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- Washington D.C. USA -
- December 17, 1939 -
The Vyomratha descended smoothly through the winter sky, its wings gleaming faintly against the pale morning light. Washington lay below in neat grids, snow gathered along rooftops and trees. For a moment, Aryan leaned closer to the window, his reflection ghosting over the view. He could see the Potomac winding like a silver ribbon, and the wide avenues stretching toward the Capitol dome. It was a city that carried ambition in its very design.
Inside the cabin, the air was calm but heavy with expectation. Ministers checked folders one last time, aides whispered over itineraries, security teams scanned the ground through rune-linked binoculars. Aryan sat in silence, hands resting lightly on the armrest, his mind turning over the layers of what awaited him.
America had reached out first, Roosevelt's signature carried in the invitation. That meant something — a gesture of trust, a chance to place Bharat among equals. Yet beneath the warmth, Aryan knew the truth: they hoped to pull him closer to their side in the growing storm of Europe. The Allies wanted more than just friendship. They wanted commitment.
The wheels touched the runway with barely a jolt, the prāṇa-hybrid engines whispering into silence. Beyond the glass, Aryan caught sight of the reception: American flags and Bharatiya tricolors raised side by side, soldiers standing at attention, and officials waiting in dark overcoats. Even the bitter cold could not hide the brightness of their smiles.
As the staircase rolled into place, Aryan rose. His ministers followed in order, each carrying the weight of expectation. When the cabin door opened, a rush of icy air swept in, carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and winter earth. Aryan stepped forward first, the blue of his achkan vivid against the pale sky.
The welcoming party was led by a senior State Department official, flanked by protocol officers. A brass band struck up a tune, carefully blending American marches with hints of Indian melody — a small but deliberate touch. The crowd of journalists, kept at a distance, scribbled furiously in notebooks. Cameras clicked, capturing the image of a young Samrat stepping onto foreign soil for the first time.
"Your Majesty," the American official greeted warmly, bowing his head slightly. "On behalf of President Roosevelt and the United States, welcome to Washington."
Aryan inclined his head in return. His reply was calm, steady. "I thank you for your kind welcome. It is an honor to be here, and I bring with me the goodwill of Bharat."
Nearby, the Bharatiya ambassador hurried forward, his eyes bright with relief and pride. "Samrat," he said softly in Hindi as they clasped hands, "you cannot imagine what this moment means to us here. The Americans look at you with real respect. They wish for a fruitful partnership, truly."
Aryan's expression softened. "Then let us give them that without surrender. That is the balance we must keep."
Security unfolded around them in silent precision. Aryan's own car — the gleaming Rajvanshi model carried within the Vyomratha's hold — was waiting, polished and armored. The Americans watched with raised eyebrows as it rolled forward, its design unlike anything from Detroit or Europe. The subtle carvings, the reinforced frame, even the quiet hum of its engine spoke of something beyond ordinary engineering.
One American officer whispered to another, unable to hide his surprise. "Did you see that? That's no imported machine… they built it themselves."
The other only shook his head, muttering, "And here we thought India was all bullock carts and villages."
Such murmurs were not lost on Aryan's aides. They exchanged faint smiles — every small impression mattered. This was more than a visit; it was a chance to rewrite perceptions, one detail at a time.
The motorcade rolled out of the airport under heavy escort. American police motorcycles flanked the route, sirens clearing the road. Crowds had gathered even here, curious citizens waving both flags, some holding banners of welcome. Aryan watched them quietly through the window, his thoughts drifting.
The reports he had read were clear: Europe was cracking under war, Britain holding desperately to its empire, France uncertain, and now the Soviets pressing harder after their invasion of Poland. The Allies needed new strength, new partners. And Bharat — free, organized, powerful in ways they barely understood — was a tempting prospect.
But Aryan knew Britain stood in the way. For all America's warmth, the question of Bharat's relationship with London hovered like a stormcloud. The Americans wanted to mediate, to bridge the bitterness if they could. They wanted to pull Bharat firmly into their circle before the war consumed everything.
As the motorcade entered the heart of Washington, Aryan leaned back in his seat. The streets gleamed with snow, the monuments stood proud against the sky. Somewhere beyond them, Roosevelt waited.
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- The White House, Washington D.C. -
- December 17, 1939 -
The winter sun was already dipping when Aryan's motorcade arrived at the White House gates. The columns stood tall and white against the fading sky, a symbol the Americans wore proudly on their chest. Crowds pressed behind the barricades, cheering as Aryan stepped out, his achkan flowing gracefully against the cold breeze.
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt waited at the portico, seated in his wheelchair but holding himself with the natural confidence of a man used to commanding a nation. His eyes brightened as Aryan approached.
"Your Majesty," Roosevelt said warmly, extending his hand. "Welcome to the United States. We are honored to have you here."
Aryan bent slightly as he clasped Roosevelt's hand. "The honor is mine, Mr. President. Bharat has long watched the American story with admiration — a land that broke its chains and chose its own destiny. It is not so different from ours."
The line drew a smile from Roosevelt, who chuckled softly. "Then I'd say we already share the language of freedom."
Inside, the East Room glittered with chandeliers, and the protocol of diplomacy unfolded with practiced ease. Roosevelt introduced his team one by one — Secretaries, advisors, envoys — each extending a handshake, some stiff and formal, others eager and curious. Aryan met each gaze steadily, offering words measured but warm.
Among the Americans stood a tall, broad-shouldered officer in crisp uniform, three stars on his collar glinting under the lights. "Lieutenant General Nathaniel Corbin," Roosevelt announced, "Deputy Chief of Staff. A man whose service and dedication we hold in high regard."
Aryan's eyes lingered for a heartbeat longer than protocol required. He bowed his head politely, and their hands met in a firm clasp. To the watching world, it was nothing more than courtesy between allies. But beneath the surface, a flicker of recognition passed — unseen, unreadable.
Nathaniel Corbin was not Nathaniel at all. He (or actually She) was Anaya — one of Aryan's Hidden Flame agents, master of mimicry, who had slipped into this life under Karna's orders. Just a few months ago, the real Corbin had served Hydra's shadowy interests within the U.S. military. Now, with quiet precision, Anaya had replaced him, climbing through discipline and feigned loyalty until she stood here as Deputy Chief of Staff.
She had become something rare — a triple agent. To Washington, she was a hardworking patriot. To Hydra, she was a trusted infiltrator. And to Bharat, she was a silent torch, passing secrets across the ocean.
Aryan did not need words to know what she had achieved. He had already received her reports through the hidden seals that bound Hidden Flame agents. Hydra's schemes, the whispers in Pentagon corridors, the politics of Roosevelt's cabinet — all flowed to him. And now, as he shook "Corbin's" hand, he carried the confidence of a man walking into a room already mapped.
The Introductions ended, and Roosevelt clapped his hands lightly. "Now, gentlemen, and ladies, let us eat. Tonight we dine not just as leaders, but as friends."
The State Dinner unfolded with deliberate grandeur. The long table was set with silverware gleaming like stars, crystal glasses reflecting the golden glow of chandeliers. American and Bharatiya flags stood side by side at the hall's entrance, a quiet declaration of unity.
Music played softly — an orchestra mixing Western strings with faint hints of Indian ragas arranged by the State Department to honor their guest. Roosevelt raised his glass first.
"To a new chapter," he said. "May our nations walk forward not as strangers, but as equals bound by purpose."
Aryan lifted his glass in return, the reflection of candlelight dancing on his face. "To a partnership built not on need, but on respect. May it outlast the storms that surround us."
The hall erupted In gentle applause. Yet beneath the warmth, Aryan's mind ticked forward. He knew the questions that would follow — about Britain, about the war, about whether Bharat would lean toward the Allies. He had no intention of being rushed.
For now, he let the evening unfold, sharing light conversation with Roosevelt and his advisors, answering with patience, laughing at moments of humor. To the Americans, he appeared open, approachable, confident. Only Aryan knew how much of the script had already been written in his head.
Later, as the guests dispersed, Roosevelt's aides confirmed the next step. A private meeting would be held the following morning — the heart of negotiations, the true exchange behind all the ceremony. After that, Aryan would stand before Congress itself, a foreign leader given the rare honor of addressing both Houses.
As Aryan walked out into the cold night air, he drew in a slow breath. The White House glowed behind him, a fortress of power and ambition. Ahead lay choices that would shape not just Bharat's future, but the world's.
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