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Chapter Text

“I never thought we’d end up here,” Biden said, lighting his cigar.

“Me neither,” Trump replied. “But here we are, Joe.”

Chapter Text

Ethan sat at the dinner table, his mother Carol’s voice rising with every passing sentence. He’d heard it all before — the same impassioned arguments, the same righteous fury — but tonight, it felt like his resolve only grew stronger.

“Can you believe what I heard in class today?” Carol fumed, her hands shaking as she put down her fork. “Some kid had the audacity to say ‘all lives matter’ when we were talking about police brutality. It’s infuriating, Greg.”

Greg, his father, didn’t look up from his plate, his face as stoic as ever. “The system’s broken, Carol. It’s designed to keep people like him ignorant. Capitalism is built on that ignorance.”

Carol nodded sharply, her eyes ablaze with conviction. “Exactly. White people are the most racist people on earth. They built everything on the backs of the oppressed and pretend it’s all fine. The audacity of it.”

Ethan nodded in agreement, swallowing his food. He had heard this all his life, but every time they said it, it made more sense. His mother was right. He couldn’t deny it. The world was split into those who fought for justice, and those who upheld the corrupt system.

“Capitalism is a parasite,” Greg added, his voice low but firm. “It feeds off the blood of the working class. There’s no way to fix it. It has to be destroyed. Revolution is the only answer.”

Ethan looked down at his plate, his thoughts mirroring his father’s words. He had grown up believing that the capitalist system was designed to oppress and that it could never be reformed. His parents had shaped his view of the world from the very beginning, and he couldn’t imagine seeing it any other way.

“We need radical change,” Carol continued. “There’s no compromise with the oppressors. Every time someone suggests reform, it’s just a delay tactic, a way to maintain the status quo.”

Ethan nodded again. He didn’t even question it anymore. He was fully aligned with what his parents said. The world was divided into the righteous and the corrupt, and there was no middle ground.

Greg looked up for the first time during the conversation, his eyes meeting Ethan’s. “You understand that, right, son? If you’re not with us, you’re part of the problem. There’s no neutral stance.”

Ethan felt the weight of his father’s gaze. He didn’t hesitate. “I get it, Dad. I’m with you. I’m fighting for the oppressed.”

Carol smiled, pleased, and turned back to her meal. “Good. The sooner we all realize that, the better. There’s no time for hesitation.”

As the meal continued, the words of his parents settled deep into Ethan’s bones. They were the foundation of his worldview. The fight for social justice, the abolition of capitalism, the rejection of compromise — it was all so clear to him. There was no other truth. The world was black and white, and he had been raised to fight on the side of justice.

As they ate, the CNN broadcast shifted to breaking news, and Trump’s face appeared on the screen.

“Ugh, I can’t stand him,” Carol muttered, stabbing her salad with frustration. “He’s racist, sexist—everything wrong with this country wrapped in a suit.”

Greg, who had been quietly chewing, chimed in with a scowl. “A disgrace. He’s the perfect example of why capitalism is broken. People worship him like he’s a leader. But he is now. He is a clown. He is a loser.”

Ethan’s stomach churned with agreement, the words as familiar as his own thoughts. He'd always been taught that Trump represented everything to fight against: greed, bigotry, and oppression. His parents’ disdain for him felt like an unshakeable truth.

Carol slammed her fork down, her voice rising. “How does anyone support him? He’s a fascist. He divides, manipulates, and harms the people who need help the most.”

“Exactly,” Greg muttered. “And it won’t stop until we dismantle the system entirely.”

Ethan glanced at the screen again. His parents were right, weren’t they? Trump was everything that had to be defeated. No compromise. No question. Just a fight for justice—against everything he stood for.

The next day, Ethan drove his electric car to his campus.

Che Guevarra University was a sanctuary of like-minded individuals. It used to be called George Washington University, but through a signature campaign, its name was changed.

Then an unexpected announcement stirred the air on campus: a political debate featuring Charlie Kirk, the infamous conservative speaker. Ethan’s first reaction was one of disgust, followed by curiosity.

He didn’t know much about Charlie other than the fact that his name was synonymous with the radical right. The clips of his speeches he had seen online were full of passion, but the passion was always wrapped in condescension, dismissing progressive ideas with sharp, often cutting remarks. He had something about him that Ethan found deeply annoying.

The outdoor debate setup was simple yet bold—Charlie Kirk’s team had pitched a gazebo and a table at the heart of campus, inviting anyone to step up to the mic and challenge him. The event was billed as an open forum, but for most, it was an opportunity to clash with a conservative figure who symbolized everything they opposed.

Ethan, though unsettled by the idea of a debate with someone so radically opposed to everything he stood for, couldn't resist the pull of curiosity. Raised on the principles of debate and tolerance, he decided to attend.

The crowd was a mix of students, professors, and curious onlookers, but it was clear the majority sided with progressive ideals. Trump supporters were few, but you can easily spot them with their red hats.

When the first person stepped up to the mic—Emma Taylor, a well-known student activist—Ethan felt a rush of pride. She had led protests, written passionately for justice, and embodied everything Ethan had been taught to value. As she spoke about corporate greed, inequality, and systemic racism, her words rang true. Ethan could feel the energy in the crowd shift in her favor.

Charlie sat across her. Dressed casually in a black shirt that says "PRAY EVERYDAY" and jeans, he greeted the crowd with confidence. A few boos and some cheers filled the air, but he seemed unfazed.

“Our country was founded on the principles of freedom—personal and economic,” Charlie began, his voice steady and calm. “Socialism has failed everywhere it's been tried. It’s not the answer.”

Ethan frowned, his arms crossed. He’d heard these arguments before, but hearing them in person felt different. Charlie spoke not with the anger or aggression Ethan expected, but with a calm, measured certainty that unsettled him.

As the debate went on, Emma’s responses grew more heated. “Capitalism exploits the poor!” she shouted. “It’s a system built to keep the rich in power and the rest of us suffering!”

At first, Ethan agreed with her passion. But then, he began to notice something. Emma was more focused on attacking Charlie than debating his points. She called him a "tool of oppression" and dismissed his views with increasingly harsh labels.

Charlie, however, remained cool. Despite the verbal jabs and the hostile atmosphere, he didn’t flinch. He merely responded with a smile, almost detached, like a chess master unfazed by his opponent's emotion.

Then, chaos erupted. An egg flew from the crowd, narrowly missing Charlie. The crowd gasped, and Charlie dodged the second egg with surprising agility.

"Well, this is one way to crack me up," Charlie said, grinning, and a brief, unexpected laugh rippled through the crowd.

The atmosphere turned volatile as protests and chants erupted. Some students shouted “Go home, fascist!” while others wept with anger. The debate was no longer a battle of ideas—it was a fight for something deeper.

As the chaos from the egg-throwing incident began to settle, a new voice called out from the crowd. Kevin, a performing arts student, stepped up to the mic. He was known on campus as one of the more vocal supporters of progressive politics.

"Charlie," Kevin began, his voice loud and defiant, "how can you support someone like Trump? He's a racist, a sexist, and everything that’s wrong with this country. Kamala Harris is the future of this nation. She's the one who will save America!"

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd, and Kevin’s words seemed to resonate, especially with the students who had already been chanting.

Charlie, ever the picture of composure, leaned into the microphone, his tone cool and collected. "Okay, Kevin," he said with a slight smirk, "tell me—what’s Kamala’s greatest achievement?"

Kevin paused. His words faltered, and he stuttered, clearly thrown by the question. “W-well, she… she’s… she’s the Vice President, right? That’s already—”

Charlie’s smile widened. "Yes, Kevin, she is. But what has she done? Just one example of her actual accomplishments?"

Kevin’s face flushed with frustration, his eyes darting around as if searching for an answer. He stammered, “I… I don’t have to explain that to you. You’re a clown for even asking such a stupid question!”

The crowd shifted uneasily, but Charlie remained unfazed. He didn’t flinch at the insult. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his voice calm and inviting. "Kevin," he said, his smile never fading, "name one achievement. Just one. Any example of Kamala’s work, just one."

Kevin’s face turned crimson, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming out. Finally, he shook his head, visibly rattled. “I… I can’t answer that,” he muttered, his voice trailing off as he stormed off.

The crowd went silent for a moment, and then someone—someone near the back—started chanting, “Kamala! Kamala! Kamala!” Soon, it spread like wildfire, a roar of voices echoing through the outdoor space. More students joined in, pounding their fists in the air. “Kamala! Kamala!”

Just as the chanting reached its peak, a student, clearly fed up, poured a large cup of water over Charlie's head. The crowd gasped, some of them cheering, others jeering.

Charlie sat there, drenched, but instead of getting angry, he just laughed. His voice was light, almost playful. “Well, I guess I’m now hydrated for the next round!” he quipped, wiping water from his hair, trying his best not to get the mic wet too. The crowd erupted into laughter, the tension easing for just a moment.

One of his companions, as if already expected this to happen, handed him a towel. They came prepared. First aid kits, everything.

Ethan, still watching, couldn’t help but watch. Despite his opposition to Charlie's politics, there was something about the man that was undeniably charismatic. Charlie wasn’t rattled by the attacks, the insults, or even the water thrown in his face. He was composed, almost to the point of being charming.

The girls in the front row, who had been whispering amongst themselves, seemed to soften their stance. One leaned over to another, “He’s not so bad, actually. Kind of… cool, in a weird way.”

Ethan glanced at them, and saw that many of the students around him were nodding, as if Charlie had just earned a bit of their respect. Even the most ardent progressives seemed to be reconsidering their assumptions.

As Charlie wiped his face, he gave a quick nod, acknowledging the crowd with a smile. “Alright, folks. Let’s get back to it,” he said, his voice steady, despite the chaos around him. The debate was far from over, but the power of his calm presence was undeniable.

The debates had lasted for over six hours, the intensity never waning, the crowd shifting between moments of loud enthusiasm and simmering tension.

By the time it ended, Ethan’s mind felt as though it was swirling in a storm of conflicting thoughts. Charlie had been relentless, calm, and composed, offering arguments that Ethan had heard before but never fully engaged with—arguments about freedom, abortion, personal responsibility, and the failures of socialism.

He arrived home later that day. His parents’ house looked just as it always did—old, neat, and full of their voices, the echoes of countless debates and arguments over the years. But tonight, it felt different.

Chapter Text

When Ethan walked through the door, his mother was already in the kitchen, microwaving food for dinner. His father sat at the table, a half-empty glass of water in front of him, a distant look in his eyes.

"Are you hungry, Ethan?" his mom asked. "We’re about to eat."

Ethan paused. The usual response would have been to sit down with them, but tonight he felt a strange disconnect. The thoughts from the debate still lingered, shifting his focus. "No, I’m not hungry," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "I think I’ll just stay in my room for a bit."

His mom frowned, but she didn’t press him. "Fine. Your loss."

Ethan turned and headed up the stairs, the familiar creak of the wood beneath his feet somehow louder than usual. He closed the door to his room, not bothering to turn on the light. He stood in the darkness for a few moments, processing everything.

The debate had shaken him more than he was willing to admit. Charlie's poise, his ability to stay cool under pressure, had left an impression. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with everything Charlie had said, but the way he had turned Kevin’s challenge back on him—without raising his voice, without becoming defensive—had struck Ethan in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

And the students in the crowd, who had once been so confident in their progressive views, now seemed uncertain. Many of them had come in with their minds made up, but as the night wore on, he noticed how their cheers for Charlie had grown louder, their chants for Kamala less certain.

Ethan sat down at his desk, the weight of the evening still pressing on his chest. He thought of his parents downstairs, locked in their own world, so sure of their beliefs. He wondered if they had ever questioned anything, if they ever considered that the world wasn’t as black-and-white as they seemed to think.

And then he thought of Charlie, standing on that stage, completely unshaken by the chaos. Maybe it wasn’t just about being right. Maybe it was about being willing to stand up, to keep speaking even when the world around you was shouting for you to stop.

For the first time in a long while, Ethan wasn’t sure where he stood. But one thing was certain—Charlie Kirk had given him something to think about. And that, in itself, was a revelation.

The next day, the campus was buzzing with the aftermath of the debate. Everywhere Ethan went, students were still talking about it—some in excitement, others in frustration.

The usual groups were divided, with the left-wing students accusing the conservatives of spreading dangerous ideologies and the conservative students reveling in Charlie's confident, unshaken performance. Ethan couldn’t escape the murmur of it all. The debate had become the centerpiece of every conversation, every coffee table, and every classroom discussion.

As he walked across the quad to meet his friend Jimmy, Ethan’s mind was still wrestling with the questions that had been raised the night before. Could Charlie’s arguments about freedom, personal responsibility, and the failures of socialism actually have merit? Ethan hadn’t expected to be questioning his own beliefs, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized he was torn. He wanted to know the truth, whatever it was.

"Hey, man," Ethan said as he caught up to Jimmy near the library. "I’ve been thinking about last night... What if Charlie actually has a point?"

Jimmy froze, his expression hardening instantly. "What did you just say?" He turned to Ethan, eyes wide with disbelief. "Are you serious right now? After everything we talked about—after all the arguments against him? You're really considering his side?"

Ethan felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He hadn’t meant to cause this kind of reaction. "I don’t know, Jimmy. It’s just... the way he spoke, and the things he said—it got me thinking. I don’t know if everything we believe is as clear-cut as we thought."

Jimmy’s face flushed with anger. "Ethan, this is ridiculous!" He took a step back, crossing his arms. "You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re actually questioning everything we’ve been standing for because of that clown?"

Ethan winced. He hadn’t expected this level of hostility. "I’m just saying, maybe there’s more to it. Maybe we’ve been too close-minded about other perspectives."

Jimmy shook his head, his voice rising with frustration. "Close-minded? You are the one who’s being close-minded now! You’re about to throw everything we stand for out the window just because of one debate? One guy?" He took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists. "You’re betraying us, Ethan. You’re turning your back on everything we’ve fought for—everything we believe in!"

Ethan’s heart sank as Jimmy’s words hit him like a punch. "I’m not betraying anyone, Jimmy. I’m just trying to think for myself, okay? I don’t want to be a robot who just parrots the same things without even considering—"

"Yeah, well," Jimmy interrupted, his voice shaking with anger, "if thinking for yourself means agreeing with him—with Charlie Kirk—then I guess we’re not friends anymore. I can’t even look at you right now. You’re a traitor, Ethan."

The word stung, and for a moment, Ethan felt like the ground had slipped out from under him. He never imagined it would come to this—his closest friend, the person he had shared so many thoughts and struggles with, now calling him a traitor. The space between them felt vast, unbridgeable.

"Jimmy, please," Ethan pleaded, his voice soft. "I don’t want this to change things between us."

But Jimmy was already shaking his head, turning away. "I don’t have time for this, Ethan. You do what you want. I’m done."

Ethan stood frozen, watching as his friend walked away. The words echoed in his mind: traitor, done.

He felt heavier than anything he’d felt in a long time. How had things escalated so quickly? How had a simple difference of opinion driven such a deep wedge between them? The campus felt colder, quieter now, and Ethan felt more alone than ever before.

As he made his way to class, the weight of Jimmy’s words pressed down on him, and the questions from the debate lingered, still unresolved. Would it always be this way—caught between conflicting beliefs, friendships on the line, unable to reconcile what felt like two different worlds?

Chapter Text

The next day, the news about Ethan spread like wildfire. Jimmy had told anyone who would listen that Ethan was "falling for the conservative trap" and had "betrayed the cause." The whispers began the moment he stepped on campus, students casting curious and skeptical glances his way.

Even the professors seemed to be treating him with more distance, as if they could sense something had shifted.

Ethan hadn’t expected this kind of backlash. He wasn’t changing overnight—he just wanted to explore other viewpoints, but that idea seemed so foreign to everyone around him.

He had always been so certain, so aligned with the leftist causes that had shaped his identity. Now, that certainty was slipping, and it felt like the world around him was crumbling.

Later that afternoon, he went to the Climate Change Club meeting, hoping to find some sense of normalcy. He had been a member for two years now, participating in their protests, meetings, and campaigns. The club had always felt like his home.

But when he walked in, he could sense something was wrong. The members all looked at him as if he didn’t belong. When Gareth, the president of the club, saw him, his face hardened. "Ethan," Gareth said, his tone flat, "we need to talk."

The room went silent as Gareth motioned for Ethan to step aside. "I don’t know what's been going on with you lately, but you’re not the person we knew," Gareth said, his voice tinged with disappointment. "I don’t think you belong here anymore."

Ethan felt his heart sink. He had been part of this group for so long, fighting for the issues he believed in, but now he was being cast out. It wasn’t just about politics. It felt personal.

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words didn’t come out. Gareth’s decision was final, and there was no point in arguing. He nodded stiffly, then turned and left the room, his chest tight with the weight of rejection.

As he exited the building, the cold air hit him like a slap. He didn’t know where to go. There was nowhere he felt truly accepted anymore. He wandered aimlessly, his mind clouded, when he suddenly passed by the chess club.

The group was gathered outside, laughing and chatting animatedly. Ethan had never really considered joining them—chess had never been his thing—but today, for some reason, he stopped. They noticed him right away.

"Hey, man!" One of the club members called out, a tall guy named Brian. "You look like you could use a break. Want to come play a game with us?"

Ethan hesitated for a moment, the weight of the day’s events pressing heavily on him. But something in Brian’s tone, the warmth of the invitation, made him nod. "Sure, why not."

He walked over to their table and sat down. The atmosphere was surprisingly welcoming. Everyone seemed genuinely kind, no one asking too many questions, no judgments. The group made him feel like he wasn’t the outcast he had felt just moments earlier. They chatted about everything—nothing too heavy, just easy conversation. It was refreshing.

Then, Ethan noticed Kyle. Kyle was a popular student, always at the center of campus politics, well-known for his Trump-supporting views. Ethan had never talked to him much, and truthfully, he had always dismissed him as just another “radical right-winger.” But now, as Kyle looked over at him with a half-smile, something seemed different.

"Chess is like politics," Kyle said suddenly, breaking the easy chatter. "It’s all about strategy, knowing your moves before you make them. You have to think several steps ahead, always."

Ethan blinked, surprised. "What do you mean?"

Kyle shrugged, a smirk on his face. "Politics isn't about being loud or right all the time. It’s about understanding the game, knowing when to push forward, when to retreat. It’s about seeing the bigger picture, not just reacting to every piece on the board."

Ethan found himself intrigued despite himself. "So you think... it’s all about strategy, even when the stakes are high?"

Kyle nodded. "Exactly. The left always reacts without thinking about the consequences, without understanding the long-term implications of their moves. That’s why the right often wins, because we play the game smarter. It’s not about passion, it’s about positioning."

Ethan was silent, absorbing what Kyle had said. It was an entirely new way of looking at politics, one that felt calculated, strategic—almost like a chess match.

For the first time in a long while, Ethan didn’t feel so alone. The laughter from the chess club members filled the air around him, and he realized that, for once, no one was judging him, no one was calling him a traitor. They were just people, playing a game, talking, and being human.

As he sat there with them, he realized that, maybe, there were multiple ways to view the world. The debate with Charlie Kirk, the rejection from the climate club, and now this—everything felt like pieces moving on a much larger board. But for the first time in a while, Ethan felt like he was starting to understand the game.

Chapter Text

Election Day arrived with an unmistakable heaviness in the air. Everywhere Ethan went on campus, the conversations revolved around one thing: Kamala Harris and the election. His friends, his professors, even the people he passed on the sidewalk, all shared the same conviction: Kamala was the future. She was the answer to the problems they had been fighting against for years.

The energy was infectious, and the campus felt alive with fervor. Groups of students walked around chanting, “Kamala! Kamala!” with signs and buttons adorning every jacket and backpack.

Ethan saw the pride in their eyes, the unity in their voices. It was almost like a religious experience for them—this belief that Kamala’s leadership would fix everything wrong with the country.

At home, it was the same. His parents had already voted early, proudly declaring their support for Kamala. His mother was particularly vocal, railing against Trump and anyone who even remotely supported him.

“Anyone who votes for Trump…” she’d said, her voice sharp, “...is someone I truly hate deep in my heart.”

The words hurt, but Ethan had already started to question what it all meant.

As the day wore on, the chants on campus grew louder, and the hostility toward Trump supporters became more pronounced.

Ethan overheard a group of students jeering, “If you vote for Trump, you might as well be a Nazi. We don’t want you here!” He could feel the tension thickening, the divide deepening.

Ethan's heart raced. He had been to that debate. He had listened to both sides, and while he still disagreed with much of what Charlie Kirk said, there was something he couldn’t shake.

Something about the way Kamala’s supporters spoke, the way they dismissed opposing views with such certainty, made him uncomfortable. The hatred directed at Trump felt more like an attack on freedom of thought than a true desire for progress.

On Election Day, he walked into the voting booth with a heavy heart, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The air felt thick as he pulled the curtain behind him.

His parents' voices, his friends’ voices, the voices of the crowd outside chanting for Kamala—it was all overwhelming.
He took a deep breath and thought back to the last few days. He thought about the debate. He thought about the conversations he'd had with his parents, with Jimmy, with the chess club.

For the first time, he realized that maybe his vote wasn’t just about supporting one person—it was about choosing the direction he wanted the country to go, regardless of the pressure he felt around him.

Ethan stared at the ballot, the names of Kamala Harris and Donald Trump sitting before him. For all the chanting, the protests, and the arguments, there was one undeniable truth that had settled in his mind: he couldn’t ignore the flaws of the left, nor could he fully support the ideas of the right. But he had to make a choice.

His hand hovered over the paper, then slowly, deliberately, he marked the circle next to Donald Trump and JD Vance’s name.

As the curtain opened, Ethan stepped out of the booth, his heart pounding in his chest. His decision felt both heavy and liberating. He couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, alienated from both sides.

But at that moment, in the quiet of the polling station, Ethan knew he had made the choice that felt right for him, even if the world around him would never understand.

The world outside was still chanting, still rallying behind Kamala, but for the first time in a long while, Ethan felt a sense of clarity.

He wasn’t just voting for a person—he was voting for a way of thinking, for a future where he could believe in more than just a single narrative. And maybe, just maybe, that was what the country needed most.

*** END ***

*** NEXT CHAPTER: DONALD TRUMP AND JOE BIDEN PLAY GOLF ***

Chapter Text

The sun hung high in the sky, casting bright light and deep shadows over the secluded golf course. Security teams had woven an invisible net of protection around the area, camouflaged among trees, ducking behind golf carts, their presence sensed more than seen. Every detail had been meticulously planned; there was no chance of prying eyes or curious ears intruding on this unlikely meeting.

As Donald Trump adjusted his cap, he shot Joe Biden a look, half-smiling. “I gotta hand it to the security, Joe. No media, no leaks. That’s a real achievement these days. It’s like old times before every word was a headline.”

Biden laughed, but there was a slight edge to it, a hint of exhaustion. “Yeah, Don, it’s good to get away. Can’t say I miss the cameras, though.”

They played through a few holes, trading tips and teasing each other’s swings, their banter easing into an unusual camaraderie. But by the ninth hole, as Biden lined up a tricky shot, Trump shifted his stance, watching him with a curious intensity.

"So, Joe," Trump started, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "How does it feel to have made it all these years… just to get knifed in the back by Barack?”

Biden froze, the golf club hovering in his hands. His eyes clouded over, and he looked down, gripping the club a little tighter. "I never thought he’d leave me hanging like this," Biden muttered, a bitterness creeping into his tone. "I mean, he’s always been ambitious, but I thought we were more than… political allies. Now it’s like he’s just waiting for me to mess up, hoping I’ll step aside so someone else can take the reins."

Trump shook his head knowingly, leaning in closer. “Joe, let me tell you, loyalty’s in short supply in this game. People only stick around as long as it suits them. That’s why I always kept my own counsel. Didn’t trust anyone—not even my so-called friends.”

Biden gave a short, weary laugh. “Yeah, Don, I’m starting to see that. It’s all a game, isn’t it? Just pretending everything’s fine, keeping up the act.”

Trump raised an eyebrow, giving Biden a shrewd look. “Speaking of pretending, Joe… what’s it like, huh?”

Biden looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

Trump leaned back, smirking. “Come on, Joe. You know what I’m talking about. I know what you’re doing. I see right through it.”

For a moment, Biden was silent, his eyes widening as he realized what Trump was hinting at. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck. He looked around instinctively, though he knew no one but Trump and the concealed security could hear him. Finally, he took a breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "You figured it out, huh?"

Trump gave him a knowing grin. “Joe, I’ve been around long enough to know an act when I see one. You think I don’t recognize it?”

Biden let out a slow sigh, rubbing his temples. “Fine, Don. You’re right. I’ve been… faking it. The slips, the forgetfulness—it’s all a cover. Keeps people underestimating me, keeps the opposition off balance. It’s not exactly ethical, but in this job? Sometimes you do what you have to.”

Trump stared at him, a mixture of admiration and amusement crossing his face. “Well, well, Joe. You’ve got more in you than I thought. I mean, here I thought you were just… slipping. Turns out you’ve got everyone fooled.”

Biden managed a small smile. “Yeah, but it’s a lonely game. Sometimes it feels like I’m losing myself in it.”

Trump nodded, almost sympathetic. “I get it. Sometimes the hustle means putting on a mask every day. That’s what I always taught my kids—teach ‘em business, teach ‘em to hustle, teach ‘em to be ready. No pretending, just pure drive.”

Biden’s expression shifted, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “I didn’t teach that to Hunter. Tried to keep him close, but never taught him that. And now… I’m disappointed, Don. My own son, and he’s out there in this mess.”

Trump shrugged, his tone blunt but oddly compassionate. “That’s the difference, Joe. You didn’t prepare him for the real game. Now he’s out there—no direction, caught up in all kinds of trouble. Drugs and everything else. He needs to be in jail, to be honest. And give the people back every penny you've siphoned from all the money laundering you've been doing in Ukraine.”

Biden shook his head, the weight of it all pressing on him. “I don't know about that. But, maybe you’re right. Guess I thought politics was enough. But you… you taught your kids to survive.”

Trump gave a quick nod. “Exactly, Joe. No act, no pretending. Just focus on the hustle. That’s the only way to make it work in a world like this.”

They stood there, quiet for a moment, two men bound by power, ambition, and secrets—two men who, despite everything, shared an understanding few others could ever grasp.

*** END ***

*** NEXT CHAPTER: BARACK OBAMA X HILLARY CLINTON ***

Chapter Text

It was the fall of 2014, and Washington, D.C. was as intense as ever.

The city felt like it was always on the edge of something, the atmosphere is filled with political maneuvering, speculation, and the unspoken tension that marked every moment in the nation's capital.

But inside the Oval Office, it was just the two of them—Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton—and everything else outside those walls faded into the background.

Barack sat at his desk, looking across at Hillary, who was seated in the chair facing him. There was something about the way she sat—shoulders stiff, hands tightly clasped, her eyes too bright and focused—that struck him.

He had known her for years, and he could feel the desperation radiating off of her. It wasn’t subtle, but it was familiar: the ambition, the sense of entitlement, the feeling that she’d been waiting far too long for something that should already be hers.

Hillary’s words cut through the silence like a blade. “I’m running for president in 2016.”

Barack blinked, then exhaled slowly. This had been inevitable, he supposed. The signs had been there: the speeches, the book, the interviews. But he had hoped she would stay in the background. That she would recognize that the time had passed. He had made his promise to Joe Biden, a promise that was solid, that meant something. He was determined to see it through.

“You want to run for president again?” Barack asked, keeping his tone even. “Hillary, with all due respect, you’ve already had your shot. You’ve been there, done that. The Democratic Party needs fresh energy for 2016, not a rehash of 2008. We need someone who can unite the party.”

She didn’t even flinch at his words. Instead, Hillary leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, her voice laced with something like desperation, though she hid it beneath a veil of controlled anger.

“I don’t need a fresh face, Barack. I need you to step aside and let me do this,” she said, her voice insistent. “You owe me this. You owe it to me. I’ve spent my entire career building relationships, gaining experience, learning the ropes. I’m ready, and I’m the only one who can take us forward.”

Barack let out a breath through his nose, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Hillary Clinton, ready to be president? He didn’t think so. He didn’t believe she had the magic to pull it off. She had her strengths, no question.

But she had too much baggage, too many years of bitter public battles, and the image of an old, tired Clinton dynasty wasn’t exactly what the country needed right now.

“Hillary,” Barack said, shaking his head slightly. “You’ve got the experience, but the American people are tired. They want change. You’re not the answer. I promised Joe Biden that he would be the candidate in 2016. You know that. We’ve been through this.”

Her face tightened, her mouth twisting into a thin line. The desperation in her eyes deepened. She had been told no before. Over and over.

But this was different. This time, she wouldn’t let it slide. She wasn’t going to walk away without the answer she wanted. Not this time.

“You don’t think Joe can win,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice. “You know as well as I do that he’s not the right person for this. He’s too old, too out of touch with what’s going on in this country. You’ve seen it. The numbers aren’t there for him. And you know the truth, Barack. You *need* me. I’m the only one who can pull this off. You know it. And if you don’t let me do this—if you don’t let me run—I’ll make sure the world knows exactly why you’re afraid of me. And I’ll bring everything down with me. *Everything*.”

Barack raised an eyebrow, the hint of confusion creeping into his expression. “What exactly are you threatening, Hillary?”

She leaned in, her gaze locked onto his, her voice lowering to a near whisper, but carrying a deadly finality.

“You don’t want to know what I know. About your wife. About Michelle. You think I don’t have access to the kind of dirt that would make people question everything? Every decision you’ve made? Every choice you’ve hidden from the public? You think I can’t expose that?”

Her voice was cold now, as if this wasn’t a conversation about politics anymore, but a desperate game of blackmail.

Barack’s pulse quickened, but he refused to let it show. He knew exactly what Hillary was insinuating. For all her bluster, for all her pretensions of being a loyal party member, Hillary Clinton had no qualms about bringing anyone down if it suited her needs. She wasn’t above making threats, not when her presidential ambitions were on the line.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Barack said, but there was a chill in his tone now, an awareness that she wasn’t bluffing. Hillary Clinton had always been dangerous when cornered, and this was her corner.

“Don’t test me, Barack,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You want to see Michelle’s deepest, darkest secrets spill into the public eye? You think the press won’t eat it up? You think people won’t believe it? I’ve got the leverage you need to make sure this works for both of us. If you let me run, I’ll keep my mouth shut. If you don’t… well, we’ll see how the public reacts when the Obamas’ skeletons start falling out of their closets.”

Barack’s hand clenched into a fist under the desk. He knew Hillary well enough to know that this was no empty threat.

She had done it before—used whatever she had in her arsenal to get what she wanted.

Barack had once admired that about her, but now it felt like a betrayal. He had never imagined she would play this card. But here she was, pushing him to the edge.

His mind raced. He had to think of Michelle. The last thing he wanted was for their private lives to be dragged into the public arena.

This was the kind of fight he had hoped to avoid. The kind of fight that had destroyed so many careers before.

Barack took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He felt trapped. The pressure of the situation bore down on him like an invisible weight, but he knew there was only one way out.

Without saying a word, he reached for the phone on his desk, his fingers moving with deliberate calm. He pressed the buttons, waiting as the line rang. Hillary watched him, her face betraying nothing but a cold, calculated patience.

After a few seconds, the voice of Joe Biden came through the speakerphone.

“Hello?”

“Joe, it’s me,” Obama said, his voice steady but tight. “We need to talk. It’s about 2016.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “What’s going on, Barack? Everything okay?”

“Joe…” Barack said, swallowing hard. “I’ve been thinking about it, and Hillary’s made it clear she’s running. She’s got the momentum, the backing, and frankly, she’s the only one who can unite the party at this point. I think we need to step aside. It’s not your time, Joe. It’s hers.”

There was a long pause on the other end. Joe didn’t speak at first, but Barack could hear the hurt settling in. Joe had been his right-hand man for two terms, loyal, supportive, and ready to take the reins. This wasn’t the conversation Joe had expected, and it wasn’t one Barack had ever wanted to have.

Finally, Joe spoke, his voice softer, but laced with disappointment. “So that’s it? You’re telling me, after everything, that it’s not my turn anymore? That Hillary’s the one you’ve chosen?”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” Barack said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s her time now. It’s the right call for the party, for the country.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, his silence more painful than any words could have been. Then he sighed, a long, deep exhale of resignation. “Alright, Barack. If that’s how it’s going to be, I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”

Barack winced, but he said nothing.

“I’ll be around, as always. Take care,” Joe said, the finality in his tone unmistakable.

The line went dead, and Barack sat back in his chair, feeling the full weight of the decision. He had just thrown Joe Biden, his closest ally, under the bus for Hillary Clinton’s ambition. And in the process, he had confirmed his worst fear—that Hillary’s desperation was stronger than his loyalty.

He glanced up at her, her face now holding a victorious gleam, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“You did it,” she said quietly. “You called him.”

Barack nodded, his chest tight. There was no victory here, only a future that had just been rewritten by the woman sitting across from him.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I did.”

*** NEXT CHAPTER : Charlie Kirk and Candace Owens 2036 ***