Post Hillarys, these are rare

Post Hillarys, these are rare.

...

Hillary's aren't rare. No. No. Post Hillary Fanfictions. Now those are rare.

"The challenges of change are always hard." ~ Hillary Clinton

Bella sighed, finding the bookmark and pressing it between the pages of her book before placing it on the nightstand. It was no use, no matter how many times she tried to get involved in the world of books, the characters and their drama couldn't overcome the issues Bella faced in her own life.

It had been three weeks since she'd learned of her true identity, three weeks since she'd met the President and flew across a continent to his vacation home, all in the hopes of rediscovering what she'd lost.

Her life as his wife, as the mother of his child, and as the First Lady of the United States.

Even now, the title and responsibilities felt heavy on her shoulders, and Bella had barely begun to scratch the surface of what she would soon have to face.

Believing the President hadn't been easy, despite all the side-by-side pictures and DNA tests. Bella was stubborn to accept it. It seemed too wild, too extraordinary for someone as plain and simple as she to belong to such an impressive and powerful man.

But the pictures of Beth, the story he'd told her of her difficult delivery, resounded through Bella like a blast from a canon, echoing in every fiber of her being with rightness. She knew she couldn't turn her back on that feeling, nor the little girl who had her eyes.

So here she now resided, in a secluded and secure cabin in the Maryland woods, unbeknownst to the outside world. Not that Bella minded the solitude; she actually found it very peaceful. With no one around to pick at her, question her and push her for things she couldn't give, Bella was able to process all the information she'd been given in such a short time.

It took a great deal for her to understand that not only was she married, but her husband was the leader of the free world.

Shaking her head, Bella realized how surreal her life seemed, how very different it was from the small-town Alaskan woman she believed herself to be before.

Supply and demand. It doesn't matter how rare they are if no one wants them.

Best I can offer

Global warming has reared its ugly head for awhile now, but Hillary Clinton has just begun to notice.

Hillary had not always believed in climate change, but recently substantial evidence started piling up.

The first obvious alteration occurred when she visited Cedar Rapids—for the fifth time—and found out she was unable to chill. The temperature had risen so much that she could only warm. Then later that day, she waltzed over to the ice box to re-cool her lemonade, but there was no ice. It melted because of climate change; she was sure of it.

She had to warn the scientists.

Promptly, she ripped her smartphone out of the pocket on her chest and texted NOAA, NASA, and any other four-letter organizations she could think of. Her warnings were received with partial solemnity. Hillary's work was cut out for her, and now all she needed to do was spring into action.

...

>somebody actually took time out of their day to draw this

FavThe Benghazi Affair: A Hillary Clinton Parody
By: captainward
Unbeknownst to the American people, Hillary Clinton leads a secret life as a secret agent! In the Benghazi Affair, Hillary must make her hardest choices yet as she embarks on a mission to investigate the mysterious circumstances surrounding the incident in Benghazi, Libya . . . (Featuring Hillary Clinton, Huma Abedin, Barack Obama, and Bill Clinton)

Huma Abedin walked down Street 10 in the El Mokattam neighborhood of Cairo, chafing under her Christian Siriano designed burqa. The fierce designer had made swooping enhancements to the traditional burqa, made of the finest Egyptian cotton, but she couldn't care less at the moment. Covering her whole body from head to toe, the burqa made the already sweltering Egyptian day even worse even as she tried her best to remain unfazed inside its claustrophobic confines. Oh God, she thought, she didn't know how the more traditional local women could bare to do this day in and day out. This particular style of clothing was definitely not designed for the comfort of women, and her heart reached out to her fellow Muslim women who had to endure this.

She had to keep focused however, no matter how uncomfortable she felt. President Obama authorized the mission himself after the terrorist attack on the US consulate in Benghazi . . .

The Muslim Brotherhood headquarters loomed up ahead. Poking up into the skies, its height, while not as tall as the buildings in downtown Cairo, reached above its neighboring apartment buildings. Boxy and beige, the traditional Islamic motifs of arches and calligraphic art adorned the headquarters building. Its symbol, two crossed scimitars converging under the Quran, was prominently stamped on one side of the building while a walled gate separated itself from the welcoming suburban street. The mesh screening of her burqa made it more difficult to see the building, though she couldn't help but notice Christian Siriano's fine lacework. Sometimes, she thought, he really should pay attention to more functional concerns.

Huma sighed but continued to head down to her target destination. Unlike Islamic Cairo with its warren of alleyways and cramped buildings or the traffic and congestion of downtown Cairo, El Mokattam's spacious streets allowed for the luxury Mercedes and Audis to pass by relatively unharassed by pedestrians. According to the dossier, Al Mokattam, another spelling of the neighborhood, rested atop the Mokattam hills with particular breathtaking views of chaotic Cairo, the domes and minarets of mosques and the collection of high rise apartment buildings being the most prominent sight.

The headquarters gate had already been opened by the time she reached the Muslim Brotherhood building, and deftly, she turned into the building and entered the grounds, at which time, the gate quickly screeched closed behind her. They were expecting her as she well knew. The Muslim Brotherhood thought her a double agent, a clear coup or so they believed, as she worked for her boss, the Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton. The files she held inside the folds of her burqa, she hoped, should seal the deal and finally be able to gain their trust. In actuality, the files were cooked CIA intelligence, but they didn't know that.

The revolutionary Muslim Brotherhood government had recently risen to power on the tail wind of the Arab Spring when the Egyptian people deposed their previous ruler, Hosni Mubarak. State had been caught unaware by the events in Tahrir Square, but though happy for the Egyptian people, they certainly were concerned when they elected the Muslim Brotherhood. Already, they'd been hearing reports of disconcerting news out of Cairo as the revolutionary government by the day continued to tighten their hold on power.

Elegantly, she passed through the lobby of the headquarters building. Though it remained mostly cramped like the bureaucratic buildings of downtown Cairo, the marble flooring and the reception desk made of Egyptian sycamore as well as the intricate decorations of Islamic calligraphy on the walls suggested the growing influence and wealth of the Brotherhood. She knew the way and going past the lobby towards the back rooms and climbing the stairwell, even with the robes of her burqa proving a hindrance, she found the office on the fourth floor.

Inside, a pudgy middle aged man sat behind a desk of Egyptian palm wood. "We've been waiting for you, my dear Huma," he said as she entered the office. His name was Ibrahim Alahim, and the windows behind him revealed the sweltering sweep of Cairo itself complete with the brown hazy smog that daily lingered over the city. A couple of nondescript chairs, a bookcase as well as a single wilting plant that somehow survived the Egyptian heat completed the musty aired surroundings.

Three keffiyehed guards guarded their leader, and Huma would have thought none of it except she noticed one of the men. Behind his keffiyeh scarf covering his mouth, the man had piercing blue eyes. Could be Lebanese or perhaps, a convert to radical Islam, she thought, disconcerting her that someone could reject the West like that. "As Salaam," she finally said, saying the traditional Egyptian greeting. She lowered her eyes submissively. "I've brought a gift for the ummah," she continued, reaching into her burqa and revealing a file folder filled with paper work.

A keffiyehed guard quickly snatched it from her hand and gave it to his master, who took it from his underling.

"CIA dossiers of our hated enemy, the army generals," she added as Ibrahim thumbed through the contents of the file. Though the leadership of the old military government had been deposed, the Egyptian armed forces still gave their loyalty to the remaining military leaders. "Their addresses, habits, and routines, just like I promised," she continued. "I hope this information would prove useful to our Brotherhood for any operations we might deem necessary in the future."

Ibrahim smiled contentedly as he perused the files and then placed it on his desk. "Excellent, excellent," he said.

Oddly enough, Huma thought he'd be more excited at the cooked documents she'd obtained for him. It seemed his guards were more interested in the documents, trying to sneak a peek at the papers hidden inside the folder. Ibrahim, on the other hand, never gave it a second look.

"You have done well," he continued, giving her a sly smile. "This information would be of use . . ." Then his smile vanished, replaced by a look of disdain. "Had we not known of your treachery!"

Before she could react, Huma felt something metallic against her side. It was a gun, and the keffiyehed guard grabbed her arm, making sure she did not escape.

She gasped inwardly at the sudden turn of events. She didn't know how her cover had been blown and—

The keffiyehed guard forced her to sit down on one of the chairs as her mind reeled.

very rare

"I have to admit," Ibrahim intoned as he got up from his chair and made his way towards her. "You almost had us fooled, but fortunately," Standing before her, his eyes glanced towards the blue eyed keffiyehed guard close to the palm wood desk. "We had been forewarned."

Huma didn't say anything even though her heart pounded. She tried to remember her DSS training in events like this. Stick to your cover, she told herself. Stick to your cover. The burqa, it turned out, was more helpful as it veiled her feelings, though she had to watch out for her eyes, which could still betray her. She looked straight at Ibrahim careful not to reveal any of her feelings.

He sat back against the desk. "No need for your American protestations," the pudgy Ibrahim said with a wave of his hand. "We know everything about you. You are Huma Abedin, agent of the DSS. You pose as a lowly aide to that witch, Hillary Clinton," he said with a disgusted tone. "But you are so much more." He peered down as if inspecting her, and then, snatched off the veil of her burqa.

Light flooded into her, and she looked away from it, she didn't realize how confining that burqa was. He grabbed her by the chin and made her look up at him, his eyes gazed the length of her, admiring her beauty. She knew what that meant for religious men like Ibrahim when a woman's veil was uncovered . . .

"We have ways to make you talk," he continued, stroking her chin. His other guards joined in his lurid gaze except for the blue eyed guard who looked on intensely. "It does not, however, have to be painful, it may actually be pleasurable . . ."

She tried not to gulp or make any other type of movement that would betray her feelings, but try as she might, her throat bobbed slightly at the thought of her possible fate.

Four against one, she thought. Her mind inspected the adversaries in the room. Ibrahim in front of her, and two on her two sides, and the blue eyed one by the desk—

The blue-eyed guard nodded his head at her. She wasn't quite sure what he was doing, but he nodded his head again as if he was trying to tell her something or trying to get her attention. Then, he lowered his keffiyeh scarf and mouthed the word:

Duck

She didn't have to be told twice. She dove for the floor even as the blue-eyed keffiyehed guard pulled out a silencer. He first shot Ibrahim in the back of the head, who fell forward to the floor quickly, and then he turned his gun to the two guards. The silencer fired and brought the rest of the guards down. Their bodies thudded to the floor, his bullets all silencing them with death.

Huma didn't realize at first what had happened. Where before she was in danger, now she looked around at the dead all around her. Ibrahim looked at her on the floor, his glassy eyes staring back devoid of all life. She immediately picked herself up, not knowing if she was the next target.

The blue-eyed guard didn't attack her, however. The silencer in his hand, he stepped over the corpses and proceeded towards the doorway. Reaching it, he opened the door slightly and peered out at the hallway outside and then looked back, his blue eyes glistening at her. "Come on," he said.

Huma looked at him, still not quite believing what had happened. "Who are you?"

...

...

...

Giving one last look out to the narrow hallway, he turned back to her. Quietly, he removed his keffiyeh scarf and showed her his face. He was handsome, square-jawed with shortly cropped hair. If she didn't know any better, he resembled a certain politician . . .

"Dee Romney, CIA" he said intensely. "What's your mission here?"

Romney? she thought, doing a mental double take. She reached back into her mind, thinking that perhaps there had been some mistake. "As in Mitt Romney, Romney?" she asked. As far as she knew, Mitt only had five sons each of whom were busy trying to make their dad president in the upcoming presidential election and none of whom served in any security capacity.

Dee slouched his shoulders and looked away from her momentarily, clearly uncomfortable with the line of questioning. At last, he nodded. "My dad, he—" Pain crossed his handsome face. "He doesn't like talking about me." He looked back at her with a new determination. "What's your mission here?" he repeated.

She knew not to pry and decided to go along with the business at hand. After all, she had a mission to do. "I'm Huma—"

...

...

>trudeau is still in denial and has yet to tell the citizenry that Hillary lost

...

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "You're with the DSS." It stood for the Diplomatic Security Service. As far as the American public knew, the organization tasked its members to protect America's diplomats in embassies and consulates around the world, premier among them the Secretary of State. In actuality, the DSS had long been the secret spy wing of the State Department, complementing the other spy agencies, the CIA and NSA. "Why are you here?"

"I've been instructed to upload a virus onto the Muslim Brotherhood computers and—" She stopped herself. She was about to say the virus was meant to find out information about the attack on the US consulate in Benghazi, Libya, only a few days before, but she thought against it. "That's it," she said.

Dee viewed her warily and then nodded at her. "I know the way to the server room," he said, putting away the silencer. Then, he bent down and picked up a gun dropped by one of the dead guards. "Follow me," he said, tossing the weapon, a Russian-made Makarov pistol, to her.

Huma's chapter is so boring. I'm skipping ahead. Queen Hillary 4 LIFE.

I was dissapointed, thought there was gonna be a 50 Shades of Gray twist midway through.

She'd seen violence before, many times during her many years in the DSS ever since Hillary asked her to join during her Senate days. Quickly, she hurried to one of the computer workstations, ripping her hijab head scarf as she did so, and set to work. Pulling out a flash drive from the folds of her burqa, she slid out the USB plug and stuck it into the workstation. All she needed to do was upload the virus and then those in Washington would have access to the Brotherhood database.

And by that, I mean they have kinky S&M sex.

shh it's O.K. Hillary's Chapter appears to be coming up.

•••

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
SEPTEMBER 19, 2012

One hand pressed on her earpiece, Hillary Rodham Clinton, in a blue pantsuit by Oscar de la Renta, stood transfixed outside the White House secretary's office that led to the Oval Office. On the walls hung White House photographer's Pete Souza's outsized photographs depicting the happy and inspirational moments of the Obama Presidency, but she was feeling none of that at the moment.

Silence now came from her earpiece when just a few moments before, she had heard everything her deputy chief of staff was doing. "Huma?" she asked nervously as if by saying the words would bring her back. "Huma? Huma?"

"Madame Secretary," Anita Decker Breckenridge, the President's secretary, said. The blonde secretary had opened the door of the Outer Office and looked out into the hallway with a smile. "The President will see you now."

Hillary turned towards the young woman, though she was still disoriented from what just occurred half a world away in Cairo. "Yes, of course," she said. Barack had ordered this meeting a day ago and Cheryl, her Chief of Staff, notified her to head over to the White House today. She didn't know what it was about, only that Cheryl said the President considered this matter urgent. Normally, this would be the most important matter she had to do today, but all she could think about was Huma.

She entered the Outer Office, a tiny room relatively speaking, in a fifty-five thousand square foot building just outside the Oval Office. Two mahogany desks took up most of the room and on the desks rested keyboards and computer LCD monitors, which contained the President's meetings and itinerary for the day. Anita, now seated at her desk, smiled at her as she crossed the length of the room. She gave her a wan smile back, though she didn't know how sincere it looked. Anita didn't know about Huma.

Finally, Hillary went into the Oval Office. It had been a normal sight now to her, first when she lived as First Lady with Bill and now as Secretary of State to Barack. Though much had remained the same, the view of the Rose Garden, the monumental architecture, slight changes had been made since then. The furniture, couches and chairs around a coffee table that sat across from the Resolute desk, had been updated. The flooring changed from her husband's blue rug to Barack's cream one, but the Presidential Seal, an American bald eagle clutching an olive branch in one talon and thirteen arrows in another, as always, lay prominent at its center.

President Obama, in a tight-fitting navy blue suit, sat behind the Resolute desk, so named as it was made from sturdy English Oak from the timbers of the HMS Resolute. The handsome African American president, sitting back from the desk on his leather executive chair, did not look pleased. Two flags, one of the United States and the other of the Presidential Seal, flanked him.

Hillary gravely crossed into the Oval Office and stood before her President. She didn't know what to say, though she knew she had to say something. "Huma," she said quietly.

"I heard," President Obama said. He raised his chin up at her, the way he does when he's nervous. "Hillary, I sent for you today—"

"Aren't you worried?" Hillary sputtered out. "She's been captured by the—"

"Hillary," Obama interrupted. "This concerns Huma," he continued patiently. It always amazed her how Barack would always keep his calm in grave matters such as this. It was something she came to admire from the young president, who beat her for the Democratic nomination. "There's something I hadn't told you about Huma's mission to Cairo."

Her head shot up upon hearing the news. "What?"

Carefully, he opened the drawer from his desk and pulled out a tablet computer. "It relates to what happened in Benghazi," he said, placing the tablet on the desk towards her. The tablet, a Samsung Galaxy Tab®, its Wi-Fi disabled for security purposes, held an image of a globe with a blinking icon over Benghazi, Libya in the tumultuous Maghreb of North Africa. She knew the intelligence community had been trying to build a propriety single mobile device or SMB tablets and smartphones, for the President's use, but for now, this would have to do.

Hillary picked up the Samsung Galaxy Tab®, and she noted how comfortable it felt in her hand as well as its ease of use.

Obama got his own Samsung Galaxy Tab® from the drawer of the presidential desk and swiped on the touch screen. "I know you're well aware of the events in Benghazi," he said, pressing on his own tablet touch screen.

On her touch screen, the globe zoomed onto the city of Benghazi to reveal a burning compound in the dark of night. Indeed, it had been a week ago since that incident where the Ambassador and three other Americans had been killed. Even now, it'd been hard to piece together what had happened, and the Republicans in Congress spent no time in attacking her and Barack on this issue. The cover story about the anti-Muslim video on YouTube inciting violence was not enough for them. On the touch screen, the flickering flames over the compound continued to lick the air.

"What I didn't tell you was the real reason behind the terrorist attack," Obama explained. He pressed down on his touch screen again, and on her screen, the image shifted from the burning compound of the US consulate in Benghazi to a tundra field where an array of antennas stood side by side covering a large area. Snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance.

"HAARP," Obama said. "Our High Frequency Active Auroral Research Program in Alaska. You can't see it but—" He swiped once more on his touch screen. It caused her screen to turn to a graphic where the antenna arrays produced sound waves up into the atmosphere. The sound waves seemed to be pushing against the stratosphere and then, bulging the ionosphere outward into space.

"Our military has been working on a weather control system."

"Weather control?" Hillary said, slightly shocked at what she'd been told. It was the first time she'd heard of this military program. She still wondered how this related to Huma, but she couldn't help herself from being curious as to what she'd been told.

"Yes, Hillary, weather control," Obama answered. "The Chinese had been working on their own version with some success during the 2008 Beijing Olympics." He closed the cover on his tablet, but her screen remained the same with the same sound waves pressing up on the earth's atmosphere. She made a mental note to read more about this technology in the classified archives when she returned to the State Department. "But ours is more advanced," Obama said. "Our scientists in Alaska have developed a miniature version of HAARP. A week ago, one of our agents stole it. We tracked it to Benghazi, and we were about to retrieve it but . . ." Obama clenched his teeth slightly. "Somehow the terrorists knew."

She let the information seep into her. Weather manipulation? she asked herself. She didn't realize how far advanced their military technology had become, but then again, she shouldn't be surprised. A weapon like that with its enormous power could tilt the battlefield in anyone's favor.

A darker thought entered her mind as well. And with a weapon like that, they could attack America's enemies leaving no trace of their involvement. The scenario played out in her mind, but the implications didn't bother her as much now compared to her youth. She had after all, become a foreign policy hawk in her years in Washington placing her to the right on security issues of many of her Democratic colleagues.

Already, Joe's skeptical words sounded in her head, and she laughed mirthfully a little bit inside. Joe Biden had always been more dovish than her.

"Huma was sent to Cairo to find out more about the theft of our device and its possible whereabouts," Obama finished.

She was suddenly reminded of Huma and what just happened. "We have to—I have to get her," she said to Barack. "She's in danger."

Obama pressed his lips together and shook his head. "You're not going, Hillary."

The news hit her hard, and for a moment, she thought she didn't hear right. "I have to go," she said finally. "I'm the best agent you got."

"I know that," Obama replied, still with the same amount of coolness. "I've already ordered the CIA to send a team to Cairo."

Hillary tried again to get through to Barack. "This is Huma we're talking—"

"And I have complete faith in the CIA to complete this mission," Obama finished. He leaned forwards towards his desk and looked into her eyes. "Hillary, I've noticed your performance lately. You've been tired, overworked, and . . . careless. I need you to take a break especially on a matter as sensitive as Huma." His eyes probed her trying to find a connection. "This is a marathon not a sprint."

"Barack," she urged. She couldn't believe what she was being told. While she had confidence in the CIA, it didn't feel right that they were out there in the field and not her.

"No, Hillary," he said, leaning back on his leather executive chair once more. "My decision is final."

She looked away, careful not to show emotion. A woman in Washington had to be extra careful with emotions as she well knew. "Am I excused?"

Obama nodded, though he gulped slightly, no doubt feeling a pang of empathy for his unlikely friend. Hillary left the Oval Office, the sun casting a shadow over the President seated on his desk.

•••

EMBASSY ROW
WASHINGTON, DC
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
SEPTEMBER 19, 2012

Tucked in the northeastern corner of the nation's capital was the Embassy Row neighborhood of Washington, DC. So named for the many embassies that call the neighborhood home, it was once the province of the well-to-do of DC's Victorian and Gilded Age set populating the neighborhood with mansions, townhouses, and other imposing homes that was a far cry from the modern apartment buildings and the midrise office buildings of downtown. Its seclusion and access to DC's center made it ideal for the ambassadors and diplomats who daily went about the needs of their home governments.

In one corner of this neighborhood, across from the Danish Embassy, there stood a brick colonial house . . .

The door opened into Whitehaven and Hillary set foot into the entranceway of her second home. Purse in hand, she trudged into the living room, the issue of Huma not far from her mind.

A beige couch was situated at the back half of the living room along with padded chairs, end tables, with tasteful looking lamps atop it, and a glass coffee table. A large flat panel television inside a TV cabinet sat across from the furniture, while family photographs, some going all the way back to her years in Arkansas, hung on the walls. Hillary dropped the purse on the floor, and sat down on the couch, thinking and thinking about Huma.

It should have been her, she thought. She should have been the one sent on that mission not Huma. Not for the first time did she feel guilt for enrolling her into the DSS in the first place. If there was anything the years as a DSS agent taught her is that this line of work was dangerous. The issue should have been studied more, searched all its angles and pitfalls, but she did none of that.

Huma had found out about her clandestine work for the State Department by accident. Being the diligent aide that Huma was, she located files concerning a mission during Operation Iraqi Freedom that she had carelessly stuffed in some boxes of her Senate office not unlike the missing Rose Law Firm billing records during her White House and Whitewater years.

Huma had begged, even pleaded to join, but she, at first, refused to let her into the DSS.

"It's too dangerous," she had said quietly in her Senate office.

"I can do it," Huma pleaded. "You said yourself women and girls should never set limits for themselves . . ."

Now look at what that decision had cost, she thought. Huma was out there possibly tortured and possibly . . .

Hillary breathed in, trying not to think about what may be happening. She herself had been recruited into the DSS by her mentor, the Secretary of State under her husband, Madeleine Albright.

Madeleine had found her one day crying in the East Wing of the White House. It was only a few days after Bill told her about Monica, about his affair.

"Let me show you something," Madeleine Albright said to her in the Garden Room, a pin of an opened eye emblazoned on the blouse of her skirtsuit. She had held out her hand towards the younger Hillary.

Her younger self looked up at Madeleine. Tears stained the sleeves of her pink skirtsuit jacket.

"It's alright," Albright continued. "Everything will be alright . . ."

"Hey, Hillary," a voice said, a voice with a distinctive Southern twang.

Hillary looked up and her heart lifted immediately when she saw Bill peeking from the hallway into the living room. He wore a nicely pressed suit, and though the years brought lines to his face, he was still as handsome as the day they met.

"I didn't know you were home," she said finally.

i'm too tired to continue.