The slit of sky visible through my curtain suggests it must be five in the morning. The blue light cuts my naked back in half.

"London Capell for The Reverent." I yawn into my phone's mouthpiece.

"Check your door." Jordan's metallic voice commands.

I follow his directions, and the soft pattering of my feet against the marble floor fills my empty apartment.

An unmarked white box is waiting for me at my doorstep. It's small enough to be cradled in my arms, and so I heave it onto my kitchen counter—no questions asked.

I knew what it was. I had spent an entire week documenting it's distribution. I put my phone down on the counter, tear the box open with a knife, and the moon glints against its blade.

"Package 8B, canned fruits and vegetables," Jordan says. "Familiarise yourself. We will run a special on the food aids controversy."

My hands rummage through the tin cans as I skim over the labels. "I thought Ara is on leave this weekend."

"Yes, and so you will lead it." My hands stiffen in shock. I take my phone off speaker and hold it close.

"You want me to produce the special?" My voice wavers. "Jordan, this is an honour. I will not fail—"

"I know, or I wouldn't have picked you." Jordan replies in a disinterested manner. "You used to be a real do-gooder, London. I think you've matured significantly as a producer. And, today..."—Today!—"I need both versions of you to rise to the occasion. The graphics team has already received a memo. The special will be called, "Food aids: Boon or Bribery?" and it has to be a ninety-minute discussion. Form a panel, get experts, and make it riveting."

The foods aids have dominated our fears for the past few days. It has allowed Zach Young's approval rate to creep ahead, slowly and steadily. I have to hold my ground, I could make a real difference.

My heart thumps. "Jordan, I don't want to collaborate with Nutrien for this." I want to do the right thing.

The connection scratches for a second and Jordan's voice crackles through. "Good. This is why I asked you," He replies, and I can hear him smile. "Just follow all necessary procedure. Come on, let's ruffle some feathers today."

-----

I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for Chloe at the landing of the office stairwell, with my coffee mug pressed against the palm of my hand. It's leaving a hot red imprint on my peachy skin, but I'm too overwhelmed to care.

She pushes past the heavy steel door and smiles at me. "I found someone you might like."

"Really?" I grab the tablet from her hands. I read through the professor's profile, his history of live appearances, and his noticeable allyship.

Chloe bites her fingernails, anxiously. "Good, right? I could do better, but it's been impossible to find someone who would even breathe anything critical about the situation. Electoral committee alumni, experts, lawyers who've studied bribery for decades"—She lists off on her fingers—"Most of them claim that it's inconclusive. That it's too early to call it bribery. Without rigorous qualitative research, they will not cosign any other idea on a live show. Neither for, nor against."

"I'm sure they have theories."

"Yeah, and they aren't in AFD's favour," She murmurs. "Look, no one would want to criticize them without hard proof. You can't blame them..."

"I can. I can blame them." I shake my head. "They can say that they are waiting for the aftermath, just to study it better and double-check their citations, but what good will that do? By then, the damage will be irreversible. Chloe, they can change something today."

With a loud exasperated exhale, she says. "I know. So, what do you want me to do?"

"Uh—I mean—He seems great." I say, while scrolling. "I remember him from the water deregulation bill panel. Let's set up a pre-interview. We'll put him down as our expert."

"Alright." Chloe takes the tablet back from me. "Should I ask him—point-blank—that we are interested in someone who would criticise the AFD?"

My lips part, but I hesitate. "No." I say, sounding unsure. "What? On a recorded pre-interview?"

"I'll meet him in person and keep it off the record."

"Chloe." I sound surprised, but rather I'm conflicted. "You said, he's critical, right? Ask him questions that give you a clearer picture, and then book him."

She agrees.

A slow ticking clock pulses in my chest. It grows louder and louder as Chloe leaves with a brief goodbye. The stairwell seems to be closing in. I want to grab her by the wrist and say, "hey, I know what you did for Dakota," but I swallow it down. It's neither the time, nor the place.

Today has been a blur of decisions, and I hope I have made the right ones. Should I have broken the code and let Chloe ask the professor about his allyship? It's not the fear of malpractice that is holding me back—people in my business do this everyday. It's the idea that I could finally produce a segment that I could be proud of. I want to do things the right way. If the AFD is truly in the wrong, which I believe it is, I shouldn't have to dirty my hands to prove it.

Taking two steps at a time, I rush to our final rundown meeting.

Everyone is already in the conference room. Their brown, beige and white shirts are visible through the glass walls. A handful of editors and producers, our technical director Abbas, and of course, Collin Hart.

"I'm sorry!" I shuffle into the room, tossing my cashmere coat haphazardly on the back of my chair. I take my place in front of the whiteboard, flicking it on with a hasty gesture of my fingers.

In my peripheral vision, Abbas, shifts in his seat uncomfortably. He surprises me when he says, "I was wondering...if we should be airing a food aids segment this early? It's a sensitive and complicated issue, and our speculations won't help. A lot of people are calling it a bribe, and it truly might be one."

"No, Cherry Devlin is calling it a bribe." Our resident prick, Collin responds. "She's also calling Kerry a liar for her welfare scheme. Are we supposed to take that at face-value as well?"

The junior staff at the meeting look between them two with wild eyes. Abbas looks to me for support, but before I can tell him that the segment was issued directly from the network and that I do not have a say, Collin continues to speak.

"And Cherry Devlin knows nothing." He adds snarkily. "Kerry helped whoever she could."

Abbas leans forward. "The point of a welfare scheme is to uplift the poorest—not to widen the gap."

"Cut it out both of you!" I command. "We don't have time for this."

Fortunately, my colleagues nod politely, turning their tablets on to run through the questions again.

We have selected a panel of four, and according to my plan we should have an equal split in bias. Collin will act as the adjudicator. He'll be wearing an earpiece, and I get to scream in his ear to make sure he doesn't jump into arguments just to scratch his ego. The questions are precise, and despite the long hours, everyone seems alert and prepared.

I walk out of the conference room feeling slightly more in control. Lea, who shadowed the meeting after I called her for her expertise in everything election-related, runs to catch up to me.

With a warm manicured hand on my arm, she tugs me into a corner. "I heard you're booking the mad professor?"

"The mad professor?" I ask, suppressing a laugh.

"Sorry. My department started calling him that after his vitriolic argument against the water deregulation bill." She smiles, looking slightly embarrassed. "We haven't used him for a panel in a long time, but I'm glad to see you do it."

"Really?" I edge closer to her, blushing at the validation. I didn't expect her to make me feel better about my choices.

"Yes, he'll make the ratings soar. But a word of caution, London." Her hand clasps my shoulder tightly. "I don't know how things are between you and Wayne, but this might start a fight with him."

A smile tugs at my lips. Now, I do feel good about my choices. The professor would be easy to excuse. I could pin it on Jordan, or poor verification, or just tell him that it was my job to put on a good show. Wouldn't it be fun to see Wayne squirm?

"It's fine." I wave my hand dismissively. "He'll understand."

-----

A shaft of white light shines down on the dark podium floor. It glides upwards, falling over Collin's shoulders, brightening him up on screen.

"Camera three, ready?" Abbas, next to me, mutters into his mic.

"Camera three, ready and movin'."

In order to seat five people around the long semi-circular desk, we cleared the crew from the studio and opted for automated or remote-controlled equipment.

The technicians seated around me have control over each camera, light, microphone, and sound panel in the room. Their non-stop instructions and equipment checks have blended into the background for me. The continuous chatter as distracting as the blinking orange lights on their monitors.

"Graphic for the administrator from Westside rolls in four." I squint my eyes at the administrator a few meters in front of me.

"Three." His fingers drum against the glass-topped desk as Collin asks him a question, following his loathsome speech in favour of the AFD.

"Two." A supportive yet smug smile rests on the ex-electoral board member. He is about to speak in defense of the administrator when Collin stops him. "No, let him answer," Collin mediates.

"And one."

"Rolling." A switch flicks.

The graphic unfurls under the administrator's tall face. His blue suit jacket matches the banner, which reads his name and occupation.

"Well, Collin. I think that's an unfair question." The administrator strokes his chin. "My problem with this particular case is the allegation of bribery. For bribery, you need to prove intent. The choice of words are...not a mistake. Bribery makes it seem sinister and transactional. A dark alley deal between people who want to hurt you. The AFD could have simply been thinking that the food packages are a brilliant way for them to remind the community of the direct aid they have been providing the people of Odile for all these years."

A faint hint of disgust marks the mad professor's face while the lawyer's face seems frozen as if she's seen a ghost.

I don't mean to be anxious. I'd deny it if anyone asked, but I keep fidgeting with my hands and picking at my eyebrows. Is it the caffeine or the panel?

Something just seems to have gone wrong.

The nervous butterflies in my stomach turned into monsters, two hours ago, making me feel like I was being eaten from the inside, the second Nutrien returned an official statement.

Wayne was meant to squirm but instead he read the names of the panelists out loud, and I could hear his smile through the phone. "Baby," He'd said. "You're going to do great. Don't worry."

I replied, gulping. "Yeah, I'm not worried."

"Well, Nutrien would like to reiterate it's position by saying that we, as a corporation, are glad to assist our government in providing food packages to those struggling and in need. Everyone deserves a happy, healthy, and nutritious life."

I had slammed my phone down on the table, and reminded myself that it's his job to not appear worried.

Despite all my bravado, I am currently watching my plan to confront the AFD sympathizers on air fall apart like a castle of cards.

The mad professor is not the reason my ratings surged mid-program. It was the zealous administrator and his big blue expressive eyes darting from panelist to panelist.

For an hour now, the professor has remained still. Only joining the discussion to fact-check the administrator a few times. A vague remark about ten minutes ago had quickened my heartbeat, but the excitement died as soon as it began.

I can't tell if its because he feels intimidated, or if he cannot find an opening. I'm praying it's the latter.

It was supposed to be two for, two against! The professor and lawyer on one side, the administrator and ex-electoral board member on the other. But the lawyer seems to be playing both sides. Every argument against distributing food aids before the start of an election is undercut by an argument made in favour of the same. "However, I understand the necessity..." She had said after chiding the whole practice.

I hope her marginal contributions amount to something.

"Collin, pass it back to the lawyer or the professor." I say. "The admin wants to get technical? Good, let's talk about intent."

Collin offers a curt nod, imperceptible on camera. "Alright, let's pass it back to Ms. Song. Could you tell us, in the eyes of the court, when does generosity cross the line and turn into bribery?"

She begins, "From a legal perspective?"

"Yes, what are the signs of a corrupt intent?"

"Well, there are no direct signs, per say. We always look for certain elements when we have to make our case in front of a jury. For example, timing. Suppose, there is evidence that I knew that you would be starting a bidding war on a building contract. There is evidence that a week before the bidding begins, I had gifted you a really nice car, and that once bidding opened, I won the contract. Now, if anyone joined the dots, they would say—hey! that's not fair."

I exhale loudly in relief. Finally, a great point.

The lawyer continues. "So, we have evidence that person 'A' could provide person 'B' something valuable. We have evidence that person 'A' was suddenly found enjoying something they would not otherwise be able to provide for themselves."

"So, is timing the main factor?" Collin sounds intrigued.

"Not necessarily. Likelihood could be another one. We see an exchange of services, and we try to trace back for the jury that given the circumstances, it was unlikely that I would have won that bidding war. There are degrees to it, of course. But say, my company was splitting and my finances were unsteady, then it's somewhat unlikely that I would have won the bidding."

This is a fantastic point to segue back to the food aids. The unlikelihood of voters from Westside favoring the AFD. "And in this case..." I prompt.

Collin taps his pen, his signal to tell me to "back off, I've got this." I oblige.

He remarks. "When it comes to the distribution of the food aids, can't one make the case that these signs are present?"

"I disagree." The professor interrupts. Hair pricks on the back of my neck. What the fuck is he doing? "Timing is not a factor here. A lot of it has to do with the past."

Emotions flicker through my eyes like a snapping, wavering film reel. I don't blink, I don't breathe. I wait, in sordid anticipation, for him to finish his thought.

"I've carefully examined the documents. Anyone who does so can tell that the timing is the result of a long drawn-out bureaucratic issue. Westside had a lot of counties in quarantine last year, just like Bex. Most of them were not well-off neighbourhoods. A lot of technical difficulties prevented the distribution of packages. All that red-tape led to it finally being possible now. The timing is completely circumstantial."

My jaw clenches. I don't even know where to begin to unpack his argument. I whisper, seething, into my microphone. "Isn't it simple for a district government to change dates and numbers on previously filed documents?"

"—It would be worse if Councilman Young delayed the distribution because of the elections. People are going hungry. That should take priority—"

"Numbers have been fudged before." I continue.

Collin pinches his lips, listening to both of us simultaneously. Moments like these, I begrudgingly respect him as an anchor. "How reliable is the idea that all the technical difficulties occurred in a way that led them to such an opportune time?" He asks. "It's not that hard to change numbers on previously filed government documents—"

"—That's a fantastic point!" The professor cuts in, with a crazed look in his eyes. "It's exactly the kind of thinking that leads to conspiracy theories. I think the media giving attention to theories like these only harms people's belief in their governmental structure. If we want people to participate in an election, isn't it important for them to harbour some faith in the system?"

I'm shell-shocked.

My bones tremble from his carefully-worded, biting statements. Bile rises in my throat. I look on horrified, and time slows all around me.

Collin appears shocked too. The other participants agree and the lawyer wrings her hands together, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Displeased that he was chided in front of the whole nation, Collin tries to continue.

The professor cuts him off again. "First, the ONA does not like Kerry's schemes to tackle poverty. Then, they don't like that the AFD is sending food packages to needy people." His voice rises obnoxiously. "I'm starting to get the feeling that the ONA does not want to help the poor as much as they say they do. What is this war on welfare schemes?"

With all the blood rushing into my ears, I can barely hear him anymore. The blinking golden lights on the consoles leave trails in my vision.

My hands are shaking. It's not the caffeine.

Viri, next to me, says in a frantic voice. "Do we keep pressing on? I found an old article. 'AFD officials step down after changing dates on endemic reports, inflating the number of anti-viral medication distributed.' Oh, and another one—"

"Drop it, Viri." I reply, as softly as I can through gritted teeth. "It will make us sound nuts."

With my arms out-stretched and my hands gripping the edge of an empty table, I bend forward. My hair covers my face and I rest this way for a few seconds.

Betrayed. Exhausted. Embarrassed. I'm not sure where to begin.

Even if the AFD was handing out bundles of money in the weeks leading up to an election, these panelists would find a way to justify it.

God, I've been such an idiot.
I've been such an idiot.
I've been such an idiot.

I thought today was promising. Part of me is angry that I actually thought something good could happen to us. Angry that I was hopeful.

My hand closes in a tight fist on the table. My nails itch to dig into the consoles and rip out the buttons.

The long discussion, twisting and folding the same few words, has been enough to make me question my own discomfort with the situation. I wonder what kind of impression this must be making on an average viewer.

A small hand rests on my back and I freeze.

"Hey. Um. Do you want me to take over for a minute?" Viri offers, gently.

"No, I'll stay till the end." I straighten up.

My gaze lingers on the professor. He owes me an explanation. 

-------

[a/n]

first draft! please excuse any grammatical errors.