Chapter 23: Rematch

A woman in a steampunk outfit examined McKinley’s artificial arm with a sour expression.

“I thought I configured this piece of junk perfectly!” Hera Hoover snarled, “But you’re saying it was still giving you some lag?”

“Just a little,” McKinley replied. “Honestly though, I’m astounded you were able to calibrate it as well as you did with hardly a day’s notice.”

Hoover gave a sharp snort.

“One sleepless night is a helluva cheap price to pay for giving one of FDR’s goons a tough time!”

McKinley shook his head.

“I really wish you’d end that petty grudge of yours…today’s enemy could be tomorrow’s friend if you give them the chance.”

“Well I’m not giving that wench any more chances!” she hissed. “Besides, you’re not seriously planning on just forgiving LBJ after how he treated you during that match, are you?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t. There’s no benefit in doing otherwise, especially if LBJ ends up winning the tournament.”

Hoover gave a scowl.

“You seriously think that brute has a shot at winning this whole thing?”

McKinley scratched his chin.

“…no…I suppose not. After all,” he looked to the bracket, “that would require him defeating Roosevelt in the second round…”

“You seem pretty confident Roosevelt’s making it through his first match, but he’s up against Willow Wilson you know! She’s a woman who’s reached a zenith of martial arts never known in history. And of course, everyone here knows she’s already managed to beat Roosevelt once before.”

“I’m perfectly aware of Wilson’s abilities, as well as her previous victory over Roosevelt. However…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“…when you defeated him,” Eisenhower spoke to Wilson, “Roosevelt was heavily injured from his fight with Taft, and you were still in the middle of your Honeymoon Period.”

“Yes, yes,” Wilson said with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I am entirely aware of the circumstances regarding my prior brawl with Roosevelt; and it is precisely these lingering critiques made by lowlife simpletons that make this fight truly worthwhile!”

She clenched her hand into a fist.

“I have an unyielding devotion to the study of martial arts…to the belief that anyone, no matter their circumstances, may grow stronger through its practice. By defeating that savage brute Roosevelt here today with my peerless technique…I’ll show the entire world the true strength of martial arts. In doing so, I shall usher in a new era of peace as warriors across the globe drop their respective weapons in order to harness the true strength lying within us all!”

Eisenhower shook her head.

“That’s a bold vision, Wilson; but honestly, I don’t see any way you end up coming out the winner of this match. That being said…” she extended out her hand, “I’ll be up there rooting for you with everything I’ve got!”

“Why, what a delightful pessimist you are!” Wilson exclaimed, playfully slapping Eisenhower’s hand away as she made her way forward. “But I have no need of such tepid encouragements to obtain victory in this match…God helping me, I can do no other!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Welcome back everybody!” Thompson shouted, “Since the dawn of humankind, one question has remained unanswered: what matters more in a fight, power or technique? Our next match aims to answer just this by pitting the President with the greatest martial arts up against the President with the greatest raw strength!”

She gestured to the arena.

“Our first fighter comes to us by the very hand of God! Although she abhors war, she will not turn back on her path to victory! She can only go forward, looking on with lifted eyes and with freshened spirit! Some like to dismiss her as a naive idealist, but to her, that’s just proof she’s an American! Give it up for the head of Princeton University, [The Professor], Willow Wilson!”

Wilson entered wearing black suspenders over an orange dress shirt and black tie. Her appearance would have been indistinguishable from any other college professor, were it not for the set of lean muscles bulging from underneath her shirt.

“Our second fighter…”

The crowd erupted into screams before Thompson could finish her sentence.

“Is a man known by many names!” Thompson shouted over the sound of the raging crowd. “He’s been called the Trust Buster! The Driving Force! The Dynamo of Power! The Rough Rider! The Hero of San Juan Hill! The Bull Moose! And of course, he’s known as a mighty member of Rushmore! Give it up, for [The Man in the Arena], Theo Roosevelt!”

A thunderous roar came from the Eastern entrance as a giant black bear walked out carrying a bare-chested Roosevelt atop his back. Roosevelt flexed his toned body to the audience as he waved to them with his left hand, his other arm wrapped tightly around a large tree trunk that rested on his shoulder.

“Before we get started,” Thompson went on, “we’d like to briefly clarify a few of the points about how our bracket was made.”

Truman gave a short nod.

“Designing the bracket was a real challenge for us. We knew that no matter what system we used, somebody would complain if they ended up getting a lousy spot at the start. To get around this…” Truman pressed a button, shifting the screens in the arena to display an empty bracket. “…we gave our fighters some freedom with how they ended up in the tournament.”

The brackets on the screens filled in with the Rushmores placed in fights 4, 8, 12, and 16, then randomly populated the rest with the remaining fighters.

“To start,” Thompson continued, “we put all the Rushmores in the spots where they are now, then filled in the rest of the slots at random. Crucially,” she spoke as the names started moving across the screen, “we let the non-Rushmore Presidents freely trade their positions amongst themselves!”

“That way,” Truman said with a grin, “no one could say we weren’t giving them a fair deal! And while we assumed most people would use our system to avoid facing off against the Rushmores, in actuality, each member of Rushmore was actively targeted by at least one fighter!”

“That’s right!” Thompson exclaimed. “Willow Wilson, Ronda Reagan, Jorge Bush, and Quincy Adams all purposefully chose to face off against a Rushmore in round 1! What do you have to say to that, Truman?”

“I suspect most of them will live to regret making such bold decisions. The only possible exception…” he said looking down to Willow Wilson, “…might be the one fighter who’s actually beaten a Rushmore in combat before.”

Roosevelt dismounted off his bear, looking at Wilson with a grin.

“Bully! It’s been quite some time now, hasn’t it!”

“Indeed it has,” Wilson spoke, scanning the grooves of Roosevelt’s body. “And it appears you haven’t wasted a single second since we last met…why, the amount of muscle given to you by your EP seems to have increased by 5…maybe even 10 percent since we faced each other back then. Truly, I didn’t think you could get any stronger than you already were.”

Roosevelt flexed his biceps with a toothy grin.

“Almost anything is possible with enough self-discipline!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Wilson replied, stepping back as she walked to the side. “Executive Power: League of Nations.”

The crowd gasped as an exact duplicate of Wilson appeared directly behind her as she moved. The original Wilson continued walking around, with additional Wilsons materializing behind her every 13 steps that she took. By the time she circled back around, a total of 14 Wilson’s stood tall, surrounding Roosevelt in a tight loop.

“Astounding!” Roosevelt exclaimed as he looked over the crowd of Wilson’s surrounding him. “So you can generate a full 13 clones now, can you?”

“That I can,” one of the Wilsons replied. “And while some might say that having 13 clones is rather unlucky…”

“…in our experience,” another remarked, “we’ve always found the number 13 to bring good fortune.”

“Moreover,” a third Wilson added as the clones took their respective stances, “I doubt even a man of your strength will manage to handle a full fourteen points of attack!”

Roosevelt shook his body with visible excitement.

“Delightful, delightful, deeeeeeeelightful!”

Roosevelt turned to Taft with stars glistening in his eyes.

“Say old chap, why don’t you join us in our bout over here? It’ll be just like old times!”

“Hard pass,” Taft snarled, slamming his gavel to the ground.

“Fine, fine,” Roosevelt remarked, lifting his tree trunk up as the Wilson’s leaned forward. “More fun for me then!”

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Martial Arts. Woodrow Wilson did not practice any martial arts. Willow Wilson’s devotion to the practice is meant to be an analog of Woodrow Wilson’s devotion to education, with him in particular being the only President to ever hold a PhD.