Author's Note: This will be the final part this year, so a happy New Year to you all. Have a nice 'Rutsch', as we call it here in Germany, into the New Year. Again, some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from the West Wing episode "He Shall, From Time to Time".
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Power Politics 2: The Big Night
#
The White House
Washington DC, USA
January 11, 2000
Parallel 047
#
Your name is Buffy Anne Summers and, once upon a time, you were the Vampire Slayer. The one girl in all the world with the strength and skill to fight against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. Those days are long past, of course. They ended when your body died and your mind and soul were downloaded into a new form. Going from mortal girl to indestructible android was not an easy transition to make, but you managed. You always do. That's what it means to be you, doesn't it? Face whatever the world decides to throw your way and never stop smiling and quipping.
At least that's the way it used to be. As of late, though, you haven't exactly felt like smiling or quipping all that much. There are numerous reasons for that, far too many to rehash, but it is safe to say you are not a happy camper right now and you doubt that is going to change anytime soon.
Well, things could always be worse. Instead of being here in the White House you could be with Team B in the Congress building. Teamed up with the monster that wears your lover's face, yet is nothing like him. Nothing at all.
Yes, things could be worse. Odds are they soon will be.
"Oh, Roger, if anything happens, you know what to do, right?"
You look up, shaking off your gloomy thoughts. You are standing in a corner of the Oval Office, unseen by the other two people currently in the room. The Promethian metal that is your body has adapted to its surroundings, making you invisible both to the naked eye and the electronics keeping watch over the office of the most powerful man in the world.
President Josiah 'Jed' Bartlet. You have read up on him a bit. Well, not exactly. Anne did and fed the information directly into your brain, which wasn't that hard seeing as you are two minds sharing the same body.
Things are different in this world then you remember from your own in this time. In your world, back in the year 2000, the president was still Bill Clinton, nearing the end of his second term. He would be replaced by George W. Bush and there are certainly better things to occupy your thoughts than his time in office.
In this America the Democrats are still in power and Jed Bartlet seems to be a decent man, if a little spineless when it comes to toughening it out against a Republican Congress. Still, he has a sort of charisma that almost forces people to like him. The secretary of agriculture, Roger Tribby, seems no exception to that rule.
When you first laid eyes upon him you almost struck out. His resemblance to Richard Wilkins is uncanny. In fact you had both Anne and Giles, who is also keeping watch somewhere in the White House, check him out just to be certain that Wilkins hasn't made the switch yet. This is still Roger Tribby, though, a perfectly normal human man. And that's how it's going to stay if you have anything to say about it.
"I honestly hadn't thought about it, sir," Tribby says, answering the president's earlier question of whether he'd be ready to take over the presidency, just in case.
"First thing always is national security," Bartlet tells him. "Get your commanders together. Appoint joint chiefs. Appoint a chairman. Take them to Defcon 4. Have the governors send emergency delegates to Washington. The assistant attorney general is gonna be the acting A.G. If he tells you he wants to bring out the National Guard, do what he tells you."
*He sure likes to talk a lot, doesn't he?* Anne quips. You know that she is trying to lighten you up a bit. She's been trying all week. So far she's had little luck.
*A bit like Giles,* you muse, trying to get into the spirit a little. *Our Giles, I mean. This new one we've got working with us hasn't really said much yet, has he?*
*He is still shaken from being betrayed. Give him time, I'm sure he'll be as scholarly as our Giles ever was.*
"You have a best friend?" Bartlet asks, stopping just short of the door.
"Yes, sir," Tribby answers, a bit confused by the question.
"Is he smarter than you?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you trust him with your life?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's your chief of staff."
You can't help but smile at that. Your sensors have already picked up Leo McGarry, the chief of staff, in the next room, fully capable of hearing everything that was just said. You doubt the president has noticed.
"Oh, in the residence, in the second floor, the bathroom at the end of the hall. You have to jiggle the handle a little."
A young black man enters and you recognize him as Charlie Young, the president's body man.
"Mr. President?"
Bartlet nods at him, then turns to Tribby one final time. "I got to go." He pauses. "You'll do fine. People have phenomenal capacity."
"Yes, sir."
He finally leaves, leaving Tribby alone in the Oval Office. The secretary of agriculture takes a moment to look around, then heads out through the glass doors, making his way toward the residence to watch the State of the Union on TV. Without a sound you follow him, unseen by the Secret Service men posted everywhere.
*Buffy? Anne? Can you hear me?*
It still weirds you out a bit that Giles, this strange and aloof version of Rupert Giles called the Sorcerer Supreme, has so little trouble projecting his own thoughts into your mind. You have gotten used to sharing your head, but not with more than one person at a time.
*Yes, we're here. Any sign of our special guest star?*
*The runes I've placed all over the White House have just been activated. Apparently someone used a fairly sophisticated teleportation spell to slip into the building undetected. Quite a nice piece of magic.*
*Well, if it is Wilkins than he's had a hundred years and change to practice. Do you know where he is?*
*Yes, I'm heading there right now.*
*Need our help?*
*I don't estimate so. You should keep your eye on Tribby, just in case this is a diversion or Wilkins has a back-up in place.*
*Okay. Give him hell, Giles. Just try and keep the White House intact, will you?*
*I will do my best.*
#
Inside the United States Congress
Washington DC, USA
January 11, 2000
Parallel 047
#
Your name is Toby Ziegler and you are the White House communications director. You are in charge of the message around here. It's your job to make the president's agenda reach the people, make the approval ratings go up, and make sure that the State of the Union for which you have written the speech (along with Sam) goes off without a hitch.
It's not an easy job when the president is already ten minutes late. No doubt he felt the need to impart some last-minute wisdom on Roger Tribby or maybe the First Lady wanted to take his temperature one final time. You'll never understand why so much fuss is made over a simple fever. Okay, the president fainted, but it's not like he is about to die.
You won't find out about him having Multiple Sclerosis for another 16 months, so the notion that this simple fever might have been fatal to him never enters your mind.
Seeing as you are a perfectionist you know perfectly well that, given the opportunity, you will go over the speech for the thousandth time and maybe make some last-second corrections. It's unnecessary, though. The speech is great, everything will work out fine, and to keep yourself busy you prowl around the lobby, making sure all the White House employees present know you are in a foul mood already and it will only get worse with every second of further delay.
You could really use a cigar right now. Unfortunately some idiots decided that smoking is prohibited in all public buildings, so that's out the window.
Suddenly you catch a glimpse of someone slipping into the shadows from the corner of your eye. A figure in a black trench coat. When you turn to look, though, there is no one there. Maybe you just imagined things. Or maybe ...
"Is he here yet?"
You turn to look at CJ, somehow managing to look regal and without a care in the world despite being a bundle of nerves just like everyone else.
"Not yet."
"The Press is getting antsy. Someone is spreading a rumor that the president might be sick and the State of the Union will be delayed for a week."
"That is ..."
You were going to say 'nonsense', but a sharp beep from the metal detector at the lobby entrance catches both your attention. A young woman with a press ID clipped to her blouse has apparently set it off and Secret Service men are rushing toward her.
"Chill, guys," she says, raising her hands. "Metal implant in my hip. It's in my ID."
One Secret Service agent looks at said ID while another, a woman, searches the young brunette. She comes up empty, though, and gives a sign to proceed. You turn back to CJ, who is still looking at the young woman.
"What is it?"
"That girl is wearing a Press ID from the Post. I thought Julia was going to cover the State of the Union for them."
The woman stops, apparently having overheard, and turns to smile at CJ.
"I'm covering for Julie tonight, Ms. Cregg. She had a ... last-minute emergency. My name is Farrah. Farrah Winters."
The two women shake hands.
"Well, Farrah, maybe I'll see you in the White House press room one day," CJ remarks.
"I doubt it. I'm only pitching in tonight. I usually cover ... sports."
"Sports?"
"Yeah. Gotta go."
You look after her, something about her unnerving you.
"That girl has a grip like a vise," CJ says, massaging her hand.
Well, if nothing else she has managed to make you forget all about the mysterious shadow you saw earlier. Moments later the woman is out of your mind as well as new Secret Service agents pour in through the door, heralding the arrival of the President.
"Here we go."
#
Outside the United States Congress
Washington DC, USA
January 11, 2000
Parallel 047
#
Your name is Mr. Trick. It's not the name you were born with, of course, but you have learned that there is power in names and people will look upon you differently if you have a somewhat impressive moniker. If one were to ask you why you came up with Trick as a name you'd feign ignorance, maybe say that it just came to you. The actual reason, which you find a little too harmless to tell anyone among demonkind, is that, when your first victim saw you approach with your game face on, her final words were: "What kind of trick is this?"
It had seemed like a fun name at the time and then stuck.
But a little over a week ago you were in a different world, one that held many such as you. Demons of all kinds, dark magic, and people looking to keep humanity safe from both. This, though, is not such a world. No demons, only very little magic, and certainly no do-gooders looking to wipe out vampires for the betterment of all. You could learn to like this place.
Your employer is one of those people such as yourself who always keeps an eye on the big picture. Suddenly and inexplicably finding yourself in a new world with a new set of rules might have set back most people, but not Richard Wilkins. Being thwarted just a few months shy of fulfilling a 100-year-plan might have caused despair in lesser men, but not Richard Wilkins.
No, only a week after arriving here you are in the process of carrying out a coup such as no vampire has ever undertaken. By dawn tomorrow Richard Wilkins will be president of the most powerful country in the world and that will only be the beginning. The big picture is larger still. Being what you are in a world that has never before seen such as you, you estimate it will take a decade at best until the entire world is yours.
First thing first, though. Tonight your job is simple and enjoyable, yet still needs to be done with diligence and care. You look at the people you have assembled for this. Only half a dozen of your kin crossed over with you and Wilkins when you suddenly found yourself misplaced, but a lack of manpower is never more than a short-term problem for a vampire. Within the last week you and the others have sired nearly fifty minions. True, it's quantity over quality, but in a world such as this quantity will fully suffice.
There is one tiny thing nagging at your confidence. Yesterday Lenny and his guys were sent out to kidnap Roger Tribby, but they never returned and Tribby turned up at the White House without a hitch. Well, it won't be a problem. Wilkins will just make the switch himself and all will work out fine. Lenny and his guys probably took off to enjoy a world without vampire safeguards, to hell with their employers. You make a mental note to find and kill them for that later on.
"All right, boys," you tell them, your voice full of confidence. "The plan is simple. Enter that building, kill anything alive. Only one thing to keep in mind: No bite marks. If you feel the need for a drink, make sure to slash the throat later on so no trace of teeth remains. We want these good people to suspect terrorists, not vampires. Any questions?"
There are some growls and the air is heavy with anticipation, but no questions.
"Then by all means, boys. Let the feast begin!"
TO BE CONTINUED