Samantha was a detective. Maternity leave wasn't happening—she was back at work immediately.
Mom and Dad left the baby with Bella and Natasha. The two of them brought magic and cutting-edge tech to bear on the damaged crib, got it working again—the thing had a rocking function—and now sat on either side, taking turns giving it a gentle push every so often, keeping the energetic little infant entertained.
"I'm so bored," Natasha said, giving the crib another slow push as the baby laughed its way through another cycle. She would have taken a supervillain. A terrorist cell. A cage match with anything. Sitting here mindlessly tending to a baby was slowly killing her.
Bella felt exactly the same. Watching that crib sway back and forth in front of her face, she could feel her eyelids getting heavy.
Five minutes later, both of them had relocated to the couch in front of the television to kill time.
The baby had been transferred to Sakura.
Sakura adored little Kitty. Every two minutes or so, her small hand would give the crib another push, and each time the baby giggled in response, Sakura felt a rush of genuine joy.
Bella and Natasha sat cross-legged on the couch like they'd never heard of posture, watching the TV. The broadcast currently showing: a female journalist interviewing the newest hero to emerge from humanity's war against the alien invasion—Marine Corps Staff Sergeant Benjamin Asher.
America had always run deep on hero mythology. Captain America during the Second World War had inspired a whole generation. That need for heroes hadn't faded—if anything, it intensified in moments of crisis. People wanted someone to rise, to stand at the front and save them.
Benjamin Asher was that someone.
For a soldier, he was getting on in years. On camera, he looked it—slightly worn, carrying his age in his face.
"Physical condition seems average. Reaction speed is nothing special. Fitness is probably below average for his age group. Strength isn't there either." Bella had a custard tart in her hand; Natasha reached over and took a bite, then licked her fingers while swallowing, utterly unhurried, then delivered her professional assessment of the new national hero.
In her estimation, Benjamin Asher was a reasonably brave man who'd had good luck. Without any virus enhancement, bare-handed, Natasha could handle ten of him. With open ground and sufficient ammunition, she could handle a hundred.
Bella took a different view. "California needs someone like him right now. The whole country does. Look at him—he's white, he's a soldier, he's not some kid, he's a mature, seasoned veteran. And that man is clearly smart."
Being smart didn't mean being a bad person.
The smart man in question made his own announcement two days later, in front of a full media contingent: he would be officially separating from the Marine Corps this month. Once he took off the uniform, he intended to enter politics and run for president in the election at the end of next year.
"This country is sick. We've become weak, we've become afraid—afraid of sacrifice, unwilling to shoulder our own responsibilities..." Benjamin Asher stood before the cameras in a slightly worn suit jacket, his shoulders shifting with a subtle unfamiliarity—a man not yet comfortable in a suit.
At first his voice had a trace of tension, the sweat on his forehead clearly visible to anyone watching closely. But as he spoke, as the words became his again, the nerves faded.
By the end, he was looking straight into the camera:
"In the military, I was never special forces. My marksmanship, my fitness, my driving—all of it was average. I only have one thing. Courage. I want to put everything I have—every ounce of that courage—into leading the American people. Into leading America. Whatever enemy stands ahead of us, whatever conditions we're fighting in, I want you to believe this: as long as I draw breath, I will not stop fighting."
The speech itself wasn't particularly polished. He had a faint Canadian accent, of all things. But the man had presence—a quality that couldn't be manufactured. His courage was real. His desire to lead the country against its enemies was real.
He planned to run as a Republican, and said plainly that if he didn't win the primary, he'd run as an independent.
Analysts noted that while he was a complete political newcomer with no prior public office, California traditionally leaned Democratic—but Asher's reputation from the alien battle had made him enormously popular there. For the Republicans, getting California into play meant there was significant incentive to put him forward, political outsider or not.
None of it touched Bella's family directly.
The Swans had their principles. Their private relationship with the Black President had always been cordial.
They weren't the type to swing with whoever was in power. As far as the outside world was concerned, this family supported the Democrats. Whatever California became, they would hold that line.
From a purely analytical standpoint, though, the Black President's re-election prospects looked difficult.
His term had been a relentless parade of catastrophes. He was routinely criticized on foreign policy for a posture perceived as weak. Domestically, the economy had never recovered to pre-2000 levels, and unemployment had refused to come down.
A lot of people were collecting unemployment benefits and turning around to spend the money on courses at the Continental—not because they wanted to be assassins, but because with no jobs, they had to learn a trade to scrape by. Survival required skills.
The Black President had abilities. But the White House had been destroyed. California had been shaken to pieces by an earthquake. And now an alien invasion had happened on his watch.
You created jobs? Well, you let the White House get destroyed.
You cut taxes? Well, you ignored California's seismic early warnings.
You pulled troops out of the Middle East? Well, you invited the aliens.
There was no washing any of it off.
The Black President understood his re-election chances weren't good, and launched a new round of policy adjustments.
But political reality had a way of working like this: the opposition could attack without accountability, knowing full well they might not do any better if they were in power—but they weren't in power, which meant they could say whatever they liked.
The Black President threw himself into the relief work. But restoring California from rubble to functioning state would require spending measured in the trillions. States across the rest of the country immediately voiced objections—they felt the federal government was funneling disproportionate resources into California at the expense of everyone else, and Congress shot down several of his proposals in succession.
It left the president boxed in. Push forward—blocked. Pull back—impossible.
He kept funding California despite the backlash, but Californians still didn't appreciate it and instead backed his political opponents. Other states piled on with grievances of their own.
On top of everything, the aftereffects of having crossed the defense industry were fully detonating now. The military-industrial complex wanted access to the alien weapons technology. Their message was clear: give us what we want, or we back Asher. He was ex-military, after all—a natural fit for that world.