Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Isobel| Start spreadin' the news...

"And that's a wrap."

Isobel jerked at the loud clap of the producer's hands. Nneka rushed forwards, hands gripped in front her and a smile splitting her face. Coral lips, matching her a-line skirt, popped against the deep bronze glow of her cheeks.

"That was incredible. It's coming together nicely, and you're looking a lot more comfortable up there."

Isobel climbed down from the bar stool propped behind the smooth marble workstation. They'd spent the last four hours filming various spot segments to link together for a promotional collection that would highlight and draw attention to all the core issues and causes she held close to her chest. And today's filming was her first camera check, to ensure she had the ability to work a camera on the spot, to deliver the news and relay pertinent information without stalling, freezing or losing focus.

The moment they'd walked out onto the set she'd been dazed and dazzled by the hot lights, the flurry of movement of the boom operators, camera technicians and production staff.

"Thanks," she said, plucking up her bottle of water tucked out of sight and took a long, deep drink. Her mouth was so dry and parched it was like she hadn't touched water in a month. Nerves had sucked her dry and with each cut and break she'd guzzled greedily between makeup and hair touchups. She tried to smile but her cheeks were exhausted from holding a perma-grin for several hours. And the layers of makeup weren't helping.

"You'll get used to it," Nneka said with a knowing smirk. "The lights wash you out so we have to apply heavily. At least most of your filming won't happen in studio."

"Thank god for that."

"Alright, girlie, let's get going. We have a sweeps meeting we're already late for." Hooking her arm through Isobel's, Nneka led her off the platform and around into the back end of the newsroom studio were the team was already gathered and waiting. Soon as the door opened and they strolled inside the clamour of happy voices cut away, like gossiping students the second the teacher returned to the classroom.

"Hello boys and girls," Nneka said, claiming the available seat at the end of the table, off to the left. Isobel took the only free seat left open at the side. Papers were scattered around the length of the oval surface, various bottles of water and half-finished cups of coffee dotted in between, and at the head was an open box of gourmet donuts that were almost too pretty to eat.

"For those of you whom haven't already met Ms. Morgan, please come up and introduce yourselves later, otherwise we'll have plenty of time to get better acquainted. You'll all be working rather closely in the trenches for the next eight weeks—longer should the PA program take off as I expect it to."

Isobel's gaze slid around her. Young and old, men and women, at least a dozen or so who all watched her with varying degrees of interest. Some appeared open and friendly, others more guarded, and a few were impossible to read.

The Passivist Activist was going LIVE. She was set to become a voice that would cast attention on the problems in the world and CP24 was giving her to power to connect on a scale she could never have otherwise achieved on her own.

Her first assignment was to discuss the recent rash of hostility against the LGBT community, as reports of gun violence and assaults flooded the news. The most recent of which left a staggering body count in its wake. She was a part of vital news while also maintaining control over the core message. She wasn't reading off someone else's script. It would all be her words.

Her beliefs. Like a spoken news article. Honest and without agenda. A thrilling opportunity.

The first of its kind. And not everyone around the table was happy about it.