The Breaking Story ((LitShark & marine_biochild))

[LitShark]

For John Sinclair, returning to the United States was no small task. Having spent the last three months on assignment in Northern Syria covering the civil war in Aleppo, in spite of his lack of a solid contract, John faced many obstacles to his return. Unable to fly directly from the middle-east into the United States, he had to reroute several times and change flights in Greece, Norway, Denmark and lastly in Cuba. The flight from Havana was small and cramped, the eight-seat aircraft overcrowded with people and luggage—John himself was well over his allotted freight in camera equipment, unedited film and digital editing hardware. Five of the seven others aboard the small flight were a family coming back from vacation and their youngest was seated directly behind John.

During his time in Syria, John had been unfortunate (or perhaps fortunate, depending on your point of view) enough to catch a rather sizeable piece of shrapnel in his shoulder. As an American journalist, John was lucky to receive preferential treatment from the on-site medical tent to get the piece of metal removed, but there was obvious need with other victims of the bombing raid with much more severe injuries, so John had tried to do the stitching himself to allow the volunteer to move on. It just so happened, that the kid behind him was a seat-kicker, every time the plane banked, accelerated, changed angles he would frantically slam both soles into the back of John’s seat. Every time the impact slammed the seat against his back, he could feel the hasty, clumsy stiches pulling up more skin and the wound reopening.

“Excuse me, little guy,” John winced as he turned in his seat, his shoulder throbbing at the angle he had to take to look behind himself, “do you think you could switch seats with your mom, or one of your sisters? See, I just came from a war zone and how you’re kicking me right now is tearing my stiches, which are pretty fresh… have you ever had stiches?”

The kid was now scrunching up against the side of the plane, deliberately trying to hide from John’s field of vision, making him turn further into the painful contortion of his wounded, outside shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir,” John addressed the boy’s father now, “could you please switch seats with me? Let your dipshit kid kick the shit out of your fucking back for a while?”

“I beg your unbelievable pardon!” the mother interrupted, “how dare you curse in front of my child?”

“Look, lady, I tried to be nice about this, but I’ve got fresh stiches from an injury I sustained from a goddamn stinger missile in an air raid, and you don’t seem at all interested in stopping him from kicking the fucking hell out of me, like he’s motherfucking Pele, or some shit and I’m the ball in the World Cup! I’m not trying to shit on your dream vacation to the dark, communist continent of Cuba, but this is my last flight of six to get home and I just don’t want my two-day-old stitches to get ripped open any more than they already have!”

At this point, John’s yelling must have made the kid nervous and he kicked again, with both legs, jolting his seat forward on him with his body all wound back and contorting to shout at the mother, he felt at least three of his fresh stitches pull free at the center of his wound.

“OW!! YOU MOTHERFUCKER!!!” John shouted, slamming back into his seat and grabbing his arm through his jacket, “cocksucking sonofabitch!”

“Jesus, you can take my seat, just stop swearing,” from the back of the plane, a teenaged girl in a Greenpeace tank top interjected, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that, what is he, six?”

The girl had to crouch as she walked, the plane too small to allow walking at full height.

“Oh thank the lord and Greenpeace, the voice of reason,” John sighed gratefully, unbuckling his seatbelt and crouch walking toward the back of the plane, “I’m really sorry for making such a scene, he really did mess up my stitches, I’m John.”

“Oh, quit whining,” the Green-teen smirked as they began the elaborate dance of getting past one another within the narrow aisle without being able to stand, “scars are sexy on a man. Last week I had to watch a thirteen year old girl get her clit cut off with a broken beer bottle, she didn’t cry half as much as you, you big baby.”

Green-teen swatted his arm playfully, but John couldn’t stop himself from flinching as her hand landed right on his wound.

“Here’s my card, let’s talk more after we land,” John smiled, genuinely impressed with the girl, making his way to the back of the plane.

*-*-*

The after-flight conversation with Green-Teen—who’s actual name was Madison—had gone fairly well across the Dallas Fort-Worth tarmac and into the Small Flight Arrivals gate, all the way to customs when they were forced to part. While Madison breezed through with the opening of her passport and a flip of her blonde hair, she was through—John, on the other hand, had to have a much deeper conversation.

“Syria?” the Customs Officer remarked, almost in shock as he flipped through John’s passport, “there’s been an executive order banning travelers from Syria entering the United States.”

“First of all,” John sighed, he’d half been expecting it, but still clung to the flimsy hope that the initial reports about the executive order were exaggerated, as such things often were, “I’m a journalist, here are my credentials. I was covering the civil war happening in Aleppo, but none of that really matters, since I’m not even coming from Syria. I’m coming from Cuba, where I passed through customs without incident. There’s no travel ban on U.S. citizens coming from Cuba.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve been through about eight countries in the last two days, it doesn’t change your place of origin. You’re coming from a country on the travel ban list, follow me. You’re being detained.”

*-*-*

In all, it took thirteen hours and six calls to the ACLU for John to pass through customs and be reaccepted into the United States without being forced to reveal his work footage. The TSA agents had demanded over and over to view the contents of his cameras and laptop, over and over John had refused. Only after a temporary injunction was filed his ACLU attorney was he allowed to leave, he never did allow them to view any of his footage, there was still a constitution after all.

By the time he arrived in Oregon, John was beyond exhausted and smelled less than fresh in his own nose, but there was no time to rest or refresh. He was already a full day late for his new assignment, a day that was meant to be spent finding the lay of the land, arrange a script for his first broadcast—set out graphic assignments, arrange guest speakers, research facts and so-on for the work of a week condensed into just one day. That was the day he’d lost.

Now, it seemed he had few options other than to make up a broadcast on the spot, his arrival at the news station coming just three hours before his first live broadcast as director and lead producer. He rushed into the station, eager to get started. He noticed a full conference room and immediately barged in.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Homeland Security detained me. I’m John Sinclair, you can all call me Mr. Sinclair, who wants to tell me where we’re at for tonight’s broadcast?” John was busy unpacking his gear to begin cutting together a workable segment on Aleppo.

 

[marine_biochild]

A buzzer sounded in the small apartment, seeming to echo through the small space meeting it's only resistance when Nicole Rain rolled over with a groan. Lifting her small phone she glance at the time and quickly silenced the buzzer she rubbed her eyes still filled with sleep. It was noon, much to early for her tastes but she would need to be part of the living today. She was the evening news anchor for her local station. Although proud of her accomplishment as one of the lead anchors for their evening broadcast she couldn't quite get her body to sync with her late nights.

Pushing herself up out of the warm covers she let her feet touch the soft carpet before dragging herself to the bathroom. A hot shower, brushed teeth and styled hair wasted an hour and a half of her time before she made her way to her kitchen. The apartment was small but it was all she needed. Single and proud was the way her mother put it but she knew she would most likely be getting the phone call in a few days with the annual 'have you met anyone nice lately' that always followed her mothers greetings as of late. She took her time scouring the cabinets. Her usual 'morning' routine was usually a bowl of cereal and coffee but she was feeling more of an oatmeal and toast kind of day coming on. Starting the water on the stove and the coffee on the counter she took a seat to click on the tv.

Making her way through the day time soaps she ensured Johnny was still into Marcy, Victor was still in a coma, and Alex was still having the baby but didn't know who the father was. She couldn't help but chuckle.It was almost highway robbery the way the soaps strung people along. Watch the show for seven years and gain one new plot point without resolving anything. Managing to find a documentary on the trials of a small Tibetan village she went back to her oatmeal to begin eating. Filling her coffee cup and buttering her toast she took up her seat again. She would need to get dressed soon if she wanted to get to the station early.

They would be getting a new producer today, some journalist who had spent the last few months in Aleppo. She could only imagine the perils the poor man would have gone through. She couldn't say she knew first hand the dangers of such journalism. Having never done anything outside of her home town of Portland, the most danger she had ever encountered was being on the scene of a house fire a year or so back. Portland was a pretty quiet town sans a few robberies and vandalism by rebellious teens from time to time. She enjoyed the quiet nature of their city but knew sometimes it tended to become boring.

Having finished her breakfast she made her way back to her room. Deciding on a dress she had recently bought she pulled on her black high heels grabbing a black cardigan and heading out the door. She only hoped the new producer was on time and a pleasure to work with.

The day went as usual, she ran through the stories of the day, speaking with co-workers until it was briefing time. Stepping into the conference room she greeted everyone before taking her seat. When they finally realized their new producer was late they began, knowing they didn't have the time to wait.

"The new nursing home will be opening tomorrow morning, which will be taking the place of Lady of the Elms. We will be leading with that tonight and following with what will be done with Lady of the Elms." It was the co-leader for their team.

"Please tell me they will be closing Lady of the Elms and demolishing it. I did a story on them last December it was heartbreaking." Nicole shook her head. She had spent twenty minutes in the old nursing home, only to find it dilapidated and needed a lot of work. Those being forced to live in such conditions were even worse off.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a man came barging through the door. Blinking she glance to the figure. He looked disheveled, the shoulder of his shirt was touched with what looked to be dried blood and he wasn't looking at anyone as he spoke. 'John Sinclair' he instructed as his name. What was he possibly unpacking? He didn't expect them to work up some story on the fly was he? They wouldn't have enough time to research a story and cut together footage before broadcast. Everyone seemed to be speechless. He had said detained by Homeland Security?

Standing slowly she glanced to everyone before speaking. "Sir, I'm Nicole, one of the anchors here, can I help you?" Her eyes scanned him before glancing back to the co-leader who seemed to urge her on.

"I'm going to assume you are our new producer, we were just running over tonight's covers before we head to hair and makeup. Allen has given us our prompts." She held up the stack of papers she would be using to keep her rhythm during the broadcast. "We were just about finished up." Smoothing her hands along her dress she watched him. "Can we help you? You look a little.... " She paused, looking for the right word, "travel worn."

 

[LitShark]

John was still breathing heavily as he began unpacking his haul of digital hard-drives and USB sticks, looking up abruptly, he heard the young woman who introduced herself as Nicole interrupt him and politely but resolutely decline the idea of cutting together his hard earned footage from the Syrian civil war in favor of the minutes that they had already prepared. John took a moment to size her up, letting his eyes roam freely over her from top to bottom, admiring the cut of her elegant and most likely expensive dress. He could see why she was gaining popularity so fast, which was good, since she was the reason that he’d stooped to join a local newscast as opposed to the various other opportunities in national cable news that had been offered to him.

“Let me see what you have here,” John scoffed, ignoring the remark about his appearance and snatching bundle of papers from Nicole’s grasp, “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit—human interest bullshit. What in God’s name makes you think that this could be two segments? The old folks are moving out and their old place is getting bulldozed—that’s one story, barely a full segment on its own. For now, since it’s my first show, I’ll compromise. You can lead out with the old folks, try to condense this into one segment and then after the break we’ll cover Aleppo. I’ll brief you during the break and have your script up on the monitor. Where’s my digital editor? Is that you? Here, take these… we’re going to do a three part series on the Syrian civil war starting tonight, so you should get to work with cuts, I’ll join you as soon as I’m done here.”

John slid the bag full of digital recordings over to a young, timid looking man who identified himself as the editor and sent him rushing back to the control room to begin cutting together part one of what would be a three part series on Aleppo. Once the young man had departed the room, John turned back to the collection of people who would be his staff.

“Listen, Nicole. I understand that you all have your own way of doing things here and you’ve enjoyed some degree of success doing things that way—I appreciate that, okay. But I’m not here to preserve your status quo. I’m here to help this little program make national noise. The way we do that is by covering national and international news. Period.”

With this, John moved over to the dry erase board at the head of the conference room, taking an extra moment as he squeezed past Nicole, the crotch of his pants lightly brushing over the contours of her backside as he passed. When he reached the board, he quickly wiped out everything that had been written there, footage cues, names of interviewees and time cues—all wiped away in an instant. In their place, he wrote a large “1” and then circled it. Beside the number, he wrote “Old Folks Home,” and then moved on to segment “2.”

“I understand that these old-timers are very dear to the community and their livelihood is important to you all, but in the time that I’ve been standing here, defending my work to you all, several hundred children—children! Aged 12 and under have been killed in cold blood and nobody is talking about it. I have exclusive… hear me, EXCLUSIVE footage of what’s going on over there. Nobody else has this, national or otherwise. I’ve been shot at, cursed at, punched and nearly blown up to come across this footage, so excuse the fuck out of me if I don’t share your opinion that the… Lady of the Elms retirement home is worthy of both segments on my first show while little kids are getting killed by nerve gas.”

As he spoke, John scribbled a few tenuous notes about the Syrian civil war, paired with generic file names that corresponded to clips from the footage he’d brought with him. Though disorganized and sloppy, when he was finished, what he’d compiled was close to a real segment to fill at least the second half of the show. When he finished, he capped the pen loudly and flipped it onto the table.

“As you can see, we’ve got a lot of work to do in the next hour or so, so let’s get to it. Nicole, could you stay behind for a moment? I think we need to have a chat before you go to hair and makeup. Everyone else is dismissed,” John waved his hand to dismiss the rest of the grumbling crew, waiting for him and Nicole to have the room to themselves, “Nicole, I’m sorry if I seemed… brusque just now, but I think that we’re on the same page in that we want this show to be a tremendous success. I’ve seen your work and I came here to be a part of this broadcast because I see potential in you—though I’m sure you’ve heard that before. I’m here to elevate you to where you deserve to be, I just need you not to fight me on it. Is that clear?”

 

[marine_biochild]

What in God’s name makes you think that this could be two segments?

Nicole's stomach turned at the words. Her fists balling at her side. How dare he? He pushed past, her jaw clenching to keep the bile building within her controlled. He was speaking quickly, wiping away all of their hard work in an instant. Interviewers that had taken weeks to procure, cues they had tested and gotten correct, everything gone in a quick swipe of his hand.

She listened like a good employee all the time fighting the anger rushing inside her. Who did he think he was to come in and walk all over them boss or not? Who was he to think that they could throw out everything to do one segment on a war no one had heard of? The clack of the marker against wood brought her back just in time to hear him request for her to stay. Crossing her arms she ignored the stares from the team as they left.

"Is that clear?"

Her jaw tightened while she worked his words over in her mind. Stepping forward she held herself up before speaking, her arms remaining crossed to keep her hands from shaking.

"Crystal. But to answer your first question.... Mr. Sinclair. I do believe that Lady of the Elms could be two segments." She could taste the venom on her tongue as she watched him arch a pretentious eyebrow. "You see, Lady of the Elms has taken care of hundreds of thousands of our elderly community during its time here which by the way predates the civil war. It's one of our oldest and most valued land marks but over the years it's care has fallen to the brink of abuse. Now, the people of our community have gathered together to help those in need, to raise money, awareness and good faith to help the patients get a new home. At the same time one of the most renowned pieces of history is going to be demolished. A place where soldiers were once cared for during the civil war. A place where new techniques thrived to save lives and a place known by everyone in this community. I think that deserves a lot of air time. As for your war. I'm not saying it doesn't deserve the same if not more airtime but this is a small community. There isn't much they can do about kids three thousand miles away. Throwing a war they can do little to nothing about is only going to create panic and turmoil in their lives. I will happily do your segment. I will happily compromise and follow your instruction. I will work tooth and nail to make this news broadcast the best and the biggest it can be but I will not allow you to forget the community that has gotten us this far for your own fame. Is that clear?"

At this point her face was red and she knew she had so much more to say but she also knew when to stop. Taking a deep breath she glanced down at her watched before nodding. "Now that we have cleared the air I have work to do. I'll cut the Elms segment to fit the first half. Make sure that I can be briefed during the break for the Aleppo story. I need to know what I'm talking about and how to spin it so that the community can take an interest if it's going to be a three segment cover." With that she left, leaving him alone in the conference room.

Hair and make-up took just enough time to calm her nerves and level her head before she handed off the changes to the Elms story to the editor. She worked quickly to get into position and ready herself for going live. Taking her seat she smoothed her dress, a small smile on her face as the countdown began.

We're live in 3....2...."

"Good evening Portland, Nicole Rain here with your nightly news. The constructions of Lady of the Elms has been completed thanks to the hard work of the community who managed to raise....."

_________________________________________

"After the break, weather with Steve and an exclusive look at a three part series on Aleppo, Civil war or cruel punishment, we'll let you decide. See you after the break."

After waiting for the all clear she stood glancing to the editor. "Is all the footage done? I need the prompt as quickly as possible." She said gently to the man who seemed to be still rushing around. She could feel his eyes on her before she saw him. "Mr. Sinclair." She turned to look up into his features. "Are you ready to brief me on Aleppo?"

 

[LitShark]

When John adjourned the meeting, Nicole remained after the rest and seemed to be beside herself with rage, in spite of his attempt to bring her back into the fold. She was clearly furious, and the way she challenged him, the way she devalued the material he’d left his national news position—and even risked his life for ought to have made him furious. But whether it was the sheer exhaustion of his travels or the months spent in a Muslim majority country, all he could think about when she challenged him was how gorgeous she looked in that tailored white dress—the way her small, firm beasts pressed together behind her tensely crossed arms and the way one of her slender, defined hips jutted forward as she asserted herself. John had to struggle not to let himself get hard behind his khaki slacks.

“Nicole, I understand where you’re coming from, I really do. I didn’t want to come in like a tornado, this late in the game, but I wasn’t expecting to be detained at the airport and this is the hand that we’ve been dealt. I can’t do any of this without you, and you are the reason that I’m here. You’re a rising star in this business, and right now, you and I have the chance to save lives with this broadcast. Now go and get even prettier, I’ll make sure to talk you through the broadcast nice and easy.”

With her outburst sufficiently answered, John turned back to his work, shuffling through his leather messenger bag, sifting through papers and notes when something seemed to occur to him, he called out to Nicole just as she was about to leave the conference room, “oh, and Nicole! Excuse my forwardness, but I must say, you look even more beautiful when you’re fired up.”

*-*-*

The scant few hours leading up to his first live, local broadcast John spent working in concert with the woefully understaffed film editors. Frantically cutting together hours of film into forty second soundbites while hastily scribbling a handwritten script over a yellow legal pad. He was on his sixth cup of stale coffee in an hour. The tone was understandably heated, as he was forced to negotiate and sacrifice clips of footage that he’d literally bled to acquire.

“No, we can’t cut that—that’s our nut graph! Look at those kids, this is how we make Joe Six-pack and Sally Trailer-park look up from their TV dinners. This is how we light a fire under them!”

“I already told you, we can’t show that much blood. It’s not a preference thing, it’s standards and practices,” the overworked and put-upon editor Mike countered, visibly worn from the editing process already.

“Alright, let’s flip to greyscale. They allow for more blood to be shown if it’s in black and white, don’t they?”

“It’s a stretch, but that’s true. Seems a big choice to defend gore—“

“Gore?” John cut Mike off, “that little boy is a person, he’s still over there, trying to survive in spite of his whole family being blown apart at his birthday party. We can’t unbleed that blood for him, but we can use his suffering to wake people the fuck up and prevent more kids his age from getting their faces blown off, then we can give meaning to his suffering. Save him from suffering in vain.”

“You’re the boss…”

*-*-*

John was pacing throughout the first half of the broadcast, clearly nervous and distraught. He was talking to himself, flipping through messy scrawled pages and loose notes that were shuffled all together unbound. He’d barely been at this new post for half a day and already he was risking his professional future on a segment he’d been forced to produce in a scant few hours without even a real script to work from. He’d need to communicate the script to Nicole on live air through her earpiece on the fly—he’d need her total cooperation, in spite of the fact that she’d publicly opposed this course of action and had reason to want him to fail. He needed to trust her in spite of everything.

“Hello Nicole, sorry to say that we don’t have a proper script for you yet,” John said, making his way over to Nicole at the news desk as the first segment cut to commercial, doing his best to make his voice sound calm and reassuring in spite of the bad news he was giving her, “I’m going to talk you through this through your earpiece, it’s going to be great. Just trust me and repeat what I say, the clips are cut and ready, I just need you to follow along. Got it?”

John reached across the desk, taking Nicole’s hand in his reassuringly in his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“We’re going to get through this, and it’s not going to be this hectic next time.”

It was then that the camera operator began counting her back in from the commercial break. John gestured to her earpiece and turned his mic on. Seconds later, the red light atop the camera directly in front of the desk lit up and the operator pointed to Nicole.

“Alright, beautiful. Here we go: the conflict in Aleppo is a complicated and nuanced situation with heinous atrocities coming from both sides. In spite of its complexities, it’s a conflict which has ensnared countless innocent civilians in its grasp and the human toll continues to mount. We can no longer turn a blind eye to the suffering of the Syrian people, regardless of the evil forces that are at odds. In our first report from Aleppo, we look at the innocents who have been caught in the middle of these opposing forces…”

*-*-*

Once John and Nicole found their rhythm, the rest of the report went smoothly, and by the end, even some of the crew members seemed on the verge of tears. When the broadcast wrapped, a cheer went up throughout the studio, everyone was aware that they had accomplished something truly special and unlikely.

“You were magnificent,” John beamed, rushing over to Nicole as soon as the cameras were off, “we’re going to make a formidable team. I owe you a drink, how soon can you get unmiced and ready to leave. I need a local reference for a good bar.”