My thought process while writing this: let's just do a little Hans drabble, get the ole' writing muscle working again. Maybe include his brothers. Maybe. *watches the news* Well, crap, now all I can think about is The Newsroom. *stares blankly* Hans. Don. Hans. Don. How to write a douchebag sympathetically... Uh... 6k words later, with Helsa undertones. Blatantly ripped off from the Newsroom. mAU. There might even be ice powers in this. I don't know. Just, a lot of talking, and Hans being an ambitious little douchebag.

I really don't know what it is, either.

Newsflash

On Air

"—yet it still remains to be seen if she can present herself as a viable candidate to swingvoters, particularly the male demographic," Bob stated. "She struggled with male voters over fifty-five, and that cost her the ticket in 2008."

Hans wiped the tip of his nose with his thumb, took a quick sip of water and screwed the cap back on. He'd wanted his usual double espresso, but only screwtop bottles were allowed in the control room. He stared at his brother's round, pasty face on the monitor, then turned his attention to the alternate angle.

"Terry, the numbers graphic," he murmured. "Standby camera two."

"Of course she's viable, she's the frontrunner!" Derek interrupted.

Hans touched his headset, pressed a button on the mic pack at his waist.

"You have Sanders there to confirm via satellite from D.C.? Standby after the round table finishes," Hans directed. "Graphic… now. Two minutes, and then go to split screen from Washington on camera four."

"There could always be an upset in the works, especially if the Republicans come up with a strong candidate," Bob countered. "The whisperings are turning into murmurs are turning into real talk as far as Christie is concerned, and Derek, let me cut you off because I know you're planning to rebut: the Right could care less about Bridgegate if they can come up with an appealing moderate. Plus, Rubio's got enough pull with the Hispanic minority to cause a few upsets in states that have swung democratic on that vote alone."

"Gentlemen, 20-16 is still two years away," Charles, centered and unwavering, tried to maintain order at the news desk. "Let's rein this in and get back to the single party ticket. Bob, your thoughts on Hillary in Iowa?"

"No confirmation, no denial. Still too early to tell. But I bet Biden will follow."

"Derek?"

"Actions speak louder than words. She came in third in the '08 Iowa caucus, so she's there to make a point. With Bill going vegan, it certainly wasn't for the steaks."

"Come on Derek, you're beating a dead horse," Hans grumbled into his headset, tiny transceivers stuck in his three onscreen brothers' ears. "Give me context. Terry, split screen in thirty seconds."

"The congressman's retirement barbque was supposedly nothing more than a Democratic fundraiser," Derek said. "She may not have been prepared to announce her candidacy there, but the news team here at Western World has learned, exclusively, that Hilary Clinton will be announcing her candidacy for President in 2016 at the upcoming rally in Denver. With us tonight is the man tapped as Clinton's campaign manager, Peter Sanders. Peter, thanks for being here."

"Thanks for having me, Derek. Charles. Bob."

"You worked on former President Bill Clinton's campaign in the early nineties, then deviated with direct party involvement by jumping ship for a Super PAC," Derek began.

"I wouldn't quite put it that way—"

"Don't antagonize him, Derek. We hardly got him to agree to come on as is," Hans chided.

"What can we expect from the former Secretary's impending announcement, and how will it differ from her goals set during the 2008 primary?"

"I'm afraid you've gotten a bit ahead of yourself, there, Bob."

Hans crushed the plastic water bottle in his hand.

"What the—"

Charles's broad, navy-covered shoulders stiffened minutely. "Her visit to Iowa was particularly illuminating in that—"

"You'll notice the former Secretary did not speak with any press during that visit, aside from the formal greeting she made at the opening of the fundraiser," Sanders commented. "There are no announcements coming from the Clinton camp any time soon."

"Shit!" Hans seethed. "Cut from him to camera two. Chuck, we've got his office on record, and the memos sent this afternoon. It's confirmed, she's running, which is as good as an announcement. He's just pissed we broke it before she called the press conference. Ask the follow-up."

"So you're saying that the Iowa visit was nothing more than support for her fellow party members?" Charles asked, ignoring Hans' instruction.

"Both members of the family were present. Former president Clinton had recently participated in a public conference with former President Bush, so the Clinton family thought it best for the former secretary to speak. There were no political machinations in the works. You've obviously been over analyzing again, Charles."

"Ask him about the intern," Hans growled into the mic. "Ask him about the memos, the preliminary press release!"

"When can we expect an announcement then—" Derek cut in, "—if the speech in Iowa was nothing more than partisanship support?"

"That's a lot further down the line. I'm sure you understand there are many factors to consider."

"Oh come on!" Hans groaned, propping indignant hands on his hips. "I swear Charles, if you don't ask the damn follow-up, I'm putting the memos up on graphic at the top of the next block."

"Any further comment on Hilary Clinton's candidacy?" Charles asked, bland and unagitated.

Star on camera.

America's man.

"Hypothetical candidacy. And only that it's still in the hypothetical stage."

"Well, that was enlightening," Hans grumbled. "Four minute segment wasted. Terry, get me the screenshots of those memos from Sanders's office. We'll move the Apple keynote copy up to the E block and scrap the remaining Clinton supplement. If Charles won't do his job, I'll let Derek lead in."

"Break in twenty, Hans," Terry said, flicking switches on the control board.

"—which is still not a declaration of candidacy," Sanders intoned. "The media outlets are too eager for this type of announcement, they're taking simple fundraising events and twisting them into—"

"Breaking in fifteen guys, dump him out," Hans said, running a jittery hand through his hair. His fingers got caught in his headset and he was tempted to throw the damn thing at the monitor.

"I'm sorry, but we're going to have to end it right there," Charles said. "Peter Sanders, neither confirming nor denying Clinton's candidacy for 20-16 after her trip to Iowa. We'll have more, right after this."

The bell dinged and the On Air lights powered down.

"We're out. Back in two."

Hans pinched the bridge of his nose. He chucked the crushed water bottle in hand across the room in a furious huff, then threw open the doors to the control room and stormed into the studio. It took every ounce of professional restraint he possessed not to bring his fists down on the news desk where his three brothers sat.

"What the hell was that, Chuck?! I've seen better interviews conducted by Terry's two-year-old. We had confirmation from his office!"

"He wasn't ready to disclose yet," Charles spoke dismissively, cat-scratching at a paper before him with a personalized ball-point pen. The American flag pin on his chest glimmered faintly against the overhead lights from the studio. "The candidacy announcement isn't the big story, not when we all know it's going to happen. We'll have leverage with her campaign when that story does hit."

"And you two?" Hans rounded on his other older siblings. "We had those memos on file! You could've jump in instead of sitting with your thumbs up your asses."

"Hey, I did try to—"

"Save it, Derek. I've had to pull you back enough times to know when you're really trying. You usually go at it like a hyena, but you didn't ask the follow-up! The intern confirmed—"

"That's right," Charles said, creased forehead crinkling tiredly. "The intern confirmed. That's not confirmation at all."

"What?" Hans blustered, cheeks flamed with ire and vexation.

"Having an intern confirm something is the lowest grade of authorization. You're asking for a private's clearance level when you need the general's. We need more confirmation, better confirmation than that."

"Confirmation is an absolute, Chuck. It's either confirmed, or it isn't. Nothing can be semi-confirmed. There's conjecture, and then there's facts. As long as we attribute correctly, our asses are covered. This was a fact, and it was our story to break."

"You know better Hans, especially in this business."

"You should not have sprung this on me," Hans seethed. "If you had a problem, you should have brought it up during the preshow meeting."

"We did bring it up, Hans," Bob said genially. "You just wouldn't listen."

"We had enough to run with it," Hans argued. "What about the memos that came directly from the campaign manager's email account?"

"Back in one, guys," a PA pushed passed Hans and placed three copies of the next segment's stats in front of Derek, Charles, and Robert.

"Still not enough," Charles opined. "You want more than two shoddy sources to confirm announcing a presidential campaign. Especially if it's Clinton's. You're letting your ambitions cloud your judgment."

"Not the time, Chuck," Hans glowered. "Those sources were iron-clad. Not to mention that we found the first draft of the preliminary press release yesterday. Sanders confirmed it during the conference call. Bob, you were there."

Robert shrugged, leaning back in his swivel chair while a young woman in black patted his face with stage pancake.

"Did he go back on what he told us?" Hans asked. "I step out to confirm the rundown for two seconds, and he goes off the record?"

"It's not that simple, Hans," Chuck said. The second eldest of the West brood was at the age of perpetual weariness and patronization. He seemed to have honed his bearing over years of reporting, simply to antagonize his younger brother-turned-partner.

Hans loathed him for it.

"These campaign managers have everything planned down to the t, including the first run announcement," Charles elaborated. "Maybe we're scratching their back now by not breaking the story, and they'll return the favor in the future."

"Fifteen seconds, Hans," Terry called back from the control booth.

"You decide to change my story, you damn well better let me know. I'm your EP. That is my booth, don't sabotage it." Hans turned on his heel, stomping back to the control room.

"Hey!" Chuck yelled over the studio. "It may be your booth," he acknowledged brusquely. "But it's not your show."

"And we're back in 5-4-3-2—"

The lights were off in his office at nine a.m.

The blinds were also drawn, and he hadn't yet booted up his computer. Down the hall, twenty-somethings sprinted in and out of the building with cell phones surgically attached to their ears; computer keys click-clacked in constant rhythm. Desk monkeys performed fact-checking and proofreading and copyediting. Out on the grueling streets of NYC was an intern, some sunny-faced college sophomore thinking he was tough shit because he had been entrusted with picking up the anchor's dry cleaning for the day. Informants and contacts phoned in from locales international and domestic while pencils scratched on Post-Its and college-ruled notebook paper, notes tacked higgledy-piggledy upon bulletin boards. Someone who had manned the wires all night took his second smoke break on the balcony. A writer placed a new filter and a handful of ground Columbian dark roast into the coffee maker.

The quotidian happenings of a cable network newsroom.

His door squeaked open and Hans bolted upright, only to have his vision blocked by a piece of paper that had somehow attached itself to his forehead overnight.

Oh, right.

I slept here.

"Oh! Hello."

Hans grunted as he snatched the paper from his clammy forehead. A telephone number for someone in the Clinton camp, smeared from his overnight perspiration.

Well, fuck it.

Turns out sleeping at a desk in yesterday's suit leaves a body sweaty, with the kind of neck crick only a seasoned Swedish masseuse can work out. Hans tilted his neck sideways and winced at the audible pop. He tried not to groan.

"Here's the copy for the guest spot tonight on Western World." A pause, and then: "I didn't think you'd be in this early."

Hans smacked his dry lips together and didn't bother straightening his tie. He knew he looked like hell half cooked.

"Why would you drop it off while I wasn't here? I didn't make enough of a scene to warrant avoidance from people I've never met," he scrambled to make some sense of the organized chaos on his desk. He never looked sloppy, so of course the one time his office looked less than pristine did the new business anchor see fit to drop by.

"I don't have time to review it with you right now," the woman said. "I've got to get started on the market analysis for Business Day at three. Talk to Gerda if you have any questions concerning content."

"Right, finance," Hans said, finally making eye contact with the speaker.

And hell if that wasn't a bad move.

The woman was put together with such attentive detail, it was like God had animated a 5,000 piece puzzle, just so she could stroll into his office and marvel at his personal disarray. No stitch, no hair, no tiny eyelash out of place. Her platinum hair was clipped back primly at the nape of her neck. She was all buttoned up in a Burberry suit and pencil skirt combo, and teetered on heels that Hans believed cost as much as his first Rolex. She possessed the most stilted, unshakeable air he'd encountered since accepting this job at the National News Channel. Her professionalism bordered on hostility, cool demeanor hampering what should have come across as interdepartmental diplomacy.

So, not the greatest people person.

Hans stood to save face, and buttoned the second button of his rumpled blazer.

"My apologies for this ill-prepared meeting. I'm Hans, and if you do well with the boys tonight we might look into making this a weekly thing. Our numbers guy says we'd fair better with a female face, and you seem to be the only blonde in the business Fox hasn't poached from the field. What do you say?"

He extended his hand in greeting, only to be met with a suspicious glare.

"Here's my copy for the VO-SOT. Make sure your teleprompter people type in everything exactly. I've reviewed it several times."

She shoved the paper into his outstretched hand and exited with a clipped gait that paralleled her awkward sociality. The blonde stopped at the door and pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees.

"My name is Elsa Maling, and you have blue ink on your collar. Please spell it correctly when we go to air. My name… I thought you should know. About the ink. It looks like you got into a tussle with a squid and he came out the victor."

"Oh… yes, I… stayed pretty late last night."

"That wasn't a wise decision."

"No," Hans mumbled lethargically. "It wasn't."

Miss Elsa Maling cast shifty eyes over Hans's rumpled form once more, lingered inappropriately over the stain at his neck for twenty seconds, and then left without another word.

Hans flopped back down in his chair and let his head fall forward on top of his desk. His neck protested, as did his pride, but he couldn't find it in himself to care at the moment.

"Shit."

"What the hell did you give me?" Hans asked, barreling into Elsa Maling's office at the top of the five o'clock hour. "This is gibberish. Chuck and Derek laughed me out of the rundown meeting. Additionally, you missed the rundown meeting."

Elsa didn't remove her eyes from her computer screen.

"I gave you my copy, and I've sent talking points to your anchors," Elsa said dismissively, refreshing a page of stock reports. "I'm leading with economic impact of increased military drone usage. We'll pivot from there and talk Amazon, who's finally cracked drone use for international deliveries, and the ensuing commercial ramifications if Congress keeps up with the prohibition on domestic drones. That's your five minute segment, plus the minute-thirty pre-taped piece. I don't understand your frustration."

"You plan on reading this on air?" Hans asked, uncomprehending. He slapped the paper down on Miss Maling's desk so hard the computer monitor shook.

"Yes."

"Read it to me."

"… why?"

"Prove to me you can read this, because this jumps in out and of actual language. Has your copywriter even taken an AP class?"

"I write my own copy."

…

…

…

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"I call bullshit," Hans repeated. "This is some prank, right? Derek put you up to this? Blonde, distant, you seem like his type."

"There seems to be a misunderstanding happening here," Elsa rose, on the defensive.

"You know what? Whatever," Hans put his hands out, fingers extended in supplicant exasperation. "You're what they use for getting back at me? I don't care. Just remember, I can make you look like an idiot while you're on air, so don't think you can screw with me."

"Don't call me an idiot."

"You're an idiot if you're going along with them."

"The original meaning for the term 'idiot', was a mentally handicapped person. You work in news. Careful throwing that around."

"Now I need workplace sensitivity training?"

"No, but you could use some lessons to tone down your ass-holery."

…

…

…

"Ass-holery? What the—"

"You know what I mean."

"That's not a word," Hans countered.

"It sounds better than ass-holeness. Tacking on certain suffixes can completely change the function of a word, which I find amusing," Elsa sat back down and uncurled her clenched fists. "And appropriate, considering the talk I hear about you. I was hoping you would prove me wrong, and yet, here you stand, full of… assholery."

Hans already knew about his reputation in the office. Consequence of being the youngest senior staff member amid swirling rumors of nepotism and company politics.

"How did we get to arguing about linguistic derivatives of the word 'asshole'?" Hans asked, not taking the bait.

Elsa broke eye contact swiftly, then turned her attention back to the computer screen. A muscle in her cheek twitched. Hans heard the drag of lead against paper, and watched Elsa's left hand scrawl out numbers while her attention was tuned to the screen.

"I frequently contemplate the linguistic derivatives of the English language. The structure is more complex than Danish."

"You speak Danish?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I speak all continental Scandanavian languages. I completed my doctorate in Stockholm. Well, one of them."

"One of—who the hell are you?" Hans asked, taken aback.

"Did we not cover introductions earlier today?"

"Introductions, yes. But you're more than a skirt with a M.B.A. in economics."

"You didn't review my credentials before asking me on your show?"

"It's not my show," Hans resigned tiredly. He slumped, throwing out all kinds of signals that he wanted to sit. Needed to, even, after the forty-eight hour attack from the execs higher up. This middle management crap was for the birds.

Elsa didn't ask him to sit. Doctorate: yes. Social cues: not so much. Hans took his liberty and sat uninvited in the chair across from her desk.

"That is, if my brothers have anything to say about it," he continued. "Wes told me to get you. I know you do Business Day. That's it. Wes is my boss, I have to do what he says."

"You should do more checking up on your guests."

"Yeah, I learned my lesson last night."

"Sanders?"

"Don't," Hans muttered, then sighed. "The hardest part of my job is wrangling the big three behind the desk. I've got subordinates who preinterview, and then report to me. I review what they give me, and just when I think it's going fine, my anchors sabotage my story on air. To top off the shitstorm of the past two days, Wes makes me invite the weird numbers lady from three o'clock, and this is what I get from you," he flapped the paper about in his hand. "Miss Business Barbie, who can't seem to work with more than three people on her own show. Who also, apparently, writes her own copy!" Hans said, disbelieving. "This—" Hans tapped the paper with an aggressive pointer, "—is basically a deconstructive treatise on the English language."

"Give me that," Elsa demanded.

Hans arched an auburn brow.

"Please," Elsa added, though her tone was anything but conciliatory. She turned her attention to the copy, cleared her throat, and began: "President Obama addressed the nation Monday and revealed a four part plan to combat the jihadist group, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, more commonly know as Isis. The White House initiative for heavy drone strikes against Isis parallels the votes of the American majority, who favor fly-over combat instead of the much debated 'boots-on-the-ground' offensive.

"According to The Wallstreet Journal, the U.S. military spent over three billion dollars last year on drone programs. With the primary offensive being mounted by drone strikes, stock investments for military grade technologies have skyrocketed. In the green are Prox Dynamics, a Norwegian defense company that brought in thirty-one million last year off of a mini helicopter surveillance drone used by forces from the United Kingdom in Afghanistan. In the American green is Boeing, whose drone initiatives have increased tenfold since Amazon completed its first commercial delivery via drone service in New Delhi last month—"

"Okay, I get it."

"What?"

"You memorized it to screw with me."

"You think I'm just making this stuff up?"

"No, it's too polished not to have been thought out beforehand," Hans conceded. "I'm just admitting defeat at the hands of someone smarter than me. They got me, you got me, let's just call it even and let little brother learn his lesson, alright?"

"I'm not trying to do anything to you. I don't even know you. Or your brothers. I know of them, but not them personally."

"Sure."

"Hans, I'm dyslexic."

…

…

…

"Oh."

"It's not something I broadcast. And it hasn't really hindered my career objectives, obviously." Elsa leaned back in her chair, not confident exactly, but frank. As in, 'of course my dyslexia hasn't stopped me from achieving my career goals, I'm a national cable news anchor and a hot genius'.

Or maybe Hans was just putting words in her mouth.

Head.

Mind's voice.

Whatever.

"The copy… makes more sense now, knowing that," Hans amended. "I'll have the guys in the booth double check it to make sure it's entered correctly."

"You make it sound so bad, it's mainly just letter spacing for the teleprompter. I would say you could borrow Gerda. She's my tech in the booth, but she's already gone home for the day."

"I think Terry can manage," Hans continued, placing the tips of his fingers together. A calculating gesture usually, but in this instance, used more so for brainstorming. "I'm assuming you could improvise if we make a mistake. We'll know better from here on out, of course, but you'll forgive us our failings your first night on, won't you?"

"You keep making it sound like I'll be back. Word is the news desk your brothers man is a shark pool. We both know Wes just likes to throw chum in the waters periodically to bump ratings."

"Are you calling yourself chum?"

"Chum, with legs that look pretty good in a pencil skirt. Another ratings boost, I imagine."

Hans cast a calculating look in her direction, glare from the New York skyline blinding his eyes. Like a damn J.J. Abrams flick.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to," Elsa replied robotically, returning to her typing. "Three postdocs or not, it comes down to aesthetics. You want to talk stock investments and interest rates in your discretionary portfolio with the quarrelsome receding hairline that is Jim Cramer, or do you want the fair skinned, blue-eyed blonde with a demure smile and calming presence to break down your financial options just in time for last minute trades at the closing bell?"

"'Demure smile and calming presence'?"

"My blurb, in Forbes's latest 'Young and Capable' section."

"There are worse adjectives."

"Hot-headed, ambitious, impatient, prone to ass-holery—"

"I see we've stopped talking about you," Hans interjected.

"—and interruption."

"People only think I'm that way because my brothers are like that."

"Uncomfortable shouldering a family legacy?"

"That, and denying claims of nepotism. I almost accepted an anchor position instead of taking this."

Elsa smiled knowingly. "Then why didn't you?"

"Not national. It was for the city."

"And…?"

"And… what?"

"Morning show, right?"

"Yes," Hans confessed.

"I knew it. Somehow, you don't seem the type to get excited over viral kitten videos and claims of Justine Bleiber's deportation."

"Justin Beiber."

"I don't really care, I was just making a point."

"Point made," Hans answered. "Forgive me if my aspirations are rather more substantial."

Hans leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable. He hadn't had such a… pleasurable wasn't the correct word. Not challenging, but… it felt very much like the woman opposite him sympathized with his motivations. Called him out on his bullshit, definitely, which was starting to grate on his nerves. It didn't help that she probably had a few IQ points on him, and looked like she'd walked off the runway from fashion week. Despite all these qualities, he felt competent speaking with her, badgering back and forth. A conversation, not simply talking at somebody.

"I don't fault you for your ambition, but, as we've established, there are ways to go about it—"

"— without coming off as an asshole. I know," Hans conceded. "I just… the posturing, it's almost necessary if I have to oversee those three. Derek was a SEAL when he got into reporting. You wouldn't believe what I've had to do to keep him from going off the rails. Bob's fine, but Chuck—"

"Charles. He's the oldest, right?"

"We have another brother who's older than he is, so second eldest."

"Another one? How many of you are there?"

"Thirteen."

She abandoned the computer screen and made eye contact with him.

"You're joking."

"I'm not," Hans said.

"Then you're Catholic."

"Ha! Good deduction, but not practicing."

"Everybody in journalism?"

"No, thank God. A smattering in international business, one musician, one athlete, two accountants, and a surgeon. I think that's everyone."

"So where do you fall in sequence?"

"Baby."

"Oh. That explains the posturing."

"Yes. Not to mention the fact that Chuck was an EP before he turned anchor. He thinks he knows my job inside-out, but it's been over fifteen years since he was behind the camera," Hans propped his loafered foot atop his opposite knee, settling in. "It's different now. I did my bit at NYU, summa cum laude and everything. No doctorate, but not half bad. Got some production awards, even a spot on camera for New York channel three before graduation. And that's not Scandanavian languages, either, but us bottom dogs feel like we've got a lot to compensate for. So maybe we come off a little… over eager."

"Don't begrudge your elder siblings their successes. Perhaps they feel they have a lot to live up to," Elsa clicked a little more forcefully than was necessary to refresh her page.

"I'll begrudge them all I want if they continuously undermine my authority."

"You weren't going to break the Clinton announcement. Not this week, anyway," Elsa responded. "All thoughts are on the Middle East. It wouldn't have been appropriate for the former Secretary of State to announce her candidacy, not during a beheading spree. The president wouldn't even say Isis in his address. He stuck with Isil, which means he's not yet ready to take on the notion of Syria. Clinton can't compete with that, not when extremists are killing people now. That campaign is two years away."

"But don't you think it makes it that much more important?"

"What?"

"Her candidacy announcement."

"I don't follow."

"She has the potential, and currently, the likelihood, of becoming the President in two years time," Hans explained. "The Middle East will never rest, and you can bet those bone-picking conservatives will resurrect Benghazi during her run. News is always happening, it's always breaking, so why was I denied the opportunity to break her big story?"

"You think it was to teach you a lesson?"

"I think it was so my brothers could show me who's boss. Even though I'm controlling the camera, I can't control what they do on air. There's three of them, and one of me. If they all agree on something and the graphic contradicts it, who are the viewers going to believe? That lone graphic guy, or the three anchors they've watched every night for ten years, that they allow into their homes, to deliver the pressing issues of the day? Who am I to compete with that?"

"… you know my degrees are in economics, right? Not, uhm… psychology."

"Sure."

…

…

…

"Why are you sitting in my chair?" Elsa asked abruptly.

"I was tired and you never offered. That's rude."

"Pointing it out is likewise ill-mannered."

"God, how did you even get this job?"

"My credentials," she said, unconcerned. "Though you've probably surmised through the day's exchanges that I'm not what one would term a 'people person'. When it's just the camera, it's like I'm talking to myself."

"You talk to yourself about Wall Street reports?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"And you write your own copy because of your… dyslexia."

Elsa froze, and her eyes shifted in Hans's direction. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, as did that dusting of ruddy fluff on his cheeks. He blamed the chilly draft for his consideration of hacking off his beloved sideburns.

"Among other things," Elsa murmured coldly.

"Care to elaborate?"

"No. I prefer a small team."

"Fair enough," Hans answered. "But you'll agree that if tonight goes well, you'll be open to a recurring guest spot on Western World? God knows we could use a 'demure smile and calming presence' in the studio with those three. Wes will basically make you recurring if there's a numbers jump."

Elsa didn't speak for a moment, and then: "Gerda said you threw a water bottle at one of your copywriters."

"I didn't throw it at him. I threw it, and he was just… in the way."

"Well, I hope I'm never in your way, then."

"See that you're not," Hans warned with a smile.

"It's just that kind of warm acceptance that makes me more and more willing to do a weekly spot on your show."

"I told you, it's not my show."

"Hans, from someone who's done a lot of work from the outside looking in: it is your show. You just don't see it yet. You have more power than you know, you just don't know how to use it yet. You're... likely to succeed, if out of nothing but sheer stubbornness."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's my job to study investment risks. That's what you are. We've been through the adjectives that describe you, and I think Wes expects a solid return on his investment."

"Why can't you just speak like a normal person?"

Elsa sighed heavily. "They took a risk hiring you. You're dependable, but not predictable. You're more than capable, more than qualified, but your ambition curtails that capability, leaves you open to mistakes. Men like you coined the phrase 'go big or go home'. That's why you wanted to break the Clinton campaign story, regardless of the international context. You're not short-sighted, you're just… intensely focused."

"Tunnel vision."

"Basically."

"And you said you weren't a psych major."

"I'm an analyst. And I'd like to get back to doing just that, unless you have more inappropriately personal questions for me?"

Hans took another look at the woman's desk, and noted the lack of personal mementos. One picture of herself and another woman, similar facial shape. Maybe a sister… or cousin. No noticeable signs of a boyfriend.

Well, go big or go home:

"Just one: what are you doing Saturday night?"

"I'll be back from the market at four, and I'll select the companies I use for the following week's profiles between four-thirty and six," Elsa responded. "That way I can get the preliminary research out of the way. Then I suppose I'll have dinner, though what, I'm unsure of yet. It will probably depend on what I get at the market. The Mets are playing that night, so I plan on watching the game. Why, what are you doing on Saturday night?"

…

…

…

"I didn't actually mean—you know what, never mind," Hans shook his head, pressed off of his knees with the flats of his hands. He didn't need anymore crazy in his life at the present moment. "Be ready to go on by seven thirty. You're in the B-block."

He was pouring a cup of coffee down the hall when he felt the pains of discomfort, the inexplicable urge for closure. Because his previous conversation certainly hadn't provided it.

Elsa had taken her blazer off and her hair was down when he stopped short at her door. She had her hands crossed over her abdomen, fingers entwined, and was staring blankly at the ceiling.

"I don't understand you," he said.

"Alright."

"You see, for me, that's not alright. That's sort of a bad thing. The only way I know how to help my brothers on air, is because I understand them. I'm not going to be able to help you."

"That's okay, I do fine on my own."

"That's because you deliver a thirty minute, one-woman show. You hardly ever have guests, and the ones you do have are call-ins. What is it about talking to other people that freaks you out so much?"

Elsa continued staring at the ceiling, all weighty eyes and unsettling presence.

"The only other person on my news team, besides Gerda, is an acting coach. It took me three months to master the 'calming presence and demure smile' technique. Critiques of my delivery range from 'frigid' to 'judgmental'. I have to remind myself to smile every three minutes while I'm on air. As I said, my degrees are in economic theory. Numbers, not people."

"What were you, home schooled or something?"

"That's an egregious over generalization about the homeschooling community."

"Yeah, but were you?"

"… not the point."

"You shouldn't need a degree to be able to talk to people," Hans argued. "Hell, we've been talking okay, not great, but okay. At least for the last fifteen minutes. Maybe you should just work on coming off as more personable. That's what gets the viewers."

Elsa tapped her fingers against her abdomen, then leaned back up in her chair. She tilted her head to the side, and cast a scrutinizing glance over Hans's form. It was yet another improper social reaction, and lasted much too long for comfort.

"When they called me back to say I got the job, they told me I was an investment risk. A long shot, just like you. But I work really hard to be good at what I do. It doesn't come easy for me, the 'coming off as reassuring' part. Numbers aren't people. Numbers are easy."

"Numbers can't talk back," Hans was beginning to understand.

"Something like that. But ask yourself this, Hans. You say we've been talking okay, right? For twenty minutes or so?"

"Yes. You're a business woman, you're not an alien."

"Did you know you're the first person besides Wes and Gerda to come in my office?"

…

…

…

"No."

"And that I've been working here for almost four months now?"

"No."

"Well, as one investment risk to another, don't you think that says more about you than it does about me?"

Hans left her office, again, utterly discomposed. Investment risk. Hot-headed. Yeah, I'm ambitious, but so what? And who was she? Some loner, Danish-spouting economics freak.

Why were all of the drop-dead gorgeous ones crazy?

Even worse, why were they Mets fans?

And still worse… how the hell did she figure him out so fast?

FIN.

Yeah, I don't know either. Just me trying to get into Hans's head. Throw in my own version of the brothers. Hastily written and edited, I know it's really lacking in context.

Blah. You can review if you want to, but I won't take offense if you don't :P