When Madison had gotten significant head start, Nina worked her way through Security and Viral Screening and made her way to gate A1. A chartered jet was parked outside, and Priscilla was seated near a window, working intently on a laptop. Madison had taken a chair three seats down, filing her nails intently. Vinya was holding a large pink cup from PaoPao BubbleCoffee and slurping boba pearls while talking animatedly to someone on her smartglasses.

Meanwhile, Sinéad had hijacked the counter in front of the gate and was sifting through a stack of manila folders.

Why was WWN so obsessed with paper?

Staring out the window at the landing planes was another of her idols, Dan Dragovich – the host of a the prime-time news magazine On Site and one of his generation’s most prominent war correspondents. He looked a little more rumpled in person, wearing an unironed short sleeve shirt that looked to have yellowed over time – but still, he had the aviator sunglasses and the thick salt-and-pepper mustache and the determined look that she’d seen so many times on TV.

However, given the experience with Madison, Nina decided to spare herself the indignity of two rejections by industry icons.

There was one other woman in the group, wearing a tye-dye blouse, but she’d just struck up an animated conversation with Madison, so she wasn’t a social target either.

That left the rest of the crew.

Nina been told that the junket would include five cameramen, two producers, and one make-up artist. She assumed that tie-dye woman was the makeup artist, and she picked out four of the cameramen immediately. They were all wearing navy WWN polos and seated around a bald black man whose polo matched, but in white. Anyone in television would recognize NaQuan Rodgers, producer of WWN Evening News for the last fifteen years and WWN’s chief of production for almost as long. That group looked anything but friendly.

Finally, there were two men in black t-shirts lounging in seats near the window. They looked decently approachable.

Nina wheeled her suitcase over to them and sat down two seats away, offering a polite “Good morning,” to the closer of the two, a thin man with black hair and the beginnings of wrinkles around his mouth.

He gave her a big smile and offered a hand. “How’s it goin’?” he said with a thick Boston accent, “I assume you’re our new reporter?”

“Guilty as charged,” Nina said, accepting the shake.  It was so nice to find at least one pleasant person here.

The man let go, “Right, right. Nina,” he snapped his fingers a few times, “it’s on the tip of my tongue – “       

“Constantinos,” the other man cut him off. He pronounced her name perfectly but didn’t turn her direction. “It’s all over our work order.” He was younger, lanky but muscular, with close cropped sandy hair and what Nina guessed was about five days of stubble.

“Right,” the first man jumped back in, “I’m Ty Criancas, head producer for WWN Impact, and this mug,” he pointed to his companion, “Is my head camera Aiden Healy – you get used to him.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Nina replied, making a mental note. “WWN Impact” was Dragovich’s operation – a separate company from WWN under their parent corporation, RXN.

Dragovich had insisted on the strange structure as a way of maintaining editorial independence for the last ten years, reporting directly to the CEO of RXN instead of Priscilla.

 RXN allowed it as a way of keeping him on their airwaves, and journalism schools taught about it as an example of newsroom dysfunction. It did, however, explain why these two looked so different from the rest of the crew. Technically, they didn’t work for WWN at all.  

That was when Sinéad’s voice clanged through the terminal. “Okay, WWN Team, huddle up!”

“What does she want now?” Nina heard Aiden mutter as everyone got to their feet and gathered near the terminal.

Sinéad grabbed her stack of folders, which Nina could now see were labelled with each of their names. “Glad to see you all made it,” she bellowed, “I’m sorry I can’t join you all in Rome, especially since I know you’d all die without me, so I’ve put everything I can into these folders for you.” Then she dramatically opened one packet and pulled out a stack of papers.

“Hotel information, per-diem cards that work in Italy, pre-paid Italian SIM cards for your phones, even pre-printed card keys to your hotel rooms. Yay for technology. The per-diem is enough for food and a little mad money but there’s a limited amount listed in the folder. I can track where you spend it – so if you use it on any questionable pleasures, I will ask if you enjoyed it in front of the whole office. Also, we do have some budgetary sense, so junior and camera staff have shared hotel rooms – your roommate is listed on page one of the packet. I’ll call your names and you can grab your folder as you board, starting with,” she pulled a folder, “Madison Rylander.”

Madison boarded without making eye contact with Sinéad, grabbing her folder with a snap on the way in.

The callouts continued in no apparent order until no-one else was left at the gate and Sinéad called “Nina Constantinos.” Nina set her shoulders and wheeled her carry-on to the jetway, where Sinéad was holding out her folder.

“Enjoy your trip, Constantinos,” Sinéad said, wrapping her tongue around the words as if they were some sort of threat.

“I will.” Nina clamped her fingers down on the folder, but it didn’t budge. Sinéad wasn’t letting go.

“Just make sure you don’t eff up that badly,” she said, “Not that I care, but cleaning blood off the carpet takes a chunk out of my day.”

Nina looked Sinéad dead in the eye, feeling her ears heat up. “That won’t be needed.”

“We’ll see,” Sinéad finally let go of the packet. “Have a nice flight, Appleton.”

Nina fumed down the jetway, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself.

The flight attendants were markedly more welcoming, but Nina was well past their cheery “welcome aboard” greetings before she cooled down long enough to take in the swanky surroundings. The plane was immaculate. Widely spaced plush seats upholstered in WWN blue, armrests with dark wood paneling, and first-class amenity waiting for every passenger.

She was really here, with America’s elite news team, covering the world’s biggest story.  Sinéad or no Sinéad, there was no way to describe this as anything but awesome. Everything was going to be fine.

“Hey Nina!” a voice came from the back. It was Vinya, waving the stack of papers from her opened envelope, “Saved you a seat, roomie!”          

Rome
10:12 PM (Local Time)

The lobby was more bustling than Nina expected. Impeccably dressed guests were streaming out of the Hotel Piazza San Pietro into the Roman night, and apparently standards for “going out clothes” were different here than they were in North Wisconsin.

Nina had just finished unpacking and headed downstairs in her nice jeans and a Captain Janeway t-shirt, hoping to see a bit of Rome before the work started. Sightseeing wouldn’t be hard, given how much Priscilla had paid for location. WWN had booked the entire top two floors of the closest boutique hotel to the Vatican, turning it into a fully self-contained live-in studio.

As Priscilla had put it, there was no need for most staff to leave the hotel at all for the next week – but those who wanted to go out would find the neighborhood to die for.

Nina wanted to go out.

She wasn't even sure what she wanted to do outside. Just ... be here.

Underdressed or not, she headed for the front door, but then saw something that made her stop short. Madison Rylander was sitting in the mostly empty hotel bar, nursing a glass of something amber as her usually iconic peacoat sat limply over the stool next to her. Maybe a second, calmer approach was warranted. Nina was a lot calmer than this morning and had mostly gotten her starstruck jitters under control.

Mostly.

"Be normal," she mouthed to herself, "You’re just being cordial to a new co-worker."

She let a long breath out and made her way to the bar and asked, "Mind if I join you?"

Madison looked up from her tumbler, shrugged, and pointed at a burgundy leather stool. She'd dressed in a tight white turtleneck, seafoam capris and a chunky matching headband. Nina would have said she looked like a backup dancer in an old Elvis movie, perfectly calibrated to the elevated vintage look that was in fashion with the Italian locals.

Nina slid onto her stool, feeling even more hopelessly out of synch with her surroundings.

"I,” Nina started, “I wanted to apologize for fangirling all over you at the airport. That wasn’t my best moment."

Madison snickered. "No, it wasn’t." Then she went back to her drink.

The silence was broken by a bartender in a pinstripe shirt. "What can I get for you, signora?"

Nina noticed Madison’s head silently turn her direction.

"Um," Nina scanned the bottles lined up behind him. She wanted to order something Italian but didn't even know where to start. "At home I order appletinis. What would you recommend?”

The barkeep gave a knowing smile.  “Galliano and Pomegranate if you like sweet. My personal specialty."

"Thank you." Nina smiled back.

The barkeep turned, but Madison suddenly piped up. "Get her a Scotch."

Nina turned, mouth agape.

"You're a reporter not a tourist,” Madison snapped.

The bartender hesitated.

“I don't like whiskey." Nina said slowly, not staring at Madison but loud enough to make sure the bartender heard.

"Galliano and Pomegranate." He confirmed, grabbing a highball glass.

Madison almost snorted, then downed the last of her own whiskey. "You can’t even hold you liquor, and you think you can stomach WWN?"

Nina squeezed her fists and breathed out through her hose. This was not how she planned on meeting her idol. She noticed that the bartender hadn’t poured anything in her glass yet. "Excuse me, sir?"

He stopped cold. "Yes, signora?"

"As delightful as that sounds, do you have any ouzo?"

He set down the pomegranate juice. "Si, we have Plomari and Pitsiladi."

"Pitsiladi," Nina almost barked, "neat."

Madison was now watching intently as the bartender set down a shot glass of clear, anise-smelling liquid.

Nina raised the shot and deadpanned, "Opa." Then she knocked it back in one gulp.

The alcohol seared the back of her throat. It tasted like every Greek wedding moment she'd ever regretted. She felt herself shake a bit before slamming the shot glass onto the bar and exhaling.

"I said I don't like whiskey," she said, synapses still tingling, "not that I can't drink. Bartender, I'd like that pomegranate drink now."

"Nice," Madison responded, resuming a blank forward stare.

The bartender chuckled and slid a tall red concoction across the bar. It was much better than the ouzo.

Nina took a yet another deep breath, allowing the pomegranate to wash out her mouth, then tried speaking again.

 “I'm sorry, I just ... journalism is my whole life, and you do it better than anyone."

“Of course, I’m the best,” Madison snipped as she motioned for her glass to be refilled, “but you’ve misstated the craft.”

Another tumbler was set in front of her while Nina felt her eyes starting to widen. This was not the vivacious Madison Rylander from TV. It was someone else, something else. Still, this was a woman at the top of her game, even if it didn’t look it right now.

Nina pressed further. "I'd still like to get to know you – just as a co-worker. There's a lot I don't know around here."

"Clearly". Madison took a long sip of her new whiskey. Then she set down the glass with a clink and made eye contact.

"Look, I know your type. You've got this whole hero's journey planned for yourself. Leave small town, encounter mentor, slay dragon." She gestured at Nina's shirt, "so let's start with this, nerd, I'm not your Obi Wan Kenobi."

Nina felt the reflex to correct the sci-fi mix-up but was cut off before she should even stifle herself.

"I know the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars. Lesson one, feigning ignorance of a strongly stated fandom is a passive-aggressive act communicating firstly that I don’t care about you and secondly that I’m desecrating your sacred cow in hopes that it will make you cry and go away. I am not your mentor figure and, trust me, you do not want me to try."

Madison stared at her glass, downed the rest of it, and set it down with finality as she got to her feet.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have better people to do with my evening.”

So that settled it, Nina thought, she’d grown up idolizing a witch.

As Madison gathered her trademark peacoat, Nina shot to her feet and turned to face her.

“You know what,” she said, “If you don’t want anything to do with me, fine, but you could afford to be a little nicer to people who genuinely want to learn from you.”

Madison laughed and slipped on the coat. “You want advice? Okay. Bicep workouts, sleeveless dresses. Blond always tests well with the focus groups, and believe it or not, alcohol is a safer coping mechanism than cocaine."

Nina could barely believe herself, but she found herself rolling her eyes, “That wasn’t what I-”

Madison held up a hand and started laughing. “Oh. Oh. Right. You wanted something about journalism. Truth, justice. Here’s the thing. This,” she held up both index fingers and made circling motions, “This isn’t that. This is infotainment. You wanna be on TV? Welcome to showbiz.”

Then Madison wheeled and breezed out of the room.

"Basic Cable" text copyright © 2020 Adam Brickley. All rights reserved.