S3, E8 | Follow the Leader, Oust Them from Power

\ 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 ==