Stable Genius
Ceasefire. 900 words, 3 minute read. With Gemini.
The studio was cold, but the lights were hot. Bartholomew Clemens felt the familiar paradox as a bead of sweat traced a path from his hairline down his temple. On the corner of his polished desk, just out of frame, sat a small, silver-framed photograph of him and his wife in Jerusalem, the Western Wall gleaming behind them. He glanced at it, a ritual that anchored him to the bedrock convictions fueling his commentary. The floor manager’s hand sliced through the air. The “ON AIR” light glowed a fierce, unforgiving red.
Barty leaned into the camera, his face a portrait of solemn strength. “Good evening, Patriots,” his voice resonated, full of the deep timbre he had cultivated over two decades. “Tonight, the forces of darkness have once again lashed out. The terror state of Iran… has launched an unprovoked attack on our most steadfast friend in the Middle East.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “The standard of freedom, the Star of David, is under fire. And as President Trump has always understood, we do not—we cannot—let that standard fall.”
His opening was flawless, a crescendo of righteous certainty. This was easy. This was truth.
A sharp, tinny voice crackled in his earpiece. Janice. “Barty, the President is posting. Stand by.”
Barty’s smile was serene. “It seems the President is already weighing in, folks,” he said, turning expectantly toward the control room beyond the camera. “I’m sure he’s making America’s unwavering support crystal clear.”
He waited for a graphic that never came. Instead, Janice’s voice returned, tight and strained. “Okay, Barty. New direction. The angle is… self-reliance. They should be handling their own problems.”
The air in Barty’s lungs seemed to turn to ice. His confident posture slackened for a half-second. His gaze instinctively darted to the photo on his desk, then back to the camera’s unblinking eye. A chasm had opened between his anchor and his orders. His hand, resting on the desk, trembled slightly.
“Barty. Address it,” Janice’s voice was calm, but with an edge of steel.
He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent studio. “And there… there you have it,” he began, the gears of his mind grinding audibly. “President Trump… with the kind of high-level, strategic thinking that so often eludes the D.C. establishment.” The words felt like foreign objects in his mouth. “This isn’t abandonment. This is… empowerment. He’s making it clear that our allies must have the strength to pay their fair share and stand on their own two feet. It’s a bold, America-First strategy.” He reached for his glass of water, his hand not quite steady.
The earpiece hissed again, this time with an audible sigh from Janice. “Barty… you’re not going to believe this. He’s talking to the Iranians. He… he says he likes the guy. He’s calling the attack ‘fake news.’”
Barty felt a wave of nausea. He squeezed his eyes shut for a single, long second. With them? After everything? He saw not the gleaming wall in his photo, but the face of a younger, more certain version of himself. He felt a profound sense of dislocation, as if he were floating above the set, watching a stranger wear his suit.
“Just sell it, Barty,” Janice’s voice was flat, no longer a colleague, but a director. “The new line is ‘peacemaker.’ Go.”
He blinked, forcing the room back into focus. The performance. He was an actor. He straightened his tie, a sharp, angry tug. “Incredible,” he breathed, shaking his head as if in wonder. The muscles in his jaw ached. “While the warmongers were beating their drums, President Trump was doing what he does best: making peace. He bypassed the corrupt media, went straight to the source, and is now on the verge of a historic accord.” His words came faster now, slick with a desperate sheen of sincerity. “True strength isn't starting wars—it's having the guts to prevent them.”
The final instruction from Janice came without preamble, her voice stripped of all emotion. “It’s over, Barty. Ceasefire. He says he did it.”
Barty stared blankly into the camera lens. The whiplash was over. The violent oscillations had ceased. He felt a profound, hollow emptiness, the adrenaline draining away, leaving only the chill of the studio air. He let out a long, slow breath that fogged the air in front of him for a split second. His shoulders, which had been tensed up to his ears, slumped.
Then, he pushed them back, squared his chin, and found the camera. The serene mask of the authoritative commentator slipped perfectly back into place.
“And there you have it,” he said, his voice a smooth, confident baritone once more. “As we have been telling you all night, President Trump has had this situation under his complete control from the very beginning.” He paused, and for the briefest moment, his eyes shifted to his own reflection in the dark monitor. He saw a man, flawlessly lit, speaking with unshakeable conviction. He held the gaze of the stranger for a second too long.
“A decisive, powerful end to the conflict. A clear victory for peace, brought about by American strength.”