Chapter Text
Vincent is no stranger to rejection.
He begins his adult life in the most demeaning position possible as an assistant for a Baltimore news station. It's just about the furthest thing from the supposed glitz and glamor of the new-fangled television as you can possibly get; while the real stars of the show preen under stage lights glowing both brighter and hotter than the sun as they rattle off the daily news bulletins and weather prognoses, Vincent Whittman sweats his ass off running around in the shadows beyond the stage.
Even getting this position - a glorified slave to be bossed around by just about any- and everyone in a ten mile radius - took more groveling and false smiles full of gritted teeth than he would ever care to admit. It's a privilege to be on this new frontier of entertainment, they tell him, and they don't want just any bumpkin off the street to take part. Of course, the prospect had seemed promising - at first. Now, as he's precariously balancing a stack of film reels in trembling arms with his hair plastered to his forehead from the stifling heat of the studio, he isn't so sure. Studio lights cast long shadows and harsh lines in thick cigarette smoke, the air around him almost void of oxygen. It's like suffocating despite a lung full of air.
But this is his dream.
This is what he was made for.
So he pulls himself together, certain he'll have his time in the spotlight. It's just a matter of when. In the meantime, he watches from the shadows behind the cameras; studying every wrinkle, every crisp pressed shirt and pomade-licked lock of hair caught under the harsh glare.
Someday, that will be him. He'll make sure of it.
Rome, after all, wasn't built in a day.
˚｡⋆ ༘˚✧📽✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚
It turns out that the spotlights are even hotter when you're caught in their glare. The world beyond the sound stage ceases to exist, reduced to vague silhouettes shifting in the inky darkness behind the camera. It's just Vincent, a sharp pointing stick, and a map of greater Maryland dotted with large pictograms of mostly rainclouds and rare suns further down south.
Beneath the spotlights, he comes alive - it's the only sun he needs. This is what radio broadcasters could only wish they had. Vincent smiles wide, smiles bright. It's 'just' the weather, but he makes it a show, full of quips and knowing winks into the cold, unfeeling lens, like the viewers beyond watching from their living rooms television sets are a round-table of his closest friends. The pointing stick becomes an extension of himself, flowing along with his grand, sweeping gestures.
It's as easy as breathing. Second nature.
"And remember - trust us with your weather!"
It's glorious. It's not enough.
When the lights go out, so do the people. Smiles fall. Cameras swivel. The magic drains from the air as though someone has pulled an invisible plug, the resulting vacuum leaving the room joyless and filled only with the bustle of the schmucks unfortunate enough to become Vincent's successors stuck carrying equipment like stable-boys.
They scuttle with a sense of urgency they didn't have before - their next segment, after all, is important. Next up is the news. Fifteen minutes of uninterrupted air-time dedicated to the happenings around the globe in full movement and sound, backed by two smiling faces and chipper voices reading off scripts Vincent helped write but will never receive a lick of credit for. It's all eyes on them.
Vincent was but an appetizer. This is the main course.
Beyond these walls, the entire state waits with baited breath.
Someone counts down from three and a loud jingle blares through the smoke-filled studio.
Chet Huntington and Carol - well, she certainly has a last name, but Vincent doesn't remember nor care - shine bright like twin stars as they rattle off the news in a mind-numbing near-monotone.
Carol's mostly there for decoration, that was Vincent's idea, suggested to the network owner between the jigs and the reels in the gloomy after-hours when static has taken over the airwaves. He'd seen, after all, how other young men his age leer after pretty little things like her. Like jingling keys in front of a baby, it's exactly what they need to get more eyes glued to television sets - and more sponsored dollars lining the network's pockets.
The owner of the network is a stately man by the name of Robert Sinclair. Unfathomably rich and unspeakably arrogant, he is a man who knows that he's a pioneer at the dawn of a brand-new age of entertainment - a delicate status that means that he can just as soon make it big as he can be left in the dust to watch the coat-tails of his competitors riding off into the sunset. So when Vincent takes his chance to fire off his outlandish suggestions as he's delivering some important reels, Robert is willing to take the plunge even when the other executives turn their nose up and scoff. A woman on TV is ludicrous. Who would take a news channel with a female news anchor seriously?
Well, according to the Nielsen diaries, quite a few people. The demographic data for young men in their early-to-mid thirties show a clear and undeniable uptick with the inclusion of Carol, and though their sponsor initially balked at the idea, they quickly shut up when they saw the numbers to back it up. You can't argue with the metrics.
So here she is. Her job is to stand by, look pretty and offer the occasional quip or line, but that seems to have taken a backseat to openly fawning over Chet while he reads off the news in his deep, chesty baritone. Big doe eyes sparkle bright under the stage lights, shadowed by the delicate flutter of long lashes as she blinks up at him like he hung the moon. It's sickening.
Vincent's insides twist within the hollow of his torso, roiling with a feeling that can only be called one thing: jealousy. Though he could care less about the fickle affections of women, much less Carol, his blood runs hot at the fact that he's still in the shadows while someone else hogs the limelight gifted graciously at his behest and, to add insult to injury, is doing a shit job of it
Really, if he didn't know better, he'd think neither of them were trying at all. Honestly, he still isn't convinced. Chet's voice is authoritative and unwavering, but teetering dangerously towards monotony and stripped bare of anything resembling style or flair. One news-anchor amongst many, adding precisely zero additional value to the visual medium of television. He might as well have been a radio host.
According to Robert, that's apparently what's needed to succeed in this world. Chet is a big fish, while Vincent remains a mere guppy. And Carol, who he helped into the spotlight, wastes the grand opportunity he's so graciously dropped in her lap on frivolous bullshit, simpering into the camera as though it's her first day on earth. It's an embarrassment.
And Vincent sees red.
After his first idea had been a resounding success, he'd gently suggested that maybe he should take over the news for a few nights a week. Just a few shows, that's it. Robert had peered over his desk at him, blown a puff of cigar smoke only barely south of his face, and said: "Look, kid, we still want to show 'em that we're serious. That they can trust us. Folks don't want a circus, they want the news. That's entertaining enough. We've already got Carol, and you've already got the weather."
If by 'serious' he meant yawn-inducing and indistinguishable from the five other stations in greater Maryland, sure. Carol's limited novelty is sure to wear off eventually. They have just about until the other stations learn to interpret numbers and decide to find Carols of their own. The clock is ticking.
Bob won't listen to him. That's fine.
The world is cruel, and Vincent isn't stupid. Some risks need to be taken to get what you want in life. It's like Robert says: Sacrifices must be made, and if you want to make it to the top you will have to fight your way there with teeth, claws and charisma.
From the shadows, he makes a decision.
The sharp point of his stick catches the light of the stage.
˚｡⋆ ༘˚✧📽✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚
Really, the affair was a lot messier than it strictly needed to be. A rush of blood cascades down the soon-to-be-former news anchor's pale skin and seeps into his elegant tweed suit; it's intoxicatingly warm and slick beneath Vincent's fingertips, a beautiful fountain of crimson.
He shouldn't like this.
Vincent is no stranger to party favors in backrooms cut into delicate lines of snowy white - that's showbiz, baby - but this? This is better than any drug, sweeping him up into a potent high unlike anything he's ever felt before. It takes practically all of his strength to not land on the ground right beside Chet; his knees buckle and shake, the blood-streaked staff trembling in his fingers. From the grey skies above, cold droplets rain down with an increasing intensity, forming large beads on the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses until the scene is blurred into a painter's palette of ill-defined shapes. It doesn't matter - his limbs move on their own accord, stalking closer to the shape of the prone figure bleeding out into the wet concrete of an otherwise monochromatic alley.
"I should thank you," he says, only barely managing to restrain a giggle. With his stick and a smile so broad it's almost painful, he pokes Chet in the side as you would a limp animal by the side of the road. "But really, I'm just taking what's mine."
Chet doesn't hear him anymore, anyway. Though his body still moves, hand outstretched toward the thin shaft of light at the end of the alley with the last of his strength, it's only raw instinct driving him now. A once-great news anchor, reduced to a mere animal who knows only the need to survive, even if the odds have long since tipped against him.
It's almost impressive.
No one will come to save him. Even if someone did, it would be too late.
It's survival of the fittest, and Vincent doesn't make the rules. There, face-down on the ground and gurgling his last breath that is more blood than air, is his golden ticket. The next rung on the ladder. The next link in the food chain.
The light finally drains from Chet's eyes, his body going stone-still beside the occasional uncanny twitch. Vincent stares, transfixed, as the blood mixes with the rainwater. It's done.
Back colliding with a wall behind him, he half-slides, half-falls to the floor, his heart racing and breath stuttering like he's just run a marathon.
He's done it.
The noise that leaves his mouth is something between a laugh and a cry, an keening outburst of emotions that fly past him faster than he can name them. They pool in his stomach and mix into an ugly concoction that turns and twists until he's fighting back vomit. There's blood on his hands, blood in his hair, blood on his suit, blood on the floor and the stench of a recently deceased corpse in the air as it's voided of its last bit of dignity. It's a mess.
After the high comes the low. Reality creeps in at the seems with little mercy: All of this will have been for nothing if he's caught. He needs to pull himself together. He needs to clean this up. He needs to move.
He disposes of Chet Huntington's body in a dumpster without any ceremony, just like the world will leave the rest of his ilk behind as they move on to embrace the future of television, and leaves the rest in the hand of God and the torrential downpour that slowly intensifies with each second he spends at the scene of the crime
The world will never be the same, after this. Something within Vincent snapped, changed, shifted; a door opened, another shut.
This is the price of success. It's a price he pays gladly.
In his dreams, he waltzes through the rain-soaked alley with a limp corpse.
˚｡⋆ ༘˚✧📽✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚
The script clutched in his hand containing today's news bulletins is just for show - Vincent knows his talking points by heart. Shadows left by the pads of his fingers against the paper seem to take on an almost red tinge in the periphery of his vision; bloody fingerprints like an admission of guilt beside the ink. He is not guilty of anything beyond seizing his opportunity. If he looks closer, the red marks will vanish. They will. He can't look. He won't look.
But he can't shake the feeling or fully still the tremble in his hands. The hairs on the back of his neck rise as though something, someone is breathing down his neck and he finds himself wondering more than once if perhaps there is a leak in the ceiling with how phantom droplets repeatedly leave ghostly trails across his face.
It's just a trick of the mind, he knows this; part thrill of the kill and part animal fear lighting up his nervous system like a live wire. He is above that.
He wants so desperately to look.
Still, he keeps his voice firm, resolute. Trustworthy. A hollow imitation of Chet, even if Chet was hardly worth imitating. The show must go on.
As much as it pains him to not rock the boat, it's in Vincent's best interest. He's lucky that Bob even saw reason in Chet's absence; replacing him would take too much time when his own disappearance is a hot-ticket item on the news.
He'd sold his rapid replacement of Chet to Bob as something resembling a public service. Surely he'd want to do Chet a favor by broadcasting his disappearance to as many people as possible as quickly as possible - after all, maybe then he will be found.
The truth, even beyond Vincent's grand usurpation, is that fear and negativity sells better than every news story about schools built or parliament decision and the boring drivel of everyday life. It's another stone on the road to success for the channel, for Bob, and for Vincent. He doesn't expect Bob to understand; actions speak louder than words and showing works better than telling. He'll see their success. He will be led to water and made to drink, and he will think it was his own idea as he chokes on it.
So now, here Vincent stands in Chet's place.
There was never any other choice. It's not like Carol is able to lead the news on her own on the best of days, especially now. She's a wreck. Tears run down her cheeks, mascara flowing in tar-like rivulets down her pale, powdered face as she sits at Vincent's side. Her shoulders have been trembling with barely-suppressed sobs for the entire segment; midway through she gave up and hid her face behind her elbows rested on the anchor's desk. Now, as it draws to a close, she's cracking.
They've reached the elephant in the room, the final story on today's agenda as the segment draws to a close.
"Today, we mourn the loss of one of our own," Vincent says with a measured expression of sorrow. Beside him, Carol finally goes to pieces, shattering like fine china.
She wails openly like a bereaved widow, clutching at the image of Chet suspended from the rafters behind them as though that will somehow bring him back. It's ridiculous, almost painful to watch, and more damaging to Channel 6 News' "serious" reputation Bob clings to so desperately than Vincent could ever be.
He doesn't step in. Not yet. As much as her blubbering grates on his nerves like nails on chalkboard: this too, is an opportunity. People can't look away from a car crash, or a train wreck. Give them a reason to watch. Give them a reason to talk.
He lets her have her moment for a heartbeat, then two, before finally nudging her off the soundstage and staring down the lens of the camera like the barrel of a gun.
"But our commitment to the truth is as strong as ever. Remember: trust us with your news."
Trust us. Trust us. Trust us.
Trust me.
˚｡⋆ ༘˚✧📽✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚
Carol barely lasts a week after Chet's disappearance before she puts her notice in. She drags herself into the studio like barely-alive roadkill, disshevelled and bleary-eyed. Drunk, clearly, if the smell of alcohol wafting from her mouth is any indication.
It's more than grief for a coworker. This is the kind of ugly grief borne from love, or whatever passes for it in Carol's mind, considering Chet was very much married, and not to her. He almost laments not buying in to the newsroom betting pool.
"You'll never be like him," she tells Vincent, her voice slurred as she jabs her finger toward his chest. "You will never be him."
Vincent smiles a mournful little smile, delicately taking hold of her hand and returning it to her side with a small pat.
"I know."