Act I – Seizing Control (2025–2026)
Chapter 1: Inauguration Day
Elaine Buchanan stood behind the inaugural platform on a cold, bright January noon and surveyed what Washington had become. Pennsylvania Avenue was lined with double layers of fencing, and beyond it the roar of protesters echoed off federal facades. Black-clad riot police manned checkpoints filtering the sparse invited crowd. The capital city looked more like a fort under siege than the site of a peaceful transfer of power.
Elaine tugged her coat tighter against the sharp wind and checked her phone. No new security alerts – good. She had been up since before dawn coordinating with the Secret Service and Metro Police. So far, no breaches of the perimeter, no credible threats. Still, tension bristled in the air. A chorus of chants from the National Mall wafted over: "Not my president! Not my president!" Thousands of voices, angry and defiant. Elaine pressed her lips thin. They can shout themselves hoarse, she thought, Victor Trumbull will be sworn in regardless.
On the platform, dignitaries were taking their seats. Many faces from four years ago were absent; most Democratic Union lawmakers boycotted the ceremony in protest. By contrast, National Party leaders filled the front rows, beaming with triumph. Senate Majority Leader Lawrence Rhodes sat with hands clasped, eyes fixed forward. He gave Elaine a curt nod as their eyes briefly met. Rhodes looked more wary than celebratory. Perhaps the chants unsettled him, or perhaps his conscience did. Not that it mattered now. He'd made his choice to back Trumbull's return, and here they all were.
A burst of fanfare from the Marine Band announced the arrival of the President-elect. Victor Trumbull emerged from the Capitol's archway, coat billowing, one hand raised to wave. The other rested on the arm of Chief Justice Roberta Greene, who carried a Bible for the oath. Trumbull ascended the dais with a broad, satisfied grin, his breath visible in the frigid air. Elaine's heart quickened. She joined the applause as he turned to face the gathered assembly. They had done it. Four years after being voted out amid chaos, Trumbull was moments from regaining the presidency. Elaine felt pride — and a tremor of anxiety. We won't get another chance if we falter now, she reminded herself. We must move fast.
Chief Justice Greene raised a hand and the crowd quieted. "Please repeat after me," Justice Greene began, voice formal. "I, Victor Samuel Trumbull, do solemnly swear…"
Trumbull's right hand rested on the Bible, his left lifted. "...that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States…" he repeated, voice echoing over the hushed plaza, "and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States." When he finished "...so help me God," Justice Greene offered a wan smile. "Congratulations, Mr. President."
Applause and a 21-gun salute thundered. In the distance, the protesters' roar swelled again, but it was drowned by the band striking up a patriotic march. Victor Trumbull turned and lifted both arms triumphantly, soaking in the adulation from his supporters. Elaine clapped along, forcing an expression of dignified joy. She stood just behind the new President as he stepped up to the podium for his inaugural address, and from her vantage point she could see the divide playing out: beyond the security fences, plumes of smoke and scattered shouting hinted at unrest, while within the cordon, the ceremony proceeded with choreographed precision.
Trumbull began his speech in a warm, confident tone. "My fellow citizens of Columbia," he declared, "today we the people take back our country." Immediately, cheers erupted from the loyalists in the stands. On the Mall, boos and jeers answered, faint but audible. Elaine's spine stiffened. The contrast was jarring — two irreconcilable choirs exchanging praise and fury.
The speech wove between conciliatory notes and hard-edged promises. Trumbull spoke of unity and prosperity, but swiftly pivoted to a grimmer theme. "For too long," he said, voice rising, "the will of the people has been undermined by fraud, corruption, and the entrenched elites in our institutions. That era is over. Starting today, we begin a great national renewal." Elaine cast a quick glance toward the seated officials. A few shifted uneasily. They all knew who he cast as "entrenched elites."
Trumbull continued, "We will restore integrity in our government. No more deception, no more collusion against the American people." His supporters applauded wildly. "Those who betrayed your trust — we will hold them accountable." At that line, Elaine saw Rhodes lower his eyes. The message was unmistakable: anyone who had opposed Trumbull or failed to support his claims of a stolen election was now marked. It sent a chill even through Elaine's veins, despite her loyalty.
As the address went on, Trumbull's rhetoric sharpened. "We will rebuild our institutions with loyal, patriotic Americans," he vowed, "and together, make our nation stronger than ever." The phrase loyal, patriotic Americans hung in the air. Elaine knew it was a signal. The bureaucrats, judges, and officers who were not deemed "loyal" would find themselves cast out. She scanned the dignitaries and military brass lining the stage. Stone-faced generals stared straight ahead. Justice Greene's lips pressed in a thin line. They understood the undercurrent.
Finally, Trumbull reached his crescendo. "This is our movement, our moment, and nothing will stop us!" he thundered. On cue, red-white-and-blue confetti cannons fired, and the Marine Band launched into the anthem. The ceremony was complete. Victor Trumbull was once again President of Columbia, and he had made it brutally clear that he intended to use his reclaimed power to its fullest.
Elaine released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her phone buzzed with a priority message. She stepped back as officials began to mingle and congratulate one another. Pulling the device discreetly from her coat, she read the alert from her deputy chief of staff: "Schedule F EO ready for signature at 1500 hrs." A small knot formed in Elaine's stomach. Schedule F — the executive order to reclassify thousands of civil servants and strip their job protections — was to be Trumbull's first act this very afternoon. They had the document prepared and waiting on his Resolute Desk. Elaine replied quickly: "Confirmed. Will brief POTUS en route to WH."
Pocketing the phone, she looked up at Trumbull, who was shaking hands with the Chief Justice and a few lawmakers. As if sensing her gaze, he glanced over and gave a slight, satisfied nod. He didn't need to say it: this is what they'd been planning for years. Now it was go time.
From beyond the barricades came a sudden swell of noise — shouting and a scuffle. Elaine saw a flash of movement: a protest banner ripped down, a surge of people against a fence. Almost immediately, a column of riot police repositioned, and moments later a cloud of tear gas drifted above the far end of the Mall. The chants turned to screams and angry cries.
Elaine felt an uneasy mix of vindication and dismay. The show of force was working — the protests would be held at bay — but it was a grim portent of how this administration would rule. She had expected nothing less. Turning away from the distant chaos, she refocused on the task at hand.
"Ma'am, motorcade is ready," a Secret Service agent said quietly at her elbow.
Elaine nodded. As she helped usher President Trumbull toward the Capitol steps and his armored limousine, she caught one last glimpse of the Capitol dome gleaming in the pale sun. Four years ago, she had walked these same steps when Trumbull grudgingly left office under a cloud. The rotunda still bore faint scars from that January 6th melee. Now he was back under vastly different circumstances — triumphant but embittered, with scores to settle.
Elaine squared her shoulders against the cold and marched forward. The protestors' clamor and the acrid hint of tear gas in the air only steeled her resolve. The guardrails of the past were coming down, just as Trumbull had promised. And she, as his chief of staff once again, would be at the center of it all.
Marcia Davenport pressed against the metal barricade at 3rd Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, her notebook in one hand and a damp bandana in the other. Around her, a crowd of thousands seethed with anger and despair. "Shame! Shame!" they chanted toward the Capitol, their voices hoarse from hours in the cold. Overhead, a helicopter circled, its rotor wash thumping ominously.
Marcia, an investigative reporter for the Columbian Chronicle, had chosen to stand with the protesters rather than sit in the sanitized press section. From here at street level, she could feel the rage and fear first-hand. The protest area was penned in by rows of armored police and concrete barriers. On the other side of those barriers, the official parade route awaited the new President's motorcade. But here, beyond Trumbull's carefully secured bubble, was a very different inauguration day.
She flipped open her notebook and scribbled an observation: "Crowd at fence – mix of young & old, tears in eyes. Signs: Not My President, Democracy Died Today." The air reeked of smoke from a small fire someone had lit in a trash barrel to keep warm, and of vinegar – protesters had doused bandanas to protect against tear gas. Many were wearing goggles or helmets, a tragic adaptation for citizens gathering in their own capital.
As Trumbull's oath echoed faintly from distant loudspeakers, the mood of the crowd became explosive. When his voice boomed "take back our country," a chorus of furious boos drowned the rest. Some people shook the barricades in frustration. Marcia's heart pounded. She'd covered unrest before, but witnessing her countrymen cry out in such agony on what should have been a ceremonial day – it unnerved her deeply.
Suddenly, a disturbance rippled through the front line of the crowd. Marcia craned her neck. A handful of younger protesters in black hoodies had begun rocking one of the barricades, shouting "No fascist USA!" each time they heaved. A section of metal fence creaked and slid forward a few inches.
Marcia clicked her phone's camera to capture the moment. She had a bad feeling about what would come next. Sure enough, a stern warning blared from police loudspeakers: "This assembly is unlawful. Disperse immediately." Before anyone could react, a thunderous boom shook the street – a flash-bang grenade detonating near the fence line. People screamed and ducked. In the same instant, canisters sailed overhead, trailing white smoke. Tear gas.
Pandemonium ensued. Protesters stumbled back, eyes streaming. Some fell and were trampled as the crowd recoiled from the advancing wall of riot police. Marcia yanked her bandana over her nose and mouth and squeezed her eyes shut as the tear gas swept over her. It burned like acid. She fumbled blindly, coughing hard, and felt a hand grab her arm.
"This way!" a voice rasped. A stranger guided her a few yards until they were out of the thick of it. Marcia blinked tears away. The scene was chaos: dozens of people retching and wiping at their faces, medics rushing to flush eyes with water, and behind them, the black phalanx of police methodically pushing the crowd further down the block. The barricade where the breach was attempted now lay on its side, with a few protesters facedown and handcuffed beside it.
Marcia's throat and lungs burned. She tasted metal on her tongue. But she forced herself to focus – to document. She snapped a photo of a middle-aged woman weeping as she cradled her injured arm, and jotted details: "No warning before flash-bang… gas deployed widely… Protest signs trampled underfoot." This was history unfolding in front of her, even if it felt like a nightmare.
From several blocks away, the blare of a marching band signaled the inauguration parade was starting. Through the drifting gas, Marcia glimpsed the distant silhouette of the presidential motorcade rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, flanked by Secret Service agents. The official festivities were proceeding as if nothing was wrong, even as riot police were clearing the streets just out of the TV cameras' view.
She coughed violently, then heard a cry: "Help, someone!" Marcia turned to see a young man in a red hoodie kneeling, holding up another protester – an older man who was collapsed and semiconscious. Without hesitation, Marcia rushed over to help ease the stricken man to the ground. A medic arrived and checked his pulse. "Tear gas asthma attack," the medic said hurriedly. "He needs an inhaler or he won't breathe." The medic rifled through his bag. Marcia hovered anxiously until, with relief, they found the inhaler and administered a few puffs. The man wheezed back to life, coughing, but the immediate danger passed.
As the medic moved on to the next patient, Marcia stayed a moment, squeezing the older man's hand reassuringly. His eyes were bloodshot. "I can't believe… they did that to us," he gasped. "We just wanted to be heard."
Marcia had no comforting answer. She offered him a small bottled water from her satchel and helped him sit up against a lamp post. In the distance, she could hear cheering — likely Trumbull's supporters at the parade viewing stands. The cognitive dissonance made her dizzy.
Her phone vibrated with a news alert. Still kneeling by the recovering protester, Marcia glanced at the screen. The headline made her catch her breath: "President Trumbull signs executive order removing civil service protections – 'Schedule F' reinstated." It had happened already, barely an hour after the oath. She knew what that meant: a massive purge of government employees was imminent. Many of her own sources inside agencies had feared this day; now those fears were reality.
Marcia's eyes stung, and not just from the tear gas. In her notebook, she wrote a single line under her running notes of the day: "democratic guardrails collapsing."
She rose unsteadily to her feet. The protest crowd had been pushed blocks away now, dispersed into clusters. Only a few defiant groups remained nearby, singing "We Shall Overcome" through coughing fits or holding up broken signs. The police had formed a solid line to block any approach to the avenue. The battle was over for now.
Marcia realized her cheeks were wet — tears of anger, sorrow, and chemical irritation all at once. She took a last photo of the scene: an American flag trampled in the gutter, backlit by the flashing lights of police vehicles. In the distance, down Pennsylvania Avenue, brass music and applause drifted toward them, surreal and mocking.
She thumbed a message to her editor: "On the ground – police deployed tear gas at inauguration protest. Multiple injuries. Got quotes & pics. Filing story ASAP." There was no doubt what her angle would be. Today's events, from the militarized ceremony to the swift punitive executive order to the crackdown on citizens, painted a chilling picture. Marcia intended to write it with unflinching clarity.
Her phone already showed an invitation to appear on an evening news panel to discuss the inauguration. She suspected that by day's end, Trumbull allies would be on the airwaves spinning this as a triumph of order over "anarchists" or dismissing the protestors as paid agitators. The familiar cycle of disinformation was revving up.
Marcia wiped her face, straightened her back, and started walking toward the Chronicle's downtown office, which wasn't far. As she moved, she passed small knots of people consoling each other. A young woman clutching a Not My President sign was sobbing; an older black man wrapped her in a hug. A few others simply stared in the direction of the Capitol, faces blank with shock.
One older woman recognized Marcia and caught her by the sleeve. "Please," the woman pleaded, voice trembling, "tell people what really happened here."
Marcia swallowed hard. "I will," she promised.
And she meant it. No matter how relentless the propaganda or how high the risk, she would chronicle every step of this descent. It was the only way she knew to fight back.
Karen Li kept to the fringes of the dispersing protest, one eye on the Capitol dome and one on the agitated crowd around her. Even bundled in a plain overcoat and knit cap, she had been recognized multiple times today. A few protesters approached her with gratitude and encouragement; others simply gave a nod of respect. Karen was a familiar name to them — the rare National Party lawmaker who had stood against Trumbull. She felt humbled by their thanks, and guilty that she couldn't have done more.
Now a cold dusk was settling in. The streets were littered with spent tear gas canisters and trampled signs. Karen's eyes still watered from residual tear gas, and her heart was heavy. She watched as the last of the banners were furled and people began straggling home, faces etched with disillusionment. The inauguration was over, but the real ordeal was only beginning.
A burly man in a Navy veteran's cap walked beside Karen as she headed toward a side street. "Ma'am," he said quietly, "it's an honor. We know you tried to stop this."
Karen managed a tight smile. "We tried," she replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Not hard enough, maybe."
The veteran shook his head. "Harder than any of the others. Don't blame yourself." He gave a polite nod and slowed, falling back into the remnants of the crowd.
She appreciated the sentiment, but the guilt lingered. Karen had lost her House seat as the price of opposing Trumbull's lies. She'd been stripped of her committee roles, demonized by her own party, and ultimately defeated by a Trumbull-backed primary challenger. And still, it hadn't been enough to prevent this day. Perhaps nothing could have. The institutions had bent and broken one by one under the strain of his movement.
Up ahead, her aide Matthew waited by an idling car to ferry her out of the city. Karen's security was a serious concern now; the death threats had ticked up again after Trumbull's victory. But she refused to hide at home on this consequential day. She needed to witness it, to remind herself why she must continue fighting in whatever capacity she could.
Before she reached the car, Karen paused and looked back at Congress Hall, the Columbian Capitol. Its white dome glowed under the early sunset, stately and unchanged on the outside. On the west front, she could make out the now-empty inaugural stands and, beyond, the reviewing stand where Trumbull had saluted the parade. By now he would be at the White House, signing the stack of orders Elaine had no doubt prepared — including the one already announced. Karen had seen the alert about Schedule F flash across a protester's phone. Even expecting it, she felt a pang of sorrow and anger. Thousands of nonpartisan civil servants would be labeled "enemies" and pushed out simply because they were hired under the previous administration or were deemed insufficiently loyal.
She drew a deep breath, the frigid air stinging her lungs. Four years ago, after the horror of January 6th, Karen had dared to hope the fever might break — that her party might come to its senses. Instead, the fever had become a fire, consuming the moderates and dissenters, elevating the most extreme. What could a small handful of principled citizens do against such a blaze?
Yet as she stood there, the images of the day seared into her mind: Trumbull's hand on the Bible as he spoke false promises, phalanxes of troops guarding him from his own people, peaceful protesters choking on tear gas in the streets of the capital… Karen felt a steely resolve take shape within her. The cost of conscience was high, yes. But the cost of silence, she now saw, would be far higher.
Her phone buzzed with a message from an old colleague on the Hill: "Thinking of you today. Dark times. Don't quit."
Karen pocketed the phone and turned to open the car door. "Drive me to the Chronicle office, please," she instructed Matthew as she got in.
He looked over his shoulder, concerned. "Are you sure, ma'am? It might be safer to head home."
Karen buckled her seatbelt. "I'm sure. I'd like to speak with a reporter friend while I'm in town. And perhaps give a comment on the record."
If the new regime was starting its rule by arresting truth-tellers and rewriting reality, Karen intended to use whatever voice she had left to counter them. The Chronicle's star reporter Marcia Davenport was likely writing up today's story right now; Karen figured she could at least lend her perspective or moral support.
As the car pulled away, Karen cast one more glance toward the Capitol dome receding in the distance. It looked tranquil from here, belying the turmoil within. "God help us," she whispered under her breath, a prayer or a curse or both.
No one person could restore the guardrails that had failed, she knew that. It would take a movement as sustained and determined as Trumbull's. Karen vowed to herself that she would find others, band together, and do everything in their power to hold the line. Perhaps it was futile. But to do otherwise — to surrender to inevitable tyranny — was unthinkable.
As the car neared the Chronicle building, Karen sat a bit straighter. She smoothed her jacket and checked the tear-gas stains on her blouse – no matter. She would walk in proudly. Stepping out, she thanked Matthew and told him to come back for her in a couple of hours. Then she took a deep breath of the cold evening air. It tasted of exhaust and winter and possibility. One battle had been lost with Trumbull's swearing-in, but many more lay ahead.
Karen Li intended to meet each one head-on, no matter the cost. She strode toward the bright lobby lights of the Chronicle, ready to lend her voice once more to the truth. Behind her, in the distance across the river, the Capitol dome glowed under the darkening sky – a beacon of a republic that, though battered and fragile, had not yet gone dark.
Chapter 2: Night of the Long Resignations
Marcus Hall strode through the West Wing corridors with a list of names in one hand and a secure phone in the other. Outside, the January night was black and silent, but inside the White House, it was a frenzy of activity. Hours after the inauguration, the administration was moving swiftly to consolidate power. Marcus, now National Security Advisor and Trumbull's trusted hatchet man, was at the center of it.
He stepped into the Situation Room anteroom, which had been converted for the evening into a command post for personnel changes. A cluster of aides hovered around a conference table strewn with documents. On a large whiteboard were columns labeled "Justice Dept", "Defense", "Intelligence", each with a list of officials' names – many marked with red Xs.
Marcus checked his wristwatch: 9:30 PM. The President wanted the purge well underway by midnight. "Purge" was the word Marcus privately used, though in official terms this was presented as routine transitions and reassignments. In truth, it was anything but routine. The Schedule F order signed that afternoon had opened the floodgates. Across Washington, the heads of multiple agencies and countless civil servants were being told to clear out their desks.
He dialed the next number on his list. It rang only once. "Good evening, Mr. Secretary," Marcus said briskly when the Defense Secretary answered. "The President requests your resignation effective immediately."
A sharp intake of breath came over the line. The Defense Secretary began to protest.
"If you refuse, you will be terminated. The Deputy Secretary will assume your duties," Marcus cut in coldly.
A weighted pause. Then the Secretary's voice, low: "Understood."
Marcus ended the call and made a note on his list: another red X on the whiteboard. A press release would soon announce the "retirement" with polite fiction about time with family.
"Department of Justice – status?" Marcus asked the room.
A young lawyer from Presidential Personnel stepped forward. "The Attorney General and FBI Director have submitted resignations as requested," she reported. "Their top deputies refused, so we fired them outright and had security escort them out."
Marcus nodded. The DOJ purge was swift and total. By morning, loyalists would be installed in all key positions. Marcus himself had recommended a hardliner for acting Attorney General – a man who openly embraced Trumbull's claims and would zealously carry out orders.
"Pentagon?" Marcus prompted, glancing at the Defense column.
Another aide replied, "The new Acting SecDef is asking several senior generals to retire early. Most are agreeing quietly."
Good, Marcus thought. Better that than having to publicly fire top military brass on Day One. That said, a shake-up in the officer corps was coming. Many who were seen as disloyal or "politically correct" would be eased out soon enough – some starting tonight.
Marcus's secure phone buzzed. He glanced at the text from his liaison at Homeland Security: "FBI Director gone. Replacement ready to go." He allowed himself a thin smile. Piece by piece, the plan was coming together.
He stepped aside as an aide handed him a fresh list – dozens of policy-level civil servants just reclassified under Schedule F, slated for dismissal by dawn. He recognized many as names flagged in the Restoration Plan: economists, lawyers, analysts who had frustrated Trumbull's agenda or debunked his narratives. They were all about to be wiped out of government.
"Make the calls," Marcus instructed, tapping the list. "All of them, right now." Letters were ready informing each individual their employment was terminated. By the time courts or Congress could react (if they even tried), these people would be gone.
In the corner, a muted TV showed a news ticker: "Resignations Sweep Federal Government on Inauguration Night." A panel of analysts looked stunned on the split screen. Marcus didn't need to hear them. He knew what they'd say – words like "purge" and "authoritarian." He dismissed the thought. This was necessary work, he told himself. We're draining the swamp for real.
He surveyed the room of busy aides and felt a grim satisfaction. The old guard was being swept out wholesale, just as they had schemed. By sunrise, the federal bureaucracy would be firmly under Trumbull's grip, staffed only by those who got with the program.
Marcus Hall picked up the phone again and dialed the next official on the list. "Good evening," he began politely. "I'm calling from the White House. I regret to inform you…"
Justice Margaret Greene sat alone in her Capitol Hill apartment, the glow of a muted television flickering across her living room. On screen, pundits were debating the astonishing events unfolding in Washington. A banner along the bottom read: "Resignation or Purge? Unprecedented Night in D.C."
Greene's stomach knotted. She had been the one to administer the oath of office to Victor Trumbull that very afternoon. Now, not even twelve hours later, she barely recognized her country. The Justice Department hollowed out, military leaders dismissed, and an executive order aimed at gutting the civil service – all in a day.
She muted the TV and sank into an armchair. In her lap lay a leather-bound copy of the Constitution. She found herself absently running her fingers over its cover. As a Supreme Court Justice, Margaret Greene had long believed in the strength of institutions and the rule of law. But tonight she felt those foundations trembling.
On the silent TV, a former judge on the panel was visibly outraged, calling the night's actions an assault on democracy. Another panelist – a National Party loyalist – was smirking, undoubtedly defending the President's right to choose his team. Justice Greene didn't need the sound to know how that argument went: "It's legal, elections have consequences," they would say. Legality, she knew, could be cold comfort. Much of this might technically fit within the letter of the law, yet violate its spirit entirely.
She leaned forward and picked up her phone from the coffee table. It was buzzing constantly with messages from colleagues and friends in the legal community. "Alarming and surreal," one text from a fellow judge read. Another: "Can the Court do anything?" She didn't have an answer yet.
Margaret considered calling an emergency meeting among the Supreme Court Justices. Some of her colleagues were surely as disturbed as she was. But others, she knew, were more sympathetic to Trumbull's philosophy of executive power and might not view tonight's events with the same alarm. The Court itself was ideologically split. Would they stand united if the President's actions were challenged? And if they did rule against him someday, would this administration even comply? The question was chilling.
Her eyes fell on the framed photograph atop her bookshelf – a picture of her and a few other Justices at a judicial conference, all smiling in simpler times. How distant that world felt. She had privately told friends that the judiciary might be the last bulwark if Trumbull ever tried to exceed his authority. Now she wondered if even that bulwark could hold, or if it would be bypassed or ignored.
A memory from earlier in the day flashed in her mind: after the inauguration ceremony, Trumbull had caught her by the elbow in a corridor and thanked her for administering the oath. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Justice," he'd said, almost jovially. At the time she'd forced a cordial smile. Now the remark felt almost like a threat – a hint that he anticipated court battles and was ready for them.
Justice Greene set the Constitution volume on the coffee table and rose. She paced the room, barefoot on the rug, trying to think through options. The Court might soon be called upon to review some of these actions – perhaps an appeal by fired federal employees or an emergency injunction by civil service unions. If and when that happened, she would adjudicate impartially as always. But she also knew this went beyond normal cases. This was a full-blown governance crisis.
She paused by her window and looked out at the Capitol dome, glowing against the night sky. Only a few weeks ago she had presided in that building over the electoral vote count, ensuring the lawful transfer of power. It had been tense, but the constitutional process ultimately held. Now the lawful winner was in office – and tearing down guardrails at breakneck speed.
Her phone buzzed again with an incoming call – her friend Linda from the D.C. Circuit. Margaret answered this time. They spoke briefly, exchanging mutual disbelief. Linda's voice was shaky: "If this isn't a constitutional crisis, I don't know what is."
After hanging up, Justice Greene felt a small swell of resolve. Constitutional crisis or not, she was still a guardian of that Constitution. Perhaps it was time to remind the nation that the law still existed. She went to her desk and pulled out a notepad. In neat handwriting she began drafting a statement she might release with her fellow Justices – something reaffirming the independence of the judiciary and the principle that no one was above the law. It was unusual, nearly unprecedented, for Supreme Court members to speak out publicly like this. But these were hardly ordinary times.
She stared at the words she'd written, then put her pen down. Would her colleagues agree to sign on? Possibly not. And if they did, would it make any difference? She felt a pang of doubt.
In that moment, Margaret Greene realized something: fear was exactly what Trumbull's rapid-fire purges were meant to instill. Fear and paralysis, so that even those who opposed him would hesitate, uncertain how to respond.
Straightening her shoulders, she resolved not to be paralyzed. If a case related to these abuses of power reached the Supreme Court, she would not temper her judgment. And if an opportunity came to act in defense of constitutional principles, she would seize it – tradition and precedent be damned, if necessary.
Across the silent living room, the television showed images of the White House at night, while commentators argued soundlessly. Justice Greene took a deep breath. "Hold on," she whispered, whether to herself or to the nation she couldn't be sure. "Just hold on."
Lawrence Rhodes sat in his darkened Senate office, a half-empty glass of bourbon on the desk and a heavy weight on his conscience. Down the hall, he could hear distant laughter and clinking glasses – a few junior staffers celebrating the day's victory. Rhodes had slipped away from the revelry. He had too much on his mind to pretend to celebrate.
Before him on the desk lay a memo from the White House listing replacement nominees for the officials who had resigned or been fired in the last few hours. The list was astonishing in length. Cabinet secretaries, deputies, agency heads – line after line of "acting" successors, many of them inexperienced loyalists. It was Rhodes's job to get these people confirmed swiftly, perhaps with minimal hearings. He swallowed hard at the thought.
On a legal pad next to the memo, Rhodes had scribbled a few names of senators who might be uneasy with all this. There were only two question marks in his caucus at best. The rest would almost certainly fall in line, especially with committee gavels in National Party hands. And across the aisle, the Democratic Union minority could do little beyond issue outraged press releases. Procedurally, Trumbull could likely get his way on appointments.
Rhodes took a slow sip of bourbon, letting the warmth steady him. He'd spent the evening fielding calls from colleagues and donors – some elated that Trumbull was "cleaning house," others privately alarmed. To each, he'd given measured responses: The President is exercising his authority. We'll ensure continuity. The Senate stands ready to confirm qualified nominees.
He was practiced at that kind of reassuring spin. But here alone, past midnight, he couldn't lie to himself. This was beyond anything in his long career. It felt like watching a constitutional norm bleed out on the Senate floor while he stood by, holding the knife that had cut it.
He rose and walked to the tall window overlooking Constitution Avenue. The city streets were mostly empty now. The tear gas and crowds were gone, leaving only litter and a few police lights in the distance. Washington's skyline looked the same as yesterday, but Rhodes knew the atmosphere had fundamentally changed.
As he gazed at the silhouetted Capitol dome, he recalled January 6th, four years ago. That night, after the Capitol was secured, he had delivered a speech condemning the violence and implicitly rebuking Trumbull. "The mob was fed lies," he had said, surprising even himself with his candor. For a brief moment, he thought he might truly break with Trumbull then. But days later, he'd reverted to pragmatism and helped block Trumbull's impeachment conviction. He had told himself it was for the good of the party and the country's stability. That keeping Trumbull's base in the fold was better than splintering the party.
Looking at where that choice had led, Rhodes wasn't so sure anymore. By saving Trumbull politically, had he doomed the country to this authoritarian turn?
He turned from the window and rubbed his eyes. There was no undoing those decisions now. Trumbull was back in power, more vengeful than ever, and Rhodes was complicit in empowering him. The question was what to do going forward.
His phone buzzed on the desk – yet another message, this one from a senior National Party donor: "Hell of a night. Hope Larry knows what he's doing up there." Rhodes gave a soft, humorless chuckle at that. Did he know what he was doing? He wasn't sure anyone did.
He picked up a pen and, on the memo's margin, jotted one word next to a particularly controversial nominee's name: "Hold?" Could he afford to stall even one or two of these extreme appointments? Would that be a meaningful brake on things, or just a token gesture? And would Trumbull tolerate even that small act of independence?
Rhodes's hand hovered, then scratched a line through the word. Who was he kidding? If he tried to hold up any nominations, Trumbull would unleash hell on him. And his colleagues would likely buck under pressure. He remembered how swiftly they'd turned on Karen Li for much less. He would not invite that upon himself.
Slowly, he returned to his desk and sank into the leather chair. The bourbon glass glinted in the low light. Rhodes downed the rest in one swallow, savoring the brief burn.
Perhaps, he reasoned, this purge would blow over quickly. Maybe things would settle, and the administration would pivot to normal policy fights – taxes, infrastructure, the usual tug-of-war. He could hope for that, at least.
He straightened the papers on his desk, trying to impose order on his thoughts. There was work to do – hearings to schedule, talking points to prepare to defend the President's actions. Rhodes was nothing if not a diligent party man. He would do what was required.
Yet as he put on his suit jacket to leave, a profound sadness washed over him. He felt as though he'd just witnessed a death – the death of the government he once knew. The institutions were still there in form, but their spirit was being extinguished. And he had stood by, smiling and nodding, as it happened.
Rhodes flicked off his office lights and stepped into the empty corridor. His footsteps echoed as he walked toward the elevators. Before leaving, he allowed himself one last look through a window at the Capitol's dome. It stood serene and majestic as ever.
"God help the Republic," Lawrence Rhodes whispered into the stillness. Then the Senate Majority Leader squared his shoulders, adjusted his tie, and walked on, disappearing into the shadows of the Capitol with the heaviness of history on his back.
Chapter 3: The Contested Election Commission
Elaine Buchanan sat at the head of the long conference table in the Roosevelt Room, shuffling briefing papers and casting an appraising eye over the assembled group. It was early February, and outside the White House windows a cold rain lashed the grounds. Inside, the atmosphere was brisk with purpose. Today was the public launch of the President's "Election Integrity Commission" — a supposedly independent body that Elaine and others had engineered to validate Trumbull's narrative of a stolen 2024 election.
Around the table sat a dozen hand-picked members of the commission. Officially, it was bipartisan and earnest: tasked with reviewing the "irregularities" of the last election and recommending reforms. In reality, every member was either a loyalist or a useful ally. The chair, former Governor Randall Knox, had been one of the first to claim fraud in 2024 without evidence. Beside him was a statistics professor known for spinning conspiracy theories about voting machines. There was even a county sheriff from Arizona who had vowed to "expose voter fraud or die trying." Elaine had privately questioned including someone so colorful, but Marcus Hall insisted on having at least one fire-breather on the panel for spectacle.
Elaine cleared her throat. "Alright, we all know why we're here," she began. "The President is eager to show the American people what really happened in the last election and to prevent it from happening again. This commission is a top priority." She let her gaze drift pointedly to the one nominal Democratic Union representative at the table — a milquetoast city councilman included as window dressing. "We'll have full cooperation from federal agencies and a generous budget. In return, the White House expects a thorough report by the end of summer."
Governor Knox gave Elaine a folksy grin. "We're on it. The truth will come out, I promise you."
Elaine mustered a polite smile. She knew Knox was already drafting conclusions. The "truth" was preordained: they would allege that lax procedures and perhaps malfeasance had tainted the vote in key states, and thus justify whatever new measures the administration wanted. Voter ID laws, purging of rolls, more power for partisan state officials — it was all teed up.
But first came the theater. This afternoon the commission would hold its inaugural public meeting, a televised forum to show they were hard at work. Elaine's job was to ensure it went smoothly and hit the correct narrative beats.
"I'll turn it over to Marjorie to walk through today's agenda," Elaine said, yielding the floor to a White House aide. As Marjorie detailed the schedule — statements from Knox and a few commission members, then some witness testimony about alleged irregularities — Elaine's mind wandered for a moment.
She thought of how quickly things were moving. In less than three weeks, the administration had systematically dismantled internal opposition and set in motion multiple fronts of action. This Election Commission was one piece of a larger puzzle to cement Trumbull's grip. Publicly, it was framed as answering lingering questions about 2024. Privately, Elaine knew its bigger purpose was to lay groundwork for future power: perhaps contesting unfavorable election results in 2026 or justifying federal takeover of election administration.
A sharp round of applause snapped her back to the moment. The commission members were wrapping up their briefing. Elaine joined in the clapping. "I'll see you all at the press hall at 2 PM for the kickoff," she said. "Governor Knox, a word?"
Knox lingered as others filtered out. Elaine lowered her voice. "We're expecting some hostile press questions. Stick to your talking points about 'restoring trust' and 'leaving no stone unturned.' If they bring up the lack of credible evidence of fraud, emphasize this is about preventing issues in the future."
Knox nodded eagerly. "Don't worry. I've handled the press jackals before."
Elaine hoped he was right. She didn't entirely trust his discipline — the man loved to ad-lib. "And Governor, one more thing. The President will likely drop by your session at some point to show support. Be prepared to defer to him for a statement."
Knox's eyes glittered. "Of course. It'll be an honor."
As he left, Elaine exhaled slowly. On her tablet was a draft executive order that would empower the commission to subpoena state election materials. Legal Counsel had warned it might be challenged in court, but Trumbull wanted it ready. Elaine glanced at it and made a note: get Justice Department sign-off on wording (or at least the new loyalist Acting AG's sign-off, which would be a rubber stamp).
Before the meeting at 2, Elaine had one more call to make. She stepped out to her office and dialed a secure line. Marcia Davenport's editor at the Chronicle picked up — a courtesy call Elaine had promised to make. The Chronicle had requested access to the commission's materials citing transparency. Elaine delivered the polite denial she'd prepared: the commission would release findings in due course, no internal documents now. The editor's displeasure was evident even through his measured tone. Elaine ended the call diplomatically. They'd be angry, but they were powerless to force the issue, especially since Congress (under Rhodes) wouldn't compel anything.
With that annoyance handled, she straightened her blazer and headed toward the press briefing room. It was show time.
An hour later, Elaine stood at the back of the White House press auditorium, arms folded, watching Governor Knox call the meeting to order at a dais on stage. Cameras whirred. The audience of reporters and invited observers was sparse due to limited seating — another way to control the narrative. Still, she spotted Marcia Davenport sitting off to the side, scribbling in her notebook. Elaine had half a mind to have security keep an eye on that one; Marcia had a way of ferreting out inconvenient details.
Knox spoke into the mic with feigned gravitas. "This commission begins its work with one goal: to restore faith in our elections." He went on about how millions had doubts about the last election's integrity (not mentioning who had seeded those doubts). Elaine watched the press corps. Some rolled their eyes, but others dutifully took notes.
Next, a supposed cybersecurity expert — in fact a partisan tech CEO — testified about how voting machines could be manipulated, offering no concrete evidence but plenty of innuendo. Then the sheriff recounted vague anecdotes of "suspicious" ballots in his county. It was a parade of suggestion and suspicion, exactly as scripted.
Elaine's phone buzzed with a text from Marcus Hall: "Commission off to strong start. POTUS pleased." She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. So far, so good.
A reporter's voice from the Q&A portion cut through her thoughts. "This question is for Governor Knox. Multiple state audits and courts found no significant fraud in 2024. Is this commission just a political exercise to validate the President's claims?"
It was Marcia Davenport speaking up, eyes fixed on Knox. Elaine tensed.
Knox let out a genial chuckle. "Not at all. We're following up on many irregularities that were never fully examined. The American people deserve answers. If everything was above board, our work will show that. If not, we'll recommend fixes."
"But Governor," Marcia pressed, "critics say you've predetermined your conclusion. How can the public trust this process when every member here is on record suggesting the election was stolen?"
Elaine stepped forward instinctively, but Governor Knox handled it. His expression hardened just a touch. "Maybe those critics are afraid of what we'll find, Ms. Davenport. The members here are patriots willing to ask tough questions. The only predetermined goal is fair and honest elections."
A murmur ran through the room. Marcia opened her mouth for a follow-up, but Elaine swiftly caught the moderator's eye and signaled to move on. The moderator cleared his throat and pointed to a different reporter, effectively cutting Marcia off.
Elaine's heart was thumping. Davenport's question would be the soundbite on evening news, surely. Still, Knox's answer, evasive as it was, would play fine on friendly networks.
As the meeting adjourned, Elaine slipped out a side door into the hallway. She pulled out her phone and drafted a quick summary email to Trumbull and senior staff: "Commission launch successful. Some hostile questions from Chronicle reporter deflected. Knox and team on message. Anticipate report by end of summer as planned." She hit send.
Before she could pocket the phone, another text arrived — this one from Trumbull himself: "Good. Keep them digging. Need evidence for prosecutions."
Elaine swallowed. Prosecutions. Of whom, she wondered? Perhaps Monroe's campaign officials, or local election workers the commission could scapegoat. That hadn't been explicitly discussed yet, but clearly Trumbull was already envisioning the next phase.
Elaine typed back: "Understood. We will coordinate with DOJ as needed." She hesitated, then added: "Commission will deliver."
As she stood in the quiet corridor, listening to the muffled sound of reporters packing up in the next room, Elaine tried to ignore a small knot of unease in her stomach. She had always prided herself on being results-driven. The commission was doing exactly what she intended. But the mention of prosecutions — that took things further. They weren't just rewriting the narrative; they might weaponize it against real people.
Elaine shook off the thought. Focus, she told herself. This was how power was secured: by controlling the storyline of the past and bending institutions toward one's ends.
She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked off to brief the next group of operatives who would carry this effort forward. There was no time for second-guessing. The machinery she'd helped set in motion was running full tilt, and she would ensure it stayed on track.
Marcia Davenport snapped her notebook shut as the Election Commission's first public meeting concluded. Her jaw was tight with frustration. On the surface, the session had been dry — a parade of "experts" giving broad statements about election procedures and nebulous concerns. But Marcia recognized a propaganda exercise when she saw one. Every testimony had been carefully curated to plant seeds of doubt about the 2024 outcome, without offering anything verifiable.
She gathered her bag and headed for the exit, weaving through clumps of reporters. A few were muttering to each other about how pointless the hearing felt. One from a major network shook his head at Marcia. "What a farce, huh?" he said under his breath.
Marcia couldn't help a wry smirk. "They're not even hiding it well," she replied quietly. Her eyes flicked up toward the back, where she had noticed Elaine Buchanan observing earlier. Elaine was gone now, but Marcia had caught the way she intervened to cut off Marcia's questioning. It only confirmed that this commission was being stage-managed from the West Wing.
Out in the hallway, she found a quiet spot near a marble pillar and flipped open her notebook again to review her jottings. She had the basics for her story: President Trumbull's new commission launching amid criticisms it was a sham. She'd quote Knox's platitudes and the lone Democratic councilman's meek endorsement of fairness. But the real meat would be the context she'd add: how this fit into Trumbull's broader efforts to undermine democratic processes.
She had data ready — polls showing a majority of National Party voters now believed the 2024 election had been rigged, thanks to relentless propaganda. She'd cite experts who called the commission "preposterous." And maybe she'd add a historical reference to similar tactics by authoritarians who create pseudo-legal bodies to justify power grabs.
Marcia's phone vibrated with a call. It was her editor. She answered as she walked. "Hi Lou. Yeah, I'm leaving the White House now. You saw it? Total circus." She listened, then nodded to herself. "Understood. I'll focus on the lack of evidence presented and the partisan makeup. And yes, I got the bit where Knox basically admitted they'll 'find' fraud."
Her editor must have been watching the live feed. Marcia smiled grimly. "Don't worry, I'll write it up tight. Headline somewhere along the lines of 'Critics Slam Commission as Partisan Theater.'"
She hung up and exited via the press gate, emerging into a drizzle. Immediately, the chill bit through her coat. She pulled up her hood and started down Pennsylvania Avenue on foot toward the Chronicle's bureau. The damp afternoon suited her mood.
As she walked, Marcia replayed the commission meeting in her head. One moment nagged at her: Governor Knox's answer to her question. "Maybe those critics are afraid of what we'll find." The smugness of it rankled. It implied there really was something to find. And Marcia had a sinking feeling they intended to manufacture exactly that.
She stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the light, and quickly scribbled a note: "Commission hinting it will 'find' evidence – possibly to justify prosecutions?" It was conjecture, but not far-fetched. People like Knox and Elaine Buchanan didn't invest in this effort just to write a report destined for a shelf. They wanted action – new laws, purges of election officials, maybe even criminal charges against someone they could brand a mastermind of voter fraud.
Marcia realized that if such charges materialized, it would mark a dangerous turn. The commission wasn't just rewriting history; it could become a weapon to punish political opponents. That angle needed to be in her story as well.
She arrived at the Chronicle bureau, a block from the White House, and flashed her ID to the security guard. Upstairs in the newsroom, the buzz of activity was constant. Even in this era of intimidation, the journalists were hard at work. Marcia slid into her cubicle and immediately began typing up her notes.
Her lede came out crisp and pointed: "Despite a lack of evidence of any widespread fraud in the 2024 election, President Trumbull's new Election Integrity Commission convened today to amplify disputed claims and set the stage for potential crackdowns under the guise of reform."
She backed it up with details: the loaded composition of the commission, the double-speak of restoring trust while spreading doubt, the grilling she attempted that went unanswered. After a few paragraphs, she took a breath and reread. It was blunt, but accurate. Her editor would tone it down if needed. She pressed on.
As she wrote, a colleague at the next desk leaned over. "Did you catch that little exchange after the hearing? Knox telling one of his guys 'we'll give them the fraud they're looking for'? I was too far to hear clearly."
Marcia's head snapped up. "What? No, I missed that. Who heard it?"
"One of the AP reporters thought he overheard something like that when Knox was chatting with that tech CEO off-mic."
Marcia felt a surge of adrenaline. If Knox really said "we'll give them the fraud they're looking for," that was exactly the quiet part out loud. "I need to confirm that," she said, already standing. The AP reporter in question sat a few rows over, and she hurried to find him.
A few minutes later, she returned to her desk with confirmation — Knox had indeed made a joking comment about conveniently "finding" fraud. It was couched as humor, but still. "That's going in my piece," she muttered, heart pounding at the significance. It was evidence of pretext: the commission expected to deliver a predetermined result.
She quickly wove that detail into her article, attributing it to "a reporter who overheard a private remark." The lawyers might want it out, but she'd fight to keep it.
As evening fell, Marcia put the finishing touches on her story. In her concluding lines, she wrote: "Election law experts warn that the commission's ultimate recommendations — expected to validate President Trumbull's long-disputed fraud narrative — could be used to justify new restrictions on voting or even legal action against election officials who certified his opponent's victory. In effect, the commission may serve to retroactively contest an election that has already been officially settled. 'This isn't about finding truth,' one observer noted, 'it's about reframing a loss as a win.'"
She read it over twice. It was stark, but it felt true.
Hitting "send" to her editor, Marcia released a slow breath. She didn't know how much longer she and others at the Chronicle would have the freedom to report like this — the climate was growing colder by the week. But at least for today, the facts were on record.
As she gathered her things to head home, Marcia took one last look around the bustling newsroom. A thought struck her: commissions come and go, propaganda ebbs and flows, but the persistence of truth-tellers could still make a difference. She intended to continue being one, for as long as she possibly could.
Walking out into the chilly night, Marcia Davenport felt a flicker of both anxiety and resolve. The other side was busy rewriting reality, but she would keep the record straight. In an environment of manufactured lies, telling the truth itself had become an act of resistance — one she was determined to continue, come what may.