Crimson Gate

The White House Rose Garden still glistened with morning dew at six a.m., yet President Donald Ivan King’s pristine white suit remained immaculate. Standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, his fingertips unconsciously brushed the “Twin Emblem” on his chest - human and N’gurbatu hands clasped within thorny vines, resembling a blood-stained scar.

“Sir, they’ve arrived.” Chief of Staff Aileen’s voice carried tension from behind.

As the President turned, sunlight haloed his silver hair like a saint’s nimbus. The Oval Office door swung open, and the moment N’gurbatu Ambassador Grom entered, the air thickened with sulfur and cologne. Towering at two meters, his emerald scales shimmered beneath a tailored Armani suit, golden-framed glasses failing to conceal amber slit-pupils contracting - the alien’s instinctual suppression of predatory urges.

“May starlight illuminate your negotiation table.” Grom extended his three-knuckled hand, wristwatch embedded with a blood-red Starlight Zircon.

“May it better fill your tax returns.” The President grasped the alien hand, his smile more polished than White House PR composites.

The Peaceful Coexistence Agreement lay open on mahogany, parchment edges inscribed in interdimensional runes and English: “All Creatures Equal.” The signing pens differed - gilded fountain pen for humanity, bone stylus dipped in Numian sap for the N’gurbatu.

“You’re certain about dismantling tariff barriers?” Grom’s hiss carried serpentine vibrations. “My... associates view this as human weakness.”

The President’s final signature bled Starlight Zircon radiance into vellum. “True strength fears no open door,” he gazed beyond the window, “especially when guests bring dynamite.”

Explosive chants erupted beyond the iron gates. Protesters torched N’gurbatu flags, blackened scraps ascending with “Return to the Void!” shrieks. A gas-masked youth hurled a Molotov cocktail, flames blooming on riot shields as cameras cut back to the Oval Office.

Ivan King handed Grom the agreement copy, his cuff revealing blood-stained bandages.

“Injury?” Grom’s pupils slithered to threads.

“Taste-testing the new relief station nutrient paste.” The President blinked. “A little hematemesis beats starvation.”

Aileen coughed abruptly. Surveillance screens showed Senator Hawk brandishing an empty Peradise vial in Capitol Hill: “This poison’s killing our children! While the President shakes hands with dealers!” Camera pans caught Genesis Group executives slipping from galleries.

“Joint press conference in ten.” Aileen murmured.

As the President adjusted cufflinks, Grom’s scales rasped against the carpet. Passing Lincoln’s portrait, Ivan King paused.

“Did you know?” He traced the gilded frame. “Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation with poisoned ink.”

Grom’s tail twitched beneath suit fabric. “Yet you lack even bulletproof glass.”

Press floodlights ignited in the Rose Garden. The President stood before microphones, backed by alien and human dignitaries forming a “peace phalanx” - a whitewashed crumbling wall.

“Today we build no Tower of Babel...” His words drowned in air-raid siren boos.

Protesters raised graffiti boards depicting the President torn asunder by N’gurbatu claws, intestines morphing into Numian vines strangling the White House.

Grom’s scales flushed warning crimson. The President smiled.

“Behold freedom’s price.” He spread arms as if embracing hostility. “Yet we choose—”

Gunfire cracked.

The bullet shattered a rose garden gargoyle, fragments peppering the treaty. Secret Service agents swarmed like black tide, dragging the President behind the podium. When he reemerged under protection, both supporters and opponents held breath - only camera shutters chattered. Then the President raised a clenched fist, defiance incarnate. Silence shattered into “USA!” chants shaking the ground. Though the assassination attempt would fuel interspecies tensions, his stance declared unwavering resolve.

Press conference spotlights became sniper scopes. Behind the President, the White House dome’s carved interdimensional runes glowed - “devil’s wallpaper” left during N’gurbatu’s “peaceful occupation.”

“Mr. President!” Washington Post’s Kate thrust her hand up, Starlight Zircon earrings glinting. “Congress proposed the seventh Capital Relocation Bill yesterday citing national security. As Washington’s now a interdimensional gateway, why insist on this ‘Son of Heaven guarding the frontier’ approach?”

“Ms. Kate,” he smiled, “your Chinese history reference to Ming Dynasty’s Yongle Emperor moving the capital to borderlands ultimately strengthened imperial defenses.”

Senator Hawk’s aide raised a tablet preloaded with questions. Kate’s tone sharpened: “Two more congressmen attacked by N’gurbatu extremists last week. Does ‘confronting chaos’ mean letting citizens die?”

In the control room, Aileen barked into headsets: “Cut to immigration PSA!”

Screens stayed frozen - hijacked broadcast.

“Courage isn’t a shield, but willingness to grasp the blade. Relocating capital is hiding wounds under blankets. We need—”

“—You to resign!”

A hooded man leapt onto chairs waving a hologram projector. The altered footage showed President toasting Grom, the alien’s sleeve revealing bone blades.

Stun guns dropped the man, but the shattered projector looped deepfake footage: the President’s eyes morphing into N’gurbatu slits, roaring “Humans are food!”

“Fake News!” Ivan King lifted a shard, blood beading on fingers. “But this gentleman reminds us - fear spreads faster than alien viruses.”

Explosions erupted beyond the gates. Protesters hurled Peradise-bottle Molotovs, amethyst flames devouring N’gurbatu flags. Smoke coalesced into skulls. A “Joker President”-masked rioter screeched through megaphone: “His equality means body bags for all!”

Riot police’s sonic shields activated, shattering nearby windows. Amid chaos, Grom’s limousine departed, window cracking open to toss a Starlight Zircon coin that struck a protest leader’s forehead.

“A gift.” Grom’s scales rippled mockingly. “Covers six months’ human rent.”

The President approached barricades.

Secret Service Director McCarthy gripped his shoulder: “Those maniacs brought homemade dirty bombs!”

“They need to see this.” Ivan King rolled up his sleeve, revealing a 2021 Gate Opening Day bullet scar on his watch. “I know reality’s weight. Five years ago—when Seventh Street asphalt split under war-axes, we believed violence our only tongue. Now I see not just scarred monuments, but five years’ hard-won wisdom! Battlefields became shared farms where N’gurbatu plow with reforged axes. Last year this soil reeked of poison; today we share not just crops, but lessons paid in blood!”

“You bow to man-eaters!” someone roared.

The President grabbed a megaphone, voice rising: “They ask why embrace monsters? I counter: When Marines shredded N’gurbatu mothers with depleted uranium, how were we different? When we ignored their children in black markets, what demons did we become? Last night, twelve cannibals were executed under our joint laws! Where death once flowed, now runs hope!”

The mob stilled.

As agents extracted him, observers noticed the President’s suit lining sewn with dual calendars: April 23, 2021 Gate Opening Day circled in blood, and January 20, 2025 Inauguration’s dove emblem. His frayed cuff revealed a watch engraved with 1825 days - the exact count from war to truce.

A truck’s rearview mirror suddenly reflected Senator Hawk wearing N’gurbatu-scale earrings, making throat-slitting gestures at masked figures.