\ 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 ==
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