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Season 2 Finale
\ Monday, May 28th, 2007 / \ 11:43 pm est. - 8:43 pm pst. / The bureau quiet, Robin sits alone at an empty desk, her forehead resting within the bridge between her thumb and index finger. Hearing footsteps approach her, Robin pays them no mind, insouciant to their advancement, the past twenty four hours having expended her vivacity. Though her head refuses to leave her hand’s purlicue, Robin’s eyes open, the dark backside of her eyelids beginning to lull her into an uncomfortable nap. In Vickers’ steady hand, a foam cup of black coffee obstructs Robin’s view of the blue carpet, small diamond-shaped specks lining the floor in an effort to look fashionable. “Bruce landed at Malpensa about twenty minutes ago” Vickers remarks, pulling a second chair beside the woman and claiming it, a second cup of coffee kept for himself, “I’m confident that we got the right hotel, so it shouldn’t be long before he gets back to us.” Steam still rising from the flimsy grail, Robin sips at her beverage, voice slightly hoarse and calm. “What time is it over there?” the woman inquires, setting her drink upon the nearest desk as Vickers takes to his wrist watch. “Just about six in the morning” Vickers replies, his left arm resting by his side, “Taylor wakes up at three every morning and likes going to the gym early. I’m assuming she’s too stubborn to let jetlag win- the safe guess is that they’ll be there when Bruce arrives.” Little else to add, Robin gives Vickers a nod, arms crossing over her chest as she looks to the eight o’clock newsroom, its first level as unoccupied as the levels above it. “Do you remember when this was Herb Norman’s floor?” Robin inquires, hearing the breathy laugh that flows through Vickers’ nose. “That’s a question as dated as ‘remember when everyone was gushing over disco?’, Robin” Vickers replies, the air quiet aside from their voices. “Please, if you want ‘dated’ then you ‘ought to look past the disco” Robin responds, her glasses set beside her coffee cup, “that moustache hasn’t just been ‘dated’, it’s practically been lapped.” As if no different from two friends riffing at a bar, Vickers and Robin sit with their arms crossed, occasionally breaking their pose to reach for the caffeinated drink beside them. “Disco was the first time I’d ever felt old. Not the ‘people don’t look at me as the young one anymore’ kind of old, but the ‘you just don’t get it’ kind of old” Robin remarks, Vickers’ drink now resting in his lap, just as if it were expensive scotch. “Grow up with Elvis and Ray Charles in the 30’s and 40’s, then look at what happens when you get to the 70’s” Robin muses, her eyebrow lifting as she peers toward Vickers, “all of a sudden you’re surrounded by ABBA and the Bee Gees.” “What a step down, huh?” Vickers replies, the inside of his bottom lip pressing between the space in his teeth, a smirk beginning to fade. “Remember when we used to hate the thought of growing old?” Vickers inquires, letting a few silent seconds pass before finishing his thought, “when it scared us?” The desolate newsroom giving the pair a true sense of isolation, Vickers’ thoughts continue, the woman he shares his company with too captivated in nostalgia. “I was- oh, maybe sixteen?- when my father asked me what this Buddy Holly guy was. Apparently, he thought it was the name of a rubber company” Vickers recalls, the drink swirling around his cup’s inside, “he just looked confused when I told him it was the name of a singer. I don’t think he knew what to make of it.” “Was he just sitting at the table reading the paper or-?” Robin inquires, stopping herself as Vickers’ head shakes. “I got off the bus from school. He was putting up a fence in our front yard when I came home. I guess one of his colleagues had a son who’d heard the name?” Vickers ponders aloud, “however it came about, he had this weird look on his face when I told him. Almost like he didn’t understand it, but that inability to ‘get it’ was more important than his confusion.” “Like an acceptance” Robin replies, the smirk in the corner of Vickers’ face certifying her assumption. “Like he was trying to be okay with getting up there in age” Vickers concludes, his cup lifted to the air, a passing glance taken toward the ceiling, “god bless that man.” Sharing the gesture, Robin joins her cup aside Vickers’, holding it high for a few, brief seconds before taking back another sip. “I never did understand that look until I got older. For some reason, it just stuck with me- like I could picture it all those years later” Vickers explains, “-that’s when it made sense.” Her legs crossed gracefully, Robin’s eyes take to the offices that line the bureau’s edges, a warm smile emerging. “People don’t really give age much thought, do they?” Robin queries, Vickers’ head shaking, “no one really thinks about what happens when people feel themselves get old.” “They don’t, and I almost sort of like it that way” Vickers replies, Robin’s head tilting out of interest. “Sure, getting old scared me at first- but no one ever distinguished me for it.” Vickers replies, “I got to age in peace. Now I’m turning 72 in the fall, and spending the last thirty-plus years worrying about it would have been such a waste in hindsight.” Holding her cup toward Vickers’, Robin clashes the foam layers together, a subdued squeak brought from their exterior. “We’ve done more with our last forty years than most people do in an entire lifetime” Robin remarks, a prideful grin on her face as she sinks into her chair, legs still crossed together, “here’s to our twilight years.” = 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 = \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 6:03 am cet. - 12:03 am est. / “I really wish we would have talked about this before leaving for Italy” Grant replies, a small touch of humour hidden behind his complaint. “I know enough” Taylor responds, her privates covered only by a white, hotel-supplied towel that tucks loosely within itself. “I need your help finding the nearest police station- go ahead, in Italian” Grant challenges, the glare he receives back from Taylor implies her displeasure at his doubt. “Penso di dover solo dire polizia perché tu sia soddisfatto” Taylor replies, her eyes glancing at the ceiling as she speaks, nearly stuttering over some words, “good enough for you?” Able to translate only the sixth word, Grant shrugs, forced to leave the conversation there as knuckles tap against their door. “Our taxi is gonna be here in about ten minutes” Grant calls out, his girlfriend departing for the washroom, “-whatever maintenance you’ve got to tend-” “Salutations” Bruce remarks, hands tucked into his pockets as the door opens, Grant’s face dropping upon his agent’s sight. “Glad to see you made it here safely” Bruce proclaims, letting himself into the room as Taylor returns, able to hear his voice from the end of the hall, “that applies double since I never knew you were coming here period.” “How-” Grant begins to query, Bruce’s hand extended toward his direction, silencing him before the question can even be raised. “The first question you should ask isn’t ‘how did you know where to find us?’, Grant” Bruce corrects, a single glance toward the rear patio presenting the view of a scenic lake, its edge hidden beneath the surface of a rocky cliff. The shock of his manager’s presence subsiding, Grant becomes regretful, his head lowering the longer Bruce stays quiet. “I’m sorry. I should have told you” Grant apologises, his words cut off for a second time. “You’re damn right you should have told me” Bruce replies, his obvious aggravation unable to raise his voice past a normal tone, “what do you think would have happened if something happened to the two of you out here?” “It wasn’t personal, Br-” Grant attempts to respond, his reply interrupted for the third time, more anger behind Bruce’s interjection this go around. “It would have been the most well-covered search mission of all-fucking-time!” Bruce exclaims, the vein in his forehead just beginning to present itself in detail, “LMC would have been stuffed to the neck with questions, and suspicion, and all the fucking gossip in New York- and that’s a lot of fucking gossip!” “I di-” Grant again attempts to speak, the fourth interruption he faces emerging with outright scorn. “You’ll speak when I fucking tell you!” Bruce screams, the vein now fully defined, a few drops of spit flying from his lips, “I’ve got one fucking job and you make me look like the most incompetent prick on the western hemisphere!” Acknowledging his punishment, Grant hangs his head once more, opting to remain silent with his hands coupled behind his back. “No calls, no emails, not even a fucking note! Fucking nothing!” Bruce screams, his face going red as he relents, a deep breath taken as he tries to calm himself, Grant’s face raising to look Bruce in the face, the anchor having no intention of speaking himself. “And all for what?” Bruce wonders aloud, his arms swinging by his sides as he relaxes, sharing in the eye contact Grant provides him with, “just to open old wounds over Howard-fucking-Nalty.” Having previously appeared rested, Grant’s eyes now widen, rolling as he bites his lip. “Yeah- we all fuckin’ know” Bruce remarks, both anchors already aware of their discovery, unable to hide it any longer. “And now I’m here, in Milan, trying to stop the two of you from making the biggest mistake of your lives” Bruce concludes, lifting his arms in confoundment, “what’s the fucking point of all this, Grant?” Hands firmly pressed upon his hips, Grant looks Bruce in the eyes, the man clearly exhausted from travel, the conflict they partake in unable to help matters. “Your analogy is wrong” Taylor murmurs, still stood near-nude in the hallways entrance. “Your analogy about the old wounds is wrong” Taylor repeats, taking Bruce’s curious expression as a request for elaboration, “you can’t open wounds that never closed to begin with.” His lips pressing together into a frown, Bruce peers back to Grant, the man’s hand running through his recently-dampened hair. Ashamed, Grant looks back to his manager, Bruce’s hands having ceased their sway, the suit-clad man left waiting for Grant’s response. “He’s always been there” Grant whispers, a sombre shake of his head made, “the deal with Kelsi, everything at CSN, the way I started with LMC- it all leads back to him.” Opening his mouth to speak, Bruce’s mouth soon closes, his head tilting back as he sympathises with the man’s torments. Without a word, Bruce’s eyes turn to Taylor, who remains in her towel, tacitly waiting for the conversation to resume. “I’m sorry for not telling you about Italy. It was a stupid move and it was inconsiderate, but I don’t regret it” Grant explains, retaining the courage to stand by his decision, “but I’m settling this with Howard today.” “How are you gonna do that, Grant?” Bruce asks, his voice scratchy and weak, too strained from the previous shouting to project itself clearly. “You gonna kill him? Huh?- Maybe beat the shit out of him?- what’s the plan here?” Bruce suggests, slowly stepping closer to the anchor, “you gonna fuck his wife on the front lawn? Just what the hell are you gonna do!?” “I’m gonna talk to him” Grant replies, immediately earning an eye roll, Bruce’s hands thrown up in the air. “Of course you are!” Bruce responds, unable to turn himself away from the distressed reaction he’d arrived with, though he desperately wishes to. “It’s going to be different this time” Grant replies, convincing himself that such a statement is true. “You can say that until you’re blue in the face- it still won’t change a damn thing” Bruce replies, his hands sliding down the inside of his suit jacket, “at the back of your mind, he’ll always still be there. Every time you think about him on-air, every time you hear Jessica’s name, every time you think of Kelsi, everytime you- just everytime! Everytime, everytime, everytime!- it’s just gonna be Howard.” “I have to try” Grant quickly declares, waiting for a response that never arrives, Bruce’s tired expression just holding upon him silently. The room left in utter quietude, Bruce and Grant look into each other’s eyes, almost waiting for the other to break first. Before another word can be muttered, the phone nearest Grant’s side of the bed begins to ring, none of the room’s occupants appearing keen to address it. “That’s the taxi” Grant grumbles, his statement prompting Taylor to return to the washroom, her intentions set on joining Grant in his efforts. Nothing left to say, Grant retrieves a knapsack from the foot of the bed and throws it over his shoulder, Bruce continuing to look at him with complete silence. “You don’t have to approve- neither do Vickers and Robin- but this is what I want” Grant explains, his voice kept low, almost personal in a way, “please, don’t try to talk me out of it.” Turning toward the door, Grant waits for Taylor’s return, continuing to reside within Bruce’s sights, the agent looking to his client with a sorry expression. After another minute, Taylor emerges from the bathroom, wearing dark blue jeans just as Grant does, though her tight, navy blue tank top contrasts from her boyfriend’s loose white t-shirt. “I’m not going to” Bruce finally remarks, Taylor just beginning to step through the door Grant props open, both anchors turning back to return their attention to the suited man. As if convinced of the arrangement’s importance, Bruce steps through the door, squeezing past Taylor as he enters the hallway. “Let’s go” Bruce murmurs, taking the group’s lead, joining them on their uncertain travels. | \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 12:12 am est. / “I’m serious, it was a good show” Carly adamantly comments, stepping into the bathroom of her en suite. “I can’t put on a ‘good’ show when the lead anchor isn’t you” Aiden replies, the covers pulled up to his lap as he sits against the headboard, “the ceiling doesn’t reach that high when I’m stuck with transplants from Los Angeles and Houston.” “You give me too much credit. That, or you give my tits too much credit- I’m not quite sure which one” Carly retorts, unable to sway her boyfriend’s opinion. “It’s not one part of you specifically- it’s all of you” Aiden replies, plugging his Blackberry into the nearest charger, “it’s like that show on that gaming network. There’s Olivia and some other dude I don’t know the name of because- well, why the fuck would I?” “Because you’re a connoisseur of all media- good or bad” Carly replies, scrubbing her face with a baby blue-coloured lotion. “I’m a connoisseur of media with attractive women in it- as is, like, one hundred percent of the American male population age ten-through-one hundred and ten.” “Who says what you’ve got now isn’t sexy enough to catch eyes?” Carly jokes, her index and middle fingers pressing forcefully into her chin. “What I’ve got no- are you kidding me?” Aiden counters, immediately hearing Carly’s laughter, “oh yes, how could I forget? When I think of sexy, the first person that pops into my mind is Jerry Seinfeld’s second cousin-removed!” “That’s funny-” Carly quips, her hands pressing together, rubbing a second lotion between her fingers, “-I took you for more of a George Costanza-type.” His head shaking, Aiden returns his attention to the nearest television, the channel turned to reruns of ‘Murphy Brown’. Dressed in loose short-shorts and a crop top, Carly wanders out of the room, her mind set elsewhere. Trying to pass the time, Aiden minds his own business, hands folded atop the ruffled comforter as his legs cross, just a white t-shirt and a pair of boxers worn on his person. Buzzing atop the nightstand, Carly’s Razr lights up, it’s base plugged into a thin, black cord. Though his ears keep to the television, Aiden’s eyes set upon the device, his foot tapping against the bed’s end as the phone buzzes a second time. The nightstand crafted out of wood, each buzz rattles the sturdy tabletop, the phone slowly drifting closer to the table’s edge with each alert. Gazing toward the door, Aiden presses his elbow into Carly’s side of the bed, their phones laying on opposite sides of the mattress, left to charge beside the pillows of their respective owners. For the fifth time, Carly’s phone buzzes, Aiden’s face close enough to the device for its harsh light to poorly illuminate his face, an envelope icon displayed in the text window. Peering toward the door for a second time, Aiden remains alone, his girlfriend’s footsteps, if existing at all, step nowhere close to their room. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, Aiden stares at the phone again, its screen lighting up for the sixth time, the icon of a closed note displayed yet again. Tempted, Aiden frees his arm from the indent it’s created on Carly’s side, his outstretched fingers reaching for the cellular gadget. | \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 6:52 am cet. - 12:52 am est. / Holding his thumb to the gate’s buzzer, Grant awaits a response, hell-bent on drawing a reply from the home’s owner, either through persuasion or annoyance. “Is this intentional or your emotions claiming control over you?” Bruce inquires, worried the answer to his question will predict this confrontation’s outcome fairly. Pulling his finger away from the flat, silver button, Grant considers his answer whilst waiting at the gate, it’s luxurious, metal frame work all-too tasteful for its owner’s worth. “Intentional” Grant responds, his voice oddly lacking in emotion, a sound Bruce doesn’t quite know what to make of. Unable to see the home’s front door, the trio can hear the presence of life emerge from within the lavish structure’s interior, a few latches opening to release the occupant from its spacious residence. Shuffling over asphalt, Howard rounds a corner, its empty space decorated with pleasant flora and fine embellishment. “How the hell did you find me out here?” Howard inquires, his hair having grown out and turned grey, his face occupied by an equally-grey, short beard. “You see us standing at your front gate- in Italy- and that’s your first question?” Grant responds, staring Howard up from head to toe. “It’s a rather appropriate question, no?” Howard rejoinders, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt equally grey to that of his hair hidden beneath a blue robe, his feet strapped into a pair of flip flops. “For most other people- sure” Grant replies, his expression cold, purposefully displaying no signs of anger or empathy, his presentation implying a lack of care over the condition Howard greets them in. “And the three of you are different from most other people because-?” Howard replies, hoping for one of the three people stood at his entrance to finish the sentence. “You know the answer to that question” Grant replies, his hands held calmly by his sides, the muscles in his abdomen tensing as the conversation draws on, a deep desire to attack Howard forcefully contained. “Do I? I’m not so sure anymore” Howard responds, trudging closer, his face equally as blank as Grant’s, though for very different inspirations, “everyone hates me, wants me dead, and wishes I was never born. Exactly how are the three of you any different?” “We know where you live- that’s a start” Taylor murmurs, her interjection dismissed by the disparaged news anchor, Howard almost entirely ignoring her presence. “What have you come here for, Grant?” Howard wonders aloud, a mere few metres away from Grant’s reach, almost threatening the man to take a shot at him from behind the gate. “You come here to see if I’m still alive?” Howard inquires, his dishevelled appearance giving the presentation of a weak man vulnerable to whatever Grant wishes. “I could have called you for that. I found your address, I could have easily done the same for your number” Grant replies, allowing Howard to respond in lieu of a second thought he doesn’t have. “Then why are you here?” Howard inquires, dragging his feet another few centimetres forward, “did you come here to look me in the eyes? Maybe tell me I’m a gutless pig?” Nostrils flaring, Grant stares the man in the eyes, the cloudy skies preventing the heavens from having to witness their encounter. “No” Grant replies, the answer leaving Howard with little other reason. “Then what’s this for?” Howard queries, stepping the final few centimetres ahead, only the gate holding them apart, Howard’s face close enough for Grant to feel his breath, “why are you here?” His arms bare, a single raindrop falls from the sky, colliding with the knuckle of Grant’s index finger as the question remains unanswered. Seething, Grant continues to look his once-mentor in the eyes, the raindrops beginning to fall faster. Silent, Grant raises his hands toward the gate, his fingers wrapping around the grilles, the raindrops quickly devolving into a storm. “I’m here to settle this” Grant replies, the drops of rain beginning to drip from the tip of his nose. With a breath, Howard nods, his face unchanged from the unconcerned expression he’d worn minutes prior. Without a second thought, Howard retreats to a panel near the gates side, the press of a single button releasing the gateway from its restraints. The display catching him by surprise, Grant watches the entrance open, his foe retreating to the middle of his walkway, leaving Grant room to enter. “Grant, this isn’t a good idea” Taylor whispers, her left hand finding Grant’s own, her concerns unanswered. “You have no clue what he’s hiding” Bruce adds, throwing his support in Taylor’s corner, the invitation offered sitting poorly with him. “The man’s a mess, his life is a ruin, and you’re on top of the world right now” Taylor carries on, gently pulling Grant’s hand away from the gate, trying to usher him the way they’d arrived, “you’ve won.” Holding his arms out, Howard presents Grant with the choice, enduring the rainstorm with a smile. Hearing Taylor’s claims, Grant becomes less reliant on the unobstructed passage afforded to him, his right leg beginning to step away from the home. Without a word, Howard watches Grant’s single step become a full-on retreat, the man turning back to those he shares his new life with, joining them on the desertion. Her hand falling from Grant’s, Taylor persists forward, she and Bruce taking an additional few steps toward the car before their attention returns elsewhere. “Grant!” Bruce exclaims, the first to see Grant pursue his visit’s intention, his attempt at rushing back proven pointless. Stepping through the gate, Grant slams the passage shut, locking Bruce and Taylor on the front lot’s other side. “Go back- I don’t want you to see this” Grant proclaims, pulling himself away from the pair’s reach, his eyes set on the man his past has become entangled with. The sky roaring, rain begins to fall harder, Grant’s feet planting into the ground, his face staring directly into Howard’s. “You’ve come all this way” Howard murmurs, his hair soaked just as Grant’s is, arms stretching outward, daring Grant to lay in his best shot, “-make your money, big shot.” His hands balled into fists, Grant huffs in strong, deep breaths, his mind racing with too many thoughts for him to hear Bruce and Taylor, their voices still pleading with him to turn back. Unable to hold back any longer, Grant steps forward, his right hand keeping the fist as his left hand lays by his side. Pulling his arm back, Grant moves in for a punch, looking Howard in the eyes before stopping, his hesitance brought on curiously. His eyes closed, Howard’s face lacks any scrunch, his body refusing to tense up, almost as if he were openly accepting the inevitable assault. As the seconds pass, the punch never comes, Howard’s pressed eyelids forced to part amongst this inquisitive result. The anger in his face having turned into a look of shock, Grant watches Howard’s eyes open, the man making no attempt at declaring a fight. “What are you waiting for?” Howard asks, unable to comprehend Grant’s irresolution, “hit me.” His mouth agape, Grant remains posed as if he were mid-strike, his puzzled expression beginning to ease, another loud roar of thunder arriving as his fist slowly returns to his side. “What are you doing?” Howard wonders aloud, watching Grant’s hand fall, “do it.” Looking Howard in the eyes, Grant takes two steps away, the befuddled countenance Howard had stared at him with now becoming a look of sincere desperation. “No” Grant replies, his voice soft, his head shaking, Howard’s eyes beginning to widen as his face tenses. “Wh- what do you mean ‘no’?” Howard responds, surprised enough by the man’s response for his legs to become less steady, requiring Howard stabilise himself. “I’m- I’m not going to hit you” Grant replies, taking another two steps back, the distance he creates between them only bringing further shock over the larger man. “Yes-the fuck-you are!” Howard exclaims, matching Grant’s retreat by taking two steps forward, the thunder roaring yet again. “No. I’m not” Grant replies, another two steps back taken, Howard’s response much the same, a more-shaky pair of steps forward moved. “Fucking hit me, Grant!” Howard shouts, his hands beginning to shake, the rest of his body beginning to tremble as badly as his legs do. In the distance, a bolt of lightning strikes the ground, a burst of light ripping through the sky just over the retreating party’s head. “No” Grant replies, another slow, solid two steps taken backward. “Fucking hit me!” Howard exclaims, his voice cracking as he screams, attempting to match Grant’s steps, though too overcome by his reckless desire to take him any further. With a thud, Howard collapses to his knees, his body trembling with a mix of anger and grave desperation. In utter silence, Bruce and Taylor watch on, listening to each individual raindrop attack the ground, only able the spectate the encounter from afar. “Fuucckkiinngg hhiitt mmee!” Howard roars, his face shaking as he screams, looking up to Grant for the first time in his life. Stood over the man, Grant closes the only two steps between himself and the besmirched news icon, staring down at him from above, all of the control resting in his hands. With a sigh, Grant’s balled fist unravels, his fingers resting calmly as he raises his hand, Howard’s eyes closing in hopes that he’d finally convinced Grant to give in. “Go ahead!” Howard exclaims, his eyes closed, chin tilted toward the ground, the rain hitting the hardest that it will, “hit me, Grant!” Anticipating the sensation of an open palm across his face, Howard instead feels the man’s hand gently come to a rest on his shoulder, another bout of thunder crashing through the dark skies. His eyes opening again, Howard’s jaw drops, his eyes lifting back toward Grant’s, the last shred of hope he’d held at vengeance being dished upon him, that the suffering for his actions would be righted on this day- of all days- dies. “Scratch your own damn back” Grant answers, letting his hand fall from the man’s shoulder before turning back, his thumb laying into the gate’s panel. “Grraanntt!” Howard yells, watching the man pull the gate inward, rejoining Bruce and Taylor as he moves forward, “GRRAANNTT!” Pulling the gate shut, Grant reclaims the group’s lead, Taylor and Bruce quickly following beside him. His left hand patting Bruce on the back as his right is joined with Taylor’s, Grant proceeds forward, a smile worn on his face as he stays quiet, his closing statement already offered elsewhere. | \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 1:01 am est. / “Well tell him the next time he’s looking to settle scores, he better fucking tell me first!” Vickers shouts, his arms thrown in all directions. “Get back safely!” Vickers shouts back, throwing the phone back onto the receiver, the force used nearly knocking him off his own feet. “I don’t know why I yelled that last part, but it felt right” Vickers muses, taking in a deep huff of air as he looks to Robin with a smile. “I’ve never seen you this angry before” Robin murmurs, only able to muster a smile from the first man beneath her in the executive chain of command. “I’m a little light-headed, I won’t lie” Vickers laughs, his hand pressed against Doug’s desk, beads of sweat beginning to run from his forehead. “Well, you sit down for a minute and come down when you’re ready” Robin replies, patting the man on the shoulder, “I’ll have them pull the car around and give you a lift home.” “Thank you, Robin” Vickers grunts, reclaiming his breath as she nods, returning the way she’d entered hours prior, letting herself out as Vickers calms. Exhaling a deep sigh, Vickers pulls himself away from the desk, a simple look around the room leaving his eye to catch upon Aiden’s office. Glancing around the unoccupied office once, Vickers approaches the man’s chambers, the transparent glass shielding its interior from the bureau a stark difference from that of Grant and Taylor’s quarters. The room too dark for proper sight, Vickers stumbles into Aiden’s desk, almost tripping over himself halfway through entering. Yanking the pull chain on the nearest lamp, Vickers scans the man’s tabletop, its surface covered in large folders and electronic equipment. The space not decorated with much, Vickers considers the space within to be void of anything worth peaking his interest over. As he turns to leave, Vickers’ eyes catch a framed photograph, the only accessory dawned upon his barren wall aside from a few clocks set to international times. With a smile, Vickers carefully removes the picture from the wall, an image of Aiden from his first day behind the controls of ‘Tonight at Nine’ displayed in the small frame, the look of joy and wonder plastered over his face. Nodding to himself, Vickers lifts the frame toward the nail it’d been stationed upon, though a sudden jerk in his arm forces it from his hand, the frame falling to the ground and shattering upon impact. His mouth agape, Vickers stumbles backward, his legs weak as he turns toward the man’s door, eyes set on the empty bureau just beyond him. Eyes widening, Vickers pushes himself forward, losing control of his legs as he clutches at his chest. With a gasp, Vickers throws himself through the door at the last minute, his legs giving out as he crashes into the ground, his body having become a doorstop as he rolls onto his back. Lips quivering, Vickers stares toward the lights in the ceiling, his right hand stretched across his chest, resting upon his heart. Silent, the room remains as is, nothing out of place aside from the now-empty coffee cups atop Doug’s desk, the frequently-rowdy bureau left painfully quiet. == Tonight at 9 ==
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\ Monday, May 28th, 2007 /
\ 1:02 pm est. - 10:02 am pst. / “Vick’, I’m telling you- they told me nothing” Bruce remarks, hands covered by his jacket, stationed at his hips. “They wouldn’t tell us anything Bruce wouldn’t know” Aiden adds, looking Vickers in the face as he occupies the chair next to Carly’s. “Then we have nothing” Vickers replies, a despondent glare in the man’s eyes, his chin propped up by the hand on his right arm, its elbow digging into the padding of his seat’s armrest. “Wait, I’m confused-” Bruce interjects, his fingers rubbing at each side of his head, trying to ease the headache he can feel begin to set in, “-why are we mad they left?” Overhearing the question from the hallway, Robin offers an answer before stepping into the room, her voice thrown against the marble walls as she enters. “Because I need them on the air!” Robin exclaims, the taps of her shoes silenced once setting upon the office’s carpet, “they can’t do that when they’re A.W.O.L.” “Um- they’re not on official leave- so they’re just away in your little metaphor” Bruce corrects, uttering the same correction Aiden thought of, but chose not to involve himself with. “Not anymore. I lifted Grant’s suspension this morning, and I’m giving Taylor a bonus to return from vacation early” Robin replies, her purse set upon Vickers’ desk, a package of smokes retrieved from within it, “I want them on the air tonight.” “Alright- timeout. What!?” Bruce exclaims, his hands thrown by each side, eyes nearly thrusting themselves through his lids, “I thought you were setting yourself on a mission to ‘teach Grant a lesson’ and ‘give him time to reflect and change’.” “I was until the board decided I wasn’t anymore” Robin responds, earning herself an eye roll as Bruce turns away, the man’s headache worsening with each new line of dialogue. “If we don’t know where they went, does anyone know where the hell they’d go?” Robin inquires, eyes panning to those that share the room with her, hoping for someone to intrude upon the silence. “It may be a longshot, but if we’re taking any suggestions-” Aiden replies, Robin’s refusal to interrupt clearing him to proceed, “they could have flown out to Vegas to get married?” His right eye squinting as he nears the end of the suggestion, Aiden feels the tension build as the room remains quiet, unsure of how to react. “I know, I know- ‘why Vegas?’” Aiden remarks, “Grant said he went there with friends once a few years ago, loved it, and wanted to bring some of us down there next time.” “At least there’s some reasonability there” Vickers replies, adjusting his seat with his hands folded, fingers interlocked atop his chest. “We’ve got cars outside Grant’s little backwoods and Taylor’s place in Albany. I’ve got the doorman at her flat on standby, so if they come back- we’ll know” Robin remarks, her finger extending, hand spinning in a forward motion, “come on, though- more suggestions- whatever you’ve got.” “What if we can’t get them here tonight?” Bruce queries, deliberately changing the topic, his interest not residing within his client’s whereabouts. “Then I’ll have a board of very powerful men incredibly pissed off at me” Robin answers, refusing to look Bruce in the face, her attention given to the remaining three, “come on! Throw out some suggestions!” “Family!” Carly exclaims, the thought suddenly popping into her head, “they could be visiting family.” With a nod, Robin strikes a match, a lone dart held at the end of a long, 1920’s-esque holder. “I’m not really sure you can be doing that in here, Ro-” Vickers begins to mutter, his raspy voice silenced at the wave of the woman’s hand. “I’m not so sure you’re supposed to have a liquor cabinet in the workplace either, Sam” the woman replies, “where do their families live?” “Taylor’s parents live in upstate New York, Grant’s moved to Florida after his brother died last year” Bruce responds, the foursome turning to him mid-sentence, no other family they’re close to that I know.” “His brother died last year?” Robin inquires, the man’s agent quietly nodding his head. “It was the broadcast about the senate renewing the Patriot Act” Bruce responds, his words fired in quick succession, “he got a few phone calls during the broadcast, one of them was his mom giving him the news.” “I remember that broadcast” Vickers replies, his mouth slightly agape, “I didn’t know what it was, but he was damn good.” With a nod, Bruce quickly advances past the hearty recollection and praise, his body leaning against the back of Aiden’s seat. “Vegas, Florida, uptown New York- that’s all we’ve got so far” Bruce proclaims, slightly irked by the consistent struggles the group faces to remain on target, “I’d like to know where my client is, so if we can just put-” Stopping himself, Bruce goes silent, his eyes freezing upon the woman, her expression shifting with Bruce’s visual change. Though they face away from the agent, Aiden and Carly take their attention to Bruce just as Vickers does, urged to at the sudden interruption of his thoughts. Though eager to know what’s caught Bruce’s contemplations, Vickers remains silent, his hand extending toward Robin, halting her as she attempts to speak, not wanting to rush the man’s process. “The last time I spoke to him, he said he was struggling with his past. I told him to just ‘put the past where it belongs’” Bruce recalls, eyes widening as his attention is restored, “what if he’s putting the past behind?” Squinnying, Robin waits for further clarification, forced to inquire as it ceases to occur. “Are you high off your mind?” Robin exclaims, her lungs holding back a great puff of smoke, “what the good heavens does that even mean!?” “This was just after Kelsi’s death, right?” Vickers ponders, Bruce’s nod given just as Robin interrupts. “So he’s going back to D.C?” the prideful executive wonders aloud, still not wholly certain what’s being said amongst silent gestures. “He’s going after Howard and Jessica” Vickers replies, pushing his chair out as he reaches for his coat, “Kelsi, ‘the past’, the disappearance they didn’t want anyone knowing about- he’s confronting his past.” “Wait, wait, wait!” Aiden exclaims, stopping the wavelength-sharing men from throwing themselves into an unproven theory, “that’s a strong conclusion to make with such little information.” Supported by his second half, Aiden lets Carly continue his thought, the men having stopped mid-dash for the doors upon their correction. “They have a past with Howard and Jessica, sure. But they’re also two people that the paparazzi love to harass that also happen to be dating away from the public eye” Carly remarks, “you’ve got just as much proof they’re in Vegas as you do in this hypothesis.” Essentially deadlocked, the room’s four eyes centre upon Robin, the woman’s smoke-surrounded, skirt suit-laden, tiny frame becoming the ultimate tie-breaker. Assisted by the simple fact that they sit ahead of her rather than stand by her sides as Bruce and Vickers do, Aiden and Carly take Robin’s attention, the woman letting another cloud of smoke leave her lips. “I’ve got a lot riding on us getting this right. Vegas, Florida, upstate- whatever- they’re all decent guesses, but these two pricks have intent to back up their ideas” the woman remarks, her hand resting on the back of Carly’s seat, “give me something better or I’ll have no other choice.” Paying each other a glance, the young couple remain quiet, waiting for the look of hope in the other’s eye, praying for its arrival. As the seconds pass, Robin’s only arguable choice becomes increasingly finite, nearly made definitive before a sudden gift from above is bestowed upon the eight o’clock executive producer. = 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, May 28th, 2007 / \ 1:14 pm est. - 10:14 am pst. / “Doug, Colin, Joey!” Aiden exclaims, his sleek, modern news bureau cosier than the monolithic floor a few levels above, his voice travelling farther, “in my office!” Carly following his lead with Robin, Vickers and Bruce closely behind in that order, Aiden marches to his spacious office, most of the men he beckons for struggle to move at the sight of their boss taking the lead in a line that two high-level executives occupy. Consisting of three rows of consecutive, circular mezzanines, the eight o’clock bureau presents a more intimate workplace, their news desk built into the wall’s slope rather than sat in the main floor’s centre. Though trying to hurry, two of the three men stumble over every few steps, worried at what fate awaits them beyond Aiden’s door. With ease, Doug steps between desks, navigating the floor well, and advancing upon Aiden’s office unphased. After a few seconds, Joey and Colin, both visibly concerned, follow Doug’s example, marching through the door with confidence, theirs however, mostly feigned. “Would the two of you lower your shoulders- I’m not firing you or challenging you to a dual” Aiden remarks, though his producers no longer stand fearful, they do remain worried, “I need the three of you moving a message around for me.” Remaining stood, Vickers and Bruce stroll to the side, politely leaving the chairs for Robin and Carly to fill. His desk littered with papers, folders, and machinery somehow still contained within the box it was packaged into two months prior, Aiden throws himself into his chair, making himself comfortable. “The people that usually do ‘Tonight at Nine’ upstairs went somewhere without telling us” Grant remarks, the keyboard tray slid away from his desk. “Are- are they alright?” Colin inquires, his voice unsteady, the nerves he’d entered the room with needing some time to settle. “They’re not dead as far as I’m aware, but I’m not so sure they’ll stay that way when Robin gets a hold of them” Aiden replies, his fingers dancing along the keyboard as if it were a ballroom, “that said, we need to get a hold of them and we need to do it now.” “I can put a message out on Myspace if that helps” Doug offers, stepping around the seated women to join Aiden by his computer. “That’s why I’m typing. I’m gonna email the three of you a message and, as the three producers I think have the most sway, I need you to forward it to everyone else” Aiden explains, the final few keys pressed with a touch of enthusiasm, “I want everyone around the bureau sending this out wherever they can. Myspace, Facebook, Aim- everything.” “Kid, I admire your eagerness to get ‘young’ and ‘hip’ around here- but this is futile” Robin remarks, unable to hold back her surprise when Doug, his posture unchanged, interrupts her. “Quite the opposite- actually” the man remarks, his employer too stunned at the thought of being cut off to speak a word otherwise. “We’re all on forums posting about the news and the newsroom- we’ve got a decent audience” Doug explains, “the best part is that our audience is heavily sprawled.” Her bottom lip hung, Robin stares at Doug, though unable to find an adequate response for his interruption, grows incredibly curious to the claim. “Explain” the woman says with a sigh, too dependent on the task of recovering her lead anchors to hold off a brief concession of power, her arms crossing as Vickers looks on, holding back a laugh well. “The benefit of forums is that anyone can join. You and I can get on them just as a farmer in Iowa can” Doug explains, “no matter where you are, if you make a comment about it, anyone around the world can see it and start a conversation about it.” Enjoying the display too much to interrupt it, Aiden leans in his chair with a cobra stance, yet to send the message he’d transcribed, able to see Vickers’ increasing amusement from the corner of his eye. “What’s your name?” Robin inquires, her left leg draped over the right, arms crossed over her chest as she leans to the right. “Doug Olson-” the man responds, extending his hand, “-senior producer of ‘On Air’” the man remarks, his hand left untouched. “Doug, I own a media giant valued at nearly twenty-six billion dollars. My premier broadcast boasts an audience of thirteen million concurrent viewers” Robin replies, her eyes squinting as her head bobs, a smirk threatening to emerge, “what does your website do that one snap of my fingers can’t?” Not nearly as informed, Vickers’ smile soon falls, Doug’s pause amidst Robin’s question assumedly bringing his fun to a close. Unsure of what many of the points made, Bruce’s expression goes unchanged, his mind just focused on the proceeding step. The moment three seconds pass without a response, Robin settles into her seat, right arm draped over the back of her chair, pleased with the victory she’s taken herself to be awarded. His chair slowly spinning counter-clockwise, Aiden stares at Doug with a smile, Carly sharing in the same reaction, aware enough of the question’s answer to know what comes next. His nose scrunched and lips puckered, Doug lets the inquiry settle, unable to take his mind away from the same denial and scepticism he’s heard plenty of. Catapulted into retaliation by Robin’s smug grin, Doug takes in a deep breath, his hands tucked into his pockets as he gives the woman her return. “There are ninety six people that work in this office, eighty seven of them are on a forum” Doug replies, simplifying the numbers to make them more digestible. “Combine all of our contact lists, and in theory, we have access to one hundred and forty million people” Doug furthers, not only widening Robin’s eyes, but snatching Bruce’s attention from the immediate future, and restoring the glee upon Vickers’ face. “It’s safe to assume many of those are repeats, so we’ve hired people to make the numbers clearer” Doug continues, approaching the crescendo of his point with the utmost confidence. “If our research is correct- and I trust that it is- our combined audience is comprised of twenty million, entirely unique people” Doug concludes, Vickers’ smile impossibly wide, “which means, with one message, twenty million people on a national and global scale will know to look out for your hosts.” Her lips the slightest amount parted, Robin stares at Doug with a disgusted expression, the face made not out of repugnance, but the sheer inability to conjure a different reaction. Correctly, Aiden takes the instantaneous lack of a response that Robin offers as a triumph, his hand simply guiding the mouse toward the small flying envelope icon in the corner of his screen. “You’re good to go, lads” Aiden murmurs, both Joey and Colin immediately throwing themselves toward the entrance, not wanting to risk an obstruction to their exit. Though given clearance to depart, Doug remains beside Aiden’s desk for a moment, patiently awaiting a response from the stoic woman. When no counter appears near, Doug decides to leave, satisfied with the interaction he knew, though did not wish to gloat about, he’d achieved. “Hold on” Robin calls aloud, stopping the man just as his hand begins to reach for the door’s handle, its fully-transparent frame having yet to even close entirely. “Get back here, Doug” Robin commands, adjusting her blazer as she leaves her chair, the man having turned back toward her the moment her order is given. Dressed in a simple grey button up shirt, black slacks and a pair of glossy shoes, Doug returns to Robin’s presence, though he is of above average height, his posture towers over the woman’s 5’6’ build. “As evident by the fact that I’ve never met you in my life, I assume it’s safe to say I’ll be seeing more of you as you ascend Aiden’s chain of command” Robin explains, her finger raised toward the man’s face, “but- and I only say this once- never interrupt me.” Through his nose, Doug takes in a deep breath, a glance taken to the four employees that occupy spaces behind her. “Noted” Doug replies, at first playing an non confrontational card, though his sharp rebuttal exists as nothing of the sort, “but- just so I’m not tempted next time- if you’re gonna talk about something, know what you’re talking about.” Her mouth further agape than before, Robin watches Doug step back the way he’d entered, his eyes peering over her shoulder as he nods to Aiden, departing on that note. The room stripped of noise, the five occupants of Aiden’s office sit with completely separate expressions, Bruce and Robin holding a look of awe, Aiden and Carly ecstatic at the display of their personal hire, and Vickers tickled pink to such an extent he could be compared to a rare steak. “Holy fuck!” Vickers exclaims, leaving the ground as he jumps through the air like a joyous child, his sights set upon Aiden, “how do I make him vice president of everything!?” Chuckling quietly to himself, Aiden spins himself in the chair one full cycle-length, waiting for Robin’s response. With her fist balled and thumb held toward the door, Robin turns to the small gathering behind her, “can you believe that?” she laughs, unable to hide her respect for the gall exhibited in her direction. | \ Monday, May 28th, 2007 / \ 1:58 pm est. - 10:58 am pst. / “Grant! Taylor!” Vickers exclaims, leading Bruce off the lift, their journey taking them to a desolate apartment left in ruins. “Hey, Vick’?” Bruce remarks, one simple inspection of the room that sits before them allowing for a decent conclusion to be made, “I don’t think anyone’s in here.” The soles of their expensive shoes kicking paint chips and scuffling grains of dirt, Vickers and Bruce round the nearest bannister, peering into the empty apartment they’d seen before, though its state exists largely unfamiliar to any way they’d once known it to. “What the hell happened to this place?” Vickers grumbles, shifting his feet across dusty floors, the concrete beneath what would have been tiles and floorboards exposed to the elements of rot and decay. “If I had to guess, it’d be that Howard no longer lives here” Bruce replies, his finger briefly sweeping across one of the wooden support columns. “If I had to guess a timeframe, I’d say that’s been true for a while” the man further, shaking his hands around to free his fingers from the accumulated filth. The room around them stripped bare, walls that used to be present now no longer standing, furniture that used to fill the flat likely sold for profit. “What the fuck do we do now?” Vickers wonders aloud, the gutted interior allowing him to stand in the pad’s centre with his arms extended, not a single structure to come remotely close to his fingertips. “We go back to the drawing board, I’d assume” Bruce replies, his attempt at finding a place to seat proving unsuccessful, his hands stowing themselves into his pockets as he opts to remain standing. “Maybe we hold out hope that Aiden’s posse knows how to handle this better than we do?” Bruce continues, seeing the frustration in Vickers’ stance, “maybe we get lucky and find out they just took a day-trip to Atlantic City or something.” With the sound of a bell, Vickers and Bruce turn to the lift, a single set of footprints emerging from within the elevator’s confinement. “What are-!?” Joshua Lane exclaims, his gun aimed at whatever lies directly ahead of him, a brief second and a half needed for him to recognise the faces standing before him. “Oh, come-the fuck-on!” Josh exclaims, letting the pistol drop to his side, “why the hell do you guys have to keep coming up here!?” Trying to alleviate the commotion, Vickers throws his hands out, ushering Bruce and Josh to join him in a moment of reprieve. “We’re just looking for Howard” Vickers calmly replies, Bruce’s curious look wandering through the room’s inside. “How many times do I have to tell you that he’s not here!?” Josh replies, returning the pistol to his waistband, frustration yet to ease. “What do you mean ‘how many times’?- This is the first we’re seeing of all this” Bruce replies, sharing in Josh’s aggravation, though using it to install a declarative tone to his voice. “Not you- Grant and Taylor” Josh replies, the pitch in his voice finally beginning to relax, “they came by a few weeks ago and I told them the exact same thing. I figured that kind of news would get around your newsroom a lot sooner than now.” “Wait, wait! Grant and Taylor came here?” Vickers replies, taking a short, but noticeable step forward, “why?” His arms crossed, Josh answers with a shrug, only able to make assumptions. “You came here looking for Howard, so I’d imagine they came here for similar reasons” Josh replies, his white t-shirt complementing his grey sweatpants well, though the sandals he wears illustrate how unprepared he was to enter potential combat. “Did they tell you why?” Vickers inquires, Howard’s name immediately rejuvenating Vickers’ hope, its fate thought to be written upon the sight of the apartment’s ruined state. “No, but I’m sure the people five stories above me could hear Grant screaming his name” Josh replies, caring too little about his attire to fear it being dirtied, his back pressing against the dust-covered bannister Bruce has passed on earlier. “Did he look like he was gonna fight him? Or maybe, I don’t know- yell at him?” Bruce ponders, building upon the relatively little they’ve been informed of as if there’s a goal in sight. “I don’t think he was gonna sit down, break a pack of crackers open and have a tea party if that’s what you mean” Josh replies, the disappointed expressions on his guest’s faces prodding Josh toward a less-impertinent tone. “He was screaming the man’s name. Taylor was following behind him, and it definitely didn’t seem like she wanted to be there” Josh remarks, both men opposite him taking kinder to his warm approach, “I’ve fought pricks before. I’ve screamed their names to get their attention before- I wanted to look them in the eyes when I laid them out. So when I tell you that I’d never screamed like Grant did that night- I mean he was looking for a whooping.” With a sigh, Vickers bites into the corner of his lip, both hands falling limply to his sides. “He’s looking for Howard” Bruce murmurs, calling Vickers’ attention back, their more worrying assumption lended the most credence. “If they’re looking for Howard, good luck stopping them” Josh replies, both men remaining silent as they return their attention toward him. “Last time I heard, Howard sold what he couldn’t take and stowed away anything with value he didn’t want to sell” Josh remarks, letting free a sigh he’d held back to that point, “he’s in Italy.” Eyes widened, Vickers stumbles backward, almost losing his balance to a point as Bruce turns to him. “The bags, the toothbrushes, the no warning!” Vickers exclaims, finally returning his feet to a firm stance as Bruce’s sidekick buzzes, “they fucking went to Italy!” “It’s Bruce” Bruce hurriedly responds, tending to the call his phone begs him to answer, placing Robin on speakerphone as Vickers nears. “Robin, I need you to listen” Bruce explains, speaking slowly in fear of reception being poor, “we’re pretty sure they went-” “To Italy, yeah- I know” Robin interjects, both men on the other line silenced upon the nation’s mention, “twenty six billion dollars of value in this company and all it took to find two people worth a collection of well-over six million dollars was a twenty-something pushing a button on his phone.” “So they are in Italy?” Bruce replies, another buzz coming from those sat around Robin, this time sent into Vickers’ phone. “Doug just sent Vickers a photograph. It was taken about ten minutes ago” Robin explains, describing a grainy picture of Grant and Taylor sat in the outside dining area of a local cafe, their expression impossible to decipher. “What’s the plan now, Robin?” Vickers responds, returning his phone to his jacket pocket, the pause that’s returned to them not installing much hope. “What the hell do you think, Sam?” Robin replies, answering as if the response is a foregone conclusion, “someone’s going to Italy!” Returning the phone to its receiver, Robin ends the call, allowing Bruce’s phone to go dark. “I don’t like the sound of that” Josh murmurs from across the room, the men that stand before him glaring with an equally dissatisfied reaction. “Neither do we” Vickers responds, fixing his jacket as he steps away from Bruce, rounding the bannister Josh remains leant against on his path for the lift, Bruce’s quick hurry to catch up proving difficult to read. “Is this a ‘I have a plan’ kind of silence you’ve got on right now, or is it more like a ‘well fuck, what now?’ deal?” Bruce queries, joining beside Vickers beyond the double doors, the bell ringing as they begin to close, marking the lift’s descent. “It’s neither” Vickers replies, hands stuffed back into his pockets as the doors collide, a shake of his head all that precedes his conclusion, “it’s more of a ‘dear god, what have they done’ kind of deal.” == Tonight at 9 == \ 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 == \ 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 == \ 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 == \ 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 == |
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