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\ Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 /
\ 9:12 am est. - 6:12 am pst. / “Yes, Nicole?” Vickers queries, looking over the cheaters that sit atop the bridge of his nose as he takes the woman knocking at his open door’s frame. “You have a visitor” the woman responds, leaning halfway into the room as the office’s occupant motions his hand toward himself and replies. “Send her in” the man quips, snatching the glasses off of his face and setting them down at the base of the computer’s monitor. “It’s actually a he” Nicole corrects, catching her immediate superior by surprise, his face taking toward the empty chairs at the front of the room as he wonders who it could be. “Alright, then. Send him in” the company’s president doubles down, adjusting the jacket he wears over his person before turning in his chair to face the door his secretary now retreats from. For a few seconds, Vickers remains seated in his silence, awaiting the sight of a face that doesn’t take much longer in letting himself in. “Do you have a second to talk briefly?” Joshua Lane queries, taking the older gentleman by surprise at his appearance, though not enough surprise to prevent him from presenting a smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, kid? I thought you’d be working remotely by now” Vickers remarks, stepping out of his seat to approach the younger man with an extended hand, “still climbing the corporate ladder from within, huh?” “It’s not the city that I mind, it’s the people in it. Well, some of them” Josh replies, reciprocating the handshake as he remains standing, not wanting to sit down in the name of preventing himself from staying longer than necessary. “Listen, I’d really like to say that I came down here to have a friendly chat, but I can’t with a straight face” the young businessman explains, passing a quick glance around the room as he lowers his voice just a slight amount, “I’m actually here to give you a head’s up.” “I’ve adjusted my finances over the last few months. Don’t worry, you won’t be the first person to tell me that the market’s about to crash” Vickers assures with a grin, only to fall into a modest confusion once more, seeing the refusal in the opposite man’s shake of the head. “No, it’s got nothing to do with the market. Besides, everyone knows it’s about to plummet. At least, they should” Josh corrects, wearing a visibly concerned expression on his face. “I don’t like when young, smart people start speaking in vague tongues. Old people at least have the wherewithal to rip the bandage off” Vickers responds, sliding his hands into his pockets as he mentally prepares for unwelcome news. “I’m assuming that you haven’t read my email?” Josh wonders aloud, taking the lack of change in the company president’s face to insinuate just that, “I sent you one before the long weekend, but I didn’t get it off until late in the day.” “I’ve only been in the office for about an hour now and haven’t even looked at a computer since Friday. What’s going on?” the older gentleman questions again, watching his younger acquaintance lower his head and nod. “Howard Nalty’s back in New York” Josh answers, metaphorically ripping off the bandage that he’d seemingly been wished to, “I’ve got a friend who snapped pictures and sent them my way, so I forwarded them to you. He got in Friday afternoon.” “I don’t understand, why is he back here?” Vickers wonders, shaking his head as he’s unable to make sense of the change in scenery taken on by the besmirched anchor. “Listen, the only thing that I know is that he got in on Friday afternoon and- to my knowledge- he’s still here” Josh explains, watching as his acquaintance turns to the side and walks toward the back of his own office, trying to rationalise the renewed appearance in any way that he can. “I was confident that whatever he was here for wasn’t something that could just be speedily-moved along, so I figured that I’d let you enjoy your weekend if you hadn’t already gotten the email” Josh explains, shrugging his shoulders without much more to offer. “You’re one of the few people in this city that I actively like and respect. As for Nalty, I can’t tolerate the guy’s presence” the young, corporate success-story explains, “I wanted to give you a head’s up.” With his brows furrowed, Vickers approaches the window of his office and stares out at the city from above, one hand having slid out of his pocket in favour of settling upon his hip. Struggling to find sense in returning to the home one was exiled in, the president loses himself deep into thought for a few seconds before suddenly remembering the presence that remains behind him. “Thank you, Josh. I’ll... Well, I don’t really know what I’ll do from here” the older man rejoinders, glancing over his shoulder to the office’s guest before watching the younger man nod and walk off. Returning to his seclusion, Vickers frees the hand opposite his hip-sitting limb and uses it to stroke his chin, genuinely bewildered as to the point of such an old foe making his presence felt once more. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 / \ 11:34 am est. - 8:34 am pst. / “No, we don’t need to put any kind of thoughts into their heads” Vickers explains, pacing around the room with a hand on his hip whilst his superior occupies his chair and his leading co-anchor’s agent sits in one of the simple ones opposite his desk. “I still have an obligation to make sure my client is well-informed” Bruce doubles down, leaning against the back of his seat with his non-dominant arm draped atop. “No, you have an obligation to put your client in the best-possible position he can be in” Vickers corrects, pausing his stroll from one side of the room to the other with his finger pointing at the well-dressed professional, “making wild assumptions about why that dirty bastard is back in town is not the best-possible position for him.” “Allowing Nalty to get the jump on him isn’t the best-possible position either” Bruce responds, forced to redirect his gaze to the same place in the office that the interjecting voice emanates from. “Nothing is preferable in this position, but Vickers’ point is much more concrete” Robin explains, extending her hand toward her subordinate’s figure, “Nalty could be here to tie up loose ends or close in on a real estate deal. Something not worth getting riled up over.” “Okay. Do I need to remind the two of you what Nalty has done in the past?” Bruce questions aloud, placing the sides of both hands against his thighs, “do I really need to refresh your brains about the drive by shooting he likely orchestrated to kill Grant?” Showing his teeth as he winces, Vickers hangs his head and begins pacing once more, quickly accepting the fact that he holds little argument against such a recollection. “Nalty is the reason that I still use a bulletproof briefcase. How the hell can we justify not telling Grant about him when it could literally be the difference between life and death?” Bruce doubles down, raising the question toward the woman occupying her president’s chair. “He’s got a really good point, Robin” Vickers confesses, admittedly coming around to the mindset that the man’s agent has brought upon them. “I know he does, but there’s still the issue of not knowing why Nalty’s back in town” Robin assures, only for the non-employed party of the three to add emphasis. “And if Josh Lane found out about this four or five days ago, how long is it until the tabloids pick it up?” Bruce queries, watching reservation take shape in the chair woman's face, “what will Grant say if he has to hear about Nalty being here because page six prints it instead of it coming from us?” “Alright, alright... I hear you” Robin concedes, holding the palms of her hands toward the agent’s face, staring defeatedly at the ground with her bottom lip pressed between her teeth. For a few seconds, she sits within the presence of a silent room as she contemplates how to approach the issue that appears to be on hand. Feeling like he’s made his point well enough to be confident in a preferable decision to be made by the CEO herself, Bruce sits back in his chair and lifts one leg over the other. “We’ll tell Grant and Taylor- in private- and ask them to keep it under wraps” Robin decides, placing the tips of her non-dominant hand’s fingertips atop the solid desktop, “we’ll explain that we don’t know what he’s doing here, and all we know is that he landed at JFK sometime last Friday afternoon.” “Should we tell them that we’re trying to find out what he’s doing here?” Vickers wonders from a few paces behind the seated agent, only to receive a shake of the chair woman’s head in return. “No, because that would be a lie. I don’t care why Nalty’s here, I just care that he is and it’s going to cause a problem with my premier anchors” Robin concludes, following Bruce’s lead in lifting one leg over the other. “Nicole!” Vickers proclaims, calling out for the woman that leaves her secretary’s desk and reaches his doorway within seconds, “do me a favour and ring Grant Haste and Taylor English’s office for me, please? Let them know that I’d like to speak with them in my office urgently.” Nodding, the employee ventures off to do as instructed, leaving the three parties that remain to patiently await the anchors’ arrival. Scratching his forehead as he begins traipsing toward his office’s windows, Vickers returns his gaze to the city below whilst Robin hangs her head, gently bouncing her elevated leg atop the smooth thigh of the one beneath it. Rounding out the trio, Bruce swipes at his recently-cut hair whilst continuing to lean against the seat, staring off at the corner of the room as the seconds pass before his eyelids inch closer together, a genuine wonderment carried through his visage. “Hey, guys?” the man asks aloud, re-earning the attention of the company’s chair woman and her on-duty president as he continues staring into blank space, raising the subject of his puzzlement through the silence that the moment presents him with, “you don’t think Burt Russo has anything to do with this, do you?” With the same expression that he’d carried toward Bruce, Vickers’ eyes direct themselves instantly to the woman at his desk, the lack of a shift in his visage not changing the fact that his eyes spell the look of someone genuinely curious as to the answer. Looking back to the man near the windows, Robin begins to glare with an angry scowl as the seconds pass, growing too discomforted with the thought to control it. “Son of a bitch” Robin whispers, slamming her hands against the swivel chair’s armrests before ascending to her feet, “you two let the pair know what’s going on... I have somewhere to go.” | \ Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 / \ 12:13 pm est. - 9:13 am pst. / “Well, it’s certainly not welcomed news” Grant responds in a breath-heavy sigh, hunched forward with his elbows digging into his thighs as he sits opposite Vickers’ desk. “I know, and I’m sorry” the older man explains, finally getting to occupy his own chair whilst staring at the disheartened and perturbed anchors before him, “it’s not the news that any of us want, but we’re all going to have to hope for a good outcome.” “There’s never a good outcome with Nalty” Taylor responds, seated beside her fiance as he stares at the ground, the palm of her hand resting atop the man’s right arm. “And neither of you know what he’s doing here?” Grant questions aloud, looking up from the carpeted floor in favour of the men that stand across from him, “you just know he flew in, got off the plane on Friday and hasn’t left yet?” “What we know for certain is what you now know for certain” Bruce assures, standing to the president’s right with his knuckles pressing against the desktop, “anything else is just wild speculation. All of it would be baseless and the kind of shit reserved for assholes printing in gossip columns.” “What’s the speculation?” Taylor queries, narrowing her eyelids just slightly as the quandary is met with silence at first, the lack of an immediate answer prompting her fiance to look up at the pair. Shrugging his shoulders with slightly-parted lips, Bruce shakes his head without certainty whilst Vickers looks at the ground, leaning against the left side of his seat as the question still goes unanswered. “Are either of you going to respond?” Grant questions aloud, watching his agent look toward the man beside him, who still continues to look at the ground up to the point in which his second anchor calls their hush into focus. “He could be here for anything” Vickers responds, shaking his head without any clear conclusion to reply with, “this could be a real estate deal. Or he could be meeting with a financier about what to do when the market plummets.” “Or he may not have permanent residency in Italy and has to come back for a short period of time in order to not overstay his welcome with their government” Bruce adds on, finding his line of thought to be amongst the more reasonable suggestions. “Or he could be what Burt was talking about when he said he’d make us pay for snatching the shares off of him” Taylor tacks in, re-earning his fiance’s attention as his face takes toward her. Looking at the side of the woman’s face as she continues to stare at the men opposite them, Grant eventually follows her line of sight to find a pair of disappointed and glum faces. “He did say he wasn’t afraid to tarnish Finley’s reputation if it meant getting back at us, didn’t he?” Taylor calls into question, only stoking the fire that brings her fiance’s concerns to light, “with how far their reputation is in the toilet already, how would he squander it any further than by hiring a rapist?” “The concern crossed our minds and I have a feeling Robin just went out to get answers herself” Bruce retorts, defying the dialogue he and the company president had agreed on in light of the female anchor’s discovery. “So that’s why they decided to change their format over there...” Grant mutters beneath his breath, though loud enough for the rest of the room to hear as he nods his head and looks away, “...to paint the hour before and during our show with a ghost from my past.” “I’d wish them luck in trying to find an anchor willing to sit beside him for two hours each night if that’s the case, but I’m sure some random whore would snap at the opportunity to get on T.V no matter the cost” Vickers responds, giving into the shift of the narrative they’d attempted to keep from ‘doomsday think’ and running along with the new course. “As much as I hate to admit it, Nalty’s an excellent anchor” Grant confesses, wearing a frown on his face as the rest of those in the room turn their focus to him. “If you think that I’m any good, it’s because- for better or worse- I learned from him” the male nine o’clock showrunner quips, “he’s a disgusting human being, but he’s very good at what he does. Even if the public sees him as a rapist, there will still be a good amount of people that will give in and watch his show because of how much they liked his on-air work.” “If he wants to get anywhere with any of that, he’ll have to go through an hour of the most attractive eight o’clock anchor out there and a second one of the greatest duo on the airwaves” Vickers defiantly refutes, stepping out of his chair with command as he adjusts his suit jacket, “Nalty doesn’t stand a chance in this war.” “Of course he doesn’t. But neither does Burt Russo” Grant sighs, pushing himself out of his seat whilst his fiance follows suit. “If this whole thing is a ploy to get back at us for costing him a spot in the company, he’s going after the wrong person. I don’t give a damn what Nalty does” the male anchor remarks, shaking his head with a lack of concern in his expression, “Nalty is old news to me. Sure, he’ll be some stiff competition professionally. But seeing his face on television won’t do a damn thing to me.” “Are you sure this isn’t just the Grant that wants to put on a strong facade speaking?” Bruce questions aloud whilst the company’s president joins the rest in climbing to his feet, “it’s alright if you’re not okay with this... You shouldn’t be.” “You were there when I confronted him, Bruce. There wasn’t a damn thing left for me to do with that asshole once I’d left” Grant replies, not an ounce of hesitancy within his voice, “I mean it. He wanted me to hit him and I didn’t. The only one in control that day was me, and until the day that I die... I’m going to remain in control.” “If this is what’s happening, you’re really okay with it?” Vickers asks for the sake of clarity, looking at the man with both uncertainty and a striking amount of belief in what’s being said. “Well, I’m not going to like it. But as far as losing my mind over it, I’m not letting that filthy prick get in my head” Grant responds, unwavering in his defiance to the assumed ploy of their rival network, “the only person I’ve had nights staying awake over is Kelsi, and that’s for an entirely different reason. Nalty is nothing but a sour memory I no longer care to think about or feel like I have to walk around eggshells over.” “And you’re sure about that?” Bruce asks for the sake of absolute certainty, truly believing the claims that his client makes. “I’m not stuttering, Bruce. I couldn’t care less about what he does now- I just hope it doesn’t involve hurting other people” Grant declares, firm in his stance and genuine in the belief, “as far as I’m concerned, there are some people that he can still hurt... but I’m not one of them.” | \ Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 / \ 12:40 pm est. - 9:40 am pst. / “You’re signing Howard Nalty to broadcast your evening show, aren’t you?” Robin questions aloud, storming into the office of the Finley operator to the reaction of a giddy smile, “I knew you’d stoop to that kind of low, you obese faggot. How the hell do you think this is going to work out for you?” “If you’re asking me that question, I’ll take it that you haven’t heard about my newest appointee to the board of directors here, have you?” Burt replies from behind his desk, sitting before the backdrop of a massive window stretching from one side of the room to the other, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. “You mean Reece Rocha? Am I supposed to be phased by that bellcow bottom?” Robin questions back with hands firmly pressing into her hips, an eyebrow raised over her right eye, “he’s the kind of skinny fat that’d get cut due to budget constraints even if he were the CEO himself. He’s worth nothing anywhere.” “If you think I assigned him to the board because he’s the key to toppling your empire over at Leicester, you’ve got the wrong impression of my motivations” Burt rejoinders whilst staring at the screen of his computer, “and that’s on you, because I’ve gone out of my way to tell you exactly what I plan on doing.” “Making our lives a living hell? Do you think Reece Rocha and Howard Nalty- or the panty-wearer and the panty-sniffer, as I like to call them- is going to get that done?” Robin questions back with a chuckle. “It’s clearly got you worked up enough to storm down to my building, climb the seventy floors to my office, and wager every kind of insult you and that big head of yours can think of on the fly” Burt rebukes. “I came up with a few new ones in the car, don’t you worry- my big head has plenty of storage to remember them all” Robin snipes back, earning a slight chuckle out of the overweight company figurehead. “You’re sacrificing your flagship broadcast in the name of trying to take potshots at- and get in the heads of- my employees” she doubles down, calling the man’s motivations into question. “Yes, Robin. Because that’s what war is” Russo rejoinders as the visiting executive’s eyes begin to roll, “do you think I’m oblivious as to what kind of audience watches my network?” Crossing her arms as she remains standing at the man’s desk, Robin keeps her lips pressed together in the name of earning insight out of the obese man seated opposite her. “I could put a Nazi on my airwaves, and as long as he takes shots at Democrats for twenty minutes each night and calls them devil worshippers- my audience will watch” Burt replies, turning his focus away from the computer monitor and toward his uninvited guest. “I’m not sacrificing my premier broadcast so much as I am evolving it” the Finley Network operator corrects, “unlike you and your misguided idea of where this industry is going, I’m preparing for the real future.” “What’s the title of your nine o’clock show, again?” Robin wonders aloud, immediately receiving her answer of, “News Tonight, but it’ll be rebranded to National News Tonight when it starts the two hour format.” “Is your idea of the industry’s future ‘National News Tonight with Dr. Feels Good’ and whatever dumb, blonde slut you’re gonna send out there with her tits pushed up to her chin?” Robin queries to her adversary’s genuine amusement, “I think my prediction of this industry’s future is a lot more viable than yours.” “Haha. ‘Dumb, blonde, slut’. Yeah, that’s who we’re putting beside him” Burt laughs to himself in a subdued manner, “I’ll give you this, Robin... You’re very funny.” “Thanks, I learned by watching the clowns I’d eventually usurp to snatch my company away from their pie-covered hands” Robin quips, continuing to wear a grin as the man opposite her carries on. “The future of the industry is just bumping up our individual biases to eleven. Democrats rag on goofy Republicans by calling them fascists, and Republicans rag on uptight Democrats by calling them psychopaths” Russo predicts, “morals are a dying breed around our line of work.” “Yeah, and you stabbed it in the chest to begin its extinction in the first place” Robin assures, watching the man opposite her extend his arms in a show of triumph. “I’m a trendsetter, what can I say?” Burt responds, taking the insult on his chin and changing it to be taken as a compliment. “This isn’t going to end well for you. This will be a P.R nightmare that you’ll never recover from” the LMC chair woman explains, getting no effect out of her claims, however. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t a business move, this is a personal move. I’m not out to beat you at doing better business, I’m out to beat you at war” Burt explains, climbing out of his seat and walking around his desk to stand directly opposite his visitor, “the only reason that I’m manning the troops is because you fired the first shot.” “If you’re firing from this tower of yours, I think you’re sorely mistaken if you’re of the belief that you’ll be able to even land a shot on mine” Robin defiantly remarks, watching the arrogant grin spread across the puffy cheeks of the Finley Network chairman. “I find it funny that you’re talking about landing shots on each other as if the point of war weren’t to put boots on the ground” Burt replies, deepening his smile as he and Robin maintain eye contact, the woman’s lids narrowing closer together as the man speaks, “because if we’re talking about putting boots on the ground in the other’s building... Who’s to say I don’t already have them there right now?” Her curious glare dropping into a straight face with rooted anger buried within, Robin stares at the overweight man’s face as she takes his comments into thought. For a few seconds, she remains standing opposite her adversary before retreating, turning her back to the man’s frame and making for the direction in which she’d entered whilst Burt chuckles to himself, returning to the work at his desk. | \ Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 / \ 1:35 pm est. - 10:35 am pst. / Exiting the lift at their desired floor, Grant and Taylor calmly make their way back to the newsroom, their hands coupled together as they venture through the corridor and toward the bureau. “I believe you” the female anchor remarks, not needing to clarify what she’d meant by the claim in order for her fiance to know what she’s alluding to. “I know you do” the man replies, looking at her with a smile before leaning in for a kiss, their lips’ embrace ending as they step through the panopticon’s entrance. To the collective sound of chairs turning amidst a silence that’s impossible to miss, the nine o’clock anchors arrive back to the level they’d departed a few hours prior with every producer centring their eyes upon them. Not taking long to notice this reaction, the stars of the primetime broadcast look out to the crowd of desks to see a plethora of wide eyes and uneasy expressions, some carrying the weight of anger whilst others just appear incredibly uncomfortable. “I heard you got engaged!” a man’s voice proclaims from behind the desk atop the newsroom’s transparent stage, climbing out of Grant’s seat to the left of the hard camera to stand upright. Immediately recognising the voice, the broadcast’s male anchor looks past his colleagues and to the visitor that had awaited his return from the comfort of his seat. “That’s wonderful news! As long as it endures, marriage is a beautifully-symbolic representation of the undying love that two people have for each other” Howard remarks, dressed in casual wear and with a grin from ear to ear whilst locking eyes with Grant, “even if it doesn’t manage to stay the course, the contractual obligations that come with marriage make it impossible to escape each other.” Though staring with a great displeasure carried through his visage, Grant’s expression doesn’t seem to be all that phased by the unexpected appearance of his past. “Everyone give it up for the happy couple!” Howard commands, putting his hands together for the lovers whilst the rest of the newsroom remains audibly still, watching on as spectators to whatever interaction is about to unfold, incapable of ignoring the words that Nalty utters, “what we have here is really meant to last!” == Tonight at 9 ==
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\ Monday, December 31st, 2007 /
\ 10:43 pm est. - 7:43 pm pst. / “I don’t understand what the problem is with some of you men!” Carly explains, standing beside her executive producer’s right hand man as he hunches over his desk with a pen in hand, “we’re entering a brand new year, there are slightly-inebriated women scattered all around this place willing to judge you on a slightly-more favourable scale, and the three of you are sitting at your desks working.” “We have to oversee the message boards! It’s crucial to connecting with the demographic!” Doug jokes, replying with outright honesty despite carrying a humoured tone to it. Saying nothing, Carly waves her hands toward the man and gestures for him to move aside, “can you film videos and post them to this thing?” she queries. “Yeah, do you want us to help you with it?” Joey responds from the desk directly opposite Doug’s, standing out from his chair expecting an affirmative response. “No, I want you to show me how to” Carly corrects, pulling up an empty chair from nearby and taking a seat in front of the computer. Taking the mouse into her hand, the eight o’clock anchor directs the cursor toward where her senior producer advises her. Pulling up a camera feed and instinctively pressing record, Carly takes a sip from her tall glass of champagne and addresses the community they’ve cultivated online. “Hi. It’s Carly, and I speak on behalf of everyone here at On-Air in thanking you for following along with the work we’re doing here at eight o’clock” the woman begins, addressing their online audience whilst the producers who’d helped her navigate to them cross their arms and patiently await the conclusion of her remarks. “We’re currently in an office party, there are a ton of good-looking women here, they are all drinking, and my crew needs to get laid” she continues rather bluntly, amusing those that stand around within her vicinity. “I’m sure you’ll understand that these opportunities are few and far between, and they need to capitalise on them... Some more so than others” Carly continues with a giggle, passing a subtle head-bob in the direction of Colin, “for the rest of the night, eight o’clock is signing off from the internet. We’ll see you tomorrow.” As quickly as she’d begun the impromptu address, Carly severs communication with their fanbase and pats Doug on the chest, leaving her seat before passing off her champagne glass. “Start drinking, start socialising, start sleeping around, and leave the hangovers and slut walks to being problems you’ll deal with tomorrow” the anchor carries on, retreating with a smirk on her face, “happy fucking new year’s!” Accepting the terms in which they’d been freed from their responsibilities, Carly begins wandering toward the office at the back of the newsroom, not even bothering to make a detour for another glass of champagne along the way. “I’m gonna tell you the same thing that I-” she proclaims whilst letting herself into the room, finding the desk of her executive producer stacked with clutter and a lamp that’s always left on without the employee in attendance. Curiously looking around the room, the anchor takes notice of the mountains of clutter that are always present before stepping forward, advancing upon the desk that still remains as unoccupied as she’d taken it to be upon entering. Confused, she glances toward the room’s entrance once more before carrying on, grabbing a hold of the man’s phone and punching in the number she’d memorised by heart. “Are you at the office?” Carly inquires once she hears the other line to connect to her desired caller. “No, I’m on the couch at home” Aiden replies with a deeper voice than he’d normally carry, his words slow and sluggish in ways that immediately sound off. “Did I wake you up?” the eight o’clock anchor questions back, noticing the off-nature of her executive producer’s voice whilst taking a seat in his unoccupied office chair. “Yeah, I’m sick” Aiden answers, rubbing his eyes as he lays beneath a blanket on the chesterfield, only able to make out light through the orange glow of street lamps spilling through the slits of his blinds. “I’d say that I feel like death, but I feel like death would be a lot kinder to me than this” the man explains, clearly backed up and congested as he’s pulled out of his slumber. “Is there anyone looking after you or are you just up there alone?” Carly wonders aloud, resting her free arm’s elbow against the hardwood desktop as she leans over the workspace. “Shane’s at the office. He offered to stay, but I didn’t want him missing the party because of me” Aiden answers, groggy and exhausted in his delivery as he rolls over in bed, pressing his Blackberry to the side of his head, “I’m just gonna sleep it off and load myself full of drugs if I don’t feel better by tomorrow night.” “Are you sure you’re alright up there by yourself?” Carly reiterates, staring toward the front of his office as their communication continues, an obvious look of concern carried in her face. “There isn’t anything I need that I don’t have now” Aiden responds, letting out a soft sigh as he sinks into the soft comfort of the couch he willingly sleeps upon, “enjoy the party. I’ll see you Wednesday.” “Alright” Carly begrudgingly responds, leaning back in her seat with preparations of returning the phone to its holder, “feel better.” Their brief conclusion shared, the anchor’s hand returns the handset to its receiver and pulls back in the seat, visibly displeased with the circumstance that surrounds her executive producer. Looking toward the window in the back of his office, the woman stares at the skyline of New York City as it resides beneath the cover of night, coated with lights of a city that never sleeps- especially on evening’s such as this one. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Monday, December 31st, 2007 / \ 11:22 pm est. - 8:22 pm pst. / “Same plan for the ball drop as last year’s?” Grant questions, approaching his girlfriend with a glass of champagne in hand for her, his free hand sliding behind her lower back as he presses his lips to her cheek. “I don’t see how a rooftop cigar could hurt” Taylor answers, returning the kiss as Abby steps past them, approaching the foosball table that’s been set up atop their news desk’s transparent base. “Abby-versus-Vince, first to seven wins!” Shane proclaims, standing off to the side of the wooden play station with a glass of sparkling water in his hand. “I wonder how much Vince is going to win this one by” Keith proclaims, watching the man in question point his finger toward him. “Give me a scoreline... Any scoreline” the confident, defending champion commands, watching as the source of the inquiry pauses to consider. “Seven to four” Keith replies, joined by the anchors of his primetime broadcast and his fellow associate producers in watching on for the evening’s festivities. “Seven to four... works for me” Vince responds, manning his side of the table without much enthusiasm as the ball is dropped in. Fumbling around her posts, Abby makes first contact with the ball as her opponent’s men fail to even move, allowing her shot to easily meet its mark and score the opening point. “One point to Abby!” Shane declares, presiding over the unoccupied end of the table opposite the gathered crowd as the next ball is rolled in, and the one that follows that, and so on and so forth. Within a minute, the score finds Abby at a four-to-zero advantage, allowed to do so through Vince’s refusal to even put up a convincing display. “Good start for you, Keith?” the producer wonders aloud, looking at the man standing a few feet off to Grant and Taylor’s side with an eyebrow raised. “It looks like someone’s a little cocky now that Aiden isn’t here to put you to the test” the associate producer in question responds, watching a smile spread from one side of Vince’s face to the other as he replies. “Aiden? The guy from eight o’clock?” he quips back, playing the man’s presence off as if he’d never met him before, “isn’t that the guy I swept last year?” Rolling in as soon as he finishes the question, the foosball fires off of Vince’s peg player and tears into the slot opposite his goal, scoring him a point for the first time in the match. To great intrigue, the crowd watch on as the ball continues to roll in, each new start of play resulting in another goal for the defending champion until the desired scoreline has been reached. “Vince’s victory- seven to four!” Shane proclaims to a round of applause, opening the chance for the match’s winner to approach Abby with a purposefully-playful and unintimidating bob of the head, playing the unsportsmanlike winner in a manner that the woman can’t help but laugh at. “Who else wants a piece of the champion!?” Vince questions aloud, spreading his arms outward like an eagle as he stares at the sea of producers. “I’ll give it a crack!” an older voice proclaims from the back of the bureau, further behind the collective audience that now redirects their focus toward the panopticon’s entrance. Stepping through the assortment of desks that host work responsible for keeping the primetime broadcast together, Vickers draws toward the transparent stage to the cheer of the producers. “You’re about to get your shit pushed in by the president of the company, Vince!” Olivia proclaims through coupled hands, prompting the audience to erupt into a roar of applause that finally draws the defending champion into focus. “You still want a scoreline, V!?” Keith jokes, injecting laughter into the raucous crowd as the older gentleman takes the opposite side of the stage from his employee. “It’s Vickers-versus-Vince- first to seven wins!” Shane proclaims, snatching the ball out of the goal that the company president now steps up to defend. Clearly more motivated to win than he had been throughout the entire night, Vince grasps the handles of his players with great readiness as Vickers does the same. Stepping forward with the white sphere in his possession, the nine o’clock executive producer gracefully lets the object roll into the centre of the table and fall into play. With more intensity than every other game up to this point put together, the two competitors spin the pegs violently as they keep a fierce eye on the ball, following it from one side of the surface to the other before a projectile-like shot is taken into goal for the first point of the game. “One point to Vickers!” Shane proclaims to an eruption of cheers, making it clear that- whilst beloved by his coworkers- the defending champion plays the role of the villain in this defence. | \ Monday, December 31st, 2007 / \ 11:29 pm est. - 8:29 pm pst. / Suffering in silence, Aiden tries his best to disregard the fever dreams that prevent him from earning any worthwhile sleep as he fights between bouts with the sweats and chills. Though distant, the executive producer can hear the jingling of keys in the distance beyond his flat’s front door, unable to keep himself from paying it much of his focus in light of how hard it is for him to properly sleep. Letting out slow and steady breaths, the ill resident continues to shield himself from the outside world within his somewhat-cosy, New York apartment. Having overheard the distant sound of cars driving by a few stories below and people exiting their flats on the same floor in favour of hitting the town throughout the night, Aiden pays little mind to the ringing pieces of metal until the moment he hears one of them slide into the deadbolt of his front door. Mustering the strength to squint, the executive producer forces himself to sit upright and reach for the nearby lamp, bathing the apartment in light that takes his eyes a few seconds to adapt to. Successfully unlocking the front door, the soul in possession of the keys pushes the entrance inward and politely steps forward, coming to a stop the moment she sees the light and her coworker sitting upright on the chesterfield. “Hi” Carly mutters in a subtle tone, not wanting to disrupt the quietness of the air that her colleague’s illness had proved necessary. “What are you doing here?” Aiden inherently questions, fueled by the slight amount of adrenaline that his anchor’s unexpected entrance provides him with. “Checking in on you- obviously” she replies with a heartwarming smile whilst closing the door and stepping forward, leaving the keys of her producer’s roommate in a bowl atop a table near the corner of the main foyer. “I thought you were at the office party?” Aiden questions back, groaning as quietly as he can whilst rubbing at his eyes, clearly benumbed by the bug that’s brought about his poor health. “I was. That’s where I called you from” Carly reassures, immediately earning a disappointed togetherness of the man’s eyelids. “I told you to enjoy the party” Aiden sighs, looking way with a disheartened look on his face, “I didn’t want you guys to miss out on the party because of me.” “There will be more parties” the anchor confidently predicts, entering the adjacent kitchen and retrieving a hand towel, “besides, your producers take after you in getting knee-deep with their work when they really shouldn’t be.” “We have an important job to do. I don’t blame them” Aiden groans, still rubbing at his eyes whilst his vision adjusts to the light, hearing the water of his kitchen sink begin to run in the near distance. “When the holidays are upon us, they need to get their dicks out and get some steam out” Carly corrects, covering the towel in a coating of cold water before ringing it out, “and I was expecting to tell you the exact same thing until I realised you weren’t in your office.” “I can’t control when I do and don’t get sick” Aiden responds, hearing the woman’s footsteps approach before feeling the weight of his upper body be gently pushed forward. “I don’t expect you to, but I do expect you to be able to control when you do and don’t surround yourself with work.” “I’ve got a lot riding on getting eight o’clock working. I can’t risk-” Aiden retorts, falling silent the second the woman takes a seat on the spot of the couch he’d slept upon and presses the cold towelette upon his forehead. “Now’s not the time to talk about work. Now’s the time to let me help you feel better” Carly interjects, pulling the man’s torso into her side with one arm wrapped around his chest, keeping the cold compress resting against his sweaty forehead. “You should be having fun at the party... not trapped here taking care of me” Aiden rebukes, a comment that his premier anchor refuses to accept as truth. “I’m here now and there’s no point in telling me I should be somewhere else. That party will be long-over by the time I leave here” Carly chirps, gently sweeping the loose strands of hair away from her ex-boyfriend’s face, better clearing his forehead for the cold towel’s embrace, “besides, I wouldn’t have been able to have fun if you weren’t there anyway.” “Shane didn’t put up much of a fight when I told him to go” Aiden counters, earning a slight chuckle out of the woman that oversees his recovery. “I don’t think you and Shane have the kind of friendship-relationship-acquaintance thing going that we do” Carly responds, aware that- even if he feels bad over her presence- the executive producer’s comforted relaxation insinuates her care is greatly appreciated, “I wouldn’t have been able to have a good time knowing you were suffering over here.” | \ Monday, December 31st, 2007 / \ 11:42 pm est. - 8:42 pm pst. / “We’re tied!” Shane proclaims to a chorus of booing, the energy of the nine o’clock newsroom having proven so palpable that even the eight o’clock newsroom felt compelled to join in on the spectating. “You ain’t taking my crown that easily, boss!” Vince exclaims, earning an amused nod out of the company president as the scores reach the point of levelling. “It may not be easy, but I’m still taking it from you... champ” Vickers spouts back, throwing his hands out at his sides to loosen up, still wearing the blazer he’d entered the floor wearing whilst his adversary’s long sleeves are rolled upward and the top button of his dress shirt is undone. “Game point! We’re locked up at six-to-six!” Shane declares, reaching into Vickers’ goal to retrieve the white marble that has danced across the table for the last few minutes like a ballroom aficionado, “next goal wins!” “VICKERS! VICKERS! VICKERS!” the audience howls aloud, backing the man that chooses to have fun with the scene in which he takes part in. Stepping away from the handles of his players, the company president slides his suit jacket off and tosses it into the arms of Grant, who’d approached the transparent platform with the intent of holding onto it anyway. “Your kingdom’s about to come crumbling down, kingpin!” Vickers remarks, swiping his hands forward to loosen up whilst rolling the sleeves to his dress shirt upward. “This is the champ’s home territory, boss! You ain’t getting my turf without earning it!” Vince retaliates, widening his stance as he approaches the handles once more, prepared for the sphere’s final drop and the game’s final goal. Matching the man’s posture, Vickers approaches his side of the table and gives a nod to the EP of nine o’clock, assuring him that the final round is ready to begin. Downing the rest of his sparkling drink, Shane places the tall glass onto a nearby chair before walking forward, gently holding the ball over the slot in which it’s meant to roll into play from before releasing his grasp, allowing fate to take over. Audibly spinning around and colliding with the marble, the wooden pegs spin like horseshoes to a post as their controllers look for the ultimate score. From one team to the next and across the table, the deciding point lingers across the green surface and rolls from one goal and into the direction of the other. Gradually leaning closer toward the table the longer that the final point hangs in the balance, each competitor continues to fight the other’s players until a decisive blow is finally landed. “Vince’s victory- seven to six!” Shane proclaims to a chorus of booing, the genuine disappointment at the man’s continued success doing nothing to stifle the producer’s celebration. “Ah, damn!” Vickers concedes, playfully swatting at the table as his employee’s hands take toward the sky with jubilation, a victory that he feels had been truly earned finding its way to Vince’s possession. Keeping his revelry brief, the nine o’clock producer watches the company’s president approach him with a hand extended, the handshake being one that he gladly reciprocates. “I’ll be back for you next year, champ” Vickers declares, patting his employee on the shoulder once he receives a nod, satisfied with the sportsmanship displayed to him before lifting the subordinate’s hand in triumph. As if given the greenlight to shift their reception, the crowd turns their collective jeering into applause for the performance that the president now sponsors, a hard-fought victory achieved by the man. Handing off the jacket to the hands of its rightful owner, Grant pats his friend on the shoulder and congratulates him on a good performance. “I’ll get him next year” Vickers playfully remarks, carrying the coat over an arm that he drapes against his chest before taking the glass of champagne from Taylor’s hand and downing it in one sip. “Happy new year’s, you two” the man proclaims, licking his lips to indulge in the sweet alcohol’s taste as he passes them by, amusing all three parties amidst his departure. “Should we take that as a sign to head to the balcony?” Grant wonders aloud, watching his girlfriend’s eyes collide with his own before she leans forward, planting a kiss on his lips with a sincere smile. “Lead the way” Taylor mutters, letting her hand fall into her boyfriend’s own as they head off, taking themselves in the direction of the same patio they’d welcomed in the new year from three hundred and sixty five days prior. | \ Monday, December 31st, 2007 / \ 11:53 pm est. - 8:53 pm pst. / “We are just seven minutes away from welcoming in the new year, so stay tuned! We’ll be right back!” the television set emanates, affording the party host’s voice to reach the people of America watching at home as they enter their final commercial break of the year. “You’re going to miss your new year’s kiss” Aiden murmurs, keeping himself awake amidst the comfort his anchor provides, watching the screen across the room as it bathes their collective faces in white light. “I wasn’t going to have one even if I stayed at the party anyway” Carly confesses, unaware of the slight furrowing in her producer’s eyebrows at such an admission. “You’re not seeing anyone?” Aiden queries softly, being caught by surprise at such a revelation, having purposefully kept himself out of the woman’s business well enough to make such an assumption without any means of traditional clarification. “I haven’t even dated someone- aside from the fake dates with Brant to get Vince that connection- since we broke up” Carly confirms, shaking her head whilst watching the mattress commercial play through the screen. “I wouldn’t be able to anyway. Everything I said to you a few months ago about how much I missed what we had is true” the woman doubles down, “I can’t look at guys like I used to. They always just see me as the pretty chick to have by their side.” “I’m not the only decent guy in New York City. It’s not hard to find someone who thinks of you the way that I do” Aiden argues, still lacking the energy to put up anything other than a passing defiance to his ex-girlfriend’s claims. “Have you taken a walk through this city? Even if there was someone like you out there, I’d have to walk through eighty thousand neighbourhoods of cat-calling and obsessive paparazzi” Carly retorts, shaking her head with refusal, “it’s not worth it.” Keeping his thoughts to himself for a moment, Aiden chooses not to speak in lieu of making anything between them awkward, still not having truthfully moved past their relationship in the months that have proceeded it. “Besides, you were right about what you said after I got you out of jail. I never really gave you a reason to trust me” Carly explains, visibly discomforted by the truth behind her statement, “the only defence I can even come up with is that none of them were people I actually wanted to be with.” “It’s still cheating” Aiden quickly counters, holding firm in the stance that he’d come to months prior, though too sick to stand in any affirmative resistance like he had at the time. “I know. And that fact nullifies any stupid defence I can make for it” Carly assures, bringing the man in her lap something more closely resembling peace of mind than he’s ever taken from their breakup to this point, “if nothing else, I think it’s just hard accepting that my track record should be fair game now that I’ve actually got a reason to care about having one.” “What do you mean?” Aiden wonders aloud, not sure how to make sense of the latest claim, fighting through his ailment in search of clarification. “Like I said, none of the guys I cheated on were people that I cared to be with. I didn’t love them and I didn’t care about them once I realised they were only into me because I was some attractive girl they could show off to their friends” Carly explains, “I didn’t care if I had a track record because I didn’t care about them. If they found out, we’d break up and that’s it. I didn’t care about them, so I didn’t care about not dating them and gave up on them.” Remaining silent through the woman’s explanation, the executive producer of her show continues to lay in her arms as the broadcast running before them reaches its final few advertisements before coming back to the air for the final few minutes of the year. “But then, I fell in love. And the track record hurt me because it hurt the person that I fell in love with” Carly explains, shaking her head with great disappointment, “and I struggled to cope with the fact that I’d brought it upon myself. I’d finally found someone I was happy with and now it was threatening to ruin that. I was so hurt by that fear that I couldn’t help but try to blame everyone other than myself for the track record that I’d created.” “Do you mean it?” Aiden asks back, genuinely yearning for an answer to that question as he pulls his head back, looking up at the face of the woman who provides him care, “do you actually love me?” With raised eyebrows and a genuinely sympathetic gleam in her eyes, Carly nods her head without offering a verbal reply at first. “Yes. I’ve never felt this love for you with anyone else. I’ve never cared about someone the way I care about you” the woman assures, struggling not to smile in the wake of the deeply-rooted pain that they’d lost what they shared. Looking to the far side of the room, Carly thinks deeply about how to phrase the thoughts that flutter around her head, trying her best to offer an explanation that can be considered worth the pain her past actions had served to inflict. “I think I kind of gave up on love before we started dating. I flirted with you, yeah. But, I didn’t actually expect to find love the way you hear in fairy tales or the movies” Carly explains, shaking her head as she stares toward the corner of the room. “It took me a little while to figure out what I was feeling after we started dating. I’d forgotten what I thought love was” she confesses, furrowing her brows as she recalls the further weeks and months. “Then I went out that night and ran into Brent. I didn’t know if you’d found out and took it the wrong way, so I froze when I got home that night- when everything started to change between us” Carly carries on, “I was worried that you had and I felt guilty. We hadn’t done anything, but I just felt this immense shame like I’d betrayed you.” “Why?” Aiden whispers, genuinely curious as the woman’s face falls back toward his own, their bodies painted in the television’s light as it returns to the new year’s eve festivities for the final time. “Because it felt wrong, I guess. I knew that I hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but I couldn’t help but feel that guilt. So, I struggled to speak, or move, or really do anything” Carly recalls, “I can’t explain it. But everything spiralled out of control from there and... you know the rest.” “Was fucking Brent after we broke up meant to hurt me?” Aiden questions, watching the anchor’s eyes fall again as a tear begins streaming down her cheek, though she remains composed enough to not break down into tears. “I couldn’t handle blaming myself for the past I’d made. I finally found love and had it ripped away. I shouldn’t have blamed you, but I wasn’t in a place where I could blame myself yet” Carly confesses, shaking her head once more, “I just made things worse.” As the air grows silent, Aiden begins struggling to sit upright once more, keeping his face aimed away from the anchor’s own to prevent what likely chance she already has of catching his illness from growing any further. Nearing the final minutes of the year, the pair continue to occupy the quiet air as Carly takes it upon herself to bring it to an end, speaking through the hush that comes over them and the host’s voice through the distant television set. “I really want to respect your boundaries, Aiden- but I can’t. If we’re going to keep working together, I need to tell you that I’ll never be okay with how things ended between us” Carly confesses, allowing herself to be vulnerable and threaten the stability of their friendship in the name of honesty and transparency, “I’ve done enough work to accept that we’ll probably never be fully trusting in each other and that’s on me, but I can’t accept how things ended between us. I can’t be okay with giving up on this, or on us, or on you.” “And we are ready, too. I’m gonna send it back up to the man who’s been doing it all these years to count us into the new year” the interviewing-host explains through the television, “Dick, take it away! It’s your specialty, my friend!” | \ Monday, December 31st, 2007 / \ 11:59 pm est. - 8:59 pm pst. / Whilst illuminating with a deep, red glow through Aiden’s television screen, the falling ball of Time’s Square is watched on by the cigar-smoking anchors of nine o’clock from the LMC headquarters’ balcony. “Happy new year’s, honey” Grant whispers, looking into his wife’s eyes as they set their cigars upon the tray that rests on the patio wall’s concrete top. “Happy new year, my love” Taylor whispers back, hearing the crowd countdown from afar as the magical moment is finally upon them. From the comfort of the flat and watching along on television, Carly and Aiden bypass the illness that threatens to spread in the name of rekindling their love with a kiss as the new year rings in, the long locking of their lips holding firm as the cheering audience blares through their television set. With their eyes closed, the eight o’clock showrunners embrace each other’s love with locked lips, their feelings strong enough to bring the executive producer out of his ailing exhaustion. Having leant forward, Taylor gently pulls back as her boyfriend’s face falls from beneath her view, refusing the kiss in favour of descending lower. Following the man’s figure, the experienced anchor at nine o’clock watches Grant lower himself to one knee on the ground and part the lid of a box with an engagement ring concealed within. Smiling as she stares off toward the heavens, the woman laughs just as her lover does, having quietly wondered to herself whether or not this was his plan earlier in the day. “Ah, I had a feeling!” Taylor giggles, looking back to her boyfriend’s smiling face as he remains intent on following through. “You know me well, Taylor English...” Grant responds, continuing to present the shining, diamond ring to the woman he hopes will finally follow through with the promise she’d been offering him for months, “...now, will you marry me?” Though flattered by the ring, Taylor’s concerns refuse to rest upon the piece of jewellery as she gently guides the man’s hand toward the ground, dropping to both knees whilst placing the palms of her cold hands to either side of the anchor’s face. Pressing her lips to the man’s own, the blonde woman disregards the strands of her hair that a brief gust of wind sends whipping back, sealing off the kiss by locking eyes with Grant and providing him with the word he’d wished to hear. “Yes.” \ Monday, January 1st, 2008 / \ 12:00 am est. / == Tonight at 9 == \ Thursday, December 20th, 2007 /
\ 8:55 pm est. - 5:55 pm pst. / “No, he’s endorsing Romney” Grant responds, adjusting his blazer accordingly as he joins his girlfriend in approaching the news desk, speaking through the mic of his in-ear. “Who cares, he’s a member of the house from Colorado. I’d hardly call that a Republican stronghold” Shane responds, glancing at the bullet point rundown sitting at the base of a wall of monitors, “you did watch the debates, right? The guy doesn’t even believe in the theory of evolution.” “So? There are still people thinking the earth is flat, we just don’t care to give them a reason to think we take them seriously” the primetime anchor continues, climbing into the seat beside the one his girlfriend already occupies, “nothing is universally believed anymore... and in fairness, it shouldn’t be.” With a slight squint in his eyes, Shane pulls his head up from the stacks of papers and stares at the monitor feeding him a live shot of the hard camera, a genuine intrigue carried in his mind. “Do you believe in the theory of evolution, Grant?” the executive producer questions aloud, only raising the question to his pair of anchors, though the rest of the control room looks on with wonder. “How about we just stick to getting ready to hit the air?” Grant queries, openly evading the question in a way that prompts even his girlfriend’s head to slightly pop up, pulling away from the paper copy of the script she takes the point of a pen to. “We have five minutes until airtime, I’m in no rush at all” Shane doubles down, wearing a smirk and slightly-widened eyes at holding the anchor’s feet to the fire, “I want to hear you tell me you believe in the theory of evolution.” “I’d like to focus on preparing for tonight’s broadcast, thank you” Grant instead retorts, lowering his head toward the script at his fingertips whilst his girlfriend turns to look toward him. “Do you not believe in the theory of evolution?” Taylor wonders aloud, wearing a half-smile at the idea that such a stance could be the case. “I’m not sure what to believe on the matter” Grant scoffs, crossing a few words on the paper script out with his ballpoint pen. “How do you not know what to believe? How do you think we got here?” Taylor questions, asking the same question that the executive producer in their headset wanted to ask. “Aliens” Grant replies, immediately being struck with silence that he’d not intended for, quickly putting him in a position of defence. “I don’t believe it was aliens, I was being facetious” he corrects, looking at the wild expression on his girlfriend’s face as it falls, her concern having been that he’d meant every bit of his reply. “I was raised in a semi-religious household and science class always told me a different thing than the creation story” the male anchor explains, shaking his head at a loss for further importance, “I didn’t want to upset either side, so I chose not to take a side. I didn’t find it important either since we’re here now... What would learning how we started change?” “I’m pretty sure people at the MET would argue that science class would be a lot more redundant... As would a chunk of their jobs” Shane replies as he reaches for a ringing phone in the room, a squint carried in his eyes as he greets the caller. “I found a way to avoid pissing my mother or my teacher off. To me, that was a win-win” Grant explains, satisfying Taylor enough with her response to send her smiling face back toward the paper script before them. “As long as you know I’ll continue to pick on you about this for a very long time, that’s what counts” the female broadcaster responds, fixing the hair that falls in front of her face as her boyfriend allows a sigh to leave his lungs. “...the most accurate and efficient delivery of news that the nation can provide” a man’s voice explains, his voice fluttering into the newsroom through the speakers that surround the bureau. Lifting their faces from the documents that they quietly work on, the nine o’clock anchors put their finishing touches for tonight’s broadcast on hold, looking toward the crowd of producers at a loss before taking a quick glance around the room. “I think we’re getting a feed from one of the other networks in the newsroom, Shane” Taylor quips, continuing to look around the panopticon as she searches for the specific broadcast responsible for the monologue. “Vickers just told me to feed Finley’s audio through the speakers” the executive producer replies, looking toward a video feed of the rival network that one of his subordinates pulls onto the main monitor, “the guy that does the eight o’clock news is announcing something.” “What is it?” Grant questions back, only to receive the grumbles of his executive producer as they serve to explain his uncertainty. “Unfortunately, my contract with the Finley Network expires at the start of February. My employers and I have decided that it is not within our best interest to negotiate another contract” the black man in the suit explains, staring directly into the camera as he addresses his audience, “in addition to this, I have been informed that my show at eight o’clock will be ended.” Feigning an insincere smile toward the audience, the clean-shaven gentleman remains sitting upright at his desk, taking a pause for his audience to grapple with the latest string of insight before moving onto the next. “My employers feel that it would be best to move forward with expanding the nine o’clock news to two hours, starting at eight instead” the anchor continues, watched on now by each member of the LMC newsroom that redirects their sights toward his show. “In the wake of success that other networks have had with the format, the nine o’clock news will be anchored by not one- but two broadcasters. A fitting change of pace that Finley sees as the future of primetime newscasting” he carries forward, earning a confused look from the LMC anchors he’s likely providing soft reference to. “This comes as a great disappointment to me, but it is what I feel is within the best interest of-” Finley’s eight o’clock anchor speaks, only for his voice to be cut off from the speaker that refuses it any further airtime. “Vickers told me ‘not to give the fucker more attention than he deserves’ now that he’d said his part” Shane explains, the information that he passes on being exclusive to the anchors, leaving the rest of the newsroom in confusion. “And we shouldn’t. Fuck him and fuck their network. Let’s get back to the show” Taylor replies, passing a disgusted look toward the Finley Network broadcast as she returns her eyes toward the paper at her person, placing the finishing touches on tonight’s script. “Are you alright?” Grant whispers, watching his girlfriend’s eyes take toward him in silence for a moment before she glances at the transparent desk. “If Russo thinks expanding his primetime show to two hours is going to put a damper in our ratings, that’s his mistake to make” Taylor responds after a brief silence, shaking her head with dismissal, “he can’t wage a war with nobody anchors on a nothing show at a nothing network that no one watches... No matter where he airs it.” = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Friday, December 21st, 2007 / \ 8:01 am est. - 5:01 am pst. / “That just means Grant, Taylor, and I are going up against nine o’clock” Carly explains, entering the LMC building alongside her executive producer, each holding a cup of coffee in their hands. “It doesn’t matter” Aiden replies, flashing his badge toward Nola as she lifts a thumb up from behind the welcome desk they pass, paying the man little mind as she remains deep within her search on the computer monitor at her disposal. “We’ve stabilised the ratings and we’re getting more traction with Doug’s online project. Interaction is good, and it’s driving viewers toward the product” Aiden explains. “Finley could go find a pair of hot blondes with even bigger tits than mine to open the eight o’clock half and that traction goes down the drain” Carly retorts, watching the shake of the man’s head react to her. “Unless those whores do the news naked, I doubt they come close to touching your numbers” Aiden replies, continuing to step in the direction of the lifts whilst he speaks. “We’re not looking to win the overall, we’re looking to win the demo. Doug’s ‘new media think’ is getting us an ‘in’ with them that Finley stands no chance of touching” the executive producer continues on, “we could have half of their two-hour rating, but if seventy percent of our audience is that target demo... Our broadcast is the undisputed king of value and the race isn’t even close.” “What is their plan supposed to be anyway? Get two new people on board and hope for the best? Take a shot in the dark and hope the two hour format holds firm?” Carly queries, finally reaching an inquiry her producer cannot make as clear of a prediction on as he’d please. “Two hours should- at least, in theory- keep people watching through the show” Aiden explains, finally reaching the lift and pressing his thumb against the call button, “advertisers will love the consistency, but that’s it. That doesn’t mean the format will work.” “Sure, but how can we know that for sure?” Carly wonders aloud, earning an amused chuckle out of the man she accompanies. “Because breaking news doesn’t happen every single day” he answers, turning to look her in the eyes as the elevator reaches their floor, “we only run a one hour show and we already get to a ‘D Block’.” With the gentle ring of a bell, the lift’s doors part to reveal a single man standing at its centre, his face taking itself away from the screen that counted the digits of each passing floor and falling upon the pair that now enter. “It’s fancy seeing you here” Shane remarks, watching Carly enter the lift as Aiden follows her in, their mutual acquaintance doing the part they’d intended to in pressing the button of their floor. “We come here often. It’s sort of a habit of ours” Aiden replies, earning a nod from the executive producer of nine o’clock. “Hmm... Ours.” Shane repeats, watching his friend bow his head with a shy smile, aware of what his pal is hinting at, “you never came back to the apartment last night. Should I assume you two are patching things up romantically?” “No. Not at all” the eight o’clock producer responds, pointing his finger toward the well-built figurehead of the controls at nine o’clock with adamant refusal. “We were at a meeting on the other side of town and it just made sense for us to crash at her place” Aiden clarifies, continuing to receive a repetitive bowing of “Tonight at 9’s” executive producer. “Whatever you say, champ” Shane responds, pointing his finger at the state of his friend’s attire, “just be ready to explain to your colleagues why you’re still wearing yesterday’s clothes.” Glancing down at his wardrobe, Aiden listens to the lift’s bell ring as it finally reaches his floor, coming to the same realisation that Shane had taken on the moment he saw his friend through the parted doors. “Shit” the eight o’clock producer remarks, unable to say anything further before Carly playfully shoves him forward, setting him on a path that allows both of them to exit toward their floor, passing a friendly wave toward the nine o’clock showrunner as they depart. | \ Friday, December 28th, 2007 / \ 10:13 pm est. - 7:13 pm pst. / “Send her in” Vickers replies, granting his secretary permission to depart toward her duties after a quick chat whilst he removes his cheaters and places them beside his computer’s screen. For a few seconds, the room remains quiet only changing accordingly when the sounds of heels tapping against the ground in the distance grow close. “Yet another good night of programming. Well done” Robin explains, stepping through the doorway and approaching the president’s desk. “We have three talented anchors and incompetent competition, that should be the expectation” Vickers responds, coupling his hands atop his lap as his elbows rest against each side of his chair. “Those are the expectations and your anchors continue to meet them” Robin replies, offering a brief shrug as she adds emphasis, “I’d still like to see improvement out of the eight o’clock numbers, but I’ll take the modest growth they’re starting to show.” “It’s amazing to see what happens when the anchor who needs the pretty lady in that chair to make the show work gets the pretty lady in that chair, isn’t it?” Vickers queries with a confident smile. “I don’t need your cocky smile. You know we never really had a choice” Robin responds, begrudgingly accepting the lesser chair at the front of her subordinate’s desk, “he still needs to play catchup faster than he is, but I’ll take steady growth over nothing.” “You’re not concerned with what Finley is doing, are you?” Vickers wonders aloud, receiving a sour expression as if anything other than such could be true. “They’re in the business of pushing a narrative and I’m in the news business” Robin replies, crossing one of her legs over the other with dignity and folding her hands atop them, “no matter what some morally bankrupt organisations may want you to believe... there’s still a difference between the two.” “Well, that’s only as long as the shareholders allow there to be” Vickers remarks, receiving a roll of the woman’s eyes in return for his claims. “If I could purchase the company outright and take it private- I would” the chairwoman explains, shaking her head with a visual disgust, “one of the worst moves this company ever did was take itself public.” “It had no other choice besides bankruptcy” Vickers retorts, watching his guest’s hand wave toward him as she scoffs. “Money is fake. The only thing that’s real is me” Robin replies, wearing a grin as she presses her back against the chair, “if you look hard enough, you’ll find a way to turn one dollar into five, ten dollars into twenty, and student debt into a declaration of bankruptcy on credit card debut.” “If only the younger generation had the credit scores of us old fogies” the company’s president jokes, sharing a simple laugh with the woman opposite him as their line of dialogue ceases in favour of something different. “Speaking of buying out the company, how’s the process of taking on Ross’ shares going?” Vickers inquires, gliding his chair in the direction of the room’s entrance with the rest of his body, but keeping his eyes firmly upon the woman’s visage. “That’s why I’m here. The final kinks have been ironed out and the twenty percent is officially mine” the woman explains, prompting the president’s lips to pucker with his nodding head. “Regardless of what he thinks he’s changing, we are free from Burt Russo at last” Vickers proclaims, reaching for his drawer before the chairwoman’s voice can prevent him from making any advancement toward his stored-away liquor. “We are, and that’s why I am not drinking your stash liquor!” Robin declares, freeing her hands from being locked within each other’s own in order to pat her lap and stand back upon both feet, “we’re going to the lounge and celebrating at the bar.” Given little say in the matter, Vickers turns out the lamp on his desk and exits his office, not expecting to return to it until the weekend has passed. In the dark and with only the computer monitor’s light bathing the room, some time passes before the machine’s speaker goes off, reciting a cheerful, automated message into the empty office. “You’ve got mail!’ | \ Friday, December 28th, 2007 / \ 10:46 pm est. - 7:46 pm pst. / “Whatcha doing?” Carly wonders aloud, ducking her head into her EP’s office to find him knee-deep in work and moving from one document to the next. “Preparing us for Wednesday since we’ve got a long weekend” Aiden replies, spinning his chair away from a stack of papers at the centre of his desk and toward the computer monitor at its left-most side. “Hmph. I figured you would’ve tried to do that on Monday instead” the beautiful anchor replies, watching the man shake his head in refusal. “I’ve got to find the time to not drive myself crazy. New Year’s Eve seems like a pretty fitting day to take off” Aiden rebukes, swiping his cursor across the machine’s screen before clicking the mouse and advancing back toward the opposite side of his desk, ‘why are you still here? Taylor and Grant went off the air almost an hour ago.” “I’m not really sure” Carly replies, granting herself permission to enter the man’s workspace whilst he continues to slave over the labour at his disposal, “I got on the phone with my lawyer once they started covering Somalia and just kept hanging around after it was done, I guess.” “Why were you on the phone with your lawyer? You didn’t run someone off the road in traffic, did you?” Aiden wonders aloud, receiving confirmation that such is not the case with little wait, “whatever it was, you better not be going to jail over it. I’ve finally got you in that chair every night... I’m not going back to the era of middle-aged fill-ins.” “It’s just contract stuff. My current deal runs out just after the election, remember?” Carly queries back, “the network wants to negotiate now while the ratings are stable-but-underwhelming just in case your plan works out and I become the face of the most valuable show in the nation.” “Keep putting that pretty face of yours in that chair and we’ll be waving that headline around by the time our next commander in chief is appointed by the public” Aiden assures, scrawling his pencil across the sheets of paper his attention is taken by, “negotiate like the anchor you’ll be in a year’s time.” “I should be offering you the exact same advice” Carly retorts, leaning against the wall just beside the man’s desk as he continues to set his sights upon one interest after another, “it’s not long after mine that your deal comes up, right?” “April of ‘09. I have an early-out six months prior in the event that the network doesn’t want to pay me or I want to land a job somewhere else” Aiden answers, closing the cover of a notebook after jotting down a brief set of numbers. “If I get this show where I’m hoping to take it, I’ll have companies all over the place throwing blank cheques at me” the executive producer doubles down, “that’s pretty good leverage to have with LMC... they’ll pay you what you’re actually worth, but they’ll make you fight like hell to get there.” “You don’t need to tell me that. It might’ve been one of the only reasons I chose to take the LMC offer instead of the one out west” Carly replies, shaking her head not long after finishing her thought, preferring to redirect her attention to other matters. After a brief pause, the woman inspects the rapid move from one chore after another that her executive producer carries on with, working at a break-neck speed like a man on a mission as he prepares himself for a weekend free of concern. “We can still hangout like friends even though we’re not together anymore, right?” the primetime anchor wonders aloud, earning the man’s full focus for the first time since poking her head in the room. “What do you mean?” Aiden questions back, unsure of what’s insinuated by the inquiry. “Well, we’re exes and everything- but we’re also coworkers” Carly reiterates, watching as the man’s hands take their first opportunity all night to settle down and lay upon his desk. “I’d like to think we’re back to a place where we can just be friends without it being weird” she continues to explain, shrugging as she continues along the line of thought she hasn’t fully thought out internally, “would it be weird if we went out for dinner or something? Not as a date, but something just totally platonic?” With a pause, the task-littered executive producer turns his sights toward the door that the anchor had entered through, deep within thought of consideration toward the question raised. “I don’t know that friends go out to dinner with each other unless it’s man-to-man or woman-to-woman” Aiden explains with a gentle shake of his head, “and I’m not sure friends that used to date works any better than at that.” Lowering her eyes, Carly nods with acceptance as her producer raises wonder toward the purpose of her asking. “I just figured that I’d ask” the woman explains, shrugging off any notion that she had deeper intentions than wondering out of curiosity, “I’ve never actually stayed friends with someone that I’d dated. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to before.” Feeling like she’s made their brief interaction odd, the anchor feels a responsibility to try and provide emphasis to her quandary. “I do miss being with you romantically, but I miss actually getting to just hang out with you and do friendly things” Carly continues, watching her acquaintance internally attempt to understand her point, “I want to respect the boundaries you’ve set up, but I also wanted to know if we could get the non-romantic parts of what we used to have back in a healthy way.” Nodding his head, Aiden appears to better register the purpose of the wonderment, “alright” he replies with, providing a small amount of comfort that his anchor can carry herself away with. “Anyway, I guess I’ll see you at the party on Monday” she proceeds, walking toward the room’s exit with her producer’s best wishes extended, putting a conclusion to the progressively-strange line of dialogue they both prepare to leave in the past. | \ Friday, December 28th, 2007 / \ 10:57 pm est. - 7:57 pm pst. / “It looks like we’ve finally found your home in the city” Grant proclaims, following Taylor past the point in which their inherited mansion’s lawn ends and their private beach begins. “If you would’ve married me, we wouldn’t have ever needed this place” the female anchor replies, earning a roll of the eyes from the man who has taken on the responsibility of getting their relationship to that point. “If you would’ve accepted every time that I’ve asked you, we’d be engaged by now” Grant counters, not needing to wait for his lover to turn around and face him with a smile and a playful shake of the head. “I’m going to say ‘yes’ eventually” Taylor responds, watching her boyfriend playfully roll his eyes and throw his hands out at either side. “Will you marry me? Will you marry me? Will you marry me? Will you marry me?” Grant questions in succession, watching as his lover’s hand lifts to count each reply with her fingers. “No, no, yes, no” she replies, taking humour in the lack of belief that the man across from her takes in the response. “Was that third one legitimate?” he questions without an ounce of enthusiasm, seeing through the mirage without difficulty. “Of course not” Taylor answers with a joy-filling smile and a shake of the head, “but you’re getting there!” “It’s progress and that counts for something” Grant concludes, accepting the continued refusal with the ability to take a brighter light at the end of the tunnel over it. Giggling, Taylor turns her back to the man and continues approaching the sea, refusing to stop until she’s approached the edge of the frozen-over, icy waters. Catching up to his significant other, the less-tenured nine o’clock anchor wraps his arms around the woman and presses his nose to the side of her head, freeing his lips to passionately kiss at her neck repeatedly. Through laughter, Taylor endures the embrace of the man she’s come to love before spinning in his arms and returning the gesture, her lips pressing against the man’s own. “My lips aren’t as ticklish as my neck is, huh?” the blonde queries, watching the man’s face shake with the rest of his head as he rests his warm palm against the side of her face. “It doesn’t matter to me” he whispers with a smile, pulling her in for an even deeper kiss than the ones they’d shared before a ball of light fires down upon them from the side of the home, bringing their passionate coupling to a quick halt. Shielding their face from the light, the couple stare back toward the source of the illumination with their hands covering their face, looking toward the home before Taylor’s mouth opens. “Oh, it’s the fuckin’ motion sensors!” she proclaims, taking relief from the concern that they’d left rooms within the home unaccounted for the likes of squatters or thieves. “As much sense as that makes, we should probably get better ones. We made it all the way out to the water- err, ice- before they caught us” the man proceeds, taking the woman by the hand in an attempt to lead her back to the home, only for her playful reluctance to pull him back in. “Come back here” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around the man’s neck and pressing her lips to his own once more. Refusing to put up a fight against the display of affection, Grant gives into the woman’s desires before their faces naturally pull apart, their kissing put on pause as their eyes lock with each other’s. “We’re almost done with the year” Taylor whispers, running her hands over each side of the man’s face, “the next time we step foot in the office will be to sing Auld Lang Syne with everyone.” “Are you kidding me? The next time we step foot in the office will be to celebrate welcoming in another election year!” Grant enthusiastically remarks, earning a playful swat on the chest as the woman’s lips press against his own once more. “I’m ready to say goodbye to 2007 as long as it’s with you” Taylor replies, pulling away from the man’s face for just a moment before returning to their kiss, celebrating the final days of a year set to enter history for good. == Tonight at 9 == \ Monday, September 17th, 2007 /
\ 9:42 pm est. - 6:42 pm pst. / “Their pleas were felt even more in Taiwan than they were here, where hundreds of thousands made their call for the United Nations to formally accept Taiwan” Grant reads, looking directly into the camera as he does so. With his eyes glued to the screen his primetime anchors occupy, the president of the company takes a swig of dark liquor from a whiskey glass with a slight lean against his chair, taking in the information offered by his subordinates as a knock emerges from the front of his office. “Don’t you just love when a machine is properly oiled and running smoothly?” Vickers queries aloud the moment he hears knuckles tap against hardwood, watching his lowered-guard secretary stand in the doorway with a pause. “These two bounce off of each other better than any anchors I’ve ever lived to see in my lifetime” the man continues, making small talk with the woman that, whilst she doesn’t mind it, had not intended for her greeting to be used as an invitation to it. “I’m sorry, dear. I’m just so fond of this business, and when everything’s clicking... I just can’t help but smile” the cheerful older man proclaims, properly adjusting his posture and spinning his chair toward the woman at the door. “What is it?” Vickers questions aloud, setting his glass on the top of his desk before folding his hands in his lap, allowing the woman to carry on with her purpose for knocking. Within a few minutes of his secretary’s entry, Vickers’ feet are stepping along the long floors of the company’s building, travelling from the depths of its internal sanctum to a higher level. “...her plan for a universal healthcare system as the race begins to enter its most decisive starting point” Taylor speaks, only most of her talking points being heard by the company’s president as he steps through the doors of the newsroom, emerging into the bureau with a straight face. Allowing his co-anchor to continue onward, Grant takes a similarly-brief notice of their superior’s entry with a glance past the hard camera, paying it no mind as of the moment with commercial fast approaching. Finishing the point laid out for her on the screen a few paces ahead, Taylor presses her lips together as her boyfriend takes over, aiding the broadcast in entering the next break whilst she awaits the advancement of the man across the room. Their desks doubling as a crowd of tables during showtime, the producers responsible for putting the show together collectively watch on at the stage until a few seconds prior to the next advertisement break. Collectively, their chairs begin to spin around to the entrance of the room, where they, too, take notice of the rare sighting of their company’s president. Calm and collected, Vickers stands at the opposite end of the producer’s fleet of desks with his hands in the pockets of his slacks until the broadcast’s outro tune begins playing, signalling a multiple-minute break whilst their shareholders’ will for profit is fulfilled. Traipsing through the crowd of his employed workers, the older man approaches the transparent stage in which his primetime desk has been placed upon, not uttering a word before coming within a few feet of the couple seated behind it. “What’s going on?” Taylor inquires, watching the president step forward and remove his palms from the storage slots of his attire, pressing them against the news desk instead before answering in a subdued tone. “Robin gave me the call a few minutes ago, and I’m dropping by to let you know too” Vickers responds, only being overheard by the man that assumes the broadcast’s direction from within the control room, “Ross kicked the bucket about a half hour ago.” = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Tuesday, September 18th, 2007 / \ 11:21 am est. - 8:21 am pst. / “Where does that leave his shares?” Bruce queries, standing near the absolute centre of the company president’s office between both Vickers and Taylor, who occupy the visitor chairs whilst Robin occupies the swivelling one the office’s occupant is meant to be seated upon. “I’d imagine he’d have passed them down through his will” Grant replies, leaning against the wall lined with windows and his arms crossed, “I’d imagine the beneficiary would’ve still been Kaye.” “Yeah, but she’s dead. The question is who it’d be passed down to next” Vickers replies, kept from speaking with suggestion any further before his superior’s interruption cuts him off. “With how much he’s worth, the state isn’t going to wait long to find out how much of their share they can snatch from his cold, dead, skank-enthusiast hands” Robin replies, reaching out to the foam cup of coffee she’d placed atop her subordinate’s desk. “Would anyone here be able to figure out if a will-reading’s been called for?” Bruce questions aloud, providing an inquiry that prevents the company’s chairwoman from indulging in her coffee for the moment being. “We had an agreement that he’d leave me the other half of an apartment complex we’d both purchased in Vancouver twenty years ago” Robin responds, pressing her back into the chair’s cushion, “I don’t take him to be a man of his word, but I should be getting a call.” “And we’re just supposed to wait until that will reading is called for to figure out how fucked we are?” Grant questions, watching the faces that reside in the room ahead of him collectively nod with the rest of their heads. “We’ve been in limbo over these shares for months now, another couple of weeks shouldn’t be that much different to our current status quo” Vickers proclaims, pressing his palms against his knees as he lifts himself from his seat, “until Robin gets that call, it’s business as usual.” “No one should be acting any differently anyway” Robin explains, joining the company’s president in climbing out of her chair, setting an example that Taylor feels inclined to follow, “we’re already up shit creek without a paddle. Let’s not get ourselves any deeper than we should be.” “Understood” Grant responds, gently pushing his frame off the concrete wall separating one window from the other before joining the four patrons of the office in making for the room’s exit. | \ Friday, September 21st, 2007 / \ 6:14 am est. - 3:14 am pst. / “Good morning!” Carly cheerfully remarks, stepping into the office of her executive producer with a box of muffins in one hand and a set of coffees in the other, “two creams, two sugars in your coffee and a pair of blueberry muffins.” Setting the taste bud delights upon the man’s work-covered desk, the eight o’clock anchor looks on with widened eyes and utter surprise at the casual manner in which the star of his broadcast places the treats at his disposal. “What the hell are you doing here so early?” Aiden asks in genuine, yet semi-animated awe, slowly reaching out toward the coffee that his anchor extends toward him. “Well, I’ve had to keep playing nice with Brant in order to get Vince an ‘in’ with him and I’m hoping to introduce them to each other this morning” Carly replies, continuing to speak as she turns toward the clutter-filled visitor’s chair at the front of her producer’s workspace. “Vince gets in really early now that he’s living in Taylor’s old apartment and Brant’s a finance guy, so I’m sure it doesn’t take much to crunch the numbers and figure out that they’re morning people” she continues, opting to remain standing in lieu of an actual seat. “So you woke up specifically so you can introduce the two early birds to the worm you’ve been working toward?” Aiden questions, watching the anchor’s head nod to insist that he’s on the right track. “Not that I mind or anything, but why the hell do you have so much stuff in your office?” Carly questions aloud, quickly shifting the discussion toward matters she’s more interested in. “Don’t get me wrong, I know you take everything here seriously, but... come on, man” the anchor carries onward, gesturing toward the two stacks of binders on each visitor chair, “you work a one-hour show with a host whose only ever really been used as eye candy until you came on board here- how much research do you need?” “That depends. Some of the binders are news stories, others have paper records of my sources and their previous insights, some are documented reports on the demographics since I took over...” Aiden explains, motioning his hand toward the areas in which each resides as he runs down them, “...it looks like a lot because it’s pretty much every insight that I use to keep this show running on the right track.” “I don’t understand how you can live like this” Carly responds, still standing to the side of the man’s desk with her coffee in hand and eyes held toward the amalgamation of documents, “I know you and Shane aren’t exactly tidy, but this is like a natural disaster put a hit out on you.” “My job isn’t easy. There’s a lot to keep track of, and that applies double when I put my career on the line to take a risk like the one I made coming down here” Aiden replies, appreciatively sipping his coffee before leaning in his seat, both arms pressing into the sides of his chair. “Besides, where else would I keep stuff like this?” he carries on, regaining the anchor’s line of sight, “imagine if we were still dating. Would you really want me to bring all of this back to your flat?” “Of course not! It just seems...” Carly answers, assessing the assorted mess of information once more whilst pausing, unable to put the proper word to the illustration that she bears witness to in the moment. “Excessive” Aiden concludes after a short time, nodding his head in agreement despite being the source of the mess in the first place, “I know it is, but again... that’s my job. All of it’s important and it all serves a purpose. As much of a mess as it causes... it’s necessary.” Willing to take the man’s claims as gospel, Carly shrugs before allowing her feet to carry her toward the door. “Well, I’m gonna head off. Vince should be getting upstairs in a couple of minutes and I don’t want him getting settled in just to be ripped by the throat toward a breakfast date with some financier douchebag” she concludes, turning her full front toward the room’s exit before hearing her executive producer’s voice call out for her. “Douchebag, huh?” Aiden jokingly wonders aloud, wearing the faintest smirk that takes no effort at all for his premier anchor to take notice of. “Yes, Aiden... he’s a bit of a douchebag” Carly playfully retorts, her own, composed grin returned to the man that begs the question, “just because a guy is pretty doesn’t mean that he’s worth anything more than drooling over.” “That’s good to know” the executive producer responds, kicking one leg over the other as his anchor’s breathy laugh is returned to him, her back turning the rest of the way as she sets sail for the bureau. Somewhat amused by the way in which their interaction had concluded, Aiden leans as far back in his chair as it’ll allow him whilst taking a sizable swig from the cup, giving off the most satisfied sigh that a coffee has ever brought him. \ Wednesday, October 17th, 2007 / \ 9:18 am est. - 6:18 am pst. / “I know you don’t drop in to check on me every day, but sometimes it sure as hell does feel like it” Vickers remarks, entering his office with a coffee in hand to find his superior awaiting his arrival. “I figured I wouldn’t go out of my way to convince you that I was already here since your secretary would’ve let you know ahead of time” Robin responds, confessing that her greater intentions were likely impossible to achieve. “You pay her well... she appreciates me for that” Vickers replies, letting his coat fall off his shoulders before being guided by his hand toward the coat rack. “I got the call this morning. The reading is taking place next week” Robin cuts to the chase, stepping out of the president’s chair with little intention of sticking around any longer than she needs to, “from what I’ve been told, only four people are to be present.” “Am I one of them?” Vickers questions back, not needing to wait long for his superior to answer his question with ‘no’ and replying to her, “then why would I care about who’s supposed to be there?” “Because- aside from me- two of them are your highest-rated anchors” Robin answers, watching her subordinate pass her by before quickly looking back, his eyes squinting as the attempt at returning to his desk takes a pause. “Why would Grant and Taylor be in his will?” Vickers questions aloud, hiding a slight optimism that the company chairwoman wastes little time in voicing aloud. “I’m not sure, but unless he decided within the last year and a half that he was going to try and make up for the scars he helped leave the girl with... I’d hope that would mean he’d redone his will very recently” Robin explains, stepping closer toward her employee-acquaintance and lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Now, I don’t know if what she said to that affair-having jackass made any progress...” she furthers, “...but if he had his will redone recently, it just might have paid off.” “If he had his will redone recently and has the three of you invited, what are we worrying about?” Vickers queries, gently letting his coffee rest at the edge of his desk. “What we’re worrying about is the fact that the fourth person is Burt Russo” Robin answers, immediately earning the roll of the president’s eyes as he carries on with his approach toward his desk. “We both know the kind of man that Ross is. We certainly know what kind of grudge he still had against me for ousting him from the company” the owner of the highest-percentage of shares in the company explains, “how much are you willing to bet he’d leave the shares to Russo for absolutely nothing simply because I was in the room to watch it happen?” “I don’t know at this point, Robin. I wouldn’t discount the idea of him leaving the shares to Grant and Taylor at this point just to take a snipe at both you and Russo” Vickers concludes, dropping himself into his chair whilst looking toward the woman standing over him, “honestly, I’m kind of tired of speculating. With all this worrying about who gets Ross’ shares in the company, I miss just coming into work because I love being a part of making the news... Not being the news.” “How do you think I feel?” Robin queries, rounding the desk before begrudgingly taking a seat on the visitor’s side, “I’ve had my authority questioned and put in doubt more in the last eight months than I have in the last eight years.” “We’re all tired of this, Robin. The only light at the end of the tunnel as it stands now is that meeting next Thursday” Vickers responds, wearing a frown as he slides his hand into one of his desk’s drawers. “You know when the meeting is, you know what’s going to happen, and you can’t change any damn thing about it until then” the president continues, retrieving a bottle of scotch and placing it atop the desk, “why bother with letting pointless worrying get to you?” “I don’t even know if ‘high-functioning alcoholic’ is a good enough title for you anymore. I think you might have outgrown it” Robin quips with humour, listening to the metal cap be directed by her subordinate’s hand around the rim it soon falls off of. “I prefer ‘strong-livered gentleman’ these days. It seems more fitting” Vickers replies, pouring a small amount of liquor into a paper cup that he sits before his superior’s person. “You’re lucky I have mints in my purse” Robin responds, quickly leaving her chair, taking the paper cup into her hand and downing the drink without hesitation. “Keep your ship in working order, you elderly drunkard!” she proclaims whilst walking for the door, earning a snipe from the man she leaves behind. “Don’t use that ‘e-word’ around me! You wouldn’t call a donkey a horse if you saw its teeth first!” Vickers chirps, watching the woman wander off before returning the bottle to its cabinet. | \ Thursday, October 25th, 2007 / \ 11:36 am est. - 8:36 am pst. / “I don’t understand, are you his agent or his lawyer?” a white man with a trimmed circle beard questions, standing in the doorway to a room cut off from a larger waiting area. “Both. I’m certified in law and in the representation of my clients” Bruce answers, immediately reading the same hesitation on the man’s face that the rest of the room notices. “Listen, if you can let him in- great. If you can’t, Bruce can stay outside until we’re done and I’ll fill him in afterward” Grant explains. “That is acceptable. I’m only authorised to let the four of you inside while proceedings are underway” the executor remarks, “once I’ve completed the reading of the will and all opportunities to ask questions have elapsed, we will open the room to anyone who wishes to join.” “Is that alright, Bruce?” Grant questions, watching the man begrudgingly lift his hands into the air as a show of surrender, stepping back from the man that gently rests his non-dominant hand on Taylor’s lower back. “I’m a busy man and I have a lot on my plate. Can we just get this show on the road?” Burt questions, immediately hearing the snicker of the LMC chairwoman beside him. “You’re just a walking fat joke, aren’t you?” Robin chirps, joining in the ire that the youngest of the present women continues to draw. “Can we just get this bullshit over with please?” Taylor wonders aloud, stepping forward with the hopes that her progression toward the room will convince the executor to similarly follow suit. “Are there any questions before we begin?” the executor questions aloud three minutes after seating each beneficiary at the table, the Finley Network operator seated alone on one side whilst his LMC-based adversaries occupy the one opposite. “Yeah, when do we receive the things that we’re being given in this thing?” Taylor questions aloud, asking the one question that none of the present parties had raised just yet. “Bank accounts, retirement accounts and other non-physical aspects will be distributed immediately” the executor responds, seated at the end of the table closest to the two parties, “any physical items you may receive will take a few months to be settled by the probate and distributed to their rightful beneficiaries.” “So, company shares would be passed down immediately?” Burt questions aloud, sitting closer to one side of his chair than the other, his dominant arm resting against the seat’s side, “even if the shares are worth hundreds of millions of dollars cumulatively?” “If the company shares are as high of a value as you present, there will likely be a few hoops to jump through with the I.R.S...” the executor replies before nodding his head and looking toward the opposite side of the table, “...but, yes. Aside from those caveats and actually having to sign off on the paperwork associated with the changing of ownership, company shares would be placed into the possession of their beneficiary immediately.” As if readying for their feet to be put to the fire, the LMC trio begin holding their breath as the time for questions concludes, allowing the executor to open his leather bound binder to the will they’ve waited all too long to hear the results of. “Mr. Walker’s will is not a bullet point list and will be read in the manner it was copied” the will-reader explains, “for the purposes of clarity, it will be read like any letter would. Each paragraph, read by each word, until completion.” Slightly impatient, Burt glances toward the opposite side of the table whilst pressing a hand against the side of his face. The subjects of his glance all eager to hear what’s been written, their collective patience proves to be one of necessity in the name of keeping a straight face, hiding their worry that nothing good will come out of the next few minutes as best as they can muster themselves to. “My final hours on this earth will be spent thinking back to each of the ones I had lived prior to them. As I reach the end of them, I will hope to have lived a full life” Ross’ opening line reads, doing little to sit within the conscience of anyone other than the two younger anchors. “I have done good and I have done bad, but what I have not done is make amends for much of the former. I intend to change that, even if I don’t have much time left to do so” the following statement reads. With slightly wider eyes, Taylor stares at the executor, whose face takes on the expression of focus that comes with someone reading off something as important as the document in his possession. Stricken with hope by the final line, Robin passes a glance toward the confused man on the opposite side of the table that fails to see the purpose in such a remark from the man he’d attempted to do business with. “It is for this reason that I request any American currency that remains in the wake of my estate be donated to children’s hospitals, local foundations, and cancer research” Ross’ first declaration states, being scoffed at silently by the Finley Network chairman. “I next wish to leave all of my international property to the ownership of my first wife, Robin Lloyd, in full” the will follows, affirming the only true expectation that the woman in question entered the proceedings with. “My domestic properties- aside from one- are to be left in the possession of Robin Lloyd as well” the next line reads, earning a slight squint from the LMC chairwoman, “I wish for my Port Washington estate to be left in the possession of Taylor English and Grant Haste.” Uncertain for the reason behind their benefitting of the property, both anchors glare with confusion at the document whilst keeping their mind on the bigger prize still at stake. “In addition to this waterfront property, I wish to leave Taylor English and Grant Haste each of the assets that are registered under the Port Washington property” the executor carries on, “this includes a collection of seven foreign luxury vehicles, individual properties that reside within the home, and my vessel stored at the Port Washington Yacht Club.” Taken aback by the generous wealth they’ve been left with, the couple stare on with bewilderment for a moment whilst retaining their reservations, aware of the possession still up for grabs that provokes the impatience within their network adversary to further build. “With that, what I am certain of is that my remaining assets- namely the twenty percent of shares that I own in LMC Media- are the greater focus of those that are present for this reading” Ross’ departing letter continues, “in that, I will waste no further time in naming the beneficiaries to these.” As if told to brace for an impact that was only seconds away, the collective attention of those at the table stands immediately, their bodies tensing and teeth pressing together. Settling his impatience, Burt takes a slight lean forward whilst Robin clenches her fists, the anchors that man her premier broadcast strengthening their grasp on each other’s hands whilst their free fingers wrap tightly around the sides of the seats that they reside within. “Of my twenty percent of shares in LMC Media, I leave them to Robin Lloyd for absolutely no cost” the letter proceeds, immediately fueling an anger within Russo that stands in drastic juxtaposition to the glee that brings an audible cheer over the three beneficiaries opposite him. Collectively leaping out of their seats with a roar of joy, Grant and Taylor release each other’s hands from their grasp and instead take each other into their arms whilst Robin’s head tilts back with immediate satisfaction. “Fuck yes!” Bruce exclaims from beyond the doors that each of the beneficiaries had wandered through to begin proceedings, hearing the collective applause and knowing immediately who had reacted with it. “This is fucking bullshit!” Burt blurts aloud, reacting exactly the way in which the executor had come to expect of him, “had his miserable, bitch wife been a better driver, none of this would be happening!” “Tough shit, Russo!” Robin proclaims with a smile, standing out from her seat and bringing a natural pause to the embrace that her primetime anchors share beside her, “you can talk all the game you want, but it’s like I’ve said countless times at this rate... LMC is my domain.” Flaring his nostrils, Russo looks to the opposite side of the executor before hearing the neutral man’s continuation and turning his head. “After this, I imagine the room is currently uncivilised and I authorise my executor to finish off my will- which I don’t wish to waste any further time with” the man explains, finishing off the final declaration that Ross had to offer, “Burt Russo, you are the scum of the earth. I have more hatred for you than almost anyone else in life. To you, I leave a ten dollar gift card to Dunkin’ Donuts.” Turning away with a look of obvious rage, the overweight network operator is refused the ability to leave the room as his rival’s voice draws his ear all too firmly. “Russo, the only thing that matters is that his wife’s dead, he’s dead, and you’re fucked” Robin quips, prompting the man to turn his back with a finger raised in the much smaller woman’s direction. “If you think this is something to cheer about, you are sorely mistaken” Russo declares, watching as Taylor follows Grant toward the chairwoman’s direction, his posture suggesting that he’s ready for a fight in the event that one breaks out. “Do you think I’m oblivious to how Finley’s perceived by the public? Our shows aren’t meant to get people to trust us, it’s to get people to watch... That’s it” the heavy set man doubles down, “if you think I’m opposed to ruining our reputation for the sake of ruining you... think again.” Making threats that the LMC chairwoman refuses to take as being anything other than idle, the borderline-obese executive turns toward the room’s exit before thinking twice, adding emphasis to his claims. “None of our networks like each other, but no one is at war here. ACN and CSN fill a void, but no one’s going at each other’s throats... Not until now” Russo declares, again pointing his finger in the trio’s direction, “you’ve picked a fight with a network who doesn’t pretend to be morally higher than the competition... And it won’t end well.” “Finley stands as much of a chance of putting LMC out of business as the economy has of bouncing back anytime soon” Robin rebukes, drawing the furthered ire of the man that she fails to find any reason to fear, “there’s nothing you, or your slutty anchors, or your handsy correspondents, or your mindless audience can do to stifle us.” “Maybe not, but it will make you wish the only thing you had to deal with was having me in your boardroom” Russo counters, offering his final declaration whilst moving his finger toward the subjects they’re intended to snipe at. “I’m going to make each and every board meeting a living nightmare for you...” the man declares with his finger aimed at Robin, only to pause and redirect his extended digit toward the anchors both beside and behind her, “...and I’m going to make your lives a living hell.” Speaking his peace, Russo steps back and angrily ventures through the now-open doors, retreating toward the direction in which he’d entered the building whilst the trio he leaves behind watch on. Unphased and willing to remain that way until confronted with a reason to change that, the anchors and their superior stare on without uttering a word, having gotten out of the appointment what they’d wished for and ready to leave with the aftermath of their benefits in full swing. == Tonight at 9 == Season 4 Premiere
\ Saturday, September 1st, 2007 / \ 7:08 am est. - 4:08 am pst. / Dressed in black with her legs crossed at the ankles, Taylor stares through the window of her town car's backseat, allowing it to take her past the lesser-travelled parts of New York state. Resting on either thigh, the back of her hands leave her open palms exposed through uncurled fingers as she watches humble hills and rolling fields pass by beneath a sun that- just one hour ago- hadn’t even fully risen. With her straight locks of blonde hair falling over her shoulders, the longtime host of the nine o’clock news gently rests the back of her head against the leather upholstery of her seat. For a few seconds, the ride remains quiet aside from the dull sound of the car’s wheels rolling against the ground, offering not a remark, nor an obstruction of any sort to guide her attention away from the glass that she looks through. Instead, she’s left on her own to stare out into New York’s sleepy side. Before long, a hand guides itself through the air and into the embrace of the woman’s own, prompting the sight-seeing anchor to snap away from her appreciation of the scene and direct her attention toward the man sat beside her. With an apologetic expression similar to the one he’d carried in the days prior, Grant locks eyes with his girlfriend without uttering a word at first, instead choosing to allow his delicate gaze to perform the speaking on his behalf. With more lively eyes than she’d carried toward the passing views, Taylor looks toward her boyfriend as she locks the fingers of her non-dominant hand with those of his preferred one. Feeling the acceptance of his hand within his girlfriend’s own, Grant’s face lights with a smile that soon proves to be contagious, carrying over to his significant other’s face before the man’s own falls with the rest of his head. Seeing this change, Taylor chooses to let it go unmentioned for the time being, not wanting to address it before her boyfriend can have the chance to do so of his own volition. Pondering the thought that litters his head, the newer of the two anchors to nine o’clock contemplates asking what sits on his mind, clearly troubled by the idea of uttering it off the place it resides near the front of his tongue. “I’m not entirely sure how to ask this. So, before I do, just know that I’m not insinuating anything. Alright?” Grant queries, looking toward his girlfriend, who nods with ease and much more puzzlement carried in her face than concern. Fearing that he’ll come off as insensitive, the man parts his lips and keeps them removed from each other without saying anything for a few seconds, still fighting with himself internally to voice what he carries within. “Are you actually grieving? Or, are you still trying to figure out how to process all of this?” he finally wonders aloud, watching his girlfriend take the faintest breaking of their eye contact before offering context. “I don’t mean to sound like an ass, it’s just that I know you and her hadn’t been that close within the last couple of years. There’d been a little bit of distance between you two” Grant explains, “I don’t know if this has affected you because it’s her or because of how sudden it was.” “You don’t sound like an ass. At least, not to me” Taylor quickly replies, shaking her head with a faint smile in the corner of her mouth, looking back at him for a moment before redirecting her sights toward the back of the driver’s seat. Parting her lips now without speaking for a couple of seconds, the woman’s mind rummages through her head in search of a worthwhile answer, unsure if there is one that best describes the odd state that she feels herself being embraced by. “I think it’s a little bit of both” she finally confesses, using the free hand not held within her boyfriend’s grasp to swipe a lock of hair behind her ear, “the way I figured out what happened definitely wasn’t how most people would’ve gotten the news. So, racing all across town to confirm that my friend from college really was dead had a couple of weird connotations.” Resting the side of his head against the leather upholstery, Grant looks into his girlfriend’s eyes as they remain distant, moving from one element of the car to another whilst she voices her thoughts aloud. “She was my roommate. We knew each other’s sleep schedules, we had our own little rituals and inside jokes. We were friends, and we grew apart because that’s what happens” Taylor proceeds, “and now she’s no longer here. It stings, but not as much as it would’ve if we kept in contact.” Though able to end her explanation there, the anchor chooses not to do so, searching through her thoughts for something further to offer. “If I’m being honest, I feel more selfish than I do anything else” Taylor opens up, deepening the corner of her mouth as her smile shifts into a frown. “Everything happened suddenly, and I think that changed the way I looked at all of this happening” she continues, “as close as we were, I can’t say in good faith that I’m going to miss her.” “I wouldn’t call that selfish” Grant reassures with a near-whisper, only for his rebuttal to be reacted to with an assertive shake of the head. “That’s not what I feel selfish about. It’s definitely not something I would say around people I didn’t know, but it’s not the selfish part” Taylor corrects, taking her eyes back to those of her lover’s own, “there’s not really much to miss. All of our history is in the past anyway. Once this deal closed, I doubt I would’ve ever seen her again to begin with.” Curious to the earlier remark his significant other had made, Grant opts to keep his lips pressed together, allowing the woman seated beside him to continue on her own accord. “What’s selfish is why I’m going to this funeral. It’s why any of us are even going to this funeral” Taylor explains, watching as the slight furrowing of confusion takes shape in her boyfriend’s eyebrows, “well, your reason isn’t selfish. But the others?” Briefly glancing away, Grant lets his girlfriend continue to speak with more clarity on where she’s going with the remark. “Sam and Robin are going to look better in Ross’ eyes, and Russo would’ve done the same thing if he weren’t banned from it” Taylor explains, deepening her frown out of self-disappointment as she speaks to her own selfishness, “and I’m going because it might be the last chance I truly get to convince Ross to- at the very least- not sell to Russo.” “I still wouldn’t call that selfishness” Grant quickly retorts, only for his girlfriend’s question of “well, what would you call something as heartless and inconsiderate as that?” to meet him just as quickly. Reacting to the inquiry by gently strengthening the warm squeeze he holds his lover’s hand with as his smile deepens, the less-tenured of the two anchors takes his free hand to the side of her face, grazing her chin with the tips of his fingers. “At its worst, I’d call it self-preservation” Grant explains softly, his reassuring words calming the sickening pit in Taylor’s stomach that had formed out of disgust with her own intentions. “Listen, let’s just pretend that Burt Russo isn’t an awful person. Let’s pretend like he’s never had an allegation against him, he’s never conducted himself improperly, and he’s always been an upstanding citizen, alright? Let’s choose to live in that fantasy world for a second...” he proceeds. “...Even with an entirely-clean slate, he’s still the owner of a company with morals more bankrupt than ours that houses a culture no parent would want their children to enter when they grow up” he finishes, gently laying his palm onto his better half’s cheek. “You’re not using Kaye’s death as a way to get what you want” Grant carries on, pausing for a second whilst putting on a simple gesture of comedy, “well, technically you are...” Voicing the correction in a way that leaves his girlfriend both laughing and wincing, Grant bypasses the humoured remark in favour of finishing his original point. “But you’re also looking out for every child that could ever work at LMC, and all of the men and women that already do by trying to protect them from having to work in a place like the one Russo runs” he concludes, watching the weight of his comments settle into his lover’s conscience, warming her heart in a way that shows through her expression. Leaning into her boyfriend to press her lips upon his, Taylor joins the man in an embrace that reassures her of the intent she sets upon carrying out, supported by the man’s insistence that he’s entirely behind her in the call that’s been made. Freed of the weight of the eight-year veteran of the nine o’clock news’ mind, the town car carries down the winds and turns that come with the backroads of rural New York in favour of the occupants’ final hopes at assuring change. = Tonight at 9 is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onward = \ Saturday, September 1st, 2007 / \ 11:12 am est. - 8:12 am pst. / “Do you come to these kinds of events exclusively for the alcohol?” Robin questions, joining her colleague at a white cloth-covered table with a plethora of self-service options lined atop. “What’s the purpose of going to a funeral if I’m not allowed to drink?” Vickers queries, pouring himself a charitable glass of an unlabeled bottle of brown liquor before garnishing it with a lemon for the simple reason that the fruit slice was there. “I would make a snide comment, but I’m quite certain that you asked that question with all sincerity” Robin rejoinders, earning a brief chuckle from the man as he lifts the rim to his lips. “Of course I do!” the spry-chicken of an elderly man assures, “when my mother and father died- both times- I wasn’t even sober when I walked up to the grave!” “Yeah, that’s different. Your ability to put away alcohol is borderline superhuman and I’d assume it’s been that way since college. You were mourning and drunks only really do that in one way” Robin concludes. “Grade school, but to your point... yes” Vickers corrects, earning a slight widening of his employer’s eyes as he confirms her assumptions, “to my credit, however, I didn’t mourn my father like I did my mother. My father is the man that taught me to drink, I felt I owed it to him to be drunk.” “Yeah, all alcoholics have an excuse, don’t they?” Robin questions back, turning her back to the table just as her subordinate does whilst inspecting the field of people that walk around chatting with each other. “Well yes, but most of them just rightfully blame their marriages” Vickers chirps back, making room in the conversation for the man that approaches. “Where’s the girl?” Robin questions aloud, drawing focus to the lack of Taylor’s presence beside her approaching boyfriend. “You know where she is. None of us are here exclusively to mourn” Grant replies, his comments both pleasing Robin and earning a nod out of Vickers, whose eyes remain glued to the others invited to the event and scattered throughout. “How’s she going to play this? She realises this might be our last chance at making any sort of headway, right?” Robin wonders aloud, a truth that isn’t lost on any of the funeral’s guests. “I don’t know how she’ll approach it, but she’s certainly aware of how little room for failure any of us have now” Grant explains, helping himself to an unmarked bottle of clear liquor that he pours into a tall glass already set out with a couple of ice cubes, “she’s not setting out on this with the intention of failing.” “She won’t fail. She may not be able to close the deal, but she’s not going to put us in any more jeopardy than we’re already in” Vickers responds, lifting the glass to wet his lips with another sip. | \ Saturday, September 1st, 2007 / \ 11:19 am est. - 8:19 am pst. / Dressed in a modest black skirt and blouse, Taylor traipses into the nearby chapel where she knows the subject of her interest to be, finding him seated in the pew near the front of the church. Passing the faintest of glances over his shoulder at the sound of heels tapping against the marble floor, Ross returns to his sulking that he’d intended to keep private, though is left without a choice in the matter as he’s advanced upon. “People are outside wondering where you are. You’ve got some of them concerned that you’re alone with how ill you are” Taylor explains, receiving too little of a reaction from the man for her to notice. “You found me easily enough. If they can’t, that’s not my problem” Ross responds in a glum tone, clearly continuing to grieve for a loss much closer to him than it is to the deceased’s one-time roommate. Without uttering a word, the blonde lock-wearing lady takes a seat to the man’s left side, resting her back against the wooden support with dignity and class, staring forward with her hands folded atop each other on her lap. In silence, the cancer-ridden billionaire stares forward at the stage his newly-deceased wife’s casket once resided upon, offering not one word for at least a full minute. Ready to entertain the silence for as long as the man beside her is, Taylor continues to stare forward without speaking, letting the hush in the air continue to fall upon them like the cool breezes near the end of summer that signal the change of the seasons. Breathing slightly, and heavier than the primetime anchor, Ross listens to each breath leave through his nose before enough time spent hearing them has passed that he wishes to break the silence. “Who told you about her?” Ross questions aloud, prompting his guest’s head to drop toward her coupled hands as he raises his inquiry, “I’ve been trying to figure that out in between my grief, but I just can’t piece together how you would’ve known what happened and where to look for her.” Gently rubbing the back of her left hand’s pinky finger with the tip of her thumb, Taylor stares at the floor for a few seconds before lifting her eyes toward the front of the church. “A local newscast was covering her crash. I didn’t notice that it was hers until a few minutes before the end of our show that night” Taylor confesses, turning to look at the side of the wealthy man’s face as she follows through, “I met with her to catch up the night Burt hosted Robin, Sam, and Grant on his yacht.” “How did you know it was hers?” Ross questions aloud, still staring forward with little interest as of yet in turning to face her, “it could’ve been just any other random car crash.” “I saw the scratched-out sticker of the kid on her rear window. I’d noticed it when I was leaving the diner that night” Taylor answers without hesitation, waiting through another brief pause before following her point with a question of her own, “was it a miscarriage?” Hanging his head once more, Ross spends a few seconds sulky before replying with the calmest shake of his head in refusal. Letting out a deep exhale through his nose, the fatigued man continues to fight his exhaustion in the name of continuing to be of present-mind for his departed wife’s services. “They call it ‘sudden infant death syndrome’ from what I’ve been told” the man explains, greatly shifting the assumption that the news anchor had come to. Feeling the burden of guilt and sympathy, Taylor passes a half-hearted, “I’m sorry” to the man beside her as she faces the front of the church once more. “We both were” Ross replies without much of a pause, resting his right arm against the pew’s side whilst his left sits across his lap, a slight forward-lean carried in his posture as his processing of the loss continues to unfold in real time. “I understand how people perceive our age gap. But we both greatly cared for each other. Neither of us was using the other- we just didn’t have the traditional relationship. I can accept that” Ross carries on, shaking his head before fighting off the urge to enter a coughing fit. “He passed about three months after he was born. We were both devastated” he concludes, looking further toward the ground than he had up to that moment, “she loved that boy.” Not truly knowing how to respond to the conversation being had, Taylor sits in silence and waits for the man to continue speaking, hoping that he’d switch the topic toward something easier for her to interact with. “Now I’m left with nothing. I never wanted children with Robin- at least, not until she couldn’t have them anymore” Ross explains, visibly distraught at the isolation he’s now left to endure, “now I’ve lost everyone. No son to inherit my business and no wife to leave with a comfortable life.” Wearing a strong frown, Taylor doesn’t hold the kind of reaction that she would’ve expected herself to take on at such a remark, her empathies having fallen aside in favour of bitterness. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” she questions calmly, still looking at the ground as Ross slowly guides his attention toward her, not offering a reply to the question he knows has yet to be fully spoken aloud. “I don’t really know what you want me to say. I don’t know what you want me to feel about what you’re telling me” Taylor doubles down, matching the reaction of Ross by turning her own focus toward him just as he does her. “After Barry, the person I most-associate with the worst moment in my life is you” the woman explains, still refusing to let her voice lift past anything considered reasonable for the environment they hold this interaction within. “You can say you were just doing what you had to in order to keep the company from losing a shit load of money, but I’ll always just boil it down to you being the man who tried to defend my rapist” Taylor doubles down, a conclusion that prompts Ross to nod his head with equal acceptance. “I’m sorry that Kaye died. I remember our time in college fondly and I’m sorry she had to go through that with you” the anchor concludes, “but the sympathy I have for her cannot be replicated for you.” “I don’t expect it to be. In fact, it shouldn’t be” Ross corrects, assuring the woman that her comments are neither out of line or unwarranted. “I do want you to know, however, why it was something I stooped low enough to do” the man explains, watching the woman’s hesitant eyes take shape, almost as if she were ready to disbelieve anything he could say. “When you’re in the position that I was in with LMC at that time- for as long as I was in it- there is a depressing lack of morality that comes with it” he confesses, shaking his head with the memories that he still carries after all of this time away. “Every person is a number. It’s a salary you want to cut down on, it’s a job that you can’t argue is necessary, it’s a figure that may damage your bottom line. Every person is anything but a person” Ross continues. Her reservations kept intact, Taylor chooses to keep her composure firmly within her grasp, not wishing to stray out of line as she silently waits for the man to continue speaking. “When you treat your job like that for long enough, you stop seeing things the way that others see them. You get detached from people being people” the billionaire explains, “and when what happened with you and Barry happened, the only method I’d been conditioned to view it in was how it affected the company.” “That’s not a good enough excuse” Taylor wastes little time in calmly adding in, watching the shake of the head that Ross returns to her with intrigue. “Of course it’s not. It shouldn’t be, but it should give you a better idea of why it was so easy for me to look at it like I was fulfilling my obligation to the shareholders” the ousted executive explains, “you weren’t Taylor English of Tonight at 9 fame at that point, you were just a pretty, young, blonde girl hired to be a paid intern.” “Is that supposed to change anything?” the woman inquires, again watching the shake of Ross’ head respond to her. “No, but it should put this into a better perspective. The company had a few thousand employees at the time, and I- as the acting CEO and chairman- couldn’t justify risking their jobs and the company’s bottom line because a girl was assaulted” he carries on, “it’s shameful that such can even be true, but it’s even more shameful for me to admit that it was an easy stance to take.” Looking back toward the front of the church at the conclusion of the man’s comment, Taylor lets the side settle with herself as the air grows quiet again, the lack of either voice leaving an absence of sound in the air. Though distant, the chatter of the crowd across the parking lot from the tiny chapel at the centre of the graveyard sounds somewhat noticeable from the front-most pew with the uneasy hush that comes over the lone pair of mourners within the building. “I understand why you view me in the way that you do. I understand why everyone else does as well” Ross clarifies, re-earning the attention of Taylor’s tense face with his speech. “I just hope that- as long as you keep holding this grudge against me- you’ll see that it wasn’t a decision I made out of pure malice” the man explains, “it’s easy to look at people with my wealth and think they’re just snakes. Plenty of them are, in fact. But a lot of us are because that’s what our jobs demand of us.” “Why tell me any of this?” Taylor quickly wonders aloud, again speaking with the composure that she’s carried through the interaction’s duration, “you’re dying, your wife is dead, and this is probably the last time we’ll ever see each other. So why, after all of this time, is it important to you to make any of this clear to me?” “Why would I want to die leaving someone thinking that I went out of my way to protect their assailant?” Ross responds as hastily as his guest has raised her counter-inquiry, still weak in his delivery beneath the weight of the drugs he’s been pumped full of to fight the cancer that brings about the rest of his weakness. “There’s no one in this life that I’m more disgusted with than Arnold Barry for what he did to you” the man continues, “maybe it’s because of how impactful that turned out to be, but my disgust for him is still as strong as it’ll always be.” With the faintest squint in her eye, Taylor continues to look the man in the eyes as he speaks, quietly reserving a statement of her own to make for the moment in which the man beside her finishes his point. “You’ve carried this hatred of me for this long, so I’d at least like to give you some fashion of closure in knowing why I took the side that I did” Ross explains, “and for what it’s worth, Sam Vickers earned his angel wings that day by having the balls to stand up for you that I just didn’t have.” Though she’d otherwise be appreciative for the assuring comment that’s made toward her, Taylor’s reservations direct her toward breaking eye contact once more, concealing her thoughts behind a wall of silence that she erects up until the point in which she chooses to shatter it. With the air quiet and Ross’ attention brought back toward the front of the chapel, the declaration that sits within the top of her mind makes itself too strong to contain any further. “Then don’t sell your shares to Burt Russo” the woman orders, looking toward the wealthy man just as he looks toward her, a scowl worn across her visage. “If the way that I perceive you is- even in your dying days- as important to you as you claim it is, then I’d imagine your legacy would be pretty important to you too” Taylor explains, watching the inquisitive face take shape upon the mourning gentleman seated beside her. “You may think you have a few months left, but I think we both know what losing Kaye’s done to you. You may be physically able to fight for a few more months, but I’d be shocked if your heart didn’t give out within the next week” Taylor continues, opting to make the passage more akin to ripping a bandage off the wound. “You have no wife, no kids, and no family to pass your wealth down to. When you buy the farm, it’ll be the last thing a ‘Walker’ ever purchases with your money.” Now following the suit that his guest had taken throughout their discourse’s duration, Ross takes his turn to keep his lips pressed together, not interrupting the woman he wishes to hear out. “If your legacy is as important to you as not leaving me without closure is, then what you should be doing is getting on the phone with your lawyer to make sure that anyone other than Burt Russo is the one that gets your shares” Taylor remarks, “because the last thing you need to be remembered for is making a deal with him.” Stricken with a metaphorical gut-punch at the latter-most line, Ross’ eyes take toward the ground as the blonde anchor continues to speak. “Take the Rockefeller route if you really must. Start syphoning off your wealth to charities, build schools and low-income housing or something like that. Die and leave everyone remembering you for giving back to the world once you no longer had a use for the money” the woman suggests, “but don’t be the guy whose legacy is selling off LMC to that man.” Still silent, Ross’ ability to respond seems to evade him, his mind going blank with a worthwhile response as he sits with the woman’s comments. Having said what she’d come to, Taylor nods to herself before leaving the pew, walking around the man and returning to the aisle that she’d travelled to originally take the seat in the first place. With one foot in front of the other, her heels tap along the ground and bounce a sound of tapping against the spacious, internal walls like a rubber ball. Letting a long sigh free from within her core, the thought-depleted anchor marches for the doors before hearing her name being called out from where she’d stepped away. In a fragile tone of voice, Ross turns to look over the back of the pew and stares at the woman that also turns back, her person standing before the sun that shines through the chapel’s open doors, cascading her in a ray of light that the death-bound billionaire has very few opportunities left to see. “I truly am sorry for taking his side that day” Ross confesses, not wanting that truth to be lost upon the woman in the wake of her departure. Watching her shadow stretch across the floor and toward the man she leaves behind, Taylor presses her lips together and takes in his apology for a moment before reiterating her stance. “Then don’t do the deal with Burt Russo” the woman replies, waiting a beat before turning around and following through with her exit. Watching as the anchor steps into the sunlight and rejoins those she’d been accompanied by in the graveyard, entering the field that Ross will someday soon lie in himself. Remaining amongst the living for now, the billionaire turns back toward the front of the chapel without a soul around, neither a sympathy to pass on or a prayer to present. On his lonesome just as his final days shall be spent, the man takes in a deep breath and lets it free with his eyes pressed shut, bringing himself to a peace he’ll be forced to endure soon one way or another. == Tonight at 9 == |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. Archives
March 2026
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