The presidential motorcade sliced through the midday traffic of Washington D.C., a bubble of armor and authority. Inside the insulated quiet of the limousine, known as "The Beast," he watched the city pass by. He saw not just the familiar monuments, but a city on the cusp of crises it could not imagine. He saw the future ghosts of overflowing hospitals and shuttered businesses. The weight of it was a physical pressure in his chest.
"Connolly will be looking for a fight, sir," Miles Vance said from the seat opposite him, reviewing notes on his tablet. "He'll see this as a sign of weakness, you coming to him. He'll want to score political points. The conventional wisdom is to let him posture, then offer a minor concession on the infrastructure bill to get him to the table."
He listened, nodding slowly. The host's memories supplied the political calculus, the grudges and alliances that defined the relationship with Speaker Thomas Connolly. It was a minefield.
"The conventional wisdom is wrong, Miles," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the approaching Capitol dome. "Conventional wisdom is what got us into this mess."
The arrival was a controlled storm. A throng of journalists shouted unintelligible questions as he stepped from the vehicle, their camera flashes like strobing lights. He ignored them all, his face a mask of grim purpose, and walked the historic halls of the Capitol building. The air here was different from the White House. It was thicker, heavier with the dust of a thousand compromises and backroom deals. This was not his turf. This was the lion's den.
He was shown into the Speaker's sprawling, ornate office. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating walls covered in portraits of long-dead political titans. Speaker Connolly, a man with a bulldog's face and shrewd, weary eyes, sat behind a desk cluttered with stacks of legislation. Senate Majority Leader Reynolds, a man from the President's own party but a cautious and independent power, was already there, nursing a cup of coffee.
"Mr. President," Connolly grunted, not bothering to rise. "You wanted an hour. The clock is ticking."
He didn't sit immediately. He walked to the window and looked down the National Mall. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Speaker, Senator Reynolds."
He turned back to face them. He didn't open a binder or point to a chart. He just looked at the two men. "This isn't about the next budget," he began, his voice low. "This is about the next war. Only the battlefields won't be shipping ports, pharmacies, and semiconductor fabs. Our reliance on foreign manufacturing isn't an economic theory anymore. It's a loaded gun pointed at our own head."
The words, simple and direct, seemed to change the air in the room. Reynolds leaned forward slightly, his coffee forgotten.
"Senator Reynolds," he said, turning to his ally first. "Your state is home to three of the largest data centers on the East Coast. They are a point of pride. My briefings indicate that the next generation of server technology will be wholly dependent on processor chips that are currently manufactured in one specific facility in Taiwan. That facility is about to become a global flashpoint, with the future of our entire tech sector dependent on what happens inside its walls."
Reynolds's eyebrows shot up. The detail was specific and alarming.
Then he turned to the main target. "Mr. Speaker, your district in Ohio lost nearly twenty thousand manufacturing jobs over the last thirty years. You've fought for every scrap of investment you could get."
"Don't lecture me about my own district, Mr. President," Connolly growled.
"I'm not," he replied calmly. "I'm giving you a warning. The largest employer in your district now is a healthcare conglomerate. They run three hospitals and dozens of clinics. Within twenty-four months, those hospitals will face a catastrophic shortage of basic medical supplies. Not just complex equipment, but surgical masks, gowns, gloves, and even fundamental antibiotic precursors. The supply chain for those goods is about to evaporate. This isn't a forecast, Mr. Speaker. It's an intelligence assessment."
He let the silence hang. He had just delivered a targeted, prophetic warning directly to each man's home turf. He had shown them a future fire licking at their own houses.
Connolly was quiet for a long time, his gaze fixed on the President. He picked up a pen from his desk, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, the only movement in the room.
"A grim story," Connolly finally said. "And you want Congress to give you a blank check to fix it."
"I want Congress to help me protect this country," he countered. "As it is our sworn duty to do."
"Duty," Connolly scoffed, a humorless smile on his lips. "Alright, Mr. President. You want to talk about duty, let's talk about deals. You want my caucus to even consider a bill of this magnitude, one that smells like a massive corporate giveaway, it will cost you. A pound of flesh."
The Speaker leaned forward, his eyes glinting. "That judicial nominee you've been pushing for the Ninth Circuit. Judge Harrison. You pull his nomination. Announce it publicly. You eat the loss with your base. You do that, and I will allow this 'Patriot Push' to get a hearing in committee."
The demand landed like a grenade in the room. Judge Harrison was a deeply conservative judge, a key promise he had made to his most ardent supporters. The host President's memories screamed at the political poison of such a reversal. It would be seen as a staggering betrayal.
He was trapped between the vital, secret needs of the future and the loud, angry demands of the political present he had inherited.
He met the Speaker's triumphant gaze without flinching.
"I see," he said, his voice betraying no emotion. "A pound of flesh."
He stood there for a moment, the fate of his agenda, and the country, hanging on his next words.
"You'll have my answer by tomorrow morning, Mr. Speaker," he said, his tone flat and unreadable. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving the two most powerful men in Congress staring after him, completely uncertain of what he would do next.