing herself out with not another word to offer. The skyline dark beyond the boundaries of his window, Grant approaches the transparent wall, his professional attire stripped away in parts, whilst intact in others. His face lit more by the moonlight overhead than the one on his desk, Grant stares at the dark city below, a brief smile coming over his face. == Tonight at 9 == |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed