The second year of Sara's presidential mandate passed her by like a dream. It was too early to say whether it was a good one or a bad one.

The referendum took place in the spring, fitting enough for her team to draw from rebirth symbolism in their campaign in favor of gun reform. All around the world, people were talking about this, America's finally confronting itself with its origins, daring to disturb the sacred sleep of her founding fathers.

At times, Sara almost thought she could see them, ghosts roaming the White House, nodding their heads in despair at her.

We didn't make America for people like you, they'd say. You have no business in this place, in this house, in this office.

Because, truth be told, be it hailed as a land of democracy, Sara knew that the reins of power in this country had been carefully placed in the hands of a selected few, who neither shared her gender nor her ideological beliefs.

As Ireland had done, when it had held a referendum on same-sex marriage, so now, Sara's administration tried to reel in people abroad, launching a rallying cry around the idea of a historic moment it would be unforgiveable to miss.

Sara was in her office, in the company of Gretchen Morgan, when the results of the referendum were finally made public.

As a rule, Sara liked to receive such news in private, whether they ended in failure or success, but in the rush of politics, where every face went out of focus, where colleagues couldn't really be friends, and yet there was no room for friendship outside of the office, Gretchen Morgan had imposed herself as an indispensable ally.

It was true that those lying lips looked well able to blow death through a kiss, or plant poison into visibly innocent words, but Sara had had a long time to study Gretchen, so that she trusted her to tell her the truth, however unpleasant, without sugarcoating.

Maybe because she was quite ruthless and, as all unanimously agreed on, a force to be reckoned with, people around the White House had started calling her 'the new Kellerman', which Sara found awfully unfortunate, as both Gretchen and Paul were bound to equally dislike it.

But in truth, Gretchen treated Sara just a little more fairly than Kellerman did; maybe only because they were both women, and Gretchen would never think of hiding the truth from Sara while alleging she was protecting her from it. In their cut-to-the-chase relationship, there was no room for paternalism.

And Sara was glad to have her, over two ounces of whisky, on the afternoon when the fruits of their laborious campaign finally flourished.

"Congratulations," Gretchen said, rather blandly, before downing her glass. "The people's with you. I thought they would be. It's hardly a surprise, but still, it deserves saying."

Sara chuckled. "You don't sound overjoyed."

"Guessing what the people want and giving it to them are two different things. You've placed the bar rather high, if you ask me. We better hope we can deliver."

"We will. By any means necessary."

Gretchen looked sullenly at her empty glass.

"Anyway, Europe will be thrilled."

"It can't have been easy," Sara said. "Touring the world, promoting reform. I know you're against it."

"Yes, and you know, 'easy' really came back a lot when I looked at this job description."

The two women smiled, and an understanding passed between them that didn't need saying.

"Another glass?"

"Safer to pass," Gretchen said. "I'm expecting a lot of phone calls in the next two hours."

"Good luck."

"Thank you, Madam President," Gretchen smiled, a hint mischievously. "But I rather think you should hold on to it."

And, indeed, as time passed, Sara started to think she would need luck. All the luck she could get.

It was April by the time the results of the referendum were out. That very night, Sara gave a televised speech, in her office, in which she laid out her plan for a legislation that would enact the reform the people had demanded.

To outside eyes, she was more than ever a half-revolutionary political suicide, an unprecedented inhabitant in the White House.

"This is good for us," John Abruzzi told his candidate, Alex Mahone, as the two of them were sitting in the back of a limousine for a chat. "Now, we've found an organization that'll be willing to give us a lot of money to fund your campaign. Even if she doesn't make it that far, it'll be a long, long time, before the NRA can trust a democrat again."

Mahone listened to John carefully.

He was an especially alert young man – young for a politician. Like all serious candidates expecting to run for present, at least over forty-five. But still a great deal younger than the mobster chief, and lacking experience in that jungle of a world where people like Abruzzi reigned as the crownless kings of this country.

"You don't think," Mahone said, "she'll be the opponent to face me, come 2024?"

John's hoarse, weary laughter filled the limousine. "That girl is taking on a lot more than she can chew. Not saying this to underestimate her. I did it once, and once was enough. To say the truth, I have some respect for that woman – I even have admiration."

He had started rubbing his beard obliviously. The look wasn't working for him, and he'd have to shave it one of these days.

"But let's be real," he said, focusing on Mahone again. "The NRA will crush her."

"They tried." Alex shrugged. "Now, the people's spoken, they've got even fewer chances of passing her off as a lunatic."

Abruzzi conceded with a nod. "Yeah, that girl's a little too serious for her own good. If they can't bend her, they'll break her. I'll tell you, Alex, I wouldn't be surprised if she's a stiff one by the end of the year. A little sad. I'll make an appearance at the burial." He chuckled again. "Though if you ask me, she'll make a much more believable martyr than she ever did a president."

It was October by the time the bill made it to the House of Representatives. Sara walked into the great, awe-inspiring circular room, whose presidential-blue flooring no longer intimidated her in the least. It wasn't fear she felt, or apprehension, but rather a readiness to face absolutely anything.

Anyone among that sea of faces might start disrespecting her, might call her a liar right as she gave her speech.

Part of her knew that a non-negligible amount of these people didn't have faith in what she stood for, didn't believe she was as much their president as the forty-five men before her had been.

"Good morning to you all," she said. "As all of you know, we are here today because, last spring, we have heard the people's voice on an issue that has been tearing our country asunder for years and years. We are here because we have been proud to call America the greatest democracy in the world, and it is time we start acting like one."

A shiver of outrage broke out amidst the representatives.

"The people's voice is not an inconvenience we should try to quiet or ignore. And, on this matter, they have spoken soundly, nearly unanimously. What they ask for is not preposterous. They ask that, as they send their children to school, they may rest at ease, and not worry that the sound of gunshots will turn their lives into a tragedy. They ask that their representatives will put the safety of American citizens ahead of sales and profits. We all know that the industry of firearms in this country is worth billions of dollars. The people has spoken their minds, and they do not ask firearms to be banned. They merely ask that they be treated as what they are, weapons, not toys, and that they be sold with measures that take into account the damage they have proven able to cause in the wrong hands."

Sara took a look at her audience.

The overwhelming majority of the faces staring back at her were white, elderly and male.

How many among them despised her? How many held it as a certainty that they would be doing a much, much better job than she was?

Sara couldn't say, and didn't care.

Maybe I'm not their president.

But I'm the one that America elected.

And their outrage was directed at the fact that she was doing her job, no more than that.

"For months," she said, "we have worked on crafting a reform that responds to the concerns that the American people has been voicing for decades. As you take your votes, today, I will ask you to consider your duty to the people who elect you and whom you represent. In this vote, there is no room for party or outside allegiances."

Some representatives shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Naturally, the NRA owned a big share of this House. Like all outrageously powerful institutions, it had its fingers in every pie, as the saying went, and if it was true, then Congress was a pie with too many finger-holes in them to be considered edible by any decent standards.

Sara finished her speech, focusing on the bill now and on what it would accomplish, and though she had steeled herself for it, no one interrupted her or broke into shouts of abuse.

Please, she thought, let them vote for it.

The Democrats had a majority in the House of over two-hundred and fifty, but Kellerman had spoken true when he'd said many among her own party were against reform.

But even as she spoke in favor of the reform which she had been working on with lawmakers in the past few months, Sara knew that, even if the bill should pass in the House today, it would not be out of the woods – or, she should rather say, out of the jungle – yet.

After all, it must also be debated in the Senate, where her majority was less firm, and stood chances of becoming more fragile still.

The midterms were approaching.

And, as everyone in the country saw it, that vote would be an assessment of the first two years of Sara's presidency.

"Did you hear about the bill?"

There were a few seconds of silence.

Lincoln was speaking to his brother, holding his cell phone squeezed between his chin and shoulder while peeling apples in his kitchen.

"Yeah," Michael sounded grave. "I heard."

Lincoln didn't know what to say for a moment.

It seemed another lifetime ago that they had last seen each other, face to face, at the airport, when Michael had decided to move to D.C.

Lincoln thought of asking, Did you find what you were looking for there? But he felt the weight of silence in his throat, coating every wall, and found he was unable to reach out and lift the veil of mystery that had surrounded Michael since his departure.

Why did he really leave, he wondered.

To shadow lawyers, to try and blow new life into the sword of justice, to help those that were helpless?

No.

Lincoln knew his brother, better sometimes then he knew himself. He remembered the fear he'd seen in his eyes, when the woman he loved had taken the reins in a battle against what seemed like an undefeatable Behemoth, and Lincoln knew that, though Michael may not have seen her in the flesh, since his arrival to Washington, he had gone to be with her.

"And…" Lincoln ventured to ask, "D'you think it's good news?"

"For the country. For her reputation." He could picture Michael shaking his head as he added, "Not for her."

Lincoln sighed. "Never thought the bill would make it through the House. Never. It's still got to go through the Senate –"

"If it passes," Michael cut in, "then the NRA has no choice but to get real. Do anything for it to get stuck in the maze of legislative loopholes. And Sara won't let them do that."

He paused.

Lincoln imagined him, fist pressed to his forehead, lost in thought, looking perennially serious, as he had even as a little boy.

"She must know they'll go after her."

"Shit."

Lincoln was so focused on their talk, he nipped his index with the peeler and sprayed droplets of blood all over his apples.

"What?"

"Nothing." He said, and swore under his breath. "Just trying to multitask."

"What are you doing?"

He answered, thinking it might take Michael's mind off that awful weight in his chest he probably carried night and day.

"I'm trying to bake something for Vee. Something that says, 'I've been a lowlife boyfriend, now I'm trying to be a good friend, and I'll take that old label back as soon as you've got a vacancy for me.'"

Michael laughed, which had been what Lincoln was hoping for.

Earlier that year, when he'd started helping out Fernando Sucre, Lincoln had told Michael about Veronica. She had been reluctant to date him again, but willing to be of assistance to a Puerto Rican immigrant, whose girlfriend, Maricruz, was facing imminent deportation. It had taken them the better part of a year to get to the bottom of it, but in the end, they'd managed to disentangle all the legal intricacies that the young couple had been enmeshed in.

After all that had happened, it was actually wonderful for Lincoln to be able to help; not just because he had agreed to do it as a way of doing something for Michael. But to be able to make a difference in two people's lives, to bring justice to people who deserved it, actually made him feel happier than he ever had, in the first thirty years of his life, back when his most serious concerns were making the most of his good looks and what money he had when he had it, and staying out of jail.

Of course, he could have never done anything for Sucre and Maricruz without Vee.

And he couldn't deny that working with her on this had been partly what had made the whole affair so wonderful.

As they discussed the unfairness of the couple's situation, they discovered sides of each other hitherto unexplored.

Once, he broke into an outraged tirade about the flaws in the system and thought he saw her green eyes sparkle with new intensity.

Several times, he had seen a window to kiss her or make a move, but he had let it fly by, thinking that Veronica should know that he was willing to wait for her, and to become the man she deserved, before he would try and seduce her again.

"You're having dinner?" Michael said.

"Yeah. A little celebration. Or maybe goodbye," he shrugged, as if his brother were there to see him and it mattered to feign indifference. The phone nearly slipped from his grip and he had to grab it with one hand, still moist with apple juice. "I don't know. There's no reason for us to see each other anymore, now."

Michael was silent, and yet, Lincoln suspected he wasn't fooled.

Even at a distance, it must have been all too easy for him to pick up on some clues as to the nature of his brother's relationship with Veronica.

Lincoln had always been careful not to say much about it, thinking after what he'd done, he didn't deserve the joys of being loved, and he would never be so insensitive as to shove it into Michael's face, when the latter had lost the woman he loved to politics –

How awful, Lincoln thought. To have lost her and still see her every day, in the news. For her to be gone yet everywhere, pervasive. Probably, it didn't feel to Michael like he had lost her, or anything that had the benefits of closure. He was losing her, over and over, every single day.

"Well," Michael said. "It's a good thing you did together. For Sucre and Maricruz."

"Yeah."

Some ten seconds ticked away in silence. Lincoln didn't move, didn't go back to his apples, didn't think of anything he could say.

In the end, Michael concluded with, "Good luck with your plans then."

And Lincoln answered, "Good luck with yours."

AN: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm trying to get back to a more regular rhythm. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. Enjoy what's left of summer!