Chapter 1: Stranger in the Mirror

Chris Landon stared at the man in the mirror. No matter how long he looked, the face staring back was a stranger’s. His breath fogged the glass, but the stranger didn’t blink.

He ran a hand through his short, dark hair, the flickering fluorescent bathroom light overhead painting his skin a sickly shade. The jawline was too sharp, the eyes too cold—like wearing someone else’s skin, a suit a size too small and twice as heavy.

Get used to it, Chris. This is you now—Grant Dalton, the runaway President, stuck in a future that doesn’t want you. Eight hundred years since old St. Louis, two thousand miles from Portland, and every inch of you borrowed.

Chris barked a laugh. The echo bounced off the tile—too loud, too real. Cheap government soap stung his hands, grounding him. He blinked, searching for his old self in the reflection, but Grant Dalton stared back, haunted and alien.

There’s no going back.

He gripped the sink until his knuckles turned white, shaking his head. The truth was cold as a vault. It was like shutting a door against a hurricane, hearing the lock slide home—no escape, only forward.

What a joke. Did I ever say I wanted to go back?

A smirk twisted his lips, bitter as spoiled whiskey. That old life—dad’s voice booming over the kitchen table, the chief’s coffee-stained tie, the night Chris hid in the garage during the riots, his own cowardice—felt like a movie he’d watched a hundred times but never starred in. Now, in the sticky Southern air, surrounded by strange voices and sweet tea, there was no home to return to. The emptiness spun his head, so he rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and thought, Hell, might as well enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Down the hall, Hank Young, Head of the White House Security Detail, heard Chris muttering, “Heh, hehe, hehehe.”

Hank stiffened in the corridor, glancing at the closed bathroom door. One hand hovered near his sidearm, the other on his earpiece. Was the President—Grant—really losing it in there? He shot a look to a nearby agent, who only shrugged. Hank squared his shoulders, bracing for the worst.

Was Grant about to go full meltdown? Hank had seen breakdowns, but this felt different—like the first tremor before an earthquake.

He’d seen a lot in twenty years on the detail, but this was new. Presidents aged fast, sure, but laughing alone in the bathroom? He’d have to call his wife later—maybe ask if she remembered any presidents going off the rails like this.

Grant Dalton pulled himself together, reminding himself it was the eleventh year since the Southern Union’s founding, and peace talks with the North loomed. If he didn’t settle things soon, he’d never get time to eat, drink, and enjoy the Southern jazz that drifted up from the city below.

He splashed cold water on his face, the chill biting his skin. There was always another crisis, another meeting, another night without sleep. If he didn’t sort things with the North, he’d never taste the fried chicken or feel the city’s pulse again.

And General Forrest? Just dismissed as Deputy Chief of Staff, sent back to Blue Ridge to “retire.”

That bit of palace intrigue nagged at him—a career soldier exiled to the mountains. In the South, retirements never stuck. The rumor mill would have Forrest back in uniform before the week was out.

Grant frowned, head cocked like a dog hearing a strange whistle, and called Hank over. “Go fetch Chief Evans. There’s something—something.”

The frown dug lines into his forehead as he gestured. Hank hesitated, caught off guard by the whiplash from laughter to business. He straightened his black tie and hurried out, sneakers squeaking on the polished marble floors, still smelling faintly of lemon and gun oil.

Hank shot a glance at Grant, his heart pounding. The President’s whole vibe had shifted: eager, lively, spirited, but not cocky—almost innocent, like a kid about to blow out birthday candles. Hank’s heart thumped, uncertainty gnawing at him.

Then it clicked.

He remembered campaign stories, those moments when Grant would light up a crowd, spark a whole room. Maybe the President was coming back to life after all.

It was like watching someone shrug off a winter coat after months in the cold—awkward, but weirdly inspiring. Hank let out a slow breath, wondering what this new Grant would do next.

Grant blinked, a little dazed by his own transformation. It was like being a ghost in your own body, suddenly able to feel again. His pulse thudded in his wrists, heat rising in his chest. For the first time in months, he felt alive.

By the time Chief Evans arrived, a box of Krispy Kremes and a pot of burnt diner coffee sat on the table. Grant licked glaze off his fingers, the sugar grounding him. Hank stood by the door, eyes closed, looking like he’d reached Secret Service enlightenment.

Chief Evans blinked. Something was off about this scene.

Evans had seen plenty—cabinet brawls, Senate pranks, that time a goat wandered into the Situation Room—but this was new. The President, donuts, and a bodyguard channeling a Buddhist monk? Next-level weird.

Hank flashed Evans their old campaign signal—middle finger bent, thumb up, just visible below his jacket cuff.

The gesture was subtle—a secret code from their campaign days, meant for when things went sideways. Evans stiffened, reading the warning. Hank’s poker face stayed stone, but his eyes screamed, “Get ready.”

Evans arched an eyebrow, acknowledging the signal. This was going to be one of those days.

But Evans was sharp. He guessed Hank’s meaning: after years of running from the North, the President—once frozen with fear—had found his fight again.

A flicker of a smile crossed Evans’s lips. He’d seen Grant at rock bottom; maybe now, he was seeing a comeback. Evans mentally reshuffled his playbook, bracing for the unexpected.

So he was acting uninhibited, like a new man.

There was a charge in the air, a restlessness—like the city before a summer thunderstorm. Evans could feel it prickling at the back of his neck.

Summoned at this hour, Evans knew something big was up.

He checked his watch—almost midnight. Only a crisis or a bombshell brought late-night calls like this. Evans straightened his jacket and steeled himself.

Grant beckoned him. “Come closer, Chief Evans. This Boston cream donut—it’s so good.”

His voice was almost musical, too bright for midnight. Grant grinned, holding out a plate like a mischief-maker at a backyard barbecue.

Evans took two steps, then froze. Wait, where’d you get that Oregon accent? You’ve never set foot west of the Mississippi, right?

Evans cocked his head, confusion flickering across his face. The President’s voice had a Northwestern twang, playful—like a kid skipping rocks on the Willamette, not a born-and-bred Southerner.

And this donut—since when do you rave about donuts? You’ve eaten three before staff meetings and barely blinked.

Seeing Evans hesitate, Grant clicked his tongue, hopped off his chair, shoved a plate into Evans’s hands, and grinned, bouncing around the room.

With a sudden burst, Grant skidded across the hardwood, nearly sending the plate flying. "Come on, Chief, live a little!" Mischief laced his voice—the kind Evans hadn’t heard since the old campaign trail.

Man, this thirty-something body is great.

He spun, aches and pains gone, muscles buzzing. He grinned wider, letting the rush wash over him.

Evans, clutching the donuts, stood stunned. The last time he’d doubted reality like this was back in year two of secession, locked up North, praying for a miracle.

He stared at the pastry like it might explode. Cold interrogations, shivering in a Northern cell, flashed through his mind. If this was a trick, it was a damn good one.

Grant clapped his hands. “Chief Evans, why must we negotiate peace?”

He asked with childlike curiosity, but there was steel beneath the words. The real Grant—the one who fought—was back, and Evans felt the weight settle between them.

Evans steadied himself, slow and careful, still within arm’s reach.

He drew a breath, calculating. The wrong answer could mean a lot more than donuts on the floor.

Now that the President’s confidence had returned, he probably wanted to leave a decent country for his kids. Evans understood.

He remembered Grant’s youngest—the one with the crooked grin who always begged for extra ice cream at state dinners. Maybe this was about more than politics—maybe Grant was thinking legacy.

But that wouldn’t do.

Evans’s ambitions prickled. A stable country meant less chaos to exploit. He pressed his lips together, plotting his next move.

If you have a proper country, how will I enjoy my wealth and power?

So Evans replied, all righteousness: “Mr. President, just a few months ago, General North beat three of our armies at Little Rock. Hank was there; even General Harper couldn’t stop them. How can we possibly resist the North?

If we want to keep this place together, we’ve gotta talk peace. It’s about making the best of a bad hand.”

He delivered it like a senator reading from a script. The words hung in the air, syrupy and forgettable, the kind you hear in a hearing and instantly tune out.

Hearing those words—making the best of a bad hand—Grant thought of General Williams, who pretended to surrender to the North, then killed Dean and Hughes, nearly fighting his way out.

The memory surged—night of fire and shouting, Williams carving through chaos like moonshine—dangerous, raw, burning all the way down.

Grant stared at Evans. “Chief, those words—‘making the best of a bad hand’—that’s not really what happened, is it?”

He shot Evans a skeptical look, eyebrow raised. The kind of look you give when you know the punch is spiked.

Just then, Evans felt a cold wind brush past.

It was like someone cracked a window in January. The air in the White House shifted—sharp, icy, nothing like the thick, humid Southern night. Evans shivered, tugging his collar, sweat prickling his spine.

It was the wind that cut down from the Great Lakes, cold enough to freeze your bones, the kind that made Cleveland winters feel endless.

Evans looked up and met Grant’s eyes.

For a moment, it felt like staring into a blizzard—cold, unyielding, dangerous.

Those eyes were serious—serious like the wind off Lake Erie. Grant wasn’t normally that guy, but you didn’t cross someone with that look.

Evans dropped his eyes, just for a second.

This was out of his comfort zone.

He was used to smoke-filled rooms and backroom deals. This new Grant was direct, forceful, unpredictable.

Grant pressed on, jabbing a finger toward Blue Ridge. “Don’t we still have General Forrest? With Forrest, why negotiate?”

He pointed toward the window, the Blue Ridge Mountains lost in the darkness. His tone was sharp, posture defiant.

Evans answered, “Mr. President, didn’t I say—Forrest might command troops, but just two years ago we were being chased by the North, powerless. Even Harper couldn’t campaign north. Why should Forrest be able to strike at Springfield?

Impossible. Forrest’s reports are probably puffed up.”

Evans’s voice had the right note of skepticism, but there was an edge—a warning not to put all your chips on a wild card.

Grant frowned, head cocked, pointing at Evans. “What’s impossible about that? Back when my fa—when President Landon Sr. died at White Bluff, the Union’s generals were depleted, short on troops, cash, and hope. Yet a few years later, Monroe—with just one state—made the North fear us like a rattlesnake.”

The frown twisted into something almost comical, but the words hit hard. He was remembering history—not the textbook kind, but the kind that keeps you up at night.

Evans bit back a sigh. It was like arguing with a brick wall, and the wall was getting smarter.

Evans said quietly, “Mr. President, in a hundred or a thousand years, how many Monroes are there?”

He said it soft, like a riddle he’d already solved.

Grant looked surprised. “Huh? So Chief Monroe isn’t standard in tough times?”

Grant’s eyes went wide, gears grinding to a halt.

Evans was stunned. “No, Mr. President, who gave you that idea?”

He shook his head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. Staffers in the hallway traded nervous glances.

Grant stroked his chin. “Oh, so that’s how it is. Well, aren’t there at least a few Washington or Sherman types? That’s standard, right?”

He tapped his jaw, thinking of the old portraits lining the halls—legends who’d left their mark, then vanished.

Evans looked at Grant; Grant looked at Evans.

Silence stretched, thick as Southern molasses. Outside, a freight train howled.

Silence filled the White House that night.

It was the hush after the last home run—heavy, expectant.

Grant snorted. After my chief died, even Williams couldn’t beat the North.

Sometimes history was just heartbreak after heartbreak. If you didn’t laugh, you’d cry.

Even if he can’t strike Springfield, Forrest can at least hold the line. Grant pressed Evans, “If we can hold, we should hold. Isn’t that better than begging for peace and being a lapdog?”

He slammed a fist on the table. The room went dead quiet, the only sound the soft thud of a donut hitting the floor.

Evans sighed. “Mr. President, the Forrest army knows only Forrest, not the President. Letting Forrest command again is risky.”

Evans’s tone turned grave, light catching his badge. It was Political Science 101—never let the generals get too big.

Grant shrugged. “So what? Even if they all know me, I still couldn’t lead them to victory.”

As if the fate of the nation was no bigger than picking bacon or sausage at breakfast.

Evans pinched the bridge of his nose, resisting the urge to bang his head on the table. If politics was a game, this President was playing chess with a checkers set.

His fingers curled into fists. He bit his cheek, fighting for composure.

What is this? You weren’t like this before. How can there be a president so blind to power?

The thought stung.

At the door, Hank struggled to hide a laugh, cheeks aching.

He pressed a fist to his mouth, barely stifling a snort. It was like watching a sitcom, only the stakes were life and death.

Evans let out a brittle laugh—the kind that says, “I get it, but I wish I didn’t.”

None of his old arguments worked, but Evans still managed a smile, his eyes narrowing, cold and sharp, like a rattlesnake about to strike.

The glint flashed and vanished. Grant only felt a chill; before him again was the gentle, humble Chief Evans.

Evans smoothed his tie, all Southern charm, but the air between them crackled with something cold and sharp.

Evans bowed. “Peace or war with the North is serious. Better that tomorrow I host a dinner at Lakeview, invite some colleagues, and talk it out. How’s that?”

He delivered it like a master of ceremonies at a charity gala—no threat, just the promise of food and careful words. Classic Savannah hospitality.

Grant didn’t care. Tomorrow, then. Happily, he went off to eat donuts and visit the ladies in the residence.

He stuffed another donut in his mouth, swaggered out, humming “Georgia on My Mind.” If the world was ending, he’d enjoy the party.

Grant frowned again, feeling his boot. The weirdest thing about the president he’d become: why hide a pocketknife in your boot?

His fingers found the handle—a little Swiss Army, blade sharp and clean. He turned it over, wondering what old Grant had been afraid of. It was the kind of thing you’d expect from a man who never felt safe, even in his own home.

That night, with no stars or moon, Evans had just returned home when Censor Walter Sims came calling.

The neighborhood was quiet, streetlights painting long shadows. Evans’s house was old but sturdy, with a porch swing that creaked in the wind. He’d barely hung up his coat when Walter knocked, jittery in the glow of the porch light.

Walter smiled, but his eyes were tight, betraying nerves. After the greetings, he couldn’t help but ask, “Chief Evans, what did the President want so late?”

Walter’s voice was light, but his hands twisted his wedding band. Evans didn’t get called out after hours unless something big was brewing.

Evans smiled. “Nothing much. The President wants to change course, protect Forrest, and fight the North.”

He said it casual, as if it was just another policy tweak. In the lamplight, Evans’s smile was all teeth.

Walter blanched. “Chief Evans, and you can still laugh about this?”

He clutched his hat, eyes wide. War talk after midnight was never good in Savannah.

Evans shook his head, his face flickering in the lamplight, looking especially strange. “No matter what ideas the President had before, he always insisted on making the final call. Tonight, I don’t know what spell he’s under, but his ideas have changed, and so has he. Meeting with him, I found there’s a lot he doesn’t care about anymore, but he’s also especially easy to persuade.”

Evans stared into the lamp, shadows dancing over his face. There was a new emptiness in Grant—an openness that made him easier to steer. It was both unsettling and oddly promising.

Walter’s mouth hung open, realization creeping in. He’d seen puppet presidents before, but this felt different—like a marionette with no strings at all.

Evans raised his hand, fingers spread, gently cupping the lamp’s glow, his smile growing brighter. “Such a president, no matter what his ideas are now, in the future, they’ll be our ideas.”

He spread his palm over the light, as if casting a spell. His voice was honeyed, soft, but laced with steel. The world was shifting, and Evans intended to steer it his way.

“A president who rules with his hands folded—just perfect.”

The line hung in the air, heavy as a Southern summer night. Evans grinned, eyes glittering with ambition. He’d never been more certain the game was his to play.