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\ Friday, August 17th, 2007 /
\ 10:08 pm est. - 7:08 pm pst. / “Yeah” Grant calls out, authorising the entry of the woman knocking at his door, calling for his answer with each ball of her knuckles. “How long do you think you’re gonna be?” Taylor inquires, stepping through the frosted glass entrance with her wrist leant against the door’s frame. “Just a few minutes probably” the newer of the two anchors replies, a smile on his face as he looks at the woman, “I’ve got no problem waiting for you.” Flashing a smile of her own back to her boyfriend, Taylor pulls herself back the way she’d entered and ventures back to her office, preparing just as the man she leaves behind does. With the conclusion of one interaction, another one begins- the phone in his pocket beginning to buzz for the attention he’d now freed for it. “Grant Haste” the man answers, wasting little time in addressing the man on the other end of the line, “what’s the issue, Bruce?” “Aside from sitting down for a meeting with the fat cunt from Finley?” the agent wonders aloud from the other end of the line, putting a smirk on the face of his client through the practice of speaker phone. “We’re not sitting down with Russo, we’re sitting down with Vickers and Robin- and they’re sitting down with Russo” Grant retorts, still carrying his humoured expression as he undoes the cuffs of his white button-up shirt. “Am I supposed to see much of a difference between the two?” Bruce wonders back, his comments still incapable of bringing his client anything other than amusement. “You’re supposed to give me advice, I weigh my options and make a decision that’s well-informed” Grant replies, releasing one button after another from the slit in which they sit within, gradually removing the article of clothing from atop himself, “should I bother waiting for you to do that?” “No, what you should do is let me know where this meeting is taking place” Bruce replies, lifting his hand into the air as he walks the streets of New York, trying to hail a cab. “Why would you want in on the meeting?” Grant inquires, a look of confusion worn across his face as he peers toward the phone, reaching for the soft, black button-up that rests over the back of the nearest chair. “Do I really have to prove that I want whatever’s best for you, Grant?” Bruce questions back, nodding his head toward the driver of the yellow passenger vehicle that stops for him, passing an appreciative glance. Knowing his client well enough, the agent pulls the phone away from his ear and puts it on speaker before a reply can be offered, allowing Grant’s utterance of the address to act as the driver’s direction. “I’ll see you there” Bruce concludes, ending the call and preparing for the drive that his client is soon to follow suit on. Shaking his head with a smirk in the corner of his face, Grant throws on the ironed black dress shirt and adjusts his cuffs, choosing to leave the tie behind in favour of a more modern approach to the attire. Without a hurry, the man reclaims his phone from atop his desk and steps through the door to his office, eyes falling upon the one next door. “Alright, I’ll see you there” Taylor replies, watching her boyfriend enter without knocking, her own cell phone placed to her ear. “No, it’ll just be me” the anchor continues, having stripped herself of the skirt and replaced it with a pair of jeans, standing at the centre of her office in just a bra, having yet to replace her blouse and blazer with the black tank top and college-era sweatshirt she intends to depart the building in, “I’ll be there in twenty.” Waiting for her call to end, Grant stands with his back pressed against the frosted glass door, aware of the office’s inability to see his girlfriend as he stands, though still keen on protecting her dignity. “I don’t think business casual means what you think it means” the man remarks, inspecting the woman’s attire with a curious look in his eye, already aware that the pieces don’t line up as they should appear to. “Change of plans- you’re going without me” Taylor replies, turning to her desk to begin fitting herself into the tank top, speaking whilst she does, “I’m going to catch up with Kaye over a burger and fries to see if she can convince her husband to take a four billion dollar offer instead.” Squinting, Grant tucks his hands into his pocket and remains quiet, watching the woman continue to dress whilst he processes her plan. “I don’t know if those are ‘I want to fuck you right here’ eyes, or ‘that is an interesting turn of events’ eyes” Taylor remarks, sliding her top over her breasts before reaching for the sweatshirt, not minding one or the other from her standpoint. “They’re both, but the latter is the more important of the two unfortunately” Grant responds, casually strolling further into the office, where he takes a seat upon the sofa near the back of it. “Do you think this will turn out to be worth it?” the office’s visitor asks, lowering himself into the seat with one leg crossed and an arm draped over the rest, “how much sway do you think this girl really has?” Shaking her head out of uncertainty without an answer to offer at first, Taylor swipes her hair away from the hoodie that tucks it away, eyes falling upon the man seated a short distance away. “I have no clue what Ross is actually looking for. He can explain it in whatever way he wants, but I’m assuming it’s about legacy” Taylor replies, walking across the floor before hopping upon her boyfriend’s lap, her hands wrapping around his head as their eyes keep toward each other. “I don’t see how that makes it any more likely that she’ll have any negotiating power here” Grant replies honestly, subduing the urge he has to remove the clothes the woman had just adorned. “He says he wants to leave her with room to breathe financially and I’m going to hope he’s being honest when he says that” Taylor remarks, sliding her hands down the length of the soft, fitted shirt, “I think he really does care about her, so maybe he’ll listen if she tells him what we are.” Lifting his hand from his side, Grant takes the woman by the back of the head and gently lowers her face toward his, pressing their lips together for a brief kiss before replying. “Go work your magic” the man replies with a reassuring look in his eye, another glance at the woman sat atop him prompting him to add context, “and you might wanna do so fast before we both end up getting too caught up to make our appointments.” Playfully patting the man on the chest as she climbs back to her feet, Taylor reclaims the bag she’d left sat upon her desk and prepares herself to leave, her boyfriend following her with the same direction in mind. Stepping through the door and making for the bureau’s exit, Grant watches his girlfriend continue to peer over her shoulder and look at his clothing, passive looks continuing to be taken. “Don’t worry” he remarks, watching the woman’s smile pass to him from over her shoulder as he speaks, pleased with the vow he makes, “I promise not to change when I get back to the cabin.” From afar, Aiden walks into the newsroom through the rear-entry just as his former anchors begin to depart it, his eyes setting upon the office he’d once occupied for countless years. “What’s up, buddy?” Shane inquires, stepping through the door just as he approaches it, making for the same exit his anchors step through, only he leaves in the same clothes he’d arrived in and with a bag in hand. “Just came up to tell you it was a good show” Aiden responds, a squint carried in the eyes of the man he’s spent the last few weeks rooming with. “You stayed this entire time just to tell me what you could’ve at home?” Shane wonders back, an obvious hint of doubt carried in the voice of the man that follows alongside him, also ready to leave the building. “What, I can’t be a good friend?” Aiden inquires, a playful elbow taken toward his roommate’s arm. “I never said you couldn’t be, but we are heading back to the same apartment, so- you could’ve done it there” Shane replies, continuing to carry the squint he’d worn for the majority of the interaction as they step through the newsroom’s glass doors, “are you getting laid again or something?” “With my social anxiety? Hell no” Aiden responds, shaking his head with a look of surprise that the implication would even be suggested. “Oh come on, I’ll pick on you from time to time, but you’ve gotten a lot better with that” Shane replies, calling for the lift with the turn of the nearest corner, “things may have ended rough between you two, but dating Carly did a lot more good for you than I think you’re willing to give it credit for.” Shrugging with a half-frown, Aiden stands beside his friend and roommate with the same patient stare, eyes glued to the green arrow signifying the lift’s intent to descend. “She still not in?” Shane soon inquires, the mental distance his friend had taken from the conversation at hand prompting the eight o’clock producer to jut his chin forward at a loss. “Carly. You said she wasn’t in at the start of this week?” Shane wonders back, shaking his chin with the same chin-jutted posture, “I try not to bring her up much, so I haven’t asked since Wednesday.” Having completely missed the original question, Aiden pieces together enough of what his roommate had been asking to present a worthy enough reply. “Oh, no. No, she took the week off or something” the spaced-out man replies, squinting toward the lift’s closed doors as he begins to hear the platform draw closer toward their level. “I don’t know, she must’ve thought I’d end up getting suspended or something. Figured it’d be chaos and didn’t want any part of it” Aiden clarifies, shaking his head without much certainty to depend upon, “she doesn’t have to like me to know that I’m good at my job.” Nodding, Shane lets the conversation die out and returns to waiting for the elevator to make it to their shared level, watching the doors part to welcome them in. “Everything else alright with you, though?” the man soon wonders aloud, the question about his friend’s ex having brought a realisation upon him- one that he doesn’t check in on the man often enough. “Yep” Aiden replies simply, coupling his hands together at his lap as he steps back from the button he’d pressed, “doing fine.” = 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, August 17th, 2007 / \ 10:31 pm est. - 7:31 pm pst. / “Just don’t say anything that can get you in trouble from a legal aspect” Bruce remarks, his briefcase in tow as always whilst he follows the side of his sharply-dressed client. “Are you my agent or my lawyer?” Grant quips back, humoured by the gentleman he’s accompanied by whilst following a waitress dressed in all black through the crowd of folks sitting with their loved ones for a meal. “This is an odd choice to meet for someone with billions to his name” Bruce soon remarks, eyes wandering from one side of the establishment to the next, “don’t get me wrong, it’s better than some fast food joint, but I wouldn’t have expected this kind of sit down chat to have taken place in the local Chili’s rip-off.” “As long as they serve steak, I’m fine with wherever it is” Grant replies, finally spotting two familiar faces and the back of a large head through the crowd, finding it odd that they stand out in the open dining room. “There’s the other half” Robin quips with her arms crossed, directing the attention of the pair she stands with toward the pair of faces that draw closer to them, “where’s the girl?” “She’s running a fever, so I stuck her in a cab and sent her home” Grant replies, hands in the air as he offers the excuse he’d plotted through the cab ride, “I told her I could handle the show on my own, but someone decided that spending an hour talking about Iraq and Russia was the hill she was willing to die on- literally.” “An hour on Iraq and Russia? It’s almost like you’re trying to butter me up” Russo responds, a chuckle paid as he takes lead of the group, eyes set on the depths of the establishment. “Why are we following him?” Grant inquires, whispering to Vickers, who himself follows Robin, “and where the hell are we going?” “He said we weren’t eating here but he needed to swing through for someone” Vickers whispers, a humoured look carried in his face as he peers back, “Taylor’s not sick, is she?” Meeting the man with silence, Grant lets his smirk and narrowed eyelids provide an answer to the man’s question, earning a pat on the shoulder from the president. Spending a few seconds venturing toward the back of the restaurant, Vickers soon picks at something his anchor had stated earlier before picking fun at it. “An hour on Iraq and Russia?” the older gentleman jokes, “the reserve just cut its discounted lending rate, the Taliban botched a takeover of Afghani police and Interpol’s got it out for Saddam’s family- all you ran with was Iraq and Russia?” “That last part- the Interpol warrant- you do realise that is Iraq, right?” Grant queries back, a revelation the man ahead of his is already more than privy to. “There are a million different things going on at any one moment, go pick a couple since Finley will have the wars covered, CSN takes after the political game and ACN runs primetime gossip talk” Vickers jokes, a pep in his step, “go follow the weather or something- I hear there’s a hurricane coming in.” \ Friday, August 17th, 2007 / \ 10:34 pm est. - 7:34 pm pst. / “Sorry I’m late!” Taylor exclaims, quickly dashing through the front doors of a local burger joint, sliding into the open booth her college friend occupies, “I’ve got nothing to blame it on aside from thinking the ride would be a lot shorter than it actually was.” Shaking her head and wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin, Kaye disregards the woman’s tardiness and picks up a fry, answering the apology before biting into it. “No worries, I ordered when I got in” the woman responds, reaching for her soda whilst she chews, “it’s not every day I come out to eat this greasy shit.” With the shrug of her head, Taylor unwraps the paper covering over the burger ordered for her and replies, trying to climb down from the hurry in which she dashed out of the cab with. “It’s unhealthy, clogs your arteries, increases your likelihood of heart disease and fattens you up-” she remarks, putting on a smirk, “-and it’s so damn good.” “It would never make it if it weren’t” Kaye replies, a brief sip from the seltzer in her plastic takeout cup taken amidst her pause. “That’s not necessarily true” Taylor corrects, a finger held in the air as she prepares to press her hands into each side of her burger, “alcohol doesn’t taste good, and yet I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone over twenty-one that doesn’t at least have the off drink every now and again.” “Two problems with that assumption, enough alcohol will get you drunk- or at least loosen you up- and some people actually like the taste of it” Kaye remarks, watching her friend take her first bite, “you can’t look me in the eyes and tell me there isn’t one drink you actually like the taste of.” As she chews, Taylor’s eyes turn to the New York side street whilst she ponders through her mind, visibly searching for an answer before suddenly thinking of one. “I do like a mudslide as long as it’s made right” the woman answers, covering her mouth to hide the chewed up burger she’d only taken halfway down, “but that’s one of a few. Like, I don’t really like the taste of gin, but I drink it when it’s offered.” With a brief squeeze of one eye, Kaye looks off to the side as her teeth work at a bite of her own, considering the remark before forming her solution. “I think that has a lot to do with the social part of it” the woman retorts, wiping her bottom lip as she pulls back the rest of her mouthful, “drinking is a social thing for most people. Booze is just something that’s there while the conversation- or whatever it is- is being had.” Swaying close to her left shoulder before following the same trajectory to that of her right, Taylor’s head bobs to imply she’s willing to meet the woman’s argument halfway. “I guess. It’s also just fun to drink in general” the anchor concludes, placing the burger down to wipe the grease from her finger with the paper towel sitting atop a stack of others. Though their opening topic inevitably clears the path for a more in-depth conversation, Kaye begins to process with a question of her own, beating Taylor to the punch in continuing the discourse toward the path it was always bound to take. “So, should I bother to ask about how life has been these last- what, eight years?” Kaye inquires, pausing to crumple the paper towel in her hand, “or do you just wanna skip to the whole four billion dollar elephant in the room?” Her friendly demeanour slipping into one of distance, Taylor’s face scrunches closer and her eyes fall, the amused laugh she’s given from her old friend helping to alleviate the tension that she assumed had come over the reunion. “Come on, Taylor. We haven’t talked since I got engaged to Ross and I don’t even have your new number” Kaye explains, watching the disappointed expression settle upon her friend’s face, “it’s not like we’d be sitting here and chatting if a fifth of the company you work for were about to fall into the hands of someone who’s probably not even liked by his own mother.” “His mom’s probably long-dead, but I see your point” Taylor replies, earning yet another chuckle as she wipes her hands, gently sliding the tray to the unoccupied end of their booth. “I wasn’t making a point, I was just stating the facts. We haven’t been friends for a few years now- just people that used to know each other and moved on” Kaye explains, shaking her head with her arms crossed atop the table, “there’s only one reason we’re sitting here, so let’s just get it out of the way.” \ Friday, August 17th, 2007 / \ 11:18 pm est. - 8:18 pm pst. / With one leg crossed over the other, Robin leans against the side of the couch she shares with Vickers, both Grant and Bruce standing on different sides of the room that Russo sits near the centre of, a drink of scotch in hand. “I really hope this is all an elaborate attempt to murder us, otherwise it makes absolutely no sense why we’d have to do this on your yacht” the billionaire LMC owner remarks, watching the grin widen over her host’s face. “I own a yacht, I wanted to have a conversation with you, why not enjoy both at once?” Russo inquires, his rebuttal handed to him by the man standing toward his right. “Why would you be enjoying this? We haven’t even started the conversation yet, what is there to enjoy?” Grant questions back, shaking his head with both arms crossed, “if anything, we should be some of your least favourite people to host.” “You are, that’s what I enjoy about it” Russo responds, not hiding the honesty in his remarks, “you all hate me just enough to run seventy-eight negative stories about myself and Finley so far just this year alone, and yet your hands are tied just enough to stomach having to be around me.” The only one laughing, the host lifts his drink to his lips before pausing, providing a comment before taking a sip from the glass with three ice cubes in it, “I find it ironic.” “No, you don’t- you find it amusing” Vickers retorts, speaking as the man takes down his latest sip, “it’s just like those journalists you take to court when they mention your name. Just throwing lawyers at them and trying to shut them up through the fear of what happens when they mention you by name probably tickles you pink.” “I’ve only ever taken lawyers to court over slander and mischaracterisation” Russo corrects, a finger lifted into the air as the man that had questioned him seconds prior speaks up once more. “What about Ursula Pennsby? That times reporter four years ago?” Grant wonders aloud, arms still crossed as he leans against a wooden side table, “you took her and the paper to court over an accusation of slander for implying you’d been one of the largest donors of the Ku Klux Klan.” “He knows his stuff” Russo quips toward Vickers with a smile, genuinely impressed at the anchor’s quick-draw on the recollection. “Before I defend myself, let me take a second to correct you on that-” the billionaire explains, turning back in his chair to direct his full attention to the primetime anchor on his rival network, “-Ursula Pennsby was the writer, I took Heather Moorehead, her supervisor, to court alongside the company itself.” His posture and impression unchanged, Grant waits for the man of opulent wealth to pursue the self-defence he had promised seconds prior, not needing to wait long before hearing it. “I never donated to the Klan, I donated to a company owned by a man with connections to the Klan fifteen years before his connection was made public” Russo assures, “I mailed them a request for an apology and a correction to their article, they refused and I took them to court.” “Pennsby said you never mailed a request and skipped straight to service papers” Grant retorts, again bringing amusement over the rival network owner. “She tried to paint me out as a KKK supporter and offered none of the context. What’s the sense in taking someone like that at her word?” Russo argues back, his smile still intact as his head shakes, “but allow me to say that I have the biggest penis of anyone on this side of the Atlantic now that we’re just taking everyone at their word.” “What’s the point of adding the Atlantic? Why not go all out and claim the whole of the world?” Robin inquires, getting a shrug out of her efforts. “I wouldn’t want to discredit the negros out in the Zimbabwe, I hear they pack quite a cannon” Russo retorts, taking a sip from his drink as Vickers speaks aloud. “It wouldn’t matter anyway. With that gut on him, he probably hasn’t seen his dick since Kronkite spoke out against the war” the second eldest of the man’s guests replies. “The women willing to fuck me to get their foot in the door of bigger and better things know where it is- that’s all that matters” Russo replies, another sip taken from his drink before the glass falls to his side, held over the floor by his guiding hand. “Before I have to hear about the specifics to any of these whores, let’s just get on with this waste of a Friday night” Robin interjects, less pleased with where she sits and who she sits in the company of with each passing second. “If you must be a buzzkill, I suppose I can indulge you” Russo replies, sitting upright in his chair before guiding his attention toward the pair of individuals seated closest to his front. “Ross informed my legal team that he was drawing up a contract for the transfer” the billionaire host explains, all but assuring the LMC executives across from him that the company’s future already has it’s newest figurehead in line, “six billion for twenty percent. I want to talk about where we go now.” “You get a place on the board of directors, you answer to me, and wait until our bi-monthly meetings to bring up concerns you have with the network and how it’s run” Robin responds, her hands folded atop her top-most leg, “I take your concerns under advisory, act accordingly and we move on with our day. That’s how the company’s run, that’s what you’ll have to get used to. Are we done now?” “It can be if you’d like to continue living in a fantasy world” Russo responds, the glass still hanging over the floor in his non-dominant hand whilst his other rests atop the side of his seat. “What’s actually going to happen is that I’m going to meet with the board members, have a chat with them about what I think the company is missing the mark on, and eventually have you replaced as the acting CEO and chairperson” the man clarifies, “from there, we will move forward with the company.” “When they say rich people are out of touch with reality, I don’t think they meant it quite like this” Vickers quips, an amused grin scrawled across his face, “there’s no way you convince more than one or two members of the board to agree to vote Robin out.” With a smug look of dismissal, Russo shrugs and jostles his head from one direction to the other. “From what I’ve heard, Reece Rocha appears to already be dissatisfied with the direction of the company and feels like Robin is neglecting their bottom line” Russo responds, a sour grimace spreading across the face of the discourse’s subject, “I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard- especially now that he’s got a direct line of communication with me to, oh let’s just say ‘air his grievances.’” “She’s the mastermind that made the call to put Taylor in the premier chair. She’s the one that weathered the storm Arnold Barry left in our wake- and she did it incredibly well” Vickers continues, forced to stop his defence by the same woman his words act in the corner of, her hand lifting in silence to urge his pause. Letting the air clear before offering her voice to the company of her apparent attempted takeover artist, the company’s part-owner retains her composed posture. “Reece Rocha is a pansy that wears his wife’s panties underneath his suit and has made a perpetual habit out of attending gay bars with the intent of sucking some homo’s junk through the taped up hole in their bathroom- he doesn’t concern me” Robin remarks, the string of insults making it nearly impossible for Vickers and Grant to quell their amusement in the face of red-facing glee, “and for that matter- neither do you. There’s nothing you can say to convince the others.” “Why not? From what I know, the last thing those members would want is an acting executive in the company making a habit out of calls that consistently bleed money” Russo retorts, amused at her gall to to argue what he presents. “The only thing that’s going to bleed is you” Robin replies, the confrontational tone in her voice prompting her billionaire adversary’s grin to lower, “trying to oust me is like feeding a gladiator to a lion, my teeth are already piercing that metal chestplate.” “Under her leadership, this company’s stock price has gone up by-” Grant adds in, taking the woman’s pause to be an offer of stepping in that was never intended, his attempt to speak thwarted by the same raised hand that had silenced Vickers. “Don’t think for even a second that you’re gonna walk into my house and start putting your feet up. You’re fucked” Robin explains, her voice low and precise, her stance more than voiced, “I’m gonna make a fool out of you if you even try.” “My foot’s already in the door, there’s no option for you to close it” Russo replies, his smug look returning in full, still amused regardless of what’s said against him. “I’m cutthroat, bitch. I don’t need permission to shut a door on the fat tub of lard that makes up your upper half!” Robin shouts, her vigour taken elsewhere for the moment at the instant of vociferation. “Robin, he’s-” Bruce attempts, finally earning an opposing remark consisting of more than just a raised hand. “If another person tries to interrupt me again, I swear- I’ll have your manhood sliced off and fed to pigs, goddamnit!” Robin exclaims, firing out of her seat with words to share for each of those who join her aboard the vessel, eyes and sights returning to the man across from her. “LMC is my territory. The people that work there are my employees, and I will be damned if you think you’re gonna walk in and start pushing all that weight of yours around” Robin concludes, her finger held in the face of the same man threatening to remove her from all the power she wields every last bit of against, “the day you try and change that is the same day the cops find you floating in the east river with your shit and a note left behind on dry land, bitch.” Unfolding the rest of her fingers, Robin swipes her palm across Russo’s face to the reaction of a smile, his smug grin returning to look her in the face upon the slap and patiently await her final statement. “Don’t fucking forget that- any of it” the woman calmly whispers, stepping away and guiding herself toward the way she’d arrived, leaving the boat without a figure beside her, the three men that follow her lead off the boat left to do so in her shadow. Returning to dry land and making for the car ordered to wait behind for them, the foursome walk as part of a union, the assumption of the woman the trio follow already having long-since expected just as her longtime friend had. “She’s off making nice with the bimbo, isn’t she?” Robin inquires, her derogatory vernacular not ceasing in spite of the non-hostile crowd she’s joined by. Knowing himself to be the recipient such a question was directed toward, Grant leaves out the specifics in lieu of an answer. “She’s trying to talk her into getting you the company” the man replies, watching the woman stop and turn toward him, the same finger she’d held in Russo’s face now pointed in his. “I never asked her to do that” the chairwoman proclaims, an utterance that provokes her primetime anchor into replying with no more than a nod. “Good- as long as we’re clear on that” Robin remarks, a look of composed certainty carried in her face, a confident raise of her chin taken toward the distance as she glares at the yacht they leave behind, “let’s hope it’s going well for her.” == Tonight at 9 ==
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“Just ignore them, they’ll go away when they’ve got enough pictures to hold them over” Carly remarks, aiding her new boyfriend in the ways of preventing paparazzi from getting the attention they crave so desperately. “And you deal with this every day?” Brant wonders aloud, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long, black trench coat, “wouldn’t these idiots get sued if you had schizophrenia or something?”
“You mean epilepsy?” Carly retorts, earning little more than a dismissive shrug in response to her correction. “I follow big numbers, not words” Brant replies, his teeth a shade of pearly white unobtainable for those that don’t come from wealth, something the woman whose hand holds the inside of his elbow doesn’t appear to mind. “I guess they could” Carly answers, trying her best to provide clarity for the question in the way it was asked, “I think it would be pretty hard to discern who was responsible though. If you were to have an epilepsy attack right now, which one of them would have done it?” The question one not intended to be answered honestly, Brant does his best to gauge the look of those following him, the bulbs to every camera flashing with each picture snapped. “I’d say that one” Brant replies, pointing to a husky gentleman in a blue and green windbreaker with pink, nylon accents, “he’s fat, bald and has horrible taste in clothing.” Squinting her eyes and tilting her head to the side, Carly looks to the man walking alongside her with a curious gaze, his eyes never once falling upon her to see it for himself. “I’m not sure that’s how that works, but alright then” the eight o’clock anchor remarks, shaking her head and shrugging off the retort. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t just blame one of them at random if you could get away with it” Brant quips, turning to look at the woman as their trail proceeds onward. “I don’t think it’d matter. I’d be suing them for it, and I’m pretty sure I make more in half a year than they all do in the course of a year collectively” Carly replies, passing a look of disgust at the paparazzi following closest to her unattended side, his brown coat and dad-esque blue jeans a combination that strikes her as odd. “Alright, what if you could just get one of them arrested at random” Brant reiterates, trying to phrase the question in a way they can make light-hearted banter out of, “who would you choose?” With a squint and the reclining of her head, Carly looks up at the financier beside her with another curious look. “None of them. Why would I want them in jail?” the woman answers honestly, watching a surprised look come over her date for the evening. “Don’t you hate them?” Brant asks back, passing a few disgusted looks of his own at the camera-wielding entourage, “at least maybe not like them enough to want them to go to jail?” Shaking her head adamantly, Carly looks to the man with a puzzled expression, her glances of playful dismissal beginning to turn toward outright disinterest in the topic being discussed. “No, that’s stupid” Carly responds, unable to see the fascination her boyfriend has in the concept of wrongful imprisonment, “why do you think I’d be okay with that?” Stared at as if she were the one walking an odd rope for what the occasion calls for, the anchor watches her wealthy partner stare ahead at the sea of flashing bulbs as they march onward, nearing a crosswalk a few yards ahead. “Because everyone has that person they hate!” Brant responds with a strange laugh, his guidance of the dialogue only appearing more odd with each second that it passes. “Well, I don’t” Carly replies, shaking her head in refusal as she attempts to further clarify her thought, “at least no one I’d hate enough to want to see end up behind-” “Brant Washington?” a voice calls out from behind the pair, their sudden turn putting a stop to the flashing of bulbs for just the moment. “Yeah, who are you?” the man asked for in specific wonders back, hands still tucked into his pockets. “Aiden, what the hell are you-?” Carly soon inquires, watching her ex-boyfriend approach with his hands by his sides, unable to finish the question before receiving her answer. With a strike as quick as the bulbs to the cameras that capture the altercation in real time, Aiden lays out his ex-girlfriend’s finance-centric date with a single punch to the jaw, standing back to watch the man crumble to the ground. “Aiden, what the fuck!?” Carly exclaims, shouting at the top of her lungs as the bulbs continue to flash, stepping out of her ex-boyfriend’s way as he lunges toward the ground, recovering the wounded financier and lifting him up. “Aiden, stop!” Carly shouts, pleading for her former lover to cease the assault to no avail, her words from the prior day having provoked them to begin with. Without offering so much as a reply, Aiden sets his sights on a nearby parked car and drags his victim by the neck, getting some leverage in his reach before taking off in a full sprint, throwing the man through the window and shattering it upon impact in the sights of the stand by photographers. His triumph sounded over the tune of a persistent car alarm, Aiden dusts himself off and tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, disregarding his ex-girlfriend’s shouts for his attention as he ventures back the way he came. Without a word, the executive producer walks past Carly and moves onward, letting whatever the outcome of his actions may be take place, walking off without a regret or concern for the actions he’d committed. = 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, August 12th, 2007 / \ 2:01 am est. - 11:01 pm pst. / With his hands coupled at his lap as his head rests against the concrete wall of his holding cell, Aiden whispers numbers aloud to himself, trying for anything he can use to pass the time. After a few minutes pass and his counting nears three hundred, a set of footsteps begin marching their way through the backrooms and toward the eight o’clock producer, the footsteps ones that he cannot recognise and does not try to, both eyelids pressed tightly together to keep from losing track of his count. Not knowing whom the footsteps belong to or whom their intended destination is being led to, Aiden continues with his count and drowns out the world that surrounds him, paying little mind and having little care for those responsible for bringing him in. “Two hundred and ninety two, two hundred and ninety three” the man continues to count, hearing the halt of the rustling footsteps, unaware that they cease their progression forward just beyond the iron bars of his cell. “Two hundred and ninety four, two hundred and ninety five” Aiden persists, keeping the pursuit of three hundred alive in spite of the figure standing beyond his cell’s entrance, “two hundred and ninety six, two hundred and ninety seven.” Listening to the shuffling of thin plastic, the eight o’clock producer continues counting, refusing to stop unless it’s outright demanded of him. “Two hundred and ninety eight, two hundred and ninety-nine” Aiden concludes, taking in a long breath before preparing to utter the final number, the rustling plastic bag falling silent in the pause he takes before hitting the ground with a loud thud just as he’d prepared to blurt out the final number in this string. Pulling his head off the wall and taking his eyes to the bag at the centre of his empty holding cell, the producer soon looks to his left with widened eyes as his cell is opened. “You’re lucky I talked him out of pressing charges” Carly remarks, her hands folded atop her lap as she sits in the seat beside her recently-arrested producer, a furrow in her brow. “I’m still confused as to why you did any of it” Aiden admits, shaking his head with a look of loss on his face, “bailing me out, talking him out of charges, picking me up- all of it.” Looking to her side, Carly stares at the man’s head but doesn’t receive the same gesture, her once lover’s eyes still steadfast upon the road that lies ahead. “Neither do I” the woman answers honestly, the street they still have left to traverse in the windshield soon reclaiming her sight. Nodding his head, Aiden lets the reply exist as stated and leaves the conversation to die there, no more interested in talking about matters than the eight o’clock anchor is. “I called Taylor. She’s letting Vickers know what happened and seeing if he can quash it from taking some headlines” Carly explains, looking down at her hands without knowing exactly where her eyes should be directed, “it’s a longshot that this stays out, so you’ll probably still end up getting suspended for a few weeks.” Letting a short sigh run through his nose, Aiden continues staring ahead, not desiring to direct his glare elsewhere. “Why did you do it?” Carly soon wonders aloud, the question resulting in the same reaction from the man sitting beside her, the woman’s eyes glued to the side of the man’s unmoving cranium. “You have as much of a right to ask me that question as I have of asking why you chose him- of all people- to screw around with” the producer replies, not holding honesty back. “We’re not dating. I can screw around with whoever I want” Carly retorts, a line that prompts her ex-boyfriend to nod in agreement. “Yes, you can” Aiden replies, continuing to maintain a level sight with the road ahead, stare not once wavering, “but- if you cared about me enough to bail me out of jail and take me home- there’d be a shortlist of people as off limits to you as there is off limits to me.” “Is that some bro code line or something?” Carly wonders aloud, eyes travelling back to the man she just can’t keep her sights from, “are you gonna go all Barney Stinson on me?” Though the remark was meant to be taken with humour, not an ounce of the amusement finds its way to the rigid producer, his head swaying delicately from one side to the other. “It’s just common dignity” Aiden replies, the woman’s eyes again kept toward him, falling apologetically, “you just wanted to hurt me.” From the split second glimpse of remorse to adamant refusal, Carly corrects the man’s final point, making her intentions clear. “I never slept with him to hurt you. Did I admit that I was sleeping with him to hurt you yesterday- or the day before, whatever?- yes” the anchor remarks, vehemently refusing any other such notion, “but I never slept with him to hurt you.” “I don’t understand why you had to set out to hurt me at all” Aiden replies, another gentle shake in his head. “Are you losing memories in that head? Have you got some case of amnesia I don’t know about?” Carly inquires, slightly defensive in tone as she speaks, “do you not remember the last conversation we had that lasted longer than a couple of lines?” “I accused you of cheating and gave you four or five chances to prove me wrong” Aiden answers, remembering the situation as clear as day, “you kept refusing, you proved me wrong and walked out of the car.” Nodding her head, Carly crosses her arms and increases the defensive posture she’d begun to sport. “Yeah, and you worked up a whole sweat thinking I’d lied to you” the anchor doubles down, “you didn’t trust me. The moment you find a reason to doubt me, it was like I was some thief.” “Alright, let me ask you a question” Aiden soon inquires, quickly given the floor by his ex-girlfriend to do so before finally redirecting his sights toward her, letting the simple question leave his lips with a stoic visage worn, “did I not have a reason to think you’d be capable of cheating?” Pulling her head back and letting her bottom lip hang slightly from the one atop, Carly shakes her head calmly in refusal without offering a reasonable answer, “that’s not fair” she replies. “Why? Why is it not fair?” Aiden wonders aloud, swaying his head more vehemently as he reiterates himself, “didn’t our relationship start because you used me to cheat on someone else? Have you not lied to guys before to cover your tracks? Why wouldn’t I think you’d be capable of cheating?” “It’s not fair to use my past against me like that” Carly doubles down, again not answering the initial question raised, something her ex-boyfriend disregards in favour of speaking toward her defence. “Life’s not fair, Carly! People don’t just let us live down our past!” Aiden proclaims, his voice slightly louder, though more than civil for the surroundings they sit within, “Shane still picks on me for the two years or so where I couldn’t speak to you without blushing. I’m a lot different now.” Pressing her lips together, Carly turns her eyes toward the road ahead as she recognises the next turn the driver prepares to make, aware that the journey they share together is nearing its conclusion. “We don’t just get to escape our past. It always comes back around to bite us, and it’s always going to be a part of us” Aiden explains, his voice beginning to subdue as he speaks the part he knows the woman will like the least, “if I’m being honest, people like you shouldn’t get to live it down.” “What does that mean?” Carly inquires, her nose slightly scrunched as her producer jumps at the opportunity to answer her question. “It means that people like you- that have hurt other people multiple times before- shouldn’t be allowed to just get the benefit of the doubt” Aiden rebukes, his expression as stiff as it had been whilst in the station’s holding cell, “I may not have approached the situation the best, but I know damn well I had every right to be suspicious.” Parting her lips to speak, Carly falls silent the moment she feels the car slow to a stop, briefly looking toward the road ahead before hearing the door beside her open. “Wait!” the woman remarks, calling out to keep Aiden from exiting the vehicle, though his brief glance back into the seat preempts the departing words he ends the night on. “I gave you chances. All I wanted was for you to show me a number in your call log” the man explains, “I had every right- every... right.” Her shoulders dropping as she lets out a defeated sigh, Carly feels the weight of the car disperse violently as the door is slammed shut, its tinted window presenting the woman with a faded view of her once-partner re-entering the same apartment he’d occupied prior to the kindling of their relationship. | \ Monday, August 13th, 2007 / \ 9:31 am est. - 6:31 am pst. / With his arms crossed, the primetime anchor watches a lump of dirt and grass kick up into the air amidst the messy swing of the club he watched sway from one end of the turf to the other. “I didn’t know you played golf” Grant remarks, watching Vickers- dressed in a plaid sweater over a yellow, short-sleeve button up, pink khakis and a visor- bob his head from one side to the other in displeasure at the course his ball had taken. “There’s a good reason for that-” Vickers replies, letting the club fall to his side as he looks to the younger man with a shrug, “-it’s ‘cause I don’t.” Retreating from the teeing box, the LMC president makes way for the anchor to take his place within the square, handing off his driver to the man in question. “Should I ask why you have a full assortment of clubs at your disposal and a country club membership?” Grant wonders aloud, stepping backward so as to keep his eyes on the man that accompanies him. “Is it really that far-fetched that I’d have a membership so I can have a place to get away and drink without being disturbed?” Vickers questions, watching his primetime broadcaster reach into his pocket and prepare a ball for the hole, a par three stretching three hundred yards. “Yes, because it still doesn’t explain the golf clubs” Grant replies, taking a quick look down the fairway as he earns his reply. “Is it really that far fetched that a man who owns a yacht he hasn’t taken onto the water since the late nineties would own a set of golf clubs just to fit in?” Vickers rebukes with a grin, watching the same expression be returned to him from the man that prepares to take his first swing. “Are you going to tell me why we’re here then?” Grant finally calls back into question, a quick glance over his shoulder at his superior taken as he sets up his shot. “Because it’s a really lovely place to have a chat” Vickers replies, aware of what his subordinate was actually asking, though choosing to be vague on purpose, “you and I don’t have too many of those, do we?” “Not since my first day at nine o’clock” Grant replies, steadying his feet and readying his swing, pulling the club back before expelling it through the air, the head colliding with the ball that sets sail for the vast distance. “It was quite the memorable talk, though” the anchor continues to speak, using the silence of Vickers’ quiet following of the home-bound ball to persist, “I wouldn’t have made it as far as I have without it.” “Holy shit, you might’ve just put the ball on the green” Vickers remarks in disbelief, his mouth hung open as his friend politely tucks the club back into the carry on. “You would’ve made it just fine without my speech” Vickers remarks, already fifty yards away from the tee in search of his ball, needing to catch up to his subordinate’s position a short thirteen yards from the hole. “You say that, but don’t forget how much it must’ve taken you to convince Taylor alone to be alright with bringing me in” Grant replies, shaking his head with lips puckered, “had I not pushed myself to come clean about everything, there’d have been nothing stopping that collapse.” “You say that as if the news team were Superman and you were some ultra-dangerous clump of kryptonite” Vickers replies, taking the first club his hand sets upon before preparing himself for the next swing. “I think it goes without saying that my reputation preceded me” Grant replies, standing a few feet off to the side, patiently waiting for his superior to take the next swing. “Reputation is only what you make of it. If you’re a decent fellow, you’ll be known as a decent fellow. You can’t just manufacture the kind of reception you get” Vickers explains, steadying his club and readying his aim, a brief glance toward the green still roughly two hundred and thirty yards away. “That’s why I tried to change it. I wanted to be someone different than what people thought I was” Grant explains, remaining silent for a moment as another shot is struck off, “to be seen for me.” “And you would’ve done that with or without me- because it’s what you wanted” Vickers replies, shrugging his shoulders as he shakes his head in displeasure at the route in which his ball had taken once more, “all I did was give you a push. Even without me, you would’ve found your way eventually.” With a squint, Grant remains quiet and keeps his beliefs otherwise to himself, allowing Vickers to carry on with whatever assumption he pleases. “Taylor’s one of the few bright spots this company ever had. Anything else was either a dark stain or just business” Vickers remarks, a smile on his face as he approaches his ball once more, “it’s a real miracle when an intern, coming from nothing and filling shoes the size of giants- as perverted and evil as they may be- goes well.” “Taylor’s a bright spot inherently. This company’s in a better place than it ever would’ve been if she’d never come aboard it” Grant remarks, a gesture the man prepared for his third swing refuses to argue against. “I had her portrait commissioned in her first week for that exact same reason” Vickers replies with a smile, “that woman is something special, and it pleases me to see that she’s found someone capable of at least giving her a run for her money.” Flattered, yet dismissive, Grant shakes his head and crosses his arms as Vickers takes a third swing, watching the ball rip through the air and inevitably land within a sandpit just feet away from the green. “Now you see why I don’t play golf” the company’s president remarks, flashing his subordinate another smile before continuing onward, making way for his fourth shot on the day. “I can appreciate- and maybe even accept- being viewed as something special” Grant explains stepping farther off to the side to avoid any loose packs of clumped sand, “-as long as it’s not in her ballpark.” Having already readied himself for the next shot, Vickers pulls back from his fourth attempt and lets his wedge fall into the sand, his free hand finding a home atop his hip. “Taylor is like the family I never had. Never in my life have I regretted not having children, and I’m convinced part of that reason is because Taylor is more than a good enough substitute” Vickers explains, “I’ll admit, I put her in the chair that first week out of pettiness. I couldn’t believe what Barry had done to her, and I wanted to embarrass everything he left that show symbolising.” With a squint, Grant’s crossed arms loosen a slight bit as the man standing across from him takes notice of his change in expression. “How much about that story did she tell you?” Vickers inquires, not wanting to speak out of line from what had already been spoken. “More than enough for me to spare the gruesome details” the anchor replies, watching the president bow his head with a grimace. “That bastard deserved what he got” Vickers explains, nodding his head in reassurance, fueled by the passionate hatred he holds for the man in question, “the fact that she walked onto his set and made it her own cannot be understated. There are plenty of badasses in this world, but goddamnit- none of them hold a candle to Taylor English.” Keeping silent out of his vocal agreement being unnecessary, Grant watches Vickers plant his feet in the sand and prepare his next shot, a gentle sway of the club through the air finally placing the president’s ball on the green. “I’ll agree that Taylor is far superior to you, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re special too” Vickers remarks, returning his attention to the man joining him on the green. “It takes a real man to go on air and say ‘I fucked up’ and own it. Like I said, you would’ve done it without me as well- I just gave you that little push” the president persists, approaching the ball once more, “don’t you ever wonder why you’re already in the inner circle she is? Why the newsroom looks up to you?” “Nope, I just appreciate that I am” Grant replies, watching his opponent prepare his fifth- and hopefully- final shot. With a smile and nod, Vickers takes a brief glance at the anchor before concluding his round, putting the ball in the cup and finally freeing his opposition the chance to play. “It’s a display of trust and respect. You and Taylor are leaders, you are one unit, and you are the lifeblood of this company” Vickers explains, his tone settling into a less-enthused reflexion as his opponent prepares his shot, “it’s why I can tell you that Robin’s dropping her offer with full confidence that you won’t tell anyone other than the misses.” Having already prepared his shot, Grant’s attempt is placed on hold as his eyes take toward the disheartened man a few feet from him, a grimace worn on his face. “She can’t get the capital for the deal by the time Ross needs it, and Russo already has another half a billion prepared to outbid her” Vickers explains, shaking his head with dissatisfaction, “whether we like it or not, Russo will be a significant shareholder in LMC by the start of next year.” With his bottom lip detached from the one above, Grant gently rests the club’s head against the ground and lets the grip fall from within his fingers. “What the hell does this mean for everyone?” the primetime anchor inquires, already having walked away from the dropped putter before it even had the chance to collide with the ground. “I’m not sure, but I’m certain he’s got other shareholders as friends he might be able to control the board through” Vickers replies, his arms crossed and the glove he wears on his right hand removed. “You remember what Taylor and I told you a few months ago, right? That he came up to us and said he wanted some of the ‘clock mechanism’ things in the company?” Grant wonders aloud, no longer able to subdue his curiosity, “what the hell did he mean by that?” “I have no idea. The assets LMC owns- hell, just the assets the news division owns outright- they stretch all sorts of things” Vickers explains, “he could be eyeing telecommunications, working partnerships, smaller stations abroad we control a substantial interest in- I have no idea.” Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Grant’s face takes toward the heavens as he begins walking away with hands on his hips, head soon bowing as he comes to a stop a few yards away from the cup. “Whatever he’s coming for- a small piece of it or as much of it as he can get his hands on- he’s coming for it” Vickers explains, unable to stop the wheels that have already been set in motion, “we need to be ready for whatever happens once he starts getting involved.” With his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth, Grant stares out at the cloudy sky for a moment before turning his sights toward the laid-out club, picking it up and preparing a half-hearted stance for his follow-up shot. “Let’s not waste anymore time then” the man remarks, putting the ball with precision for a clean birdie to win what ultimately becomes a one-hole game, his return of the club to its bag marking the starting process for what comes next. == Tonight at 9 == \ Thursday, August 9th, 2007 /
\ 11:27 am est. - 8:27 am pst. / “That might’ve been the most difficult show I’ve had to get through since the Giuliani fiasco” Taylor quips, twirling her pasta with the prongs of her fork, “it’s not that Vince doesn’t deserve to take his victory lap, it’s just annoying to be wrong.” Delicately slicing into his cooked salmon, Grant uses the silence promoted by his girlfriend’s bite to reply, “be glad you’re not a meteorologist then” the man responds before sliding the piece of his fish beyond his teeth. “If I were a meteorologist, I’d be covering some midsummer flash floods in South Carolina” Taylor retorts, finishing her bite before reaching for the glass of red wine beside her plate, “I’d much rather cover the evening news, thanks.” More than aware of such a fact, Grant chooses not to delve much further into the woman’s remarks than the simple quip he’d offered, continuing the peaceful enjoyment of their main course without the intention of speaking unless prompted. Thin straps over her shoulders proving a minimalist accent to the bright red dress she wears, Taylor eats the butter-cooked, tomato sauce-covered noodles atop her plate for another few seconds before speaking once more. “It’s been a pretty tense few months, huh?” she inquires, watching her boyfriend nod silently as his teeth sink into the soft meat of his seafood dinner. “That’s what happens when you know something bad might be in store and there’s nothing you can do about it” Grant answers honestly, lowering his fork to the side of his ceramic dish, “we’re playing a waiting game that only ends one of two ways.” Her chin hanging low, Taylor stares at her meal for a few seconds without replying, listening to her other half continue before he, too, halts. “We can’t let this weigh us down anymore than it already has” Grant clarifies, able to take his girlfriend’s pause as an indicator of something more than what she lets on, a simple break in her appetite not the cause for this underlying halt, “we don’t have a choice in this. The last thing we need to do is waste this time worrying ourselves over the stuff we don’t know.” Setting her fork upon the napkin just beside her plate, Taylor’s eyes wander off a few paces to her right as the man across the table from her awaits a reply. Using the nail on her thumb to gently scratch at her brow, the LMC anchor of eight years leans back in her seat and couples her hands atop her lap, feeling the soft, silky fabric her dress is composed of. Aware that a bigger conversation than the simple speak-and-reply is on the horizon, Grant takes a wipe to the corners of his mouth and releases his utensils, laying them beside his plate. “Robin’s not gonna be able to get the money in time” Taylor admits, leaving her statement open-ended for the man across from her to elaborate upon, his hesitancy to offer much not already said made evident. “Probably not, you’re right” Grant confesses, coupling both hands atop the table at the base of his plate, the steam from his fish still rising into the air. “And that means- probably in a few months- one of the biggest shareholders in the company is gonna be the same guy that owns Finley” Taylor remarks, again voicing a stance her boyfriend refuses to even make an attempt at arguing in opposition to. “Probably, yes” Grant admits, keeping his reserved posture in place as he waits for the bigger picture to be illustrated with the most vibrant shades of verbal paint his better half can provide. Bowing her head, Taylor remains quiet, not adding onto her previous statement as each passing second spent in silence only builds intrigue within her point more in the eyes of the man one table’s-length away. “Are you building to a point, or are we just trying to make sure we have all the ducks in a row?” Grant soon inquires, cutting through the brief tension left lingering in lieu of a follow-up with a well-earned inquiry. Wearing a frown, Taylor looks off to one of the many dim corners of the dining area- its lighting purposefully meant to present an atmospheric and quiet aura- questioning whether or not the conclusion her boyfriend had called for is worth voicing aloud. “What is it?” the man wonders aloud once more, persisting through the dismissal and purposeful oath to silence in search of what lingers upon her tongue’s very tip. “Just forget it. I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore” Taylor replies, shaking her head as her attention returns to the meal occupying the plate in front of her, hand reaching for the fork she’d politely set beside her plate before the voice ahead of her refuses the request for verbal advancement. “There’s something on your mind and I wanna hear it” Grant retorts, watching the woman look at him through her eyebrows, her lowered chin incapable of keeping her eyes from meeting the man’s own. “If you really don’t have anything to say, we can drop it” the man clarifies, wanting to keep from the woman being felt like she’s forced into a corner of demanded explanation, “but there’s something on your mind, it’s bothering you, and I want to try to make it better.” “It’s just something stupid that annoys me to even think about” Taylor responds, shaking her head gently as she reclaims full possession of her utensil, digging it into a small hill of spaghetti before lifting it to her lip, concluding her thought before taking another bite, “after eight years, it makes me sick to even think about considering it.” Wanting to respect his girlfriend’s wishes, Grant finds himself caught between two sides, each reacting in opposition to the other whilst offering as valid reason to be taken over the other. Visibly disheartened by everything from the situation, to the conversation, to what both provoke thoughts in her mind, Taylor lets another fork full of pasta slide into her mouth, watched by the man across from her that she already awaits hearing the voice of. “I won’t think less of you regardless” Grant mutters aloud, keeping his voice audible enough to catch the ears of his significant other, her eyes trailing up to him in silence. “I don’t want you to think that I’d look at you as less for whatever’s on your mind. I know that’s something you already know, but it’s something I don’t ever want to let you think about” the man further details, “if something’s bothering you, I want to know about it. Even if I can’t do anything, I still want to know.” Looking in the man’s direction for a few moments before lowering her eyes once more, Taylor pulls back in her seat and looks at the half-eaten plate of food sitting in front of her, considering what’s been said. Pressing both rows of teeth into her bottom lip as she builds the courage to break from the reluctant display she’d presented, the quiet anchor takes her glass into hand and downs every last drop of wine that sits within it, a satisfied sigh offered as she lowers the rim from her mouth. “I don’t know that I want to do this anymore” Taylor confesses the moment she’s given reprieve from the tall, transparent chalice, “I don’t know that I want to keep getting behind that desk when everything seems so rocky and ready to fall out from under our feet.” Clearly having withheld every last bit of this revelation to the best of her ability, the distressed anchor comes clean with what’s coiled around her mind like a snake to a mouse, letting everything free at once. “I’ve spent eight years coming into work, busting my ass, and trying to leave something behind that dwarfs the guy that tried to take everything from me. For eight years- I have loved that place” Taylor admits with a smile, her head shaking as she admits her uncertainty toward what lies ahead, “and now, I might be watching the final few months of it tick by before it changes forever- and not in a good way.” Finishing her remark, Taylor lets out a deep sigh as she stares off into the distance, visibly relieved to have such a monumental weight lifted off her shoulders. Sliding her fingers through her curly hair, the woman’s attention is called for by her boyfriend after a few solitary moments, his calm voice bringing her back to a level earth she’d distanced herself from in recent weeks. “You’re not alone” Grant explains, watching her demeanour remain unchanged for the moment, “I know it’s cliche to say that, but it’s true. If anything, I’m just glad I’m not the only one that feels that way.” Though it takes a slight convincing, Taylor’s visage gently turns into a look of conviction, one reassured by the man’s own uncertainties, making her feel as though she truly isn’t on her own in these feelings. “I know I haven’t been here as long as you have, but I’ve still gotten to see some of the best LMC’s got to offer. It really fucking sucks to think some fat prick with a surplus of oil wealth might come in and rock our goddamn worlds” Grant explains, watching his girlfriend’s disheartened expression begin to lighten, “after everything with Howard, and Kelsi, and the Giuliani nonsense, I was just ready to get on with doing the news. That’s all- I just wanted to do the news.” Her displeasure subdued, Taylor remains silent as her boyfriend continues to speak, enamoured with every word that he utters. “After that night at Vickers’- with Ross and Robin- it felt like everything was starting to fall apart. Like Robin buying him out was a lifeline- what Kelsi was with Howard- something we used to keep our hope going” Grant carries on, leaving nothing to the imagination, “watching that lifeline get severed like that made me feel like chaos was just never-ending.” Softening in his seat, Grant’s dejection-filled face begins to lighten into a visage more youthful and optimistic in nature, his words following a similar verbal trajectory. “After a couple of days of that, I started asking myself why it mattered so much. Not why LMC did, or why you did, or why any of it did- but why Russo did” the gentleman recalls, watching his girlfriend’s expression follow a similar upward path as his does. “Russo may be big, but he’s nothing compared to the fish we’ve already fried. Sure, they’d been having the human equivalent of raw sewage dropping by every now and then, but he wasn’t worth worrying over” Grant continues, able to see the path of his girlfriend’s eyes changing, taking the same turn alongside him that he’d already begun to traverse ahead of time, “with everything we’ve overcome, there’s no way that fear-mongering prick should concern me in the slightest.” Finally cracking the faintest smile in the corner of her mouth, Taylor finds her pessimistic outlook softening to the point of collapse, each word her partner utters speaking to the determined, fiery heart she wears openly. “From my perspective, this chump is below us in every way shape, manner, and form” Grant concludes, lifting his fork and quickly stabbing into the centre of his salmon cut, letting the utensil stand out of the fish with ease, “his kind of scum won’t bother us.” The faint grin having grown into an outright smile, Taylor hides her expression of amusement behind puckered lips and lifts herself from the chair, rounding the table to her boyfriend’s side. In spite of no solution being offered to the problem at their hands and nothing more than a few words of defiance shared, the woman takes her seat upon the man’s lap and places a hand to each side of his face, her lips quickly pressing into his before pulling away with the same pleased look. “I love how you get me” Taylor remarks, watching her smile find itself duplicated in her boyfriend’s face, his eyes meeting her own as he swipes her loose locks of hair behind one ear. “It’s my greatest accomplishment in life” Grant responds, pulling the woman in for another kiss as the evening continues to age, one minute after another bringing the couple into the dawn of yet another new day. = 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, August 10th, 2007 / \ 1:34 pm est. - 10:34 am pst. / “It’ll just get worse before it gets better” Doug replies, looking to the head of the conference table that he and the rest of his eight o’clock colleagues occupy, “the guy upstairs called it. The banks are constricting and firms are shutting down.” Pulling his eyes out of a folder of papers, Aiden looks to the man speaking with a nod, “the dollar isn’t worthless, the banks aren’t burning down and the federal reserve isn’t depleted. Let’s not write home about a crisis just yet” he concludes. Letting the stack of documents fall onto the table ahead of him, Aiden silently stares at the empty seat to the exact opposite end of the table from where he sits, a subtle look of displeasure worn upon his face. “We’re going heavy on the domestic stories tonight, if anyone is opposed to that- speak your peace” the executive producer announces, standing from his seat with eyes on the unimposing gathering, not a soul offering a rebuttal to such declaration. “Great. Meeting adjourned” Aiden concludes, reaching toward the table’s surface to shuffle his papers together, letting the crowd of producers spill out of the conference room as he organises the various articles he’d entered with. Keeping to himself as his peers disperse, Colin pretends to gather his belongings until only he and the executive producer remain, the room filled only by the sound of the second hand ticking along the nearest wall. “Does she just not show up to these things now?” the associate producer inquires, the question earning the attention of his superior, who pulls his eyes away from the loose notes he bundles together. “What?” Aiden asks aloud, not understanding the question as it was intended. “Carly hasn’t shown up to the rundown meetings since June, what gives?” Colin reiterates, looking to the man for clarity on something he’s entirely unsure of, “does she just not come to these anymore?” Lifting his eyebrows, Aiden returns his sights to the folders of notes he stacks upon each other, shaking his head as he thinks of a reply to offer. “Carly’s got a lot going on at the moment. We put together a show in here, get it put down onto a script and send her to air with it” the executive producer answers, a dismissive grin paid back to his subordinate, “it saves her time and frees her up to tend to other matters. It’s optimal for the way things are now.” Nodding, Colin lets his response answer the man’s reply before uttering a sheepish “okay” as he stands up, turning around to exit the conference room. “Why? Is there something you wanted to tell her?” Aiden wonders aloud, taking notice of the man’s sudden attempt at departure, “I can pass it along if you’d like?” “Oh no, it’s okay” Colin replies, slightly anxious at the social situation he finds himself in, not often left in a conversation without the involvement of his peers, “it’s just a bit disappointing when she’s not here, y’know?” Squinting, Aiden presses his open palm against the table and looks to the man responsible for provoking the discourse by staying behind, looking for added context. “No, I don’t know” the superior responds, a curious look in his eyes held as he returns the question, “what do you mean?” Stuttering silently, Colin tries to speak at first as his lips can do little more than briefly press together and quickly pull away. “It’s- it’s just that- it’s off. It feels off” the associate replies, tucking his leather-bound folder of papers beneath his arm, pressing it close to his side, “it just feels like the energy’s kinda gotten sapped out of here without her.” Keeping his mouth shut as his chin lifts into the air, Aiden stares off at the distance for a moment as he takes his subordinate’s feedback into consideration, letting it sit with him before following through on his end of the conversation. “I’ll see if I can try to help that along, alright?” the lead producer retorts, wanting to do right by his staff in spite of the task it calls for him to undertake, “thanks for bringing it to my attention.” With a brief smile and the bow of his head, Colin leaves the room with a slight release of tension, heading directly for his desk as he’s watched on by Aiden, the man’s path taking his executive producer’s line of sight directly toward one specific office in the back of the bureau. With a begrudging expression on his face, the man standing alone in the conference room looks on at Carly’s office, her figure able to be made out from behind the frosted glass concealing her within. | \ Friday, August 10th, 2007 / \ 3:41 pm est. - 12:41 pm pst. / “Well, they haven’t started boycotting. That’s gotta count for something” a man in his mid-forties remarks, wearing a clean-shaven face and recently-cut brown hair, “eight o’clock may not be bleeding viewers anymore, but they’re not gaining any ground in the key demo.” Sitting a few seats to the right, Vickers lets his head lean atop his hand, elbow digging into the hardwood surface of the spherical desk he and a number of important executives in the company occupy. “He provided you with a plan when he was promoted to E.P at eight o’clock. It was clearly outlined that the timeframe to see results is still in a year’s time” Vickers remarks, defending his respected subordinate whilst facing the familiar woman at the head of the table. “No, the timeframe to see the result is still in a year’s time” the man responsible for bringing up the topic to begin with corrects, “his estimates suggested a five percent lift in the demo by now. He hasn’t gotten there.” “He hasn’t gotten there yet” Vickers corrects, matching the amendment of the man he speaks to with one of his own. “That’d be more than enough reason to justify removing him from the position in good faith on Robin’s part” the younger gentleman in the black suit and white dress shirt replies, turning his focus to the woman at the table’s forefront, “a painless termination for a minute sum, or a demotion he probably was in line for weeks ago at this point.” “What do you expect of the kid, Reece? He’s had how many shows without his lead anchor behind that chair?” Vickers inquires, arms extended in the direction of the man he argues against, “if we have to keep reminding you of how important to the plan it was to feature the woman with the large breasts as often as possible, we’ll all end up on some registry.” “With Carly or without, if he was good at the job- he would’ve gotten results by now” Reece retorts, placing his uncapped pen beside the pieces of paper that sit atop the table in front of him, “it’d be one thing if he were trying to make a push for the key demo, but he’s doing so at the expense of the demo we already have. If he keeps it up, the ratings will tank in months and never recover.” “What statistics do you have to back that theory up?” Vickers inquires, turning his focus fully toward the man advocating for Aiden’s removal from the E.P position at eight o’clock. “He’s just spent twenty minutes telling you his statistics, Sam” Robin interjects, not pleased with having to argue against her own employees, though forced in her position to assume the role of a moderate, “he’s gradually losing viewers that aren’t coming back and he’s plateauing in the key demo.” “And the loss of those viewers is making the host of the program look less worth the millions she’s being paid while we’re at it” Reece interrupts, “having a pretty face and curves can only get you so far.” Shaking his head, Vickers wipes at his brow with the shrug of his shoulders, eyes firmly placed upon Robin. “He hasn’t shown the improvement he implied would be here, but we also haven’t given him the fairest chance we could have” Vickers remarks, “there was a reason you were forced to lift Grant’s suspension, Robin- this was part of it.” Placing the side of his hand against the cylindrical table, Reece voices the same opposition he’d taken throughout the meeting’s duration. “He hasn’t gotten the fairest chance, but that doesn’t excuse the poor performance” Reece explains, seeing the argument made for its valid points whilst speaking to those of his own retorts, “at some point, Robin, you’re going to have to decide whether or not this experiment is something you’re willing to bleed money over.” Wearing a frown, Robin’s eyes fall to the coupled hands she places atop the table, stricken much deeper by that remark than the man responsible for uttering it realises. | \ Friday, August 10th, 2007 / \ 5:03 pm est. - 2:03 pm pst. / Tapping his knuckle against the glass door three consecutive times, Aiden lets himself into the office of a woman who refuses to reply and places a stack of papers upon her desk. “The written script is all there, it’s loaded onto the prompter and fixed for time” the executive producer remarks, watching the broadcast’s host bob back and forth in her seat with eyes glued to the full-screen display of her new smartphone. “Yup” Carly replies, even the tone of her voice carried with the manner of someone too preoccupied to pay the man his decencies. Nodding to himself, Aiden turns his eyes toward the door he’d entered through only seconds prior, the office’s visitor ponders over whether or not to depart before his instincts get the better of him, capturing him and assuming control. “The staff feels like you’ve been too distant for their liking. It’s making people uncomfortable and I told them I’d let you know” Aiden remarks, passing the word like he’d vowed Colin he would do, the gesture earning almost no reply from the engrossed anchor. “And now you have” Carly replies, face still buried in the LED’s of her touchscreen phone, not a glance taken in the direction of her executive producer, “you can leave now.” Looking to the heavens with a disgruntled stare, Aiden chooses his hill to die on and turns around to make for the office’s exit, his relationship with the woman on as rocky ground as it had been the night they broke up. Pushing his arm out, the showrunner opens the office door and steps back into the bureau, looking into the newsroom to find all of his employees working on their own projects, keeping to themselves aside from one man, whose face looks at him from a distance. With his head leant to the side, Doug stands over one of his subordinates with an arm pressing against the base of their desk, his ear listening to the words they use to speak to him whilst his judgemental stare is held upon his superior, almost daring him to finish the job he’d enter the office looking to complete. Not needing to be delivered this message verbatim, Aiden reads his right hand man’s posture and eyes, taking from it all he needs to understand what’s being demanded of him. Turning back, Aiden lets the door to his ex-girlfriend’s office slowly shut as he steps back in, standing before the woman’s desk with his hands tucked into his pockets, waiting for the door to shut before speaking. “Being mad at me doesn’t give you the right to neglect the others” the executive producer remarks, watching the woman’s eyes claw their way free from the screen of her phone, taking to the man whose presence leaves a sour taste in her mouth. “Be mad at me, be pissed off, consider me an asshole- whatever. I’ve got you from eight to nine, and if I really wanted to, I could make you look like a talentless hack good for nothing more than shoving her chest out” Aiden continues, getting more insulting the longer he speaks, “I don’t, because I’m not letting what happened between us get in the way of my work. If you can’t grow the fuck up and treat the others with enough respect to show up, then quit and get the fuck out of my newsroom.” Spinning back the way he’d entered, Aiden reaches his hand out for the door before the voice to his back calls for his return, an obvious offence taken from his comments. “Whose newsroom?” Carly wonders back, watching her ex-boyfriend return his sights upon her, not an ounce of hesitation held in his posture, “the last time I checked, the show was called On-Air with Carly Carpenter. Does that fact evade you?” “Y’know, in times where I have to be the one to explain to the staff that you’ve got personal issues to sort out, yeah. As a matter of fact, it does-” Aiden replies, inching closer to the woman with slow steps, “-because, in those moments, it’s my newsroom.” With a smirk and a nod, Carly sinks back in her seat and kicks a foot atop the nearest foot stool, looking back to her phone and scrolling in favour of paying any further attention to the conversation unfolding. Believing his point to have been made, Aiden turns back and reaches for the door once more, preparing to depart before his ex’s voice prompts him to halt that effort in an instant. “I’m fucking Brant, by the way” Carly remarks, eyes still glued to her phone as she subdues a smirk, aware that her producer has now stopped his halt halfway through her door, frozen stiff as Doug watches on. “I just thought you’d like to know what’s going on with the people working in your newsroom” the anchor continues, unable to see the stoic expression of anger that Aiden wears across his face. Simmering where he stands, Aiden’s right hand clenches into a fist for a few seconds before releasing, each finger stretching as far apart from each other as they can manage. Pulling her gaze away from the device she holds in her palm, Carly looks up to watch her ex-boyfriend’s figure remain fixated on the newsroom, incapable of seeing the smile that soon creeps over his face. “Is there a problem?” Carly wonders aloud, continuing to make her attempt at egging the man on before watching him depart from the office without a word. “Head’s up” Doug whispers, passing Joey a warning as their superior draws near, the least-convincing smile stretching from ear to ear. Keeping his head aimed low, Aiden journeys across the newsroom and draws near to the same man he’d been convinced by the visage of. “You need something, man?” the senior producer inquires, watching the pleased shake of refusal Aiden returns to him before staying put. “Nah, I’m gonna take care of this one on my own, thanks” the E.P replies, stepping past the assortment of desks and venturing toward his office, Blackberry already in hand with a number dialled. “It’s Aiden. I need a favour” the man greets, wasting little time in getting to the brass tax of the conversation, raising a question just as the door to his office shuts, sealing the executive producer and his discussion within. == Tonight at 9 == \ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 /
\ 11:02 pm est. - 8:02 pm pst. / “It’s not that I’m against having this conversation over the finest steak in New York, but it’s not necessary to do so” Taylor quips with a smile, the dress she wears reflects the lights of the overhead chandelier hanging atop their mid-room table. “Even by your own standards, it’s not necessary to have an apartment in the city, but that doesn’t stop you from going to look at them” Grant replies, matching the woman’s hearty grin with his own, “why not take down the finest wine while we talk?” “Because we can do that at your villa instead” Taylor responds, politely handing her menu to the server as he prepares to leave, already having filled their glasses with a vintage blend. “I don’t have a thirty-two ounce steak there- let alone two” Grant replies, playfully jabbing the woman for matching his order exactly. “What? Are ladies not allowed to enjoy red meat?” the chipper blonde retorts, her smile still intact as she lifts her glass into the air. “What are we cheering for?” Grant inquires, following the well-dressed woman’s lead and lifting his glass into the air, gently tapping his rim against his co-anchor’s as the short lady with the mammoth appetite considers the options available. “To talking about the future” Taylor replies, one leg kicked over the other beneath the table, “with Howard in the rear view mirror, suspensions elapsed and the year already halfway over- it’s about time.” His lips curled at each end, Grant nods in agreement as he joins the woman in taking a sip of the bright red drink his bank account reacts to as if it were a poke in the side. “Our villa, by the way” the man remarks after a few brief seconds, correcting his girlfriend’s earlier statement to the initial rejoinder of a slightly-perplexed expression, “I know it’s in my name and I own all the land, but I don’t see it as my home any more than it is yours.” Recalled to the statement she’d earlier made, Taylor bobs her head as the glass in her hand is returned to the table, appreciative of the implication in spite of the incapability she has over fully agreeing with it. “Like I said, if things were to go south-” the woman begins to remark, only for her words to be kept from presenting themselves, her rebuke falling upon adamant deaf ears just as they had earlier in the day. “Even in the smallest chance- the smallest chance- that things don’t work out between us, the villa-” Grant begins explaining, only to cut himself short and correct himself, “-cabin! It’s a cabin, I don’t know how’ve you gotten me to start calling it a villa- it’s a cabin!” Covering her mouth in a fit of laughter that had nearly prompted her to spit out her second sip of wine, Taylor chuckles quietly to herself as her boyfriend fights through his own amusement to finish his initial remark. “The point I’m trying to make is that in the small chance- the tiny one- that things don’t work out between us, the cabin is big enough to where we could be on opposite sides and never run into each other” Grant concludes, finally preparing himself for another drink, “but that won’t happen, because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. End of story.” Though her pupils lower, Taylor’s face remains aimed at her boyfriend’s own, his answer having provoked a moment of self-inquisition upon the woman she wields to present her retort. “Then marry me” she finally concludes, watching her co-anchor follow through on returning his glass to the table, fully aware of what she’d suggested and purposefully unresponsive to it for a moment. Though her lack of addition to the statement has initially been meant as an invitation for the man to speak, the lack of his voice prompts the woman to continue, providing elaboration in spite of it not being intended. “I haven’t had the easiest road in life. Professionally, romantically, personally- you name it and I’ve seen a few speed bumps” Taylor explains, not wanting to use his lack of an inquiry to prevent herself from being honest, “I’ve seen good things go. I want to be sure of this.” As she finishes, the nine o’clock anchor watches her boyfriend stand from his seat and step off to the side of the table, his display prompting her to immediately talk him out of it. “No. Don’t propose here ‘cause I won’t accept it” Taylor remarks in good spirits, watching the man pause mid-step, the plan she’d sought to put an end to the exact plan he’d attempted to perform. “So, do you want me to marry you or not?” Grant queries, still frozen mid-step before being gestured to return to his seat by the woman across the table from him. “What I don’t want is for you to get down on a knee and propose to me just so I don’t go out apartment hunting anymore” Taylor responds, still showing her teeth with the welcoming smile she’s worn throughout the entire night. “I want to marry you. It’s got nothing to do with the apartment or the villa- cabin, fuck!” Grant explains, cracking the woman up once more with his slip of the tongue, “I know I’d never thought to do it until now, but that doesn’t change how much I want to.” Letting the man speak, Taylor reaches for her glass and takes yet another sip of wine, hearing the man’s explanation before responding in kind. “If I didn’t suggest you marry me, you wouldn’t have thought to propose” she replies, a correction that her boyfriend can’t necessarily argue otherwise, “even if your intentions are good, that’s not how I’d want it to go.” Resigning to defeat, Grant sits further back in his seat with both hands atop the table, wrists pressing into the edges as he softens his voice to a more subdued pitch. “How do you want it to go?” he wonders aloud, raising the question for the woman to answer, only for her attempt to fall unsuccessful instantly. “Hi, excuse me- I’m not interrupting something, am I?” an older gentleman with a rather bulbous gut inquires, leaning toward the centre of the couple’s table with his voice at a whisper. Unfamiliar to the pair of anchors, the man wastes little time in pulling a chair from a neighbouring table and occupying their presence. “Who are you?” Grant wonders aloud first, voicing the same question that he and his significant other share. “Albert Russo, I own the Finley Networks” the man replies dismissively, making himself comfortable in the seat he was not welcomed to. “Anything you might think you’re able to say to us right now would be considered tampering” Taylor warns, not wasting another moment to make her thoughts on the man’s appearance clear. “I’m not interested in either of your services on primetime” Burt replies, his right arm draped over the table as his left sits on his lap, “talking the two of you out of your gigs at LMC ain’t why I’m here.” Forced to listen more intently in light of their visitor’s thick, Brooklyn-based accent, the couple wait for the man’s continuation in silence, completely dropping their original conversation in favour of hearing out the reasoning behind their guest’s presence. “The two of you are pretty close to Robin Walker, right?” Burt inquires, watching the brief turn of Taylor’s eyes toward her boyfriend and taking it as an affirmative answer. “Great, I’m gonna need to ask the two of you for a favour. In return, I’ll give you whatever the hell it is you could want” the billionaire remarks, settling the waters in order to make it easier to part the sea he prepares to venture across, “talk her out of matching my offer for her husband’s stock.” With her eyebrows furrowed, Taylor’s face follows the path her eyes had taken in fixating upon her boyfriend, who remains stoic in his seat- expression unchanged and posture as present-minded as it had been at their third-wheel’s introduction. “Without going too much into detail, there are a few things within LMC- like the mechanisms in a grandfather clock- that I’d like to get a look into” Burt explains, staring at the table his fingers dance across whilst he speaks. “How would you even have enough in liquid to make that kind of offer this fast?” Taylor inquires, asking the questions her boyfriend chooses not to. “The way my funds are allocated isn’t important to you. What is- would be the things I could make happen for the two of you if you can make this thing happen for me” Burt retorts, puckering his lips and nodding to the woman before taking the same demeanour to her boyfriend, “sound like a plan?” Through silence with a grimace, Grant turns his eyes toward the woman sitting across from him, her displeased expression more than able to be understood in its portrayal alone. “Who’s dead!?” Vickers exclaims, watching his premier hosts storm into the luxury flat he calls home with purpose behind every step. “How the hell could you not tell us that the fat dipshit from Finley was putting an offer down for Ross’ shares!?” Taylor exclaims, the first to make it to the apartment’s living room with her boyfriend following closely behind. “Burt Russo is making an offer!?” Vickers shouts as his hands flip the nearest lightswitch, his youthful vigour incapable of injecting believability into the words he utters. “Oh, don’t act like you wouldn’t have been the first person Robin told!” Taylor barks back, her finger pointed in the man’s direction as the company president’s head lowers, unable to support the ruse he’d attempted to pull. “Oh, I wasn’t the first! I was the third!” Vickers replies, hearing his first name called out from the young woman’s mouth before defending his claim, “what!? She told her financial advisor and her lawyer before me!” “Sam, that’s not what I’ve got a problem with!” Taylor corrects, adding emphasis to her frustrations, “I don’t know why you wouldn’t tell Grant, but I’m fucking clueless as to why you wouldn’t tell me!” Letting out a loud sigh as he presses his hands to his face, Vickers wipes the exhaustion that’d been forced upon his visage in the wake of the anchors’ surprise visit, trying to let the air settle down for a moment before replying. “She only told me about it last night, and neither of us wanted you to worry about it” Vickers explains, watching his closest confidant roll her eyes and place her hands upon her hips as Grant stands by idle, not taking it as his responsibility to quell the grievances his girlfriend justifiably has. “Ross doesn’t want to sell to Russo anymore than you’d want to work for him. He’d expend all other options first” the LMC president assures, “Robin’s got time to get the funding together.” “Vickers, Ross just walked up to us- in the middle of the steakhouse- and asked us to convince her not to match his offer” Grant clarifies, letting the news settle with the man across the flat from him. “Well what did you say?” Vickers questions aloud, watching the anchor part his lips to respond before interrupting, “oh my god, why the hell were you two at a steakhouse at eleven o’clock at night!? Are you engaged!?” “Sam, I’m not that easy!” Taylor shouts back, her retort managing to spark the slightest chuckle out of her boyfriend in spite of the peculiar circumstances surrounding their visit, “and that’s not the point here!” With one hand tucked into his pocket and a waning smirk, Grant extends his free palm toward the president and answers the question asked of him. “We didn’t say anything. We got up and walked out before we could be served” the man confesses, “I hope the fat cunt didn’t eat our tip.” “Alright, at least it’s pretty clear that Robin’s in the market and Burt would stand no shot at obtaining the shares” Vickers replies, trying to look on the positive side of things before his longtime friend offers a rebuttal. “Yeah sure. Or- and I’m just spit-balling here- he offers even more” Taylor counter-argues, her voice getting softer as she suggests the alternative, “the man is worth well over twenty billion dollars, I think he can afford to outbid her if he wanted to.” “And you came here more than just to scold me, you came to warn me that he knows about it” Vickers concludes, finally recognising the more crucial aspect behind visiting him with such a confession so early in the morning. Left with their own thoughts, the anchors remain eerily quiet as their superior struggles with the information, realising the wrinkle in Robin’s plan is to be found in the minds of those aware of her interest. “Shit” Vickers soon murmurs, placing a hand on his hip whilst the other hangs by his side, draped in silk pyjamas that reflect the moonlight peering through the large windows he approaches the view of. = 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, June 8th, 2007 / \ 5:03 am est. - 2:03 am pst. / Roaming the eight o’clock newsroom, Shane ventures his way toward the bureau’s depths with an envelope in hand, staring up at the panopticon-like levels of offices above, the stretch it takes toward the heavens nothing in comparison to the reach his own newsroom offers. “Not as impressive, huh?” Doug calls out from off to the side of the workfloor, catching the visitor by surprise. “No, it’s actually kind of pathetic” Shane replies with a humoured tone, watching the senior producer of eight o’clock nod to himself. “Yeah, once you’re in the big time- all of this is kinda sad” the buff executive producer of nine o’clock continues, watching the man across the room from him stand from his seat and stretch. “All jokes aside, how long have you been here?” Shane inquires, watching the man’s hands fall to his sides as he departs the desk to approach him, curiously taking note of the sleep deprivation Aiden’s right-hand man at eight o’clock wears, “have you not gone home since yesterday?” With the simple shake of his head, Doug answers the question provided before his voice can catch up with his physical reply. “I never leave on Thursdays- don’t tell anyone” Doug responds, briefly peering toward the envelope carried in the man that had once held the ‘senior producer’ title not so long ago in the bureau upstairs. “Fridays are usually slow, so as long as I have a few stories locked and loaded that we didn’t spend a whole time on the week before, I’ve got nothing to do on the last day of the week” the eight o’clock lifeline explains, “I go home before the show starts and crash on my couch for a bit.” “And that strategy works for you?” Shane inquires, eyes pressing close together as he tries to read each twitch in the expression the newer member of the company wears. “I don’t like pushing things off. If I can get something done earlier than it’s due, that’s what I do” Doug reassures, extending his hand toward the visiting employee, “I’ll get him his mail.” With a squint, Shane reluctantly pulls the envelopes back, hesitant to hand them off to a man he admires the work ethic of, but doesn’t know all that much about. “It’s fine, I always leave his mail on his desk” the executive producer replies, nodding his head as a show of appreciation. “Hey, you do you, man” Doug replies, holding his hands up in a show of surrender at the moment restraint is displayed, “I figured I’d hand it off to him so you could get on with your day sooner, man.” “I’m sure he’ll be just fine picking it off his desk when he gets in, thanks though” Shane replies with a half-smile, assuming the mixed messages had been an innocent mistake. “When he- Oh, no- he’s in there” Doug corrects, watching his new acquaintance’s head pull back, eyes taking toward the office where a dim light reflects off the glass panels he can’t fully see through. “He’s- he’s in there right now?” Shane wonders aloud, at first assuming he had misinterpreted what the eight o’clock producer had stated. “Dude, he never left” Doug answers back, reaffirming his claim exactly as it had been taken, “that’s why I offered to take it to him.” With a curious look in his eye, the nine o’clock producer watches a figure step into the end of the glass case room, picking a folder off of a large pile atop one of the chairs in the office’s corner. “Why wouldn’t he have left with Carly?” Shane asks back, unable to receive much more than a shrug of uncertainty from the producer, “he never showed the other night, so I assumed they’d patched things up.” Grimacing as if he’d suddenly become pained, Doug winces with his teeth on full display as he shakes his head, finally providing his new pal with insight he’s actually privy to. “If whatever the hell it was between them yesterday was ‘patched up’, that ship’s about to sink fast” Doug corrects, gesturing toward the spherical newsdesk in the office’s corner, “they practically acted like the other didn’t exist.” Beginning to assume he’d read his friend’s absence the morning prior in the opposite way than it was intended, Shane takes his free hand and pats the only other soul in the bureau on the shoulder. “Thanks for letting me know, man” Shane remarks, appreciative for the help the tired producer could offer, “I’ll have one of my guys upstairs come down and take over for you around noon- you’ve earned a bit of sleep.” Nodding, Doug pats the man on the shoulder in return and lets him walk off, not needing to offer a word in order to present his appreciation for the kind gesture. “Don’t bother giving me the all-clear to come in, I’m doing so anyway” Shane remarks, opening the door to his friend’s office as quickly as his knuckles had knocked against its exterior. “I was actually going to say don’t come in- I’m busy” Aiden replies, looking at a piece of paper in his hand whilst pressing his back into the chair he occupies, glancing at the envelope his friend drops on his already-cluttered desk, “thanks, bye.” “Why the hell didn’t you go back to Carly’s last night and why does this office smell like an insomniac’s wet dream?” Shane inquires, peering to the side of his friend’s desk to find a stack of coffee containers. “Again, busy” Aiden responds, dismissing his friend’s questions before leaning into his desktop monitor, bathing his face in light unlike the water his body has gone without being drenched in for longer than a workday’s length. “If you don’t pull your face out of that screen, I’m gonna break it” Shane warns, watching his friend’s head bow as the man sighs, “your guys on standby don’t see anything worth looming over that screen like a schizophrenia loon.” Clearly displeased with his friend’s interruption, Aiden lets his quiet reply persist for another few seconds as he clears his head, trying to bring himself back into a state worth holding a conversation with. “I know what you’re going to say and I don’t need to hear it right now, Shane” Aiden soon remarks with more composure than he’d shown to that point, a calmness carried in his tone as he tries to reply amicably. “I wasn’t going to say anything, I was going to ask a question” Shane responds, aware that such a reply does little to change his friend’s immediate reaction, “what happened between you and Carly?” Letting out a long, drawn out sigh as he leans back in his seat, Aiden looks to his friend with a disheartened visage, eyes lowering just as the man responsible for asking the question does. | \ Saturday, June 9th, 2007 / \ 7:08 pm est. - 4:08 pm pst. / “Thank you” Ross remarks, handing his jacket to the flat’s owner with an appreciative grin, the plaid article of clothing intended to conceal his disease-plagued body from being too easily noticed. “Did the traffic get you, too?” Robin inquires, strolling out of the kitchen with a large glass of liquor in hand, a string of pearls worn around her neck and atop her dark green sweater, shifting with her every step on the way to the couch nearest to her. “No, the chemo did” Ross retorts, drawing closer to the nine o’clock anchors as they occupy the seats open beside the LMC owner, “modern medicine has my full support, but it takes longer than the construction crews downtown do.” Finishing a sip from the rim of her glass, Robin leans forward to rest the vessel upon the coffee table just a few feet ahead of her, watching her ex husband take a seat before being followed by his second wife. “Isn’t there a saying for that?” Grant inquires, taking the seat to the left of his girlfriend, an arm draped across the side of the sofa whilst his free limb sits atop Taylor’s lap, his hand in hers, “if you want something done right, save up a few minutes of wait time? That’s a saying, right?” Shaking her head, Robin’s gesture responds with the same rebuttal the flat’s owner puts into words. “No, but it’s a fine motto to live by” Vickers answers, taking a glass of expensive wine off his countertop with a pair of glasses in hand, “though, I thank you for making me look more intelligent in comparison just by being present.” With a half grin and nod, Grant lets one of his few superiors take the victory as his eyes drift toward the living room’s depths, the conversation returning from its brief spell of venturing upon other paths. “Let’s get this show on the road so Ross, here, doesn’t have to waste a minute more of his already-limited time” Robin explains, earning a delicate chuckle from her ex-husband, genuine amusement taken in the light-hearted banter they share, “we already know why we’re here.” “There’s a difference between why we’re here and what we’re here for” Ross retorts, waving off an offered glass of white wine from the apartment’s owner that his wife soon takes graciously, “we’re here to talk about me selling to you, right?” Her face tightening just slightly, Robin’s eyes veer off to the side as she pauses for a moment, nodding back in lieu of her lack of an immediate response. “In a way, yes- we are” the twenty-one percent owner replies, her hands coupling together atop her lap, resting on the right thigh that sits crossed over her left, “it’s just not going to be as fast as signing a check and shaking hands right now.” With a squint in his eye, Ross lets the woman’s retort sit with him for a moment before replying with the first question that comes across his mind, Kaye taking the drink offered to her lips as her husband proceeds with the conversation. “How long are we talking before you have the capital for this deal?” Ross wonders aloud, his patience for the woman’s reply joined by the anchors that sit beside her, both sets of eyes pulling toward her direction with a curious gleam in their eye. “That depends on whether we’re talking the quickest I can get it, or what’s most likely” Robin answers, fingers interlocking with each other as her palms move to the cap of her knee. “The quickest I can get five-point-five billion would be by December” Robin responds, her head lowering the moment her ex-husband’s visceral expression of displeasure meets her, “the most likely would be by next summer.” Having spent the last few moments hunched forward with elbows pressed into each thigh, Ross’ back meets the comfort of Vickers’ sofa as he pushes himself back, eyes widened and held toward the ceiling. “Robin, I’ve got a few months at best” Ross soon responds, having spent the last few seconds trying to search for any timeline that could make such an arrangement possible, “that could mean six months, it could mean less.” “That’s why I’ve had an entire team run through this. Multiple times over, everything I own and what’s most likely to sell fastest. I have the capital” Robin explains, something that none of the flat’s occupants deny, “we can set down the perimetres for the deal now and put it through when I make it liquid.” Turning his eyes toward the distant window, Ross thinks quietly to himself as his ex-wife continues speaking, trying to state her case. “Isn’t waiting to get a deal done with me optimal to having to make a deal with Burt-goddamn-Russo?” Robin wonders aloud, leaning back in her own seat as the selling man’s sights turn back toward her, “for fuck’s sake, even if I low-balled you, it’d be a better deal than signing off to Russo on principle alone.” “It’s more than just principle, Robin! I wouldn’t be selling if there wasn’t a reason!” Ross exclaims, raising his voice to the highest octave he can manage in the fragile condition he sits within, the remark prompting all eyes not privy to his situation to take the turn toward curiosity. Hanging his head as he swipes his hand at the ground, the wealthy founder steps to his feet under his own power, hand placed against his forehead as he draws closer to the window. “Yeah, and you said it was ‘cause Kaye didn’t want you passing down the shares?” Vickers wonders from across the room, standing beside his countertop with the bottle of wine still in hand. Letting out a sigh, Ross steps closer to the window and eventually places his knuckle against the transparent boundary between himself and the glory of midtown Manhattan. “I’m selling the shares so I can buy out Verosoft” Ross confesses, continuing to stare out at the city and the towers that light its rapidly darkening sky. “Burt’s offering five and a half billion for coverage. The four billion for the worth of the shares, another billion to buy out Verosoft, and another five hundred million to settle whatever lawsuits I’ve already got going on over Tracer Pharmaceuticals” the founder explains, “his offer gives me- or Kaye rather- one-point-five in wiggle room.” “And that wiggle room is good enough for you to swallow your pride and sell to the same guy that’s made it his mission to trash LMC at every corner he could?” Robin questions aloud, shaking her head as she steps out of her seat, confronting her ex-husband in the centre of the room, “four billion is more than enough to do whatever last-minute purchasing you’ve got to do before adding the farm to that last!” “So now you’re offering four billion?” Ross questions back, watching the woman shake her head amidst offering a reply. “No, I’m telling you that my money’s purer than anything he can offer!” Robin answers, hands finding their place upon her hips, “but if you want my money before you kick the bucket, you’d have a much quicker shot getting four than five and a half!” “I’m not buying Verosoft as a stupid gag gift, I’m buying it for the tech I needed to fulfil my obligations in Tracer” Ross explains, hand taking toward his wife’s direction, “I’ll take every goddamn penny I can get to leave her with a clean slate. Settle every lawsuit, keep two companies on the same track and corner the medical tech industry.” “And my money isn’t good enough to let you do that?” Robin responds, quickly watching her ex-husband lower his face closer toward her own before replying. “You’re money isn’t enough” Ross answers in kind, presenting honesty as he steps past the woman and gestures for his wife to leave the sofa, already well-prepared to depart as soon as they had arrived. “I don’t have any more time in life to hold grudges- especially when they leave me losing out on one-point-five billion” Ross explains, strolling through the commons area under his own strength before reclaiming his coat and opening the door. “I need the money before October, all five and a half. If you can’t present me with a deal that gets it done, I’m selling” the billionaire concludes, stepping through the front door and closing it behind himself, leaving the discourse to die where he leaves. Going quiet for a moment, the room sits in silence amongst the four remaining inhabitants, not one of them wanting to be the first to speak before the newest member of the circle falls upon the undesired sword. “Alright, what the hell do we do now?” Grant inquires, watching Robin look at him briefly before taking her sights to the longtime friend that stands across the room from her, Vickers tongue pressing into the roof of his mouth as his lips shift to the side at a loss. “I’m not sure” Robin replies, crossing her arms as she throws a huff of air from her lungs, a defeated shake of her head all that she can display with certainty. == Tonight at 9 == |
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