Variation on the standard Disclaimer: If you've heard it once, you've heard it a million times: the Power Rangers are the property of Haim Saban, Disney, and whoever else may or may not be in charge of them now. Portions of the plot (and some dialogue) are straight out of The West Wing, which was created by Aaron Sorkin. In the words of Sorkin's character, Sam Seaborn, "Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright." (Season 4, Episode 1: 20 Hours in America)

Notes: The Rangers will be filling the major roles from the West Wing TV series, but any names you don't recognize are old friends of mine (or, at least, reasonable facsimiles of them) and are used purely for my amusement. They don't realize they're in here, and I don't care if they ever find out or not. This is my pathetic attempt to combine my two favorite TV universes, and while I expect the results to be disastrous, I hope someone out there somewhere finds this worthwhile. As far as a timeline, I'd say this takes place in, oh, let's say 2009, which, I realize, is too soon constitutionally for these guys to be eligible to get elected, but not for the actors who played them (wink, wink; nudge, nudge). Without further ado, you're watching WWPR on CSC, so stick around!

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Episode 1: Pilot

Scene 1: The Rounding Up of the Usual Suspects

4:45 a.m., a two-bedroom condo in Tacoma Park, MD

The sudden blaring of a cell phone stirred him from an uneasy sleep. It wasn't that he hadn't gotten used to running his life on three hours of sleep a night (if that), but it still came as a shock. Fumbling around on the desk, his hand finally ran across the offending piece of technology. Hitting the appropriate button, the man mumbled something that sounded remarkably like, "Huh?"

The response on the other end of the line was enough to shake off the lingering effects of slumber immediately. "HE DID WHA—Is he okay?" "No, of course, I'll be right in." Well, it's not like it was going to be an easy day to begin with, William "Billy" Cranston thought to himself as he slipped his glasses on and shuffled off to the shower. The fact that the rest of the gang would know in a matter of minutes was the sole comfort the now-bespectacled genius took from the call.

Oh, for a return to those halcyon days when all we had to do was save the world after school and get back home in time for dinner. Back then, at least if I broke my arm or something in a battle, not only could we fix it in a matter of hours, but we also KNEW it wouldn't be covered by the entire Fourth Estate! Now the entire news cycle would be spent discussing how the President had flown right past his sparring partner during a workout and slammed his right leg through what, thankfully, was a non-load-bearing wall in a hotel workout room. X-rays apparently were negative, but he'd still given Conan and Kimmel enough new material to last a month. How did we even get elected in the first place? Hopping out of the shower and grabbing a towel, Cranston decided it was time to let the rest of the staff know, assuming they didn't already. Picking up the landline, which he knew was secure, he started on the phone tree, beginning the rounding up of the usual suspects, giving orders for them to be in his office by 7:00 at the latest.

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5:05 a.m., United Flight 145, somewhere over the Blue Ridge Mountains

Lauren Zuziak marched towards the back of the plane, approaching two of her fellow flight attendants, who were engaged in a discussion with a well-built Asian gentleman that was getting fairly heated. (Dangling modifier patrol: the discussion was getting heated, not the guy. Back to the story.) The plane was on final approach to Dulles and the exasperated attendants were trying to get the gentleman to turn off his laptop. It was at this point that Ms. Zuziak decided to announce her presence. "Adam Park?"

The speechwriter, who had been trying (with little success) to ignore the other two attendants the whole time, looked up from his notes to the lanky blonde in front of him and indicated that he was the one whom she was looking for.

"I have a message for you, but I'm not sure if I got it right," Lauren continued in her light drawl. "POTUS in an accident?"

Adam rolled his eyes toward the heavens, muttered, "You've got it right" and started to dial a number on his phone.

"I'm sorry," she continued, "but you cannot use any electronic devices until we land."

Adam looked up again, annoyed this time, and said through clenched teeth, "We're flying in an A-320 airbus that was put through 3 years worth of wind tunnel and security tests, with navigation systems that could find the flight deck of the USS Coral Sea in a category 5 hurricane. It cost approximately $2 billion to develop. You're telling me I can crash this thing with something I bought at Radio Shack?"

"You can make your call when we're safely on the ground, sir." Lauren responded, walking back up to her seat.

Mr. Park turned off his phone in resignation, but retorted, "Also, I never got my peanuts."

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5:10 a.m., 24-Hour Fitness, SE DC

It was still dark outside, but activity was bustling inside the all-night gym. Katherine "Kat" Hilliard, the White House Press Secretary, was busy trying to simultaneously run on a treadmill while striking up a conversation with the guy running alongside her. She was far more engrossed in the conversation than he was, so it was he who noticed that her pager was going off. He alerted Katherine to this fact, and she looked down at the number.

What on earth is the problem now? Boy, it was bad enough when we were saving the world, now we're all trying to run it. At least we're still all in this toge… In her curiosity as to what her boss had gotten himself into, she had forgotten that she was still on the treadmill. At least, she had been until she rolled right off the edge and fell forward, landing flat on her face. "I'm okay!" she announced, but seeing as the gentleman had ignored her predicament and was still staring up at a television screen which was airing a replay of the 2:00 a.m. edition of SportsCenter, she shrugged it off and headed for the locker room to answer the call.

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5:15 a.m., West Wing office

The sound of yet another annoying ringtone could be heard in the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff. The office was in quite a state of disarray, but that could wait for later. Stirring from his chair, Rocky DeSantos stared blankly ahead for a moment, recalling just how badly yesterday had gone. For all of Billy's inventions and theories, why couldn't intentional time travel have been one of them? Well, yeah, he did once, but that was a one-time-only thing. How could I be so stupid, and on national television to boot! So what if only three people actually watch C-Span, it was still dumb. He knew that he would be lucky to still be employed at day's end, but right now, he had to take care of one thing at a time. And right now, that meant first finding, then answering his phone. "Yeah, go ahead."

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5:30 a.m., an apartment in SE DC

The sound of a running shower could be heard in the background as an auburn-haired woman sat up in bed. She turned her head towards the bathroom door and shouted, "Hey, Tommy, your pager's going off in here!" That was all it took to get Dr. Oliver out of the shower. Why a doctor of paleontology would choose to take a desk job in DC was beyond just about anyone, unless they knew just where that desk was, as this lady was about to be made aware.

"'Potus in an accident. Come to the office.' I memorized it just in case I accidentally deleted it or something." She droned on about the similarity between their pagers, not that Tommy was paying attention at the moment.

Taking a look at the message, Tommy glanced back at her with a resigned look on his face, regretting both that last drink last night that had precipitated this circumstance as well as the rather abrupt goodbye that was about to happen. "I know this doesn't look good, but I have to go," he told her, throwing his pants back on.

"You're right. It doesn't look good."

"You're a very nice girl, and if you'd be willing to give me your number, I'd be more than happy to call you soon."

"Stay right here, save yourself the call."

"It's not that I don't see the logic in that, but I really do need to go."

"'Cause Potus was involved in an accident?" she inquired while scribbling ten digits down on a scrap of paper.

"Yeah."

Handing Tommy his pager and simultaneously stuffing the sheet of paper in his shirt pocket, she turned her head up, looking him straight in the eyes. "Tell your friend Potus he has a funny name, and he should watch where he's running."

"I would, but he's not just my friend, he's my boss. And it's not his name, it's his title."

"POTUS?"

"President of the United States. I'll call you!" That was the last thing the lady heard as Tommy raced out the door.

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Well, that's the intro. It's honestly my first try at this, so whether it's any good or not, I'll let you be the judge. I'm reworking some of the plots Sorkin wrote, so as to remove some of the more blatant partisan shots. As a God-fearing moderate, I pride myself on being able to see both sides of the argument and striving to find the common ground. I've just about finished gaming out the pilot, and if enough of you like it, I will try doing this with other episodes. (I just might do it regardless, as I have a few ideas running through my head. It's just a matter of who to place where.) You know the drill, please R&R.