The template for the president's executive order was borrowed the actual White House page and from one of ex-President Bush's orders.

Okay, I don't want the government to beat down my door and imprison me for slander, so here you go: My president has no connections to any living or dead person. He is a fictional character created for this fictional story. He is only a figment of my overactive imagination. Got it?

Anyways, moving on.

Carrying belongs to Litahatchee from her story "Night Fire".

I wrote a story for Plenoptic's birthday. It can be found at this link:

www.

fanfiction.

.net/s/4704379/1/

Go read it, it's smutty. :)

President Smith stood at the windows of the Oval Office, staring out at the expansive green lawns. The flood lights from the guard towers illuminated every blade of grass before suddenly plunging into murky darkness past the security fence. The gold curtains drifted slightly in the blast of cold air from the air conditioning units. He stared for another moment before turning around and sinking into his seat. He reclined in the buttery soft leather, his hands resting lightly on the armrests.

"Are you ready to continue, Mr. President?" the gruff general asked. His posture was straight, tall and proud, honed by many years in the military. President Smith nodded carelessly and straightened up, picking up the Mont Blanc sitting by his elbow. His hand hovered over the document as he read the document aloud.

"By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, including the First National Responses Act, and the National Emergency Defense Act, prompted by the recent hostile actions of the resident aliens, I hereby order as follows…"

He paused, making sure his audience was captivated. The various generals in the room were all standing eerily still, half-hidden in the shadows surrounding the desk. He cleared his throat slightly and continued reading.

"…Section one is as follows: To provide further authority to the Department of Defense to respond to continual and any further hostile action from the hostile aliens, including the declaration of war and hostilities toward civilians of the United States, any enlisted persons and officers of the Navy, Air Force, and Army will be placed under the immediate direction of the Secretary of Defense."

President Smith looked up once more. Keller had been 'escorted' to the room by two rather burly Secret Service agents. Keller nodded crisply, acknowledging that the President had spoken to him.

"I hope you are ready to serve your country, Mr. Keller," Smith said softly, barely able to hide the cynicism in his voice.

"I've served my country since the day I walked into the enlistment office, sir, and I will continue to uphold the Constitution and her amendments until the day I die," Keller said, his voice equally soft, though his voice trembled slightly with rage.

"Excellent, Mr. Keller. I'll need you to sign this document," President Smith said, carelessly sliding the thick packet across the table. Keller picked it up, squinting suspiciously up at the President. He thumbed through the first few pages.

"Why do you need my signature?"

"You know that I can't authorize a nuclear strike without your signature," President Smith scolded gently, almost as though he was speaking to a child.

"I will not authorize a nuclear strike," Keller said, shoving the papers back across the desk. The President gave him an amused look.

"It wasn't a request, Keller. Here. You can even use my nice new expensive pen," the President prompted, holding out the pen. Keller drew back, revolted with the man's actions. The generals and military advisors were all escorted from the room when the President waved his hand at them. He had to speak with Keller. Alone.

"Then you are hereby placed under arrest for aiding and abetting enemies of the United States of America," President Smith said, steepling his fingers in front of his chin. He gave Keller a sarcastic good-bye wave as the agents picked him up and out of his seat.

"You have no right to - !"

"I have every right to protect this country and her people," President Smith hissed angrily, standing up and slamming his hands against the desk. After a brief struggle, Keller fell still. His chest heaved from exertion. For a moment, he did not speak.

"Protecting our country or your financial interests?" Keller asked quietly, "You don't think that I know where those millions of dollars end up going?"

"Keller, if you know what's best for you…"

"No, Mister President," Keller said, spitting out the words as though they burned his tongue, "It would be in your best interests to shred those nuclear strike papers, sir. I happen to know that one of our allies just so happens to have digital copies of all of your transactions. And it would be a terrible shame if those documents were accidentally leaked to the world mere weeks before re-elections, now wouldn't it?"

Keller felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine at the glare the President sent in his direction. It was a half-truth, in actuality. The President had been funneling away funds to a bank in the Bahamas, but there was no paper trail. Keller kept the glare firmly in place, his eyes defiantly locked on with the President's.

"Very well, Mr. Keller. You don't need to sign," The President said at long last, "But if anyone even mentions it, you will be relocated to Guantanamo for blackmail and extortion."

"I understand," Keller said, dropping into his seat and rubbing his aching wrists. The other man nodded, straightening the cuffs on his long sleeve shirt.

"I am going to propose stricter rules regarding our resident aliens. This sudden turn in events concerns me greatly. I will need to speak to Prime, so please get into contact with him as soon as possible," he said smoothly. Keller stared openly. President Smith never said please. He never negotiated. Keller nodded briskly after a moment. Re-elections were coming up, and the citizens of the United States needed a strong leader. His Presidential orders were already starting to garner attention from the senate and even from the public. Keller may have disliked Smith openly, but they needed to stand together if they were to break the news to the world and expect to maintain order and stability.

"Very well, sir."

"Optimus Prime has already let me know of his intentions to trade with other nations. I propose that we send in a government agent to regulate trade and negotiations. Since they still reside on our soil, they cannot make treaties regarding our land, sea, or airspace," Smith said nonchalantly, staring down at his desk thoughtfully, "Now, I know that Prime isn't going to agree to us constantly monitoring them, so I'll have to give him the benefit of a doubt when it comes to trading and such. They are not a nation of their own – we'll have to send someone in to study how their culture works and we will go from there…for now, they are limited to that two mile by two mile square of land."

Keller stared, his mouth agape. He quickly shut his mouth. The President had an agenda of his own, and Keller would have to figure it out as quickly as possible. The man loved his power and would do anything to keep it. Even forsake the Autobots.

"The Constitution does not provide for alien races seeking asylum, so a few additions will need to be made. I propose that once they are revealed that we make a few alterations to the Constitution. No voting rights, of course, since they are their own 'nation'…"

Nightshade swung her legs over the edge of the berth, pausing when Chromia flopped onto her front, mumbling something about Ironhide. Nightshade got to her feet, walking to the niche in the wall and staring at the impressive inventory of weapons that Jazz had brought them. Her fuel pump pounded. Was she going to be able to do this? Her hand drifted to cover the compartment in her chest where Streak lay safely tucked away. She woulddo it. Losing wasn't an option; it couldn't be an option. She couldn't be a defenseless femme any more – the tiny sparkling housed in her chest was her main concern, her only concern. She had brought life into this world, and now he was her responsibility to safeguard.

She shivered. She had killed before, sending no less than a dozen sparks to be weighed and judged by Primus, but those mechs and femmes were the worst of the war. They were thieves, assassins, and rapists, taking what they wanted, pillaging, burning, and plundering. They had believed Megatron's seductive words, believing that by following him, they were exempt from the laws that bound their society. They believed that they could overturn their Prime's will, and their deeds could not go unpunished. Now she had to end this, and make sure that her son outlived her.

Nightshade sifted through the weapons in the niche, bypassing the guns and small rocket launcher. She subspaced six small flash grenades, one frag grenade, and a pair of energy daggers. One went into each wrist compartment. Nightshade sighed. How ironic – a dancer's bracelets were symbolically a sign of peace and harmony between the femme and her music, and those compartments were now being used to house weapons of death. Nightshade shook Chromia's shoulder.

"Chromia?" she asked softly.

"…what?" the femme asked grumpily, not bothering to remove the cushion from her head.

"I will see you later, Chromia."

"Bye," the femme grunted. Nightshade smiled sadly before turning to the door. She checked her chronometer. It was seven thirty three in the morning. Today was their last day. Nightshade set off down the hallway, trying to look as innocent and as inconspicuous as possible. She opened the door to the medical bay, glancing around the pristine white room. Ratchet would enjoy this room. It had all of the necessary amenities, along with some very interesting gadgets. She sat down at her desk, flipping through some of the datapads she had managed to dig up. Now, how could she get him into the medical bay without arousing suspicion?

Emirate hadn't had a physical. She smiled wryly. It seemed getting a physical was more dangerous than it sounded. She had been discovered during her physical. And now, Emirate was going to die during his. Well, she hoped it wouldn't come to killing because she would rather hand him over to Prime or Ironhide. She opened up a comm. to the mech, smirking at his irritated groan.

"Please report to sick bay. Your physical is scheduled for today at seven forty five," Nightshade said coolly, cutting off the line before he could retort. She folded her hands across her desk, feeling the weapons in her arms shift. She could do this. Taking a deep quaff of air into her systems, she shuttered her optics and forced her body to relax.

There would only be one shot.

She had to make it count. Images of Ratchet floated into her processor. Wouldn't he be proud of her for taking the initiative? He'd commented on her peaceful nature when it came to physical violence, comparing her physical restraint to her inability to control her vocal modulator. She smiled wryly, and her spark eventually returned to its normal peaceful state. She filtered air in and out; filtering it, processing it, and dividing it up between her heated systems.

There was a soft knock on the door. Nightshade's optics sprang open as she sat up. The door opened and Emirate entered, looking extremely upset. He sat down on the table without waiting for an invitation. Nightshade forced her hands to stop shaking and went out into the room. He growled.

"Next time, schedule my physical for a later hour," he snapped at her. She only rolled her optics, turning to the cabinet beside her. She subtly switched over to her electrical reserves, wincing as her engine began to shut down. Her engine processed too much fuel at once. She was going to need silence if she was going to properly assassinate the fool. How she hated switching from energy source to energy source, but it had to be done. Streak began wriggling, alarmed that the strong thrumming of his mother's engine suddenly ceased.

Nightshade comforted him gently, reassuring him. Streak settled down, but she could still sense the little mech's anxiety.

"Hmph – it doesn't matter. When I grow tired of Chromia, you'll be sharing my berth, so you'll learn my recharge habits soon enough," Emirate said, glancing around the room. Nightshade ignored him, sifting through the equipment. Emirate was seated with his back to the wall. Not a good position for him to be in. She couldn't attack from in front.

Nightshade sat down in front of Emirate with a datapad in one hand. She began examining his exoskeleton, poking and prodding gently. Emirate a loud impatient noise, but didn't argue with her. She watched him carefully, watching for an opportunity to strike.

Eek!