Andrew Sellars --alias-- Vox Populi

"What? No, ma'am...Kara? Can I call you Kara? Right. Kara, we're in the middle of switching over to a digital system," Andrew says into the phone, flicking through a Rolodex to find a publicity headshot of the reporter with her name and number listed,"and we're still trying to find Forthwind's records on what they were keeping in there." He listens for a moment and furrows his brow. "You bet your pretty little blonde head we've been trying to get to Forthwind and Balchem, but you know how these conglomerates are. I've got half a mind to go down there myself and yank Charlie Forthwind right out to Ground Zero to see what's going on here. You might recall this is what I warned everyone about--that City Hall hasn't been keeping up with the ti--Yes, that's exactly it! Oh, yes, the mayor and I are in close communication on the affair."

Andrew looks over to a massive stack of papers on his desk and thumbs through them. Battle plans, drafts of press releases, a few profanity-laced memorandi, and a few apologies for them. "Kara, I really don't know what to tell you about the people with...powers? Talents? There's been theories, of course--evolution catching up to humanity, that sort of thing. Right now, I'm trying to get the facts out, find out what effect this is going to have on Rainport, and keep fighting for the environment that makes this city so great. Of course I'd be willing to do an interview, but I don't know if I can do that before the press conference. Oh, afterwards, sure. Maybe dinner somewhere? The station's treat? Maybe fix me up with that cutie King. " Andrew laughs freely, although the expression on his face is more of a grimace as he looks out his office window to see St. Paul's on the horizon. "You too. I'll be in touch. Goodbye."

Sellars hangs up the phone and stands to walk to the window, feeling the weight of the gun--he'd brought it for the police raid on some wannabe mafiosos who'd been making a fortune handling illegal dumping for some chemical syndicate-- and the sleepless night he's spent at the office answering phones and letting "No comment." roll off his tongue. Something suddenly occurs to him, and he turns back towards his desk, pulling open a bottom drawer and removing a file folder marked Fleet Way Urban Renewal Project. I'd like to see them renew Fleet Way, he thinks, considering it was buried under one of Forthwind's expansions years ago.

Files flicker by as he leafs through the folder--blackmail material here, a skeleton buried there, notes on personality quirks and foibles dotting official, sanitized biographies. That's what I thought, he thinks, a smile already creasing his face.

Kara Valla-Roy
Story-hungry reporter willing to backstab anyone and everything to get a good yarn. Referred to as a 'leg-humping Pulitzer hound' in front of Mayor, several others at party in '11. Will probably never call, ever, after Mayor told her off publicly @ news conference re: south pen. reconstructions--too scared.

Andrew grins widely and drops the folder back into its drawer with a flourish. The reporter who hates my guts just ate right out of my hand, no strings attached, he thinks.

He opens his laptop screen, which he had closed just moments before the phone rang. A design for a campaign poster with a stylized picture of himself is there, above the words SELLARS IN '14. He smiles again, and types in MORE THAN WILLING TO TALK TO YOU.

"Send my calls to my phone," he tells the secretaries as he leaves the office a few moments later. "I'm going to the hospital, and then Forthwind."