Chapter Text
Victoria Whittman has always known she is meant for stardom. Even from a young age, she’d perform little scenes from various broadcasts she listened to on the radio for her mother and if he wasn’t busy or in a bad mood, her father (which was very rare). Though her father believed women were inferior to men, he’d always tell her the same thing after every achievement whether it was socially or academically.
“Good job, Vicky, you’re a bright girl,” his large hand practically engulfs the girl’s small head as he gives her two firm pats. It wasn’t much, didn’t feel nearly as comforting as the hugs from her mother but that occasional sliver of affection given to her by her father made her feel like a starved dog getting tossed a juicy steak.
And if she failed?
A sharp slap to the back of the head, not as hard as he’d hit his wife, but hard enough to bring tears to sting at her tear ducts, “Be brighter, you’re better than this.” His voice rang out scarily indifferent to his daughter’s failure as he watched her struggle to fix her glasses’ positioning on her young face.
Her father’s voice echoes through her mind with every miniscule mistake she makes.
It only drives her to be more successful.
To make her shine brighter.
Even after his death three years ago, his voice still haunts her even to this day. The only difference is she’s not a little girl struggling with multiplying her times tables anymore, she’s thirty two with a stable job in broadcast meteorology.
Victoria blearily opens her eyes as the blaring shrill beep of her alarm forces her to start her day. As she sits up in her queen sized bed, she sleepily rubs her eyes, getting rid of the lingering crust in her tear ducts. Looking around her room, the world looks especially fuzzy today.
Glasses, right.
Her nearsightedness has always been the bane of her existence. It’s bad enough her eye colors don’t even match each other with one blue–from her father–and one green–from her mother–it’s as if she lost the genetic lottery when it came to eyesight.
Lazily, she squints at the nightstand as she feels around for the bulky black square frames. It only takes her a few seconds before she finally grasps hold of them and puts them on. Now she can clearly see her alarm clock.
3:08 AM, wonderful.
She’s got around fifty two minutes to get dressed for the day, maybe–but most likely not– fit breakfast in and get over to the studio.
Thank the gods above for hair and makeup.
Finally rising from her bed, Victoria immediately rushes over to the closet to get her usual brown blazer and skirt set out for work before she heads into the bathroom to start her morning routine.
Exhaustion plagues her features as she hyper-analyzes her appearance while brushing her teeth, her cyan toothbrush going over each sharp canine. Victoria likes the way her canines have grown sharp and powerful, like a shark’s teeth she imagines. She rinses the toothpaste out from her mouth and spits into the sink before she dawns her usual brown skirt blazer and skirt set with her goldfish necklace–a gift from her mother for earning her position as the weathergirl on the mostly male dominated Channel 6.
Once she finally rushes out of her apartment, the cool pre-dawn air sends a chill down her spine. Of course she forgot her coat so all she had was the flimsy little blazer. It looked very stylish and when buttoned highlighted the curve of her large breasts but as far as surviving a blizzard? She’s as good as dead. The streets are silent as the lone woman hastily buttons up the front of her suit jacket looking for some extra warmth as cool winds envelope her every step.
To add more excitement into the mix, the summer’s humidity is starting to become prominent, making Victoria’s thick, unstyled hair frizz up.
Wind howls around her shoulder length dark chestnut hair, moving in every single direction possible as she races through the city blocks, making her slight bedhead look like she slept in a washer dryer. She starts to slow down once she realizes she’s on the same street as the studio and has ten minutes to spare before she needs to be sat in hair and makeup.
For a moment, she stops to admire a billboard from the building directly next to her own work. It’s a comforting display of a woman with coffee colored curls to match her deep, enchanting eyes smiling her iconic smile directly into the camera as points to her face, holding a microphone reading ‘on air’ in the other.
Alice Hartfelt…
A self made woman who’s climbed to the top of her field. She’s dominated radio for the last fifteen years, becoming the face of the station. From her endless charms to that hypnotic trans-Atlantic accent, she’s proven herself to be very successful in her field.
The most upsetting point about her is that some don’t see past the color of her deep brown skin but that’s not what Victoria saw.
Victoria found her incredibly inspiring…and beautiful.
In Victoria’s eyes, Alice had the respect she hoped to someday earn from everyone on television.
Oh how little she knew about how the world works…
For years, Victoria’s asked for a promotion to move up in the ranks in her job at the studio. She’s grown bored of the same old weather shtick after nearly a decade of working in meteorology.
Today, it’s looking mostly cloudy with partial sun in the afternoon! Bundle up folks because today we’re in for a snowstorm! She’s grown sick of it. Most importantly, ‘Trust us with your weather!’ and a bright faux smile that drops the second the camera stops rolling. She wants more in life than to just be some small town weathergirl.
She knows damn well she’s meant for much more than it.
Victoria Whittman deserves its place as a household name–praised–no–worshiped just how a god would be.
Yet every time she asks for a promotion, it’s always treated as some sort of comedy set. She’s thought about just killing off everyone in her way and taking the network that she rightfully deserves but as of right now that seems a tad bit…inhumane.
She’s not opposed to it, in fact, anytime she thinks about it, the laughs of Bob the network head and his trusty producers echo louder through her skull almost as if to push her further.
Two female anchors? This is the news, honey, not chit-chat at the drive in. You’re doing a super job as our weathergirl! Besides, everyone loves you, isn’t that good enough?
Is it good enough?
Ultimately, she decides she’ll wait to take what belongs to her.
After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
Once she finally enters the Channel 6 studio building, it’s all bright smiles from Victoria–the men would pester her if she displayed anything but a bright cheery smile. It’s a mask she’s had to adapt over 7 years of working in daytime television. Each meticulously crafted smile is a shield from the outside world to show she’s capable of keeping a cheerful demeanor.
A smile shows you’re happy, a smile shows you love your job, a smile invites pleasant conversation while a frown invites unwanted comments from all of the assholes in the studio.
James–the lead news anchor–was mostly at fault for these rude remarks. It’s not like anyone will do anything about it if Victoria would complain. She’s only the weathergirl…for now.
Speak of the devil, James winks and smiles at Victoria, he’s already been to hair and makeup and clearly mocking her for just showing up at her proper call time like the asshole he is. Victoria could go on for him and speak a thousand times better than his nonsensical droning, his adlibbed jokes aren't even funny, just embarrassing.
“What’s the forecast today, dollface?” He laughs at her hair–which only looks more frazzled from the wind and humidity outside–and painfully underdressed face, “Looks like a tornado struck ‘ya,” he can barely contain himself, practically doubling over with laughter as some coffee spills out from his mug onto the floor.
Victoria hopes he slips in it and breaks an ankle…or his neck; yet she keeps a strained smile, “Good morning, Mr. Jameson.” is all she says through gritted teeth as she walks right past him.
Now is not the time for his rude comments.
She has a job to do.
She makes her way over to hair and makeup and is met with Sandy, the kind stylist who’s always there to help Victoria look like she didn’t just roll out of bed. In the time from when Victoria started working in the studio a little under ten years ago, Sandy’s blonde curls have slowly grown grey.
“Good morning Miss Whittman,” Sandy smiles, wrinkles on her face deepening from smile lines engraved over her bright demeanor over the years.
Victoria gives the woman a genuine smile, “Mornin’ Sandy,” she says as the older woman guides her to sit down into the usual styling chair, “How’s Dan?” she asks as she slips her glasses off, just to make conversation not about how awful her own hair looks.
Sandy smiles warmly, she always loves when the talent asks about her husband, “Danny’s good, just got the promotion he’s been after so, I’m feeling very proud of him,” she smiles as she starts gently brushing through Victoria’s hair, “Windy today?” she chuckles.
A loud groan escapes Victoria as she slumps in her seat, “I hate walking over here on summer nights, my hair ends up in a different direction I swear” she huffs.
“Up,” The older woman gently slaps Victoria’s arm so she sits upright again, “I can’t put your rollers in while you’re sulking,” she jokes. Reluctantly, Victoria sits upright as Sandy picks up the flat iron to fix the frizzy deep brown locks. “Good, now stay still, I can’t have you walkin’ out there with a burn,”
Victoria gives a soft, “Mhm,” without trying to move even the smallest inch. Sandy has never burned her while doing her hair and she can not let today be the first time.
After delicately straightening all of Victoria’s thick hair, Sandy douses the younger woman’s hair in heat protectant and volume spray to help the next step of the process hold for an extended period of time.
She switches her flat iron out for a curling rod and starts with Victoria’s face framing pieces before she snugly wraps the rollers in and sprays them with hairspray. She goes through the motions like she does every morning to make sure that Victoria’s hair is absolutely perfect for television.
With a final douse of hairspray, Sandy finally finishes up Victoria’s hair. “You can speak again,” she laughs.
Sandy is one of the only people in the studio who Victoria will drop her facade for, her personality reminds her a lot of a mother’s comfort in a way, soft spoken yet stern when necessary. She’s tough when she needs to be, unlike some of the women working here who’d rather get fired instead of speaking their minds.
Victoria lets out a deep breath she didn’t realize she was holding as Sandy instinctively takes out two shades from different foundation brands for Victoria. Years of experience working in makeup for television and show business has helped the cosmetologist create long lasting makeup looks to help the talent look their best on camera. They'll last her hours longer than the average foundation but she needs to combine them to match Victoria’s skin perfectly.
“You’re so pale,” the stylist muses, mixing together two shades that happen to be the lightest in their collection.
“You say that every morning,” Victoria groans, she can’t blame herself for her own genetics.
“Yes but you’d think you’d get a little color during the summer but no,” she slaps the pale mixture onto her face, “Still white as snow,” she hums.
Victoria shivers as the cold foundation is brushed over her features, “You know of all people if I were to go out in this weather I’d burn like a lobster,”
Sandy only laughs in response, “At least it’s some color,”
Victoria rolls her eyes and lets Sandy continue working. She goes through the motions like she does every morning: foundation, a little bit of bronzer to give her face some definition before dusting blush onto the apples of her cheeks, applying Victoria’s signature red lip–which Sandy’s dubbed ‘Whittman Red’—then finishing up with sharp eyeliner and enough mascara to make her lashes seen from a space shuttle.
“Beautiful work as always,” Victoria says, admiring the way Sandy’s managed to make Victoria look alive in an hour.
Sandy brushes her off with a chuckle, “You’ve got the face, I just spruced it up a bit,” she gently pats the back of the styling chair, “Now, out, I’ve got a couple more anchors to do before we go live,”
“Alright, I’ll leave,” Victoria chuckles, pushing herself out of the chair and waving as she leaves the room, “Bye Sandy!”
“Good luck out there,” the older stylist smiles, already helping the next anchor into the chair.
As Victoria leaves hair and makeup, she accidentally bumps into James, his scalding hot black coffee spilling all over her blazer and pristine white top. Victoria winces, trying her best not to scream the first swear word that comes to mind or tell him off.
What does James do? Does he apologize? Of course he doesn’t! He laughs at her. “Woah there sweetheart, watch where you're going! We don’t want to make a mess now do we?” he drinks what’s left of his coffee, not even the smallest drop getting onto his suit.
That’s her final straw.
She is absolutely sick of getting walked all over by this man and him acting as if he’s done no wrong just because he views her as lesser than him. Even from when they first met, she knew she didn’t like him from the smug look plaguing his existence beneath that ugly clearly dyed mustache.
She’s accumulated the thought over the last few years but never had enough motive to actually do it.
Now she does.
This is exactly how she can replace him.
Here’s where she strikes.
Would it really be such a tragedy if a man so awful at his job and to his colleagues mysteriously disappeared?
Not at all.
Instead of outwardly expressing her distaste for the older man, Victoria gives her usual compliant smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes, “My apologies Mr. Jameson, I’ll watch myself next time,”
James doesn’t even spare her a passing glance before waving a hand dismissively while she’s not even finished with her sentence, he’s already halfway across the room when Victoria manages to move again.
Her suit is ruined, she can’t wear something covered in coffee on live television. How the hell is she going to find a new outfit before they air in twenty four minutes? It’s not like they keep a spare wardrobe around or even stain removers; it’s almost pathetic how painfully underprepared the studio is for mishaps like this.
Thankfully, Victoria is quick witted and a possibility to use her charm presents itself to her. As a desperate idea strikes her mind, she makes a beeline for the elevator, trying her best not to slip in her heels. Once the doors close, she rapidly presses the button for the top floor where the head of the network’s office is.
Bob probably can’t do anything about Victoria’s little coffee incident…but his secretary? She’s golden hearted enough to do something about it.
Bob’s secretary—Evangeline— started working at the network around four years ago. Even though she isn’t that new, she still manages to maintain that same bright eyed look that left Victoria’s eyes the second she first set foot into the building.
It’s a miracle how some people stay so kind and positive all the time.
Victoria finds people like that weak.
Evangeline is one of those people.
It’s probably the only reason why Bob hasn’t tossed her away yet, she’s got all the features a guy like him could want in a perfect assistant: young, beautiful, endlessly caring and compassionate, short, blonde, naive, airheaded, a generous rack paired with her small waist.
Based on interactions she’s had with the young woman at various office parties or business meetings and sometimes even the occasional lunch together, Victoria has a gut feeling she’ll be very, very easy to manipulate.
Victoria knows the girl would be willing to switch clothes for a bit. There’s a little problem with it though. Whereas Victoria is fairly medium sized for a woman her age, Evangeline is quite short. There’s one thing they have in common which is why Victoria’s banking on their sizes being similar, Evangeline’s busty.
While the elevator continues its ascension up the sixtieth floor, Victoria silently says a prayer hoping that the young woman isn’t wearing something plagued with her usual pink.
The bustling top floor reveals itself, various interns panicking over possible budget cuts that won’t even matter to them, a couple of producers laughing at someone’s joke about last night’s big sports game.
None of them even spare her a passing glance. They don't care.
As her heterochromatic eyes scan around the floor, they finally land on that bright blonde head behind its curved desk in the middle of the floor serving as a welcoming committee.
For once she’s wearing teal, thank god.
“Eva!” Victoria flashes that charming smile of hers, the one she uses when she wants something with a slight desperation in the way she calls out for the younger woman, “How are you this lovely morning?”
Evangeline gives her usual bright genuine smile, “Miss Whittman! Well, I’m feelin’ sweeter than a summer’s peach!” Of course she’s using her stupidly endearing southern colloquialisms.
“What brings you up here?” She says as she finally looks up from her work, that sweet face souring upon seeing the stained outfit, “What happened? That was such a lovely suit, do you need anythin’?” Her sickeningly sweet southern drawl rings out like a warm summer’s breeze cutting through the humidity.
Victoria internally releases a huge sigh of relief at her eagerness to help , “Yes please, do you have anything I could wear? We go live in twenty and i–” She faux sniffles, deciding to turn on the waterworks just to pull at the heartstrings more. “This is all I have” she looks up, not wanting to risk Sandy’s makeup job with crocodile tears.
The short blonde gasps, “Oh gosh, do you wanna wear this?” she asks, already standing up and coming around to the other side of the desk to help Victoria into the women’s restroom, “Don’t cry over somethin’ fixable,” she smiles softly, always offering help like the golden hearted little idiot she was.
“You’re too kind,” Victoria’s expression drops to a smirk, “I really owe you one for this,” She gently holds the woman’s arm.
“Not at all!” Evangeline seems personally offended by the mention of a favor, her face scrunching up to make her look more like an upset bunny than a young adult. “It’s the least I could do for ya!”
Hook, line and sinker.
Does she feel bad for taking advantage of this girl's kindness? Only a bit. It’s a weakness she can exploit for her own benefit.
Is this Victoria's only shot at wearing something not stained on air? Yes.
Once they reach the bathroom, the two women quickly exchange outfits, Evangeline trying to make some attempt at small talk while they’re actively getting undressed. It almost makes Victoria feel bad for the girl, she probably hasn’t got any friends on the floor full of male producers and executives working their asses off to make sure the machine keeps running.
Realistically speaking, Victoria’s probably the closest thing she has to a friend in the office…They don’t speak much outside of work, just grab the occasional lunch to catch up.
Trying her best to keep up with the chatter that’s way too energetic for it to be before dawn, Victoria occasionally adds in quips to appease the secretary, smiling once she hears the beautiful woman’s laughter float through the stalls.
As she finally zips up the backing of the dress, the cyan fabric fits a little snug around Victoria’s waist and stops around her knees but that's just something she’ll have to power through. Evangeline on the other hand is trying her best to make Victoria’s suit work. It’s coffee stained but ‘easily fixable’ according to the southern belle.
“Thank you so much for this, Evangeline, you really are an angel,” For once, Victoria gives honest, well deserved praise.
Of course, Evangeline brushes it off, a faint blush on her cheeks, “It’s what we girls gotta do for each other,” she chuckles before beaming as she sees Victoria in the cyan dress, “That’s yours now!” She smiles brightly.
“Eva,” Victoria looks down and gives her a genuine laugh, “It’s too short and a little snug,”
“I wasn’t payin’ attention to that, I’m talking about that color!” The secretary practically squeals, guiding Victoria over to the bathroom’s mirrors.
As she scans over herself in the mirror, she realizes that she looks incredibly attractive. The color manages to bring out both colors of her eyes. Even the tightness of the fabric around the waist makes her look more flattering on her figure with its flared out skirt that looks like it belongs to the perfect housewife.
Huh, maybe cyan is the Whittman look.
Her gaze is drawn back down to her watch–shit, she’s got barely five minutes before they go live. “See you at lunch?” She tries weakly. Evangeline’s a simple girl, she’ll probably feel overjoyed that Victoria bought her a salad to poke at.
“Sounds great!” The secretary smiles, still fiddling with the coffee stained suit, trying to make it work though it does not fit right on her because it's made for someone with Victoria’s curvy hips and taller stature.
By the time Victoria finally makes it back downstairs to studio B, the cameras are already rolling for the morning news. James sits at his desk droning on about some feel good story that sounds more like a tragedy with the little variation in his tone of voice. She swears she almost sees one of the interns dozing off at the monotone lecture he calls news.
Meanwhile his co-anchor Dottie stares at him like he hung the constellations themselves. She’s a tall moderately pretty dirty blonde woman usually dressed in some disastrous coral number. As co-anchor, her job is to sit and smile so she never contributes anything of value to the broadcasts apart from the occasional story the writers throw in in an attempt to boost their female audience…her voice is reminiscent of nails on a chalkboard.
Avoiding the live broadcast, Victoria calmly makes her way over to her weatherboard, mentally scrolling through the catalogue of things she could say about the upcoming week's weather forecast.
She’s got her tease first which leaves her with—if James runs according to schedule—around twenty seconds to give the people a basic rundown for today and tomorrow’s temperatures. Based on how her little wardrobe malfunction took up a lot of time, it's coming up a lot quicker than anticipated.
Almost as if on cue, one of the stagehands holds up a five second timer with her fingers for Victoria. The second the red light of the camera switches on, so does the award winning smile as she reads off the teleprompter.
“Thank you James! Although we’re just getting into summer, you might not want to put those jackets away just yet because it looks like we’re getting some rain tonight!” She chuckles at her own little quip, “Today’s high is shaping up to be a sunny 72° with a low of 50° in the evening.” Once the stagehand holds up both hands, Victoria realizes she won’t have enough time to share tomorrow’s forecast because of course James took longer than he needed to with the first block’s stories. “I’ll be back later on in the show with more on this week’s forecast and remember rain or shine, on Channel 6, you can trust us with your weather!” she beams.
The camera shuts off and Victoria’s smile drops instantly. She’s got a whole filming block to meticulously plan out how she’s going to kill James after work before she goes on.
A faint memory crosses her mind of the time her pointer’s little lightning bolt cap flew off during a broadcast to reveal the sharp pointed metal rod. The object’s tip was unnecessarily sharp, meant for a doctor’s needle, not a weathergirl’s handy prop. Her eyes are drawn to the little stick in the corner of her eye as she instinctively walks over to it—she needs it for her broadcast anyways.
Pale fingers with a fierce blue manicure ghost over the lightning bolt at the top of the rod…it would be so easy for her to just do it now…everyone would see and it would 100% cost her her job and possibly her life. She nearly takes the canary yellow lightning rod off before a loud voice interrupts her and tethers her back to reality.
Snapping Victoria out of her thoughts, the stagehand calls out “We go live in five..four” she then keeps her hands counting down from three to avoid accidentally being heard on air. The last finger points to the weathergirl as the red light of the camera switches on.
As usual, Victoria delivers the weekly forecast with sparkling precision. Each joke and endearing comment graciously peppered into the boring mandatory phrases like warning everyone of the brewing summer rainstorm.
Once the first broadcast is finished filming, Victoria goes out to survey the area. The alleyway between the news studio and the radio station seems like the perfect place to strike unnoticed in the evening, she decides she’ll sit there and wait for James to walk by before striking. On her outing, she also picked up her usual salad for lunch while also getting one for Evangeline. As a thank you, Victoria also grabs the secretary a pink lemonade—seems like something she’d be into.
Lunch with Evangeline is exactly as expected, she’s absolutely overjoyed that Victoria remembered their plans and even bought her a salad and lemonade.
By the time nine pm rolls around, they’ve wrapped on filming for the whole day. Nobody really watches the news past seven on Monday so, the editors usually compile a show from all the most important stories throughout the day for the eleven o’clock news that night.
While leaving the studio, Victoria discretely grabs her weather pointer to use in her crime. In the alleyway between the television and radio studios, Victoria lurks with her weapon—the lightning bolt tipped pointer she uses every day to show various wind patterns and how storms will affect the area removed to showcase the deadly blade. The summer sky is just dark enough where she’ll go unnoticed when she strikes.
After a few minutes, James wanders past, humming a stupid song under his breath. Victoria takes a deep breath and lunges outwards. With rapt precision, the weathergirl swiftly slices through James’ jugular, his crimson red blood oozing out from the deep gash all the way down into the street.
Seven years of pent up rage, gratified in a single slash.
Luckily for her, the rain will wash all of this little mess away tonight.
Instant gratification floods her senses as she sees the light drain from his eyes, it’s almost like a dose of pure euphoria injected directly into her bloodstream. Victoria doesn’t like the instant dopamine high she experienced from the murderous act committed in cold blood.
She just killed someone…shouldn’t she feel guilty? Anxious? Something not euphoric?
Little did Victoria know, someone would catch her leaving the alleyway.
The door to the neighboring radio studio whips open as the weathergirl unceremoniously dumps the body into the dumpster and moves to rush inside.
From the door to the radio station, out comes Alice Hartfelt, fuming with anger, “Salaudes stupides,” she mumbles, the French she learned from her mother slipping through in her rage.
Her love for her profession does not reflect how she feels about her colleagues. Although she understood the kind of workplace she was getting into being someone of her background and gender, it never fails to amaze her how ignorant people are.
The slamming of a dumpster top snaps her out of her thoughts. Her head whips up as she hears scampering heels against the pavement. The last thing she sees before the door to the studio slam shut is a brunette with neatly kept shoulder length waves.
Channel 6’s weathergirl?
Alice vaguely remembers her name Victoria—something. She’ll probably find her on a billboard somewhere throughout the city with the label “Rain or Shine, Trust Us With Your Weather!” and that vacant smile all people on television adapt over years of working in the industry.
Why would they have her take out the trash? They have more than enough custodians to do that, whatever she dumped must have been something very secretive.
A gift from a coworker? Pregnancy test? Something more…nefarious?
The radio host almost laughs at the thought, what could someone like her possibly hide?
Then eyes are then drawn to the crimson liquid on the pavement. Alice hums as she analyzes the trail of blood leading to the dumpster, “How fascinating,” she muses.
Retrieving her handkerchief from her pocket, she lifts the lid to the dumpster and her eyes widen at the sight of the deceased news anchor. Alice knew he was an asshole from the lewd and downright racist comments he’d address towards her whenever he’d grace the local jazz club with his presence. The more she looks at the body, the more she mentally configures how good he’ll taste braised in a stew, feeling her mouth water at the idea.
Suppose she’ll have to call some of Rosie’s friends to clean that up for her… She can’t risk getting her own hands dirty…
Instead of taking the smoke break she planned, she heads inside to make a call to a dear friend as the downpour begins.
Meanwhile inside of the television studio, Victoria frantically races to the nearest bathroom to clean herself up from the mess she caused. By some miraculous work from the divine forces, the dress she borrowed from Evangeline is completely unscathed and nobody noticed her bloodied reenterance.
James’ blood stains her skin, the deep thick maroon liquid coating itself into every crevice of Victoria’s pale trembling hands.
She might throw up at the sight.
As she scrubs the last remnants of James off her hands, she feels like she’s going to be sick–the adrenaline from the kill mixing with her previous nerves all combining within her stomach to make her stupidly nauseous.
After emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet, she decides it's best to head home for the night.
At home that night, Victoria sleeps better than she has in weeks.
The next day, Channel 6 is a whirlwind of chaos. James hasn’t shown up to work without any prior warning, so they’re without a main star.
Victoria takes this opportunity to knock on the Channel 6 producer’s office. She can practically feel the tension between Mr. Richmond and Mr. O’Brian through the door, giving her the perfect opportunity to save the day.
Carl Richmond is the first to call out from behind the door, “Who is it?” he barks, sounding incredibly uninterested.
“Victoria Whittman,” she announces herself calmly, not wanting to risk adding more water to the already boiling pot of James’ disappearance.
“Whadd’ya want, weathergirl?” Kevin O’Brian groans, already fed up with this whole situation.
“I think I could help with your problem,” The woman offers, nervously shifting weight between her little brown heels from behind the door.
Mr. Richmond scoffs, “Come in,”
Victoria smirks before switching to her television smile when she enters the room, she has to absolutely nail this pitch or else she’s stuck working in weather for the rest of her life.
When Victoria enters the room, the atmosphere is cold, the men stare at her like vultures. Both Mr. Richmond and Mr. O’Brian stare at her with an analytical gaze.
“So,” Mr. Richmond starts, flicking out a hand in her direction like a king would to provoke his jester, “What’s your master plan?”
“For Mr. Jameson’s replacement, I step in.” She turns to Mr. Richmond, “They want a face they already know and trust, Mr Richmond. Not some newbie,” she reasons, presenting herself in a strictly professional fashion.
Mr. Richmond scoffs, “And why should that be you? You point to pictures and tell people to bundle up when it snows.” he laughs obnoxiously at his own mediocre joke, “No offense sweetheart but, I’m not sold yet, Why should we have two female anchors?”
Victoria’s heterochromatic gaze pierces through him, “Something like an anchor’s gender shouldn’t matter when it comes to the quality of the news you’re receiving. I mean–look at Alice Hartfelt, she seems to be doing very well,” Victoria starts, by the looks on the producer’s faces, she can tell she’s starting to win them over, they just need a little more pushing. She decides to settle it, “Plus, it's reading off of a teleprompter—which you both know I can do without flubbing over my words,” She chuckles, the men following. Victoria finishes her laughter, signalling for the producers to do the same, “Look, my point is this, you can already trust me with your weather, so why not the news too? Even if it’s just to fill in until Mr. Jameson returns. Take a chance on me?”
The producers give each other a look.
A slight frown of recognition hits Mr.Richmond’s face first before Mr. O’Brian sighs, wordlessly understanding their predicament.
They don’t have any other reasonable choice.
Mr.Richmond sighs, turning his gaze towards Victoria, “You know, You’ve got some moxie, weathergirl,”
Victoria tries her hardest not to look incredibly smug at that remark, she lets the men continue.
“We’ll give you a trial run, Miss Whittman. If you bring the ratings up, you’ll stay.” Mr. Richmond continues.
“If we drop even by one percent, you’re back on the weather,” Mr. O’Brian finally decides to get his two cents in, offering a hesitant smile in an attempt to appease her.
Victoria nods, trying to feign some nerves so they believe she’s understanding the weight of the situation when in reality, she knows she has this in the bag.
“Thank you endlessly for your trust and faith in me Mr. Richmond, Mr. O’ Brian,” She respectfully thanks each producer, “I’ll make sure I don’t disappoint," she winks playfully before leaving.
“You better not, Whitman! We’ll be watching!” Mr. Richmond bites one final remark as Victoria heads down the hallway, internally cheering that everything is going according to plan.
Pale brown fabric rests on Victoria’s shoulders for her first broadcast later that day, she chose a modest brown dress to help the public see her as serious. She traded out the little goldfish necklace from her mother for a beautiful sailboat she saw at the local Macy’s when buying her new dress.
She’s not a small fish anymore, she’s sailing through without a care in the world and she’s only going up from here.
As she settles down into her desk, she turns to her co-anchor, “How are you holding up?” she asks, testing the waters.
Dottie gives her a look, she’s cried nearly all of her mascara off, black trails running down her cheeks, the slight tan in her foundation showing from the way she’s crying waterfalls "You won’t replace him,” She sniffles, her voice sounding much more nasally from the emotion she sniffles, tears already trailing down her cheeks, destroying Sandy’s beautiful makeup job, “They’ll find him.”
Solemnly nodding, Victoria places her hand over her co-anchor’s, “Hopefully they will, if you ever need to talk, I’m here,” she offers a soft smile, not wanting to make enemies with someone who shares her desk.
Dottie hugs Victoria, sobbing, “Thank you.” Her shoulders tremble as she tries to hold onto the new head anchor. “Thank you so much,”
A stagehand’s voice interrupts the sincere moment between the two anchors, “And we’re rolling in five…four…” She silently continues counting down from three, each finger dropping before the camera’s red light flicks on and she points to Victoria to begin.
“Good evening Louisiana,” Victoria starts in a formal, confident tone, “My name is Victoria Whittman and I will be filling in for James Jameson tonight. We open with a solemn story about the disappearance of one of our own. So please, be on the look out for James Jameson. He was last seen yesterday in studio B at around nine pm wearing a dark grey suit. If you have any information please do not hesitate to call the studio at,” she then provides the studio number, “More on this later tonight,”
Throughout the entire broadcast, Dottie can’t keep herself together, leaving Victoria to take the complete spotlight.
By the time the end rolls around, Victoria has clearly won over her audience. “That’s it for today, thanks for joining me tonight” She smiles, making an intern swoon, “I’m Victoria Whittman and you can trust me with your news,” She winks at the camera before the light goes dead.
When the full day’s broadcast is done, the whole room claps. They haven’t done that since the time James just barely saved their asses after a broadcast went wrong where their field reporter got hit by a car while on air.
Even during the following week, Victoria’s hard work paid off. For some unexplainable reason, almost as if by the grace of god himself, the views on Channel 6’s news station skyrocketed after the reintroduction of Victoria Whittman.
The people adore her.
Exactly as planned.
The issue with James Jameson is that his boring stories seemed to drag longer than the airtime allowed, each joke or attempted adlib fell flat and not even mentioning his droning tone of voice, it was just plain awful.
Come to think of it, everything about the man was plain awful, from his broadcasts to the misogyny—even his name was a mouthful. James Jameson—ugh, try saying that three times in a row without tripping over your own words.
News doesn’t have to be a boring lecture like an overworked and underpaid professor trying his best to appeal to the “youth” in the room. The news should keep up with daily life—fast paced, bigger, better, brighter.
So that’s exactly how Victoria delivered it. With a smile on her face and a song in her heart that needs to be shared with the world until everyone’s humming along to the same tune.
By the time Friday’s meeting with the producers rolls around, it's much shorter than the last one. They've reached an understanding: Victoria Whittman is good television.
Mr. Richmond stares at her with a smirk, as if knowing the outcome all along despite shitting bricks during the previous week’s meeting, "Congratulations Miss Whittman,” he says as he extends a large hand, practically engulfing Victorias as they shake solidly, “You proved us wrong,”
“I’ll do it again,” Victoria’s smile is more smug than usual, she knew this would happen because with her determination, she knows she can do anything she wants while remaining completely unscathed.
The producer scoffs, “Smart girl, go keep up the good work,” he waves her out of the conference room with a smile.
And that’s how Victoria Whittman started slashing her way up the ladder to stardom.