Working on your story

You wake up to your phone ringing. You roll over in bed, still in your clothes from last night, and answer the phone without looking at the screen to see who it is.

"...hello?" you answer.

"John?" It's Amanda, your editor's assistant. "I have Laura on the line for you."

"Oh, okay. Hold on a se-" you say, sitting up in bed and slapping your face.

"John," Laura says, after Amanda put the call through without waiting. "Where are you?"

"I'm um, I'm working a lead."

"Okay, do you have a story? I don't mean to push you and our agreement is still good, but we've had nothing much at the paper since your blockbuster story, and we need another win soon. Advertisers are holding out on us, wondering if we can deliver the clicks." The powerful and normally confident executive actually sounds concerned. You wonder if many people have seen or heard this side of her, but you suppose you're in an unique position where she has nothing to lose with you.

"I do... It'll be big, I think. I just need a few days to get my facts together and some interviews done."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Not yet. I'm not sure how to... it involves some really powerful people."

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything. Don't worry about coming into the office."

"Gotcha, boss."

The line goes dead as Laura hangs up, and you look at the time. It's already half past noon, and you're still tired. It's amazing how Carmen Riley does her day job while being a vigilante.

You head to the kitchen and make yourself some coffee while studying the photos and videos from last night. You have all the documentation you need to prove that there is a ninja vigilante in New York City and her real identity, but you feel like you need a little bit more. An origin story. It's still a little too soon to go straight to Carmen, so you decide to start with her father. Superheroines in comic books always have some sort of issue with their fathers. Carmen's father, Bruno Riley, is a striking man in his fifties, with a silver mane and beard. He used to be a soldier, until he went into the private military business, then somehow ended up founding Riley Industries, which now has a hand in all kinds of businesses.

He's a flamboyant billionaire who's not afraid to show it and to be seen, and from a quick search, you find reports of him in Morocco last week with a Bollywood actress, Miami 2 days with a reality TV star, and just yesterday at a gala in New York with a female Russian tennis player. It seems like a good place to start, and you call his office, not sure what to expect. It takes about 5 redirected calls before you're put through to his personal secretary, after having to repeat your credentials as a reporter for the Tribune 5 times. Each time, you hear the person on the other end of the call typing your name in a search bar, then what you assume is them clicking on your now famous story that most people have read or heard about.

"Good afternoon, this is Helen, Mister Riley's personal secretary. How may I help you?" a woman says.

You heave a sigh of relief at having finally gotten through so far. "Hi, I'm John Colins, a reporter with the Tribune. You may have heard of me, I wrote the-"

"Yes, Mister Colins, I know who you are. How may I help you?" Helen repeats tersely.

"Uh, okay... Well, I'm working on a story and-"

"About Mister Riley? He has no interest in commenting on any stories about his lifestyle nor did I know the Tribune is stooping to the level of the tabloids."

It sounds like Helen is used to dealing with reporters and paparazzi on behalf of her boss, and is an effective gatekeeper. You're a little taken aback, not not deterred, as you compose yourself.

"No. It's not about him. It's about his daughter, Carmen Riley."

"What about her? If you're suggesting that she didn't earn her job or is the beneficiary of nepotism, I think that story has been written multiple times."

"Maybe I'll work that into my story," you pause for effect, "but that's not what my story is about. It's about her extracurricular activities at night that I'm sure the entire city and country would be very interested in reading about. I also have pictures and footage, which I'd be happy to share with Mister Riley, if he would like to comment before I publish."

There's silence on the line when you finish talking. There's no sharp and forceful retort from Helen, and it seems like she's muted the line. You're happy to let her process the information or perhaps she's talking to someone else.

"Helen? You there?" you finally ask after a while.

"...yes. Please stay on the line," she replies, then there's silence again. In the meantime, you keep looking up Bruno Riley online and going further back, you find an interesting quote from him a couple of years ago that says: "Hugh Hefner? Please, he's got nothing on me. I'm the real Playboy."

"Mister Colins?" Helen says after a few minutes and you almost forgot she was on the line.

"Yes?"

"Mister Riley can squeeze you in for a brief conversation. He would like to do it in person."

"Sure. I can head over to Riley Industries right now."

"Actually, he's about to leave on a trip to Dubai. Would you be able to meet with him at his private airfield? It's about 45 minutes away from the city."

"Uh... sure, I guess."

"Great. I'll have someone pick you up." Helen then asks for your address so that she can send a car to pick you up. After you get off the phone, you quickly jump into the shower, put on a suit, and load the pictures and video you have onto a tablet to bring with you, keeping other copies on the cloud and the Tribune's servers. Not 20 minutes after you had gotten off the phone, the car is already here, and the driver holds the door open for you as you enter. There's a opaque partition between the driver and the passenger seats, and he raises it the moment the car starts moving. Sitting in the back of the car and inhaling the smell of the leather seats, you wonder what's about to happen next.