Due Day
It had not seemed like little Evie was going to be born on schedule, so Christof had had to take the matter into his own hands. The network's doctors had induced labor a good while ago, now, long enough for the party being held for the directors and crew in the control room, celebrating the beginning of a promising new chapter of their grand project, to be set up and begun.
Now, amid the cheerful chatter of the group, cameramen and writers standing around with their glasses of company-bought champagne, Chistof alone keeps an eye on the screen, timing each contraction. Though everyone else is so sure of the show's success, he could not afford things to go wrong now, of all times.
Over the sounds of labor, the repeated insistence of doctors that the mother must push, he can hear James Ashford from Advertising bragging to Melissa Elkins from Lighting about his new car.
Personally, Christof thinks the man a fool for bragging about a new car after having totaled his previous one by driving too fast during that freak blizzard in December. It was only luck that he didn't get badly injured and freeze to death in the wreckage, as Thomas McNally and Sara Mendoza had.
Christof had enough trouble finding replacements for those two positions; having to fill three would have delayed the start of the show even further, even into summer. However, from what he's seen, the two replacements he found were turning out to be superior to their predecessors in nearly every way.
Letting his mind drift from the events on-screen, he can hear the vague voices of those replacements, laughing over some shared joke as they help with the pouring of champagne for those of the crew who haven't yet gotten a glass. They work well together, those two,
Christof thinks, thank goodness. There is no use in having top-notch people working for you if they don't get along. Luckily, with these two their relationship seems to extend only to the boundaries of the workplace. Nothing more complicated than a good working relationship,
just as Christof would want.
Not like that Richard French from Merchandise, Christof's thoughts change gears as he hears that annoying laugh from off to his left. He's always hitting on the new secretaries and telling off-color jokes again to see how they react. Christof can practically feel the heat of those secretaries' blushes from where he sat. He makes a mental note to get someone to send a note to Richard, politely warning him of the details of the company's idea of proper businesslike behavior and its stance towards harrassment.
A slight touch at his elbow brings Christof back from his thoughts: a hand, offering a glass of champagne. "One must celebrate the birth of a new age," Adrian Doyle smiles down at him. "The doctors know what they are doing, as do the rest of the immediate cast; they've been
rehearsing this for ages." At the resulting look from Christof, Adrian continues. "So I'd think you could afford to take five minutes to celebrate your success."
Christof hesitates for a long moment, then his normally impassive face relaxes into a small, rare smile. "This is something worth celebrating, I suppose," he says, taking the offered glass and standing. It being the first movement they've seen their boss make in
the past half hour, the assembled crew all shift their hold on their glasses and give scattered applause.
From what he can tell, they're expecting him to make a speech. He hadn't prepared one, the party itself had been rather spur of the moment, but Christof had always been a great improvisor. That quality had saved the Truman Show from catastrophe many times, especially when
Truman had begun getting suspicious. It had not been able to save the show forever, in the end, but it had been a good run. And now here he was, standing on the brink of what will, if he has anything to say about it, be another good run.
A better run.
There are words in his head, inspiring words of promise and visions of the future, but all of them fade as the familiar air-raid wail of a newborn breaks through the dim maternity-ward sounds from the speaker behind him, crying against the sudden cold, crying for the loss of the
warmth it had known.
Christof smiles in this moment of triumph, raising his glass. "A new age," he proclaims, and tilts back the glass.
Now, amid the cheerful chatter of the group, cameramen and writers standing around with their glasses of company-bought champagne, Chistof alone keeps an eye on the screen, timing each contraction. Though everyone else is so sure of the show's success, he could not afford things to go wrong now, of all times.
Over the sounds of labor, the repeated insistence of doctors that the mother must push, he can hear James Ashford from Advertising bragging to Melissa Elkins from Lighting about his new car.
Personally, Christof thinks the man a fool for bragging about a new car after having totaled his previous one by driving too fast during that freak blizzard in December. It was only luck that he didn't get badly injured and freeze to death in the wreckage, as Thomas McNally and Sara Mendoza had.
Christof had enough trouble finding replacements for those two positions; having to fill three would have delayed the start of the show even further, even into summer. However, from what he's seen, the two replacements he found were turning out to be superior to their predecessors in nearly every way.
Letting his mind drift from the events on-screen, he can hear the vague voices of those replacements, laughing over some shared joke as they help with the pouring of champagne for those of the crew who haven't yet gotten a glass. They work well together, those two,
Christof thinks, thank goodness. There is no use in having top-notch people working for you if they don't get along. Luckily, with these two their relationship seems to extend only to the boundaries of the workplace. Nothing more complicated than a good working relationship,
just as Christof would want.
Not like that Richard French from Merchandise, Christof's thoughts change gears as he hears that annoying laugh from off to his left. He's always hitting on the new secretaries and telling off-color jokes again to see how they react. Christof can practically feel the heat of those secretaries' blushes from where he sat. He makes a mental note to get someone to send a note to Richard, politely warning him of the details of the company's idea of proper businesslike behavior and its stance towards harrassment.
A slight touch at his elbow brings Christof back from his thoughts: a hand, offering a glass of champagne. "One must celebrate the birth of a new age," Adrian Doyle smiles down at him. "The doctors know what they are doing, as do the rest of the immediate cast; they've been
rehearsing this for ages." At the resulting look from Christof, Adrian continues. "So I'd think you could afford to take five minutes to celebrate your success."
Christof hesitates for a long moment, then his normally impassive face relaxes into a small, rare smile. "This is something worth celebrating, I suppose," he says, taking the offered glass and standing. It being the first movement they've seen their boss make in
the past half hour, the assembled crew all shift their hold on their glasses and give scattered applause.
From what he can tell, they're expecting him to make a speech. He hadn't prepared one, the party itself had been rather spur of the moment, but Christof had always been a great improvisor. That quality had saved the Truman Show from catastrophe many times, especially when
Truman had begun getting suspicious. It had not been able to save the show forever, in the end, but it had been a good run. And now here he was, standing on the brink of what will, if he has anything to say about it, be another good run.
A better run.
There are words in his head, inspiring words of promise and visions of the future, but all of them fade as the familiar air-raid wail of a newborn breaks through the dim maternity-ward sounds from the speaker behind him, crying against the sudden cold, crying for the loss of the
warmth it had known.
Christof smiles in this moment of triumph, raising his glass. "A new age," he proclaims, and tilts back the glass.