[SNIPPET] - Chapter 2: Jethro

UNTITLED - A State of the Union Standalone

Soooo, what did you think of Chapter 1? Well, you’re here so that must mean I’m doing something right. Without further ado, Chapter 2…

Playlist:

1. Ride x Twenty One Pilots

2. Nothing’s New x Rio Romeo

She was, perhaps, the most beautiful woman I’d ever had the honor of meeting—and her exterior beauty was only part of my attraction. Maisey’s wit had a way of hitting like a well-placed strike, knocking me off balance before I could prepare for impact. She challenged things I never thought to question. And worse, she made me want to answer.

The table between us was an absolute war zone of empty plates, sauce-streaked forks, and discarded napkins—evidence of the kind of meal you have when you forget to pretend you’re anything other than hungry. I liked that about her. The way she ordered with abandon, splitting half the menu like she had no time for hesitation. No delicate nibbles, no playing it safe. She ate with the same energy she did everything else: fully, unapologetically—with the refusal to miss out on the savory and sweet flavors of life.

And maybe that was why, for the first time, I started to wonder if my friends had been right. If you really could just know—that pull toward someone, like gravity shifting beneath your feet, changing your course before you even realize it.

She stirred her iced coffee in a lazy circle, watching me over the rim of her cup. Assessing. Calculating.

“So tell me,” she said, voice as casual as if she were asking about the weather. “How does it feel to be a willing cog in the military-industrial complex?”

I bit down a laugh, lifting a brow. “We’re going there on a first date?”

Maisey’s head tilted, her expression pure mischief wrapped in sugar.“What, you wanted a few more rounds of flirty banter before I got to the good stuff?”

“I was hoping.” I dragged a hand down my face, trying not to grin. “Maybe a little more small talk. Favorite movies. Dream vacation. Ideal last meal before the apocalypse? You know, something easy before I have to justify my entire existence.”

“Just ripping the Band-Aid off,” she said, all too pleased with herself. “Wouldn’t want you getting comfortable. Small talk is for people who aren’t sure they’ll like each other yet.”

“Bold assumption.”

“Calculated risk.”

I laughed once, more at myself than her, trying to shrug off the fact that she had effectively caught me off guard. It was a valid question. One I’d asked myself many times, but a guy like me never really had another option.

Jethro, the child, had been completely out of control. Nothing my Ma or Dad did could correct course. Punishments were a game for me, and boarding school was completely out of the question given the fact that they’d both worked two jobs just to keep the lights on for half my childhood. So, military school it was. Then from there, right into the swing of things.

The amount of expendable skills I had to contribute to society in any other way was something I had only recently decided to explore. And adjusting to the lack of demanded discipline was hard. For the last decade of my life, I’d been told when to sleep, eat, and shit. Now it was all up to me.

Maisey’s startling brown eyes glimmered in the sunlight, enough to distract me from the serious tone she played off as teasing. She wanted an answer and had no fear about being straight-forward in order to get one.

I set my cup of water down, the third refill as we hadn’t yet made it to the next restaurant, too enthralled in our conversation. “We do what we have to.”

She tilted her head. “And who decides what that is?”

“Command,” I answered automatically.

Her eyes flickered with something sharp, something knowing. “And who tells command?”

She was, for all intents and purposes, a journalist at heart. Maisey had been clear that she hated what she did. It exhausted her, made her resent a hobby she had once loved, and a topic she’d found joy in dissecting not too long ago. But even if she wasn’t a fan of the gig, she was good at it. I could see the gears turning, the way she took me apart piece by piece, looking for the fault lines—I couldn’t bring myself to change the subject.

Our phones, face down on the table, buzzed at the same time.

Not a text. Not an email. Not the usual background noise of a constantly connected world.

An alert.

My stomach dropped before I even read the words. The screen blared red, unmistakable:

EMERGENCY ALERT – SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

A second later, a news notification lit up beneath it. I barely had time to register the words when another one popped up. Then another.

Russia. A missile launch. Impact zones. Washington, D.C. projected strike: T-minus 32 minutes.

The world lurched sideways. The restaurant around us hadn’t caught up yet—half the people still scrolling, still chatting, still sipping coffee like nothing had changed. But a few had. A woman near the entrance sucked in a sharp breath. A man in a suit cursed under his breath and shoved back from his table. The slow ripple of realization, the delay between normal and catastrophe.

In times like this, every second mattered. There was the time to help those around you, and then there were moments you had to prioritize yourself. That time, was now. If the world around us reacted at the same pace, we would never make it. A head start was the only blessing we could find ourselves grateful for—despite what the setback would cost others.

“Maisey,” I said, my voice already different. Already moving into go mode.

She looked up, her brow furrowing in confusion. For a split second, she seemed frozen in place, not understanding what was happening. Then she saw my face—saw the urgency there. That’s when the shock hit her, and her eyes widened.

“Come with me,” I said. No room for discussion. No time for it.

She blinked, her gaze darting between me and the still-scrolling people around us. “Wait—what?”

“We need to go.” I grabbed my wallet, tossed a few bills on the table without counting out of habit, and reached for her hand. “Now.”

She pulled back, a crease forming between her brows. “Jethro, my family—”

“Where are they?”

Maisey was still dazed, “Here…um. My place is about 10 minutes from here, my dad’s 5 one direction and my mom's 5 in the other, headed towards Chantilly.”

I nodded, my voice clipped. “We can do that. It’s on the way. We’ll get them, but only if we move now.” My eyes flicked around the bustling patio. The majority of people were still talking, unaware—drifting through their Saturday brunch routines, their laughter too loud for the gravity of what was unfolding. But a few had already caught on. Their phones alerting them at the same time as us, either from luck or the fact that they weren’t stashed away or on silent. A woman near the entrance was on the phone, her face blanching as the words on the screen hit her. The man in the suit was gone—a knocked over chair in his wake. Chaos was about to awaken, the edges of this very scene already starting to fray.

I leaned closer, lowering my voice, urgent now. “I have a place we can go. Safe. Supplies. Far enough outside the city to ride out what’s coming.” I watched a few more patrons glance at their phones, eyes widening, faces draining of color as the truth began to settle. More phones came out, the muted buzz of notifications filling the air.

Then the ripple spread faster—some standing, others shouting in confusion. A man stumbled past, his hand shaking as he checked his screen, murmuring about the missile strike, his words lost in the havoc blooming around us. People would start waking up soon, reacting to the news like they always do—slower than the threat, too late to be effective. It was on us to be faster.

“Maisey,” I said, my voice low but sharp, “we need to go. Now.”

She hesitated, her breathing quickening. “But where are we even going?”

I shook my head, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “There’s no time. I’ll explain on the way.”

Everything inside me stilled. There was a tightness in the air, a suffocating pause. She was thinking, processing, every possible outcome flickering across her expression. Her gaze bounced between the panic unfolding around us, people fumbling with their phones, murmurs and half-screams building in the space between heartbeats. She could see it. Feel it. But the question was, could she trust me?

The trust wasn’t given lightly. It had been earned in fragments—a sandwich, a lengthy brunch, a few days of texts, small moments of connection between us that had built something fragile but real. Something that could hold in a moment like this. I knew it wasn’t much, but it was all we had right now. She needed to see that. Needed to give me the kind of trust I needed to move us out of here fast, and without question.

Time was slipping away faster than I wanted to admit, but in that pause, I saw it. The flicker of decision in her eyes. The trust, fragile as it was, settling into place.

Maisey snapped into focus.

“Okay,” she nodded, still that dazed look in her eyes all encasing, but at least she stood. Maisey took my hand, her skirt bunched in the other as she ran at my side.

Time was already running out.