Chapter Text
Chapter One
Sovereignty
Three Years Later
“The twenty-fifth amendment of the United States Constitution describes presidential vacancy, disability, or inability. The legislation is an effort to resolve lasting issues revolving about the office of the president. What happens upon the death, removal, or resignation of the president? What is the course of action? Who can fulfill the president’s responsibilities?”
A wall of windows — partnered with the storm brewing outside — created a curtain of smoke.
Together, they painted a sheath of silver that blanketed the auditorium in darkness. It rained quite a lot in London. The city was wrapped in fog; drizzled by dew — chilly, dull, and romantically involved with the greyscale.
Mindlessly, her eyes followed raindrops as they raced one another down the surface of the glass. They converged and they ruptured. One could argue it was sinful for an individual named after the sun to hide away in such a gloomy place — others would call it poetic. It depended on who you asked.
The professor scanned the room and rows of seats before her eyes eventually landed on the only hand continuously raised. Other students hid behind laptop screens or kept their eyes low to purposely avoid contact. “Yes, Rey?”
She lowered her hand yet her eyes remained married to the window in a daze. “The vice president,” Rey responded. “A politician voted by the public that runs on the same electoral ticket as the preceding president.”
Delicacy warped the room, basket weaving itself between bodies of matter. Her voice managed to exude confidence and stability — a performance she had mastered in the past semesters of college. Slowly but surely, Rey had grown familiar with the side-eyes from students, the gawking glances when she wandered into the library at two in the morning, or studied quietly in the laundry room while wearing shabby pajamas. The awkward ambience she dragged with her presence had become a part of her — something she couldn’t shrug off, and therefore, was better off welcoming.
“That — that’s correct,” the professor choked. She cleared her throat from the dryness as she sputtered away from the absence of words. “When — uh, when the president is incapable of running the country, the vice president is sworn into office.”
Motionlessly, Rey responded with a brief nod. She slid her tongue along the back of her teeth as her eyes glossed over; fixated on the rain. The specks of water were starting to paste themselves to the glass and become reflective, luminescent orbs of street lamps and traffic — glowing in green, yellow and red. Together, they blurred the background. Far off, in the distance, low-hanging clouds engulfed the Tower Bridge and stirred the waves beneath its fortress.
In her back pocket, Rey could feel her phone buzz. Just like all the others, she ignored the persistent alert and kept her eyes obsessed with the world outside the classroom.
“This has only happened a handful of times in American history,” the professor flipped to the next slide of her powerpoint. “Reasoning has varied from health concerns to assassination attempts…”
The projector flickering reflected off the side of Rey’s face as the voice grew further and further until it was a distant whisper. Her professor spoke of words that had become insufferable to Rey a very long time ago. Muffled in a murk of thoughts; all she could hear was the rain drowning out the professor’s voice.
Introduction to American Politics was designed for freshman.
Rey had procrastinated the course for as long as she possibly could. She busied her schedule with electives entirely useless for her political science degree — ceramic for beginners, eastern literature and astronomy. However, graduation season was looming and the one class she needed to complete her credits had become inevitable.
She had been in London for three months now. Her program delved into international politics and included a semester abroad. Ironically, the First Daughter had traded her patriotic lifestyle for parliamentary democracy and constitutional monarchy.
London was close enough to feel safe, but far enough to stretch her legs.
It was refreshing to walk down a street and not be immediately recognized by pedestrians or pestered by determined reporters. To experience a liberating and normal college experience, she just had to endure a three hour lecture that simplified her entire existence to contentions, definitions, and bulleted points on a powerpoint slide.
At least the exams were easy.
“ — Your final assignment is to write an essay analyzing and discussing a topic of American history that you are passionate about,” before the professor could finish her sentence, students were already beginning to stand and stuff their backpacks.
Rey snapped out of her thoughts, finally peeling her eyes from the window.
Other students were already putting in their headphones, exchanging party invitations, or shuffling out the door. The professor spoke louder to challenge the rising volume of the room. “Make sure you give credit to sources and make sure it is pertaining to American politics. Do not email me Sunday night, asking if you can write about Brexit. I will not respond!”
Rey stood. She shimmied her jacket on, pushing her arm through the sleeve. She yanked her bag over her shoulder and ambled toward the door.
“Rey?”
She froze, tossing a look of displaced confusion but intrigued curiosity.
“I just,” the professor struggled to formulate words.
Rey interjected. “I’m okay.”
“You stared at the window for the entire length of class.”
Her balanced wavered; shifting between her feet. In her jacket pockets, she picked at fuzzballs that started to accumulate through dryer tumbles. It was difficult not having your clothing sent to a dry cleaning service — a skill Rey had to tackle immediately when she committed to dormitory life.
“Your absences are becoming more frequent. I don’t want it to impact your grade — ” she searched for words, forcing a smile that tried to be sincere and convey empathy. “ — We can speak to the Dean, or the exchange board. I’m sure we can figure out supplementary work.”
“I appreciate that,” Rey nodded. “I assure you, I’m doing okay. I won’t miss anymore classes.”
Her answer was blunt and monotone — almost as if she was trying to convince herself.
“Next week we are covering the presidents,” her teacher emphasized. “All of them.”
Silence swept through the already desolated room. Rey remained silent. She could feel her senses begin to thin out — her eyes darkening around the edges, the present becoming distant as she dissociated. Yet, on the contrary, her heart started to beat sporadically. Anyone who knew her well could recognize it. Yet to a stranger — not so much.
The professor opened her mouth again to speak.
Rey interrupted. “I’ve had enough time to adjust. I appreciate your sincerity. I’ll see you next week.” Before the professor could argue further, Rey ducked through the doors and was immediately swallowed by the midday frenzy of the history hall between class periods.
She pushed through students, ignoring her phone that continuously vibrated in her pocket.
Can you hear me?
The illuminated spotlight had momentarily blinded him as a medical examiner shifted the flashlight between both of his opened eyes. Above him, the room spun.
I’m fine.
What is your name?
Benjamin Solo.
Where are you?
The National Gallery of…. He tried to sit up from the stretcher. The ambulance bounced over a pothole as his shoulder fell back down from deteriorating strength… Art?
What day is it?
His head bobbed. The face of the medical examiner doubled, the corner of his vision darkened.
Where’s Rey?
Suspiciously, a screeching noise — metal colliding with metal — cantillated beneath the exchange and an ongoing siren. Ben’s eyebrows furrowed. The vehicle rattled over another bump, sending a pack of gauze off a nearby counter.
His forehead smacked into the window of the subway, waking him from the daze immediately. He groaned, rubbing his temple.
As the train flew through the tunnel, the safety lights flashed harshly into the cabin. It flickered between reality and the distant memory of a technician’s flashlight examining his bruised eyelid and dilated cornea — a pop and a burst of light, camera flashes, somebody yelling her name.
He squeezed his eyes shut and counted down from ten until the noise stopped and all that occupied his brain was the sound of the train stopping. Around a bearing corner, the wheels howled in a whip of wind as the brake system shrieked. Other commuters rose to their feet or glanced at the map buried between advertisements of Netflix shows and concerts coming to the city.
A robotic announcement broadcasted through the speaker system. “Next stop: H Street and Madison Place. Exit now for Lafayette Square, US Department of Veterans Affairs, and the White House.”
Ben rose from his seat and excused himself past a student. She had brown hair, pulled up and mounted between a thick set of headphones. Her nose was wrong but he couldn’t help but do a double take before stepping out onto the platform. She sat down, stealing the seat he just vacated.
The train lurched forward before whizzing out of the station. From the staircase and the street above, he could hear the familiar escalation of chanting. Ben climbed the stairway and was immediately engulfed by — yet another — demonstration consuming the park.
As he weaved closer to the security entrance, the crowd, simultaneously, grew thicker and angier. Pennsylvania Avenue was only a block away and as expected, the journey became ambitious.
The days were becoming routine — dry; boring. There was never any excitement to get to work. Ben had no reason to be happy in the White House and slowly, the liveliness that surrounded his career seemingly disintegrated.
Ben Solo would wake up, go for a jog, take a shower, and then cook breakfast for him and his father. Sometime in the months after the incident, his father had redacted his stubborn and adamant refusals to move to Washington. Now, he occupied the spare bedroom in Ben’s Dupont Circle apartment and worked shifts at a mechanic shop.
Of course, Ben hadn’t realized this also meant the cat was a roommate too. Whenever Ben returned from a busy trip, he'd find cat hair in his bed and beer cans overflowing in the trash.
Every morning, he’d make the six thirty train and go through the extraneous but unstandable security checkpoint. He’d smalltalk with Agent Tico and they’d make their typical lunch plans for the day.
The whole ordeal just wasn't the same. Even the hallways of the White House seemed quieter; seemed darker.
Ben chucked his duffel bag into his locker. He buckled his belt around his waist and tightened his shoelaces. The mirror that hung inside was cracked now. It stared back at him in silence, seemingly tearing apart his demeanor. Through the broken glass, he observed himself. Everything looked ordinary — a clean-shaven face, a splatter of moles in their usual places, and purple pools of sleepless nights bludgeoned beneath his eyes.
The photo was still hung in its spot. A magnet held it in place. It never moved. Even now.
Beside it, a choppy cut-out of a newspaper shared the magnet. It was a photograph taken from the summer of the college tour. She had been on his back, begging to be carried after the long day. Her arms were locked tight around his neck. She had been laughing at something Finn said, her skin grass-stained and scraped at the knees.
The newspaper clipping was black and white, but Ben could remember.
“Agent Ren." The voice was unapologetic and stern.
Ears perked and heads turned. Ben stared at himself in the mirror. “Yes?”
“The boss is requesting you in the Oval Office," said Agent Hux. "Bring your stuff."
“Get over here and take a shot with me!” Her voice carried through the pub like a lightning strike. It was sloppy and clamorous, already contaminated by the gin in her glass. “London won and your girl passed her economics exam.”
Skywalker Tavern was tucked down an alley close to campus.
Every Friday night, the catina was packed with college students winding down for the weekend. String-lights were used liberally and strung from every bannister, the flat screens were playing the Olympic trials, and the dance floor was already a mess.
Rey slid into the vacant barstool beside her roommate. “I’ll drink to that.”
The bartender, an older man with a speckled beard, eyed the two girls as he poured their shots. He placed a round dish of limes in front of them.
Finally, Rey was old enough to legally drink. She could be spotted in a bar, or with a bottle in her hand, and not face any nationwide retribution for it. And naturally, of course, her thirst to party was subsequently quenched and tiresome.
Her roommate flushed the shots easily — making the older men along the bar oogle.
Torra Doza was an exchange student from Mexico. She was studying social sciences. It was a fitting purpose for her. Naturally, wherever she drifted, she carried an aura of compassion. Her eyes were always hidden beneath side-bangs while the rest of her hair sat in two buns. She always wore colorful makeup, accentuating the freckles that dotted beneath her eyes.
For the past two weeks, she had been studying for this so-called economics exam. She had stayed up all night, hunched over her desk, with a lamp on. Now, as she in the midst of guzzling a third shot. Rey never realized how much the pressure had taken a toll on her.
Despite this, it was nothing Torra wasn’t acquainted to.
Back in Mexico, her father was a governor. When it came to public scrutiny and being the daughter of a politician, Torra could easily empathize.
They were neighbors afterall, and neighbors looked after one another.
“How was class?” She sucked on her lime.
Rey shrugged. “We went over the amendments. Everyone seemed so disinterested.”
“Don’t take it personally. History is boring.”
Rey tilted her head back. Her eyes met the ceiling of the pub as she downed her shot. Her eyes watered at the edges as the scent filled her nostrils. She choked. “This tastes like New Years Eve.”
“Of course they were not drinking,” the Press Secretary had addressed the hounds of reporters. “They are only seventeen. They are not old enough to drink and they were not drinking at that party.”
Rey smiled to herself. She wondered where her old friend was and what he was up to. She missed him beyond words. The pub scene in London was fun — but it was no eighties nightclub.
Suspiciously, her phone started to buzz again. It had been the fifth time just during her walk across campus. Rey withheld her annoyance as she struggled to free the device from her jacket pocket. The screen illuminated her entire face in the darkened bar.
(22) Missed Calls
(18) Missed Text Messages
(3) Voicemails
“You should answer those,” Torra side-eyed her friend’s phone. She scooted a bit closer, speaking loudly to challenge the live band. “You wouldn’t want anyone to worry.”
Rey shrugged. She declined the call and placed it on the countertop. “They know I’m fine. I should just have my service turned off.”
Torra laughed. Her breath smelled like tequila. “You’d have an American helicopter landing in the middle of Downing Street within five minutes.”
“Hey,” Rey nudged her. “Do not tempt me. I love helicopters.”
Torra continued laughing. “So do I,” her voice slurred after another shot.
Whenever they drank too much, they both somehow acquired British accents. The first time it happened, they were mimicking the clerk at a Tesco. Now it was a ritualized part of their carousing afterhour amusement.
Seconds after the last call, her phone illuminated again. The device vibrated, buzzing across the countertop and landing into Rey’s lap.
She stared at the name.
Her friend said nothing. Instead, she stole Rey’s final shot.
“I should — “ Rey begun.
Torra interrupted. “ — Kaz and Tam are here. I’ll go say hi.”
Distractedly, Rey nodded. Her friend was already gone; consumed by the dance floor and the bodies that moved on it. She walked aimlessly, her thumb scrolling through the mounds of notifications. Even as she tried to clean them out, more came through. Outside, the sidewalk was occupied with drunk students hailing taxis. The bartender was sitting on an overturned milk crate, smoking a cigarette. He eyed her as she wandered by.
Rey pressed play.
“Hey babe, it’s Finn. I just got back from Nigeria with my parents —”
She skipped the voicemail before crossing the street, ambling in the general direction of her building. Each step was falling a bit short, absorbed by the liquor that begun to beat through her veins. She felt warm inside despite the cooling drizzle.
“ — It’s your mother. Again. Do not make me fly —”
Skip.
“— Hey, Rey. It’s — uh, it’s Poe… again.”
Rey froze.
“Listen, I know you’re off exploring Europe and completing that abroad program — you probably have finals, or — whatever. Probably flooded in schoolwork. But, uh — Finn has tried you a few times… so has your mom. I’m not sure if your phone is working or not, but uh, we haven’t heard from you in a bit, and we’re worried and — let me just get to the point.”
Minced by gates and obscured by water running down the window, her face reflected the fluorescent glow of a storefront. The second-hand electronics shop was closed for the evening but the televisions were still on. Each screen, discounted and advertised in British pounds, broadcasted competing news channels. A variety of angles and reporters — all showing and saying the same thing.
She could hardly stand straight, her knees close to surrendering.
“Rey, I’m not sure how much you’ve been watching the news, but we need you. We need your wit — your charm, whatever.”
She stared at their familiar faces. She stared at the airplane on the runway. She stared at the parade of vehicles that pulled onto the tarmac.
Her fingers gripped the phone against her cheek even harder.
“He’s managing to hold some states. Ahsoka… she’s not doing too well. And, uh, I’m sure you know that — November is approaching. We could — really, really — use your endorsement. Just do one show… one speech, even a tweet would help us so much. I don’t know — anything. You know I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important.”
Whether it was the rain, or her own eyes, she felt a stream run down her cheek and soak the collar of her shirt. It was freezing in the wind, but Rey refused to forfeit.
“Please… Rey. Help us. You know I wouldn’t be frantically calling and begging you, if it hadn’t been an emergency. We could really use a Kenobi.”
Poe’s voice echoed through her empty thoughts. On the street, pedestrians continued to pass by. They were shielded beneath umbrellas and sent quick inquisitive eyes in her direction. At the intersection, a double-decker bus honked.
“If you don’t do it for us — do it for him.”
On one of the many screens, a reporter filmed the President of the United States descending the stairs of Air Force One at Heathrow International Airport. The motorcade idled beneath with police sirens and flashing cameras. Protestors were screaming.
Despite the commotion, he waved at the crowd. Rey felt her stomach flip, she could taste the liquor in the back of her throat as her mouth watered.
There was silence over the phone. She could hear Poe still breathing into the voicemail; collecting his thoughts. He had sounded slightly drunk.
Her eyes glossed over. She took a step forward. Blurred by the rain, the image of the bodyguard was unfocused and chaotic. He ushered the President into his car before slamming the door shut. Stopping momentarily, the man frantically ran fingers through his drenched black hair. He rounded the front of the car, adjusting his suit. The high beams illuminated his figure.
“You’re our only hope, Rey.”
Ben faced the camera, ordering the reporters to step back. They shouted questions about the Prime Minister meeting with President Snoke.
In her ear, the voicemail clicked and a dial tone beeped.
Rey suddenly leaned over, heaving onto the sidewalk.