IPS: Ch. 02

Warning: 7k words

----------

Darkness gave way to sudden, disorienting light. Trump gasped, his hands instinctively flying to his throat where moments ago a stone spike had pierced through flesh and bone. But there was no wound, no blood, and no pain at all...

"What the hell?" he muttered, patting his neck in confusion. "There was a hole here. A big hole. The biggest hole you've ever seen."

He was in some kind of alcove, partially hidden from a street. No battle sounds, no explosions. Just the distant hum of a crowd, like at a sporting event. He looked down at his hands... still small, still young, and at the unfamiliar clothes he wore.

"This has to be some kind of trick," he said to himself, his voice still that strange, youthful one instead of his own. "Very dishonest trick. The worst kind. Probably the Democrats behind this, or maybe China. They've been trying to get me for years."

He staggered to his feet, feeling dizzy and disoriented. The last thing he remembered was dying... first choking on a hamberder in his Panama hotel room, then being impaled by a stone spike in this strange place. Both experiences had felt horrifyingly real.

The pain had been unbearable!

He leaned against the wall of the alcove, trying to steady himself. "Am I in hell?" he wondered aloud, looking around at the unfamiliar architecture. "I shouldn't be in hell. I was a tremendous president. The best president. Everybody says so. I did more for this country than any president in history, maybe except for Lincoln, but I was close, very close."

He cautiously peeked out from the alcove. The street outside was mostly empty, but in the distance he could see people, some walking normally, others leaping across rooftops with impossible agility.

"This definitely isn't New York," he muttered. "Not even the bad parts. And it's not Florida either. Too many weird buildings. Not a single golf course in sight. Very disappointing."

The sound of footsteps made him turn. Two familiar figures were approaching, the same teenagers from before. Takeshi and Mitsuri. Both alive, both unharmed.

"Kazemaru, there you are!" Takeshi called out, looking relieved but irritated. "We've been looking everywhere for you. The briefing starts in five minutes."

Trump stared at them, dumbfounded. Hadn't he just watched the boy die, impaled through the chest with a stone spike? And hadn't this Mitsuri girl been screaming as another ninja attacked her?

"You... you're alive?" he blurted out, pointing at Takeshi with a shaking finger. "I saw you die. You got stabbed right through the chest with one of those rock spears. Right here." He made a stabbing motion toward Takeshi's chest. "Blood everywhere. Tremendous amount of blood. The most blood I've ever seen."

Takeshi raised an eyebrow, looking at Trump like he'd grown a second head. "What are you talking about? I haven't been stabbed. What rock spears?"

Mitsuri stepped closer, examining Trump with concern in her eyes. "Are you feeling okay, Kazemaru? You look pale. Did something happen while we were separated?"

"I died," Trump said flatly. "I got stabbed through the throat by a guy in a green vest who made rocks come out of the ground. Very painful. The worst pain. Then I woke up here, same place, same time. Very strange. Extremely strange."

Takeshi and Mitsuri exchanged worried glances.

"Maybe he hit his head," Mitsuri suggested, reaching out to check Trump's scalp for injuries. "Or got caught in a genjutsu."

"I don't know what a 'genjutsu' is," Trump said, pulling away from her touch. "But I know what I experienced. I died. And before that, I was Donald Trump, President of the United States, not this 'Kazemaru' person you keep calling me."

"President? United States?" Takeshi repeated, looking increasingly concerned. "What village is that from?"

"It's not a village, it's a country," Trump insisted. "The greatest country in the world. Everyone says so. We have the best military, the best economy. China tries to compete with us, but they can't. It's sad, really... Wait... This is tremendous, folks. I'm having this, and people tell me all the time, they say 'Sir, you have the best memory', but I'm getting this feeling I've said all this before. Didn't I? It's like, the fake news won't report this, but it's like I've said this exact thing before."

Mitsuri placed a hand on his forehead. "No fever... but something's definitely wrong. Maybe we should take him to one of the medical-nin?"

Takeshi shook his head firmly. "No time. The final briefing is about to start, and we need to be there. Baki-sama will have our heads if we're late." He grabbed Trump's arm. "Come on, Kazemaru, or whatever you want to call yourself. You can tell us about this 'United States' place later."

"It's not just a place," Trump protested as Takeshi began dragging him along. "It's the most powerful nation on Earth. I was the leader. The most powerful man in the world. I had a beautiful office, the Oval Office they call it, very famous. The most famous office."

"Sure, sure," Takeshi said dismissively. "And I'm the Kazekage. Now move it!"

---

They led Trump to what appeared to be a gathering of similarly dressed young people, all wearing the same beige outfits with metal headbands bearing the hourglass symbol. They were huddled behind a large building, listening to an older man with half his face covered in bandages. The man had a stern, no-nonsense demeanor that reminded Trump of his old military school instructors.

"As I was saying before we were interrupted," the bandaged man continued, throwing a pointed look at the latecomers, "once the signal is given during the third match of the Chunin Exam finals, Team Three will disable the eastern watchtower guards. Team Seven, you'll cover the northern approach. Team Two, you're responsible for the western perimeter."

Trump looked around at the gathering, counting about twenty teenagers total, all listening with serious expressions. This looked like some kind of military briefing, and he had attended enough of those to recognize the gravity of the situation. Yet none of it made any sense to him.

He leaned closer to Takeshi. "What is this? What's happening? Is this some kind of terrorist meeting? Because if it is, I want no part of it. I've been very tough on terrorism. The toughest president ever on terrorism."

"It's the final briefing for the invasion, idiot," Takeshi whispered back harshly. "Pay attention or you'll get us all killed."

"Invasion?" Trump repeated, too loudly. "Like a military invasion? That's a very serious thing, you know. I ordered a few strikes myself as President. Very successful strikes. The most successful."

The bandaged man stopped speaking and fixed his one visible eye on Trump. The eye narrowed dangerously, and the temperature of the gathering seemed to drop several degrees.

"Is there a problem, Kazemaru?" the man asked, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable threat.

All eyes turned to Trump. He'd always been comfortable as the center of attention, but something about this situation made him uneasy. These people had a dangerous edge to them that Trump's political opponents had lacked. Still, he was not one to back down or show weakness.

"Look, I have some concerns about this whole operation. Big concerns. The biggest," he declared, standing straighter and adopting his familiar authoritative posture, though the effect was somewhat diminished by his current teenage form. "First of all, I don't know any of you people. Second, I'm Donald Trump, the President of the United States, not this 'Kazemaru' person you keep talking about. And third, I want to know exactly what's going on here."

A uncomfortable silence followed. The bandaged man's expression darkened, and several of the teenagers around Trump shifted nervously, creating distance between themselves and him.

"Is this some kind of joke?" the bandaged man asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "Because if it is, I assure you no one is laughing."

Takeshi quickly stepped forward. "No! He hit his head during our last training session. Been saying strange things ever since. We think he might have been caught in a genjutsu during our approach to the village."

"It's true, Baki-sama," Mitsuri added. "He's been disoriented. Talking about strange places and claiming to be someone else. But his skills are intact. He'll be fine for the mission."

The bandaged man, Baki, apparently, studied Trump for a long moment. His gaze was cold and calculating, utterly devoid of sympathy.

"A head injury or genjutsu aftereffects are no excuse for disrupting this briefing," he said finally. "If he's compromised, he should be replaced."

"There's no time to bring in a replacement," Takeshi argued quickly. "And his sand techniques are crucial for our approach. No one else in our team has that skillset."

Baki considered this, then nodded curtly. "Very well. But if he jeopardizes the mission in any way, you are authorized to eliminate him. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Takeshi replied without hesitation.

Trump stared at them in shock. Had he just heard this bandaged man authorize his execution if he didn't play along? These people were deadly serious. This wasn't like Washington politics where the worst that happened was some bad press or a nasty tweet.

"See that he is ready," Baki continued, turning back to the group at large. "Team Four cannot fail in their objective. The entire eastern approach depends on your success."

Baki addressed the entire gathering once more. "Let me be clear about the timeline. The signal will come during the third match of the Chunin Exam finals. Not before. Not after. Be in position by then, maintain your cover until the signal, and then execute your objectives with precision. The future of Suna depends on this operation's success." He paused, looking each of them in the eye. "Dismissed."

---

As the group dispersed, Takeshi grabbed Trump's arm, pulling him aside with barely contained anger.

"What the hell was that?" he hissed, fingers digging painfully into Trump's arm. "Are you trying to get us court-martialed? Or worse? Baki-sama just gave me permission to kill you if you mess up again."

"He threatened me?" Trump responded indignantly. "Nobody threatens Donald Trump. I've dealt with the toughest leaders in the world. Putin, Kim Jong-un, very tough guys. The toughest. And none of them dared to threaten me to my face."

"I don't know who those people are," Takeshi said through gritted teeth, "but Baki-sama is our commanding officer, and he just put your life in my hands. So you better start making sense fast."

"I'm trying to figure out what's going on," Trump shot back, pulling his arm free. "One minute I'm the President of the United States, choking on a hamberder in Panama after surviving two assassination attempts, the next I'm in some teenager's body in what looks like feudal Japan with ninja assassins!"

"Hamberder? President? United States?" Mitsuri repeated, looking completely bewildered. "Kazemaru, those words don't mean anything here. It's like you're speaking another language."

"They mean everything!" Trump insisted, throwing his hands up in frustration. "I was the most powerful man in the world! I had a beautiful tower with my name on it in big gold letters. Trump Tower! Everyone knows it. And I had gold toilets! The most beautiful gold toilets you've ever seen."

Takeshi pressed his fingers to his temples, clearly struggling to contain his irritation. "This is bad. Really bad. We have less than an hour until we need to be in position, and our sand specialist thinks he's some kind of foreign king with golden bathroom fixtures."

"President," Trump corrected automatically. "Not king. Although many people said I could have been king if I wanted to. The best king."

"I don't care if you think you're the Daimyō of the Land of Fire," Takeshi snapped. "Right now, you need to get your head straight and remember your training. The eastern watchtower has four guards, two at the base and two at the top. We need to take them out silently, without raising the alarm."

"I'm not killing anyone," Trump declared, crossing his arms. "That's not what I do. I make deals. The best deals. Ask anyone."

"You've killed before," Mitsuri said, looking confused. "We've all killed before. We're ninjas. It's what we do."

Trump stared at her, genuinely shocked. "I've never killed anyone! That's a terrible thing to say. The worst thing. The fake news always tried to make me out to be a bad guy, but I've never killed anyone."

"You killed two Kumo ninjas during our last border mission," Takeshi said slowly, as if explaining to a child. "You used your sand binding technique to immobilize them, and then crushed their throats."

Trump felt a wave of nausea. "That wasn't me. That was Kazemaru, or whatever his name is. I'm Donald Trump. I don't even know what a 'sand binding technique' is."

Mitsuri placed a hand on Takeshi's arm, her expression thoughtful. "What if he's telling the truth? At least as he perceives it. What if this isn't Kazemaru at all?"

Takeshi scoffed. "What are you suggesting? That someone performed a mind transfer jutsu and put this 'Donald Trump' person in Kazemaru's body? That's advanced Yamanaka clan stuff. No one in Konoha would waste that kind of technique on a genin."

"I'm just saying, his behavior is too bizarre for a simple head injury or genjutsu aftereffect," Mitsuri insisted. "He doesn't recognize us, doesn't know basic facts about our world, and claims to be from a place none of us have heard of."

"Well, whatever's happened to him, we need to fix it fast," Takeshi said grimly. "Or we'll have to complete the mission without him."

"You mean kill him," Mitsuri clarified.

Takeshi didn't deny it. "If Baki-sama orders it, yes."

"I need to go," Trump announced suddenly, backing away from the two teenagers. This was getting too real. These people were talking about killing and invasions, and potentially killing him, with the same casual attitude he used to discuss golf scores. "This is clearly some kind of setup. Very dishonest people trying to frame me. Not going to work!"

"Go? Go where?" Mitsuri asked incredulously.

"Back to America. To the White House. My people will be looking for me," Trump declared, continuing to back away. "Secret Service, the military, everyone. They don't let the President just disappear. We have protocols. The best protocols."

"There is no 'America' or 'White House,'" Takeshi said slowly, as if explaining to a particularly dense child. "There's the Land of Fire, the Land of Wind, the Land of Water, the Land of Lightning, and the Land of Earth, the Five Great Ninja Countries. There are smaller nations too, like the Land of Rivers and the Land of Tea. We're from Suna in the Land of Wind, and we're currently in Konoha in the Land of Fire."

"You're making these places up," Trump insisted. "I know geography. I'm very good with maps. The best. And none of those places exist."

"They exist as sure as you're standing here," Mitsuri said, her patience clearly running thin. "And right now, we're behind enemy lines on an S-rank mission, and you're compromising our cover with every word you speak."

"That's fake news," Trump declared, turning to walk away. "I'm going to find someone in charge. Someone who knows who I am. There must be an American embassy somewhere in this place."

Takeshi grabbed his arm again, this time with enough force to make Trump wince. The teenager's grip was shockingly strong, like steel cables wrapped around his bicep.

"You're not going anywhere except to our mission position," he said. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but I'm not letting you compromise this operation. Too many lives depend on our success."

Trump tried to pull away, but the teenager's grip was like iron. "Let go of me! Nobody manhandles Donald Trump. Nobody! I'll have you arrested. The best arrest. You'll be in prison for a very long time."

"You're not Donald Trump!" Takeshi shouted, his patience finally snapping. "You're Kazemaru, a genin from Suna. We've been on the same team for three years. Mitsuri, you, and me, Team Four under Baki-sama. Your parents were both killed during the last war with Iwa. You live with your grandmother in the eastern district of Suna. You specialize in sand manipulation techniques, though you're not nearly as good as that demon, which has always been a sore spot for you."

Trump stared at him, momentarily stunned by the barrage of information. It was so specific, so detailed, that for a brief moment he almost believed it. But then his own memories reasserted themselves... Trump Tower, The Apprentice, the White House, his family.

"I... that's not me," he insisted, though with slightly less conviction. "I have a beautiful wife. Melania. Very beautiful. The most beautiful First Lady ever. And I have children. Wonderful children. The best. Ivanka, Don Jr., Eric, Tiffany, Barron. My family is very important to me."

Mitsuri placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her expression softening. "Kazemaru, you're scaring us. Did something happen on our way here? Did someone use a memory jutsu on you?"

"Memory... jutsu?" Trump repeated slowly.

"A technique that can mess with your mind," she explained patiently. "Make you forget things or believe things that aren't true. The Yamanaka clan specializes in mind techniques. If you encountered one of them..."

For a moment, Trump faltered. Could that be it? Was this all some elaborate mind control technique? Had his enemies finally found a way to get to him? But no... he remembered his entire life. The real estate empire, the television show, the presidency, the assassination attempts, the choking...

"No," he said firmly. "My memories are perfect. I have the best memory. Everyone says so. And I remember exactly who I am, Donald J. Trump, 47th President of the United States."

"Then how do you explain this?" Takeshi demanded, grabbing Trump's wrist and holding it up in front of his face. "Look at your hand. That's not the hand of a president or a king or whatever you claim to be. That's the hand of a fifteen-year-old boy."

Trump stared at the unfamiliar hand. It was true. It was smaller, smoother, lacking the familiar signs of age he was used to seeing. He touched his face with his free hand, feeling the smooth skin there as well.

No wrinkles.

No jowls.

"I... I don't know," he admitted, a rare moment of uncertainty. "Maybe some kind of body-switching experiment? The Democrats have been working with some very strange science. Very strange. Fauci and his labs, doing all kinds of experiments."

"I don't know who 'the Democrats' or 'Fauci' are," Mitsuri said, "but if you're truly not Kazemaru, then we have an even bigger problem than we thought."

"We don't have time for this," Takeshi said, checking the position of the sun. "The Chunin Exam finals will be starting soon. We need to get to our position."

"I'm not going anywhere until someone explains what's happening," Trump insisted, crossing his arms in a gesture that would have been imposing in his original body but looked almost comical in this teenage form. "I demand answers. The best answers."

Mitsuri sighed, exchanging a glance with Takeshi. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Start with where I am. And what year it is. And who all of you people are," Trump demanded.

"You're in Konoha, in the Land of Fire," Mitsuri explained. "It's one of the Five Great Ninja Nations. As for the year..." She looked at Takeshi, who shrugged. "We don't use the same calendar system you seem to be familiar with, but it's the 13th year of the reign of the Fourth Hokage."

"Hokage?"

"The leader of Konoha," Takeshi supplied impatiently. "Like our Kazekage."

"Kaze-what-now? You people have too many 'kages,'" Trump grumbled. "Very confusing. Not good branding. I would have given them different titles. Much more distinctive."

"As for who we are," Mitsuri continued, ignoring his comment, "we're ninjas from Suna. You, me, and Takeshi are a three-person cell, a genin team. Genin is the lowest formal rank for ninjas. Above us are chunin, jonin, and the Kage."

"And what exactly do 'ninjas' do in this place?" Trump asked suspiciously.

"We carry out missions for our village," Takeshi said. "Everything from mundane tasks like finding lost pets and escorting merchants to high-level objectives like assassinations, sabotage, and intelligence gathering."

"So you're spies and killers," Trump clarified. "Not good. Very bad, actually. In America, we have laws against that sort of thing."

"We have laws too," Mitsuri said defensively. "We operate under the authorization of our village's leadership and the daimyō of our country. We maintain balance between the nations."

"Sounds like something China would say," Trump muttered. "Always talking about balance while they're stealing our jobs and our intellectual property."

"Look," Mitsuri said, "whatever's happened to you, we can figure it out after the mission. But right now, we need you to at least pretend to be Kazemaru. Our lives depend on it."

"And if I don't?" Trump challenged.

Takeshi's expression hardened, his hand moving to a pouch at his hip. "Then you're a liability. And in our world, liabilities get eliminated."

The threat was clear.

Trump might not understand everything about this strange situation, but he recognized danger when he saw it. These teenagers, despite their youth, carried themselves with the deadly confidence of trained killers.

"Are you threatening the President of the United States?" he blustered, though with less conviction than before. "That's a federal offense. Very serious. The most serious."

"I'm threatening a liability to my mission and my village," Takeshi corrected coldly. "And I don't make threats. I make promises."

Trump swallowed hard, looking from Takeshi's cold eyes to Mitsuri's more sympathetic but equally determined expression. He was in unknown territory, in a strange body, with no allies or resources. For perhaps the first time in his life, he recognized that he had no leverage.

"Fine," he conceded reluctantly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I'll play along for now. But I want answers after this 'mission' is over. Real answers."

"Deal," Mitsuri said quickly, before Takeshi could respond. "If you cooperate during the mission, we'll help you figure out what's happened to you afterward."

Takeshi didn't look happy about this arrangement, but he nodded curtly. "Now come on. We need to get moving."

As they moved through the village, Konoha, they called it, Trump tried to make sense of his surroundings. The architecture was unlike anything he'd seen before, a strange blend of traditional Japanese elements with modern infrastructure. People jumped across rooftops. Some wore animal masks and moved like shadows.

"This place is weird," he commented. "Very weird. Not as nice as New York. The buildings are much smaller."

"Keep your voice down," Takeshi hissed. "We're supposed to blend in."

"I'm very good at blending in," Trump assured him. "The best. Many people say I'm the most normal person they've ever met."

Mitsuri suppressed a laugh. "Somehow I doubt that."

A group of children ran past, laughing and playing some kind of game with small knives. Trump stared after them in alarm.

"Those kids have weapons! Sharp weapons! Where are their parents? Very bad parenting. The worst. In America, we have laws against giving knives to children."

Mitsuri grabbed his arm and pulled him along. "Those are Academy students practicing with kunai. It's normal here. Children start training to become ninjas as young as six."

"Six?" Trump repeated incredulously. "That's—that's child soldiers! We have laws against that too."

"It's not the same," Takeshi said impatiently. "They're not sent into battle until they're at least genin level, which usually happens around twelve or thirteen."

"Twelve or thirteen? That's still children! This is a very bad place. When I get back to America, I'm going to put sanctions on you people. The biggest sanctions."

"Will you please lower your voice?" Mitsuri pleaded, looking around nervously. "You're drawing attention."

They turned down a side street, and Trump suddenly froze, pointing at a mountain in the distance where four giant faces were carved into the stone.

"What's that? Some kind of Mount Rushmore ripoff? Ours is much better. The best mountain carving in the world."

"That's the Hokage Rock," Takeshi explained tersely. "It shows the four Hokage who have led Konoha since its founding."

"Hokage? Like the president?"

"If that helps you understand, sure," Mitsuri said. "The Hokage is the leader of Konoha. The most powerful ninja and the final authority on all matters within the village."

Trump nodded thoughtfully. "So we're attacking the president during a sporting event. Not very classy. I would never do that. I had the biggest sporting events at my properties. The very best. Golf tournaments, boxing matches, even wrestling. WWE, very popular. I was in it myself, you know. The ratings were tremendous."

"We're not attacking the Hokage directly," Mitsuri clarified. "Our team's objective is to disable the eastern watchtower so reinforcements can't be called. The actual assault on the Hokage will be handled by others."

"Others? Who?"

"Orochimaru and the Sound Four," Takeshi said. "Plus that demon and his siblings."

"More names I don't know," Trump grumbled. "This place has terrible branding. Very confusing. I would have given everyone more distinctive names. Easier to remember."

As they continued walking, he noticed people performing strange feats. A man walking up a vertical wall. A woman creating a small flame in her palm. A boy manipulating water from a fountain into complex shapes.

"How are they doing that?" he demanded. "Special effects? CGI? Very impressive, but not real. I know all about special effects from my time in television."

"It's chakra," Mitsuri explained. "The energy that flows through all living things. Ninjas learn to harness and manipulate it to perform jutsu, ninja techniques."

"Chakra?" Trump repeated skeptically. "Sounds like some new age nonsense. Very popular in California. Lots of weird ideas there."

"It's real," Takeshi insisted. "You can use it too, or Kazemaru can, anyway. His specialty is manipulating sand using chakra."

"Sand? Like at the beach? I have beautiful beaches at my properties. The best beaches. Mar-a-Lago has a tremendous beach."

"Not exactly like that," Mitsuri said. "Kazemaru can control sand with his chakra. Move it, shape it, even use it as a weapon."

Trump looked down at his hands again, Kazemaru's hands. "You're saying I can do magic with sand? That's ridiculous. Magic isn't real. Everyone knows that."

"It's not magic, it's ninjutsu," Takeshi corrected irritably. "And yes, you can do it. Or you could before whatever happened to your mind."

"Prove it," Trump challenged. "Show me this 'chakra' thing."

Takeshi sighed heavily but stopped walking. He held out his hand, palm up, and closed his eyes in concentration. After a moment, a small swirl of wind appeared above his palm, spinning like a tiny tornado.

Trump stared in amazement. "How did you do that? Hidden fan? Very clever illusion."

"It's not an illusion," Mitsuri said. She held out her own hand, and a small orb of water formed above it, drawn from the moisture in the air. "It's chakra manipulation. Everyone has chakra, but ninjas train to control and shape it."

Trump reached out tentatively to touch the water orb, expecting his finger to pass through it. Instead, he felt real water, cool and wet against his skin.

"That's... that's impossible," he muttered, genuinely shaken for the first time. "Things like this don't exist. They can't exist."

"They exist here," Mitsuri said simply, letting the water orb dissolve. "And you can do it too, if you try to access Kazemaru's abilities."

"How would I do that?" Trump asked, curiosity temporarily overcoming his skepticism.

"Focus on the energy inside you," Takeshi instructed, clearly impatient with the impromptu lesson. "Visualize it flowing through your body, then direct it to your hands."

Trump closed his eyes, feeling slightly foolish. "I don't feel anything. No energy. Nothing tremendous at all."

"You're not trying," Takeshi snapped. "Kazemaru could do this in his sleep."

"Well, I'm not Kazemaru!" Trump shot back. "I've told you that a hundred times. I'm Donald J. Trump!"

"Then Donald J. Trump better learn to use chakra fast," Takeshi said ominously, "because we're approaching the eastern sector, and if you can't perform your role, you'll become a liability."

As they approached the eastern section of the village, he suddenly held up a hand, stopping them.

"Patrol ahead," he whispered. "Two chunin. We need to avoid them."

Trump peered around the corner and saw two individuals in green vests similar to the man who had killed him in what he was beginning to think might have been some kind of vision or premonition.

"I recognize those vests," he said, instinctively lowering his voice. "One of them killed me. With rock spikes. Very painful. The worst pain."

"What are you talking about?" Takeshi asked, exasperated.

"Before I woke up here, I was in a fight with someone wearing that same vest. He made rocks come out of the ground and impaled me through the throat. And you were there," he added, pointing at Takeshi. "You got stabbed through the chest. Lots of blood. The most blood."

Mitsuri and Takeshi exchanged another worried glance.

"He's describing Earth Release ninjutsu," Mitsuri said quietly. "But how would he know that if he claims not to know anything about our world?"

"Maybe he's remembering bits and pieces of Kazemaru's knowledge," Takeshi suggested. "Or maybe he's just making it up."

"I'm not making it up!" Trump insisted. "It happened! And then I woke up back in that alcove where you found me. Like time reset or something."

"Time reset?" Mitsuri repeated, looking thoughtful. "There are legends of forbidden techniques that can manipulate time, but they're just that, legends. No one has actually performed such jutsu in recorded history."

"Well, something weird is happening," Trump muttered. "Very weird. The weirdest thing that's ever happened to me, and I've had some very weird things happen. You wouldn't believe the things people have tried to do to me."

"This is useless," Takeshi muttered. "We need to go around. Follow me, and try to be quiet for once."

They took a detour through several narrow alleys, carefully avoiding the patrol. Trump found himself oddly impressed by the teenagers' stealth skills. They moved with a grace and silence that reminded him of Secret Service agents, only more fluid, more natural.

"You're pretty good at this sneaking around stuff," he admitted grudgingly. "Very professional. The best sneaking."

"We're trained for it," Mitsuri replied simply. "And you used to be good at it too, before... whatever happened to you."

"I was never good at sneaking," Trump scoffed. "Didn't need to be. I'm more of a grand entrance kind of guy. Very big, very visible. Everyone always knows when Donald Trump enters a room."

"Well, unless you want everyone to know when Donald Trump gets captured and executed for espionage, you'll need to relearn how to be invisible," Takeshi said acidly.

---

They continued through the village for another twenty minutes, taking a circuitous route toward their objective. Trump's discomfort grew with each passing moment. These teenagers were talking about an invasion, about disabling watchtowers and surprise attacks during a sporting event. If they were the bad guys, and it increasingly seemed like they were, he didn't want any part of it.

Donald Trump was a winner, not a terrorist. And certainly not a child soldier.

As they passed by what appeared to be a busy market street, he saw his opportunity. While Takeshi and Mitsuri were focused on avoiding a group of children, he slipped away into the crowd.

"I'll find someone who can help me get home," he told himself as he pushed through the crowd. "The American embassy. There has to be an American embassy. Or at least someone in charge who can tell me what's going on."

He approached a woman selling fruits at a stand. "Excuse me, where can I find the American embassy? Very important. I'm the President."

The woman stared at him blankly, her weathered face creasing in confusion. "I don't understand what you're asking for. Is this some kind of game?"

"It's not a game," Trump insisted, leaning closer. "I'm Donald Trump, President of the United States of America. I need to find my country's embassy. It's an emergency. The biggest emergency."

The woman's expression shifted from confusion to concern. "Are you lost? Should I find your jonin-sensei? You Suna ninjas shouldn't be wandering around alone."

Trump looked down and realized he'd forgotton about the headband. He quickly adjusted it, covering the hourglass symbol. "No, no, I'm not lost. Just looking for America. The United States! The greatest country in the world!"

The woman shook her head slowly. "I've never heard of such a place. Perhaps you should check with the Hokage Tower? They might have maps of distant lands."

"The Hokage? That's the president here, right? Yes, that's a good idea. Very smart. The best idea," Trump said, brightening. "Where's his tower? The White House equivalent?"

The woman pointed toward the large mountain with the carved faces. "The Hokage Tower is at the base of the monument. But I doubt they'll let a foreign ninja in without proper authorization."

"Don't worry about that," Trump said confidently. "I'm very good at getting into places. The best. Nobody keeps Donald Trump waiting."

He thanked the woman and continued through the market, asking several more people for directions to confirm he was heading the right way. No one recognized the words "America," "United States," or "President Trump." Some looked at him with concern, others with suspicion, particularly when they noticed his Suna headband.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered as he made his way toward the large tower in the distance. "How can nobody know about America? We're everywhere. The most powerful country in history. Our culture, our movies, our McDonald's, all over the world!"

A chill ran down his spine as an unsettling thought occurred to him. What if he wasn't just in another place? What if he was in another world entirely? Or another time?

"That's crazy talk," he reassured himself. "Very crazy. The craziest. This is obviously some kind of elaborate setup. Maybe a reality show? 'President Undercover' or something. The ratings would be tremendous."

But deep down, he was beginning to doubt his own explanation. The feats he'd seen, the chakra manipulation, the architecture, the strange clothes and weapons... none of it matched anything he'd ever seen before, not even in the most exotic countries he'd visited as President.

---

As Trump wandered further from the market, he found himself in a less crowded area near what appeared to be some kind of administrative building at the base of the mountain. People in uniforms were coming and going, many wearing the green vests he now associated with danger.

"This must be their government building," he reasoned, studying the structure. "Like the White House. Someone in charge will be there. Someone who can explain what's happening."

He approached the entrance, shouldering past a few startled individuals waiting in line.

"Excuse me! Very important person coming through! Need to speak to whoever's in charge immediately!" he declared loudly, employing the same tactics that had worked for him countless times in New York and Washington.

Two guards stepped forward, blocking his path. They wore the same green vests as the others, but with additional armor and more serious expressions.

"State your business," one of them said firmly, hand resting casually on the hilt of a short sword.

"I'm Donald Trump, the President of the United States, and I appear to be trapped in some kind of alternative reality or elaborate simulation," Trump announced, drawing himself up to his full height, which, in this teenage body, wasn't particularly impressive. "Need to speak to whoever's running this place. The big boss. Very urgent."

The guards exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

"Where's your village headband?" the second guard asked, eyeing Trump's forehead where the metal plate with the hourglass symbol was partially concealed by his adjusted positioning.

Trump reached up, touching the unfamiliar object. "This thing? I don't know why I'm wearing it. Not my style. I prefer MAGA hats. Very stylish. Everyone wants one. I've sold millions. The most hat sales in history."

The first guard reached forward and adjusted Trump's headband, revealing the hourglass symbol. His expression immediately hardened.

"You're from Suna," he stated, not a question but an accusation. "What are you doing in the administrative sector without an escort? The Chunin Exams participants are supposed to remain in the designated areas."

"Exams? I don't take exams anymore. I'm way past that," Trump scoffed. "And I'm not from 'Suna.' I'm from New York. The best city. Though I spend a lot of time in Florida now. Beautiful place, Mar-a-Lago. You should visit. Many people say it's the most beautiful resort they've ever seen."

The guards moved closer, their casual stance shifting to something more alert and threatening.

"You need to come with us," the first guard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now."

"Come with you? Where? I need to see the person in charge," Trump insisted, not backing down. "It's very important. The most important meeting that will happen today, believe me."

"The Hokage doesn't meet with foreign ninjas without proper authorization," the second guard said. "Especially not unescorted genin from other villages."

"I'm not a 'genin' or whatever you call it," Trump protested. "I keep telling you, I'm the President of the United States! It's a very important position. The most important. Everyone knows who I am."

"I don't know what game you're playing," the first guard said, "but it ends now. You're coming with us to Intelligence for questioning."

Trump sensed the danger too late. As he backed away, his foot caught on an uneven paving stone, and he stumbled. The guards were on him in an instant, one grabbing each arm with swift movements.

"Let go of me!" he shouted, struggling against their grip. "Nobody manhandles the President! This is an international incident! The worst incident!"

"Quiet," the first guard snapped, twisting Trump's arm painfully behind his back. "You're coming to Intelligence for questioning. Cooperate and this will go easier for you."

"I demand to speak to my embassy!" Trump continued to protest as they began to drag him toward the building. "I have diplomatic immunity! The best immunity!"

As they hauled him up the steps, a blur of motion caught his eye. Takeshi and Mitsuri had appeared on a nearby rooftop, their expressions grim as they assessed the situation.

"Kazemaru has been compromised," Takeshi said coldly, his voice barely audible from Trump's position. "We can't let him be interrogated."

Mitsuri nodded reluctantly. "Understood. But Baki-sama won't be pleased."

"Better to lose one team member than compromise the entire invasion," Takeshi replied.

Before Trump could process what was happening, Mitsuri had pulled out what looked like a small crossbow from a pouch at her hip. There was a soft twang, and Trump felt a sharp pain in his neck. He reached up with his free hand and felt a small dart embedded in his flesh.

"What the... you shot me! My own team shot me! Very disloyal. The worst loyalty..." he slurred, already feeling the effects of whatever poison coated the dart.

"Intruders!" one of the guards shouted, releasing Trump to draw his weapon. "Sound the alarm!"

Trump's vision began to blur, and his limbs felt heavy. The guards had released him to defend against this new threat, but he could no longer stand. He collapsed to his knees, then toppled forward onto the stone steps.

As darkness closed in once more, his final thought was a confused jumble: This can't be happening again... I'm Donald Trump... I don't lose... this is rigged...

The Konoha guards fell a moment later, struck by similar darts. Takeshi and Mitsuri landed beside Trump's body.

"He compromised the entire mission," Takeshi said, voice cold as he checked Trump's pulse and found none. "The poison worked quickly at least. He didn't suffer."

"Something was wrong with him," Mitsuri insisted, genuine concern in her voice. "The real Kazemaru would never do this. He was loyal to the village. Dedicated to the mission."

"It doesn't matter now. We failed. We'll have to abort and report back to Baki-sama," Takeshi said, lifting Trump's lifeless body. "We need to dispose of him properly. Can't leave evidence."

"The guards already saw us," Mitsuri pointed out. "The alarm will be raised."

"Then we need to move quickly."

As they gathered Trump's body, a shout came from further down the street. "Hey! Stop right there!"

A Konoha jonin had spotted them from the street. His hands were already moving through a series of signs.

"Intruders! Sound the alarm!" he shouted as he completed his jutsu.

The jonin's hands flashed through a series of signs, and a wall of earth erupted from the ground, cutting off their escape route. More ninjas appeared from various directions, surrounding them.

"Surrender, Suna spies!" the jonin commanded.

Takeshi gently laid Trump's body down and pulled out a kunai. "We can't be captured alive. You know what we have to do."

Mitsuri nodded grimly, drawing her own weapons. "For Suna."

They fought valiantly, taking down three Konoha ninjas before being overwhelmed. Takeshi fell first, his throat slashed by a water jutsu that took the form of a razor-sharp whip. Mitsuri lasted longer, her agility and precision with poisoned weapons keeping her opponents at bay, but eventually a fire jutsu caught her, burning through her defenses and leaving her vulnerable to a fatal strike.

Within minutes, both teenagers had fallen, their bodies broken and bloody beside Trump's poisoned form.

The Konoha ninjas approached their fallen forms, one checking for pulses to confirm they were dead.

"Pathetic," he said, looking down at the dead Suna genin. "These are souvenirs, hehehe," he added, collecting the headbands from the bodies as trophies of his kills.