Hoku and his squad came trundling down the hill, haggard but intact. Survival training had been rough, but they had gotten their missions accomplished with only what was in their backpack and avoided getting lost or misplacing anything.

They were all wearing smiles as they came back into the base, the sight of it chasing away the fatigue of the adventure. It hadn't been the first outing by far, each seemingly longer and more complex than the last. Hoku had learned to use all manner of Army toys to get things done, and how to use it responsibly.

But it wasn't about him. He was a small part of the force that he was increasingly proud of. "Hey, Roks." They liked to use that name sometimes. "I think that may be the last, or second to last, trip we get."

Hoku blinked at that, turning his head while walking forward. "Did we do something wrong? Why last?"

"Because we're about ready to graduate!" explained his fellow soldier, Paul. "We're doing it, Man. They'll ship us out and we'll get our postings soon I bet."

"Recruits," barked one of their drill sergeant, marching towards them with a determined look in his eyes. "You're back, and in one piece it looks like. Tell me you got me something on the way."

Paul saluted sharply as did the others, going still. "Sir, No, Sir. We were unsure of what soda you preferred."

"Smart-ass." He slapped Paul's shoulder and hiked a thumb at the barracks. "Once we get debriefing out of the way, you can relax. Were all objectives hit?"

"All hit," assured Hoku, still saluting as they had not been told to stop doing that. "Sir, I have question."

"And you'll keep having it," dismissed the drill sergeant. "You made good time, excellent, excellent. We will be confirming you got everything done, so if anyone wants to admit anything, now's the time." None of the soldiers responded to that. "Alright then. Dismissed."

The squad started for the barracks. Paul edged closed to Hoku. "What was it you were trying to ask?"

"Do they make everyone dive that far? If I wasn't there, how would you do that?" One of the objectives had them retrieve something from the bottom of a lake that Hoku was reasonably certain would be a dangerous task for most humans. For a Lutrai, it wasn't that out of place. He swam down there, grabbed it, and was out without too much fanfare, but humans did not swim like Lutrai, or hold their breath as well.

Paul shook his head. "They know you're with us. Of course they'll make you use what you have. Part of me imagines they're also kinda curious what it is you can do, and how well. Not like they had a lot of otter Joes to watch work."

"Hm." It wasn't as if he minded a chance to swim. He and the others dropped off what they had retrieved and were soon in their barracks. Perched on his bed was a slip of paper. Grabbing it up, it gave the location of a new base. They were his assignment papers, effective on his graduation.

A date was listed.

Rason leaned forward. He had a hand just beside the bedroom mirror, breathing roughly as he watched his reflection. He had felt out of balance all day. His skin crawled, but he didn't feel... tired per se. No, he felt full of energy, as if so full of it he was struck dizzy with it, heaving softly as he gazed at his reflection.

"Hon?" His wife knocked once on the door, then casually entered. They did not have strong boundaries there. "Everything alright? You've been in, oh..."

Oh? "What's wrong?"

"You look terrible." She raised her fingers to his cheeks, turning him towards herself. "You're sweating buckets and you're hot." She could feel unnatural heat radiating from him. "You go to your bed and have a lay down. I'll call someone."

"No! No." He gently swatted her hand away. "Thank you, but no. We don't need the president shuffling off to the hospital, or being sick. That never goes over well. I'm fine, just a little flush."

"You can pretend with the people of America... but I'm your wife, tell me the truth." She advanced on him, hands moving for his sides. "I won't tell a soul if you don't want me to."

He smiled gently at that human woman that was his wife. She cared about him deeply, but he was a lie. He was lying to her and the American people just as readily. She had supported and cared for him on the campaign trail, and in the office. She was a fantastic First Lady, and a person in general.

He did love her... It was... unfair that it was doomed from the start. The moment... The moment she knew what he really was, she would run away. He had played a part in removing the man that actually deserved her love. He deserved every little scrap of hate she would likely one day have for him.

Rason reached past her and closed the door, sealing them in the bathroom. The Secret Service would not follow them inside the room, though the door had to remain unlocked. "I promise, I'm fine."

"I know that isn't true." She kissed him on each cheek softly. "But I'm proud of you anyway. Just... take it easy, alright? You can keep this a secret, but that doesn't mean you have to go full speed."

He loved the country he was placed in charge of. He wanted it to grow and be full of happy people. They were happy, and it was at least partially his fault. He just had to keep it going, keep them happy, and do what was right by them.

"John?"

He barely heard her, his balance going out suddenly. He started to go over to the side, toppling over. She grabbed him suddenly, stopping him from crashing. She guided him to the ground as he felt alternating waves of heat and cold, waves of needles pricking at his disguised flesh. "Maybe... a day or two off would be a good idea."

She softly slapped a cheek with a palm. "Maybe," she agreed with a wry smile. "Should I tell them to help you into bed?"

"No! No, I'm... alright." He slowly pushed back up and awkwardly resumed standing, not quite all there. "Go on to bed. I'll be there in just a moment, promise."

"Promise?"

"Swear."

She left then, returning him to solitude. There he was, in one of the few private places a president had, his own bathroom. He reached a hand up to his magic detector and clasped a hand firmly over its speaker. He wasn't entirely sure if it would beep, but why take chances?

With a rush of flames, he ceased to be a human.

But he wasn't a changeling either. As if unlocked by his change, he could feel things almost violently shifting inside of him. He grit his teeth, biting back any noise he might have made as strange new power surged through his oddly-colorful carapace. His one proud horn became two with jagged ends, power bulging uncomfortably as his body adjusted to accommodate it.

He grew larger, as large as his queen, perhaps more? She wasn't there to compare himself with. He was... not a changeling.

Chrysalis had been quite clear. All those of Thorax's brood were traitors and not even changelings at all anymore. They were sick and weak. They were pathetic. He had become something she hated. He had nowhere left to go.

"Oh god," he sighed out. When he stopped being president, it would all come crashing down. Possibly before then.

He concentrated on his human form. He thanked the very god he had blasphemed as the rush of change overtook him and he became John Rason once more, who used to be a changeling. He was one of those... not-changelings. He was powered by loving, instead of being loved, but that hadn't been entirely true. He had been loved, intensely. He felt sure that was a part of things.

Maybe he was something new?

He didn't know, nor could he know... He started the water and splashed his face, cleaning himself up a bit and toweling off. He didn't feel dizzy anymore. He could resume his duties as president. He could, and he would.

He was John Rason, even if he didn't know what else he might be.

It was the early hours of the day. The sun was nowhere to be seen and the sky was a gloomy shade, clouds heavy in the sky. It was a perfect time for what was about to happen.

New sleek aircraft cut across the sky, casting minimal shadows on radar as they came in frightfully quickly. It wasn't the first time Pearl Harbor would see enemy aircraft in the early hours of the day, though many had hoped the last time would be the truly last.

Bright flares that could only be made with a combination of chemical and magical ingenuity tore at buildings and ships. Planes were torched on the ground and people were sent screaming. Each dropped bomb was a colorful burst of destruction. They may have been whimsical if not for the very real pain and damage they inflicted on what they landed on.

America would not be quietly punched in the face twice. Anti air platforms came to life as spotlights cut into the darkness. Though the faint radar signals had allowed them to approach, the operators knew what they were looking at. That element was gone. The guns opened fire. Missiles began to streak into the sky. There was not one missile for every enemy vessel. There were dozens.

It was as if Independence day had come early, and perhaps it had, for America would not tolerate being nakedly attacked again. It would defend itself under the rocket's red glare, bombs bursting in air.

Roughly a quarter of the enemy attackers were destroyed in that first instant, exploding in brilliant displays of shredded metal and slain enemies. Others veered and bobbed wildly, trying to avoid meeting the same fate.

Another quarter was lost just seconds later, the missiles horrifyingly good at homing in on their targets, but many were lost all the same. The attackers were not entirely helpless to the missiles, even if they had vastly underestimated how many would be coming towards them.

Flares added new lights to the sky, confusing the missiles and leading them astray just long enough for the bombers to turn away and jet across the sky, away from America.

The attack was over, but the event was far from it. Though the bombers had been fought off quickly, that had done nothing to stop their actual attack. The bombs had been dropped, and there were killed and injured to see to, to speak of the millions of dollars of damage inflicted to buildings both military and civilian.

On that terrible day, Americans had easily outdone the ponies for how many they could lose on a single bombing run; though their opponents had actually been trying to inflict as much damage as possible.

"Yesterday--" John Rason faced the cameras. He had felt the strange spike almost as soon as it happened. The love that bathed him had changed. It became soured as time went on, as people learned what had happened. "we were attacked. We will not accept this. This was not the almost childish antics of what has become our pony allies."

"In the early morning, they made a telling blow, but also one that sent a clear message. The TSDI attacked Pearl Harbor. They declared to the world that they are willing to war with us, and they did it in a carefully precise way, to strike fear into the hearts of Americans. But we won't accept it. It didn't work for Japan, it won't work for them. Congress, I urge you, it's time to fight, and protect America. They've already declared war on us, let's return the favor."

He could feel love swelling. His people were ready to fight.

Author's Notes:

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