S2, E7 | Float

\ 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 ==