Presidential Rebranding On A Missile-Filled Morning

Roy woke to the dull clang of distant machinery and the lingering odor of roasted pirate ship from last night's fiasco. Morning sunlight glimmered off the battleship's deck, where dozens of droids stood in neat rows, awaiting…whatever plan he'd come up with this time. Half of them still bore dirt marks from slapping down pirates, but they all stared straight ahead with unwavering posture.

He scurried into position, wearing a half-zipped hoodie and cargo pants—hardly the attire of a powerful "Captain," but oh well. In his hands was a small cardboard box with strips of paper, each scrawled with a name. Beside him, one of the Super Elite droids carried an ornate, polished wardrobe that hummed faintly. Roy had only tested the his copy of the "Infinite Wardrobe" a classmate had in requested in passing but quickly discovered it spat out exact outfits he thought of.

Thanks to his copy of the phone Han requested that Roy decided to call his "AllPhone," he'd pulled up pictures of every US president from 1 through 35 (counting Grover Cleveland's two separate terms, making it 36) as well as their vice presidents. One for each droid he had

He coughed and faced the assembly. "All right. Listen up, you guys. Starting now, I'm calling you… the Presidroids."

A mild whir of mechanical acknowledgment rippled down the line. One or two base-model units beeped. Roy tried not to grin. He'd fantasized about making unstoppable robots wear fancy hats in a daydream once—clearly, he was living his best life now.

First in line was a gleaming advanced-model droid. Roy tapped the side of the box. "You—draw a name."

The droid's spindly metal fingers plucked a slip. Roy took it back, read "Martin Van Buren," and swiped to his picture on his phone. A moment later, he extracted from the wardrobe a cozy black frock coat, waistcoat, and the unfortunate sideburn flair that Van Buren was known for. Roy physically shivered. "Ugh, that's… quite an outfit. Put it on."

The droid complied, awkwardly adjusting the flamboyant sideburn attachments. Roy bit his lip to stifle a snort, then beckoned the next droid.

Slowly the line advanced, each droid drawing a slip, Roy rummaging in the magical cabinet, and the named suit popping into existence. Some were older styles—powdered wigs included—others wore heavy coats. A handful of the base-model ones got assigned vice-presidential outfits, which often looked suspiciously bland compared to the flashy presidential garb.

Up stepped the first of the Super Elite six. It stood nearly a foot taller than the advanced and elite models, with shining plating reminiscent of sci-fi hero armor. Roy's heart thumped a bit, recalling how it had torn through pirates like they were tissue.

The droid reached in and pulled out a slip. Roy squinted, read the name. "George Washington."

He tapped his AllPhone, found a suitably 18th-century portrait, then rummaged in the wardrobe. Out came a regal colonial uniform, complete with a powdered wig and an added short cape that screamed "founding father." Roy's eyebrows shot up as Washington put it on. "Dang, that's… This might be the funniest getup for a lethal robot I've ever seen."

The Super Elite gave a low mechanical hiss that might've been satisfaction or mild confusion. Roy coughed. "All right, Washington, you're official now. Next!"

Another Super Elite strode up. It plucked a name: "Harry S. Truman." Roy repeated the process, soon handing over a sharp, simple suit and a fedora for that mid-20th century flair. Truman put it on with mechanical precision, tipping the fedora politely. Roy found himself half-wheezing at the contrast: stoic murder-droid wearing a grandpa hat.

He was about to call the third Super Elite forward when a thunderous WHOOOSH tore through the morning air. The classmates on the beach startled. Roy's eyes darted to the sea, half expecting to see a giant monster, but nothing. Then an explosion rumbled from somewhere far off.

"Apologies," Serenity's voice crackled over the deck speakers. "I detected a large, fast-moving creature on sonar—roughly 20 miles out, coming in at about 87 knots. I launched a semi-large missile to dissuade it. You can carry on!"

Roy's stomach twisted, but he managed to call out, "O-okay… thanks for the heads-up. Let us know if we need to hide or anything."

The droids said nothing, standing at attention like all was normal. Roy pressed a hand to his chest, exhaling. "Right, next droid."

A third Super Elite marched up, grabbed a slip. Roy glanced at it: "Teddy Roosevelt." Perfect. He flicked through images of Teddy's classic outdoorsy getup, complete with round glasses, cavalry hat, and a mustache. The wardrobe spat out precisely that. The droid promptly donned the mustache as if it were vital armor. Roy choked back a laugh.

Two seconds later, a second, third and fourth WHOOOSH rattled the ship again, even louder this time. The entire battleship trembled faintly. Serenity's voice piped up again, "It survived the first missile. I fired a few more. Sorry if that startled anyone. Carry on!"

Roy gulped. "Y-yeah, that's… reassuring. Let's keep going. Fourth Super Elite, come on."

This one drew a slip: "Abraham Lincoln." Roy found a tall stovepipe hat, a black frock coat, bow tie—the works. The mechanical figure slipped them on, towering even taller with that hat. Another monstrous rumble from the impacting missiles echoed from the horizon, making everyone's hair stand on end. It was immediately followed by a barrage of missiles of all shapes and sized, including a dozen torpedos and launched depth charges.

One of the advanced droids beeped in question. Roy forcibly ignored it. The sky lit up with a brief flicker. He caught a glimpse of multiple projectiles curving into the distance.

A voice came over the comms again: "Pardon the consecutive large missile barrage. The creature is still inbound, around 6 miles out now but losing speed. I'll handle it. Carry on!" Serenity's tone had a tinge of worry, which did nothing for Roy's nerves.

He dropped the name slips, hustled to the rail. Off in the distance, three orange dorsal fins cut through the waves, a true horror. Shell casings from the CIWS autocannons clattered on deck as they spun up, spitting bullets at the ocean. Another wave of missiles streaked overhead, followed by two dozen torpedoes slicing through the water. The entire class of droids turned their heads collectively.

Roy swallowed. "Should I, uh, go inside the bridge?"

"Everything's under control," Serenity announced, with maybe a hint of uncertainty. "This target is just sturdier than I expected. Don't worry. Carry on."

He smacked a palm against his forehead, then marched back to the line. The next few droids went one by one, picking names like James Madison, Andrew Johnson, John Monroe—Roy only half paid attention as he was transfixed by the rumbling blasts. Still, he dutifully conjured suits for them. Bow ties, waistcoats, or in some older cases, powdered wigs that made them look ready to sign the Declaration of Independence.

"Another volley, Captain," Serenity chimed in, quieter now. Roy glimpsed giant plumes of water erupting far out at sea, where the triple-finned monstrosity tried to close in.

His throat felt parched. "We might have to stick close to shore from now on. You know, until your aim is, um, less terrible."

"Noted," Serenity murmured. On Roy's panel, a final swirl of torpedoes made contact, apparently convincing the creature to turn tail. All was quiet after that. A few leftover shells clanked to the deck.

Roy realized how bizarre this scene must look: half the droids sporting dusty 1800s attire, the other half waiting in line, the ocean behind them erupting in chaos. He gave a weak thumbs-up. "All right, next up!"

Finally, the fifth Super Elite stepped forward. Its slip read "Franklin D. Roosevelt," which Roy found ironically perfect to pair with Teddy. The wardrobe popped out a smart suit, pince-nez glasses, and a slightly bulky wheelchair. The droid eyed that last item in confusion, but Roy shrugged and told it to at least carry the wheelchair away.

Then the final Super Elite took its turn. The slip said "John F. Kennedy." He conjured a stylish early 1960s suit, neat hair quiff, and an additional pair of aviator–like sunglasses that were absolutely not era-accurate. The droid put them on, looking surprisingly suave.

By midday, every single robot had an assigned name and a somewhat comedic outfit to match. The deck looked like a weird blend of a historical reenactment and a robo-convention. Roy barked out a short, awkward laugh. "God, you all look...amazing!"

They didn't respond, but the new "Washington" pivoted, hat in place, as if waiting for an order. Roy was relieved the naming ceremony had ended without more sea monster drama.

He gazed at the horizon, still mentally feeling the trembling from earlier blasts. "Let's, uh, break for lunch or recharge or whatever you do," he said.

The droids saluted. Some marched inside, others resumed patrol stances. A few started cleaning up bullet casings from the deck.

Roy's eyes flicked to the ocean. Giant waves from repeated missile strikes had left whitecaps and swirling foam. Part of him wondered if that triple-finned beast truly retreated or if it was lurking. He decided not to ask for details. Enough stress for one morning.

He stroked the railing, scanning over his new "Presidroids," each in bizarre period costumes. A shaky grin tugged at his lips. This entire scenario was insane, but it beat letting fear paralyze him. If he could handle monstrous sea threats and pirates, maybe his chances in this hostile new world weren't so bad.