The man known as the President of the United States of. . . . the most powerful country in the world, walked toward a secured room at the heart of the vast United States Capitol building. It was a large, luxurious room, with thick heavy curtains that framed a series of large glass windows. At the center of the room was a beautiful large wooden desk. Alongside the desk and behind him, in shadow, stood his own personal bodyguards. They were six men in their prime, standing very rigid and ready to defend the President. The men were a fearsome sight, and the men in the room knew that their presence was for the best: The President was a very influential man.
The President walked over to the desk and sat himself down in the large chair. He took out a file and opened it, reading through the top page. More bodyguards were stationed outside. He could feel that they were there, somewhere beyond the light. He smiled, and then he began to read.
"It's been eight years, I've done a fairly good job, but... but not enough, I know that now. I've got to do more." These are the thoughts of the President as he sits quietly in the room, reading silently to himself: "an assassination attempt on my life, this time on the streets of Washington itself, and my, my wife, my guards, all gunned down... The fellow who did it was arrested and, and killed on the spot." The President lowers the page, then lifts it back up again and begins reading, "The man who did this, he's an ex-Marine, a. . . a registered member of the Resistance, one of ours, one we've been keeping tabs on. At the scene of the crime, there was evidence of some kind of conspiracy. We've yet to identify the links, the man who did it all is dead, he's been identified, a chap named Banton, you don't know him but. . . . " The President closes the folder and puts it down on the desk, then leans back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. He glances to either side, looking at the walls of the room, then looks down again, a tired expression gracing his features. On the desk is another file; a thick one. He picks it up and opens it, his eyes quickly scanning the first page. He puts the folder down again and closes it, placing it to one side of the desk. He takes a deep breath, then picks up a slim yellow envelope from the desktop and opens the flap, taking out a single folded piece of white paper. He unfolds the paper but still it remains unopened. The words were written in the secret code that should only be known to the President, his First-Counsel, his Secret-Service Chief. He read in silence for a few moments, then twisted the paper in his hand, crumpling it in his fist. He swivels around in his chair, as if to get up from the desk, but freezes when he sees a pair of eyes looking at him from the very deadly end of the room. The President's mouth moves slightly, saying, quietly, "I'm sorry." His face is suddenly very serious. The man with the eyes moves slightly in the shadows, seemingly gesturing for the President to look at him. The President does so, quickly looking down, as if to hide the fact that he has looked up at the other figure. He clears his throat, then stands up from his chair and walks to the single window that sits in the room. It was a long way from the desk to the window; the window itself was at eye level with the bodyguards, who stood at attention, as if ready for battle. The President took a step toward the window, and then froze, turning around to face the bodyguard who was closest to him. "Sorry," he said, looking down at the floor, "For what?" asked the bodyguard. "For distractions," said the President.
