"Nice of you to finally join us,"
Russell Jackson, the President's Chief of Staff, stood outside of the SIT room door. His arms were crossed, his tone was cutting, and his expression was anything but welcoming.
Elizabeth didn't miss a beat. "Russell," she said cooly, "if you've figured out a way to teleport through D.C. traffic, please share it with the group. Otherwise, I suggest we move on."
He huffed and ran a hand across his bald head, making his palm slick with the sweat. "I know. Look, I'm sorry. It's just been a crazy morning."
"Yeah..." Elizabeth replied solemnly. "Let's get in there."
For a room that carried such lore in the American narrative, The SIT room was very simple. It was the size of a standard bedroom, with no windows and a single door. Only two colors comprised its palette. Slate gray on the carpeted floor, walls and ceilings, and the dark mahogany that made up the large conference table and chairs which were the only pieces of furniture. But What made this the SIT room, and not another generic conference room, was the north wall. Built into the plaster was a plethora of monitors and tv's precisely placed to fit amongst one another like a tetris board. On each one was a different feed. News, Military, Satellite.
Elizabeth scanned the footage on the wall, her heart sinking as she took in the chaos. Spinning drone footage showed the iconic Golden Gate Bridge laying in ruins, half-submerged in the bay. Fires flickered through the city like malevolent stars, and the desperate cries of survivors echoed faintly through the room's speakers.
San Francisco had fallen.
The SIT Room was packed with key figures. Military generals in pressed uniforms, agency heads flipping through thick briefing packets, and aides with laptops furiously typing updates. Phones buzzed incessantly, their vibrations adding to the already chaotic atmosphere.
President Dalton stood at the head of the table, his hands gripping the back of his chair as he absorbed the rapid-fire reports coming from every corner of the room.
"Mr. President, we've got National Guard units en route to San Francisco." Barked a General, his voice cutting through the din. "But with the damage to I-80 and the airports, logistics are a nightmare. We're having to airlift supplies in from Nevada and Arizona."
"FEMA teams are already stretched thin," added Karen Douglas, the head of Homeland Security, her brow furrowed. "We've got volunteers mobilizing, but we're short on equipment and personnel."
"Social media is a disaster," interjected a young policy advisor, waving his tablet. "There are conspiracy theories spreading like wildfire. Some idiot with 20 million followers is claiming it's a HAARP experiment gone wrong."
"And the international angle?" Dalton asked, his voice sharp as he leaned forward.
"Offers of aid are pouring in," Elizabeth provided as she stepped up to the opposite end of the table. "But accepting them opens the door to political strings. China's already spinning this as proof of American decline, and Russia's not far behind."
He dipped his head. "I want solutions, not a list of problems."
Jay spoke up. "Mr. President, we can prioritize international allies who have rapid deployment capabilities—Japan, South Korea, Australia. We'll need to frame it as global solidarity, not dependency."
Dalton nodded, though his eyes lingered on the monitors showing the devastation. "And morale?"
"Low," Russell Jackson, the Chief of Staff, admitted, his tone unusually subdued. "People are panicking, fleeing other coastal cities even though there's no evidence of an imminent threat.
The President exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "We need to step up to this moment. We haven't had a disaster this bad since Katrina. And we all know how well that went down…"
Elizabeth saw Russel open his mouth, probably to suggest a coordinated messaging strategy, but Dalton spoke first, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.
"I'm going to San Francisco."
The room froze.
"Mr. President," General Layton said cautiously, "with all due respect, that's not advisable. The city's infrastructure is barely holding, and there's still a risk of aftershocks."
Dalton turned to him, his expression resolute. "If I'm asking first responders, soldiers, and volunteers to risk their lives, I need to show them that we're in this together. We can't lead from behind a desk."
"I think you should think this through…" Russell began.
"This isn't up for debate. General Layton, I need a secure transport plan. Douglas, coordinate with FEMA to establish a command center in the city. Russell, you'll stay here and manage operations in D.C."
Russell's face was pulled tight, but he nodded. "Understood, Mr. President."
"Good. We leave within the hour."
As the room exploded back into action, Elizabeth caught the President's eye. She rounded the table and came beside him. "You realize this is a risk, don't you?" she asked quietly.
Dalton's eyes shaded with resolve. "Elizabeth, leadership is always a risk. But if we don't take it now, what's the point?"
Her thoughts briefly drifted back to their time in the CIA, when they had worked side by side in dangerous situations. They had trusted each other with their lives, their decisions. That bond was what allowed her to speak so frankly with him now, even if it meant challenging his judgment.
"Look, I understand the instinct to go. You want to be there for the people, show them that the government is with them, and I respect that. But the press?" She let out a slow breath. "They're not going to give you that moment. Not with where things stand."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a faint scowl tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This isn't about approval ratings, Elizabeth."
"Maybe not for you," she countered, "but it will be for them. And for your opponents."
She could see it already. The cameras zooming in on every out-of-place comment, every misstep. The late-night pundits picking apart whether he lingered too long in front of a crumbling building for a photo-op or whether he shook the wrong person's hand first. The narrative would be set before he even stepped off Air Force One. And his enemies? They didn't need more ammunition.
"Let's not hand them another distraction," she said plainly.
He glanced back toward the table where the joint chiefs and officials were engaged in rapid discussion. Then, his expression shifted, something between reluctant acceptance and mild amusement. "Alright, then." He nodded slightly. "So you go."
Elizabeth blinked. "What?"
"You go," he repeated, crossing his arms. "The American people love you, Elizabeth. You walk through the rubble, meet with families, talk to first responders—nobody's looking for a reason to rip you apart in the press. They respect you."
She tilted her head, weighing the suggestion. "I'd need full support—logistics, resources, real solutions for the people on the ground. I'm not going just to shake hands and pose for photos."
Dalton nodded. "Of course."
She studied him for a moment before nodding back. "Then I'll go."
His mouth twitched in a slight smile. "Good. Because I wasn't looking forward to pretending not to mind sleeping in a tent."
Elizabeth huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, well, I hope you enjoy running the country while I'm out there in the dust." She straightened her blazer and turned back toward the command table. "I'll get my team on it."
"The President wants us to go to San Francisco," Elizabeth said, her voice steady as she observed the shifting expressions of her team.
They had gathered in the hallway of the West Wing, the soft, lush carpet beneath their feet muffling the sound of their footsteps. From its large windows, beams of early morning light filtered through. Despite the constant hum of activity in the rooms around them, this hallway remained still, almost peaceful.
Blake shifted uncomfortably, breaking the silence first. "Jesus. Okay. Yeah. Of course."
"Wait, are we even cleared to go?" Mike asked, rubbing a hand over his face. "I mean, not that I don't want to, but—"
"We'll be on Air Force Two," Elizabeth supplied.
"Right," Mike muttered. "Because we're those people now."
"We've always been those people," Nadine said dryly, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. "It just never felt this... personal."
"Yeah," Blake ran a hand through his hair. He fixed Nadine with genuine eye contact before speaking. "I know I seem scared," he admitted, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "But if you need anything—anything—I've got it"
Nadine studied him for a moment, then a wave of appreciation softened her features and turned her dainty lips upward. "Thanks, Blake," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "Just… keep doing what you do."
He huffed a small laugh. "What, being an anxious mess?"
"Keeping things light when they need to be," she corrected. "We're going to need that."
Blake's smile was crooked, but it was there. "Then I'll keep talking until someone begs me to shut up."
The group shared a small, brief laugh, the atmosphere in the room easing just a little.
Jay, who had been quiet up until now, broke in. "I'm just glad it's not my week with Chloe," he muttered. "That would've been a mess."
He paused, then added, "How long are we going to be in San Francisco?"
"A week. Two at the most. We'll be staying at Fort Mason. It's been a tourist spot, but they've got it up and running again for us." Elizabeth continued, affection and appreciation for them all slipping into her tone "Look, I know this is more than just work for us. Some of you have people out there, too. But if we're going to do something—if we're going to help—this is how."
One by one, they nodded, not just as professionals, but as people willing to face the unknown together.