The longer President Robert Binder's limousine trailed lethargically through New York City, the more he could hear the rushing of air as his approval rating plummeted to the ground.
Everywhere he looked, his politician's mind saw lost voters, not for himself, but for his successor, who was guaranteed to lose entire quadrants of the populace in the next general election to the Democrats after the last several months of his policies. At the start of his second term, when public support was riding high after Nicole's kidnapping, he'd hit 62% approval. According to this morning's polls, he was somewhere hovering between the 20s and 30s. His politician's mind cried out at this in anguish; as a father, he shrugged it off. Speaking of which...
"Have you gotten in touch with my daughter?" he asked one of the Secret Service agents, a muscled, humorless looking man who'd been with him since his days as a budding junior Senator. The agent, whose name was Lynch (he knew a lot of agents named Lynch...) shook his head simply, and the President nodded to himself resolutely. Later. He'd talk to Nicole later; their relationship hadn't been the best since she'd gone to the X-Men, after Dallas. Come to think of it, it would have been good to have Dallas here as a representative. The public loved him, despite his mutant heritage, for the way he'd struck out against the X-Men, made it clear that he was his own person, not some one-man public relations ploy for sympathy.
But there was no time for regrets. President Binder had been doing this since long before Dallas Green had been born, and he would be doing it for a long time to come. He could hold his own, even without someone else there to assuage the public. Briefly, as he scanned the streets, lined on both sides with both protesters and supporters, he wondered if this was how Kennedy had felt, then smirked to himself at the irony as they stopped in front of the convention hall.
"Showtime, boys," the President said simply with a small smile as Lynch opened the door. Binder's strides were calm, assured, carefully deduced as he entered the hall. Security was on him like a wet blanket, which was to be expected, but was an irritation nonetheless. The President supposed, though, that the extra security here, of all places, plus the NYPD helping out, would be enough to keep the public under control, and enough to make sure everything ran without a hitch.
That, too, was how Kennedy had felt. Look how it worked for him.