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Season 3 Finale
\ Monday, August 20th, 2007 / \ 6:19 am est. - 3:19 am pst. / “Even though I’ve spent every weekend with you here since we got back from Italy, I will never understand how you can do this every single morning” Taylor remarks, watching the cabin’s owner knot his necktie perfectly whilst staring into a mirror. “Because I have patience and like my privacy” Grant retorts, staring at the woman standing within the doorway to their bedroom’s adjacent bathroom through the reflection in his standing mirror, “it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” Rolling her eyes with a soft laugh, Taylor turns back for the bathroom and begins putting away the individual pieces of her makeup kit, every stick of lipgloss, every brush and every bottle tucked into a neat bag made to fit into the larger one she travels with. “As glad as I am that you’re willing to be the brave warrior willing to drive four hours to and from, I couldn’t” the woman responds from within the echo-producing washroom, “at least, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.” “I don’t buy that for a second, but keep trying to convince yourself of that. Maybe one day you’ll actually believe it?” Grant rebukes, straightening his tie before taking a seat in the chair nearest the room’s corner. “There’s a reason I have a place in the city. I can’t just live at work, sleep in my chair, and repeat the process the next day” Taylor replies, scrunching her face as her head bobs from one side to the other, “I need to do things like lay down and shower.” “Technically, you don’t need to. But yes, I agree- you should do those things from time to time” Grant quips back, looking in the bathroom’s direction without the ability of seeing his girlfriend from beyond the wall that separates them. With a sarcastic grin, Taylor peers past the doorway and flashes her glare toward her significant other, his shrug and mimicking of her expression the only thing to be returned to her. “If I remember correctly, you did say you’d be willing to do that if I married you” Grant recalls, resting his head against the knuckles on his hand as he stares at the television on the side of the room closest to the exit, “what makes the drive so much more bearable then?” Stepping out of the bathroom to place her handbag on the floor beside their king sized bed, Taylor removes her t-shirt and walks to the dresser her stored-away clothes reside in. “It wouldn’t be that the drive is any easier so much as it would be me willing to make a sacrifice of my own” Taylor replies, pulling a purple bra from within the top-most dresser drawer and sliding each strap over her arms, “I know how much you like this place, and I don’t quite mind it myself.” With a squint, Grant keeps his eyes glued to the local news programme ongoing, sights purposefully withheld from the woman’s near-nude, rapidly-dressed body. “Don’t you think I’d be willing to get a place in the city with you instead of making you come back out here every day?” Grant inquires, unable to notice the woman’s turn toward him, “why would you have to be the one that sacrifices your time?” Having yet to reach for her blouse and still only in a dark purple bra, Taylor stares at her boyfriend with a look of curiosity, eyebrows furrowed and face slightly pressed inward. “You’d give up the cabin for me?” she wonders aloud, remaining stood with her eyes firmly upon the man whose sights only now draw toward her. “By the time that’d be in the works, I’d have already gotten down on my knee and proposed to you” Grant responds, carrying the casual cadence of a man speaking something into existence he’d have already assumed had become mutually understood, “I’d give up anything for you.” His eyes drifting back to the television as quickly as they had departed from it in favour of his girlfriend, Grant returns his attention to the ongoing story the local anchors report upon, the sky just beginning to brighten over Thompson Ridge whilst the broadcast’s picture paints a scene from whilst the sun was very much on the opposite side of the globe. With a steady smile in spite of her boyfriend’s distanced view, Taylor lets the man’s remarks settle within her, a hearty sense of pride and joy taken from the words seemingly offered to her as if in passing. Pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the tenured anchor turns back to her dresser and opens the second-highest drawer, sifting through a small stack of button up shirts in search of the one her mind is set upon. “I know it may not have been the way you would’ve wanted it, but you do know I was serious a few months ago, right?” Grant suddenly wonders aloud, prompting the woman to turn back, leant over the drawer with her attention reclaimed. “Serious about what?” Taylor responds, genuinely uncertain as to what the man is recalling her mind toward, but equally as intrigued at what the answer could be. “I know I didn’t have a ring, but I would’ve proposed to you at the steakhouse- or whatever it was- in June” Grant confesses, a divulgence his girlfriend hadn’t actually given much thought to until now. “You didn’t let me and- aside from knowing you want it to be genuine- I don’t know when you will” the cabin-resident continues, shaking his head in dismissal of the idea that he’s yet to earn the right to ask in her eyes, “but I will marry you. I’ll let it happen genuinely, but it will happen.” Her smile from before only growing wider, Taylor pulls away from the dresser and steps around their shared bed, not letting the mystery of where her desired blouse resides prevent her from showing the man how much his comment means. “You’re too good of a man for me to let go of without being seen as insane by anyone with a working pair of eyes” the woman replies, climbing atop his lap and placing her arms around him, “I could only be so lucky for you to ask.” Placing his hand around either side of the woman’s waist, Grant pulls his lover close and leans in, his lips pressing against hers before pulling apart for one sweet intermission. “When do you want me to?” the man wonders aloud, leaving the time, place and circumstances entirely in the control of the woman he offers his promise to, “it’s going to happen regardless, so tell me when the time will be in which you actually say ‘yes’.” With a deep breath, Taylor’s eyes wander toward the window just over their bed’s headboard, her chin pressing against her boyfriend’s forehead as his arms proceed with holding her close. “I’ll tell you what- just keep asking” she answers, pulling her head back to face the man that looks at her with an amused confusion, “when the time comes where I just can’t bring myself to say ‘no’, I’ll say ‘yes’.” “And you want me to just keep asking?” Grant whispers back, a smile held upon his face just the same as the one upon his lover’s own, her face leaning toward his for another kiss. “Just keep asking” Taylor remarks once more, her lips pressing against his for a few seconds before pulling apart, joining the rest of her body in returning to the task of dressing. “Will you marry me?” Grant soon asks, not even bothering to wait for his co-anchor to take more than one step away. “Not yet” Taylor answers, a smile and a wink returned before she continues her stroll to the other side of the room. “How about now?” the cabin’s owner inquires, slowly continuing to chip away at the playful boundary established between two answers, drawing an eye roll from his better half. “No, and no for the rest of the day” Taylor chirps back with humour, hearing the man’s fingers snap together with feigned disappointment as she walks off, “but I do admire your persiste-” Falling silent just as her eyes do upon the television, the half-dressed anchor finds herself entranced by the feed portrayed upon the wall-mounted television. Leaning forward in his seat, Grant peers at the television for a moment before looking back to his girlfriend at a loss, waiting for her to continue. “Are you alright?” he asks innocently, taking note of the woman’s frozen posture after a few seconds before watching her head shake, rattling as if she were trying to clear the cobwebs that had come upon her mind. “Ye- yeah. Yeah, I’m- I’m fine” Taylor replies with squinted eyes and a befuddled tone in her voice, eyes casually drifting back to the drawers her initial destination had been set upon, “that’s just weird.” “What’s weird?” Grant soon asks, watching the woman remove a dark blue blouse from within the cabinets, settling for the one shirt sitting atop the pile of others. “Just- that car crash is just weird” Taylor replies, throwing an arm into one sleeve whilst looking at the screen, unable to comprehend why she’s so taken aback by the images pictured, “there’s just something about it that’s odd. I can’t quite put my finger on why.” Not fully understanding what the woman’s uncertain gaze is meant to portray, Grant turns his eyes back toward the television set, listening intently for the remaining few minutes that pass before his girlfriend is readied. Thinking nothing of the story, the cabin resident follows his lover through the door and powers off the mounted display as he passes it, casually descending the nearest staircase with keys in hand, locking the door on his way through what’s to be just another day of work. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Monday, August 20th, 2007 / \ 8:05 am est. - 5:05 am pst. / Joined together under one roof, various well-suited figures occupy the seats that wrap around a circular table like a boa constrictor wraps around its prey. Waiting patiently for the woman responsible for calling them here, the seven men and two women fill their time by answering emails and checking the headlines to the day’s news as best as they can with the poor quality web browsers their phones are pre-installed with. Unprompted and with a head of steam, Robin steps through the conference room’s door with eyes set upon her vacant seat. Not offering so much as a word, the chairwoman dismisses any remark made toward her en route to her seat with absolute silence, not intending to speak until she’s reclaimed her place at the head of the table. Placing her light briefcase atop the hardwood surface before letting her palms press into the tabletop, the acting figurehead stares daggers at the man across from her. As amused as he is put off, Reece leans in his seat with an arm against the desktop, a smile of discomfort put upon his face as he takes a glance toward an unimportant side of the room. “Can I help you?” the man wonders aloud, staring at the stoic woman as her eyes rip through his flesh and glare at the inner chambers of his soul. “Yes, you can” the chairwoman replies, nodding to herself with a smile before her bobbing head settles back into its rigid hold on the man, “get the fuck out.” Taken back by the rather crass and snide command, Reece glances toward the men and women joining him at the all-encompassing desk, the discomforted grin returning to his face in a moment of humoured dismissal. “What?” the man laughs, still looking back and forth at the many faces that join him in being called to the chair woman's presence. “You’re resigning as a member of the board effective immediately and you’re getting the fuck out of this building” Robin responds, looking to her seat with intentions of taking it before the voice across from her retorts. “Is this a joke?” Reece wonders aloud, still wearing the dismissive presentation of pearly whites with an inability to comprehend what’s been said in the manner it’s been delivered. “No, it’s not a joke you closeted bottom. Pick up your shit and get the fuck out of my building before I have security toss you out on your ass” Robin replies, her remarks quickly prompting the man she expels from the proceedings. “You don’t have the authority to throw me out, Robin” Reece responds, putting up a fight that carries him out of his seat, finger pointed in the woman’s direction. “That’s why I said you’re resigning” Robin replies, reclaiming ownership of the styrofoam coffee cup she’d entered the room with. “On what grounds would I resign?” Reece rebukes, confrontational in nature with a hand on his side and the other resting its foremost fingers against the table he stands behind. “On the grounds of leaking confidential information to individuals not associated with the company” Robin responds, puckering her lips as she pauses the lift of the cup to her face, “spilling your guts to Burt Russo is in direct breach of your internal agreement with the company. I have all the reason I need to have you investigated and ousted in disgrace- count yourself lucky.” “You can’t prove that” Reece replies with a finger raised, watching the woman chuckle with amusement to herself as she takes a light sip of coffee. “And with what I was told by Russo just a few days ago, I have every reason to believe that an internal investigation would uncover that exact accusation and- again- have you ousted in disgrace” Robin responds, a grin worn in the corner of her face, “you know it just as well as I do. Count yourself lucky and take the out I’m giving you, shitsack.” With his lips opening to reply, Reece falls silent, clearly anxious in his unnerved posture as his eyes dart from one side of the room to the other, not a soul willing to step in and speak upon his behalf out of the simple desire to not get on the chair woman’s bad side. In frustration, the exiled man lets out a loud sigh and turns away, making for the same doors he’d entered the room through and leaving, never to repeat the process again. Waiting patiently for the doors to slowly glide to a close on the man’s departure, Robin returns her coffee to the table before pressing her palms against it, eyes taking to the direction of each member that remains. “Don’t you ever find it funny that I’m supposed to be the one that answers to you?” the woman inquires, her first word uttered the moment the entrance shuts behind the expelled member’s exit, “I only ask ‘cause I find that ironic when I sit at the head of the table.” Sitting in collective silence, the suit-adorned members of the board look at the woman that slowly progresses through her remarks, helpless to do anything more than watch and listen. “Under me, this company has seen financial success the likes of which companies like Kodak and Shell would blow a load in their pants for” Robin continues, beginning to step away from her seat and venture around the table, walking across all those who reside within her presence. “I replaced a veteran of the field with a nobody and she’s knocked the lights out ever since” Robin explains, shrugging as she proceeds, “hell, I gave the president of this company the greenlight to take an internally-besmirched anchor and mould him into this generation’s McCarthy.” With her hand on the shoulder of the first board member- a black man dressed in a sharp, dark grey suit- the chair woman proceeds onward, nodding to herself as she does. “The stock price has jumped since the turn of the millennium, ratings have never been higher, and the gambles I’ve made throughout my career- most importantly- have paid off” Robin continues, letting her hand fall from the first man’s shoulder as she continues on, strolling past the lady sitting beside him, distanced by a few feet. “Regardless of who puts you in these seats, you serve the shareholders” the woman continues to recall, “do you think you know what the shareholders want?” Looking around the room, the chair woman’s eyes take to a sea of uncertain faces, their lips never moving because they don’t intend on answering the question. “The answer to that question better be a resounding ‘yes’ since it’s the job they vote for you to do” Robin clarifies, continuing to slowly circle the table as she advances to the next man in her path, “there’s only one person the shareholders want in the position of acting CEO, and that person is me.” Staring straight ahead, the third man in line feels the woman’s hand pat him on the upper back as she passes, making her way to the gentleman sitting a few paces to his right. “I have a reputation for knowing what’s best for this company. I know what I’m doing, I have since I took over this position, and you better believe I haven’t lost my fucking step” Robin proceeds, onto second woman of the group, “I just want you all to understand that as we continue moving forward.” Still kept to themselves, the board members allow the woman to proceed with her remarks, watching her encirclement of their collective seating. “That’s all I called you here for. I figured the whole of you might’ve needed a little reminder of just who calls the shots around here” Robin proceeds onward, patting the penultimate man on the top of the head as she nears the completion of her short journey. “Reece seemingly forgot that the chain of command isn’t exactly as it appears. I only answer to you in writing” the chair woman carries forward, pinching the final man’s cheek before making her way back to the seat she’d vacated at the top of her remarks, “anyone that follows in his footsteps of forgetting how this works will find themselves out of a job. The best thing about you scheming cunts is that you’re all slimy. I just need to dig a little and find a reason for your resignation.” Taking her coffee into one hand and her bag into the other, Robin stands before the collective group, watching the eight sets of eyes that remain take to her with undivided focus. Whilst some reserve concern over the precedent being set before them, others stare with an unchanged expression, trying to subdue the vastly different thoughts that rummage throughout their minds. “This company is mine. This company, the people that work for it, the people that go on my airwaves every night- they’re all mine” Robin concludes, a slight squint in her right eye held as she finishes her point, her tone declarative in nature and unwavering in resolve, “if anyone tries to threaten that- if anyone tries to take that away, tries to rip me out, or tries to undermine me to steal it for themselves- they will lose.” Taking her free hand to wrap a pair of designer sunglasses over her face, Robin waltzes past her constituents in favour of the same exit her dismissed adversary had taken to leave the premises. “And if anyone contacts Reece, let him know my wishes for the best in his future endeavours are for him to keep” the woman quips back, a smile on her face as she walks through the doors, “once he shoves them up his ass- I don’t want them back.” | \ Monday, August 20th, 2007 / \ 12:04 pm est. - 9:04 am pst. / His foot anxiously tapping against the ground as he sits patiently, Aiden stares at the distant wall-mounted clock without reprieve, incapable of pulling his attention away from it. His metal tumbler having long since been filled with only drops of coffee the executive producer had already drank, the fingers on the producer’s left hand press a thin piece of paper between them whilst those on his right gently tap against the wooden conference table. “You alright, man?” Doug whispers aloud, eyebrows furrowed as he looks to the higher-ranking man just off to his right, watching the man’s surprised pupils dart back toward him. “Yeah, I’m fine. We’re just waiting on Carly” Aiden replies, feigning a smile as he clears his throat, trying to kick himself of the urge to look at the clock for even a second further as the voice of reason speaks softly once more. “She hasn’t been in these things for weeks” Doug corrects, taking the man’s glassy eyes and distanced expression as the appearance of a man more so ill with a virus than preoccupied with other thoughts, “are you sure you’re alright?” Momentarily stricken with the look of disappointment, Aiden’s feigned smile returns, his dismissive nod and phoney visage of reassurance handed back to the senior producer. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that-” the eight o’clock showrunner begins, the insincere gestures of good faith he wields beginning to slip beyond the point of recovery, a subtle sigh held within his breath, “-she should be here.” Still on the wrong page from that of his superior, Doug shakes his head and lets out a much more notable sigh than that of his contemporary, “I couldn’t agree more” the man responds, shrugging his shoulders as his eyes take to the notes he’s written. “Does she just not care anymore?” the man beside Colin wonders aloud, having granted his ears to listen into the conversation not meant for him. “I’m sorry?” Aiden questions back, uncertain of both whether or not he heard the man correctly and if his assumptions are astute. “She doesn’t even talk to us anymore. She hasn’t shown up to the rundown, and the only time I ever hear her speak is when she’s on camera” Joey retorts, as at a loss for clarity as the rest of the staff is. With more eyes taking toward his general direction, Aiden reads the situation for what it has become- a conversation not just being had between himself and his senior producer, but between his entire staff. Scratching the side of his head, the showrunner and the leader-apparent of the newsroom scratches at the back of his head and stands from his chair, looking at the table as he formulates what to speak next. “Alright, listen. Carly’s dealing with stuff that isn’t necessarily something that everyone needs to know or concern themselves about” Aiden clarifies, his hands eventually finding their way to his hips as he looks at his colleagues, “so you should just know that- that-” Falling silent, the showrunner looks out at the crowd of people all sitting before him, anxiously awaiting what he’s to say next with an eagerness only held within those desperate for answers. Incapable of finishing his thought, Aiden watches a few faces turn away as the silence persists, assuming they’ll get nothing more than the vague remarks he’d already paid them. In a moment of sudden discontent, the executive producer turns his eyes toward the still-busy bureau with a sigh. “Fuck it, I’m not gonna lie to you” Aiden mutters aloud, immediately re-earning the attention of those that had turned away seconds prior, his chin lowering slightly as he looks to the panopticon’s distance, his ex-girlfriend’s vacant office sitting directly within eyesight. “Carly and I had been dating for a little bit before I came onboard to produce this show, and we broke up a few months ago” the showrunner confesses, letting the cat out of the bag for those not already aware. “She doesn’t hate any of you, she hates me. She hates me because I did a shitty thing- which was not cheating on her before anyone asks- and she’s got more than enough reason to” Aiden continues to explain, watching the expressions on those seated before him turn to match the varying different thoughts that their minds host. “We talked on Friday and I told her to show up for the rundown meeting if she could find it within herself to accept that we had to co-exist and work together to get this show running smoothly again” Aiden proceeds, turning to look back at the woman’s empty office with a disheartened stare, his head hanging as he mutters aloud the conclusion he’s come to, “I guess I have my answer.” Feeling the weight carried within their respected colleague’s final remark, much of the newsroom hangs their heads with disappointment, aware of everything he’d said whilst equally unable to not feel for the dejection within his voice. Subduing his dolefulness, Aiden shakes his head and presses his lips together, lowering himself back into his seat as he glances back to the clock, its minute-hand already one tick past the numeral one. “Let’s just get on with the pitches” Aiden finally declares, taking the meeting down the same direction he had on his own for the last number of weeks, an eye paid to the equally-disheartened staff, “who wants to go first?” With silence to be found on all sides of the table, the staff are hesitant to speak, not out of concern for the quality of their pitches, but rather because the mood that encompasses the conference room takes on the appearance of something closer to a funeral. “An official out in Utah said the six miners that were trapped may never be found” Doug responds, shrugging his shoulders with the end of a pen pressed against his bottom lip as he replies, taking the bullet of opening the conversation so his peers don’t have to, “that’s their official statement on the matter and it might be worth running with somewhere halfway into the-” With an angle of the office’s entrance, the eyes of the speaking producer drift through the transparent glass case they sit surrounded within, watching the front doors open and falling silent as they prepare to close. Joining the rest of the bureau in following the source of his sudden loss for words, Doug watches the figure that captures their attention so easily whilst his superior struggles to understand what’s unfolding. Visibly curious, Aiden follows the line of sight the man beside him takes, its direction leading him to the hurried woman quickly jogging to the same conference room she’d spent much longer without stepping in than she ever had before. “Sorry I’m late!” Carly exclaims, the same friendly demeanour she’d worn months prior- and gone without in the months since- returned as if had never left, “the driver took a wrong turn and almost dropped me off at the wrong building entirely.” With his face writhing in visible shock, Aiden watches the woman lower her purse toward the floor beside her chair, its cushion seat having gone without an occupant for as long as she’d been absent. “Did I miss anything?” Carly wonders aloud, catching her breath from the near-sprint she’d used to shorten the time it’d taken for her arrival, arms resting atop each side of her seat whilst the entire staff hold their stare upon her. “What? Do I have something in my teeth?” the woman questions, genuinely unsure of why her presence brings upon the level of surprise it does. “No, it’s just-” Aiden interjects, speaking on behalf of his subordinates as he pauses, a handful of his coworkers looking back at him whilst the rest remain fixated on the eight o’clock host, “-it’s good to have you back.” Sitting with a smile, Doug nods to himself and looks back to his notes, the smile Carly and Aiden share with each other speaking levels more than what words can offer. As if the host’s appearance had turned the tides of the entire day, the staff’s once-dejected collected portrayal turns to a collective of chipper, pleased, and elated faces. With more enthusiasm and drive, the newsroom’s employees prepare to pitch as if all were back to normal, the host and her producer still locking eyes. | \ Monday, August 20th, 2007 / \ 9:37 pm est. - 6:37 am pst. / “You say this as the newest borehole is being dug- if it’s not already- which doesn’t lend much reason for people to have optimism” Taylor remarks, her right elbow leaning against the top of her shared newsdesk, the tip of her pen pressing against the papers in front of her, “is the company itself not expecting to receive much out of this attempt?” His hands coupled at his lap as he sits back in his chair, Grant listens to their shared guest answer the question with rather intricate detail, much of the wording used serving to twist around the question as present a reply that says little more than nothing. With wandering eyes, Taylor uncharacteristically begins to space off from the ongoing interview, never having been one to like the guest format brought upon in the wake of Aiden’s departure. Surrounded by one television display after another lining nearly every ounce of the walls that comprise the panopticon-shaped bureau, Taylor’s attention is inevitably taken toward the different screens. “I see” Grant half-remarks, simply adding his voice to the ongoing response their guest provides, not wanting the dead-air to be filled with nothing more than ‘um’s’ and silence whilst their guest pauses. With her eyes upon the Finley Network feed covering a George W. Bush address over the impending emergency efforts in the wake of a coming hurricane, Taylor soon drifts her focus to a few screens off to the side. “Sure” Grant continues off-hand, doing his best to fill the air his rather absent-minded guest leaves unattended. Covering a piece on Britney Spears, the screen presenting ACN soon pans to another angle of the ongoing report its lead anchor presents, losing Taylor’s attention alongside it. “And that’s the company’s official stance?” Grant retorts, wanting to ensure whatever is said is kept within the legal precedent he’s held to, not wanting to present the company with any reason to throw empty-handed lawsuits within his direction or the company’s own. Though the interview is one in which she is meant to take the lead of, Taylor can’t help but let her own personal disregard for the individual she covers get in the way of her professional responsibilities, eyes inevitably landing elsewhere on the wall-mounted screens. “Don’t you understand why some would consider this stance to be a bit counter-productive?” Grant inquires, unaware of his girlfriend’s veering line of sight, “regardless of its realism, it defeats the point.” Whilst her significant other proceeds, Taylor sets her eyes upon his former place of work, the coverage CSN displays being a recap of the day’s earlier congressional meeting. “No, I understand that the goal is to rescue the miners, all I’m saying is that your statement appears to offer the public little reason to be optimistic” Grant explains, his open hand resting on its side atop his paper script, “this all comes in the wake of finding that the caves may not be safe to search through period.” Catching herself in a lost train of thought as she saves herself from accidentally rolling her eyes into the camera covering her, Taylor tucks her hair behind an ear and offers one last glance at the wall of screens. “You’ve now lost multiple rescue workers, and I don’t see how you could expect the public not to see this as a bad omen for things still to come” Grant concludes, preparing to end the interview as scheduled whilst the next commercial break looms near. Having stumbled upon a second look at the Finley Network’s coverage, Taylor’s eyes take to the screen just to its right, the local news broadcast just returning from a commercial of their own and leaping directly into the coverage of a story from earlier in the day. “Alright, sir. Is there anything you have left to add that you haven’t already?” Grant inquires, offering his guest the option to present a final few words, either on the behalf of his own or his company. Finding an earlier recording of a white vehicle on its roof just at the base of an overpass near the outskirts of New York City, Taylor reads the headline presented on the broadcast’s lower third quietly to herself. “Alright, sir. Thank you very much for joining us” Grant concludes, lifting his coupled hands from his lap and placing them gently upon his desk, the second screen placed along his broadcast fading away as the one he shares with his girlfriend reclaims centre focus. “Two car collision kills one, leaves two in local hospital” the local news banner reads, claiming to present imagery captured within the small town of Eastchester, New York. Holding a squint, Taylor stares at the feed with uncertainty, at a loss for why it would have her as entranced as she seems to be. Amidst a pause, the air in the newsroom goes quiet as Grant waits for his co-anchor to proceed onward, the duties of sending the show into commercial lying upon her shoulders. His smile slightly lowered for the moment it takes him to glance back at the woman he shares the screen with, Grant finds himself confused when all that meets him are the curly blond hairs in the back of her head. Completely out of the loop, the man remains silent for just a moment as Shane’s voice calls into their in-ear’s. “Taylor, cut to commercial” the executive producer directs, snapping the woman out of her fixated daze and prompting her to face the camera once more. Her mouth propped open out of sheer surprise, Taylor comes back into her own and prepares to bring the broadcast to its pause. “We’ll be back after the break” Grant interjects, noticing his girlfriend’s out-of-place aura and taking over the duties on her behalf, letting the first advertisement roll before taking advantage of the pause. “What’s wrong?” the man soon wonders aloud, turning his seat to face the woman that stares at him without a reply, aware that something is wrong with his more-experienced anchor. “I’m not-” Taylor replies, cutting herself short and shaking her head before turning the opposite way around, her entire body turned toward the broadcast occurring near the opposite end of the bureau from their offices. “Taylor, are you feeling alright?” Shane inquires from beyond the control room, able to make out the strange reaction she holds from beyond the glass box he’s situated within. “Yeah, I’m-” Taylor replies, again reluctant to finish the thought she begins to voice, feeling the touch of Grant’s hand on her shoulder before leaving her seat abruptly, stepping off the transparent platform their desk sits atop and venturing across the newsroom. “Taylor, what’s going on?” Grant wonders aloud as he steps out of his seat, keeping up with the woman as he follows her through the floor, their every move watched on by the producers that sit around the base of the stage, their work for the evening already done as all that remains is to watch the broadcast they helped prepare carry onto the airwaves. “I don’t know yet” Taylor responds, still uncertain as to why she’s so enamoured with the story being presented through the screen she watches, though fully self-assurant that she soon will be. “Guys, we’re approaching the latter-half of the ‘C Block’, this break only lasts, like, two minutes” Shane warns through his own mic, watching the anchors walk across the newsroom floor with the rest of the staff, completely unsure of how to react. Stepping up to the monitor that captivates her, Taylor stares at the varying images of the overturned SUV, a few pictures of a black SUV of even larger stature with a damaged front end flashing in between the helicopter coverage of the wrecked vehicle below. “Aiden’s not even here anymore, why do we keep his ‘never turn off the wall TV’ policy again?” Shane queries to the team responsible for executing the video packages, hand covering the mic he uses to speak with his anchors. Squinting, Taylor stares at the monitor and dissects the footage, her arms crossing as she simply stands put with her boyfriend a few paces behind. “Something’s wrong with this” the woman finally confesses, incapable of describing her takeaway from the broadcast and why it infatuates her so beyond drawing that simple conclusion. “Well, it is local news” Grant responds, trying to match her admission with a slight amount of humour, “they don’t have our budget for effects.” “It’s not that, it’s-” Taylor pokes back, a slight amusement taken from his remark, though nowhere enough to kill the vested interest she takes in the ongoing coverage, “-I don’t know, I just feel like there’s something that I’m missing here. It’s like I should know more about what’s going on than I do.” “Seventy seconds and counting, guys” Shane quips, continuing to keep the anchors informed of their ever-lessening time to uncover the apparent mystery unfolding before them. With her head leant to the side, Taylor continues to stare at the various closeup shots they show of the flattened and overturned SUV, the wreckage left far from the road it was knocked off, left to collide with the earth many stories below as the banner updates, swiping the former tag with one of new. “Second survivor dies in fatal car accident” the banner now reads, its lower-third adding emphasis as still images begin taking over the screen, “survivors taken to Lawrence Hospital for critical care.” Shaking her head and drawing inches closer to the picture with each passing second, Taylor begins to succumb to her uncertainty as the calming voice just a step away lulls her back into a state of certain mindedness. “Fifty seconds” Shane murmurs aloud, the declaration prompting the voice of comfort to linger within Taylor’s ear even further once provided. “I promise that we’ll figure out what’s got you so enthralled with this after the show, alright?” Grant whispers to his lover, hands gently resting against her hips, “we’ve got eighteen minutes left. When the show is over, I will not leave until we figure it out together, okay?” With a frown, Taylor watches the local broadcast prepare to carry onto their next story, the final few shots occupying the airtime. “Alright” the woman responds with disappointment, lowering her arms and halfway turning to return to the desk before her eyes finally catch what they’d been looking for. “We’re back in thirty with the German woman found in-” Shane begins to explain, having taken the anchors’ turn back toward the desk to be the last of his troubles for the night. “Oh my god!” Taylor abruptly exclaims, prompting the man to pull his head away from the rundown sheet beside himself and look back to the woman’s direction, silenced by her exclamation. “What? What’s going on?” Shane questions back, staring through the transparent wall between himself and the anchors, earning no response before he watches the woman disconnect her in-ear from the receiver pack, cutting off all communication with the control room. “Did she just-!?” the executive producer exclaims, unable to finish his thought before watching the woman sprint for the exit, covering his mic as he shouts at the glass wall, “put me back!” “I have to go!” Taylor shouts as she disconnects her in-ear, the words she utters rendering her boyfriend incapable of speech, “I’ll text you everything!” With hands open at each side, Grant watches from a few paces before the monitor as his co-anchor departs the broadcast, sprinting for the exit without a moment’s hesitation. “Fifteen seconds!” Shane shouts through the glass, too infuriated by the moment to remember his mic still has the reach of one anchor. Jolted into action, Grant takes a final glance at the broadcast prior to its revolution onto the next story, the final shot of a mostly-shattered rear window with a heavily-altered depiction of three stick figures all that he finds- a mother, father, and carved-up outline of a child. Taking all that he’s approached with for whatever he can, the sole-remaining anchor turns back for the desk and gestures at the executive producer he still sees in the window’s view. “Clean up the rundown as we go, fix the prompter for one- I’m going on alone” the anchor commands, laying out the ground rules to his producer, the man kept at bay through the glass divider already counting down the seconds to air. Hurrying into the seat, Grant presses his arm into the desk as if nothing were out of the ordinary, a last-second adjustment from the man ahead of him fixing the hard camera upon a tighter shot, only focused on the one seat occupied. “...It on- the Coke side of life” a countertop tube television speaks, echoing the conclusion of an advertisement before rolling into a shot of a smiling anchor, his hand swiping at the left side of his head to fix his hair into place. “Now it’s time for every American’s favourite five words-” Grant mutters, his chin dipping just slightly as he takes the stage all for himself, no one to share the spotlight with as he peers at what- for the first time- is his camera- “-to Afghanistan we now go.” “Thank you!” Taylor shouts to the driver of her taxicab, forking over a handful of cash before slamming the door shut and making a sprint for the front doors of the hospital she’d sought after. Through passive remarks and the comment of one name in particular, the woman manages to clear herself entry to the patient wing of the hospital, a few nurses walking after her in light of the hectic manner in which she’d arrived and advanced through the premises. Down one wing after another with eyes stolen by each sign the walls of the building are adorned with, Taylor marches her way to the one destination she makes the most sense of, walking through the doors that divide her from the corridor a single man occupies. Taking instant notice of the sudden arrival, the grieving gentleman turns to look her in the eyes, his head having hung against the arm he props up against the drywall. Without a word, Taylor stares at the man as their eyes collide, able to see the pain felt deep within him through just his face alone. “You’re too late” Ross remarks after a few further seconds, unable to enter the operating room his wife lies alone in, hooked up to machines that have already been powered down, stuffed with tubes that do nothing to prevent what has already happened, the best efforts of the medical workers having failed to pay off, “she’s already gone.” Tears welling up in his eyes, Ross looks at the same person his surprise visitor soon sets her sights upon, Kaye’s body lying atop the table lifeless and bloodied from the accident that had baffled the anchor for all too long. With a sorrowful look, Taylor listens to the subdued weeps of the man standing beside her, just trying to process the loss he’s now come into. Setting her differences with the man aside, Taylor looks to the grieving husband with a sincere, apologetic look, his eyes too taken by his wife’s lifeless remains to notice. The anchor he’d once taken the opposing side of once upon a time now resting her hand upon his shoulder for support, Ross lets his head hang once more as the sounds of sorrow that reverberate from deep within his fragile core become too strong to hold back. == Tonight at 9 ==
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\ Friday, August 17th, 2007 /
\ 10:37 pm est. - 7:37 pm pst. / “Taylor, I’m not the one making the call here” Kaye responds, arguing her involvement to well below what’s assumed by her once friend, “does he care about me? Yes. Does that mean he’s willing to settle for two billion dollars less just because I ask him to for someone that never bothered to look at me as something other than a girl she roomed with in college and went different ways from? Probably not.” “I’m not asking you to convince him, I’m just asking you to tell him to reconsider his options here” Taylor explains, the side of her hand resting against the table beside her flimsy, red fast food platter. “He’s going to sell to someone that’ll take this company- something he founded with ideals- to a guy that’s more than just someone I don’t like” she continues, watching her friend’s eyes veer toward the same street she’d recently looked at, “he’ll sell to someone that doesn’t.” “Why would he even believe that Robin would be any better?” Kaye inquires, shaking her head and stiffening her shoulders, “she settled to take in twenty-one percent with the sole reason of wanting to own more of the company than he did. Where are the ideals and principles there?” Looking off into the distance, Taylor’s lack of ability in maintaining eye contact is called out by the woman on the other side of the table, the request she’s made being spoken ill of in light of their past. “Why would I even want to entertain this? All of this, it’s just some plea for you to get me to do the bidding that Robin couldn’t. I don’t owe her anything, why would I owe you anything?” Kaye wonders aloud, genuinely curious in spite of lending evidence to support the asking of her own question, “you didn’t keep in touch. Our last conversation was two weeks after we moved out of the apartment. You practically existed as if I never existed, and I don’t blame you because I did the same.” “People grow apart, I don’t understand why you’re talking to me like this as if I stabbed you in the back somehow” Taylor retorts, her question answered by the woman she’d asked to meet her. “I’m sorry, who asked who to meet up here and catch up? Exactly who is asking for a favour here?” Kaye queries back, “if I was the one coming here and asking you for a favour- after all these years of moving on from you- wouldn’t you have more than enough reason to wonder why you owed me it?” “I’m not saying I don’t understand why you’d be hesitant to do me a favour, I’m asking why you’re so hostile about it” Taylor responds, “it’s not like I’m asking for a million bucks, I’m-” “No, you’re asking for two billion!” Kaye replies, her whisper coming in the form of a near-hiss, “you’re asking me to talk my husband out of a two billion dollar profit from the profit he’d already make by selling the fifth for four.” Bowing her head, Taylor sits with herself in silence for a moment, both hands balled into a fist as her eyes widen, eyelids stiffening into an open position as she prepares to continue speaking, allowing her old friend to begin doing so whilst she does. “If I seem hostile to you, then I’m sorry about how I’m approaching you. But this is a little ridiculous” Kaye remarks, “there is no right that you have to ask me for something like this.” Aware that she’s gotten nowhere and is likely not going to, Taylor lifts her head with a less-pleased visage, the friendly demeanour she’d entered the diner with having naturally eroded into a loose look of displeasure. “I didn’t ask you about life because I don’t care. I’ll be honest, I don’t give a shit what you’ve done since we stopped talking. I don’t” Taylor remarks, no longer seeing the value in playing nice in lieu of its inability to progress the discourse favourably. “It’s not that I dislike you or anything, far from it. As a matter of fact, you were one of my favourite people to talk to, that’s why I agreed to move in with you after college” she continues, “it’s just a side-effect of growing apart.” Appearing less like she’s on the defensive, Kaye settles further into her seat as her posture eases, no longer aggravated by the gall of her once friend to attempt to talk her into what she’d prefer to steer clear from. “The only reason I come to you is because, if anyone at LMC is scared- it’s me” Taylor confesses, not allowing any thought to hide behind a veil of mystery. “You know what Barry did to me at that party, you know how I got in that anchor’s chair- I’m not gonna bother bringing up old news. The point is- the news is relevant again” Taylor remarks, “Robin will worry about losing leverage, Vickers may be less able to drink in the office, this doesn’t even affect Grant other than his connection to me- but Russo comes from the exact same place that the shit Barry took after fucking festers in.” Looking away with her shoulders lowering slightly, Kaye turns her eyes toward the window, only able to pull her sights back amidst Taylor’s continuation. “When we moved out of that apartment, you were dating the guy you’re still married to now. Was it a conventional marriage? The age gap, the wealth disparity? No. But you moved out and moved onto your future” the primetime anchor continues, visibly struggling to speak of her own past, “I was at my lowest.” “You were the anchor of the nine o’clock news” Kaye replies in a whisper, quickly corrected by the woman seated across from her. “I was learning how to be a newscaster in front of an entire nation that would heckle me at every turn and listen to not a damn thing I said, but instead looked at me as the young, blonde piece of ass the company was trying to keep viewers around to watch after they canned Barry” Taylor recalls, “all whilst still having to be asked about how it felt to fill his shoes.” “I’m sure they couldn’t just come out and say he raped you without getting themselves in the most televised lawsuit since O.J” Kaye retorts, a rebuttal that her anchor friend has no care for. “It doesn’t matter why they fired him or how public it was. What mattered is that I had to sit there, being asked questions about how iconic my fucking rapist was, while I smiled and agreed with every last thing” Taylor explains, “sure, I had money and fame. What else did I have?” Parting her lips, Kaye fails to speak as her pause ensues, her open mouth remaining as the time she’s afforded to respond finishing its final few seconds before elapsing. “It was money, it was fame, it was not happiness. I was boxed up without a way out, and I got so used to being in that place mentally that I didn’t even give a shit whether or not there was an exit” Taylor admits, a remark that prompts the woman across from her to return her lips together. “I may have Grant now, and I may be in a better place, but I feel that box closing on me again” the anchor continues, spelling out her worry in a way her one-time roommate may understand, “there’s been accusation after accusation, payout after payout, settlement after settlement. Russo, Finley in general- a goddamn hivemind of sickos that have come out of the same company that fucking bastard oversees. For fuck’s sake, it’s where Barry worked before coming to LMC!” “I didn’t know-” Kaye attempts to respond, only for her voice to be cut off by the woman’s continuation, the interruption not one she argues against, but rather sits in silence to allow. “Pardon me for being afraid of something like that- a storm cloud like that- coming over my fucking head again. Pardon me for wanting to do anything to keep it away” Taylor concludes, stepping out of her booth to leave, “and pardon me for hoping you’d at least understand why I’d look anywhere I could.” Without so much as a ‘goodbye’, the primetime anchor ignores the calls from her former friend to come back, the understanding tone Kaye wields doing little to offer much promise in the departing woman’s eyes. Through the front door and with her hand held in the air, Taylor hails a cab that stops on the moment it finds her extended palm, a passing glance at the one expensive vehicle parked in the parking lot she steps through drawing her attention at the last second. Assuming the vehicle to belong to the woman she leaves behind in the diner, Taylor approaches the white SUV and stares at the back window for a mere moment, paying no mind to anything other than the illustration plastered upon the back window. In the form of a rough sketch, a set of stickers on the lower left side of the transparent divider portrays a woman and a man, the set of adults stood beside a smaller stick figure intended to be a child standing just beside the female. The white lines it’s composed of appear scratched and scraped, the child’s figure appears to be anything other than wanted, almost as if its inclusion to the family were no longer something welcomed by the two adult figures it stands beside. With a disappointed look, Taylor turns back for the cab and pays Kaye no mind, aware of what the illustration represents and offering it as little thought as the woman had paid to her. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Saturday, August 18th, 2007 / \ 6:21 am est. - 3:21 am pst. / Rolling onto his side with the pillow wrapped around his head, Aiden muffles the sound of roaring knocks coming from the other side of his door, calling for his attention. “If I come to open the door for you now, you’ll never remember to take your key with you when you leave!” the man trying to sleep replies from his futon, “what happens if you forget your key again!? Then I’ll have failed to teach you this valuable lesson! How can I sleep at night knowing that would make me a bad friend!?” In spite of his question, the soul calling for his answer refuses to offer one of their own, returning to repeatedly meeting the outside of the apartment’s door with the fist they ball together. Rolling his eyes behind his lids, Aiden groans softly and lets the pillow unfold itself from atop his head, freeing his ears to hear the full force behind each strike the guest takes toward the flat’s entrance. “For fuck’s sake, Shane! At least have the courtesy to stay at the gym until I’m awake!” Aiden exclaims, folding to the pressure applied by the visitor and hopping out from beneath the thin sheet he sleeps beneath, a set of plaid boxers accompanying his maroon t-shirt. “At least then you won’t actually be waking me u-” the eight o’clock producer shouts, wiping his eyes as he unlocks the deadbolt, opening the door before he can finish speaking, silence befalling him upon first sight. His hand falling from his face, Aiden’s eyes widen collectively as his chin lifts just slightly, his tired expression somehow falling all at once upon finding his ex-girlfriend stood in the hallway, her leather purse held in both hands at her waist. “What are you doing here?” the resident wonders aloud, staring into the face of the woman who appears hesitant, almost as if asking the same question, only to herself within her own head. “I’m not really sure” Carly finally confesses, the time passing between her answer and the question it was offered to having only been a few seconds, though the time passed like molasses does churn for both involved. “You weren’t at work this week” Aiden remarks, equally as uncomfortable as his ex is, uncertain of what to say in order to keep the conversation moving whilst also unsure of whether or not he even wishes for it to. “Yeah, I decided to take the week off” Carly responds, her awkward posture as out of place as her presence in the complex is, “I- I had to figure a couple things out.” With a subtle nod, Aiden lowers his chin and glances off to the side, his hand lifting to the back of his head, which he scratches with his index and middle fingers. “The ratings took another hit” the anxious producer confesses, a squint in his eye as the social bashfulness he’d once assumedly kicked reclaims possession of him, towering over him like a high school bully and refusing to leave him the slightest room to breathe. “Apparently the audience has decided that a middle aged field correspondent isn’t for them” Aiden continues, speaking with a pause that allows him to hear the breathy chuckle his once significant other reacts with. “Yeah, they’ve-” Carly begins to respond, feeling the wrath of the same timidity her one time lover’s entire existence had been comprised of consume her, refusing her the ability to speak with coherence, “-they’ve gotten a lot of that lately, huh?” Smiling more so in his cheeks than in the rest of his face, Aiden nods to himself and looks away again, yet another moment of sheepish quietude falling over the pair. Holding her breath for far longer than she’d intended, Carly remembers to breathe and expends a gust of air from her lungs, using the break in absolute silence to garner enough confidence to speak. “Can I come in?” the woman wonders aloud, a hopeful look carried in her face as she waits for a reply, each moment that passes without one bringing her mental fortitude lower than the moment before. “I-” Aiden begins, again falling silent for a moment as he searches for the words to say, eyebrows lowering as his face tenses at the cheek, “I think it’d be better if you didn’t.” Surprised, Carly’s look of disappointment immediately meets him, having assumed his answer would voice the opposite. “Oh” the woman replies, at first too baffled to speak, though her words soon find their way to her brain, “alright then.” Yet again nodding through the discomforting silence, Aiden scratches the back of his head and looks away, unable to do much more than follow the same, three-step pattern he had relied upon to that point. “Is there a reason you chose to come here?” the man soon wonders aloud, the question being all that comes to his mind capable of potentially progressing the discourse toward more optimal means. “Um... No, actually. I was just in the area and knew where you were staying, so-” Carly responds, again wearing the look of a woman uncertain about anything- even what stands in front of her, “-I just decided to stop by.” Finally half-snapped out of his subconscious haze, the remark prompts Aiden to ask a question in only one word, enough to provoke even the deepest thought from the mind of the wandering member of New York’s elite class. “Why?” the man probes, unsure of what better inquiry can be made aside from that, his last encounter with the woman having ended with anything other than her uninvited visitation to be expected. “I mean, I don’t really know” Carly replies, looking to the ground as her left hand frees itself from the straps of her designed handbag, taking to swipe the hairs out of her face, “I guess it just didn’t feel right not to.” With his head held in the air, Aiden stares at the ceiling and processes the remark, incapable of responding with much more than his first instinct. “Oh, alright then” the man answers, finally understanding what it’s like to have a conversation as his former self with his former self, “I guess you should probably head back then, huh?” Puckering her lips and shrugging, Carly nods in agreement and smiles, “yeah, probably” she retorts, spending another few seconds aimlessly staring forward before turning to leave. As if finally stricken with common sense, the primetime anchor stops her departure three steps in and regains her regular composure, “hey, wait!” she exclaims, quickly turning back and hurrying to the door as it’s mid-close, the palm of her hand pressing against it to refuse it any further advancement. “For fuck’s sake, I hate what we’re doing with each other right now!” Carly shouts, watching her ex glance down each end of the hallway apologetically, prompting her to lower her voice with respect to his neighbours. “I hate that we can’t talk to each other, I hate that we don’t see each other, and I hate that you’re falling apart with what’s happened” she continues, voice nearing a whisper, “I know I fucked up that night too, but I hate that we can’t even look each other in the eyes anymore.” “Well it’s not like I was the one that chose to show up to sit behind a desk for an hour and fuck off the rest of the day!” Aiden retorts, her return to normality prompting the best out of him socially once more, “I mean, if there’s anyone that hasn’t been trying since that night, it’s been you!” Hanging her head and rolling her eyes out of self-frustration, Carly nods to the man in lieu of speaking agreement, a hand placed against the top of her head. “Yeah, I- I know that” the woman replies in defeat, her head concluding its nod by remaining hung, not a word of what Aiden said capable of being argued against. “I just want things to go back to normal between us, and I don’t know how to do that” Carly confesses, soon pulling her head up to look him in the eyes, “I came here because I fucking miss you. I miss being friends, I miss seeing you every day, I miss- I miss all of it! I just want this fighting to stop and to go back to how it was!” “‘How it was’ in what way?” Aiden quickly retorts, tacking onto the end of her statement with a question that lingers at the top of his mind, “How it was when we were friends, or how it was when we were more?” Letting out a sigh as her expression lightens, Carly nearly sports a smile as her head leans slightly to one side, “how it was when we would get back to the apartment together, put on a movie and I’d fall asleep on the couch so you’d carry me to bed.” Turning away from something other than discomfort for the first time since the door had been knocked at, Aiden listens to the woman continue with ears desperate not to have to hear what’s being said. “I wanna go back to you hounding me to get ready faster so we wouldn’t be late to an office we were always almost two hours too early getting to” Carly continues, “I want to go back to playing paper basketball with the bin in your office when there’s nothing to do between rundown and showtime.” Growing more fond of the times she speaks of the longer she talks, Carly’s visceral pleasantries take a sharp turn back to reality when the man she’s a guest of interrupts, tearing apart those well wishes as soon as they were voiced. “It’s great that you do, but I don’t” Aiden responds, watching her pleasant smile fade the instant her interjects, “those times were nice to have, but they’re over now. They’re over now, it’s time to move on, and it’s what’s best for both of us to do.” “You’re only saying that because you’re mad at me” Carly quickly rebukes, an accusation that her ex-boyfriend could not believe something more opposite than. “No, I’m saying that because I’m mad at myself” Aiden replies, watching the woman’s surprise take shape, his own admission of self-discontent prompting his face to sour, “I’m mad at who I was when I was with you. I’m mad at being the guy that walked up to a guy an hour away from midnight and drove his head through a car window.” “In all fairness, he was starting to annoy me up until when you showed up” Carly intersperses, a finger raised as she speaks, “if you hadn’t done it, I’m pretty sure they would’ve gotten me on camera doing it instead.” Swiping his hair back with the palm of his hand, Aiden shakes his head and looks the woman in the eyes, the continuation of his former thought making clear his lack of amusement in her attempt at humour. “I don’t even care that I had enough reason to doubt you, the fact of the matter is that I started to turn out like the exact same guy that walked into my office and started choking me against the wall” Aiden confesses, “I could barely hold a conversation for more than a few seconds before I was with you, and that ability to speak to people through more than just a few words is not, in the slightest, worth the person I was becoming before we broke up.” “You are not Juno” Carly warns, her finger from before still raised, though with much different intention this time. “No, I’m not. Juno is a far better person than I am” Aiden responds, agreeing with her statement, though not as it was intended to be taken, “Juno moved on, left for Detroit, and realised he was someone he didn’t like. Juno had the balls to look me in the eyes and apologise. Juno figured out that he needed to be a better man. Now, so do I.” “Wait, how do you know that?” Carly inquires, unaware of the conversations her ex-partner’s had taken part in. “Because he stopped me at the cafe a few blocks from the office a little while after I became your E.P” Aiden responds, looking at the floor with as much adamant rejection of the moments his former girlfriend had spoken so highly of, “it’s the same way I found out you left some doctor for him, and left him for me. It’s the only reason I saw that pic and immediately thought the worst.” “Alright, and I was a different person than to who I am now” Carly counters, immediately called into question by the man she pays time out of her day to visit. “Are you really? Why the hell should I believe you now, and why should I have believed you that night we broke up?” Aiden questions, his inquiry bringing about aggravation from the woman, though they’re more than worthy of being asked, “if you walked up to either of them and told them that, why should they believe you?” “Because I never loved them. I cared about them, yeah- I still do. But I never, never loved them” Carly responds, the way she confesses her feelings bringing a silence over the still-irritated resident. “I’d never felt special with them the way I felt when I was with you. I never felt like they actually cared about me as much as I cared about them” she continues, refusing to hold her tongue in a moment she’d prefer it to click for as long as it can. “Whenever I was with them, I felt like I was just the piece of candy they put their arm around. Like I was just someone they could parade around when they were out in public like some status symbol” Carly explains, her palm pressing slightly further into the door’s exterior, “that’s all I ever hear about. No one ever talks about how hard I’ve worked all my career! No one ever talks about my degrees, or the stories I write, it’s always ‘look at how hot she is!’” “You say that as if it hadn’t been all I was talking about for the last three or four months” Aiden retorts, quickly correcting the assumption he’d come to. “There’s a difference between only being able to compliment me on my looks, and telling me to flaunt them because your job counts on it” Carly responds, her free hand taking a rest on her hip, “of all people, I’d really hope it’d be you that could understand that.” Hanging his head, Aiden is kept from getting too introspective by the alluring voice of the woman ahead of him, each word she speaks lulling him closer to a comfort he’d been without for longer than he’d pleased. “The point isn’t why you did it, the point is that it’s all they ever did. I was just the girl they kept by their side, I was never a part of them” Carly continues, letting free from her conscience what she’d never allowed other ears to hear, “you made me feel like I belonged with you.” “You’re just saying that to lure me back to you” Aiden responds, shaking his head and drifting his eyes toward the depths of the hallway, not wanting to give in despite the woman’s potent pull. “I’m saying that because it’s true. I’m saying that because everything felt natural when I was with you” Carly explains, her hip-bound hand now placing itself against the door whilst the other takes her ex-boyfriend’s hand, “you can deny it all you want, but I know you felt it too.” Shaking his head with the inability to think straight, Aiden turns his eyes away against the desire shown from the woman for alternative direction. “Don’t stand here and tell me you didn’t come off as a social butterfly after we got together” Carly remarks, offering statements her desired partner doesn’t disagree with the truth behind, “you liked going out more, you liked opening up to people a little more. You were as happy as I was.” “Sure, but now I’m not” Aiden retorts, cutting the woman off the moment she tries to argue in favour of offering a reason, “I’m not happy anymore, and it has everything to do with you.” Refusing with the shake of her head, Carly remains silent as the man continues to speak, maintaining his hold on the door he keeps only a foot and a half open. “I care about you. I always will, but that doesn’t mean that I want to be with you anymore” Aiden explains, coming clean and standing firm in the assertions he’d presented, “I need to be on my own. I need to keep myself from becoming that person again, and I can’t do that whilst being with you.” Finally falling to the man’s defiance, Carly’s expressive head shake begins to slow, beginning to lessen just as her stubborn belief that their union can be rekindled through cooler heads prevailing. “If there’s any way we can co-exist, it needs to be as co-workers” Aiden continues, laying out the ground rules from the time that remains between them, “if these ratings don’t improve, it’s my ass they fire. If there’s anything that needs to be taking up my time, it’s that.” Though she’s hurt by the man’s persistent refusal of her advances, Carly’s mind takes to the concerns he lays elsewhere, understanding their importance. “So, this is how things are going to work from now on. We’re going to come to work, try to stomach each other’s existence, and put on a show capable of dragging viewers in by the throats” Aiden explains, not missing a beat in his plot, “if you can do that- accepting that things between us can’t go back to the way they were- prove it.” “How? How exactly do I prove that?” Carly questions back, eager to understand the reasoning behind his rationale. “By being willing to put work first, let me figure this shit out, and co-exist as people trying to do everything we can to get the ratings back in the green” Aiden replies, nodding to himself as his non-dominant hand slides behind the door, prepared to close it shut, “if you’re able to do that, then show up. Prove it by being there when the crew make their pitches Monday afternoon.” Though she’s undeniably disheartened, Carly remains steadfast in her hope for something better to come out of this interaction on the other side, a nod returned to her ex-partner through the faintest of smiles. Without a word, Aiden returns to his morning alone, gently closing the door on his way back into the apartment without either person offering so much as a ‘goodbye’, their places at different sides of the door maintained behind the twist of a deadbolt lock. Pressing his back to the door and hands behind himself, Aiden stares at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes tightly, letting a deep breath escape his lungs as he brings himself down from the anxiety that had built within him through the conversation’s duration. With a few seconds of peace to himself, the man turns his head to face the depths of the hallway just in front of him, staring at the window near the end of his shared bathroom and the sunlight that breaks through its blinds. On the other side of the entrance, Carly stares at the ground and passes glances toward the bag in her hand and the way she’d come from. Unsure of how to react to the discussion now in her rear-view mirror, the woman lifts her bag up her arm and sits it upon her shoulder, a final look taken to the door she knows Aiden to occupy the other side of before venturing off, returning to New York without certainty over where to go next. == Tonight at 9 == \ 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 == “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 == \ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 /
\ 8:25 am est. - 5:25 am pst. / “Hi” a brunette woman says softly, dressed in a white blouse and black skirt and walking in the opposite direction of Shane, whose eyes take to her with a warm reply. “Hey” the man replies in a rather flirtatious manner, hair still wet from the shower he’d taken prior to leaving the gym, keys jingling in hand as they sway back and forth with his arm. Holding their eye contact for a few seconds, the unacquainted pair follow through with their ventures elsewhere and move onward. In a quick and painless manner, the nine o’clock producer’s hands lift the small, metallic pieces into the deadbolt and unlock the door, granting him entry into the apartment he expects to be vacant. “Holy shit!” Shane exclaims once his eyes push past the still-opening door, falling upon Aiden’s figure buttoning a dark blue shirt in front of the mirror. Attention taken by the frightened noise, the eight o’clock shot-caller peers back with his laid back presentation unchanged. “What’s up?” the former tenant nonchalantly remarks, offering no more than the two words used to form an innocent question before looking back toward the mirror. Letting his sudden apprehension subside before speaking, Shane pulls his keys from the door and lets it shut, walking gingerly into the living room before setting his gym bag on the floor. “Man, you nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack!” the apartment’s sole permanent resident proclaims, running his hand through his hair as his former roommate remains standing in front of the standing reflexion. “Why? Did you think I’d be gone by now?” Aiden responds, genuinely unsure of the motivations behind his friend’s reaction as he focuses on his dress preparations for the day of work. “Um, I was thinking something more along the lines of- I thought you’d have been nowhere near this apartment by now!” Shane retorts, veins popping out of his neck as his voice raises momentarily, adding emphasis to the final six words of his statement, “why the hell are you here!?” With his eyelids pressing close together, Aiden reaches toward the couch he’d used for sleep the night prior and retrieves his tie from the closest cushion. “Because my name’s still on the lease and I never stopped paying rent” Aiden answers, lifting his shirt’s collar to drape the silky neckwear within its cloth confines, “didn’t you see me when you left a couple hours ago?” Visibly lost, Shane shakes his head slowly with a slight widening in his eyes, illustrating just how unexpected this presence is. “No. No, I did not” the nine o’clock producer replies honestly, “I never knew you were coming and I left before the sun rose, why would I have?” Shrugging his shoulders, Aiden shakes his head without a verbal answer, preferring to let his posture’s display provide one on his behalf as he crosses one end of the tie over the other, looping it around itself twice. “Why aren’t you at Carly’s?” Shane soon inquires, having already accepted the presence of his once roommate in spite of not knowing why it would be within the walls of his residence, “the two of you get into a fight or something?” “Sure, I guess you can say that” Aiden quips back, bringing the head of the tie up behind itself before dipping through the overlap sitting at the neckwear’s closest point to his chin. “I woke up a little after midnight and she wasn’t there. After a little bit, she walked in looking like she’d just come back from a date” he continues, explaining the situation with as much simplicity as he can offer, “I decided it wasn’t worth fighting over, so I walked out and came over to crash on the couch.” Tightening the loop into a knot, Aiden adjusts his tie properly and lowers his hands, satisfied with the accent’s placement in his attire before he retrieves the suit jacket from its place atop the kitchen counter. “So she came home late, what’s the big deal?” Shane responds after a brief pause, leaning back against the half wall dividing the living room and kitchen with his elbows atop the glossy, hardwood finish, “didn’t you say she goes on fake dates for scoops and sources?” With a squint in only his left eye, Aiden shakes his head as he extends one arm through the sleeve of his jacket before having a brief struggle to get the other one to follow suit. “We agreed that she’d tell me when she goes on those fake dates. It saves the conversation of having to check in every time I see her in the tabloids with a random guy at her arm” the producer retorts, adjusting the sides of his suit’s sides, “everything about last night was off. She wasn’t on a fake date.” “Well how do you know it was a date of any sort?” Shane calls back, preventing his friend from taking another step to the front door, aware that they’re not short for time and more than willing to take advantage of that, “what did she tell you she went out doing?” Slowly lifting up a satchel and bringing it over his head, Aiden tucks a hand into his pocket and replies, “she said she went out drinking with a friend” the rebuke is offered. “There- she went out with a friend, why is that so hard to believe?” Shane wonders aloud, a hand stretched toward the man that shakes his head with the slightest smirk appearing through his barely-parted lips, his friend’s eyes taking toward the blind-covered windows. “Because she didn’t go out with friends” Aiden replies, his eyes wearing the bags of exhaustion as if they were medals earned in armed combat, “she didn’t.” “Oh, come on, Aiden” Shane quips back, watching the man’s adamant expression take back toward him, unphased by this visual reply as he proceeds with his attempt at keeping all options on the table, “what else did she do then? If you’re so adamant she didn’t go out with friends, what did she do?” “My mind instinctively goes to cheating, but it wasn’t something she’d want me to know about. Cheating, dating, murder- it doesn’t matter” Aiden responds, watching his friend’s lips part in an attempt to speak before raising his own hand, halting his former roommate’s endeavour fall flat. “Even if you nearly shit your pants, do you know what you did when you walked in and saw me?” the apparent rent-paying resident inquires, now opening the floor for his pal to speak. “I made sure I was still conscious and breathing” Shane answers, shaking his head without another conclusion in the event his one and only proved incorrect. “No. The first thing you did was take your keys out, walk inside and let the door close” Aiden corrects, watching the unchanged and unconvinced nature in his friend’s posture usher him toward further explanation. “She walked through the door, saw me sitting there, and stood there for ages. Didn’t take her key out, didn’t walk in and get situated, none of that- she just stood there” Aiden illustrates, an almost-curl in his top lip stiffening as he continues to speak, “it was like she was a teenager that just got caught by her parents coming through the front door after sneaking out. It’s like she knew she was in trouble before I even said anything.” “You could’ve just taken her by surprise” Shane counters, though without the certainty in his tone that had been present throughout the duration of their conversation, almost as if he holds doubt within his own retort. “Shane, you’re like a truck and I’m a toddler. You could run over me like I was a speed bump if you really put your mind to it” Aiden rebukes, his head shaking more predominantly than it has been to that point, “it took you a couple seconds to make yourself at home like nothing was out of the ordinary, and unlike her- you didn’t even expect me to be here.” With his chin pressing against his exposed chest, Shane bows his head as the room goes quiet for a moment, his guest awaiting the reply he knows is incoming, though is uncertain of the contents of. Pressing the tip of his tongue against the centre of his top lip, the nine o’clock producer considers the verbal options he has to offer in the moment before choosing the one that makes the most sense, quietly illustrating his own personal assumption alongside it. “So what are you gonna do?” Shane finally asks, remaining leant against the half-wall with his full attention glued to the friend he might have to call a roommate once more. With his eyebrows lifted slightly, Aiden’s sights take back to his close acquaintance as he shrugs, beginning to step toward the door and open it before replying “we’ll see” as he steps out, returning the flat to its true inhabitant to sit and simmer, thinking about the situation as presented with much more to focus on. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 / \ 4:31 pm est. - 1:31 pm pst. / “It’s got the latest in central air and heat, all of the pipes are brand new and the floor was retiled five months ago with local cedar” a welcoming-voiced brunette lady in a white blouse and black skirt remarks, holding a leather-bound folder against her beige blazer, “there are two bathrooms, four bedrooms, rooftop access and patio with a modest garden on the third story.” Equally unenthused as his girlfriend is, Grant walks cautiously around the expensive furniture-laden living room, not wanting to knock over an antique vase or porcelain sculpture whilst already having to fork over a small fortune. “Why’s the tenant selling?” Taylor inquires from afar, her hands folded behind her back as she walks the length of the rather spacious living quarters, staying close to the walls that are adorned with colourful, eye-popping artwork. “I’m not sure. My job is only to ask what they want for the residence and return the offers to them” the polite realtor returns, standing as close to the centre of the potential buyers as she can with how spaced apart they are, “I can ask if you’d like?” Shaking her head without a verbal retort, Taylor gestures off the notion with a squint in her eye, attention returning to the man across the room from her as she turns the conversation elsewhere. “Can we have a second alone, perchance?” Taylor kindfully inquires, providing with such a request as the brunette woman steps out of the living area, returning to the loft’s entrance to afford the couple a chance to speak privately. “I still don’t understand why you need another place in the city” Grant remarks, having kept to himself throughout the duration of their visit with mind paid to the elevated view of Manhattan every window affords them. “Because we’re not married and it’s advantageous to have a place closer to the office than the outskirts of Thompson Ridge” Taylor responds, gently adjusting the sunglasses that sit atop her head. “And the place you just handed off to Vince was practically an empty loft anyway. After all, it was you that said you only went there to take a nap in between shifts” Grant retorts, a reminder that prompts his girlfriend’s eyes to distance themselves toward the window’s view. “A motel room for something like fifty bucks a night can give you everything you’d want out of a multi-million dollar loft in the city” the man continues, his expression still holding warmth in spite of his critical objection to the woman’s assertions. Aware of the flaw in her plan, Taylor lets her fingers tuck into the back pockets of her jeans as she steps closer toward the window, looking out at the city countless stories below, its life uninterrupted and unimpeded. “You’re right. I know I can be critical of the city, but it’s really nice to look at from up here” Taylor expresses, her head leaning to one side as her significant other steps closer to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. “Should I go ahead and assume that was the reason you didn’t have curtains in your old place, or would you rather I just blame it on laziness?” Grant prods, earning a small chuckle before receiving his response. “You can blame it on Bed, Bath, and Beyond not having two story-high curtains in-store” Taylor corrects, continuing to stare out at the distance as the few proceeding seconds they spend in silence allows her boyfriend’s mind to drift toward a prior remark. “What did being married have to do with you wanting a place in the city?” Grant wonders aloud, his eyes kept on the skyline whilst his girlfriend’s turn back toward him, curious for emphasis. “You said you needed a place in the city to be closer to the office and because we weren’t married” Grant reiterates, invoking the woman’s own remarks as support for his question, “what did being married have to do with living in the city?” Pushing her bottom lip inward, Taylor shakes her head and shrugs with her sights on the taller man, looking back at the city within the mid-pause that splits her answer in two. “Because I can’t just live in your villa- or whatever it’s called- if things sour between us” Taylor replies honestly, looking at the clear view the flat offers her of the Empire State Building, “the process of having to find a new place to live isn’t easy- especially in New York. It’d all take a while, and there’d be a ton of papers to sign, and-” “Why do you think things would sour between us?” Grant interrupts, his visage wearing a very slight concern as their eyes meet once more, not interested in the process relocating would entail as much as he is for her reasoning behind the assumption. “I don’t think things would sour between us, but it’s not like it’s impossible” Taylor answers, making certain to keep herself grounded in reality in spite of how well their relationship has gone throughout its lifespan. “I love you and everything that we have, but I’m not gonna play make believe and convince myself there’s no chance it ends” the black jean-wearing anchor explains, “and if it ended, we’d be thrusted back into our own worlds. I don’t want to be unprepared for what that would look like.” “How would marriage make that any different?” Grant replies, clearly growing more anxious as the seconds pass, though it’s an anxiety he maintains enough composure to keep unexpressed in anything other than his posture. “Marriage keeps us bound together. I’ve got no reason to have a backup ready incase we don’t work out” Taylor answers, “‘til death do us part. If you die, you’d just leave the villa to me. If I was the one that died, I wouldn’t need to do anything now, would I?” “What about divorce?” Grant inquires, finishing his question as the woman already begins to shake her head in refusal, “if we grew apart in marriage, divorce would come before death, would it not?” “Nope. I don’t believe in divorce” Taylor responds, beginning to present a side of herself to the man he’d never known existed, “if love is strong enough to result in marriage, it’s strong enough to last forever.” Turning his sights toward the window they stand beside, Grant parts from the conversation mentally for a mere moment, taking a second for himself as the air quiets. “Are you alright?” Taylor wonders aloud, quickly receiving a dismissive nod from her boyfriend as he tries to sort his thoughts, unaware of the realtor beginning to re-enter the premises. “Yeah, I guess it’s just now hitting me that- we’ve never actually talked about this” Grant confesses, opening his mouth to speak before taking the first notice of the third party’s heels tapping along the cedar floors, eyes taking to the woman’s direction and letting her return put a cork in the discussion. | \ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 / \ 8:59 pm est. - 5:59 pm pst. / “Taylor and Grant are up next with Tonight at Nine, from On Air- I’m Carly Carpenter” the anchor remarks, a graceful bow of her head and pleasant smile paid to the camera, able to hear the other end of her in-ear disconnect before the conclusion of her broadcast can even be completed, “goodnight.” “Good show everyone” Aiden proclaims to the men and women stationed behind the controls, removing his receiver pack and placing it upon the nearest desk as his girlfriend’s wide shot is carried to conclude the show. Making little effort to be cordiable or conversational, the executive producer takes a direct stroll to the back of the room and lifts his satchel out of the corner, stepping through the control centre’s exit and walking toward the opposite direction of the bureau. As he carries himself onward, Aiden reaches to his side and grabs the miniscule audio player from his pocket, gracefully taking the set of earbuds that connect to it and placing them in each ear. Turning the nearest corner away from the final corridor in his path capable of returning him to the newsroom, the producer advances past the closest elevator and presses the call button, waiting a beat for the doors to part with eyes half-heartedly drifting toward the direction he’d come from. With a brief look at his Blackberry, Aiden takes a few swipes with his thumb, taking him to different ends of the directory as his foot anxiously taps along the ground, his inner emotion refusing a place along his visage. “Come on, you tortoise-speed fuck” the man whispers toward the lift, glancing at the first text message his phone can provide him with the sight of just as the elevator doors pull away from each other. With a nod, the producer pulls his head away from the screen and steps halfway into the lift, pressing the button for the building’s top-most floor as he tucks his phone into his pocket. Refusing to wait for the doors to close back in, Aiden dips out of the compartment and allows the elevator to take its time, his thumb pressing the centre button on his music player and flooding his ears with the sound of loud rock and roll as he carries himself through the doors of the nearest staircase. Within a few seconds, Carly turns the same corner her boyfriend had taken with her heels carried in hand, a last-second sprint through the doors of the lift entrapping her within the confines of the wrongly-directed elevator. Stone-faced, Aiden appears completely undisturbed with the uncharacteristic adventure he puts himself through in the name of evading the woman he’d spoken little to throughout the day, elongating the struggle as he ventures upward. After the passing of three minutes, Aiden emerges on the back end of the nine o’clock soundstage and dips into the control room without disturbing the broadcast. “The cyclone’s maximum winds are expected to get as high as one hundred and sixty miles per hour as it reaches it continues threatening to get worse, though meteorologists believe it will pass within the next couple of days” Taylor remarks, her voice incapable of reaching the earbud-hosting ears of her former producer. “Just warning you not to scream like a little girl when you get back and find me crashing on the couch again” Aiden calmly remarks as he dips his head into the nine o’clock operations, wasting little time in waiting for an answer that his friend doesn’t even bother to offer. As quickly as he’d entered, the eight o’clock showrunner guides himself back the way he came and sprints down the same set of stairs he’d ascended to reach the Tonight at 9 studio. Having taken his time in climbing down the LMC tower, Aiden inevitably reaches the ground level and spots the car he’d requested. “I know it may be June, but this holiday season- I’m grateful for you, Nola!” the E.P exclaims, passing the building’s receptionist a thumbs up as appreciation for her calling a driver on his behalf, incapable of hearing the warning the woman tries to offer him. Waiting to take out the earbuds until he sinks into the leathery seat the black town car awaiting him provides, Aiden shuts the back doors as quickly as he’d opened them to take his place within the vehicle. “There’s a reason people press multiple buttons when they’re trying to keep someone in the elevator” Carly remarks, her feet having long-since returned to her shoes as her boyfriend realises she’d already taken occupancy of the car. Rolling his eyes with a groan as he throws himself against the seat, Aiden stares at the vehicle’s upholster-covered ceiling as the wheels begin to move, carrying him to the same destination he’d requested Nola provide for him. “It’s one thing to avoid me all day, and it’s another to disconnect from the ear piece before I can finish the show” Carly explains, an expression of near-glee carried in her face as she thinks of the situation humorously, “it’s another to plan an escape route.” “It was clearly a much-needed plan since you followed it” Aiden murmurs in a much less pleased tone, his eyes kept at the road straight ahead as the vehicle is stopped by the congestion of traffic. Noting her boyfriend’s visible look of aggravation, Carly places her amusement aside and carries on with the conversation she’d initially sought out her significant other to have. “You never came home last night” the eight o’clock anchor remarks, paying no mind to the brown locks of hair that fall in front of her face, “why not?” The rigid look of distaste in the way in which the tides have appeared to turn held firmly upon his face, Aiden keeps his eyes glued on the picture that appears in the car’s windshield, its illustration of the brake lights flashing in the cars brought to a stop by the choke point that interrupts their advancement all that meets him. “Aiden, please talk to me” Carly pleads, hosting a clear disdain for the tension that simmers between them, “we’re supposed to be able to talk about these things, not run away from them.” His silence almost palpable enough to taste, Aiden’s lips remain fixed together, refusing to pull away from each other in spite of his girlfriend’s requests, more than fine with leaving her in the same position of uncertainty he’d spent every moment since her early-morning return suffering through. Beginning to lose hope in earning her response without strife, Carly starts settling back into her seat without looking away from her boyfriend, continuing to maintain the belief that he’ll break free from his silence eventually. With the faintest squeeze in his eyes, Aiden continues to stare forward without any intention of looking at the woman beside him, the woman’s persistence reaching the lengths of running after him incapable of proving too much to handle. “I know that you know I’d be upset if I found out what you did last night” Aiden breaks his vow of quietude to remark, left uninterrupted by the woman sitting beside him. “We both know you didn’t go out drinking with friends, and we both know what you did wasn’t a good thing- but only one of us knows what you did” the producer explains, speaking with calmness and composure, “I’m not interested in playing games, or arguing, or fighting, or whatever. Just tell me what you did.” “Aiden, whatever you’re accusing me of-” Carly begins to reply, only to be immediately interrupted, the dismissive nature of her retort something her boyfriend picks out and refuses room to breathe instantly. “I’m not accusing you of anything other than lying, and I’m only going to ask one more time” Aiden replies, finally turning to look the woman in the eyes as the vehicle begins moving once more. “Tell me what you did, and I promise to let it go and move on as if nothing ever happened- but I’m only giving you one chance” Aiden clarifies, a single digit held toward the woman in display of his offer. “How would you even know if I was lying?” Carly quickly wonders back, not yet offering an answer as her efforts to dismiss the man’s accusatory presentation persists as well as she does. “Show me your call log” Aiden immediately demands, lowering his hand toward his lap as the woman pauses, freezing like a statue upon his request, “you said your friend called and asked you out for drinks. If that really happened, I’ll see her name on the call log and I’ll admit I was wrong. With that, do whatever. Break up with me, call me a control freak, burn my shit and toss it in the river- I don’t care. Show me the call log and prove you’re telling the truth.” “No” Carly immediately replies, not bothering to even reach into her purse in order to retrieve the device, her mouth opening to continue speaking before her efforts are thwarted. “If you’re gonna start running your mouth off about privacy, don’t even bother” Aiden interjects, shaking his head as he looks to the road that still remains ahead, “the only reason you wouldn’t show me the call log is because there’s something in it- or something not in it- that proves you lied.” “Or maybe it’s because I’m trying to keep you from getting hurt” Carly rebukes, prompting her boyfriend to drop his stoic demeanour and break out into laughter, her expression remaining unchanged. “Why is that so hard to believe?” the woman soon wonders aloud, calling the man’s reaction into question for exactly what it was. “What would hurt me about having my assumptions proven wrong?” Aiden inquires, generally curious as to the woman’s reasoning, “why wouldn’t I want my girlfriend to prove she’s not lying to me?” Rolling her eyes, Carly shakes her head with disappointment as she’s proven incapable of offering a response, her boyfriend’s adamance that she answer his demands for clarity voiced in the meantime. “What were you doing last night- final chance” Aiden queries, not uttering a single word further as he waits for the woman sitting beside him to answer the question. Visibly distressed and angry, Carly turns her head and locks eyes with the man, unwavering in her resilience to his assumptions, “I went out to drink with a friend” the anchor replies, watching the same anger she wields find its way to her significant other’s face. “You wouldn’t want me to show you the call log ‘cause then you’d spend all day kicking yourself for immediately assuming the worst out of me, and I-” Carly begins to argue back, falling silent the moment her boyfriend’s voice reaches the reflexion of a yell, snapping at her before the chance to conclude her statement is given. “You’re a fucking liar!” Aiden exclaims, taking the phone out of his pocket and tossing it upon the woman’s lap, its screen already preloaded with a picture. “My college roommate works for TMZ. Someone sent him this last night and he wanted me to see it before he published it in the magazines” Aiden explains, adding context to the photo of his girlfriend walking the streets of New York early in the morning beside a man in a white t-shirt. “That’s you, in the same dress you wore last night and- while I can’t put my finger on who that is, I know it’s not a chick” the producer explains, providing the evidence behind his assumptions. “I didn’t need you to tell me what you were doing, I just wanted to give you the chance” Aiden clarifies in a murmured tone, pressing his hand into the back of the passenger’s seat as the vehicle comes to another traffic stop. Shaking her head, Carly flips the top to her Razr open and runs down the same log the man had been so eager to see, eventually finding what was asked of her and presenting it as her own evidence to the man beside her. “That’s Eliza’s number- my friend from high school that wanted to know if I was interested in catching up over drinks last night” Carly confesses, letting the man read the number quietly to himself before returning the phone to the front-most pocket of her purse. “I picked out the first dress I could find, did my makeup on the ride to the pub and left” the woman continues to explain, allowed to do amidst the silence her boyfriend is incapable of filling with anything of substance. “Brant was out with some of his colleagues, we bumped into each other ordering a few beers, and I talked to him since he’s a pretty decent guy once you break the ice with him” Carly proceeds, buckling her purse up and opening the door beside her, “Eliza got drunk and went home with some dude and I couldn’t get a cab, so he walked me a few blocks to where they were rolling through.” “Carly” Aiden quickly speaks aloud in a subdued tone, his entire demeanour flipped to the opposite of what he’d spent the entire car ride enduring. “Are you happy now, asshole? I hope you are, ‘cause I’m taking you up on that offer from earlier” Carly remarks, stepping out of the vehicle with her head leant in for the final remark, the door slamming shut upon its completion before her boyfriend can have the chance to reply, “we’re done. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, you piece of shit.” Pressing his eyelids together as tightly as he can the instant her door is forced to close, Aiden’s head falls into his hand, not needing a moment for the realisation of how badly he’d been mistaken to settle in. Reserving his judgement, the driver avoids looking into the rear view mirror and simply remains intent on taking his passenger to the location desired, not wishing to interject himself into something clearly not meant for him to partake in. == Tonight at 9 == \ Monday, June 4th, 2007 /
\ 12:13 pm est. - 9:13 am pst. / “It’s just a power move- something to hold the west at bay” Olivia replies, fidgeting with a pencil as she sits to the right side of an expansive table the rest of her producers occupy, “it’s an empty threat that teams will only use to fear monger.” With her one running shoe-covered foot propped atop an empty seat a short distance from the chair she occupies at one end of the conference table, Taylor lifts an uncapped pen a few inches away from her face. “Are you trying to insist that our competitors are putting out inferior coverage solely based on keeping people around through the ad breaks?” the well-experienced anchor asks sarcastically, concluding her point amidst a chorus of humoured chuckles, “blasphemy!” Playing into the amusement of the newsroom, Olivia shrugs her shoulders and leans back in her seat, the point made clear enough to satisfy her as the rest of her peers have their fun. “If you guys keep making claims like those, I might start having to negotiate myself out of this deal” Grant jokes, keeping the mood light, “there wasn’t just one reason I left CSN, that departure had levels.” With the white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, Vince sits with one arm resting against the side of his chair, his left leg kicked over the right as he proposes an intriguing question toward the opposite end of the table from Taylor. “Would you bring anyone from the CSN desk over here if you had the chance?” the stock market-follower inquires with a capped pen pressed against his bottom lip, “I’m not saying you had to poach them from there, but if you found out they were let go, was there anyone from over there you ever looked at and thought ‘I always thought they were cool’?” Fascinated with the mental experiment proposed to him, Grant pushes back in his seat slightly and stares off at the distance, the foot he rests against one of the seat’s wheels propping one leg higher than the other. “I’m sure there were a few people I wouldn’t mind walking into the newsroom to see again” the anchor answers honestly, “the first people that come to mind was this producer Holly.” “Holly Hooper?” Keith quickly wonders aloud, looking in the direction of the D.C-originated anchor closest to his left side, “she married her field correspondent, right?” With his finger pointed at the man, Grant nods in assurance at the suggestion, “Tate McPherson, yup” he replies without pause, “they were the life of the party, I’d love to work with both of them again. And since it’s easier to promote producers than guys in the field, hiring her first would be the key to netting him in too.” “I don’t think that’s true” Abby replies with lips puckered and her face scrunched, one arm draped over the table’s surface. “Finley hired me after two years doing field reporting at a local station in Sarasota” the woman recalls, eyes wandering from one end to the other by the time she finishes speaking, “they made me an associate producer after six months and I worked there for another year or so before I came here.” “Abby, it’s okay to admit you owe your life to LMC for saving you from those bad people at Finley” Marcus jokes, again leaving the table entrenched within shared laughter, “they can’t hurt you anymore!” Already with a crumpled ball of paper within her reach, an equally-amused Abby tosses the discarded sheet in the man’s direction as he braces for an impact much greater than the one anyone reasonably expects. With spirits still high and the brunt of their meeting already having mostly concluded, Shane speaks out from the group to raise a different conversation for the colleagues to have. “Whilst we’re on the subject of saving people from the horrors of places like- ugh- the Finley Network, let’s give it up for our very own Taylor English!” the sweatshirt-wearing gentleman proclaims, putting his hands together in the woman’s direction. “Our very own Taylor has saved Vince- our dearly beloved little man- from the egregious world of the New York real estate market!” Shane announces, earning both his intended applause and laugh-filled cheer, “thanks to her generous efforts, this handsome little lad and his family will nevermore be forced to spend eighty thousand dollars on the installation of a sink or something stupid like that!” Keeping her laughter to herself, Taylor plays along with the good nature of the man’s remarks and gestures her fingers as if she were tipping her cap, a pair of thumbs-up’s given to the man she prepares to leave her luxury apartment in the possession of. “I’m five-foot-nine and I can install my own damn sink, thank you very much” Vince quips back, a half-smirk held on his face as the show’s anchors quietly watch on in delight, pleased in the light-hearted nature of their subordinates. “I’m sure you can, buddy- but would Whitney let you?” Shane responds, his hands settling upon the man’s shoulders as he proposes the question, a pause offered in between its vocalisation and the answer given. “No” Vince replies with a deflated tone, the retort only bringing the raucous laughter to an even higher level. “Well, now that you won’t have to spend your evening installing sinks, I propose a group dinner!” Shane exclaims, throwing his hands out at either side as the newsroom’s focus draws toward him, “everyone here’s been kicking ass and now we’ve got a reason to celebrate! Friday night, I’ll make the reservations for that steakhouse downtown!” “I know we pay you well, but exactly what incentives did you negotiate into that contract we don’t know about?” Taylor quickly asks aloud, watching her E.P’s face widen with realisation, a pause taken as his finger slowly drifts toward her direction. “Good point, I can’t afford that!” Shane rebukes, watching the blonde woman with brown highlights fail to subdue her laughter this time around, “instead, I’ll make the reservation for that steakhouse and put it on the company card!” Holding her side as it begins to pain her from the group giggle-fest, Taylor leans back in her seat as her free hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Alright, you’re all dismissed!” she bellows, remaining seated for a few moments as the crowd begins to disperse, returning to their respective stations to continue with their work, prepared to go about their next ten hours with certainty that their homes will call for them upon the day’s completion. With a crooked smile on his face, Vickers walks toward the group of departing producers as the meeting concludes, his hand stretching out to hold the door open for the last few employees before entering on their behalf. “You do realise that you don’t have a company credit card, right?” the heart attack survivor inquires, looking at the man still wearing the scar of his headbutt from just days prior. “How can we not have a company credit card?” Shane replies after a pause, shaking his head in disbelief at the revelation, “we’re worth- like- twenty billion dollars!” Shaking his head with one hand extended toward the executive producer, Vickers’ stance adjusts. “No, no, no- I didn’t say we didn’t have a company credit card, I said you didn’t” the man replies, watching the physically-superior and strategically-inferior gentleman tilt his chin toward the sky in defeat. Reaching into his back pocket unprovoked, Vickers opens his wallet and rummages through a few sheets of reflective plastic, the gesture only noticed by Shane once a card flies through the air and into his possession. “Consider it a way to make us even for that headbutt I can see you’re still feeling the effects of, champ” the older man remarks, adjusting his suede suit jacket to the side as a way of returning the wallet to his back pocket. “What headbutt?” Shane replies, earning a wider smile from his superior from the endearing way of implying the event had already slipped his mind in return. “You’ve been doing a fine job in the control room. Keep it up” Vickers proclaims, patting the younger man on the back as he passes him, wanting to leave him with his props before he can fully exit the room. In silence, the executive producer smiles and bows his head before stepping away, leaving the room for the trio’s use. “What’s up, Sam?” Taylor inquires, stepping out of her chair to follow the man toward her boyfriend’s side of the table, taking a seat in the chair her father figure of sorts pulls out to offer her. “I just wanted to let you know that word has begun dropping of Ross’ intention to sell” Vickers responds, stepping around the male anchor that remains seated before taking to the side opposite him. “I don’t exactly know if it’ll be a bloodbath to get some- or even all- of his shares, but I know there are already a few people with interest” Vickers explains, slowly lowering himself into the chair his hands wrap around the sides of, “and they all have the capital for such an acquisition.” With eyes narrowed, Grant looks toward the surface of the table that sits before him with his knuckle pressed against the side of his mouth, letting the conversation persist between those to either side. “Are these people the kinds that we should worry about?” Taylor queries, watching the man wince as his eyes drift toward the depths of the enclosed space they sit within, pondering the answer to her question. “As people, I’d say there are a good couple that I prefer not associating myself with” Vickers retorts, his arms crossed atop the table as he nods to himself reassuringly, eyes settling back upon his longer-tenured anchor, “no one that would come in and shake things up.” Lowering her eyes, Taylor keeps her thoughts to herself as Grant takes over the conversation, his voice the first to emerge amidst a momentary pause. “Ross mentioned Lehman and JPMorgan Chase when he was here-” the man interrupts, the reflexion in his voice much lower than that of his contemporaries, “any word on whether or not they’re throwing their hats into the rink?” “I doubt it. JPMorgan might, but I doubt Lehman will with what I’m hearing internally” Vickers answers, patting the table as he continues to shake his head, “I think we’re in the clear of those guys, the rest are who I’m not so sure about.” Unable to take anything more than the simplest of satisfaction for the reply he receives, Grant sits further back in his seat as the room goes quiet, an odd and misplaced feeling left to linger as if there was more that was meant to be said- but is unspoken. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Tuesday, June 5th, 2007 / \ 12:24 am est. - 9:24 pm pst. / His arm hanging off the side of the bed he lies atop in little more than a pair of plaid boxers and a white t-shirt, Aiden presses his face into the soft cushion of his pillow as his face tightens. “God fucking damnit” the man groans, his voice muffled by the puffy support his head is meant for before joining the rest of his face in freeing itself from its burial place. Turning to face Carly’s side of the bed, the eight o’clock producer peers toward the digital clock set up on the distant table. “Twelve twenty-five” he murmurs to himself, coupling his hands together and pressing them against his face, the inability to sleep for much longer than an hour or so at a time proving to annoy him more with each day it occurs. Angrily screaming obscenities at himself inside of his head, Aiden’s thoughts soon eventually fall silent, not even the internal sound of his voice whaling him with insults able to persist amidst the sudden realisation he comes to in a brief moment of clarity. Letting his palms fall from his sweat-covered face, Aiden’s eyes take to the space beside him beneath the covers, his view of the tabletop clock having never gone unimpeded before. “Carly?” the man whispers through the darkness, soon reaching for the dial to the nearest lamp and flooding the room with a warm, yellow embrace. Empty instead of its usually-filled position, his girlfriend’s side of the bed appears vacant, untouched by the woman he’d knowingly gone to sleep the prior night without. Knowing himself to be alone, the man’s eyes wander throughout each corner of the room, checking every space made available to him in spite of knowing for certain that she will not be found. Falling to his lap with a thud, the man’s hands hit his legs and fall to each side of his now seated-upright posture, back pressing against the headboard as his sights take to the picturesque view the closest window affords him of Roosevelt Island. Jostling her keys gently within the deadbolt of her apartment’s front door, Carly parts the divider between herself and the small foyer standing between her and the living room. Before her hand can be presented with the chance to free the metal teeth from their place within the lock, the eight o’clock anchor's eyes set upon the occupied recliner in the room just ahead, the figure sitting within it perfectly presented through the light he sits beside. “What are you doing up?” Carly inquires, peering past the walls standing to each of her sides and toward her boyfriend’s groggy position in the distant seat. With his legs propped up by the footrest, Aiden’s blank stare at the distant wall- its blank facade given character by only a three-piece glossy statue anchored to the plastered division- never wavers in spite of the question asked. “I have trouble sleeping” the accomplished producer responds with minimal emotion, his face only turning toward his girlfriend’s direction after a few seconds of mutual silence, “you already know this.” Still standing in front of the door with her keys yet to be freed from the deadbolt, Carly nods slowly to herself in reply to the man’s answer, a brief glance taken toward the spotless kitchen just to her right side. “That’s right, you do” the woman answers, her frazzled tone obviously hiding a deeper reaction than the curious one she presents the man across from her. With his lips pressed together, Aiden looks at the woman’s body, investigating everything from head to toe within his own mind, speaking only to himself as the quietude continues. Contained by a leather strap, Carly’s feet sink into the soles of a six-inch high pair of heels, her bare legs running up to where her dress ends. A shade of black just light enough to reflect the smallest amount of light, the mid thigh-high dark dress runs up the length of her body, accentuating her curves at every opportunity before ending short of her shoulders. Providing the slightest glimpse of the woman’s cleavage and leaving her shoulders uncovered, the choice in clothing leaves little to the imagination, and yet leaves Aiden’s mind running over endless speculation he can’t help but bring himself to voice. “Where did you go?” the man wonders aloud, still staring at the wall ahead with an emotionless void of a stare, met initially with a lack of an answer strong enough to return his attention onward. “I went out to the bar with some friends” Carly replies, still remaining within the door frame as she just now frees her primary key from the deadbolt, slowly letting the entrance shut behind her. Nodding to himself with his eyes squinted, Aiden’s sights redirect themselves back toward the distant wall across the room from him, unable to find their way back toward the woman. “Is that a problem?” Carly soon wonders aloud, only able to catch her boyfriend’s lips puckering together before noticing the rest of his head answer her with a simple shake of refusal. “Nope” Aiden replies, his arms resting to each of his sides, fingers draped over the ends of the armrests, “I just found it odd for you to be out so late when you were here before I went to bed.” Moving as if she were the prey to an animalistic predator, Carly gently makes her way further into the home, letting the leather strap of her purse fall down the length of her arm before joining the rest of the accessory in falling limply onto the stone-finished countertop. “It was a last-second thing” the anchor retorts, placing the palm of her hand against the drywall-covered concrete pillar at the intersection of her kitchen’s archway and adjacent island. “A last-second thing?” Aiden replies, turning his head toward the woman once more with an intrigued look in his eye, face leaning toward his left shoulder as the woman leans against the support column. “Yes, a last-second thing” Carly reiterates, jostling her head as her free hand swipes a few hairs away from her face, “she called about an hour after you went to bed. I got my stuff and I left.” With his eyes lowered, Aiden takes his right hand and lowers it past the armrest, adjusting the crank at the chair’s side to let his feet collide with the ground, freeing them to join him in departing from the chair. “Oh, okay. That makes sense, I guess” the man responds in a tone that doesn’t exactly imply he’s as convinced as he lets on, “it just seems odd that you put on this whole get-up to go out in the span of- a few minutes or so.” Standing from his seat, Aiden gracefully turns toward the chair’s direction and begins stepping toward the hallway separating their living room from the shared bedroom. “What are you saying?” Carly asks back, interrupting the man’s attempt at leaving with the question, seemingly inquisitive about the deeper motivations that he holds away from her ear’s reach. With his head hanging, Aiden’s pause leaves him stranded in the centre of the walkway, standing right in front of his girlfriend with eyes on the bedroom in the dark reaches of the corridor he’d yet to traverse. “It’s just odd that you can take an hour and a half in the morning to get ready for work, but when a friend calls you out, you’re able to put on all of this in just a couple minutes and slip out without a peep” Aiden answers honestly, motioning his hand toward the elegant ensemble her clothes combine into, “it just seems odd- that’s all.” “It sounds like you’re not telling me something” Carly replies, making her voice heard the moment he comes to a subtle conclusion, a defensive tone beginning to come over her reflexion. “If there’s something you want to say to me, just come out and say it” the woman adds on, watching the man’s disappointed visage meet her as his head tilts to the side, “whatever this is- I’m not a fan of it.” Placing his hands on his hip as he nods to himself, Aiden feels a range of emotions beg for him to stand on the side of releasing them, though he ultimately chooses to keep the peace whilst it is still to be had. “I’ll see myself out then” the man finally remarks, making the conscious choice to depart the situation before it can escalate as he begins for the door. “What are you doing?” Carly interrupts, asking the question aloud just as their paths cross, her boyfriend’s figure stopping beside her as his answer is called for once more. With his stoic face supplanted upon the heavy front door, Aiden soon turns to look the woman he steps past in the eyes, answering her honestly mid-pause before proceeding onward, “I’m going out to the bar with some friends” he replies, resuming his forward progress and closing the door behind himself without another word. Left entirely alone, Carly lets her hand fall from the plaster-covered pillar at the archway’s end as she stares at the entrance, half-heartedly expecting the man to re-enter as if the odd interaction had never occurred in the first place. With squinted eyes, the moments turn into genuine seconds without the man’s return, the shake of her head preceding her first steps in the man’s path. Pulling the door open, Carly looks down each end of the hallway the man would have ventured toward, unable to decipher in which direction he would have headed and incapable of following him any further. | \ Wednesday, June 6th, 2007 / \ 11:04 am est. - 8:04 am pst. / “I’m sorry, Mr. Vickers- there was only so much I could do” Nicole remarks, standing in the doorway of her understanding employer’s office. “I don’t blame you for Ms. Lloyd’s lack of civility, don’t you worry” Vickers replies, using his retort as a backhanded quip at the woman’s unannounced visit, “unfortunately, some people just don’t take others into account and people like us just have to deal with them.” Adjusting her jacket, Robin crosses her legs professionally and folds her hands atop her lap, both elbows pressing into the supports to either side of the man’s desk chair. “This uncivilised drop-in is the only reason you can afford to fill your veins with all the expensive booze in the world” the company’s owner replies, wearing a smug look as the man chuckles to himself, walking for the pair of empty chairs in front of his desk. “Whether it’s you or your ex husband, why is everyone taking my chair other than me?” Vickers inquires aloud, unbuttoning the shoulder-padded blazer as he lowers himself into the seats his office intends to offer for guests to occupy. “Because I pay you well enough to buy a comfortable chair” Robin replies, returning the playful backhand to the man initiating the conversation with a smile, “I can show up and take your chair for the same reason I can show up unannounced- I own your ass.” Enjoying the banter as nothing more than their usual back-and-forth, Vickers laughs to himself with the widest, child-like smile as he sits back in his seat, letting the humour settle before turning his attention toward the reason for the woman’s appearance. “I’m going to assume there’s more to this than a simple request to have lunch?” the company’s president inquires, head leant to the side as the woman bows her head, “something tells me it has more to do with our little situation?” With a smile appearing in the corner of her mouth, Robin’s eyes remain glued to her longtime friend’s welcoming demeanour, “are you saying you don’t want to take a ride to Wendy’s?” she wonders aloud, trying to keep a fair amount of levity present. “As great as their burgers are, I’m not supposed to eat red meat for the next few weeks” Vickers responds, hiding his annoyance for the restrictions his heart attack had made necessary for him, “spill the beans.” With her teeth falling behind glossy lips, Robin stares toward the ground once more as her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, distant sights accompanying her internal strife. Letting free a sigh, the company’s owner lifts her attention back toward the company’s president as her shoulders fall slightly, “Burt Russo wants in” she confesses, watching the disappointed look take her friend’s face within its grasp, shuffling his expression into one of disheartened annoyance. “I thought Burt was one of the few Ross wasn’t willing to sell to?” Vickers wonders aloud, watching the woman’s head shake at him. “No, he said it would take a miracle for him to sell to Burt” Robin corrects, pushing herself up in the seat she claims as her own for the time being as her hands uncouple, one reaching up to support her head, “well, it seems like a miracle is in store for all of us.” “How much is he offering?” Vickers quickly inquires, aware of that question being the difference between hope being justified and such a desire proving fruitless. As her visage sours, Robin’s eyes take toward the windows of her friend’s office, watching droplets of rain slowly run down the glass panes separating his inner sanctum from the gritty city streets beyond them. “Five-point-five billion for all twenty” Robin answers, immediately watching the closest man to her place on the ladder stare at her with the widest eyes she’d seen on him yet. “You’re fucking kidding” Vickers says as his face goes stiff, following the lead of his posture in leaning forward, closer toward the woman than it had been at any other point in the conversation, “how the hell does he even have that much liquid capital?” “I don’t know, but he has it. He has it, and he’s willing to put every last dollar into buying a fifth of the company” Robin answers, hands gently pressing into her legs as the man whose chair she occupies turns his focus toward the distance, trying to process what such a conclusion means for LMC going forward. “Well what the hell are we going to do?” Vickers soon inquires, knowing that they’ve now been forced to take action with the field becoming more well-illustrated. “Robin, there’s no way we can let the founder of Finley take on any percent of this company- let alone a fifth of it” the president continues to assert, a declaration his only superior is already more than well aware of. “I know that, and we’re not going to. It’s not what we’re going to do, it’s what I’m going to do” Robin retorts, stepping out of the man’s seat and pressing her foot firmly into the ground, standing defiantly in the face of being presented with such crucial opposition. “I’m not gonna mince words, and I’m not gonna waste my breath. I’m getting my books in order and I’m picking out every last dollar I have-” Robin replies, one finger aimed toward the ground she refuses to let fall into any hands other than her own. “You’re gonna find five and a half billion dollars and make sure that gutless sack of donkey shit never steps foot in your fucking building” Vickers declares, watching the finger the owner holds toward the ground shoot toward his direction. With her teeth pressed together and lip curled, Robin nods to the man with certainty as she growls her reply, wasting no breath and not mincing a single word as promised. “You’re goddamn right I am.” == Tonight at 9 == \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 /
\ 10:24 pm est. - 7:24 pm pst. / “Did you come here looking for sympathy?” Robin wonders from her corner of the room, watching her ex husband wipe the blood from his lip and steady himself properly. “No” Ross responds with simplicity, kept from offering anything more by his ex wife’s rigid and callous interjection. “Then what is it that you came here for?” the company’s owner inquires, hands placed on her hips as she stands beside Bruce, “forgiveness? Revenge? A check for the chemo?” “No” Ross replies, again composed and well-collected, hands pressed against the top of Vickers’ desk to steady himself. “Then why are you here?” Robin cuts back with haste, a few steps taken closer to the workstation that her ex husband collects himself at, her every word holding malice and vigour, “I told you I never wanted to see you in this building the moment the ink dried on our deal. I don’t care if you’re a few months away from playing patty cake with Satan, why are you here?” With his head hung and face held toward the desktop, Ross collects his breath for a few moments as the strength in his knees begins to waver, desperately trying to force him back into the chair he’d fought so hard to escape the grasp of. “Well for one, I still own the land this tower is built on- which makes it mine” the cancer-ridden founder retorts, finally giving into the call of the seat that sits behind him, lowering himself back into the soft restraint of the rolling throne. “And secondly, I didn’t come here to throw jabs at you” Ross continues, his eyes veering toward the side of the room Shane occupies, the man’s dress shirt lifted toward the cut on his head, “-or anyone else for that matter.” “I’d do it again” Shane responds beneath his breath, though more than loud enough for the rest of the room to overhear. “He did nothing to deserve that” Kaye interjects, her finger pointed toward Shane before another voice earns her attention, defending the well-built, nine o’clock producer with a stern weight in his voice. “He tried to convince the board to let that fiend get away with what he did to Taylor” Aiden replies, stepping in front of Shane with his hand toward the primetime host. “For the last time, I never tried to let Barry get away with what he did to her!” Ross exclaims with a much more angered reflexion, “how the hell was I going to justify replacing a fifteen year veteran anchor with an intern straight out of college to everyone with skin in the game?” Letting his arms hang freely by his sides, Vickers answers the man’s question on behalf of those targeted with the inquiry. “You could’ve told them I was putting my career on the line for that call- which I was” Vickers replies, both hands finding sanctuary within the comfort of his pants pockets, “I made the call, and I offered myself as the fall guy in the event that it didn’t work out. You chose not to take me up on that.” With his arms extended by each side, Ross sways his head from one side to the other as he leans further back in the chair, his wife’s hand gently rubbing his shoulder, “you still got your way, what does it matter now?” With her foot planted into the ground, Robin steps forward to resume her place in the conversation once more, “the difference is that I had to buy nearly ten percent of this company to usurp you” she retorts, “it cost me a fortune to get a rapist off my airwaves.” “Alright, hold the fucking phone here-” Bruce interrupts, one hand carrying his reinforced briefcase whilst the other rubs at the sides of his aching head, “what’s going on here?” With his eyes peeled, Ross looks to the only man he can’t identify from the crowd with a scowl, “who are you?” the company’s founder wonders aloud, immediately drawing the ire of his primetime host’s agent. “Bruce Langston, agent of Grant and the guy that’ll start stripping people of their wealth in court if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on right now” the man responds, pointing toward the feeble founder before looking elsewhere for answers. “Ross is Robin’s ex-husband. He founded the company and she bought him out of it in 1999” Vickers replies, wasting little time in providing the man with context. “And what’s the deal with this rapist-and-investors thing?” Bruce quickly inquires, his hand waving toward the open space between the two sides of the conversation, “is this something no one outside of this room is supposed to know about?” Shaking his head, Vickers refuses the notion as he parts his lips to reply, only for the words offered to the agent to come from a mouth other than his own. “Arnold Barry was the solo anchor on Tonight at Nine before me” Taylor answers, still standing beside Grant just as she has throughout the discourse’s duration, “he raped me, they fired him, and had me man the broadcast from then on.” Attaching himself to the conclusion of the woman’s argument, Ross points his finger in her direction and adds further context suited to defend himself. “And- as the majority owner of the company- I had to try to convince thousands of investors not to pull their money out in spite of the fact that we were replacing a veteran of the industry with a rookie fresh out of school!” Ross exclaims, prompting Bruce’s eyes to roll, “I never liked having to take that stance, but how else was I supposed to stop hundreds of millions from being pulled out of this company!?” “You were just struck in the face by a guy with the physique of an ancient Greek sculpture, I’d suggest you not try to make anyone here more annoyed than they already are” Bruce interrupts, providing the company’s founder with the only warning he’s willing to offer before moving on. “So cancer-man was majority shareholder, a prick had his way with Taylor, and you bought your ex-husband out to push Mr. Touchy-Feely out” he concludes, laying the question to Robin, “am I missing anything there?” “Yes” Ross replies on his ex-wife’s behalf, watching Bruce’s eyes roll before the agent’s face turns toward his direction, “you’re missing the fact that she didn’t buy me out.” Though having expected another defensive remark, the agent looks to the founder with an intrigued glare, compelled by the discovery he offers. “He owned thirty percent, she owned eleven” Vickers corrects, “his share went down to twenty, Robin’s went up to twenty-one.” “Exactly. That still leaves fifty nine percent of the company in other hands” Kaye responds, lending credence to the agent’s correction, “she may be the owner, but she’s not the majority owner.” “Fifty six” Taylor corrects, her arms crossed with one finger lifted toward the air, shrugging as she corrects the woman standing beside the founder, “I negotiated three percent at a fixed rate for myself when new shares hit the market.” “I owned enough to make it so that I could stand before the board and justify replacing Barry with Taylor” Robin replies, not one to refuse her employees their credit when due, “nine o'clock’s ratings have never been higher, and she’s as big of a reason for why this ship was steadied as Sam or I are.” With his head bowed, Ross presses the sides of each hand against the desk’s hardwood finish as the group goes quiet, letting the increasing tensions settle before continuing to speak. “Taylor is one hundred times the anchor that Barry ever was, and she’ll go down as the greatest call either of you have ever made” Ross confesses, not hard-pressed to look Vickers and Robin in the eyes as he admits such, “in the same breath, it’s also true that none of us had any way of knowing that for certain when she was promoted. Look no further than Sam feeling the need to put his job on the line in the event his call was wrong.” “Let’s move this along, I’ve got the centre for the Miami Heat waiting to run up a bill at the most expensive steakhouse in the city” Bruce interrupts, resting his briefcase in the same seat he’d recently stepped out of. “The point is that I won’t be around for much longer and I’m not going to let the state take my twenty percent when I hit the ground” Ross proclaims, taking the same tension he’d attempted to let settle and forcing it to begin simmering once more, “I’m selling it off.” With her eyebrows furrowed, Robin crosses her arms with a scowl before her pupils begin darting toward the much younger woman standing beside her ex husband. “I thought you were leaving it to your whore” the woman remarks, earning a disgusted eye roll from Kaye, the younger woman staring off into the distance with her tongue bitten, “that’s what you said you were doing when we agreed to ten percent.” “We’re all different people than we were eight years ago, Robin” Ross retorts, shaking his head as he tries to free himself from the chair’s restraints once more, “Kaye doesn’t want the twenty percent.” Scoffing with a bemused grin, the twenty-one percent owner of the company shakes her head in disbelief, “of course she doesn’t. She never married you for your good looks in the first place” she murmurs, words intended to be heard by the younger woman she was left for. “Go fuck yourself” Kaye retorts, clearly annoyed at the off-hand quips made toward her throughout the conversation’s duration, a comment the older woman takes pleasure in arguing back. “Oh bite me, you hussy” Robin shoots back, a confrontational front resuming in the wake of her calm demeanour no longer being needed, “you spent two years fucking my husband behind my back, you goddamn homewrecker. Taylor’s lucky I don’t judge her for the people she surrounds herself with.” “I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you did” Grant jokes, aware of the room that he’s left to read and dismissive of the mood it’s filled with. “Wait, those two are connected?” Bruce wonders aloud, looking at the woman with the highest percentage of ownership in the company as he points toward Taylor and Kaye. “She was my roommate in college” the more-tenured anchor of Tonight at Nine replies, “she was my plus one at a company dinner when I was interning. That’s where she met Ross.” “And I like her in spite of that fact, which must mean that I’ve earned my angel wings when the day comes” Robin sarcastically mutters, using her control of the conversation to redirect it toward the reason for the man’s stop by. “Sam just had a heart attack, Grant and Taylor need to be ready to come back to the air tomorrow night, and Bruce apparently has plans with Shaq, so let’s get on with it” she utters, hands placed on her hips with a deep breath, “who are you selling to?” “No one yet, I wanted to give you a head’s up” Ross responds quickly, having waited through a physical assault and a trip down memory lane to explain himself. “I founded this company and I want it to do well. The people in this room- minus the guy with the briefcase- have kept it going smoothly. I’d like to keep my legacy intact” he proceeds to declare, “without an absolute majority, everyone here might feel a lot more pressure to perform.” “We’re performing just fine” Grant quips back, shrugging his shoulders as his arms cross, “the ratings at nine o’clock are rock solid.” With both eyebrows slightly lowered, Ross looks past one half of the company’s premier anchors to their former executive producer, whose facial expression lacks the confidence of those he used to work with. “Not everyone’s ratings are rock solid” Ross replies, prompting those that hadn’t to turn their focus toward the E.P of eight o’clock. “Aiden has creative control written into his contract. The audience he’s turning the program toward is a harder reach, but it’ll provide a much greater return if successful” Robin replies, defending the man to her ex husband almost as if he were the board she’d have to provide such a defence to. “Yes, if successful” Ross responds, coupling his hands together atop the desk as he leans over it slightly, trying to keep himself steady, “you have no way of guaranteeing that.” “Sam and I were the people that made the call to move off Barry and onto Taylor eight years ago” Robin replies, watching her ex-husband shrug his shoulders and shake his head, “our resume speaks for itself- that’s what we’ll lean on.” With a sigh, the cancer-ridden founder pushes himself away from the desk gingerly, keeping himself balanced upon two feet as his arm is taken into his wife’s grasp. “If it pans out, the two of you will look like visionaries. But if it doesn’t, your credibility takes as much of a hit as it did a boost from the switch to Taylor” Ross argues back, “all it takes is that one missed call and your leverage gets flushed. If that happens, you’ll want a majority ownership to fall back on. The calls you make from then on won’t be as easy to get away with unless you have it.” “Is this all just some pitch to get us to buy you out of the company?” Shane wonders aloud, still nursing the wound over his forehead as he cuts into the conversation, “from the sound of it, you came here to do more than just warn us you were selling off your shares.” Shaking his head as his wife’s reach holds him steady, Ross replies in kind, “I don’t hold any ill will toward any of you- I mean it. Lehman owns nine percent and JPMorgan Chase owns seven- either can buy me out and overtake her.” “They’ve both got their own issues to deal with” Robin responds, watching Ross step away from the desk in preparation to leave, “the last thing they need to do is pour more money than they have.” With an amused chuckle, the woman’s ex-husband throws a cap over his head and steps past Vickers with the aid of his wife. They’re too big to fail. If they run out of funds, a federal bail out will be right around the corner” Ross retorts, making his way for the door before turning back, paying one more word of caution to the woman he’d left behind just as he prepares to do with the company he founded, “if you think there’s anything actually stopping them, that’s your own mistake- not mine.” Not needing to offer anything more than what he already had, Ross steps through the door of Vickers’ office with Kaye by his side, departing the same building he owns with his fingerprints left behind. Simply via his presence alone, the uncomfortable aura over the office he now leaves in his wake continues to persist in spite of his departure, the warning he’d provided hanging over the large group’s head like a dark cloud, threatening to rain on the parade of their smooth-sailing vessel. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Wednesday, May 30th, 2007 / \ 8:13 am est. - 5:13 am pst. / “I’m clear tonight, right?” Carly calls out from the bathroom adjacent to her shared bedroom, applying mascara cautiously as her boyfriend shouts back from the kitchen. “Grant and Taylor are back in the ‘States tonight, so you should be” Aiden replies, wiping his eyes with the base of his hand as he groggily shifts through lumpy oatmeal with a metal spork, “but our luck with that has been piss poor and it’ll only get worse moving forward, so I’d plan on being up an extra hour just in case.” “At this point, 2008 can’t get here soon enough!” Carly exclaims, her voice bouncing off the surface of her mirror and echoing throughout the dense bathroom walls, “I’m so ready to renegotiate!” Shaking his head as his chin pulls back, Aiden keeps his eyes set upon the clumped-together breakfast sat on the counter before him, replying to the woman out of the corner of his mouth. “What good would renegotiating do?” Aiden shouts back, shaking his head as he takes the bowl into his hands, stepping off the chair beside the eating platform to discard the meal he’s no longer hungry for, “you’ve already got all the money you could ever want.” Whilst his girlfriend calls out from the furthest reaches of their bedroom, the man dumps his early-morning meal in the bin and places the dirty bowl and spork beneath the faucet’s running water. “I don’t care about making more money- though I wouldn’t mind it” Carly responds, setting her brush down as she pulls her head back, creating distance between herself and the mirror as she judges the final product, “I can have them write a specific limit of days I’m allowed to be taken off eight o’clock to fill in for another show. Then neither of us will have to worry about going very long without each other.” Lifting his eyebrows and jostling his chin toward the kitchen, Aiden ventures through the arch splitting the marble-clad preparation area from the corridor with his bedroom at the end of it. “That day is still just over seventeen months away, honey” the man replies back, gently grazing the drywall with the tips of his fingers as he slowly closes in the distance between himself and his significant other, “at this rate, I’m not sure I’ll make another two months- let alone seventeen of them.” Rolling her eyes as she screws the brush back into its cap and hears her boyfriend’s footsteps near closer, Carly’s eyes drift toward the open door separating her from the rest area, waiting to see the man close in as she speaks. “I know they’re up your ass right now, but the ratings are going to shoot back up soon” the woman replies, offering the man that finally rounds the corner to face her a branch of hope to seek refuge atop, “we’re almost out of the growing pain stage.” “Even if that weren’t the case, I’ve got more than the ratings working against me” Aiden replies, shaking his head as he presses his forearm against the doorway, leaning against it as he finishes his thought, “this whole thing’s been a disaster so far.” With one hand pressing into her hip as her opposite presses against the edge of the countertop, Carly challenges the man on his open-ended statement, intrigued by the mystery hidden within the part left unsaid. “What else is working against you?” the woman inquires, her question immediately prompting the man to part his lips and rummage through his thoughts in an awkward silence, searching for the easiest excuse to make up to incite a redirection of the conversation. “Listen, it’s too early in the morning for me to make something up. Please just trust me when I say that you don’t want to know” Aiden eventually caves, accepting that he’ll find nothing and hopes his plea will be accepted unquestioned. Squinting her eyes as her face drifts slightly in one direction, Carly inspects the man’s slightly-concerned posture before accepting that his statement is probably correct. “Alright then” the woman sighs, placing the mascara down before slowly reaching for the nearest brush, over-playing her suspicions of the man’s secret as she squints toward him, playfully showing him her doubt in his remarks. “I wouldn’t keep it a secret if it wasn’t important to” Aiden reassures, trying to ease any worry that may linger amongst her before taking it upon himself to guide the discourse elsewhere, “how was your date with the Monopoly man last night?” Her playful demeanour immediately falling into one of displeasure, Carly gently pulls the brush from the ends of her dark hair as her head tilts to the side. “Don’t do that, you know it wasn’t a date” the woman replies, the disapproving grimace she returns to the man immediately prompting him to ease his light-hearted dialogue shift. “Relax, I’m just kidding” Aiden assures the woman, putting both hands out before stepping into the bathroom, placing one hand upon each of her shoulders and leaning in to press his lips against hers, both of his eyes widening the moment they lock. Keeping the kiss locked for a few moments, Aiden’s eyes remain wide open as he looks toward the woman’s face, the immediate look of regret that comes over her expression telling him exactly what he’d instantly assumed. “I promise, he kissed me as I was getting into the car and I didn’t realise until the second he pulled away” Carly reassures, knowing her boyfriend had smelled the cologne of the same man she’d purposefully mislead the night prior, “I made up an excuse and he took me back here.” Rolling his eyes as he begins to pull away, Aiden’s arm is quickly taken back by the woman’s hand as she holds him back, his half-hearted spin away thwarted before he could even make half a rotation. “I know that’s not going to sit with you and I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t let my guard down” Carly continues to remark, “sometimes, when I do this stuff for intel, I forget I’m supposed to act like I’m on a date with them. I just get caught up talking and asking questions.” “Wherever your mind goes when you do these things doesn’t really matter, all that does is that it doesn’t become more than a fake date for info” Aiden replies, giving into the woman’s physical plea for his eyes to return to hers with a pointed finger, “just tell me that kiss meant nothing.” “Of course it meant nothing, Aiden!” Carly quickly responds, understanding why the man would be so disheartened by the unpleasant detail she’d purposefully omitted as she does, “it was nothing more than a move he’d snuck past me after a fake date I went on for a favour- I promise.” Still visibly annoyed, Aiden’s disgruntled posture is soothed slightly by his girlfriend’s reassurance, the tension in his shoulders dropping as the stress in his eyes follows suit. Remaining silent, Aiden lets out a sigh and continues with his turn around, passing the woman nothing more than a nod of acceptance as he pulls out of the bathroom, returning to the kitchen to await her work preparations to conclude. With an apologetic expression as the man wanders off, Carly’s eyes soon fill with remorse and regret as she takes the brush back to her hair, clearly still wearing her boyfriend’s reaction on her conscience. | \ Wednesday, May 30th, 2007 / \ 10:24 pm est. - 7:24 pm pst. / “You’ve seen me naked, you don’t have to knock” Taylor calls out, sitting behind her desk with her fingers tapping rapidly along the keyboard before her. “I know that, but it doesn’t hurt to be considerate” Grant jokes, stepping through the door with a smile on his face, one that slowly falls in favour of a more curious expression upon the lack of a reply, something that prompts him to peer past the knick knacks atop his girlfriend’s desk and toward the screen of her computer. “You can follow the market on this thing?” the masculine anchor wonders aloud, prompting his girlfriend to look back at him with a raised eyebrow, “what? I don’t use this thing for stuff other than work.” With a smirk on her face, Taylor shakes her head and sets her sights back toward the screen, changing the page on her browser with a few clicks of the mouse. “Why are you following the LMC stock?” Grant inquires, taking one of the chairs in front of the woman’s desk and carrying it with him as he makes his way closer to her. “If I know what I think I do about the market, I’ll be able to see the change when Ross sells his twenty percent- or at least a good chunk of it” Taylor responds, pulling back in her seat with an elbow pressing into a nearby armrest, her head supported by the knuckles her chin rests atop. “You don’t expect him to dump it off this fast, do you?” Grant queries, lowering himself into his chair before resting his palm upon her thigh. “I don’t really know anything about the stock market, but Vince told me what to look for” Taylor answers honestly, her face painted in the bright colours that occupy her screen, “I don’t know, he could get rid of it pretty fast, right?” With raised eyebrows, Grant tilts his head toward one side as he reads the lines on his girlfriend’s screen, honestly incapable of understanding what any of them mean. “I mean, in theory he could” the man replies, a brief chuckle kept to himself as his head slowly shakes with uncertainty, “I don’t know much about the market either, but I doubt a few hundred million dollars worth of shares would be able to change hands this quickly.” With a disappointed visage, Taylor’s head falls back into the seat she sits against as her boyfriend watches on silently, reading her expression as the newsroom beyond their shared walls continues to empty. “Why’s this got you so wrapped up?” Grant wonders aloud, leaning forward in his seat as his palm gently rolls along her leg. “Because Ross is right” Taylor answers with complete transparency, turning to look at her boyfriend as the harsh, white light falls from her face. “All it takes is one of the big guys to come in with a fat stack of cash, and Robin doesn’t have that leverage” she continues to speak, a visible distress clearly held within her visage, though she fights valiantly to hide it from her other half’s onlooking eyes, “she’s been in charge for so damn long that not even I know what the alternative is.” “You don’t know that someone’s gonna swoop in and outmatch her, babe” Grant retorts, only to find his attempt at reassurance falling upon deaf ears. “Do you know how many corporations have a little over a percent in LMC? Do you realise how easy it would be for them to snatch up a larger share than Robin?” Taylor inquires, not needing to know how the market operates in order to understand the simple maths behind it, “don’t you realise what would happen if Ross sold to the wrong people?” “Things that wouldn’t affect us as long as we could prove we kept people watching” Grant answers, watching his girlfriend roll her eyes and look away before her stare falls back upon him. “Taylor, look at me and tell me that we haven’t both gone through worse than this” the man doubles down, guiding her sights back toward him and following through, “this, all of this- it’s just uncertainty. The scary part is not knowing what the outcome is, but it’s nothing compared to what we’ve already seen.” “Grant, it’s not that I’m scared of what’s gonna happen. The idea of the wrong person buying Ross out worries me, yes. But I’m not scared of who it falls into the hands of” Taylor retorts, shaking her head with a half-smile on her face, “I’d just prefer to not be bothered with some greedy prick walking into the newsroom and demanding a bunch of things be changed just to suit some grand vision they have of the news.” “Alright, yeah- that’d be nice not to worry about. But come on, it’s not worth sitting alone, in the dark, in your office following the stock market- which closed almost five and a half hours ago” Grant quickly counters, taking his free hand and letting it rest on the side of his co-anchor’s face, “even if some prick like Rupert Murdoch walks in with a fistful of cash, we’ve got tenure and clauses in our contracts to make sure he can’t shut us up if we decide to start going PG-13.” With a subdued chuckle, Taylor’s eyelids press shut before eventually parting, letting her eyes return to Grant as the air goes quiet, not a word shared between them for a few seconds as they let the moment simmer. Grazing her cheek with his thumb, the newer of the two anchors keeps his focus on the woman’s eyes as they begin to share in a mutual loss of time, each second passing blissfully and without interruption. “I’m the luckiest man in the world” Grant soon says aloud, interjecting his voice in the silent retreat as the woman’s smile meets him, her heart worn on her sleeve metaphorically- or rather her face in a more literal manner. “You can say that again seventy times over and I still wouldn’t disagree with you” Taylor responds, her whip-cracking humour met with a smile as her boyfriend leans in, their lips pressing together. For a few seconds, their kiss continues, not a sound left to interrupt them aside from the suction of their romantic entanglement pulling apart. “Alright, we should get going” Taylor soon concludes, patting the man on the leg and lifting herself from the comfort of her chair, her boyfriend soon to follow. “You don’t need to tell me twice” Grant replies, stepping away from his seat and wrapping his arms around the woman’s waist, holding her close as they make for the office’s exit together. == Tonight at 9 == Season 3 Premiere
\ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 9:36 pm est. - 6:36 pm pst. / Draped in a rather fitting cloud of darkness, a spacious, luxury apartment sits without its occupant as a set of doors pull apart, bathing the lofty interior in a cloud of white light. “I still can’t believe I haven’t been inside your place yet” Grant remarks, following his girlfriend through the parted entrance and looking toward each direction, the woman’s applause prompting the light of an elegant chandelier to waft over the room. “I’m barely inside my place anymore” Taylor retorts through an exhausted tone, gently placing the coat folded over her arm atop a chair nearest her adjacent kitchen. “I know it’s much bigger than I need, but it feels a lot smaller after spending time with you up north” she continues, resting her hand atop the same chair her jacket loosely hangs over, eyes drifting toward the cavernous ceiling that towers over her penthouse. “Smaller I’m not so sure of” Grant replies, doing a slow turn as he scans every aspect of the living space he can find from the space just a few feet away from the elevator, “colder I can see, but not smaller.” Clearly lacking much enthusiasm, Taylor responds with a simple shrug and pout, again staring at the depths of the same flat that feels less like home with each passing day, the marble walls and granite finish almost as foreign to her as a friend’s home would be. “I guess so” she speaks back with a flattened tone, eyes falling toward the exposed floor that allows for her every step to bounce with an echo. Pulling himself away from his wandering gaze throughout the premises, Grant’s mind parts from his inspective nature and places its full attention on the woman standing across the room from him. With his expression lowering, the man’s head begins tilting to one side as he closes the distance between them, wasting no time in hugging her. For a moment, the pair share not a word as their eyes press together tightly, the man’s arms holding the woman close as her chin digs into his pec, their own individual comfort taken from the presence of the other. “He’s going to be okay” Grant whispers reassuringly, the side of his face resting gently against the back of his girlfriend’s head, unable to see the consoled, warm smile earned from his remark. “He’s awake, he’s talking, and more importantly- he’s very upset that he can’t drink for a while” Grant continues, smiling as he pulls his face away at the sound of Taylor’s laugh, their eyes colliding as their collectively amiable visage take toward each other. “The good part of that last one is that he’ll live long enough to eventually be okay with that” Grant concludes, both hands pressing into his co-anchor’s shoulders as he holds her tight, “in a few weeks, he’ll be back in that stingy, booze-filled office watching us on primetime. It’ll all be back to normal.” Pressing her lips together, Taylor bows her head for a moment as she clears her mind of the stressing thoughts that had supplanted themselves within it, eradicating them as if they were a plague trying to strike at her. “I wish we’d never left normal in the first place” the woman responds, still wearing a much more cosy expression as she turns away and begins walking for the equally-spacious living room just a few steps off, “it’s been one rollercoaster after another for a while now.” Wearing a frown as his girlfriend makes for the same couch she sleeps upon whenever present, Grant turns his eyes toward the nearest window, its size taking up nearly ninety percent of the nearest wall. “I have a history with that as you can tell” the man confesses, following his girlfriend’s path before advancing past the couch she sinks into, making for the view of the city her living arrangement affords them. “It’s not like I intend to shake things up everywhere I go, but change just seems to keep finding its way to me” Grant explains, feeling partially responsible for the shellshock carried over the last year-and-some-change. Falling quiet for yet another moment, the air allows Taylor to take a second for herself as she sifts through the ways in which she can reply, her apartment’s visitor continuing to stare out at the sunset that begins to fall behind the collection of Manhattan’s skyscrapers. “It’s been quite a few years since things changed this much. Aiden had been the producer since I started and I hadn’t shared that desk with anyone” Taylor explains, remaining seated as the man across the room from her tucks his hands in his pockets, slowly turning back toward her direction. “Everyone in the newsroom usually went about their own ways. Some roomed together to make the rent more manageable, but it wasn’t as personal as it is now” she continues, “there was a quiet respect everyone had for each other. Things were a little smoother and taken more day-by-day.” With a smile in the corner of his lip, Grant makes for the couch as the respected anchor shuffles off to one side, freeing a spot for him to claim. “But, even though there’s been a lot of chaotic change since you came in, there’s been a lot of good change too” Taylor reassures, establishing a balance between the two halves as the man lowers himself beside her. “Everyone likes showing up to work more. They’re closer and more willing to speak freely. Do you even realise how rare it was for Sam to come up to the newsroom?” the woman continues to say, “you brought a lot of good change when you came in too.” Gently placing his hand upon the woman’s thigh, Grant stares at the floor as the room goes quiet once more, their silence spent within the presence of each other instead of debating whatever’s at play. “Whatever the change may be- good or bad- I’m just glad it worked out in such a way where I ended up with you” the man confesses, watching yet another smile come over Taylor’s face, “even if I was never able to do the news for another night starting now, it’s all worth it as long as you’re here.” Without the words to offer in return, the well-tenured anchor places her right hand within the pair her boyfriend rests atop her leg, the other resting against the side of his face as their lips press together. For a few seconds, the kiss lingers before the sensation of buzzing captures Grant’s attention, forcing him to end the romantic moment in favour of the phone that clammers for his response. “I’m sorry, I have-” the man begins to apologise, retrieving his Blackberry as Taylor waves him off with an unperturbed expression, “you don’t have to apologise. Go ahead” she assures. With a nod, Grant presses his thumb against the green key on his handheld and rests it against the side of his head, “Grant Haste speaking” he answers, squinting at the sound of a familiar voice from the other end of the line. “I’ll be right there, Bruce” Grant responds to his agent, letting a few seconds pass and a question be raised, “yeah, she’s with me.” With a few additional remarks, Bruce concludes the call with one reply of certainty from his client, “yeah, we’ll both be there soon” the anchor replies, unable to speak another word before his paid professional ends the call. “What did he want?” Taylor asks aloud, having waited for the man to pull his head away from the handset before voicing her inquiry. “He wants us to meet him at the office” Grant responds with a confused tone in his voice, uncertain over what’s meant to be awaiting their presence. Equally at a loss, the apartment’s resident sits back in her seat as she ponders what could be of such importance that they’d be called to attendance in such a quick manner. “If it was something about Sam’s heart attack, surely we’d be called back to the hospital, right?” Taylor suddenly inquires, her father-figure’s health standing near the top of her priority list at the moment. “It’s nothing about Vickers- at least not about his health” Grant retorts, picking himself up off the sofa and extending his hand, assisting his co-anchor to her feet as he finishes his thought, “but it seems important- whatever it is.” = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and the entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 10:00 pm est. - 7:00 pm pst. / “Great fucking show, guys! Everyone- well done!” Shane exclaims, applauding to the crew that sit behind their stations upon setting his headset aside, the widest smile worn upon his face. “Listen, I don’t want to keep you guys long, but I did want to just say a few things to you and the crew outside really quick. I promise it won't take up more than a few minutes of your time, alright?” the man continues, watching a few collective nods and shrugs be returned to him as the men depart. Organising a few things in his office, Shane lets a few minutes pass before following through on his request and stepping through the door, joining the closely-gathered workers that await his explanation for the meeting. Standing near the front of the group, Vince shares a spot near one of the desks closest to the news set with Olivia and Keith as Marcus and Sherry claim a space close by. “Alright, thank you for staying back for a little bit. I really appreciate it” Shane remarks, looking out at the crowd as he begins speaking, the front doors parting to present a hurried Grant and Taylor the moment he begins speaking. Stopping in their tracks momentarily, the lead anchors meet the eyes of the man that stands atop their platform just as his do for them, the brief pause buying the recently-approved executive producer a moment to unclutter his mind. “I just wanted to say that I know it’s been hard lately. It’s been a struggle to get the show together for the last few weeks and it’s taken a lot more effort to get things in order around here” Shane begins, pausing for a moment as his hands dip into the pockets to each of his sides, “I don’t want anyone thinking that hasn’t been recognised. I know I haven’t been the captain of this ship for too long, but I still wanted to make it my responsibility to tell you that it’s been noticed.” “The work has gotten harder, and you’ve all shown that you’re up to the task. You’ve been kicking ass and everyone- everyone sees it” Shane begins to conclude, “there hasn’t been a lot of stability in the last few weeks, and we wouldn’t have been able to course correct if it wasn’t for you. So, I just wanted to say thank you. I wanted to give you the props you deserve and make it clear that I appreciate all of you. That’s all.” Unprompted, the crew gathered around applaud themselves and each other for their work, taking pride in the respect shown as Shane steps off the transparent platform, earning a few pats on the back from his colleagues as the evening comes to a conclusion on a good note. “I know we’re in a rush right now, but when the holidays come, I think we owe the crew a couple bottles of wine-” Taylor whispers, joining Grant in continuing to march for their offices, “-I mean really nice.” “I agree, but first thing’s first-” her boyfriend responds, hurriedly strolling across the bureau with his office in sight, “-let’s make sure we all have a job by the holidays.” Coupled together, the primetime broadcast’s anchors dip into Grant’s office as their executive producer watches on, unsure of the reason behind their appearance, and refusing to bother with asking too many questions about it. Sharing a few remarks with those that approach, Shane’s feet soon take to the nearest exit. “Wait, why are we in your office?” Taylor inquires, pausing in the middle of the room with a set of wandering eyes, the pair soon taking toward her boyfriend’s desk. Taking the phone from its machine, Grant presses the handset to his ear and quickly dials a number, pressing the bottom half to his chest as he answers the question asked of him. “Because I don’t know anyone’s extensions by heart” the man confesses, quickly returning the handset to his ear, waiting for the soft, feminine voice on the other end of the line. “Hey, Nicole. I know this is an odd question, but would Bruce happen to be in Mr. Vickers’ office?” Grant politely wonders aloud, nodding his head for a moment before the satisfied gesture pauses, his eyelids pulling closer together momentarily as he looks up at his girlfriend, “Robin’s there too?” With her head pulled back, Taylor looks at her co-anchor with a confused stare before continuing to listen to his end of the conversation, unable to make out what’s being said on the other end of the line. “Wait, all four of them? Who are the other two?” Grant asks aloud, the squint remaining in his eyes as the woman sharing his space in the office reacts similarly, her boyfriend’s confused expression kept on as her own eyes widen upon his next remark. “Who the fuck is Ross Walker!?” Grant blurts out, gazing around his office momentarily before his sights fall upon the woman across from him, her clearly-shaken visage prompting his guard to rise, the response he gets from Vickers’ secretary not striking him with much comfort. | \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 10:06 pm est. - 7:06 pm pst. / “Can I come in?” Shane inquires, peering his head through the glass door to his friend’s office on the level below his own, spotting Aiden behind a small tower of loose papers. “Sure, why not?” the eight o’clock producer replies, watching the primetime E.P enter and passing a wave to Doug as the latter man steps past the entrance. “That was a good show” Aiden remarks, sitting at his desk with a small glass of wine sat beside his computer’s monitor, “how’d you manage to get Zoellick to come on?” With his head leant to the side, Shane blows a gust of air past his lips as he steps into one of the unoccupied seats across from his friend’s desk. “He actually contacted us” the visitor replies, “well, his agent contacted us. But I figured we needed the interview to make up for the lack of Grant and Taylor.” “Fair enough” Aiden responds, shrugging his shoulders as he extends an empty wine glass to his friend and reaches for the bottle with his opposite hand, looking to offer it to his once-roommate. “How’s everything going at eight o’clock?” Shane inquires, passing a look over his shoulder at the newsroom he can see from within the office’s chambers, catching a glimpse of the glass fragments his friend had been incapable of digging out of the carpet as he does so. “You mean the Carly Carpenter show with Carly Carpenter that- more often than not- doesn’t actually feature Carly Carpenter?” Aiden replies, rolling his eyes as he sarcastically finishes his response the moment before he takes a swig from his glass, “so damn good.” Pouring himself a small glass of wine, Shane returns the cork to the bottle and places it on his friend’s side of the desk, a shrug in his shoulders and a wave of the hand responding to his fellow showrunner. “It’ll only be a matter of time before Taylor and Grant are back full-term” Shane replies, taking a gentle sip from the glass as he finishes his thought, “you’ll have your girlfriend back and jutting her chest out on nightly television before you know it.” Shrugging the remark off as less-than-believable, Aiden takes another sip from his beverage as the man on the other side of the conversation speaks up once more, lifting yet another original question. “Speaking of which, where is Carly?” Shane inquires, crossing one leg over the other as his friend’s Blackberry begins to buzz, skidding atop the hardwood desktop without its owner’s mind paid to it. “She’s off on a date with Brant Washington” Aiden replies, finishing the last of what’s in his glass as his phone continues to beg for his attention. “What!?” Shane exclaims, quickly recovering the glass that he’d almost let slip from his grasp out of shock, “she’s your girlfriend! What the hell is she doing on a date with someone else!?” Squinting his eyes as he peers to the side, Aiden reaches for the bottle atop his desk as his handset ceases its cry for his attention. “Dude, calm down. It’s not an actual date” the man replies, pouring himself a tall and generous second helping of liquor as his phone begins buzzing once more. “Carly’s a journalist before anything else. How else do you think hot journalists get their information?” Aiden replies, capping off his beverage with the glass slightly over half way-filled. “Alright, what does this Brant guy do that’s got Carly willing to go out with him for a scoop?” Shane inquires, watching the man’s lips part as he attempts to answer the question, only for the primetime producer’s attention to split elsewhere, “and for god’s sake, are you gonna answer your phone or what?” “Whoever’s calling can leave a message and wait for me to get back to them” Aiden replies stubbornly, “I’m a very busy man that’s clearly very busy. They can wait a few.” Letting the phone’s second attempt at calling for his attention die out, the eight o’clock E.P takes another sip from his drink as he waits out the call, prepared to answer the questions set for him. “Brant’s a financier at Lehman. She’s running with a thought piece one of the guys upstairs brought up about the housing market” Aiden replies, setting his glass back atop his workspace as his phone begins buzzing for a third time, “she’s looking for some insight as a favour. Vince is trying to pull some strings with Zoellick’s agent to get a small piece for eight o’clock when she gets back in full-time, so they’re doing each other a solid.” With a subtle nod, Shane slowly lifts the glass to his lips as he takes the man’s claims into consideration, reading them as best he can as his ears inevitably take to the phone once more. “For fuck’s sake, dude. That could be Carly for all you know” the visitor remarks, immediately watching Aiden shrug the notion off. “That’s not the ringtone I’ve got assigned to her” the eight o’clock producer replies, preparing to take another sip before watching his friend snatch the device off his desk. “Hey, what the hell!” Aiden exclaims, reaching out with his free hand as Shane answers the phone, pressing it to his ear and greeting the man on the other line, leaving his chair and walking to the corner of the office to buy himself some time. “Shane, this isn’t cool!” the phone’s rightful owner remarks, cautiously setting his drink down as he leaps out from his chair, rounding the desk and marching after his friend, whose amused expression soon begins to fade into loss. With his hand extended, Aiden’s reach for the device is halted in mid-air as he watches the call’s answerer pull the phone away from his head, looking at the screen with profound confusion. “You might want to take that” Shane remarks after a moment of pause, looking his friend in the eye as the machine’s owner snatches it back, looking at his friend with disapproval before reluctantly taking part in the call. “This is Aiden” the man responds cautiously, squinting his eyes after the first few words are spoken from the man on the other end of the line. “Woah, Grant- slow down” Aiden interjects, leaning closer toward his desk as the handset digs into the side of his head, ear pressing to the receiver as well as it can to decipher the hurried words spoken from the other end, “alright, I’ll be down in a second!” Clearly trying to de-escalate the situation, Aiden’s thumb presses into the red button on his keypad before the rest of his phone is slipped back into his pocket, a quick turn away carried. “What’s going on?” Shane wonders aloud, turning to follow his friend’s figure across the room, left with as little of an answer as the eight o’clock producer is provided. “I don’t know, but Grant told me to come with my fist’s balled” Aiden responds, motioning his hand toward his friend as if to guide him into following, “I’ve never gotten into a fight in my life and you live off of going to the gym- I think I’m gonna need you.” As if having waited all his life for this moment, Shane pops up without a second of hesitation and follows suit, led by Aiden through the On Air newsroom in favour of the building’s lower levels. | \ Tuesday, May 29th, 2007 / \ 10:19 pm est. - 7:19 pm pst. / With an expression of clear anger worn across his face, Grant leads the charge toward the building’s lower levels, stepping out of the elevator and onto his desired floor. “Sam!” Taylor shouts, having followed closely behind her boyfriend before a last-second glance toward a nearby coffee stand catches her full attention. “What are you doing out of the hospital!?” Grant calls out, following his girlfriend’s lead as she steps toward the company’s president, who dresses as if he’d already put in a twelve hour shift. “When Robin calls and says her ex husband is making an unexpected drop-by, did you honestly think I was just gonna sit around in a hospital bed waiting for updates?” Vickers responds, adjusting the plaid jacket over his baby blue dress shirt and salmon tie. “Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect from you” Taylor replies, stopping in her tracks as her father figure continues walking forward, joining the pair as they become a trio- all making way for his office. “I’m turning seventy two in a few weeks and can still run a 5k” Vickers responds, shaking his head as he hands the woman a styrofoam cup, not needing the hot beverage as much as he assumes she does, “the only people that think I’m laying in bed all day are people that don’t know me.” With a gentle few pats on the back, Grant moves with the flow of the situation at hand and simply takes joy in knowing the man’s more than able to hold his own, his mind more so concerned with the war that he believes remains ahead. “For fuck’s sake, I’m just glad you’re conscious” Taylor responds, earning a chuckle from the older man to her left side as he pats her on the shoulder. “The only prick you’ll have to worry about watching go unconscious is the one in my office” Vickers declares. With a passing few seconds, the triumvirate turn the corner nearest to the eldest’s office, a smile offered from the woman stationed behind the desk set up just near it. “Mr. Vickers!” Nicole exclaims, watching the man smile and bow his head toward her as he does each morning. “Thanks for giving me a head’s up!” Vickers replies, extending his hand to shake the woman’s own, “I’ll make sure my gratitude is shown in your next check!” Amused and appreciative in spite of her shock at the man’s astounding feat of physical composure, Nicole remains mostly-silent as the triad set for the man’s office, awaiting the shelves of awards and cabinets chalk-full of liquor. Within seconds, their destination presents itself, occupied by four faces- two of which are familiar to Grant whilst the other two are no different from any stranger he can find passing through downtown New York. “Woah, Sam- you’re-” the older gentleman sitting in the president’s seat begins to remark, only to be cut off by the same man he speaks toward. “Not dead or bedridden and easily capable of kicking your ass back through the front doors you entered through?” Vickers questions, nodding through the pause that the man replies to him with, arms crossing over his chest as his ground is stood, “yeah- I’m exactly that.” “Um, Grant, this is-” Bruce begins to speak, clearing his throat before beginning and stopping before he can continue, his introduction already capped off by his client. “Ross Walker. He’s the founder of LMC, owns the second-largest percent of the company and stopped working here in ‘99 from what I’ve heard” Grant interrupts, soon turning his head toward the much-younger woman that stands beside the distinguished man. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. You can either leave before you have to watch me kick your husband’s ass or stay here and watch” Grant concludes, stepping away from his well-respected colleagues with a balled fist, “like I said, I don’t c-” Before he can finish his thought, the near-aggressor’s arm is taken into Vickers’ deceptively-strong grasp, one half of the company’s leading primetime anchors held back from starting a fight. “Keep it together, kid” the company’s president interjects, looking Grant in the eyes for a moment as he waits for the tension in his readied arm to cease, which takes a few additional seconds. “I’m going to assume you’ve already clued him in?” Ross inquires, turning his sights toward the woman at the trio’s centre, again earning the aggression of her boyfriend. “Don’t fucking talk to her! Not one-fucking-word” Grant warns in a stern voice, unballing his fist and instead pointing a finger toward the older man, making a mental note of the founder’s frail condition. “I said it at the time and I’ll say it until I’m dead and gone- I was speaking on the investor’s behalves” Ross proclaims, defending himself before switching the course of the conversation. “And for your information, her name is Kaye” the company’s founder corrects, turning his finger to point at the same young woman Grant had warned moments prior, “she is my wife and you will not talk to her that way.” “Oh, that’s Kaye?” the confrontational anchor responds with raised eyebrows, “as in Taylor’s old friend?” As her arms uncross, the woman in question places a hand against her hip as the other hangs by her side. “The one that was fucking Ross behind Robin’s back, yeah yeah yeah- that one” Kaye replies with her eyes rolling, “god forbid someone fall in love with an older man. Go ahead, sue me.” “Well when you sleep with him behind his wife’s back, I think there could be some legal justification in that” Robin remarks from afar, muttering beneath her breath- though loud enough for the rest of the room to hear. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep up anymore, honey” Kaye quickly retorts, her own brand of confrontation taken in the owner’s direction, only for the calmest voice in the room to come from its normal occupant. “Everyone shut the fuck up before I have a second heart attack in protest!” Vickers exclaims, quickly readjusting his stance as pointing his finger toward the ground, “and I’m serious! You may not think it, but I’ll induce another one just to prove a point- don’t threaten me with a good time!” “Alright, listen! I’m not here for a fight!” Ross exclaims, pushing his hand into the sides of his desk chair in an attempt to usher himself upward, only for his first try to falter. Clearly in a slight daze, the founder’s legs give out beneath him and force him back into the rolling chair, his eyes widened as his wife leans in to check on him. “God, you make Sam look like a spry chicken” Taylor quips, wearing a snarl at the man’s inability to even leave his seat, taking the moment to poke some light-hearted humour at the man’s expense. “I am a spry chicken, I’m just stuck in an old man’s body” Vickers corrects, stepping ahead of the woman slightly before situating himself between the two opposing factions- the founder with his much younger wife and his primetime anchors. “Alright- Ross. You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here” the company’s president begins, directing the group’s attention toward the frail man once more, their collective eyes watching him make a second attempt at standing- this time successfully. “Like I said, I was just speaking on behalf of the investors” Ross replies, continuing to defend his honour, “I never have and never would defend what Barry did to Taylor, but the only way it wouldn’t have crippled us was with a miracle.” “And that miracle happened” Aiden retorts, finally catching up to the ground and entering the office as Shane squeezes past him, eluding Vickers before throwing a fist into the jaw of the fragile founder. The unexpected assault not yet intended to be over, the Tonight at Nine executive producer keeps his grip on Ross’ shirt collar, holding him up and preparing a second swing. Without a moment of reluctance, Vickers catches Shane’s attempt at a second shot and pulls him around, sending the much larger man flying back with a single headbutt. “Everyone knock it the fuck off!” Grant exclaims, now taking over for the military-experienced president of the news division as the voice of reason, getting between all three members of the warring sides with his hands held outward. With push having come well past the point of shoving, Grant keeps himself in the centre of the chaos, preventing another escalation from occurring. Adjusting his ruffled jacket as if the day were just another one of many for him, Vickers nods in his anchor’s direction and slides his fingers through his own hair, unphased by the strike of his own cranium against Shane’s. Helped up by Aiden, the well-built executive producer of nine o’clock, presses his open palm against his own bloody forehead, staring at Vickers both annoyed and impressed. “Fuck, I just came here to give you a warning damnit!” Ross exclaims, sunken back into the same chair he’d struggled to free himself from the grasp of. Waving his much younger wife off, the company’s founder grunts with his teeth pressed together as he pulls himself from the seat, leaning over the desk. Met with silence as everyone aside from himself and Kaye gather themselves, Ross catches his breath and clears clutter from his mind as he stares toward the well-populated office. “The cancer is back and it’s going to win this time” the clearly-ill man reveals, passing another glance toward his ex-wife as she stares on, both eyes looking toward him with a look of profound perplexity as he finishes his remark. == Tonight at 9 == |
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