IPS: Ch. 01

First, a warning. This is not some serious story, well, the fights should be serious, but the MC, Donald Trump, is more of a joke character. I've had this idea for days and couldn't get it out of my head. Here is my first attempt. I don't know how long my 'passion' will hold for writing this Trump fic. Length-wise, it will be similar to HSU. This chapter, for example, has 3.4k words. As I stated in a note, this is a time loop ff, a bit like Re: Zero.

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President Donald Trump stood at a podium, with the newly expanded section of the Panama canal stretching behind him like a monument to human achievement. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he refused to acknowledge it, maintaining his signature stern expression.

"This canal, it's tremendous. Really tremendous. Nobody builds canals like the Americans, believe me," he declared, his voice booming across the assembled crowd of dignitaries, press, and security personnel. "When I look at this canal, I see greatness. American greatness. You know what? They said this expansion couldn't be done. The previous administration? Total disaster with foreign projects. Total disaster."

He paused, squinting against the sun, refusing the handkerchief an aide tried to discreetly offer.

"But we did it, and we did it under budget, can you believe that? Under budget! When does that happen? Never happens. But it happened under Trump."

---

Secret Service agents scanned the surroundings. Agent Rodriguez shifted uncomfortably in the heat.

"Falcon is still exposed. How much longer?" he muttered into his wrist mic.

"Twenty minutes on the program," came the terse reply.

This visit had been plagued with security concerns from the start, but the President had insisted. "Nobody's going to stop me from seeing the biggest, most beautiful canal, not even some Chinese assassins. It's going to be a fantastic visit, the best visit," he had told his staff during the pre-trip briefing.

"Sir," his Chief of Staff had argued, "the intelligence suggests credible threats from at least three different groups."

"Threats? I've been dealing with threats my whole life. Very good at handling threats. The best, actually," Trump had dismissed with a wave of his hand.

---

Now, as Trump continued his speech, a glint of metal caught the eye of Agent Miller, positioned at the President's four o'clock. He quickly threw himself forward, just as the crack of a rifle shot split the air.

"Get down! Shooter!" came the shouts as the security detail swarmed the President, forming a human shield while rushing him toward the waiting limousine.

"I'm fine, totally fine," Trump insisted as they bundled him into the vehicle. "Did you see that? They tried to get me, but they failed. Sad! Very sad attempt."

"Secure! Falcon is secure!" Agent Rodriguez barked into his comm as the armored door slammed shut.

"Location of shooter?" Trump demanded, straightening his tie as the motorcade began to move.

"Sir, we need to get you to a secure location first," replied the head of his detail, Agent Thompson.

"I want to know who took that shot at me. Was it the Chinese? I bet it was the Chinese," Trump said, already pulling out his phone.

"Sir, please don't tweet about this yet. We need to—"

"The people deserve to know their President just survived an assassination attempt. Tremendous bravery. Just tremendous," Trump continued, thumbs already flying across his phone screen.

The motorcade sped away, tires squealing on the pavement as they executed emergency protocols.

---

"Mr. President, we need to keep you in the secure room until extraction," Secret Service Director Collins said, his face grim as they entered the reinforced presidential suite at the hotel.

Trump paced the room. "This is the second time today. First the shooting, now you're telling me they found a bomb? A BOMB? In MY hotel?"

"Yes, sir. Discovered during a secondary sweep of the building. Housekeeping reported suspicious wiring in room 1522, two floors directly below us."

"Unbelievable. They're very desperate people, these terrorists. Very desperate," Trump said, adjusting his red tie in the mirror. "But they don't understand who they're dealing with. I've survived more assassination attempts than any president. More than Lincoln, more than Kennedy. It's incredible, really."

He turned to face Collins, pointing a finger at him. "And I want names. Who's behind this? I want to know right now."

"Sir, we're working on it. Initial indications suggest it might be connected to the cartel factions opposed to our border policies, but—"

"I knew it," Trump interrupted. "I've been saying it for years. These are bad hombres. Very bad. And we're going to get them."

"Sir, with respect, perhaps we should cancel the remainder of your visit—"

"Cancel? No way. Absolutely not. The fake news would have a field day. 'Trump Runs Scared,' they'd say. No, we continue as planned. Double the security, triple it if you have to."

Agent Garcia looked out the reinforced windows, scanning the perimeter. "Sir, we've neutralized the second threat, but I strongly recommend we expedite your departure from Panama."

"I don't run from threats. I never have. Ask anyone," Trump insisted, pulling out his phone to check Twitter. "I'm going to tell the people what happened. They should know their President stood strong."

"Mr. President," interjected his press secretary, Maxwell, who had been quietly taking notes in the corner. "Perhaps we should craft a more measured statement. We don't want to cause an international incident."

"Measured?" Trump scoffed. "Two assassination attempts in one day isn't the time for measured. It's time for strength. Strong words. The strongest."

He began dictating while typing: "Just survived second assassination attempt in Panama. Deep State and foreign enemies desperate to stop your favorite President from making America great again! Won't work! #Survivor #MAGA"

Director Collins exchanged worried glances with Maxwell but knew better than to argue further.

"What's the status on the Embassy reception?" Trump asked suddenly.

"Sir, in light of these events, we've advised the Embassy to cancel—"

"No, no cancellations. I want to be there. The people expect me to be there."

"Mr. President, it's an unnecessary risk," Collins persisted.

Trump stopped pacing and fixed him with a hard stare. "I don't care. I'm going. End of discussion. Now get me a hamberder. I'm starving."

---

The Presidential Suite bathroom had been converted into a makeshift situation room. Maps of the Embassy grounds were spread across the marble countertops as security personnel planned routes and contingencies.

Trump sat in the adjoining bedroom, half-listening to his speech writer's suggestions while watching cable news coverage of the assassination attempts.

"They're calling you 'bulletproof,'" the speechwriter said, trying to capture the President's attention. "I think we can work with that for tonight's remarks."

"Bulletproof Trump," Trump mused, nodding slowly. "I like that. Very strong. But make sure you mention how Obama never had to deal with this. Never had assassination attempts because he was weak on crime, weak on borders."

"Sir, I'm not sure that's accurate—"

"Just put it in," Trump interrupted. "And mention the canal. Beautiful canal. Biggest expansion project ever. Tremendous achievement for my administration."

Agent Miller knocked on the door. "Sir, motorcade is ready whenever you are. We've established a secure route to the Embassy."

Trump stood, adjusting his suit jacket. "How do I look? Presidential? Very presidential, right?"

"Yes, sir," the agent replied automatically.

"Did they get my hamberder?"

"Your meal is waiting in the car, sir."

"Excellent. You know, the fake news says I eat too many hamberders. Totally false. I have the diet of an athlete. Many people say so."

---

Despite security concerns, Trump entered the American Embassy reception with characteristic confidence. The room, originally planned to host 200 guests, had been reduced to just 50 essential diplomats and officials, all of whom had been thoroughly screened.

"Ladies and gentlemen, your President of the United States," announced the ambassador, forcing a smile.

Trump approached the podium with his characteristic swagger, giving a thumbs-up to the crowd.

"What a day, what a tremendous day," he began. "Two assassination attempts, and here I stand. Unbelievable stamina. The best stamina. They said George Washington was tough? Well, let me tell you something about tough."

The crowd of diplomats and officials exchanged uneasy glances as he continued.

"These terrorists, these very bad people, they tried twice today. TWICE! And they failed, bigly. They failed because God is protecting me to make America great again."

Ambassador Wilson, standing to the side, whispered to his deputy, "He's going off-script again."

"When does he not?" the deputy replied under his breath.

"You know, they're calling me 'Bulletproof Trump' now," the President continued, clearly enjoying the title. "I kind of like it. Has a nice ring to it. And it's true! Believe me, it's true."

Secret Service Director Collins leaned toward the President. "Sir, we need to wrap this up. There's been another security alert."

Trump nodded slightly but continued speaking. "And this canal expansion, tremendous project. Just tremendous. I've always had a great relationship with Panama. The best relationship. I built a beautiful tower here, one of the most beautiful in the world. Everyone says so."

He gestured broadly, nearly knocking over the water glass on the podium.

"When other countries see what we've done here, they'll be begging, BEGGING, for American help with their infrastructure. China tries to compete with us on these projects, but they can't. Their canals? Terrible. Just terrible. Leak all over the place."

Ambassador Wilson winced visibly at this diplomatic faux pas.

"Sir," Collins insisted more urgently, "we really need to conclude."

"Alright," Trump conceded. "Just let me say this: No matter what they throw at me, bullets, bombs, whatever... I will never stop fighting for the American people. Never. We're making America great again, and nothing can stop us. Thank you. God bless America."

The polite applause that followed was quickly drowned out by the Secret Service hustling him off the stage and toward the exit.

---

Back in the secured presidential suite, Trump sat at the desk with a hamberder from the embassy kitchen, scrolling through Twitter on his phone.

"Three million likes already," he muttered to himself, satisfied with the response to his tweet about surviving the attempts. "The people love a strong leader. A very strong leader."

Secret Service agents maintained positions throughout the suite while Trump ate alone, dictating his thoughts to his phone between bites.

"Call Ivanka about the new hotel project. The Panama incident will be great publicity. Tremendous publicity. Nobody gets publicity like I do."

He picked up the remote, flipping through news channels, pausing on each one that showed his picture.

"Look at that. Every channel. Total coverage," he said to no one in particular. "CNN is saying the shooter was from Venezuela. I knew it. I've been telling people about Venezuela for years. Very dangerous country. Terrible leadership."

Agent Wilson, stationed by the door, maintained his professional silence.

Trump took another large bite of his hamberder. "You know what, Wilson? After surviving two, TWO, assassination attempts in one day, this might be the best hamberder I've ever had. Really fantastic. The best."

"Yes, sir," Wilson replied automatically.

"I think I'll have another one. Tell the kitchen to send up another. Extra ketchup this time."

"Right away, sir."

Trump turned his attention back to his phone, typing a new tweet: "Survived TWO assassination attempts today! Deep State desperate to stop your favorite President! SAD!"

As he hit send, he took a particularly large bite of his hamberder. Mid-swallow, he reached for his water, but his hand knocked it over in a sudden movement. He tried to cough, but nothing happened. The food was lodged firmly in his throat.

For a moment, he sat perfectly still, not quite believing what was happening. This couldn't be happening to him. Not after surviving two professional assassination attempts.

He slammed his hand on the desk, trying to alert the agents stationed by the door, but they interpreted it as one of his regular emphatic gestures while tweeting.

"And the Secret Service, they did a fantastic job today. Really fantastic. The best people..." he had been saying just moments before.

He stood up, his face reddening, hands clutching at his throat in the universal sign of choking.

Agent Wilson finally noticed something was wrong and rushed forward. "Medical emergency! The President is choking!"

Chaos erupted as agents called for the medical team and attempted the Heimlich maneuver.

"Stay with us, sir! Medical team is en route!"

Trump's face turned an alarming shade of purple as Agent Rodriguez took over, applying the Heimlich with increasing urgency.

"It's not working! Where's the medical team?" Wilson shouted into his comm.

"Thirty seconds out," came the frantic reply.

In his fading consciousness, Trump's thoughts raced incoherently.

This can't be happening. Not to me. It's rigged. The whole thing is rigged. After surviving professional assassins... to be taken down by a hamberder? Fake news would have a field day. Wouldn't be surprised if Hillary arranged for this specific hamberder...

The darkness closed in as he heard the frantic shouts of his security detail growing more distant.

I'm Donald J. Trump. I don't lose. I don't die like this. It's fake news...

The last thing he heard was the suite door bursting open as the medical team rushed in, but he knew it was too late. The darkness had already won.

---

Darkness. Complete and absolute.

No White House. No Trump Tower. No adoring crowds or Twitter followers. Just emptiness.

Am I dead? I can't be dead. I'm too important to be dead.

Trump's consciousness drifted, untethered from physical form. Fragmented thoughts bubbled up through the darkness.

The canal... Melania... my legacy...

He tried to move but had no body to command. Tried to speak but had no voice. There was only the void and his thoughts echoing in it.

This isn't right. This is a hoax. A tremendous hoax. I demand to speak to God right now. Right now!

A sudden violent pulling sensation, as if being yanked through a narrow tube, interrupted his demands.

What's happening? This is rigged. Totally rigged...

The pulling became more intense, a force impossible to resist. If he'd had lungs, he'd be gasping for air.

Nobody treats Donald Trump this way. Nobody!

Then, light. Blinding, disorienting light.

---

Noise assaulted his senses first.

Explosions.

Shouting.

The clash of metal against metal.

Trump blinked rapidly, his vision slowly clearing to reveal unfamiliar surroundings. Buildings of a strange architecture. People moving with inhuman speed. And chaos, everywhere chaos.

"Kazemaru! What the hell are you doing? MOVE!"

A teenage boy with sand-colored hair and fierce eyes was yanking at his arm, his face twisted with a mixture of anger and fear. The boy wore strange beige garments with numerous pouches and a metal plate attached to a cloth tied around his forehead.

"I said MOVE, you idiot! The signal's been given!" the boy shouted again, pulling harder.

Trump looked down at himself and froze in shock. These weren't his hands. Too small, too young. And his body, where was his imposing frame? He was in the body of a teenager, dressed in similar strange clothes as the boy yanking him.

"What... what is this?" Trump managed to say, but even his voice wasn't his own. Higher, younger, without his distinctive timbre.

"What is WHAT?" the boy, Takeshi, according to the patch on his vest, stared at him in disbelief. "Did you hit your head? We're in Konoha! The invasion has started! We have orders!"

Trump turned in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings more fully. They were in some kind of alcove, partially hidden from a street. In the distance, he could see what looked like a massive stadium where plumes of smoke were rising.

"Invasion? What invasion? Where's my security detail?" Trump demanded, his characteristic speech patterns emerging despite the unfamiliar voice.

"Your WHAT?" Takeshi grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Kazemaru, snap out of it! We're Suna ninjas in enemy territory! The joint Oto-Suna invasion of Konoha! The thing we've been planning for MONTHS!"

More explosions rocked the ground beneath them. A building collapsed in the distance, sending up a cloud of dust.

"I don't... I'm not..." Trump stammered, completely disoriented. "This isn't Panama. Where are we? Is this some kind of coup?"

"Panama? What are you talking about?" Takeshi looked increasingly concerned. "Did you get hit with a genjutsu?"

A girl appeared beside them, dropping from above with impossible agility. She had dark hair pulled back tightly and sharp, calculating eyes. She wore similar clothing with the same metal headband.

"Takeshi, what's the holdup? We're going to miss our window!" she hissed, then noticed Trump's expression. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know, Mitsuri. He's talking nonsense. Says he doesn't know where he is."

"I'm Donald Trump, the President of the United States," Trump declared, falling back on the most fundamental fact of his identity. "And I demand to know what's happening! This is clearly some sort of setup. A coup attempt. Very bad people trying to take me out. Sad!"

Takeshi and Mitsuri exchanged bewildered glances.

"He's lost it," Takeshi said flatly. "Combat stress. It happens."

"Donald... what? What village is that from?" Mitsuri asked, checking the surrounding area for enemies.

"It's not a village, it's a country. The greatest country. Everyone says so," Trump insisted, his speech patterns now fully asserting themselves despite his confusion. "We have the best military, the best economy. China tries to compete with us, but they can't. It's sad, really."

"I think he took a hit to the head," Mitsuri said, quickly examining Trump's skull. "No blood, though."

"We don't have time for this," Takeshi snapped. "The eastern watchtower is our objective. If we don't disable it in the next ten minutes, the entire operation is compromised."

Trump tried to step back, to create distance between himself and these clearly delusional teenagers. "Look, I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not part of any 'operation.' I need to contact the White House immediately."

"White House? Is that a Konoha government building?" Mitsuri asked, genuinely confused.

A whistling sound cut through the air. Takeshi's eyes widened.

"Get DOWN!" he shouted, tackling Trump to the ground just as a barrage of metal stars embedded themselves in the wall where they'd been standing.

"What the hell was that?" Trump gasped, genuine fear flooding his system for the first time.

"Shuriken," Mitsuri said, pulling out a knife-like weapon from a holster on her thigh. "We've been spotted."

"Konoha ninjas at two o'clock!" Takeshi called out, getting to his feet in a defensive stance.

Trump watched in horror as a man dressed in a green vest seemed to materialize from nowhere, moving with impossible speed. He had a similar metal headband, but with a different symbol etched into it, a spiral pattern rather than the hourglass on his companions' headbands.

"Suna infiltrators," the man said coldly, his hands forming strange configurations. "You won't get any further."

Takeshi pushed Trump behind him. "Kazemaru, I don't know what's wrong with you, but you need to pull it together. Use your sand techniques!"

"Sand... techniques?" Trump repeated blankly. "What are you talking about? Is this some kind of reality show? Because let me tell you, I know reality shows. I was the biggest star on television with The Apprentice. Huge ratings. The best ratings."

The Konoha ninja's hands blurred through more positions, and suddenly the ground beneath them trembled.

"Earth Release: Rock Pillar Spears!" the man called out.

Trump watched in disbelief as spikes of stone erupted from the ground, heading straight toward them. Takeshi and Mitsuri leapt away with inhuman agility, but he remained frozen in shock.

"This isn't possible," he muttered. "Special effects. Has to be special effects."

"KAZEMARU! MOVE!" Takeshi shouted from where he'd landed, his face contorted with panic.

But it was too late. Trump felt a sharp, terrible pain as one of the stone spikes pierced his throat. Warm blood filled his mouth as he collapsed to his knees, hands clutching futilely at the stone protruding from his neck.

This isn't... possible... the pain is... this can't be... fake news...

His vision began to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges. He could hear Takeshi and Mitsuri shouting, the clash of weapons, but it all seemed very far away now.

The pain was excruciating, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Not fake. Not a dream. As his consciousness faded, one final, terrifying thought crossed his mind.

I really died from a hamberder...

The last thing he saw was Takeshi's face, contorted with shock and anger, before a second stone spike impaled the boy through the chest. Mitsuri screamed somewhere nearby.

The Konoha ninjas approached their fallen bodies, his face impassive as he checked to ensure they were dead.

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