S3, E7 | For Those With the Benefit of Flash Photography

“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 ==