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In the year 2143, after decades of escalating climate crises and mounting political instability, the United States passed the Presidential Anchor Act. Its primary mandate: every federal agency must house a living clone of the sitting president, an anchor to the bioenergetic fields binding humanity to the Earth.

The clones were not mere figureheads but living conduits, synchronizing with the original president’s consciousness at irregular intervals—moments of what the agencies called "executive resonance." These clones, housed in secure biocapsules within each agency, served as focal points for the bioenergetic audits, ensuring that every executive action rippled harmoniously through the Earth's delicate biophysical lattice.

The decision wasn’t made lightly. Scientists had discovered that the presidency itself had become a geomantic axis—a strange fusion of biology, governance, and planetary energy. Years of sitting in the Oval Office had tethered the president’s cardiological field to the Earth's core rhythms. It was as if the presidency had evolved into a living office, its pulse intertwined with that of the planet.

"Democracy will be ensured for this dimension of Terran fauna," proclaimed President Alena Frost, announcing the Act from a shimmering podium designed to amplify her energetic aura. The press conference wasn’t held in the White House—it took place in the Central Synchronization Dome, a crystalline structure erected at the heart of the National Mall, where faint pulses of blue-green light could be seen spiraling upward into the ionosphere.

Some called it revolutionary. Others called it a thinly veiled technocracy, the presidency fractally embedded into every branch of governance, its reach now physical and metaphysical.

It was impossible to ignore the clones. They were exact replicas, down to the smallest scar or dimple, but their eyes bore a slightly different quality—a glint of something alien. Within the Department of Agriculture, the Frost clone sat motionless in her pod, her heartbeat synchronizing with the flow of photosynthetic energy worldwide. At the Department of Defense, another Frost clone maintained the fragile harmony of Terran biocurrents, ensuring that no human conflict disrupted the Earth's subtle systems.

Critics argued this system had created a new kind of presidency, one no longer rooted in democratic accountability but in bioenergetic supremacy. Yet, for all their skepticism, the results were hard to deny. Hurricanes dissipated mid-formation. Crops began growing in previously barren regions. The global temperature stabilized, as if some unseen hand had dialed it back into balance.

Within the Oval Office itself, the original President Frost sat in a state of constant bioenergetic flux, a living keystone linking Earth’s lifeforce to the machinery of governance. Her consciousness occasionally brushed against that of her clones, creating a disconcerting, fragmented omnipresence. She had begun speaking in collective pronouns: "We authorize this." "We ensure this stability."

No one knew how long the system could last. The clones aged at an accelerated rate, burning out within years, their existence a stark reminder of the burden Frost and her successors had taken on. Some whispered that the system was unnatural, a dangerous meddling in forces humanity didn’t fully understand.

But for now, democracy endured—not as a simple exchange of votes, but as an intricate dance of energy, governance, and planetary stewardship. Terran fauna, for better or worse, had been enfolded into the vast and pulsing web of executive resonance.