Before
"Not good enough."
The grainy footage jerked, flashing to black for the briefest of moments before picking up with another scene shot minutes – maybe even hours – after the first. If he hadn't been watching, squinting at the too-small screen in the semi-darkness of a badly equipped van, he'd never have known. The new images were as insipid and uninspiring as the old. The occasional, carefully-angled image of the fire and its billowing smoke plume did little to break the tedium.
Even for an opportunistic shoot, grabbed on their way back to base from covering some asinine political rally, it was a poor effort. He'd seen this shot a thousand times, broadcast on a dozen different stations. The slow pan did nothing to inject energy or drama into the scene. Not even the best cameraman he'd ever worked with, not even Joe, could make an impromptu parking-lot filled with useless equipment look good. Fire-trucks and police cars flashed their lights, the combined effect strobing across the small black-and-white playback screen, but there was no urgency to the display. They were as redundant as the emergency workers who clustered aimlessly around them.
Reaching out, he slapped the pause button and scowled at the image frozen on the screen. A senior fire-fighter, uniform crisp and unmarked, was taking a drag from a cigarette, eyes distant and expression bland as he looked up at the real action. He was audience, not participant – and if there was one thing Ned Cook knew it was that hisaudience, the only one that mattered, didn't care about other nobodies. They didn't give a hoot about other spectators in the great drama of life. They wanted to see the players, the movers and shakers, the people that actually did something to change the world.
And that was exactly what Ned couldn't show them.
He stabbed at the off-switch, his pent-up frustration behind the movement, and felt something give under the force. Joe would give him lip for that… and he wouldn't be the only one.
An unnecessary expense. A drain on network resources.
The accusations echoed through Ned's thoughts as he climbed out of the van and stood blinking up at the huge green craft that dominated his field of view.
"Not damn good enough."
"Hey!" Joe's protest was mild, but Ned heard the hard undertone. He glanced up to see frosty eyes, illuminated by the flare of a lighter as Joe sucked on a fresh cigarette. The soft-spoken tech would put up with a lot of things from his roving anchorman – and God knows he had in the past – but criticism of his camera work wasn't one of them. And sure, cameramen were a dime a dozen and Ned could find another within minutes back in town, but he wasn't in town now. Right now, he had Joe or nothing, and anything – anything! – was better than going back empty-handed.
"Great shooting, Joe. Lousy subject."
Ned waved a hand in dismissal. The showman in him kept the gesture nonchalant, even as a small, quiet part of him hoped that Joe would accept the implied apology. That same small part was the one that muttered that maybe keeping this guy on side was more than a here-and-now thing. The one pointing out that he'd worked with most of the tech support in L.A. and of them all, Joe was the only one who'd ever grinned at his rants and single-minded pursuit of his story and come back for more.
That quiet voice had got louder, since the meeting yesterday. A strong drink – or perhaps the fifth or sixth – had been enough to silence it last night. Now… well, for all their thunderous noise and gripping visuals for spectators on the scene, International Rescue left a reporter with way too much time for his own thoughts.
Not good enough.
Not that anyone ever put it in those terms. Oh no. The Management wouldn't know plain talk if it bit them on their tight asses. They buried the sentiment in fancy words and showed him false smiles in place of frowns. He'd looked into closed expressions and empty eyes and heard what wasn't being said.
Ratings are falling. Novelty gone. Revenue down.
He didn't have any illusions about the expectations associated with a prime-time show. But, damn it, he had expectations too. He'd given the best years of his life to those plastic paper-pushers, and how did they repay him? An ad-budget that dropped year on year. A slot pitted against WVAN's ratings sensation. Blank eyes watching him fail even as they engineered his failure.
He'd challenged them, of course. Forcing himself to phrase his complaints in their brand of weasel words and making sure his own fixed smile never faltered.
Diversifying talent. Can't over-commit to an individual. Resources needed to nurture stars of the future.
Ten years ago, he would have killed to hear those words. Back then he'd been the attractive young reporter with an ear to L.A.'s jungle drums, just looking for his break. Back then, he'd eyed the prime-time slots the way a man dying of thirst eyes water. Was it the Pete Donelly Show he'd taken over? Or the Alistair Wheatley Show? Or maybe the Ali Donelly? It hadn't mattered. The logo had been gone before he ever walked through the door, and he'd not given the washed-up has-been another thought since.
Not until he sat in yesterday's meeting, the first grey hairs showing at his brow and crow's-feet at the corner of his eyes, and heard history repeating itself.
Ned wondered what had become of Old Al. He stared at the green hull of the Thunderbird in front of him and imagined the green lawn of a retirement home, and day after long day spent watching the grass grow.
He saw himself sitting in an over-stuffed chair, his sharp mind dulled by obscurity, his life slipping out of his control while other residents spoke in over-loud voices, asking if he used to be somebody.
Crawling horror sent a shiver down his spine and he jerked his gaze away from inner vision and outer subject both.
A sudden explosion, a distant cheer telling him that International Rescue had saved the day once again, captured his attention. Fists clenched by his sides.
"This could've been the greatest report of the year."
"An' we can't do a thing about it." Joe's sidelong look held indignation, his pride in his work offended by International Resue's casual disregard of its import. Nonetheless, Ned realised, his tacit apology had been accepted. He tried to suppress the flare of relief he felt as he ranted on.
"I don't know why they're so touchy about having their pictures taken. We've got a job to do as well as they have."
"Well… guess we're pretty much done here." Joe chewed on the end of his cigarette and spat it out, crushing the butt beneath one heel before tapping another out from his packet. "Guess I'll get that shot of th' ambulance leaving. Cheering workers. Wanna do a piece t' camera? Y' know th' script."
Ned Cook's eyes narrowed. An expression crossed his face that the perfect masks and tailored suits of Management had seen on more fresh young faces than they could count… pure hunger.
He wasn't playing to the same old script. Not any more. He wasn't an Al Donelly… Pete… whatever. And he wasn't some bright new thing just learning his trade, fighting tooth and claw just to climb out of the crowd, not even aware of who he trampled or dragged down in the process. No, he'd been playing this game too long to give up so easily or let fear and panic take him out of it now.
He wasn't going to be the one dying in obscurity, fading into a nobody and nothing… become a mere spectator in his own life. They wanted ratings. Fine, he'd give them that and more. His name would never be forgotten.
He reached for the van door, ears pricked for the sound of mighty engines powering up.
"Right, Joe. Get on that camera."
"What're ya gonna do?"
"We're going to get that story of the year!"
Caught in the Moment
When Joe spooled smoking tape between his fingers, the roar of Thunderbird One still fading into the distance, Ned felt his guts twist with disbelief and anger.
For a moment, a future of forgotten, enforced retirement played all too clearly before his eyes. He forced it down, his jaw set with sheer determination.
He wasn't going to let this stop him. There'd be other opportunities, and Ned Cook wasn't going down without a fight.
When the Empire State Building juddered to a halt, so did Ned's grand plans. He scowled at the whining machinery, careful to glance at the camera first and make sure no one would witness his open dismay.
Failure.
A live 'cast, associating his name and image with the greatest engineering feat in modern history. That's what this should have been. A boost to his profile like no other. An opportunity he'd stabbed more than one fellow anchor in the back to seize and hold onto. He'd change the way a tired audience saw him, become a beacon of success, draw in a broader demographic, all with one slick broadcast and a few carefully-picked interviews.
Today should have been the biggest kick to his ratings the network had ever seen.
Not this. Not abject and pathetic failure. Not again.
When the police tried to move them on, he reacted through instinct more than thought.
The same resolve that had risen in him at the oil field surged anew as he turned a suitably serious face to the camera. He wasn't a wet-behind-the-ears reporter driven by circumstances. He was an anchorman, a chat show host of long years' standing. He'd trapped politicians in their own words and prised out secrets from a hundred tight-lipped celebrities. He knew how to take control of a situation and turn it to his own ends. He'd do the same here.
A minute, two at most, and he and Joe would find somewhere nearby and out of sight from which to resume the show. It'd be worth the risk. If the cops didn't see him, they couldn't chase him out. And even if they tried, well… these street-cops didn't have a Thunderbird to enforce their petty dictates.
No, he wasn't going to be moved. He was Ned Cook, and he was staying right where he was.
When the ground cracked and he felt himself begin to fall, he felt his dreams and hopes of a ratings success falling with him.
His eyes stayed fixed overhead for as long as possible, but he didn't see the blue sky, only the shadow silhouetted against it. He watched Joe and his camera tumble after him with a terror that was all for himself and a cry, trying to ward off the prospect of his horrifying visions becoming reality. He reached for the camera as if he could push it back by strength of will alone, just as he'd held back the growing tide of whispers that spilled from the management floors back in L.A.
All his efforts couldn't stop it slipping beyond his grasp
When the building fell…
When he felt himself engulfed by pitch darkness, and woke to the same, surrounded by a silence deeper than any he'd ever experienced…
It was his nightmare made real.
"Hello?" His cry echoed off hard walls surrounding him, and for a moment he thought perhaps he was hearing a reply to his desperate entreaty.
The echoes faded into the darkness.
His voice was silenced and no one heard. No one knew. Did anyone even care?
He pushed up from the hard ground, his hands splashing into a shallow pool of water, the back and one side of his jersey already damp. The shiver that ran through him had nothing to do with the moisture or the chill it carried. He blinked a few times, unable to see a difference, before sinking despairingly back to the cold stone.
He'd imagined sunlight and bemused voices around him, revelling in his anonymity as the end came, but the darkness was as bad… if not worse. Swallowing hard, Ned Cook stared his greatest fear in the face and felt something break inside him. He'd never dreamed his struggle would be over so soon. All his hard work, all his fame or even notoriety wouldn't stop him dying alone and unheard. There wouldn't be adoring fans holding up candles outside some hospital as he breathed his last, laboured breath. If his name was remembered now… he wouldn't be memorialised as an icon of television history, a game changer and world-shaker, but just as a past-his-prime reporter with ratings on the decline and too much to prove. A fool who'd been foolhardy one time too many.
He could almost hear the laughter.
A groan blended with the imagined sound and Ned twisted sharply.
"Joe?"
A second groan and slurred voice came both as a worry and a relief.
"Remind me never t' work with a maniac like ya. Not ever again."
"I'll get you out of this." Less than a minute with an audience, and Ned was already playing to it. His words rang hollow in his own ears, and Joe's silence spoke volumes. Ned slumped, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to be, now he'd seen the futility of all he'd ever been.
Something was pressing into his side, and he shifted, physical discomfort forcing a reaction even in the depth of his despair.
His radio mike! He scrabbled at it, trying to turn the knobs with numb fingers and no real conception of what he was adjusting or why.
"Help!" For the first time in more than a decade the arrogance was gone from his voice, his mask dropping away as if it had never existed. "Can you hear me?"
The voice that answered didn't get him out of this dark hole, heal his contusions or even offer any real prospect of rescue. Not yet. It was a little salvation nonetheless.
After
The make-up girl was doing her best, but let's face it, he was never going to look good.
His face was scraped and marked, a bandage still prominent on his bruised brow and another on his cheek. The bruises were worse under his smart suit, where only Ned and the grumbling nurse who'd wrestled him into the clothes would know about them.
He waved the fussing girl away, unable to believe she could do any better and not much caring whether she did. His gaunt face stared back from his mirror, cast into sharp relief by the too-bright lights surrounding it. He looked as tired as he felt.
The Management had had the grace not to make any more comments about beautiful young people… at least so far. They'd not raised the issue of ratings since he was pulled out of that hellhole. Whether they were showing some signs of humanity, or whether it was just because they knew that his next show – this show – was going to get all the viewers they could wish for, Ned couldn't be sure.
He didn't much care either.
"Five minutes, Mr Cook."
Ned acknowledged the call with a wave of his hand, momentarily amused by the cliché.
He seemed to be seeing them everywhere these last few days. In the life he'd lived. In the one he'd wanted to live. In the forces that had driven him, and in those he saw around him every day.
He was honest enough to include his own metamorphosis in that list.
He'd interviewed survivors before, nodding gravely in response to their stories, and watching their faces with a cynical appreciation for their acting skills. He'd envied the opportunity they'd been given, and grudgingly approved of them taking full advantage.
Too busy judging their fame against his own, he'd never tried to take in the lesson they wanted to share.
He'd never dreamed that one experience really could change a person.
Not beyond recognition, of course. He still craved fame and his heart still thrilled to hear his name spoken. He still feared dying alone and un-mourned, his name forgotten. He was still going to walk… roll… out there and show them a megawatt smile Management would be proud of.
He was still Ned Cook.
But too many hours trapped beneath the wreckage – both of New York and the life he'd led – had taught him something new about himself.
He feared dying in obscurity. But he feared death itself even more.
In that cold, dark eternity, he'd seen its spectre creeping ever closer. In the end it hadn't mattered that his imminent passing was a headline story, broadcast to an enthralled world, or that his name would be remembered if only for his spectacular demise. He'd only had emotion to spare for the voice that guided him out of the darkness and back towards the light.
A day before that emotion would have been loathing and resentment. No part of him then could understand International Rescue's phobia for the media. Anonymity was anathema, adulation was its own reward, and not to embrace that… well, IR might have some fancy toys but their people just couldn't be firing on all cylinders. Not understanding, he hadn't trusted their motives or even tried to respect their aims.
There in the dark, with shadows reaching for him and for Joe, he'd learnt better. No amount of fame could ever be worth throwing lives away. No reward – or punishment – could justify destroying the last hope of those in peril.
He'd clung to a voice that he'd cursed too many times in the past, and cursed his own naivety instead. Surrendering control, letting another save his save his life, he'd thought of nothing but doing as he was told and helping the only colleague who'd ever stuck by his side.
When he staggered out of Thunderbird Four, trailing Joe's stretcher, Ned had been oblivious to the pushed-back crowds or the cameras just waiting for a clear shot of him. He blinked in the light like a new-born, lost in the realisation that he'd spent his whole life haunted by maybe-futures when he should have been thankful just for having a future to dream of.
And more than simply thankful to the ones who gave others such a gift.
"Mr Cook? Two minute call."
Ned flinched, gaze breaking away from his own reflection. Usually he'd spend the next ninety seconds rehearsing his opening lines, polishing the mask for others to see. Today, he needed to get rolling, manoeuvring his wheelchair through the treacherous backstage.
Besides, there was no need to rehearse his opening. He knew just what he wanted to say, and the actual words? Well, for once in his life he'd speak from his heart and Management be damned.
This one brush with International Rescue might not save his career. It might not keep him from being put out to pasture, to make way for younger men. The one thing that might – putting names to Thunderbird One's voice, to the cheeky aquanaut's grin, to the faces he'd glimpsed if only in passing – had lost its appeal.
He rolled out into the spotlight and the thunderous applause, enjoying it but perhaps, for the first time he could remember, not needing it.
Because Ned knew now, really understood, that International Rescue's secrecy was what saved his life. Nameless men had risked their future to offer Ned, and Joe, and a thousand others the chance to live out their own. And maybe, just maybe, if brave men could stare anonymity in the face – embrace it even – Ned Cook could be one of them.
