CHAPTER 141 — THE WHITE HOUSE UNDER WATCH
The White House had never moved like this before.
Phones rang without pause. Screens flashed with maps, numbers, and moving icons. Staff hurried through halls with stacks of paper and tablets in their hands. Military officers stood shoulder to shoulder with civilian advisors, all speaking at once, all trying to keep up.
It was chaos, but not blind chaos.
For the first time in its history, the entire system was working at maximum speed. Orders were not delayed by debate. Approval did not wait for layers of protocol. Decisions were made, sent out, and acted on within seconds.
Food reserves were being opened.
Military stockpiles were unlocked.
Ports were ordered to prioritize a single task. Trains were redirected. Trucks were pulled off civilian routes and placed under emergency command. Aircraft were reassigned in mid-air.
It was inefficient. Messy. Loud.
But it was fast.
At the center of it all sat the President.
He looked nothing like the man who had taken office. His suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened. His eyes were red, not from anger, but from exhaustion and the knowledge that, after this, he might never be president again.
Every order passed through him.
Every consequence rested on his shoulders.
Around the long table, advisors argued in low voices. Military officers spoke into headsets. Civilian officials ran numbers again and again, checking routes, checking timing, checking what could break.
They were complying.
They were doing exactly what had been demanded.
And they were terrified it would not be enough.
The doors to the room burst open.
A military officer rushed in, breath short, face pale. His boots echoed loudly against the floor, cutting through every conversation at once.
"Sir!" he shouted.
All sound stopped.
The officer swallowed hard, then spoke fast, words tumbling out.
"Those armored men. The ones who took hostages in Metropolis. They've seized an aircraft at the airport. They forced a pilot to fly. The plane is airborne."
The room froze.
The officer continued, voice shaking slightly now.
"They're coming here. Straight toward Washington. Toward the White House."
Every head turned to the President.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stood up so fast his chair slid backward.
"Aren't we complying?!" he demanded, voice rising. "We're doing everything they asked! Why are they still coming here?!"
The anger was real, but beneath it was fear.
Fear that nothing they did would ever be enough.
A young lieutenant stepped forward, stiff with tension. He hesitated, then asked the question no one else wanted to say out loud.
"Sir… should we shoot it down?"
The room seemed to hold its breath.
The President turned slowly to face him. His expression was not angry anymore. It was sharp. Focused. Almost cold.
"What do you think will happen," the President asked quietly, "if we do that?"
The lieutenant opened his mouth, then closed it.
The President continued, voice steady now.
"You shoot that plane down. You kill the people inside it. And then what?"
No one answered.
"You think this ends there?" the President pressed. "You think the one who destroyed a military base in minutes will just accept that?"
The lieutenant's face drained of color.
He took an unconscious step back from the table, the realization settling in all at once, how foolish the question had been, how small it sounded now that it was spoken aloud.
A politician seated near the far end cleared his throat and spoke up, his voice thin, stretched tight with worry.
"Then… what are they coming here to do?" he asked. "Are they going to kill us?"
A murmur rippled through the room.
Another official shook his head quickly, almost reflexively. "They already made demands," he said. "Killing us doesn't help them now."
"Then why come at all?" someone else pressed. "Why show up like this?"
The room filled with uneasy whispers, half-formed theories, nervous speculation, fear trying to dress itself up as logic, until one voice cut through it all.
"They're coming to watch us."
All eyes turned.
"To make sure we don't stop," the speaker continued. "To make sure we keep complying. To keep us under their eye."
Silence followed.
Slowly, one by one, people nodded.
It made sense.
The President closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaled, then nodded as well.
"We do not engage that aircraft," he said, voice firm, leaving no room for debate. "No fighters. No missiles. No defenses."
He looked around the table, meeting each gaze in turn.
"We continue exactly what we're doing," he said. "Faster if possible. No delays."
The room didn't object.
Fear remained, but there was no better choice.
Twenty minutes later, high above the city, the aircraft shook softly as it pushed through the air.
The pilot's voice came over the speakers, tight but professional.
"Sir, we're approaching Washington airspace. Where would you like us to land?"
Inside the cabin, Titus lifted his head.
"The nearest location to the White House," he said.
The pilot hesitated, then asked carefully, "Reagan National Airport?"
Before Titus could answer, the tablet in his hands activated. A map appeared, highlighting the airport and tracing a clear line all the way to the White House.
Distance: four and a half miles.
"That is correct," Titus said.
"Understood," the pilot replied.
He began coordinating immediately, contacting the airport, requesting emergency clearance. Other planes were ordered away. Runways were cleared.
The pilot knew the truth.
The aircraft was barely holding together.
The metal had been torn open. Internal supports were damaged. The plane had been built to fly, not to carry armored giants or survive forced modifications.
They were lucky the flight was short.
Any longer, and it would not have made it.
Below, the runway was cleared.
The plane came in fast.
It hit the ground hard. The wheels slammed down with a violent crunch of hydraulics and tires, tires squealing against asphalt. The cabin shuddered violently, reverberating through the fuselage. Metal groaned, panels creaking and straining under the stress, but the airframe held, as if stubbornly refusing to give way.
The aircraft slowed, then finally came to a stop.
Airport staff stared in disbelief.
One man holding signal lights frowned, staring at the torn metal, the warped frame.
That can't be real, he thought. Maybe it's staged. Some kind of display.
Then military vehicles appeared.
Dozens of them.
Soldiers poured out, surrounding the aircraft. Weapons raised. Faces pale. Hands trembling.
Fear spread through the line.
Nearby sat a massive transport truck, an M1070 HET. Its platform was open, reinforced seats barely attached. Built to carry something heavy.
The aircraft above them shuddered, its engines straining as it slowed far below a safe descent profile. The sound deepened into an ugly, uneven roar that set teeth on edge.
Then metal screamed.
Not an explosion, something worse. A tortured shriek as a section of the aircraft's inner wall was torn outward from within, plating buckling, rivets shearing free. The opening was jagged, edges peeled back like torn flesh, wind howling through the gap.
A red helm emerged first.
Metaurus stepped out into open air as if onto solid ground. His shield was already in his left hand, its surface scarred and dull with age. Behind his head, fixed to his armor's collar, the Iron Halo rested, dark, inactive, offering no protection.
A symbol only. A mark of honor earned, not relied upon.
He glanced around, studying the soldiers. None of them were hostile.
He struck the earth like a falling monument. The ground fractured outward in a rough circle, concrete splitting and sinking beneath the weight of ceramite and gene-forged mass. Dust and grit blasted up around him as he straightened, completely unmoved by the force of his own landing.
They dropped together, shields angled, boots hitting almost in unison. The impact boomed like thunderclaps, cracks racing through the concrete beneath them, fragments skittering across the tarmac. They rose immediately, forming on Metaurus without a word, presence heavy and absolute.
Then Titus descended, impact heavy, controlled.
Last came Naruto.
He dropped lightly, feet touching down without a sound. No cracks. No damage.
The contrast was clear.
Soldiers tightened their grips.
No one fired.
~~~
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