Chapter 13: "In Omnia Paratus" (June 2021)
The warm summer night carried an air of anticipation. Logan stood near the large window, glancing at the dimming skyline, his thoughts focused on the plan they had just set in motion. Behind him, the group was fully engaged, their conversations layered with the energy of execution and a shared sense of purpose.
Mary sat in front of her laptop, her fingers a blur as she refined the next steps of the digital campaign. She wasn't just working—she was crafting a conversation, a space where people felt heard and valued. It had become clear to everyone in the room that Mary wasn't simply Logan's niece anymore—she was a force on her own, carving out a space as the team's digital strategist. Her understanding of the target audience was sharp, and it showed in every move she made.
"We've got over 1,000 sign-ups in the last hour," Mary said with a grin, glancing at Logan. "The forums are buzzing, and people are already contributing ideas. We're hosting our first live panel next week. Journalists, influencers, readers—it's going to be huge."
Logan nodded, impressed. But Mary wasn't finished. She leaned forward, her fingers tapping with precision as she pulled up a dashboard displaying the metrics. "It's not just the numbers," she continued, her eyes gleaming with the kind of intensity that came from truly knowing her audience. "It's why they're signing up. People aren't just looking for content—they're looking for a community. Somewhere they can voice their frustrations, share their concerns, and feel like they're being heard in a way they aren't in mainstream media. They feel disconnected, like the news doesn't represent them anymore. The Magna can give them that connection."
She glanced around the room, feeling the weight of their attention. "These aren't just passive readers. They want to engage, to contribute. They want to talk about how local journalism is dying, how the big corporations are swallowing up smaller outlets and killing the diversity of voices. People are angry, and they're tired of being ignored. We're giving them a platform to speak up. That's why they're here."
April, sitting across the table, looked up from her notes, her brow furrowing in thought. "But what exactly are they contributing? What kind of content are they creating?"
Mary smiled, already anticipating the question. "That's the beauty of it," she said, her voice smooth but brimming with excitement. "We're seeing everything from personal essays about how local papers shaped their communities to real-time reports on local political issues that aren't getting coverage in mainstream outlets. We've even had some grassroots activists share organizing strategies. People want to tell their stories, and they want others to hear them. It's more than just content—it's creating a movement."
Logan leaned in, clearly impressed by Mary's insights. "You really understand them, don't you? This isn't just about gathering numbers—it's about speaking to them directly."
Mary shrugged, though her eyes sparkled with pride. "It's about finding out what matters to them and amplifying it. People don't just want to consume information—they want to be part of shaping it. They want to know their voice counts. That's why they're engaging with us, because they know we're not just talking at them. We're inviting them into the conversation."
Finn, who had been observing quietly, nodded in approval. "You're doing what the big boys can't," he said with admiration. "You're making people feel like they belong. That's why Mitchum can't win here. He's all about top-down control, while you're building something from the ground up, with the people."
Mary's smile widened. She knew she had something special. The ability to tap into her audience's needs and desires, to speak their language in a way no one else in the room could. She understood the disconnect between traditional media and the everyday reader, and she knew how to bridge that gap. It wasn't just strategy—it was instinct.
"This is the future," she said quietly, her eyes flickering with determination. "It's not about telling people what's important. It's about letting them tell us what's important to them. That's how we're going to win this."
The room fell into a thoughtful silence, everyone absorbing the weight of what Mary was saying. She wasn't just leading the digital campaign—she was showing them the way forward. Logan exchanged a glance with Rory, both of them clearly proud. Mary wasn't just good at this—she was the best in the room.
Logan walked over to her, his smile genuine and full of pride. "That's incredible, Mary. You've done it. You're making them part of this in ways even Mitchum won't see coming."
Mary beamed, her excitement growing. "This is just the beginning. I'm setting up a feature where readers can submit their stories directly, and I think it will get them even more invested."
Across the room, Rory was engrossed in editing her latest article. She had been working on it for days, crafting a piece that cut straight to the heart of the debate surrounding independent journalism. The title, bold and clear, read: "Why Independent Journalism Is Democracy's Last Line of Defense."
The article wasn't just another op-ed—it was a rallying cry. Rory had poured herself into every word, drawing on her years of experience as both a journalist and a witness to the Huntzberger family's internal battle over media control. She understood, perhaps more intimately than most, the dangers of media consolidation and the way power could be weaponized through the press.
In the piece, Rory laid out a compelling argument: Independent journalism is the cornerstone of democracy. Without it, the very fabric of society—the ability to question, to hold power accountable, to uncover uncomfortable truths—would unravel. She pointed to historical examples, times when unchecked power silenced dissent and how, in the absence of independent media, injustices had flourished.
But Rory didn't just focus on the past. She also zeroed in on the present, discussing the growing trend of corporate media consolidation and how it was slowly erasing diversity in voices. In her words, Mitchum Huntzberger's push for political power and his attempt to control The Magna was just another example of a dangerous pattern: the merging of media empires with political agendas. She called it "the erosion of public trust in news as a public service."
Rory used her platform to highlight how smaller, independent news outlets were struggling to survive under the shadow of these massive conglomerates. She quoted journalists who had been laid off due to corporate buyouts, local papers that had folded, and regions where news coverage was disappearing altogether. Her article called for a resurgence of reader-funded, community-driven journalism—the kind of journalism that didn't answer to shareholders but to the people it served.
"We are standing at the precipice of losing the very thing that keeps democracy alive," Rory wrote. "And once it's gone, it will be nearly impossible to get back."
The piece resonated deeply with readers because it wasn't just theoretical—it was personal. It spoke directly to the concerns of the audience Mary had been targeting with her digital campaign: people who felt disconnected from mainstream media, frustrated by the lack of representation in the stories being told, and afraid that their voices were being drowned out by corporate interests.
Representation in media wasn't just about seeing a variety of faces or voices on television screens or in newspapers. It was about reflecting the lived experiences of everyday people—their struggles, their victories, their concerns. When people turned on the news or scrolled through a news website, they wanted to see stories that felt relevant to their lives, stories that mirrored the realities they faced. Without this kind of representation, there was a growing sense of alienation. Many felt like the media was becoming more about corporate agendas and less about the communities they were meant to serve.
This disconnection wasn't just a frustration—it was a silencing of voices. Communities that didn't see themselves in the media narrative felt invisible. Rory's piece tapped into that deeply held fear: that when the media no longer reflected the diversity of its audience, it became easier to ignore issues that disproportionately affected underrepresented groups. Issues like education inequities, healthcare access, local corruption, and police violence were often underreported when they happened in marginalized communities. Corporate media outlets, with their focus on profits and national-scale stories, tended to overlook the smaller, local stories that truly mattered to people on the ground.
Rory wrote about how, in the process of consolidating media outlets into fewer, larger companies, the diversity of voices was lost. Small local papers, which had once been the heartbeat of their communities, were being swallowed up or shut down altogether. As a result, the public narrative was being shaped by fewer, more powerful voices that didn't reflect the lived experiences of the broader population. This wasn't just an abstract concept; it had real, tangible consequences. When stories were erased or never told, the people they affected were rendered invisible.
Her article painted a stark picture: without independent journalism, who would tell the stories of the underserved and the overlooked? Who would shed light on the corruption in a small town if all the local papers had been bought out by a national chain that only cared about selling ad space? And who would give a platform to the communities fighting against systemic issues if all the news stories were chosen by editors sitting in corporate headquarters, far removed from the real world?
Rory knew her audience. She was writing for the people who had felt ignored by the mainstream media for years. These were the readers who had watched their local news stations fade into obscurity, who had seen their community issues overlooked time and time again. Her piece didn't just speak to them—it validated their frustrations. It told them that they weren't wrong for feeling disconnected, that the system was broken, and that their voices deserved to be heard.
By highlighting the lack of representation in corporate media, Rory's article gave people a reason to engage. It wasn't just about passively consuming news anymore—it was about taking ownership of their stories and reclaiming their voices. The Magna wasn't just a news outlet; it was a platform where people could contribute, share, and shape the narrative. That was the key: making people feel like they were part of something, like their stories mattered and could actually make a difference.
This focus on representation was central to Mary's strategy as well. She understood that people would engage with The Magna if they felt like it reflected their realities, their concerns, and their hopes. When individuals saw themselves represented in the stories being told, it motivated them to participate—to share their own experiences and become part of the movement. This wasn't just about news consumption; it was about building a community that felt seen and heard.
"We're giving them a platform they've never had before," Mary said, her voice filled with the certainty of someone who knew her audience inside out. "These people have been ignored by the mainstream for too long. The Magna is where they can tell their stories, where their voices matter."
Rory nodded, her thoughts aligning with Mary's. "People need to see themselves in the media," she said. "If we're going to inspire them to engage, we have to show them that their stories are worth telling, that they're part of the bigger picture. That's how we build something that lasts—by making sure it's for everyone."
As Rory edited the final paragraphs, she felt a renewed sense of urgency. This wasn't just about The Magna anymore—it was about fighting for the survival of independent voices, the kind that could still speak truth to power without fear of reprisal.
"Rory, I think we should tie your latest editorial into the live panel Mary is hosting," Logan suggested, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the screen. "That way, the audience can read your piece before joining the discussion. It'll give them more to think about, more to contribute."
Rory nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. The piece should frame the conversation. It'll set the stage for the panel and help the audience understand what's at stake."
The editorial was a perfect lead-in to the discussion Mary was planning. The panel was set to bring together a diverse group—journalists, activists, and readers—to talk about the future of media and what role independent outlets like The Magna could play in keeping journalism free from political and corporate manipulation.
By reading Rory's piece before the event, participants would be primed to think critically about the bigger picture: not just the technical aspects of media ownership, but the moral and ethical implications of what it meant to lose independent voices in a democracy. Her article gave them a foundation, a shared context from which to ask deeper questions during the panel.
"It'll also help them articulate their own experiences," Rory added. "The piece is about giving people the vocabulary to express why this matters to them personally. When they read it, they'll start thinking about how their own communities are affected by the loss of local news, how they feel when they can't trust the information they're getting. That's where the discussion will get powerful—when it's not just theory, but lived experience."
Logan smiled, clearly impressed. "Exactly. You're giving them more than just information—you're giving them a reason to care."
The more Rory thought about it, the more she realized how important her article was to the broader strategy. It wasn't just about calling out Mitchum or the corporate media—it was about uniting people who had felt marginalized by the changes in journalism. If they could tap into that frustration and channel it into action, they could turn The Magna into a movement that couldn't be ignored.
As Rory and Mary discussed the logistics, April sat beside them, scribbling ideas in her notebook. Ever since she had brought up the concept of crowdsourcing stories, she had felt more involved than ever. She looked up at Logan and Rory, realizing that her small suggestion was evolving into something bigger.
"We need to be strategic about the stories we feature," April said, speaking up with newfound assertiveness. "They should reflect the diversity of our readership. We can't just highlight typical stories about media freedom—we need to include personal stories from people who have been impacted by what's happening in their communities. Make this movement real."
Finn, who had been lounging near the doorway, chimed in, his voice laced with approval. "I love it, April. If we make the readers feel like they're part of the fight, like their stories are the lifeblood of *The Magna, we'll create something that Mitchum can't tear down."
April felt a surge of pride at Finn's words. She had always admired his ability to turn an idea into something larger-than-life, and now she was doing it with her own ideas. She hesitated for just a moment, then plunged forward, excitement bubbling in her voice.
"I was thinking we could kick off the live storytelling event you mentioned," she said, looking directly at Finn. "Make it interactive, let people submit stories in real time, and even have a few of them share their stories live. It could become a global conversation."
She paused, her eyes darting around the room as the weight of the idea fully landed on her shoulders. Everyone was listening, and April could feel the pulse of anticipation as she continued.
"But it's more than just a flashy event," April added, her tone becoming more serious, more intentional. "This could be a way to really bond with our audience—especially the ones who don't trust traditional media anymore. People don't trust the information they're getting from huge outlets like HPG. It's too polished, too corporate. They feel like the stories are filtered through a lens of profit, politics, or power. They don't believe it speaks to them or for them anymore."
Logan's eyes sharpened as he nodded, clearly intrigued by where April was going.
"This event could be our chance to change that," April said, her voice growing more confident. "By making it interactive, by giving them a platform to tell their own stories, we're flipping the dynamic. We're not just feeding them information from the top down, like HPG and all the big players do. We're inviting them to participate, to be a part of the story. It's about transparency. It's about giving them control."
She leaned forward, her hands clasped together in front of her as her passion spilled over. "This audience—they're tired of feeling talked at by corporate media. They want something real. Something they can trust because it comes from people like them. By letting them share their stories in their own voices, unedited, unfiltered, we're showing them that The Magna isn't just another media outlet. We're different. We're giving them the chance to speak truth to power, to take ownership of the narrative. And in doing that, we build trust."
Finn, ever the showman, nodded with a grin. "And once they feel like they belong, once they see their own stories up there, they'll be hooked. They'll trust us because they'll see themselves in us."
April smiled, encouraged by Finn's enthusiasm, but her thoughts were deeper, more personal. "It's more than just engagement," she said quietly, glancing at Logan, Rory, and the others. "It's about restoring faith. People are losing faith in the media because they don't think it reflects their realities anymore. This event—this movement we're building—is a way to give them that faith back. If they see us as a platform for their voices, not just another outlet pushing an agenda, they'll trust us. They'll believe that The Magna is truly independent, that we're fighting for them."
The room fell silent for a moment as her words sank in.
Logan finally broke the silence, his voice full of admiration. "You're absolutely right, April. People don't just want to consume news—they want to be part of the story. This event can give them that, and it's exactly what will set us apart from Mitchum and HPG."
April looked down for a moment, feeling the weight of the conversation. She had started this project thinking she was just contributing an idea, but now she realized that what she was helping to build was much bigger than that. This was about reshaping how people connected with the news, with stories, with each other. And it wasn't just about business—it was about trust.
"I've been thinking about what Finn said too," April continued, her voice stronger now. "We need this event to feel personal. If we can get a few powerful stories up front—stories that really hit home for people, stories about their communities and struggles—they'll realize we're giving them something real. That's how we'll bond with them. Once they see that we're not filtering their voices, that we're amplifying them, they'll believe in us. And they'll start to believe in independent media again."
Rory smiled softly, pride shining in her eyes. "I love that, April. You're right—people are disillusioned with traditional media because they don't see themselves in it anymore. This could be the way to show them that their voices matter again."
Logan looked at April with a glimmer of respect that hadn't been there before. "This is it," he said, his voice firm. "This is how we fight back. By building trust where Mitchum has destroyed it."
April felt a quiet satisfaction as she saw the recognition in the room. This was her contribution—something that could change the way people saw The Magna and, more importantly, change the way people saw themselves in the media. She wasn't just Rory's stepsister anymore—she was helping to build something meaningful. And it felt like the beginning of something powerful.
Finn's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of admiration and mischief. "That's the spirit, love. We'll make it an event no one will forget. I'll handle the logistics—find a venue, get the media buzzing. And you'll handle the stories." He paused, his gaze locking onto April's with an intensity that made the room around them fade. "Together, we'll give Mitchum something he can't ignore."
His words were charged, but it wasn't just about the event. There was something magnetic between them—a pull that neither of them could resist. Finn's admiration for April wasn't just professional; it was visceral. He wasn't just impressed by her smarts—he was captivated by them.
Without thinking twice, Finn reached out and pulled April into him, slipping his arm around her waist with that familiar, confident touch that made everything around them disappear. "I have to say, love," he murmured, his voice low, filled with that husky edge that made her pulse race, "the more you speak, the more I'm completely undone by you."
April's heart skipped a beat, but instead of pulling back, she leaned into him, her smile widening. She felt the warmth of his body against hers, and the thrill of knowing that her ideas—the very things she had been afraid to voice—were what had captivated him so deeply. "Good," she whispered back, her eyes daring him, "because I'm just getting started."
Finn's grin turned wicked, and without a second thought, he tilted her chin up and kissed her—hard, deep, with a passion that made the air around them sizzle. It wasn't a gentle kiss, not the kind you give when you're trying to be subtle. It was the kind that claimed the moment, the kind that said nothing else in the room mattered. The kind that made time stop.
The room fell away as the kiss deepened, their connection sparking like electricity. April, usually composed and measured, found herself lost in it, lost in him. Finn wasn't shy about showing the world exactly how he felt about her, and in that kiss, he made it abundantly clear—this woman, her mind, her spirit, her fire—was everything he hadn't known he needed.
By the time they broke apart, breathless and flushed, the room had gone still, their friends watching with a mixture of amusement and awe. But Finn didn't care. Neither did April. In that moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the world.
"You're incredible, you know that?" Finn murmured, his voice rough with affection, his forehead resting against hers for a brief moment as they caught their breath.
April's lips curled into a smile, her heart still pounding in her chest. "And you're completely over the top," she teased, though the look in her eyes betrayed just how much she loved that about him.
Finn's laugh was soft but full of warmth, his hand still resting possessively at her waist. "You wouldn't have me any other way," he shot back, eyes gleaming.
Rory cleared her throat, her lips twitching with a knowing smile. "Well, I think we all know who's handling the 'stories' part of the event."
April laughed, still breathless, but she didn't pull away from Finn. She didn't want to. The spark between them was undeniable, and tonight, it had grown into something even more. They were a team, in every sense of the word.
Logan watched the exchange, amused by his friend's antics but also clearly impressed with how April was stepping into her role. She had always been thoughtful, but now she was taking ownership of her ideas, and it was paying off.
"If we could get back to Aprils bright mind, then I just wanted to say that April's right," Logan added with a wink "This isn't just about the business side. It's about the stories we tell and how we empower people to share them. That's how we'll make *The Magna* a movement Mitchum can't undermine."
As the night went on, the team continued to finalize the plan. Rory focused on her writing, while Mary continued setting up live discussions and online forums. April and Finn worked on shaping the live storytelling event, making sure it had both the spectacle and substance needed to grab attention.
By the time the clock struck midnight, they were all exhausted but exhilarated. Logan stood up, raising his glass to the group. "This is just the beginning, but we've got momentum. We've started something powerful here, and we're going to see it through."
The others raised their glasses, the sense of unity in the room palpable. This wasn't just about keeping *The Magna* afloat anymore—it was about fighting for something larger than themselves.
"Here's to *The Magna," Rory said softly, her hand resting on her growing belly. "And to keeping independent journalism alive."
Finn, never one to miss an opportunity for flair, raised his glass with a mischievous smile. "And, of course, to the Life and Death Brigade: In Omnia Paratus."
The others echoed the toast, the room alive with hope and determination.
As the glasses clinked and the night's energy hummed around them, April realized something: this was her moment. She wasn't just contributing to the plan—she was shaping it. And for the first time, she believed they could win.