Chapter 1: Launch Sequence: Unleashing DOGEA
The sun had not yet pushed through the winter haze when the Oval Office lights blazed on at 6:07 a.m. Two camera crews shuffled in reverse across the Persian rug's intricate, faded patterns, their lenses already trained on the Resolute desk. The air hummed with the quiet buzz of pre-production, the faint smell of stale coffee mingling with the polished wood and leather of the historic room. Behind the desk stood President Jonathan "Jack" Trumpet, his skin the shade of late-night fast-food ketchup, flushed with the adrenaline of the moment. He cracked his knuckles, sending a ripple of tension through the air, his energy crackling like an over-wound toy ready to snap. His movements were jerky, but his confidence was unshakable. Blaze Rivers, the Acting Press Secretary, had draped a gilded banner over the drapes:
EFFICIENCY DAY!
Gold letters glittered under the harsh spotlight, as gaudy as a casino marquee blinking in the middle of a forgotten desert town. It was a spectacle that screamed for attention, as if the entire room had been painted in the hues of excess.
Elon Moor glided in next, tieless beneath a charcoal blazer, sleeves flipped to reveal neon-blue circuit-board lining, the reflection of which caught the overhead lights with every subtle movement. His presence was smooth, polished, rehearsed—too rehearsed. Even his hair seemed engineered, as if it had been sculpted by a tech startup's marketing department. The tech mogul positioned himself at Trumpet's shoulder, one foot deliberately kept inside every camera's frame, his smile both calculated and proud.
Dana Crowe, the exhausted Chief of Staff, lingered in the archway. Her fingers flew across the screen of her phone with sharp precision, eyes darting back and forth between the small digital keyboard and the mounting list of agency heads she needed to notify. She typed, her movements almost mechanical:
Brace. Twenty-percent slash goes live in three minutes. Lock your HR servers.
Her stomach tightened in anticipation as the minutes ticked by, the weight of the administration's sweeping action settling heavily in her chest. The room hummed with anticipation, but there was no mistaking the anxiety clenching her insides.
The president cleared his throat, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to rumble through the room like an approaching storm. Blaze rushed to his side, voice dripping with sycophantic reverence. "Sir, this tweet will be Churchillian." He lifted his phone, its case a glaring patriotic red, white, and blue, ready to broadcast the signing live to ninety-eight million followers.
Trumpet puffed out his chest, his voice booming as he prepared to speak: "My fellow Americans," he began, the deep timber of his voice filling the room, "today we ignite the rocket of freedom." He stabbed a finger toward the sky, his aim just barely missing the overhead mic in a show of boundless, unfiltered enthusiasm. "By stripping twenty percent of bloated bureaucracy, we give power back to the people—and a doge-meme mascot to prove we can laugh while doing it!"
On cue, Moor flourished a foam-board cut-out of a Shiba Inu dressed in a business suit, the words "SUCH SAVINGS" floating in Comic Sans above its cartoon grin. Flashbulbs peppered the room in rapid succession, the bright light casting quick shadows over the faces of the staffers caught in the crossfire. Somewhere behind the cameras, a lone aide groaned.
Trumpet took the marker, thick enough to bleed through the parchment, and signed Executive Order #1. The weight of his action seemed to hang in the air, each stroke of the pen echoing with the reverberations of history—his history, anyway. "Historic," he whispered to himself, then louder for all to hear, "HISTORIC!" His voice boomed, an over-the-top punctuation of his own importance. Blaze immediately captured the moment, his finger stabbing the "Send" button so forcefully that the phone's screen protector cracked under the pressure.
Dana stepped alongside Moor, her voice low and heavy. "The agencies will panic."
"They'll iterate," Moor replied nonchalantly, his eyes still locked on the red light signaling live stream metrics, the faint glow reflecting off his wire-frame glasses. "Disruption is just panic with better PR."
Dana's stomach clenched. She swallowed another antacid, the chalky relief of it barely touching the dread that was now building in her chest.
Two hours later, the West Wing hallways pulsed with caffeine and paper cuts. The once pristine carpets now felt worn from the weight of the morning's chaos. Printers coughed out three-hundred-page PDFs—workforce-purge templates every agency had to complete within ten days. The sound of paper shuffling was relentless, deafening even in the midst of the frenetic activity. Torn reams of paper piled knee-deep, while junior aides, frenzied and desperate, argued over the smallest details—like which color to shade the eliminated positions on the official org charts.
Through this river of ink and bodies, Blaze Rivers strode like a man possessed, holding court as if this were all part of his design. He barked orders to no one in particular, his voice carrying easily through the chaos like the megaphone of the century.
"Key phrase!" he snapped, cutting through the tension. "Largest de-bureaucratization since D-Day. Push it to cable and TikTok. Add a doge emoji or four, audience testing shows likes are better with those."
Down the corridor, an assistant director of legislative affairs hissed in frustration, "Legal says we can't fire the Nuclear Safety guys today!"
"Fine," another voice snapped back, "paint them orange on the chart, not red. We'll circle back after lunch."
Dana maneuvered through the throng, phone vibrating incessantly. Her fingers flew across the screen, answering queries that came in faster than she could process them. The text chain with senior civil-service liaisons now resembled a seismograph, one aftershock after another:
EPA asks whether the twenty percent applies to field scientists in hurricane zones.
Interior wonders if park rangers count as "front-line brand ambassadors."
Pentagon: "Please clarify if SEAL teams are… agencies?"
With a deep breath, Dana typed one quick response: Stand by. Guidance soon.
At 10:00 a.m., Blaze stood before the White House press corps, flanked by the bombastic, gold-framed graphic he'd commissioned overnight. The wall was divided: on the left, a monstrous knot of blue boxes labeled BUREAU-KRAZY; on the right, a sleek hexagon labeled DOGE. Unfortunately, the design intern had neglected to subtract DOGE's own staffing needs, so the hexagon now listed 4,732 projected employees, a number that was three hundred more than the section it replaced.
A reporter from the Post raised an eyebrow, his voice thick with skepticism. "You're adding headcount?"
Blaze flashed a grin as windswept as a sales pitch at 3 a.m. "We are adding velocity. Those roles are agile scrum facilitators—somebody's got to fire the others quickly."
Waves of laughter rippled through the briefing room. Blaze shot back, his finger jabbing the air like a master conductor in the middle of a crescendo. "Deep-state dogs!" he yelled, face lighting up with self-righteous passion. "You all hate efficiency because it fetches truth!"
The words trended within minutes, a fresh wave of viral content flooding Twitter. #DeepStateDogs erupted on screen as meme artists plastered the president's face onto howling hounds. The administration scrambled to co-opt the joke, firing off retweets of doge gifs, captions reading Much Liberty, Such Jobs. But the internet had already sprinted ahead, remixing, re-captioning, and leaving them all gasping in its wake.
By 12:00 p.m., lunchtime found the fluorescent-lit cafeteria at the Environmental Protection Agency, half a mile away. The microwaves hummed in the background, releasing the smell of reheated noodles—stale, comforting, a far cry from the corporate promises being broadcasted. A wall-mounted TV displayed the press conference on mute, closed-caption text crawling across the screen:
EFFICIENCY OR ELSE, RIVERS PROMISES.
Dr. Selena Ortiz, a wetlands biologist in a lab coat speckled with field mud, stared at her badge: 17 years of service. The screen flickered, freezing on Blaze making air quotes around the phrase "deep-state". It was as though the room had suddenly become smaller, as though the walls themselves were closing in. A hollow ache spread through her chest. Her colleague, trying to break the silence, snorted and muttered, "Guess my gold watch will be solar-powered." The laughter was thin, brittle, cracking at the edges.
Another voice joined in, "If we're lucky enough to make it to retirement alive." Nervous laughter followed, sharp and bitter. The clink of forks scraping styrofoam added to the jarring, dissonant atmosphere. All across the capital, identical TVs in identical breakrooms repeated the scene, their closed-captioning offering grim, sarcastic commentary, broadcasting gallows humor into the stale air.
By 2:15 p.m., the Roosevelt Room had transformed into what looked like a brainstorming studio dreamed up by hyperactive consultants. Sticky notes in hues of neon tropical fish covered every portrait, colorful blips of urgency against the polished wood of the table. Cabinet secretaries perched around the polished oak, cold brew bottles and half-eaten cronuts scattered in front of them like forgotten snacks at a party no one wanted to leave.
Elon Moor sat at the head of the table, his augmented-reality glasses flashing as he sketched flowcharts in the air that only he could see. "Imagine," he said, his voice so smooth it slid between the words like honey, "an AI that scores every federal employee nightly—productivity metrics pulled directly from their keystrokes and badge swipes. Low scores auto-trigger severance. No bias, just pure algorithmic meritocracy."
The Secretary of Defense slammed his hand on the table, nearly knocking over a cold brew. "Why stop at keyboards? Let SEAL teams perform random spot audits. Combat-readiness meets OSHA compliance!"
The Vice President folded his hands in prayerful earnestness. "Scripture teaches that pruning the vine yields greater fruit."
Dana's head swam, her temples pounding as she massaged her forehead, trying to clear the fog of bureaucracy that had settled in her mind. "Folks, the Office of Personnel Management statutes—"
But Trumpet burst in, a triumphant grin on his face. "What's trending?" he demanded.
Blaze, eyes glued to his tablet, beamed. "#SuchSavings is fourth worldwide. #DeepStateDogs is... first, but we're, uh, pivoting the conversation."
Moor, grinning like a Cheshire cat, produced yet another prop: a holographic mock-up of a blockchain-based HR platform called FetchPayroll. "Employees will be paid in tokens loosely pegged to their efficiency scores. Just imagine—the more coffee breaks you skip, the more you earn. We'll print money every time somebody skips a coffee break!"
Dana jotted a note for herself: Blockchain compensation? SEC? Labor law? Nightmare? Half the room applauded enthusiastically, while the other half snuck quick, anxious glances toward their phones, googling "blockchain" under the table.
Dusk crept over the White House as shadows stretched long across the Residence hallway. At 7:00 p.m., Dana Crowe leaned against a window, watching the faint glow of the city beyond. The glass fogged with the warmth of her breath, a stark contrast to the cold weight of the night. In one hand, she clutched a printout of retweet analytics—skyrocketing engagement, sure, but also a growing chart of pending lawsuits, subpoenas, and Freedom of Information requests climbing at the same steep, vertical slope. In the other hand, she grasped the fine print of the Executive Order, finally having managed to devour its contents between frantic meetings.
There, buried midway through a paragraph, lay a carve-out exempting the Department of Government Efficiency from the very twenty-percent cuts it imposed on everyone else. DOGE would even grow—expanding to manage the very cuts it demanded.
Dana's pulse thudded in her chest. The press corps would feast on that contradiction by morning. And the whistle-blowers inside the agencies, now terrified for their jobs, would leak even faster. Ten days until the re-org blueprints were due; ten days until the administration's promise of "historic savings" faced statutory reality.
Tomorrow, the president planned to fire the USAID inspector-general, blissfully unaware that congressional committee chairs were already drafting subpoenas.
She exhaled, shaky, then typed a late-night text to the general counsel:
Need statutory backup for EO #1 by sunrise. If it exists.
Outside, sirens wailed toward the glowing downtown. In the residence behind her, televisions replayed the morning's signing on loop, celebratory music swelling beneath the president's ever-grinning face. Dana Crowe straightened her blazer, pressed her tired eyes with thumb and forefinger, and walked toward the private stairwell—already bracing for the reckoning hurtling over the horizon.
Chapter 2: Inspector Ejected: WatchDOGE Patrol
The fluorescent tubes above the USAID loading dock buzzed relentlessly, a steady hum that felt more like a warning than a mere backdrop to the morning's events. It was 5:58 a.m., and the cold, brittle air of January had settled in like a blanket, stiffening the muscles and numbing the fingertips of anyone caught in it. The harsh, unrelenting light of the industrial lamps flickered intermittently, casting stark shadows across the worn concrete. A thick veil of diesel fumes from a still-idling panel van mingled with the damp, metallic scent of the building, mixing into an acrid cocktail. Dr. Camille Rhodes stood on the precipice of the familiar but rapidly changing space, her breath escaping in pale clouds, merging with the ghostly mist hanging in the crisp morning.
Two uniformed guards flanked her, their boots echoing too loudly in the empty parking lot. One of them, eyes fixed straight ahead, held an iPad, the light from its screen casting a soft glow that reflected off his freshly pressed uniform. The other cradled a plain cardboard box containing the remnants of her former life here: her beloved potted fern, three framed commendations, and a chipped coffee mug that bore the cheeky slogan "Audit Like You Mean It." The mug, now a relic, seemed to mock the sharp sting of the morning's events.
Rhodes' fingers curled around the lavender-plastic thumb drive, her only weapon in this sudden war of bureaucracy. The label DO NOT SHRED loomed large on the tiny drive, its significance growing with every passing second. Her heart beat unevenly as she locked eyes with a junior analyst through the glass doors. The young woman's face was pale, her expression frozen in disbelief as she tried to raise her phone in one final, futile attempt to capture the moment. The senior guard caught her eye and subtly shook his head—an unspoken plea, but one Rhodes had no choice but to ignore.
"Dr. Rhodes," the second guard murmured as he stepped up to her, his voice low and apologetic, "may I scan your retina one last time?" The security regulations that had once seemed like an innocuous formality now felt like a cruel and pointless mockery. She nodded, her throat tight. The scanner beeped, green light washing over her fatigued face. It felt like a final, clinical farewell. Then, the door hissed open, and she stepped into the uncertain morning, her heels clicking with rhythmic precision against the slick concrete, the sound sharp and echoing in the stillness.
At 6:20 a.m., in the heart of the White House, President Jonathan "Jack" Trumpet sat behind the Resolute desk, a disheveled figure behind the polished wood as a production tripod loomed just inches from his face. The camera captured every furrow of his brow, every smug flick of his wrist. He seemed to thrive under the heat of the spotlight, his fingers moving quickly across the screen of his phone as he thumb-typed a new proclamation. His words were as bold and careless as ever:
Drain the foreign-aid swamp! Watchdogs belong on leashes, not in the driver's seat. #WatchDOGE #SuchSavings
The words felt more like a rallying cry than an official statement. He hit SEND, and without missing a beat, swiveled in his chair to face Blaze Rivers, who stood at attention, a velvet ring box in hand, his expression one of almost reverent devotion. Trumpet's eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a job half-done, the wheels of spectacle already turning. "Blaze, where's my pink-slip GIF?"
"Uploading, Mr. President," Blaze replied, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. "It's a Pomeranian in a necktie—testing shows 15 percent higher engagement than an actual watchdog."
Trumpet grinned, his fingers drumming the desk with manic energy. "Perfect. Make the necktie gold." He paused for effect, as though awaiting a thunderous applause. "Gettysburg in two hundred characters, baby!"
Blaze's tone shifted, taking on an almost religious fervor. "Gettysburg, but shorter."
Across the room, Dana Crowe, the Chief of Staff, balanced a phone on each ear, multitasking with the precision of a surgeon. The glow of her phone screens reflected in her tired eyes as she typed furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was working through a backlog of legal updates, hurriedly triaging calls from panicked Hill staffers, and keeping one eye on the half-finished apology draft resting on her knee. The entire room seemed to pulse with a quiet undercurrent of anxiety, a sense that the ground beneath them all was slowly shifting. She popped another chewable antacid, letting the chalky relief coat her tongue as she ran mental calculations of the fallout she knew was coming: IG Act, Senate Oversight, and the State Department's impending crisis.
At 8:00 a.m., the West Wing was chaos incarnate. The corridors, once stately and imposing, now felt like a pressure cooker of confusion. Interns moved in frantic, almost desperate strides, their arms stacked high with draft resignation packages printed on paper the color of candlelight, their faces a mixture of fear and disbelief. Somewhere, someone shouted about the font size for the gold-watch certificate. Elsewhere, another voice boomed louder, demanding to know if firing an inspector general without cause violated the IG Act of 1978—a question that hovered like a damning shadow over the whole operation.
Dana stood at the center of it all, her shoulders stiff as she barked orders into a Bluetooth earpiece. "OMB first, then Senate Foreign Relations," she commanded, as though her voice could cut through the noise. Her sharp words sliced the air, but even they couldn't still the frantic energy around her. "Yes, all the committee chairs. And find out whether Jordan has canceled his trip—no, I don't mean the congressman, I mean the country."
A policy aide collided with her, a folder of talking points spilling onto the polished parquet floor. Gold-ink logos skittered across the hallway like confetti, the jarring visual echoing the surreal, almost absurd nature of what was happening. Everything felt disjointed, as if the very fabric of the White House was being pulled in too many directions at once.
At the far end of the corridor, Elon Moor wandered aimlessly, his attention flickering between the tablet in his hands and the shifting Wi-Fi bars on his screen. The blockchain-based exit-bonus portal he was demonstrating faltered again, the loading page freezing into a blank slate. The error screen flashed with a bizarre message: {server hamster fell off wheel}. He laughed, unbothered. "Beta!" he crowed. "Greatness is a string of graceful face-plants."
By 10:15 a.m., the Eisenhower Executive Office Building's auditorium had transformed into an odd theater of spectacle. The giant projection on the wall displayed the Deferred-Resignation Package—a shimmering gold watch, barely larger than a quarter, nestled within Styrofoam that looked too cheap to be believable. Blaze Rivers stood at the lectern, the velvet ring box held delicately in his palm like an offering. The room, filled with the scent of expensive coffee and nervous anticipation, fell silent as he spoke.
"Streamlining oversight," Blaze declared, his voice carrying an almost holy reverence, "means honoring public servants with the gift of time—literally." He clicked the latch of the box, and the tiny watch caught the light, glinting like a forgotten trinket. A ripple of incredulous laughter rose from the crowd, a mixture of disbelief and forced amusement.
Elon Moor bounced onto the stage, his sleeves blazing with electric blue circuit-board print. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're also minting a limited-edition WatchDOGE NFT—every token backed by the productivity blockchain we announced yesterday. Tradeable, secure, and accruing value as bureaucracy shrinks!"
The absurdity of it all hung in the air, tangible as the stifling heat of the room. A journalist, squinting, lifted an oversized magnifier to photograph the tiny watch, his flash catching the refracted gleam of Moor's glasses and sending a kaleidoscope of light across the front row. Another reporter, brow furrowed in disbelief, fired a question about the logistics of printing both physical tokens and NFTs during a hiring freeze. Blaze, ever the showman, waved theatrically as though he were orchestrating a symphony. "Efficiency is priceless, my friend."
Dana, standing in the aisle, felt the comforting bulk of the antacid tablets in her pocket and wished, for just a moment, that they could do more than numb the chaos. She longed for a stronger, more effective remedy—one that could quiet the gnawing, impending sense of disaster that had been creeping steadily since dawn.
Over in the second-floor Capitol corridor at 11:45 a.m., Senator Maggie Renner found herself cornered by six microphones, all of them demanding answers she wasn't ready to give. The heat of the cameras bore down on her, each lens a reminder of the growing pressure. She inhaled, her rehearsed smile in place, but it faltered as her thoughts spun in a thousand directions.
"The president's decisive action proves we can modernize without fear," she said, her words coming out crisp but hollow. "Foreign-aid auditors must keep pace—"
Before she could finish, a reporter interjected with a question about the rumored tariff wave hitting her state. Renner's voice caught in her throat, a sharp crack of hesitation breaking the smooth facade she'd built. "Well, all policies evolve, of course," she managed, but her response felt forced, disconnected from the reality she was unwilling to face. She reached for a statistic pinned to her prep card, but it slipped from her grasp like sand through her fingers. Later, she would learn that the number had been fabricated—pulled from a sock-puppet account traced to a St. Petersburg server farm. On camera, her hesitation stretched, giving her political enemies ammunition she didn't know they'd already gathered.
Down the hall, aides whispered nervously about union calls lighting up her office switchboard. Renner dabbed at a bead of sweat on her brow, offered a brittle grin, and retreated from the fray before the follow-up questions could strike.
The Situation Room anteroom smelled faintly of burnt espresso, the bitter scent lingering in the air like a warning. Dana, Moor, and the Secretary of State gathered around a table, the EU video feed hovering on the wall. The development commissioner's stern face filled the screen as he delivered the grim news: American oversight was compromised, and aid funds might be frozen until further assurances were given.
Moor scribbled on his smart glass panel, his writing fast and frantic. Crowdsourced auditors—users would rate project photos for waste, the winners paid in crypto. The Secretary of State objected immediately. "International partners expect professionalism, not Reddit threads with badges," he argued, his voice tight with frustration.
Moor countered, his voice breezy. "Wikipedia beats encyclopedias daily."
Dana, scribbling frantically in her notebook, tallied the growing legal liabilities. The margins of the page began to scream with exclamation marks, the tension in the room almost palpable. Finally, she looked up. "If Congress decides the firing violated statutory independence, a judge could nullify every signature since dawn. That includes your crypto experiment and the watches we've already mailed."
Silence followed her words, a silence so deep that it felt like the entire room had been frozen in time. The wall-clock's second hand ticked louder than it ever had before, each tiny tick a deafening drumbeat.
As twilight bled into the USAID parking lot at 7:05 p.m., the sodium lamps flickered above, casting long, distorted shadows across rows of silent sedans. The parking lot, usually bustling with activity, now stood empty and still, the air thick with the residue of a day gone wrong. Dr. Rhodes, surrounded by a small group of employees, watched as an Amazon driver wheeled a dolly toward them, stacked high with boxes. Each carton bore a sticker that read: White House Efficiency Office – Priority.
A supervisor slit the nearest box with a penknife. The contents were barely visible through the shredded cardboard—tiny gold watches, each individually wrapped in bubble film. The mechanical ticking of a hundred watches filled the air, a strange, metallic symphony to the bleakness of the moment. Someone, trying to break the tension, muttered, "At least the batteries aren't included." The laughter that followed was thin, almost hollow, like the brittle branches of a tree on the edge of winter.
Rhodes' fingers brushed against the thumb drive in her pocket, the smooth plastic warm from the heat of her palm. Inside, the files that could expose the $92 million misappropriated to a donor-owned contractor still lay hidden. She had planned to present this evidence at the staff briefing that morning, but instead, she was here—witness to the collapse of an institution she had spent her career trying to protect.
Above them, an LED billboard flickered with the latest headline:
TARIFF BLITZ IMMINENT—MARKETS BRACE
The words shimmered in the darkening sky, a stormfront of uncertainty rolling across the landscape. Around Rhodes, the discarded cardboard husks of the packages fluttered in the wind, the soft metallic tick of the novelty watches counting down the final seconds before the next shockwave hit.
She zipped her coat against the chill, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the night. The dawn of uncertainty loomed ahead, but she would face it—one uncertain step at a time.
Chapter 3: Tariff Blitz: Steel & Aluminium Crisis
8:00 a.m., Oval Office
The gleam of the Oval Office's polished furniture reflected the early morning light, cutting through the haze of a winter sky still hidden beneath thick clouds. The room smelled faintly of leather and fresh coffee, a comforting aroma amidst the coldness of the season, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper—an electric hum of energy, excitement, and the looming spectacle of a historical moment unfolding. The staffers and camera crews arranged themselves with precision, moving through the space like clockwork, their bodies and voices blending in perfect unison as they prepared for the inevitable flash of lights and the collective gaze of the world. Two camera crews shuffled in reverse across the Persian rug, their equipment casting long, dramatic shadows across the room as they meticulously aligned their shots, ensuring every detail of the moment was captured for posterity.
In the center of this storm of activity stood President Jonathan "Jack" Trumpet, his skin flushed a deep shade of red, as though radiating the heat of his own self-importance. The president's presence seemed to fill the room, and every inch of him was calculated for effect—from the crimson tie to his firm posture, all designed to command attention. The scent of ketchup lingered as a metaphor for the burning ambition of the man himself, a stark contrast to the frosty exterior of the room. He was a figure of forceful charisma, the kind that demanded a response, even if it was forced.
Blaze Rivers, ever the loyal megaphone of the administration's every move, had draped a gilded banner across the room's heavy drapes:
EFFICIENCY DAY!
The gold letters shimmered under the artificial light, practically glittering like a Vegas casino marquee, a visual echo of the administration's loud and brash energy. It was as if everything in this room was set up to scream for attention.
Elon Moor glided in next, tieless beneath a charcoal blazer, his sleeves flipped to reveal the neon-blue circuit-board lining that sparked under the lights with each subtle movement. He carried himself with a practiced, almost performative casualness—his carefully sculpted hair and sleek, futuristic appearance emphasizing the techno-visionary persona he had carefully cultivated. His steps were quiet, calculated, as if each one was measured to place him just slightly ahead of the moment. As he positioned himself at Trumpet's shoulder, his eyes constantly darted between the cameras, ensuring that every angle captured his contribution to the moment.
Dana Crowe, Chief of Staff, lingered in the archway, her thumb tapping out quick, silent messages to agency heads on her phone. There was a tension in her posture, as if she could feel the chaos already building. She was the one trying to keep the ship steady amidst the brewing storm. The scent of leather from the office mingled with the faint, almost metallic tang of anxiety as she sent out directives, managing the battlefield even as the cameras prepped to capture the spectacle. Her face, usually composed, betrayed the undercurrent of unease that bubbled just beneath the surface. This moment, this victory, would not come without its price.
Trumpet's booming voice broke the silence, commanding attention as it rolled through the room like a sudden thunderclap. "My fellow Americans," he began, his words dropping like stones into the stillness, "today we ignite the rocket of freedom." His chest puffed out, the words falling from his mouth with all the swagger of a man convinced of his own greatness. His hand shot upward in a wide, sweeping motion, his finger nearly clipping the overhead microphone as he continued, "By stripping twenty percent of bloated bureaucracy, we give power back to the people—and a doge-meme mascot to prove we can laugh while doing it!"
At his cue, Moor unfolded a foam-board cut-out of a Shiba Inu, its wide grin inappropriately fitting under the words "SUCH SAVINGS" in Comic Sans. The camera flashes were immediate, exploding like fireworks in the room, adding to the chaotic artifice of the moment. Somewhere behind the cameras, a lone aide groaned at the absurdity, but even they knew their voice would be lost in the flood of sound and light.
Trumpet's signature was bold—thick enough to bleed through the parchment. The weight of the pen in his hand seemed to anchor the moment, ensuring that the entire world understood the historical significance. As he turned the document toward the cameras, Blaze rushed to capture the historic image, his thumb pressing Send so hard that the screen protector on his phone cracked under the force.
Dana stepped forward, her voice low and tinged with worry. "The agencies will panic."
"They'll iterate," Moor replied, unflinching, his gaze still locked on the red-light tally of the streaming rigs. His voice held a certainty that seemed more wishful than grounded in reality. "Disruption is just panic with better PR."
Dana swallowed a dry pill of antacids, feeling the chalky relief slide down her throat, but knowing full well that this storm was just beginning.
9:30 a.m., West Wing Hallway
The West Wing corridors, usually a place of stately business, had now transformed into something closer to a war zone. Aides and staffers scrambled in every direction, their footsteps a constant undercurrent of chaos and urgency. The once-imposing walls seemed to close in with each passing second, the air crackling with the static of mounting tension. Phones rang non-stop, each call louder than the last, each voice more urgent than the one before.
Dana wove through the madness, the weight of the situation pressing on her like an invisible hand around her chest. Her fingers moved frantically across her phone, each message another battle fought in silence. Each beep was a reminder that the world outside the Oval Office was already responding to the administration's actions—responses she had to control, to mitigate.
A junior assistant rushed past her, papers spilling from an overstuffed folder. "Legal says we can't fire the Nuclear Safety guys today!" they shouted, their panic slicing through the air as they skidded down the hall.
"Fine," another voice snapped, growing increasingly frustrated, "paint them orange on the chart, not red. We'll circle back after lunch."
Dana's heart skipped a beat as her phone buzzed again, this time vibrating urgently in her pocket. Her fingers trembled as she swiped to read the new message, her text chain now looking like a seismograph—every message an aftershock of anxiety that rattled through her mind.
EPA asks whether the twenty percent applies to field scientists in hurricane zones.
Interior wonders if park rangers count as "front-line brand ambassadors."
Pentagon: "Please clarify if SEAL teams are… agencies?"
With a sigh, she typed a quick message to all:
Stand by. Guidance soon.
11:00 a.m., Press Briefing Room
The Press Briefing Room felt like a pressure cooker, the air thick with expectation. Blaze Rivers stood behind the lectern, a smile plastered on his face, his eyes gleaming with the kind of self-assuredness that only true believers can muster. Behind him, the massive graphic displayed the comparison between BUREAU-KRAZY and DOGE. The graphic's bright, almost garish colors clashed, an unsettling kaleidoscope of bureaucracy and cutting-edge technology. Unfortunately, an intern had made a key mistake, failing to subtract DOGE's own staffing needs, so the hexagon now listed 4,732 projected employees—three hundred more than the section it replaced.
A reporter from the Post raised his eyebrow in disbelief. "You're adding headcount?"
Blaze grinned, his teeth sharp, as though he were delivering the punchline to a joke only he truly understood. "We are adding velocity. Those roles are agile scrum facilitators—somebody's got to fire the others quickly."
Laughter rippled through the room, the sound mocking the absurdity of the statement. Blaze's finger jabbed into the air, the righteous indignation in his voice making it feel like he was preaching to an audience. "Deep-state dogs! You all hate efficiency because it fetches truth!"
The internet was quick to latch onto his words. #DeepStateDogs surged in the trending charts. Meme artists pounced on the doge image, pasting the president's face over the howling hound. Blaze's team tried to co-opt the joke, retweeting doge gifs with captions like Much Liberty. Such Jobs. But the internet had already sprinted ahead, remixed, re-captioned, and left the administration floundering in its wake.
12:30 p.m., Steel Mill in Ohio
The steel mill in Ohio felt like a different world compared to the polished, sterile environment of the West Wing. The air was thick with the smell of hot metal, the sound of machinery almost deafening as it hummed in steady rhythm, the workers moving like gears in a well-oiled machine. Heat radiated from every surface—every inch of the factory felt alive with energy. Workers wiped their brows, slick with sweat, as the clang of metal echoed off the walls.
Senator Maggie Renner stood in front of a crowd of workers, her wide, practiced smile seemingly unshakeable as she clutched the microphone. Her voice rang out across the factory floor, firm and persuasive. "The tariffs are a win for America, a win for the people of this state. Our steel industry is back!"
The workers cheered, but there was something uneasy in their clapping—a hesitation in the air that even Renner could feel. She glanced at their faces, trying to gauge the true sentiment beneath the applause. Some cheered with genuine hope, while others were still calculating the long-term consequences. The economy was a complex beast, and the farms back home were already feeling the pinch of rising costs.
Her hands tightened on the microphone, a subtle sign of her growing unease.
2:00 p.m., European Embassy
The European Embassy was a world away from the American chaos of the morning. The diplomats sat, their expressions tight, faces flushed with frustration. The EU Ambassador, always a figure of composure, spoke with clipped authority. "We will retaliate. The U.S. has sparked an economic war." His words felt like cold steel, cutting through the air. "Counter-tariffs on U.S. cars are inevitable."
Behind the scenes, Trump's team dismissed the warnings. To them, it was just foreign meddling, the world's elite fighting back against the inevitable rise of American dominance. But Dana, standing just out of view, could feel the tension building—a storm that, once unleashed, could be impossible to control.
4:00 p.m., Roosevelt Room
By mid-afternoon, the Roosevelt Room had become a battleground of ideas. Dana, Trump, and Elon Moor sat around the table, their faces bathed in the low glow of the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Moor was in his element, pitching his blockchain solution to an audience that seemed too tired to fight back. "Imagine," he said, tapping his tablet, "an algorithm that tracks international trade flows—no inefficiencies, just pure meritocracy."
Dana, already worn thin by the day's events, could barely suppress a sigh. "Elon, we're not solving an international trade crisis with a blockchain."
Trump, as always, was the eternal optimist. "It's the future, Dana. We're going to change the game. Efficiency at its finest!"
As the sunset bathed the room in long shadows, Dana stood by the window, the glass fogging with her breath. In one hand, she held the printout of retweet analytics—numbers surging skyward, but beneath them, a growing stack of pending lawsuits, subpoenas, and FOIA requests. This victory was temporary. And outside, the sound of sirens echoed—a distant warning that the storm was far from over.
Tomorrow—Day -11—would bring the next wave of reckoning.
A Chapter 4: Oval-Office Press Conference: Trump and Musk vs. the Courts
8:00 a.m., Oval Office
The first light of morning filtered through the tall windows of the Oval Office, casting long shadows over the room's polished furniture and soft leather chairs. The light seemed to cut through the haze of the winter sky, still heavy with clouds that threatened rain. The air, still and electric, was thick with anticipation. A faint scent of fresh coffee curled up from the pots in the corner, mixing with the lingering aroma of polished wood and leather-bound books lining the walls. Staffers moved quietly and precisely around the room, preparing the final details for the press conference, their movements sharp but weighed down by an underlying tension that hummed in the background like a faint, ever-present static. The room, usually a place of solemnity, had transformed into a high-stakes theater, with the weight of the nation's attention bearing down on its polished surfaces.
Two camera crews, their movements synchronized with military precision, navigated around the room. Their lenses zoomed and refocused as they maneuvered across the Persian rug, weaving between the carefully set-up chairs and television monitors. The bright lights above cast long shadows on the floor, turning the red and gold carpet into a patchwork of warm, contrasting hues. Their cameras seemed to magnify the room, bringing into sharp relief every detail, every stitch in the fabric of history being woven.
Standing behind the Resolute Desk, President Jonathan "Jack" Trumpet radiated an almost electric energy. His face, flushed from excitement, gleamed under the overhead lights, his expression one of intense self-assurance. His sweaty skin, marked with beads of perspiration despite the cool morning air, seemed to glow with an almost palpable aura of self-importance. The room, typically a space for measured words and diplomacy, now felt charged with a sense of impending spectacle, the kind only Trump could conjure. His posture, straight and rigid, suggested both confidence and an almost rehearsed certainty, as though the outcome of the moment had already been decided in his mind.
Behind him, Blaze Rivers, always the administration's propagandist, stood with a phone clutched in his hand, tweaking his notes. His gaze darted between the prepared graphic and the growing flurry of activity, ensuring everything was in place. A gilded banner had been draped across the room's heavy drapes, the gold letters glimmering in the artificial light. It read:
EFFICIENCY DAY!
The words dazzled, catching every flash of light, almost blindingly so, much like the administration's brash rhetoric. It was a stark contrast to the typically calm and somber nature of the room, but it reflected Trump's style: loud, unapologetic, and drenched in excess.
Elon Moor, tieless and dressed in his signature charcoal blazer, entered the room next, his every movement so smooth it could've been choreographed. His sleeves, rolled up to reveal the neon-blue circuit-board lining, caught the overhead lights, giving off a faint electrical hum, as if his very presence was in tune with some invisible current. He didn't just walk into the room; he made an entrance, as though he was placing himself at the center of a new world order. His movements were confident and fluid, his gaze calculating, ensuring that he remained in the spotlight.
His perfectly curated appearance stood in stark contrast to Trump's more boisterous persona, but they shared the same goal: to maintain a grip on power, no matter the cost. Moor positioned himself at Trumpet's shoulder, adjusting his stance just enough to make sure his face stayed framed within the camera's shot. His neon-blue aura seemed to shine brighter the more he leaned into the future, casting a futuristic light on the otherwise traditional setting.
Dana Crowe, Chief of Staff, lingered in the archway, her expression a mix of sharp concentration and hidden concern. She was monitoring the room, the preparations, the growing chaos outside the walls. Her fingers danced across the phone screen, typing out instructions to agency heads with quick, deliberate movements. The phone vibrated incessantly in her hand as she tried to balance the growing pressure of the press conference with the growing anxiety threatening to burst out of the walls.
Trumpet cleared his throat with a forceful, almost theatrical cough, sending a ripple of tension through the room as the time to speak drew near. His voice, when it finally rang out, was a boom, slicing through the quiet like a sudden thunderclap. "My fellow Americans," he began, the words rolling off his tongue with such bombastic pride that they seemed to fill the entire room, "today we ignite the rocket of freedom." His fist thrust upward in a grand, exaggerated gesture, the motion so theatrical that it nearly clipped the overhead microphone, drawing a brief moment of awkwardness before he continued. "By stripping twenty percent of bloated bureaucracy, we give power back to the people—and a doge-meme mascot to prove we can laugh while doing it!"
At his cue, Moor unfurled a foam-board cut-out of a Shiba Inu, dressed in a business suit, with the words "SUCH SAVINGS" written above it in Comic Sans. The absurdity of the moment was palpable, almost laughable, yet the room exploded with flashes of light from the cameras, amplifying the spectacle into something compelling. The flashes echoed, bouncing off the walls, creating a strobe effect of artificial light as the cameras clicked non-stop, capturing the ludicrous reality of the situation. Somewhere, off to the side, an aide's frustrated groan was drowned out by the overwhelming noise of the cameras and the spin.
Trumpet, with dramatic flair, signed Executive Order #1. The thick, black marker slid across the parchment, its ink heavy enough to bleed through. The significance of the moment seemed to hang in the air, not just in the weight of the pen but in the momentum of the decision, as if the entire room was holding its breath. As Trumpet turned the document to face the cameras, Blaze was already there, thumb ready to press Send, capturing the moment with such force that the screen protector on his phone cracked under the pressure.
Dana stepped forward, her voice low and measured. "The agencies will panic," she said, her words calm but tinged with concern.
"They'll iterate," Moor responded, his smirk more confident than it should have been. His eyes never left the red-light tally of the streaming rigs. "Disruption is just panic with better PR."
Dana swallowed an antacid, feeling the chalky relief spread through her mouth, but she couldn't shake the unease that clung to her, like a cold weight settling in her chest. The storm was just beginning.
9:30 a.m., West Wing Hallway
The West Wing corridors had transformed into a whirlwind of movement. Staffers dashed back and forth, their footsteps echoing like drumbeats in the cacophony of urgency. The walls seemed to close in as the weight of the administration's choices became ever more apparent. Phones rang endlessly, each call more frantic than the last. The energy was palpable, but it felt more like the tension before a storm than the focused efficiency the White House typically embodied.
Dana moved through the crowds like a ship navigating through a turbulent sea. Her hands ached from the constant typing, each message a new fire to put out. The beeps from her phone were relentless, each one adding to the growing sense of unease. Her fingers moved with swift efficiency, but the chaos in the halls seemed to intensify with every passing minute.
An assistant rushed past her, papers flying from an overstuffed folder. "Legal says we can't fire the Nuclear Safety guys today!" they shouted as they bolted down the hall.
"Fine," another voice shot back, frustration creeping into their words. "Paint them orange on the chart, not red. We'll circle back after lunch."
Dana's heart skipped a beat as her phone buzzed again. Her fingers trembled as she swiped the screen. The text chain had transformed into a seismograph—each message spiking with growing uncertainty.
EPA asks whether the twenty percent applies to field scientists in hurricane zones.
Interior wonders if park rangers count as "front-line brand ambassadors."
Pentagon: "Please clarify if SEAL teams are… agencies?"
She exhaled slowly, typing a quick response to all:
Stand by. Guidance soon.
11:00 a.m., Press Briefing Room
The Press Briefing Room was packed, the air thick with anticipation. Blaze stood confidently at the lectern, his grin unwavering, as he eyed the prepared graphic behind him. The comparison between BUREAU-KRAZY and DOGE was stark—on the left, a mess of blue boxes labeled with the chaos of bureaucracy, and on the right, the sleek, elegant hexagon of DOGE, looking so much more orderly. However, the graphic was flawed—the intern had failed to subtract DOGE's own staffing needs, so the hexagon now listed 4,732 projected employees, three hundred more than the section it replaced.
A reporter from the Post raised an eyebrow. "You're adding headcount?"
Blaze flashed his signature grin, teeth gleaming with confidence. "We are adding velocity. Those roles are agile scrum facilitators—somebody's got to fire the others quickly."
The laughter that followed was not friendly—it was mocking the absurdity of the entire premise. Blaze jabbed his finger into the air. "Deep-state dogs! You all hate efficiency because it fetches truth!"
The internet erupted. Within minutes, #DeepStateDogs was trending globally, a meme exploding across social media. Artists pounced, pasting Trump's face onto the howling hound. Blaze's team scrambled to reclaim the narrative, but it was too late. The internet had already surpassed them, leaving them struggling to catch up.
12:30 p.m., Steel Mill in Ohio
The steel mill in Ohio was a world away from the polished halls of power. The air was thick with heat from the furnaces, the sound of hammering metal vibrating through the floors. It smelled like hot metal and smoke, a stark contrast to the sterile environments of Washington. Workers moved in steady rhythm, their faces etched with the hard-earned resilience of a community that had seen better days. But today, the mood was one of eager anticipation.
Senator Maggie Renner stood at the forefront, addressing the workers with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "The tariffs are a win for America, a win for the people of this state. Our steel industry is back!"
The workers cheered, but there was an edge of uncertainty. Some clapped with genuine enthusiasm, while others exchanged worried glances, calculating the future. Renner could feel the tension in the air, the awkward balance between hope and fear.
2:00 p.m., European Embassy
At the European Embassy, the mood was entirely different. European diplomats sat with tense, drawn faces, their voices tight as they discussed the repercussions of Trump's tariffs. The EU Ambassador leaned forward, his voice cutting through the air with cold precision. "We will retaliate. The U.S. has sparked an economic war, and counter-tariffs on U.S. cars are inevitable."
Behind the scenes, Trump's team dismissed the warning as just another case of foreign meddling. But Dana, standing off to the side, could feel the storm brewing. This wasn't just a trade war—it was the beginning of a global rift, one that could very well spiral out of control.
4:00 p.m., Roosevelt Room
By the time afternoon arrived, the Roosevelt Room had become a battleground of ideas. Dana, Trump, and Elon Moor gathered around a table strewn with papers and half-finished coffee cups. The sunset light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the table. Moor, his eyes shining with enthusiasm, pitched his latest idea—blockchain as the solution to international trade issues.
"Imagine," he said, his hands moving with conviction, "an algorithm that tracks international trade flows—no inefficiencies, no tariffs, just pure meritocracy."
Dana struggled to hold back a sigh. "Elon, we're not solving international trade issues with a blockchain."
Trump, as always, was swept up in the optimism. "It's the future, Dana. We're going to change the game. Efficiency at its finest!"
As the sunset bathed the room in its golden glow, Dana couldn't help but feel the weight of the choices they were making. The world was about to change, but at what cost?
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the White House in twilight, Dana stood by the window, looking out at the distance, already feeling the grip of the storm that was about to break. In one hand, she clutched a printout of retweet analytics—the victory, temporary, and fraught with consequences that she could already sense. Tomorrow—Day -10—would bring the next wave of reckoning.
A Chapter 5: First Wave of Agency Blueprints Leaks: Whistle-Blowers Claim Lifesaving Programs Face Elimination
The morning light streamed weakly through the tall White House windows, casting long shadows across the Oval Office. The air felt heavy, laden with a mix of anticipation and unease. The polished wooden furniture caught the light in scattered reflections, but it did little to dispel the mounting tension in the room. The faint smell of fresh coffee lingered, competing with the lingering scent of polished leather from the armchairs around the Resolute Desk. Staff moved in a slow, deliberate fashion, rushing but with an almost practiced calm as they finalized their notes and checked the cameras for the impending press conference. The sound of the staff's footsteps was muffled against the deep carpet, but their energy was anything but. It was the kind of buzz one feels before a storm—that sharp, electric air before something major breaks.
Amidst the whirlwind of activity stood President Jonathan "Jack" Trumpet, his figure almost glowing under the harsh overhead lights. His flushed skin seemed to radiate with excitement, as though every inch of him exuded self-importance. The rigidness in his posture gave the impression of someone almost consumed by their own grandeur. His presence in the room, even with its polished finishes and familiar grandeur, felt like a thunderstorm waiting to erupt. The weight of the moment settled over the space like a thick blanket, and even the walls themselves seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of his next move.
Behind him, Blaze Rivers, ever the loyal press operator, had draped a gilded banner across the office windows, the words EFFICIENCY DAY practically glittering under the fluorescent lighting like a Vegas marquee—a spectacle in its own right. The golden letters, flashing like electric signs, were impossible to miss. Blaze fiddled with his phone, his hands a blur as they scrolled through his notes. Each keystroke seemed to underscore his urgency, his every move deliberate and driven by his need to control the narrative. He was a master of his craft: spinning reality for the cameras.
Then, entering with a quiet confidence, Elon Moor made his entrance. His charcoal blazer, tieless, clung to his frame, contrasting sharply with Trumpet's more grandiose style. His sleeves, rolled up to reveal neon-blue circuit-board lining, gleamed in the room's artificial light, almost as if the fabric were alive, pulsing with some unseen, futuristic force. Moor didn't walk—he glided, each step a carefully choreographed movement, his presence marked by a detached certainty, his eyes scanning the room for optimal positioning. As he moved toward Trumpet's side, he didn't just want to be in the frame—he commanded it. His posture, as ever, screamed of technological superiority, as though his very being was a symbol of a utopian future he had been working to create. His style was sharp and sleek, all progress and innovation; it was impossible to ignore his disconnection from the political mess unfolding around him.
Dana Crowe, Chief of Staff, stood off to the side, lingering in the doorway, her posture slightly slumped under the weight of the growing storm. Her fingers flew across her phone screen, tapping out quick, quiet messages to agency heads as she kept a watchful eye on the spectacle unfolding before her. Despite her cool exterior, her mind was a flurry of thoughts and worries, constantly calculating the implications of each moment, of each policy. The chaos in the air felt like a living thing, pressing against her as she desperately tried to manage the overwhelming drama she knew would follow.
Trumpet cleared his throat—a deep, guttural sound, one that reverberated throughout the room. The staff paused, the air thickening. As Trumpet spoke, his voice boomed, cutting through the tension like a jagged thunderclap. "My fellow Americans," he began, his voice swollen with self-assurance, "today we ignite the rocket of freedom." His fist shot into the air, as though trying to punctuate every word with a physical gesture, almost knocking into the overhead microphone in his enthusiasm. The room responded in a shiver—his words were dramatic, undeniably forceful, but they also carried an air of something almost comical in their over-the-top delivery.
Trumpet continued, his voice swelling with boastful pride: "By stripping twenty percent of bloated bureaucracy, we give power back to the people—and a doge-meme mascot to prove we can laugh while doing it!"
At his cue, Moor unfurled a foam-board cut-out of a Shiba Inu dressed in a business suit, a cartoon grin plastered across its face, with the words "SUCH SAVINGS" floating above it in Comic Sans. The cameras exploded in a flurry of flashbulbs, capturing the absurdity of the moment, each click amplifying the ridiculousness until it became a spectacle in itself. Behind the cameras, an aide muttered a low groan of disapproval, but the noise of the flashing bulbs drowned it out. It was a modern theatrical performance—ludicrous, but strangely compelling. The world would see this, and the administration hoped, embrace it.
Trumpet signed Executive Order #1 with a thick, black marker, the ink soaking into the paper, leaving behind a trail of bold, undeniable action. The room felt as though it held its breath as he finished, turning the signed document toward the cameras. Blaze, ever the loyal servant, was there, ready to document the historic moment. His thumb pressed hard on the phone's Send button, causing the screen protector to crack under the pressure. The sound of the click echoed throughout the room like the final nail in the coffin.
Dana stepped forward, her voice quiet, almost lost in the chaos of the moment. "The agencies will panic," she murmured, a hint of foreboding in her words.
"They'll iterate," Moor replied, his smirk confident and unshaken. His eyes never left the red-light tally, watching as the live-streamed audience continued to grow. "Disruption is just panic with better PR."
Dana swallowed the antacids she had in her pocket, feeling the chalky relief briefly soothe her, but the taste of anxiety lingered in her mouth. She knew the storm was just beginning.
9:30 a.m., West Wing Corridor
The West Wing corridors felt like they were in full disarray, the staff rushing in every direction as the fallout from the press conference began to unfold. The hum of voices, the sharp tapping of heels, and the occasional ringing phone all blended into a chaotic symphony. There was a sense of frantic urgency, as if everyone was on edge, waiting for the next piece of the crisis to land.
Dana moved through the chaos with quick, measured steps, navigating the increasingly frenzied scene like a ship slicing through a storm-tossed sea. Her fingers were a blur on her phone, as she typed and erased, trying to manage the growing tidal wave of reactions, both internal and external. The beeps of incoming texts were relentless, each one adding to her sense of pressure. Each one a ticking clock that threatened to unravel the fragile thread she was desperately trying to hold together.
An assistant rushed past, papers spilling from their folder, a chaotic blur of activity. "Legal says we can't fire the Nuclear Safety guys today!" they shouted as they rushed by.
"Fine," came the terse reply from another staffer, already flustered. "Paint them orange on the chart, not red. We'll circle back after lunch."
Dana's heart skipped at the sight of her phone vibrating again. The alerts were constant now—messages piling up like aftershocks in a tectonic shift. One of her text chains had turned into a seismograph, the pressure escalating with every new message.
EPA asks whether the twenty percent applies to field scientists in hurricane zones.
Interior wonders if park rangers count as "front-line brand ambassadors."
Pentagon: "Please clarify if SEAL teams are… agencies?"
With a quiet exhale, Dana typed out a short, frustrated reply:
Stand by. Guidance soon.
11:00 a.m., Press Briefing Room
The Press Briefing Room was packed, the air thick with anticipation. The buzzing of cameras and the murmurs of reporters filled the space, adding to the palpable tension. Blaze Rivers stood behind the lectern, his grin a permanent fixture as he prepared to tackle the media fallout. The graphic behind him, a bold visual contrast between the Bureaucratic Chaos and the sleek DOGE, was a misfire. The intern had failed to subtract DOGE's own staffing needs, and now the hexagon showed 4,732 projected employees, three hundred more than the section it replaced.
A reporter from the Post raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You're adding headcount?"
Blaze's grin was unwavering. "We are adding velocity. Those roles are agile scrum facilitators—somebody's got to fire the others quickly."
Laughter, not of amusement, but of mockery, rippled through the room. Blaze's finger jabbed into the air, the righteous indignation in his voice, "Deep-state dogs! You all hate efficiency because it fetches truth!"
Minutes later, #DeepStateDogs was trending worldwide. The meme took flight, with Trump's face pasted onto the howling doge. Blaze's team tried to co-opt the trend by retweeting doge gifs, but it was too late. The internet had already outpaced them, and the administration was left gasping in its wake.
12:30 p.m., Steel Mill in Ohio
The steel mill in Ohio smelled of hot metal, the air thick with the hum of machinery and the clang of metal striking metal. The workers moved with steadfast determination, the rhythm of their labor almost soothing in its consistency. It was the perfect place for Senator Maggie Renner to make her stand, a symbol of the industrial resurgence she had fought for. She stepped forward, beaming, her speech rehearsed, filled with patriotic fervor.
"The tariffs are a win for America, a win for the people of this state," Renner declared, her voice projecting out over the cheering crowd. "Our steel industry is back!"
The workers clapped, some with genuine enthusiasm, others with hesitant glances exchanged between them. The uncertainty was palpable—could this really be the resurgence they had been promised, or would the cost be greater than they realized?
2:00 p.m., European Embassy
At the European Embassy, the mood was somber, the diplomats clearly agitated. The EU Ambassador spoke with tight, clipped words, his face a mask of controlled anger. "We will retaliate," he declared, his voice sharp with frustration. "The U.S. has sparked an economic war, and counter-tariffs on U.S. cars are inevitable."
Dana, standing off to the side, could feel the weight of the moment pressing on her shoulders. She could sense the shift in global dynamics, and the storm brewing on the horizon.
4:00 p.m., Roosevelt Room
In the Roosevelt Room, the afternoon sun bathed the table in golden light, casting long shadows as Elon Moor continued his pitch. His blockchain solution seemed to dominate the room, his passion undeniable. "Imagine," he said, "an algorithm that tracks international trade flows—no inefficiencies, no tariffs, just pure meritocracy."
Dana, her patience thinning, couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Elon, we're not solving international trade issues with a blockchain."
Trump, ever the optimist, shot her a reassuring smile. "It's the future, Dana. We're going to change the game. Efficiency at its finest!"
The sunset cast long, haunting shadows across the room, and Dana felt the weight of their decisions pressing down on her shoulders. This was a turning point, and the question remained: At what cost?
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the White House in twilight, Dana stood by the window, looking out at the distant city. She felt the gravity of the situation settling deep in her chest. The momentary victory had a fleeting quality, like sand slipping through fingers. The storm was far from over. Tomorrow—Day -9—would bring the next wave of reckoning, and Dana knew that everything was about to change.