The Dumbest Timeline
Ukrainian Peace. 1600 words, 8 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.
The crimson eye of the camera counted down—three, two, one—while behind the weathered oak doors of Blair House, three men huddled in a corner. President Trump kept checking his reflection in a nearby mirror, adjusting his tie, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his suit.
"Beautiful summit. Maybe the most beautiful summit ever," Trump said, voice pitched low. His eyes darted to the ornate grandfather clock against the wall, then back to the mirror. "But something's missing. I have this feeling, like I can’t remember."
Ukrainian President Zelenskyy sat rigid, shoulders squared despite the exhaustion that had settled into his bones. Three years of war had carved permanent lines into his face. Behind his stoic expression lay calculations—how many would die while he stood in this room playing diplomatic games? How many buildings would crumble? How many children would become orphans?
Vice President Vance checked his watch. "Mr. President, we should take our positions. The networks are—"
"I remember this episode," Trump interrupted, eyes suddenly bright with recollection. "Season four. No, five. Maybe three." He frowned, momentarily confused. "Which season had the boardroom fight between the model and the businessman?"
Behind him, Zelenskyy's translator hesitated, uncertain how to convey this non-sequitur.
"Sir," Vance tried again, "the networks are—"
"The ratings that night," Trump continued, his attention now completely focused on Zelenskyy, "broke all records. All records. Because people don't want to see everybody getting along. That's boring. They want drama. Conflict." He jabbed a finger toward Vance. "You. You're going to pick a fight." Trump dramatically turned his finger to Zelenskyy, then continued, "with him."
Vance's mask of deference slipped for just a moment. This wasn't the first time he'd had to navigate an unexpected directive minutes before a critical event. Three weeks ago, it had been a demand to announce tariffs on Canadian timber during a NATO summit. Before that, a suggestion to invite Kim Jong-un to Mar-a-Lago—via a Truth Social post.
"Mr. President," Vance said, voice measured, "this summit is about ending a war that has killed millions. Perhaps we should focus on—"
"And then you," Trump continued, now fully ignoring Vance and focusing on Zelenskyy, "you storm out. Like you're insulted. Furious!" His hands rose to mimic an explosion. "Everybody’s watching, right? They'll panic. They'll think America's backing out."
Zelenskyy's eyes met Vance's. In that fleeting connection passed a complex conversation—recognition, resignation, calculation. This wasn't diplomacy; it was survival.
"Fifteen seconds, gentlemen," called a staffer from the doorway.
Zelenskyy had survived two assassination attempts, slept in underground bunkers, and watched his country burn. What was one more performance if it meant saving Ukrainian lives?
"You're sure this will work?" Zelenskyy asked, his accent thickening with stress.
"Guaranteed," Trump nodded vigorously. "Europe’s watching. They’re weak. They always fold under pressure. Always looking for America's approval."
As Trump turned away, already shifting into his public persona for the benefit of the nearby cameras, Vance stepped closer to Zelenskyy.
"My office, after," Vance whispered, barely moving his lips. "We'll salvage this."
"Have you even said thank you ONCE?!" Vance's voice thundered through the press room, his hand pounding the table for emphasis. Sweat gathered at his temples—a detail the cameras would surely catch, adding authenticity to the performance.
The assembled journalists froze. The summit had begun with standard diplomatic pleasantries before veering suddenly into hostile territory.
"Blank checks?" Zelenskyy pushed back from the table, his chair screeching against hardwood. His English emerged broken, halting. "Is that what call the price of freedom? While my people dig children from rubble, you count pennies?"
Between them, Trump watched with an expression of practiced concern. But twice now, when cameras panned away, Zelenskyy had caught the president checking his watch, then glimpsing toward the aide holding a monitor displaying the live viewership counts.
"Vance," Zelenskyy continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet, "have you ever been to Ukraine that you say what problems we have?"
He nodded once to his delegation. They gathered their materials with practiced efficiency—they'd been briefed in whispers during a bathroom break a few minutes earlier.
"This summit," Zelenskyy announced, standing to his full height, "shows that some nations prefer spectacle to substance."
The Ukrainian delegation filed out, the door closing with theatrical finality behind them. In the ensuing chaos—journalists shouting questions, cameras swiveling—Trump leaned toward his chief of staff.
"Did you see that? Perfect exit. That’ll kill on Fox tonight."
In the third row, a veteran Washington Post reporter watched Vance slip a piece of paper into his pocket—a paper that had been discreetly passed to him by a Ukrainian aide moments before the blowup began. She'd been covering political theater long enough to recognize when the actors were following a different script than the one they’d rehearsed.
Four days later, Trump sat behind the Resolute Desk, tie loosened, a half-eaten hamburger on a plate beside him. Fox News played footage of the summit walkout on a loop, each replay accompanied by commentators praising the president's tough stance.
"Sir," his secretary's voice came through the intercom. "President Zelenskyy is calling from Brussels."
Trump straightened, quickly wiping ketchup from his fingers. "Put him through. Speaker."
Vance, who'd been quietly making notations in a leather portfolio, set his pen down. His eyes remained fixed on his papers, but his attention shifted entirely to the call.
"President Trump." Zelenskyy's voice filled the room.
"Zelenskyy! Great job the other day. Just like we planned." Trump winked at Vance, though the vice president wasn't looking at him.
A measured pause. "The European Security Council has approved the proposal. Full security guarantees, with binding commitments for reconstruction."
Trump's smile spread wide across his face. "See? I told you it would work! Nobody knows deals like I do. Nobody."
"The terms," Zelenskyy continued, "include the Minerals Deal we discussed with Vice President Vance in February."
Trump's smile faltered slightly. He glanced at Vance, who nodded reassuringly.
"Of course," Trump said. "The deal. The Minerals Deal. Great deal. The best."
"I am also prepared to sign the economic cooperation agreement prioritizing American companies in the reconstruction process," Zelenskyy added. "And as discussed, I will announce my decision to resign from a leadership role immediately."
"Fantastic deal. The best deal. Nobody makes deals like we do," Trump proclaimed, slapping the desk enthusiastically. "American companies will rebuild Ukraine bigger and better than ever!"
The call ended, and Trump swung toward Vance, jubilant. "That's how you do it, J.D. Reality TV tactics. Works in business, works in politics."
"Very effective, Mr. President," Vance agreed carefully. Then, steeling himself, he asked the question that had been burning in the back of his mind for days.
"So we'll get them those missiles now, right?" Vance asked. "You know. The new ones. The ones we talked about yesterday."
Trump reached for a folder labeled "UKRAINE" on his desk, then paused, frowning at it. "Wait, what missiles? What are you talking about?"
"The defensive systems we discussed, sir. Part of the agreement you negotiated."
Trump's expression clouded, confusion replacing triumph. "What agreement? With who?"
"With Ukraine, sir. The walkout strategy at the summit that pressured Europe."
"Walkout? What walkout?" Trump's voice hardened defensively. "There was no walkout. That's fake news. Why would I plan a walkout?"
Vance observed the president's face—the genuine bewilderment, the flash of fear quickly buried beneath certainty. These episodes had been coming more frequently: three last week, five the week before. Each time, Vance documented them in a private log, sharing the information only with the small circle of staff who kept the administration functioning.
"My mistake, sir," Vance said smoothly, rising to retrieve a different folder from his briefcase. "About the defensive systems for Kyiv—"
"Right, right. Missiles." Trump's expression cleared instantly. "Beautiful missiles. The biggest. Nobody has missiles like we do."
As Vance outlined the logistics—the same points he'd covered yesterday, and the day before—Trump nodded along, occasionally inserting superlatives about American weaponry. Later, when Vance stepped out, the president would likely call the Pentagon and ask for the same briefing again, with no memory of this conversation.
That evening, as rain washed over Washington, Vance sat in his West Wing office, a secure line connecting him to Zelenskyy. Documents lay spread across the desk—contingency plans, treaties, security arrangements—the real work of governance happening in the shadows of a presidency increasingly detached from reality.
"The memory lapses are getting worse," Vance said quietly. "But the infrastructure we've built is holding. Defense, State, and Treasury are operating on the frameworks we established."
"And if he removes you?" Zelenskyy asked, the question they both revisited weekly.
"The systems are in place now. They don't depend on me anymore."
Both men fell silent, carrying the weight of nations alongside secrets that could never be shared. They had learned to build peace despite chaos, to create stability around instability, to navigate a world where reality had become as malleable as television.
In Kyiv, the air raid sirens had not sounded in thirty-six hours—the longest stretch of silence in months. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps it meant everything.
Somewhere between spectacle and substance, a fragile peace took hold.
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