Silka Ophir

In the Grey House with red trim, Fitz and Mellie share the same bed. In their sleep, she reaches for him more often than he does for her.

"Liv," he whispers in his sleep. "Liv..."

Mellie doesn't hear. She wears earplugs when she's in bed.

Fitz can't sleep. He rises, and leaves Mellie be.

He wanders down the hall, in his briefs. His briefs are Captain Marvel-patterned. (Rambeau; not Batson.) Liv has seen him in these; she's warned him that if the public finds out he wears Monica Rambeau-themed undies, she will NEVER fix that for him.

Fitz can't imagine why. Monica might not have been the first black superheroine, but as of now, she's the only one Fitz can think of besides Vixen. And Rocket. And Amanda Waller...

He passes Cyrus's tank. Cyrus and Novak are both in there. They're wearing virtual reality-inducing headgear. While so, they're trapped in separate underwater cages, so they can swim in place.

In the virtual reality, they're both hunting cichlids along the bottom of Lake Tanganyika. They're part of a vast pack of elephantfish. They generate electricity. Some of them do a Black Lightning, and electrocute their asses...

Fitz grins. Cyrus may be gay, but at least he has more than too much appreciation for the rightist pastime of group hunting.

Via Fitz's voice command, the lamp at his desk lights up. He sits. The desk presents him with the oldest bill in the "incoming" folder. A veteran, he speed-reads it.

On either side of the president's desk, there are two gauntlets. One's silver. The other's gold. The gold one is right-handed, and signs the bills. The silver one is left-handed, and stamps them with a rubber stamp that says VETO. For the next few hours, Fitz makes an imbalanced use of both of these.

For as long as it lasts, the majority of the seats in the republic's legislature is rightist. That's expected; Fitz won the Grey House, after all. Alas, the good times won't last. Soon and very soon, the jackasses WILL reclaim the legislature, and when that happens, Fitz had better PRAY the press never find out about him and Liv...

YOU SHOULDN'T BE WORKING AT THIS HOUR, MR. PRESIDENT.

Fitz sighs. "I'm in my briefs, Cyrus. You can call me Fitz. Don't you have imaginary cichlids to molest?"

THEY'RE WHAT I EAT. I CANNOT BANDAGE THAT.

Cyrus speaks telepathically. In his cage and still with his virtual reality mask on, Novak doesn't seem to listen.

"Fine. Just as long as my house guests are never here to witness one of your live feedings."

AND TO THINK YOU'VE NEVER HEARD OF THE ONE WHERE TEDDY ROOSEVELT WAS RECEIVING A VISITOR, AND HIS SON BURST IN AND LAID A CREEPY LITTLE SNAKE ON HIS BUSY FATHER'S DESK. NOT THAT TEDDY WAS NEVER BUSY BEFORE THE PRESIDENCY.

"Of course I know, Cyrus. Teddy was a rightist, as we are." Fitz stares at the fish tank. "You...ARE a rightist, are you?"

MY SEXUALITY IS MERELY A SOCIAL INCONVENIENCE. BUT I AM JUST AS COMMITTED TO TESTOSTERONE, MISOGYNY, AND PEDOPHILIA AS YOU AND YOUR RIGHTIGHST BROTHERS WOULD BE, IF ONLY YOUR MOTHER HAD BEEN MORE FERTILE IN LIFE.

"She was fertile. She just didn't want to pay more for food than she could afford. Plus, it hurts women to have babies." Fitz chuckles. "And to think that Mellie still hasn't had enough of my babies. She's a real suicide warrior, that one."

YOU MUSTN'T LEAVE THE FIRST LADY ALONE FOR TOO LONG. SHE'LL SUSPECT YOU'RE HAVING AN AFFAIR.

"Let her. I stopped loving her when she stopped hating pride and greed demons."

YOU MIGHT NOT GET REELECTED IF SHE TELLS THE PRESS. YOUR SUCCESSOR MIGHT BE A LEFTIST. I ABHOR THE THOUGHT OF HAVING MY TANK EMPTIED, AND I'M SURE NOVAK DOES TOO. WE ARE NOT KILLIFISHES.

"Let me worry about that. You're my chief of staff, not my adviser."

EVEN SO, YOU'VE GOT A MEETING WITH THE AFROASIAN PRESIDENT TOMORROW MORNING. FROM WHAT I'VE EAVESDROPPED ON, SHE KEEPS TIME LIKE THE CLOCK KING IN D.C. COMICS.

"I'm aware. Now if you don't mind, these bills won't sign and veto themselves."

OF COURSE. I UNDERSTAND. I WISH I WERE SIGNING THEM...AS MUCH AS I WISH I HAD HANDS INSTEAD OF FINS. SURE WOULD MISS MY TRUNK, THOUGH.

With that, Cyrus falls silent. He returns to his VR, and resumes the hunt at the bottom of Lake Tanganyika.

Fitz chuckles. "Fish with trunks," he mutters. "Whatever benevolent god would come up with that idea? Black Lightning never had a trunk, and neither did Electro." Fitz pauses. "Although, Electro DID get his powers by falling into a fish tank full of electric eels..."

There's a small airport just outside of town. As dawn rises in the eastern sky, a visiting private airplane from Afroasia comes from the same direction. On air traffic control's orders, it nears, descends, lands, and skids to a stop. Its roundel is a crescent moon and a Star of David.

In Afroasia, the president is little more than a role model. It's their prime minister who hurls all the lightning-or in Afroasia's case, blows all the sandstorms.

The president's limo straggles. When the plane's crew sees it, it lowers the plane's ramp.

Fitz climbs out of the limo, in a nice suit, and waits. He can't say he longs to make the Afroasian president's acquaintance, but he sure hopes he can trust Afroasia to remain an ally of his own republic.

Accompanied by her bodyguard, a brunette amazon appears in the plane's gangway. She bears the face of Gal Gadot, or an actress with a similar reputation.

Her dress is like Wonder Woman's; only she wears Afroasian colors, rather than the relatively familiar ones. She wears a laurel wreath, made of silver, around her brown hair. A sapphire pendant sits in its center. Fitz is surprised she wears sandals; dressed like that, he half-expected her to come barefoot.

The two presidents meet in the middle. Her bodyguard lets her be.

"Hi," Fitz stammers. "I take it you're not one of the president's bodyguards."

She narrows her eyes. "I AM," she says, in an Israeli accent, "the president!"

"Of course," Fitz laments sexually. "That's what I was afraid of."

She extends her hand, at the end of a VERY bare arm-and two bare shoulders, if Fitz might add. "I am Silka Ophir," she says, "president of our glamorous Afroasia."

Fitz swallows hard, sexually, and shakes the virtual amazon queen's hand. "Welcome to the North American Union, President Ophir." He looks around. "Shall we ferry to Camp Ibrahim?"

"On the contrary, I've always wanted to see your capital city. Can we?"

Fitz hesitates. "Of course. My staff will gladly accommodate for you. We'll...have to search you for weapons first, if you're coming into the capital."

"Of course," she acknowledges. "Terrorists are bitches. In my country, they are like packs of curs. They seem to think my subjects are rotting flesh."

Both willingly and reluctantly, Fitz's secret servants search the Afroasian president. They find many shurikens. They find many pistols. They find an antitank rifle (hashtag WTF). They find handheld crossbows. They find bolas. They find a blowgun. They find swords. They find grenades. They find knives...

The president of Afroasia may underdress. But damn, if her country's arsenal isn't getting more and more concealable all the time; either that, or their military uniforms are getting more and more revealable...

And to that, Fitz is WAY too sure the first lady would agree...

"As I said," Ophir repeats, acknowledging all the strange looks, "terrorists breed like locusts in my motherland."

"I deduce as much. Are we nearly done, here?"

The secret servants nod, and leave Ophir be. A chauffer takes her by the arm, and leads her to the seat in the back of the limo.

She and Fitz sit together in the back of his limo-TOO close together. Fitz has never been more thankful that the press never rides in this limo with him.

Ophir's bare legs are thick and juicy. They make Fitz feel warm all over, just ogling them...

"These seats are like utopia," Ophir admits. "We in Afroasia only have leather, which becomes a skillet for bare skin in the heat of day."

"Well, your ass is thick. Does that never help?"

Upon this, some of the staff snicker.

She flaps her hair. "Thank you for noticing...but no. The female ass is very sensitive. And they are like scorpions: the bigger, the weaker." She studies him. "You've seen Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, have you not?"

Fitz blinks. "With a bit of suddenly realized pride in having done so, yes."

"I'm not proud. The first Indiana Jones trilogy was perfect; old man Harrison Ford, Shia LaBeouf, and Soviet Cate Blanchett all screwed it up." She looks around. "Not a proud way for John Hurt to end his acting career, either."

"I know. He usually died when he was in a movie."

Ophir stares at him. "Where were you at my bat mitzvah?! I spent the whole night, after it ended, wanting to fuck a boy." She points at him. "You should've been there!"

Fitz doesn't hear a peep out of the staff.

Fitz can feel his heart racing. "Trust me," he near whispers, "I wish I was."

Yep; Mellie's going to hate him for this. Liv will too.