Chapter 20: The Dictator's Dilemma
Victor Trumbull stands at the broad window of the Oval Office long after midnight, gazing out at the lights of a city that now bends entirely to his will. Washington (renamed Capitol City under a patriotic decree) lies quiet under curfew; only armored patrols move along the avenues. Rain streaks the bulletproof glass, distorting the few lights that burn at this late hour. Trumbull's reflection stares back at him: the heavy jowls, the thinning comb-over, the eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. I've won, he reminds himself. I am President for as long as I wish. And yet tonight, victory tastes strangely hollow.
Behind him, Elaine Buchanan sits on the edge of a leather chair, notepad balanced on her knee. She hides a yawn behind her hand. It's nearly 1 AM, and she's been summoned here with no explanation. Now she waits nervously for Trumbull to speak. On the desk nearby, a crystal tumbler of whiskey sits untouched—an unusual sight, as Trumbull often indulges in a nightcap. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back, still staring into the dark.
"Do you hear that, Elaine?" Trumbull says suddenly, his voice startling in the silence.
Elaine looks up, confused. "Sir?"
He turns, fixing her with a hard gaze. "Exactly. Nothing. Not a damn sound." He gestures toward the window. "Two years ago, on any given night, this city was alive—people out drinking, laughing, probably plotting against me." A trace of a smirk crosses his face. "Now it's silent. Orderly. They're all in bed like good children, because I told them to."
Elaine musters a careful smile. "Columbia certainly is… peaceful these days."
Trumbull strides to his desk, running his fingers over the engraved presidential seal. "Peaceful on the surface," he mutters. "But I know the truth. Enemies are still everywhere." He taps the desk with each word. "They're hiding, waiting. The second I show weakness, they'll spring." His eyes flick up to Elaine. "That's why we can't let up. Why you mustn't let up."
Elaine straightens, pen ready. "Of course, Mr. President. I'm at your service."
He grunts, then begins to pace. "I called you here to discuss the celebration next week—'Day of Unity,' the team's calling it, right?" He waves a hand dismissively. "Make sure it's the biggest rally this country's ever seen. I want flags from coast to coast, a spectacle the likes of which even my enemies can't ignore. Since the election's not happening," he adds with a sneer, "we'll give the people a different show."
Elaine scribbles notes, inwardly relieved the topic is straightforward. "We've mobilized all federal agencies to send attendees," she reports. "We'll have thousands on the National Mall. Military bands, schoolchildren performing patriotic songs. We're even unveiling the new Columbia Triumph monument you commissioned."
Trumbull stops pacing and narrows his eyes. "Monument… remind me."
She clears her throat. "The… the forty-foot statue of an eagle, clutching the flag?"
He huffs. "Forty feet? Why not a hundred? Hell, why not carve my face on a mountain while we're at it?" He begins pacing again, more agitated. "This is the kind of small thinking that drives me crazy, Elaine. We finally have the chance to remake this country the way it should be. I won't settle for half-measures and modest little monuments."
Elaine's pen hovers uncertainly. "Would you like me to explore… larger monument projects, sir?"
Trumbull's eyes gleam with a feverish light. "Yes. I have ideas—big ones." He begins ticking them off on his fingers. "A grand new Presidential Palace on the Potomac—something that will make the White House look like a shack. Maybe a national loyalty oath everyone must recite each morning. And why not a new holiday—Trumbull Day—so even the calendar bears my name?" His lips curl into a smile that might be jest, might be deadly serious. "I want a legacy that lasts a thousand years."
Elaine forces a chuckle, trying to gauge how earnest he is. "Your legacy is already assured, Mr. President." She chooses her words carefully. "But I'll… start inquiries into these possibilities. Perhaps an exploratory committee for the new palace design?"
He waves a hand. "Yes, yes. But keep it all quiet for now. I don't want it leaked until we're ready. The people will love it when it's announced, but the traitors would twist it into something ugly if they got wind too soon."
Elaine nods dutifully. Her pencil scratches on the pad, but inside her mind reels. A new palace? His own holiday? This is beyond even what she'd feared. Yet she keeps her face neutral. "Understood, sir. I'll ensure loyalty-vetted teams handle it."
Trumbull falls silent, sinking into the high-backed chair behind his desk. For a moment, the only sound is the rain ticking against the window. He seems lost in thought, fingers drumming on the mahogany armrest. Elaine wonders if the meeting is over, but doesn't dare to presume. She studies him surreptitiously. The President's complexion is sallow in the lamplight, deep lines etched around his mouth. He looks older, more haggard, than the brash firebrand she first started working for years ago. Yet there's an intensity in his gaze that hasn't dimmed—it has only hardened into something close to zealotry.
Without looking up, Trumbull suddenly asks, "Elaine, do you remember General Holt? That blowhard who used to run the Air Force Academy?"
Elaine blinks at the non-sequitur. "Holt… Yes, vaguely. He retired a decade ago, I think? I recall he publicly criticized your foreign policy last year."
Trumbull's jaw tightens. "He called me 'dangerously unfit for office.' It was all over the news back then." His eyes flick up, cold. "I never forgot it."
Elaine swallows. The general's comments had been startling at the time, but many dismissed him as a cranky retiree. "Well, he's irrelevant now, sir."
"Is he?" Trumbull leans forward. "I heard he died of a stroke last month, at his home."
Elaine isn't sure what response is expected. "I'm… sorry to hear that."
Trumbull's lips curve in a thin smile. "Oh, I'm not. I was just thinking how convenient it was. One less enemy." He lets that hang in the air. Elaine shifts in her seat, uneasy. Is he implying something? Before she can respond, Trumbull abruptly stands. "Enough of that. Marcus should be here any minute for the briefing. Stay, I want you both present."
Right on cue, Col. Marcus Hall strides in, uniform crisp, boots echoing on the marble floor. Newly promoted to Chief of National Security, Marcus now oversees both the military command and the domestic security forces (the DSB). The consolidation of power has made him effectively Trumbull's right hand for enforcement. He salutes smartly. "Mr. President."
Trumbull motions impatiently. "Skip the formalities. Report."
Marcus nods. His presence is formidable—broad-shouldered, crew cut growing out gray at the sides, a scar across his left temple from some past skirmish. Elaine always feels a slight chill around him; his loyalty to Trumbull borders on fanatical.
"Sir," Marcus begins, "overall situation is stable. No major incidents of dissent reported in the past week." He glances at Elaine, then back to Trumbull. "Our intelligence suggests the opposition networks are fractured. The emergency measures after the bombing last spring were very effective. Most known dissidents are either detained, exiled, or in hiding."
Trumbull grunts with satisfaction. "Of course they are. I broke their backs." He settles into a smug slouch in his chair.
Marcus continues, voice steady. "We do continue to monitor external anti-regime activities. For instance, former Congresswoman Karen Li and some associates remain active abroad, disseminating propaganda against us."
At the mention of Karen, Trumbull's expression darkens. Elaine senses the temperature in the room seem to drop. "That woman," Trumbull snaps. "She's a nobody. A loser. I should have dealt with her when I had the chance." He flicks his gaze to Marcus. "Tell me, Hall, what are these exiles actually accomplishing? Any real threat, or just noise?"
Marcus clears his throat. "So far, just noise. Li is lobbying foreign governments, but they've done little beyond statements. However," he continues carefully, "we have minor evidence she's trying to build a sort of government-in-exile. Perhaps coordinating with the former President Monroe's circle and other opposition figures."
Trumbull's lip curls. "A government-in-exile? Playing pretend president, is she?" He scoffs. "Monroe is too senile to do anything, and Li has zero support back home. Still…" He drums his fingers. "It annoys me that she's out there, free, stirring trouble. It's the principle of the thing. Traitors should face justice."
Elaine's pen hovers as she watches Trumbull's mood shift. His paranoia is flaring up again, she can tell by the way his eyes narrow, as if scanning some internal horizon for threats.
Trumbull fixes Marcus with a weighty stare. "I want Li and her ilk silenced. Permanently, if need be."
Elaine's breath catches; even she wasn't expecting him to be so blunt. Marcus, however, nods without hesitation. "Understood, Mr. President. We can explore options."
"Citizenship revocations, extradition requests… hell, covert action if we have to," Trumbull says. "I don't care how. Just get it done quietly. I won't have these people thinking they can run off and undermine me from some café in Paris."
"Yes, sir," Marcus says. His voice carries a lethal confidence that makes Elaine's skin crawl for a second. She scribbles a note to follow up on this—though what role she would play in an assassination or kidnapping plot, she isn't sure. She hopes it doesn't come to that.
Trumbull rises from his chair and slowly walks around the desk toward Marcus. For a moment he just stands there, close enough that Marcus's imposing form actually seems to shrink slightly. Trumbull peers up at his security chief, eyes drilling into him. Elaine feels the tension, uncertain what her boss is looking for.
"You've done well, Marcus," Trumbull finally says, voice low. "Better than all the other clowns I've had around me. You're a true believer."
Marcus straightens. "Thank you, Mr. President. I serve at your pleasure. My only aim is Columbia's greatness under your leadership."
Trumbull's face remains stony. He steps even closer, lowering his voice as if imparting a secret. "You'll stay loyal, no matter what, won't you?" The question is soft but laced with an unmistakable threat. "No matter what I ask, you'll do it. You won't… waver, like some of the others?"
Marcus doesn't flinch. "I will never waver, sir. I swear it."
Elaine watches Marcus's fist clench at his side as he speaks. She can see a pulse throbbing in his neck. For a split second, she wonders if even Marcus Hall, fearless and zealous, feels intimidated by Trumbull's intensity.
Trumbull studies Marcus's face. The President's own features are inscrutable, but something in his posture loosens. He clasps Marcus on the shoulder. "Good man." A smile—an actual smile—warms Trumbull's face for a fleeting moment. "I knew I could count on you."
He turns away and meanders toward the window again, apparently satisfied. Marcus exhales quietly, and Elaine dares to breathe again as well. These loyalty tests are becoming more frequent—Trumbull has purged dozens of officials in the past months for perceived disloyalty. Cabinet secretaries, generals, even long-time National Party allies have been cast out or arrested if they showed the faintest sign of disobedience or doubt. Elaine herself lives in a state of constant caution, weighing every word before speaking to Trumbull. Tonight, she wonders if he's probing her too. He made me sit in on this meeting, witness all this… was that a test of my loyalty? She resolves to remain utterly unflappable.
Trumbull suddenly claps his hands, breaking the heavy mood. "Now then! Marcus, I almost forgot—I'm hosting a small dinner tomorrow. Just a few close friends of the administration. I want you there."
Marcus bows his head. "It would be an honor, sir."
Trumbull nods, then his eyes slide to Elaine. "We'll discuss the final rally plans there. Elaine, you come too, make sure everything's squared away. And I've invited Archer as well."
"Felix Archer, sir?" Elaine asks, though of course who else could "Archer" mean. Felix isn't usually part of Trumbull's intimate gatherings. He's more a tool than a confidant.
"Yes, Felix." Trumbull's grin returns, cat-like. "Our star propagandist deserves a pat on the back, don't you think? His nightly show has done wonders to keep the masses in line. Plus, I have a little special assignment for him."
Elaine doesn't like the glint in Trumbull's eye, but she merely nods. "I'll make sure he attends, Mr. President."
"Good. That's all for tonight." Trumbull waves a hand in dismissal. "Elaine, get some rest. Marcus, keep me updated on any overnight developments. Though I expect none—our foes are too frightened these days to dare anything." There's a mix of pride and disappointment in that last statement, as if he almost wishes someone would attempt something, just to justify further crackdowns.
Marcus salutes and turns on his heel, departing swiftly. Elaine gathers her notebook and stands to leave as well. Her limbs feel heavy with exhaustion and worry. But as she reaches the door, Trumbull calls out, "Elaine."
She turns. "Yes, sir?"
He regards her with an unreadable expression. "You've been with me a long time."
She musters a smile. "Since the first campaign, sir."
He nods slowly. "I know I push hard. I demand a lot. But only because this mission is so important. You understand that, right?"
Elaine's throat tightens. "Of course, Mr. President. I believe in our mission." The lie tastes bitter, but she's perfected the delivery.
Apparently satisfied, Trumbull sits back down at his desk. "Good. Go on then."
She slips out quietly. Walking the dim corridor of the West Wing, Elaine releases a breath and wipes a thin layer of sweat from her palms onto her skirt. He's testing everyone, she reflects. Even me. Especially me.
The next evening, Elaine finds herself in the gilded State Dining Room, standing discreetly against the wall as an informal dinner wraps up. The long mahogany table is set for six: Trumbull at the head, with Marcus Hall, Felix Archer, and a few high-ranking party donors enjoying brandy and dessert. Elaine is technically present to take notes or fetch documents, but really she's there because Trumbull wants her where he can see her. It's another subtle reminder that nobody is beyond his scrutiny.
Felix Archer dabs at his mouth with a fine linen napkin. He looks slightly out of place in this intimate circle of power, but he's clearly honored to be included. He's been effusive all night—praising Trumbull's leadership, recounting flattering anecdotes from his TV broadcasts. Yet Elaine, observing from her corner, notices a certain tightness around Felix's smile, an over-eagerness in his laughter at the President's jokes. He's nervous, she realizes. He knows this is more than a social call.
Trumbull leans back, satisfied after a hearty meal. A servant clears his plate. He steeples his fingers and addresses Felix. "Archer, I must say, your coverage of our recent Victory initiatives has been first-rate. You really know how to rally the people."
Felix beams, color rising in his cheeks. "Thank you, Mr. President. I just speak the truth about the extraordinary accomplishments of your administration."
Trumbull chuckles. "Truth, yes. Truth is a valuable thing these days." He swirls his brandy and fixes Felix with a gaze that is simultaneously jovial and predatory. Elaine stiffens slightly; here it comes.
"You know," Trumbull continues lightly, "we have a little problem. A problem I think you can help with, Felix."
Felix inclines his head. "If it's within my power, sir, I'd be happy to." Elaine notices his voice has a slight tremor.
Trumbull sets down his glass. "There's a certain individual, very prominent, who's been a thorn in my side. A so-called war hero who's been mouthing off about me in private circles." His tone remains casual, almost conversational, but Elaine can see Felix growing wary.
"I'm speaking of General Fielding," Trumbull says. "The one who led the relief efforts after the 2018 hurricane. Everyone loved him. Real Boy Scout. He's been quietly telling people I'm destroying the country." Trumbull's smile tightens. "Of course he won't say it on TV or to my face, but I have my sources. I want him taken down a peg."
Felix blinks. General Everett Fielding is a household name in Columbia, widely respected and apolitical. He's retired and hasn't made any public statements at all since Trumbull seized emergency powers. If he's speaking against Trumbull, it's behind closed doors. Elaine realizes Trumbull must have intel from surveillance or informants. That means Fielding is marked.
Felix clears his throat nervously. "How can I help, Mr. President?"
Trumbull's grin is thin. "Simple. Tomorrow night on your show, I want you to run a segment exposing General Fielding as part of the so-called conspiracy against me. Paint him as a traitor. Suggest he's maybe even behind the bombing in March, or working with foreign agents. Something juicy."
Felix's eyes widen. "Sir—General Fielding? A traitor? I, um, I'm not sure people would… buy that, given his reputation."
Trumbull's expression freezes in a polite mask. Elaine's heart hitches; Felix is making a mistake. At the far end of the table, Marcus Hall raises an eyebrow, quietly alert.
"Oh, they'll buy it if you sell it, Felix," Trumbull says, voice still sugar-sweet but with steel underneath. "You're the man in their living rooms every night. You tell them Fielding's a snake, they'll believe it. And if not at first, we repeat it until they do. That's Propaganda 101, isn't it?"
Felix swallows, nodding quickly. "Certainly, repetition, yes sir." He forces a chuckle that comes out strangled. "I just meant… General Fielding is widely admired. It might, uh, cause a stir to accuse him of something so serious without, um, evidence."
Trumbull sets his glass down hard. The clink makes Felix flinch. "Evidence?" the President repeats, voice dropping to an icy register. "Did we need evidence when we exposed Senator Blackwood last year? Or when we unmasked those 'deep state' plotters in the Treasury Department? No, Felix. We create the reality now. Understand?"
A heavy silence falls. Felix's face has gone pale. Elaine can see a bead of sweat rolling down from his temple. He opens his mouth, perhaps to backtrack and agree, but the damage is done—Trumbull's gaze has narrowed, and his nostrils flare with impatience.
Marcus Hall intervenes smoothly, his deep voice cutting through the tension. "I can have my team pull together a dossier on Fielding by morning, sir. Some talking points, maybe dig up an old acquaintance to 'confess' something. We'll give Felix plenty to work with."
Trumbull doesn't break eye contact with Felix. "There, you see? Marcus will get you 'evidence.'" The President practically purrs the word. "All you need to do is deliver it with that famous Archer conviction."
Felix forces a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Of course, Mr. President. I apologize—I wasn't thinking. If you want it done, consider it done. General Fielding will be thoroughly discredited on tomorrow's broadcast."
Trumbull keeps staring a moment longer, as if searching Felix's soul for any lingering hesitation. Felix holds the smile, though his lower lip trembles almost imperceptibly. Elaine holds her breath.
At last, Trumbull leans back, apparently appeased. "Excellent." He lifts his refilled brandy. "To truth," he toasts, eyes still on Felix.
Felix raises his own glass with a weak chuckle. "To truth." He downs the liquor in one swallow.
Elaine watches Felix as the men launch into a new topic. He's nodded in all the right places and made it through the gauntlet, but his hand shakes slightly as he sets his empty glass down. She can only imagine what must be churning in his mind. Felix Archer built his career spinning lies, but now he's been ordered to cross a final line: to destroy a good man's life with a monstrous lie. Will he actually do it? Or will this be the line he can't cross? Elaine doesn't know Felix's heart, but she knows what she saw tonight—a moment of doubt that Trumbull did not miss.
Trumbull, meanwhile, is laughing at some joke one of the donors made, the brief storm apparently forgotten. But Elaine knows better. The President will remember Felix's reluctance. Just like he notices every pause, every flicker of doubt in those around him. Trumbull's circle grows ever smaller and more loyal by the day, because anyone who falters finds themselves on the outside soon after.
As the dinner concludes and Felix and the others depart, Trumbull catches Elaine's eye. "Walk with me, Elaine," he says. He often does this—cornering aides one-on-one to extract further thoughts.
They stroll slowly through the corridor toward the residence. Security agents keep a respectful distance. Trumbull seems relaxed, hands clasped behind his back. "That went well," he says idly. "Don't you think?"
Elaine answers at once. "Yes, Mr. President. Very well."
He nods. "Felix is a good boy. He just needed a little push."
Elaine forces a light tone. "He'll come through. He always does."
Trumbull grunts. "For his sake, I hope so." He stops walking and turns toward a portrait on the wall—a past president sternly regarding them. Trumbull tilts his head. "They called him a dictator too, you know. Lincoln. Suspended habeas corpus, jailed dissenters. But history vindicated him."
Elaine isn't sure where this is going. "Lincoln saved the union," she offers.
Trumbull smiles faintly. "So will I." He looks at the painting a moment longer, then faces Elaine. His expression softens—an unusual, almost vulnerable moment. "Do you ever wonder how history will remember all this?" he asks quietly.
Elaine is caught off guard. She clears her throat. "I… I think history will be kind to those who preserve their nation's strength, sir."
He studies her, then chuckles. "A diplomatic answer. But I wasn't talking about me. I know I'll get a monument if I have to build it myself." He gives a dismissive snort. "I meant people like you. My team. Will you be remembered as patriots, or as enablers of something terrible? That's what they say, you know. The fake news, the foreigners. They call us authoritarians."
Elaine's heart thuds. Where is this coming from? Did he detect some trepidation in her tonight, too? She steels herself. "Sir, I believe we're doing what's necessary. History's judgments swing with the times. What matters is that Columbia is strong and safe now. Thanks to you."
Trumbull's gaze remains on her a beat too long, then he nods slowly. "Yes. Strength and safety. That's what I promised, and I delivered." He inhales deeply and straightens his shoulders. The fleeting moment of introspection passes. "Good night, Elaine."
"Good night, Mr. President," she replies softly, watching as he continues down the hall alone, shoulders squared like a man marching to war.
Elaine exhales only when he's out of sight. She realizes her blouse is damp with sweat. These glimpses into Trumbull's soul—paranoid, megalomaniacal, yet at moments oddly human—always leave her shaken. Tonight she saw clearly the dictator's dilemma: Trumbull has amassed absolute power, yet in doing so he's stripped away any genuine human connection or trust. He is feared, not loved; obeyed, not respected. And because of that, he trusts no one and must redouble his coercion at every turn.
Returning to her office to gather her things, Elaine feels a pang of fear for herself, for Felix, for everyone in this orbit. He'll drive us all over a cliff, she thinks, and we'll follow because we're too afraid not to. In the quiet of that realization, Elaine also senses something else creeping in: the faint outlines of guilt and foreboding. She helped build this regime—now it's turning in ever tightening circles, and even its architects are not safe from its grasp.
In the Oval Office, Victor Trumbull sits alone once more. He should feel triumphant; he has just affirmed the loyalty of his inner circle and bent them further to his will. But as he pours himself that long-delayed whiskey, he notices his hand is trembling. Outside, thunder rumbles over the subdued city. Trumbull raises the glass to his lips. He has everything he ever wanted—total control, total adulation on the surface—and yet sleep will not come easily tonight. He wonders, as the liquor burns down his throat, which of his trusted few will be the next to falter. They all do, eventually, he thinks grimly. No one ever stays true.
Lightning flashes beyond the White House lawn. In that brief stark light, the President's face appears haunted, a man consumed by victory and the fear of losing it. He drains his glass, alone with his doubts, as the storm finally breaks over Columbia.
Chapter 21: Seeds of Rebellion
Night air clings heavy and humid to Karen Li's skin as she slips out of the cargo truck, her boots crunching on dry gravel. The truck's driver—a sympathizer bribed by the resistance—gives her a curt nod before rumbling off into darkness. Karen tugs the brim of a frayed cap lower over her eyes and hoists a canvas duffel bag over her shoulder. She's made it home, though this hardly feels like the Columbia she once knew.
She finds herself at a desolate parking lot on the outskirts of a border town. It's mid-2028, and Karen has returned to her country for the first time in over a year—but there are no joyous reunions, no public appearances. Only shadows and secrets. She is now a fugitive in the nation where she once served as a congresswoman.
Karen glances around. The lot is nearly empty at this late hour. A flickering streetlamp reveals a closed gas station, a billboard in the distance plastered with Victor Trumbull's grinning face and the slogan "Stronger Together Under One Leader." She suppresses a shudder at how Orwellian reality has become. With a deep breath, Karen turns and walks briskly toward a clump of derelict buildings beyond.
Her heart thumps in her chest; each footfall on cracked pavement seems perilously loud. If the wrong person recognizes her, if any patrol stops her now, it could be the end. But she's prepared for this—her hair is dyed a plain brown, tucked under the cap, her typically sharp business attire traded for a baggy workman's jacket and worn jeans. At a glance, she's just another middle-aged woman traveling alone, perhaps a mechanic or a farmer's wife. She carries false identity papers in her pocket, courtesy of the underground network.
As she nears an abandoned storefront, a door creaks open and two figures emerge. Karen freezes, hand instinctively moving inside her jacket where a small handgun rests. "Who's there?" she whispers.
"Blue sky," comes a low reply—a pre-arranged code phrase.
Karen exhales. "Open road," she answers, completing the countersign. The figures step forward into the meager light. She recognizes Daniel Wu first—his lean face and wire-rim glasses are just as she remembered, though he's sporting a scruffy beard now. Daniel had been a prominent civil rights lawyer, one of Karen's confidants in the early days of resistance. Beside him stands a younger man wearing a union local ballcap—Karen doesn't know him personally, but she was told a union organizer would be here to help.
"Karen," Daniel breathes, relief evident in his tone. He clasps her hand warmly, then quickly guides her into the dark doorway. "Thank God. We were worried they'd tighten the border after that alert earlier."
"I slipped through fine," Karen assures as they usher her inside. The union man closes and bolts the door. The building is dark but for a shuttered lantern Daniel now unveils, casting a dim glow. It looks like an old garage, smelling of dust and motor oil. "What alert?"
The union man—a stout fellow in his thirties—speaks up. "Military had a checkpoint 10 miles north caught a family trying to flee. It put everyone on edge. We heard chatter of increased patrols. Glad you found the alternate route."
Karen nods. "Me too. And you are…?"
He stands a bit straighter. "Tomas Ibanez. I coordinate one of the… well, I guess you'd call them resistance cells in the Midlands. Union folks, mostly miners and factory workers. It's an honor, ma'am."
She offers a hand, but he surprises her by pulling her into a brief, rough hug. "Your speeches were a beacon for us," he whispers. "We thought all our leaders had sold out or run away until you stood up."
Karen feels a lump in her throat. She squeezes his shoulder. "Thank you. But I'm just part of a team, now more than ever. I'm here to work with you, not above you." She steps back and musters a smile. "Now, I hope there's somewhere a bit safer we can talk?"
Daniel gestures to a hatch in the floor—an entrance to a basement. "Down here. We've secured it."
They descend a narrow set of wooden steps into a cellar space lined with shelves of old tires and tools. The air is musty. Waiting below are three more people—two women and one older man—who rise from folding chairs as Karen enters.
Introductions are quick but hushed. The older man with silver hair is Reverend Charles Penn, a pastor from Capitol City who's sheltered dissidents in church safe-houses. His eyes brim with tears as he clasps Karen's hands and says, "Bless you for coming back. We all prayed for this."
One of the women is Nadia, a student leader from Columbia State University, scarcely 20 but with a resolute set to her jaw. Karen recalls hearing about the small campus protest that was brutally crushed; Nadia had barely escaped arrest that day. The other woman, Delia, is a former aide to President Monroe's administration, who quietly stayed behind after Monroe went into exile, to help organize remnants of the Democratic Union party. She gives Karen a firm nod. "We've kept the flame alive as best we could."
Karen looks around at these faces—their last hope, gathered in secret like early revolutionaries. It strikes her how ordinary and yet extraordinary they are: a lawyer, a unionist, a pastor, a student, a bureaucrat. Not hardened warriors or legendary heroes, just citizens pushed by conscience into risking their lives. And now she's among them, perhaps the most wanted of them all.
They take seats around a rickety table. In the dim lantern light, shadows flicker across determined expressions. Daniel produces a hand-drawn map of Columbia divided into regions, marked with tiny notations—likely indicating safehouses, protest flashpoints, or sympathetic contacts.
Without preamble, Karen begins, "Thank you all for coming. I know merely meeting like this is a grave risk. But we're at a tipping point. The world outside is starting to wake up to Trumbull's crimes. Inside Columbia, people are fearful but also reaching a breaking point—so we must be ready to help them act when the moment is right."
She scans their faces. Reverend Penn's chin dips in agreement; Nadia leans forward eagerly; Tomas crosses his arms, nodding firmly. They're listening.
Karen continues softly, "That moment, I believe, is approaching. In fact… I propose we create it." She points to a date circled on the map—early November 2028, what would have been Election Day. "This day. The regime has canceled the presidential election, but we all know it should have been held then. The symbolism is powerful. We're going to take that day back."
A charged silence, then Nadia breaks it: "You mean protests? Open protests? Because I can get students out—if we're doing this, they'll go."
Tomas rubs his jaw. "I can call on union crews to stage walkouts. Many are fed up with rationing and wage freezes. But, ma'am, any overt protest could become a bloodbath. We've only done quick flash strikes up to now, nothing sustained. The retaliation…" He trails off, eyes troubled as he recalls something.
Karen meets his gaze. "I know the risks. Trust me, I've lost sleep over it. But this is why I came back: to stand with our people when they stand up. We will do everything to mitigate danger. We'll coordinate across multiple cities so the regime is stretched thin. And we have contacts who might ensure not every trigger is pulled on us."
Reverend Penn raises a hand. "You've spoken with… someone in the military, haven't you?"
Karen nods. "General Sturgis." She glances around at their surprised looks and quickly adds, "He reached out discreetly months ago. He's deeply uncomfortable with how the army's been used. Now, he hasn't given any explicit promises—he can't openly defy orders without sparking a coup or being executed for treason. But he's indicated that if mass protests happen, he'll delay deploying his troops or deliberately understaff the units, perhaps even order non-lethal engagement only. And he's quietly encouraged a few other officers to be… 'slow' in following any harsh crackdown orders."
Delia, the former aide, interjects, voice low: "General Sturgis is a good man. If he's on our side even a little, that could save many lives. But Karen… even if the army holds back, the secret police and riot squads won't. Not all of them."
Karen takes a breath. This is the heart of it. "I know. We can't guarantee it will be peaceful. But that's why we'll also have a parallel strategy: the truth, unleashed."
She unzips her duffel bag and pulls out several slim USB drives, sliding them onto the table. "On these drives is evidence—much of it gathered by Marcia Davenport and other journalists in exile. Proof of what the regime has done. Names of the disappeared, documents exposing that the so-called terrorist bombing in March was likely orchestrated by agents of the regime itself. We have testimonials from security officers who fled the country, admitting innocent civilians were tortured and killed. And a statement from Chief Justice Greene, a dissent she wrote before the Court was shut down, declaring Trumbull's continuation in office unconstitutional."
The group stares at the drives as if they're explosives. In a way, they are. Karen's voice gains intensity. "We're going to broadcast all of this on Election Day. We've been running a pirate radio channel—Radio Free Columbia—and a secure internet feed quietly for months, but on that day we will blast the truth at full volume. Shortwave, internet drop, maybe even hijack a local TV signal if we can manage it. We'll throw leaflets from rooftops with these truths. Let the people see what's been hidden."
Nadia's eyes shine. "If people hear that, many will join us in the streets. They're scared, but if they know the depth of the regime's evil, some might find courage."
Tomas still looks wary. He picks up one of the USBs gingerly. "This… this is enough to push people over the edge, sure. But also enough to push Trumbull over the edge. You saw how he reacted to that bombing—took the chance to go full martial law. If we do this, he'll crack down even harder."
Karen locks eyes with him. "He's already at maximum repression. The only step beyond this is outright genocide. And I don't think even his loyalists have the stomach for that—certainly not under global scrutiny. We force his hand, yes, but in doing so we show the world and our fellow citizens the truth. It's our best shot to delegitimize him internally and internationally. Perhaps even elements of his base will question him once they see what he's done, or see how many of their neighbors reject him."
Reverend Penn bows his head, voice gentle but firm. "There is a season for all things, brother," he says to Tomas. "A time to be silent and a time to speak. We have been silent, or at least quiet, for too long. The time to speak—loudly—may be upon us. And a time to act."
Delia leans forward, elbows on the table. "Logistics. How do we coordinate something like this under their noses? They monitor all communications."
Karen had spent many nights agonizing about this. She outlines the plan: cell structures and analog methods. Tomas's union network will distribute messages in person at factories—workers will pass notes or code words like "sick-out on Tuesday" to indicate a general strike. Nadia's student contacts will use old-fashioned flyers and graffiti on campus walls to signal a gathering. Reverend Penn has sermons prepared that subtly encourage congregants to "walk in peace for truth" on the chosen day. Delia and Daniel will tap into what's left of the opposition party's local chapters, sending couriers rather than phone calls.
"We use no electronic comms for the final plans—nothing they can trace. Everything face-to-face or on paper that can be burned afterward," Karen says. "We also stagger our activities: early morning of that day, workers strike and people gather in small clusters wearing black armbands. If those go unchallenged and numbers grow by noon, we proceed with bigger marches and the broadcast of evidence. If the regime somehow catches wind and blocks it early… we reassess, perhaps retreat and preserve ourselves for another fight. But I'm betting they'll be caught off guard. They think they broke the back of resistance. They'll stage their own rally that day, expecting compliance everywhere else."
Nadia offers a grim smile. "They do think they broke us. My campus has been quiet since the crackdown. They likely assume we're terrified. And we are. But we're also angry." She reaches into her pocket and unfurls a small piece of cloth: a black strip of fabric. "We've been making these armbands secretly. Some of us vowed to wear them on Election Day as a sign of mourning for our lost democracy. I can accelerate that effort. If thousands show up wearing these, it sends a message even before anyone shouts a word."
Karen gingerly takes the armband from Nadia's hand, turning the cloth over in her fingers. Such a simple thing, yet it might become a national symbol overnight. She can almost picture it: crowds of ordinary people with black bands on their sleeves silently filling a square, a quiet, unified rebuke to the regime's charade of "unity." The image sends a shiver of hope through her.
Tomas clears his throat, glancing at Reverend Penn. "If—God forbid—violence erupts, do we have any plan for that? Any way to protect people?"
A heavy question. Karen closes her eyes briefly. "Everyone who joins will be told the risks. We will encourage nonviolence on our side, absolutely no weapons. We can't win a firefight, and we don't want to. If the regime fires on peaceful demonstrators… well, that may be the final nail in their coffin in the eyes of the world. But yes, people could be hurt or killed." Her voice drops. "We accept that possibility because doing nothing will surely lead to more suffering in the long run. Trumbull isn't just going to step down or mellow out. He will continue to tighten the noose until there's no air left in our society. So we must loosen it, even if the cost is blood."
Silence falls as they each contemplate the personal danger. They all have seen or experienced the regime's brutality: Nadia's friends beaten, Tomas's colleagues disappeared, Penn's church raided, Karen's own exile and the murder of some of her former aides. They carry those scars, and still, here they are.
Reverend Penn begins to hum under his breath—a low, soulful melody that Karen recognizes as an old spiritual about overcoming oppression. The gentle sound steadies her heart.
Delia breaks the silence. "What about Sofia? Have we any word?"
Karen bites her lip. Sofia Perez—the outspoken opposition senator—was arrested during the emergency's aftermath. "I received intel that Sofia managed to escape custody during a transfer," Karen says, and a few gasps of surprise circle the table. "Apparently a guard loyal to Sturgis or maybe bribed by someone left a door ajar. She's been hiding with a network of former colleagues. I've kept details scarce for her safety. But I have a secure channel to her. If she can appear on Election Day, she will. Perhaps leading a protest in her home city. The people there revere her. It could galvanize crowds."
Nadia smiles broadly at the thought. "Sofia free… that will lift everyone's spirits. They paraded her in handcuffs on TV, made her look defeated. If she reappears unbroken, it's like a phoenix rising."
Plans continue late into the night. They discuss which cities are likely to muster large turnouts (the capital itself will be locked down tight, but perhaps second-tier cities with some discontent brewing). They set fallback rendezvous points in case a meeting place is compromised. Karen distributes burner phones with special one-way text capabilities, to receive the go-ahead signal on the morning of from her or Marcia once the evidence broadcast is ready.
By the small hours, the outline of the uprising is set. Each person knows their role and leaves the meeting with a mixture of trepidation and determination etched on their faces.
Karen lingers with Daniel after the others depart in ones and twos (to avoid drawing attention to any single location). They douse the lantern, and in the darkened cellar, Karen allows herself a moment of vulnerability. She sinks onto the chair, sudden exhaustion hitting her now that adrenaline ebbs.
Daniel places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"
She nods slowly. "Just…taking it in. There's no turning back now."
He squeezes her shoulder. "For what it's worth, I think this plan is our best shot. All or nothing."
"All or nothing," Karen echoes quietly. Her mind reels back to her days in Congress, only a few years ago, when her biggest worry was casting a politically risky vote or facing nasty smears on TV. How quaint that seems now. She's about to potentially trigger a national revolt. The weight of it presses on her chest.
They climb the steps back up to the ground floor. Just before they part, Daniel fishes a sealed envelope from his briefcase. "Karen, I was asked to give you this. It's from your father."
Karen's eyes widen in surprise. "My father?" She hasn't seen or spoken to her family in months—the regime surveils relatives of dissidents, and she dared not contact them directly.
Daniel nods. "He gave it to me through a trusted friend, knowing I might see you. He said it was for when you returned."
Hands trembling slightly, Karen accepts the envelope. Once she's alone, under the moonlight filtering through a broken window, she breaks the seal and unfolds the single sheet of paper within. It's her father's handwriting, unsteady but unmistakable:
My dearest Karen,
If you are reading this, you have chosen the dangerous road (as I knew you would). I want you to know how proud I am of you. Your courage gives me and your mother strength. We pray for you every night.
Things are hard here. We lost our neighbor to the secret police last month; he simply vanished. People are afraid to even whisper. But whenever I see someone fight back in a small way—a graffiti, a silent protest—I think, "my daughter helped inspire that."
Do what you must, dear one. We will do what we can from our end, quietly. We have not lost hope, because we have not lost you.
Come back to us when this is over. Love always,
Dad.
Karen presses the letter to her chest, eyes wet with tears she's long held at bay. In this moment, the personal and the political meld. She isn't just fighting a tyrant—she's fighting for her family, for Daniel, for Sofia, for the union workers, for every mother seeking her missing son, for every student daring to dream of a free future.
She takes a shaky breath and folds the letter away carefully. Then she pulls out her own notebook and pen. Under the pallid moonlight, she begins to write letters of her own—one to her parents, one to her husband and children, one to be published to the public if she doesn't survive that fateful day. In each, she explains why she had to do this, that freedom demanded someone stand up and she could not live with herself if she didn't try. The words flow quietly, a catharsis of truth and love and resolve.
By dawn, Karen Li has finished her letters. She seals them and labels each. She entrusts them to Daniel with instructions to deliver if things go wrong. It's her insurance that what she stands for will be known even if she falls.
Before they part, Daniel looks at her with a sad smile. "You're prepared for martyrdom," he says softly.
Karen straightens, the final letter still warm in her hand. "I'm prepared to live for my country," she replies. "But if I must die for it, I'll have made my peace."
As the first light of daybreak glimmers, Karen and her allies disperse into the waking streets, carrying with them the seeds of rebellion. In the alley behind the garage, Karen pauses. Over the town's skyline, a single star still pricks the sky, fading with the dawn. She finds herself murmuring a promise, almost like a prayer: Hold on just a little longer, Columbia. We're coming.
And with that, she slips away, another shadow blending into the streets, her heart steeled for the historic days to come.
Chapter 22: Election Day – The Unseen Vote
November 7, 2028. Dawn breaks over Columbia with an eerie normalcy. There are no voting booths, no lines of citizens casting ballots—only the heavy stillness of a nation forced to accept that Election Day has been erased. But beneath that stillness, something is stirring.
In Capitol City, Elaine Buchanan stands at the edge of Freedom Square, clipboard in hand, overseeing the final touches on the regime's "Day of Unity" rally. The sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, the weather almost mocking in its perfection. Thousands of people are already gathered in the cordoned-off square, waving small Columbian flags distributed by event staff. From her vantage point on a temporary staging platform, Elaine scans the sea of faces. She knows many of these attendees have been coerced into coming—government employees, members of the National Party's youth wing, people afraid to be labeled unpatriotic if they stayed home. Their cheers, when they come, will be loud but hollow.
Elaine's stomach churns with anxiety, though outwardly she maintains a brisk, commanding demeanor. She steps down and weaves through the backstage area where large screens and speakers have been set up. Technicians bustle about, and in the center of it all stands Felix Archer, microphone in hand, rehearsing his lines for the camera crew.
"—a historic day in Columbia, as citizens celebrate stability and strength instead of division—" Felix practices, a bright smile plastered on his face. Elaine catches his eye and gives a brief nod. Felix nods back subtly; she notes the dark circles under his eyes, the slightly damp sheen on his forehead despite the cool morning. He looks as tense as she feels.
Elaine's radio crackles. "Stage manager to Ms. Buchanan: the President's motorcade is ten minutes out."
She presses the earpiece. "Understood. All units, final positions. Ensure the front rows are filled—close any gaps."
She walks along the front barrier where police in dress uniforms stand guard. Behind them, the front rows are occupied by enthusiastic loyalists—Trumbull fan club members, one might say—clad in red, white, and blue. They wave oversized flags and hold up pre-printed signs that read FOUR MORE YEARS OF VICTORY and TRUMBULL = TRUE LEADER. These die-hards will cheer no matter what; their devotion is ironclad. It's the rest of the crowd Elaine worries about: the silent ones holding flags limply, those who clap only when others do. There are many blank faces, people just praying to get through the day without incident.
Elaine pastes on a smile as she passes a cluster of schoolchildren in crisp uniforms who have been assembled to sing the national anthem. They stand fidgeting, shepherded by nervy teachers. Elaine stops to straighten one little girl's ribbon. The girl looks up at her wide-eyed. "Ma'am, is it true we don't get to vote for President anymore?" she whispers innocently.
Elaine's heart skips. A teacher rushes in, "Hush, sweetie." But the girl's question hangs in the air.
Elaine forces the smile to remain. "Today, dear, we're celebrating our President's leadership. It's like we all voted yes to unity." The platitude tastes bitter, but she pats the child's shoulder and moves on before any more questions come.
She checks her watch—8:50 AM. The rally is scheduled to kick off at nine sharp. Felix's broadcast on the state network and NNN will go live then, showcasing patriotism and pomp. Trumbull himself will speak around noon, after a morning of orchestrated festivities and testimonials from handpicked citizens about how wonderful life is now.
Elaine finds her spot at the side of the stage where she can coordinate quietly. The sound of a marching band draws closer—right on cue, they're parading down Independence Avenue toward the square. Over the murmur of the crowd, she hears Felix's voice booming through loudspeakers: "Good morning, Columbia! This is Felix Archer, coming to you live from Freedom Square on this historic Day of Unity…"
She allows herself a moment to breathe. So far, everything is running smoothly. And yet, an unease pricks at her. Not just the moral queasiness she's felt for months—this is something more immediate. She scans the periphery of the square: snipers on the rooftops (standard security), checkpoints at every entrance staffed by National Guard, and beyond them… the city streets look almost empty. It's a normal workday by decree since the election was "postponed indefinitely." People are either at this rally, at home, or at jobs under watch.
Still, she can't shake the feeling that something is off. Perhaps it's guilt nibbling at her, after the conversation with Rhodes and her own misgivings. Perhaps paranoia, contagious from Trumbull. She tells herself: This is in hand. We've thought of everything.
Unbeknownst to Elaine, across Columbia in dozens of towns and cities, small groups of people are quietly beginning to gather. They wear black armbands or carry black ribbons in their hands. They meet in public squares, outside shuttered polling stations, or at university courtyards that should have hosted get-out-the-vote drives. At first, they are subtle: a few individuals standing silently, or a cluster of neighbors whispering together.
In one city to the south, a middle-aged woman steps out of her bakery, ties a black cloth around her arm, and simply stands on the sidewalk. A passerby sees her and nods, revealing his own armband. Further west, at a steel mill, workers exchange glances at the morning bell; nearly all have decided not to clock in. Instead, they exit the factory gates en masse, lunch pails in hand, and walk toward the downtown plaza without speaking a word.
By 10 AM, these small acts are coalescing. Sofia Perez, having slipped out of hiding at dawn, merges into a crowd of churchgoers in her hometown of Arcadia. She wears a plain dress and a hat that hides her face, but those nearest to her recognize the voice of their once-senator when she quietly says, "Walk with me." They do. The group marches, growing in number block by block. Sofia's heart pounds with exhilaration. Each person who joins is a victory over fear.
In Capitol City, Karen Li lurks near a subway entrance under a different name and a nondescript coat. She arrived in the capital undercover a day ago, moving at night, trusting that her radically altered appearance—courtesy of a disguise kit and a friend in theater—would hold up for a short time. Now she observes from afar the pomp of the Unity rally, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
Next to her, Sofia's younger brother Manuel, whom Karen linked up with in the city, whispers updates from his phone (connected via VPN to outside channels): "Reports coming in: protests in over twenty cities and towns so far. Small but growing. We're trending on international social media." Karen nods subtly, her pulse racing. So far so good. But the crucial test is yet to come—when the crowds grow large enough to visibly challenge the regime's narrative, and when they unleash the information torrent.
Back at Freedom Square, Felix Archer finishes an interview with an elderly veteran who—right on script—declares that he's grateful there's "no messy election" because "we already have the best man leading us." Felix beams for the cameras and hands back to the studio for a pre-packaged segment of patriotic music. The moment he's off-air, he steps down and rubs his temples. His head is throbbing. It's not just the bright TV lights or the relentless false cheer he's had to maintain all morning. It's a growing dread that something is happening just beyond the regime's line of sight.
He catches sight of Elaine and walks over, straightening his tie to maintain appearances. In a low voice, he asks, "Everything okay? You look… pensive."
Elaine gives a tight smile. "I'm fine. Just the usual nerves of a big event."
Felix nods. "Me too." He hesitates, then, feeling a rare camaraderie in their mutual anxiety, adds, "I keep thinking about the actual election day we should be having. Covering results, exit polls, all that. This," he gestures at the choreographed rally, "this feels so…strange."
Elaine's eyes flick around to ensure no eavesdroppers. "Keep your voice down," she cautions, but her tone softens. "Strange is one word for it. But we must make it look normal. Better than normal."
Before Felix can respond, a producer waves him back to the broadcast stage for the next segment. Elaine watches him go, a pang of sympathy and worry hitting her. Felix's forced smiles today remind her of a man atop a volcano trying to reassure everyone it's just a nice warm hill. She shakes off the thought and refocuses: Trumbull will arrive any minute, and she must be ready to greet him and guide him through the adoring crowd. Everything must appear perfectly in order for the cameras.
On the edges of the square, a few attendees quietly step away from the rally, slipping into side streets. They've seen enough of the charade. Some have heard whispers that elsewhere something real is happening. One young man pulls out a clandestine burner phone and texts a single word to a friend: "Now."
11:30 AM. Freedom Square is now packed to capacity with about 10,000 people (the number the government mandated). The atmosphere is superficially festive—marching bands have played, children's choirs have sung a stirring patriotic hymn, and now a National Party governor is at the podium extolling Trumbull's leadership. But the mood in the crowd is odd. Many clap at the right lines, but the energy doesn't match the biggest Trumbull rallies of the past. It's as if everyone senses they're going through motions.
Elaine, standing off to the side near General Marcus Hall and Caleb Tyler, senses it too. She notices pockets of the audience where applause is half-hearted. A section of factory workers from out of town look distinctly unenthused, though they make a show of waving flags when cameras pan by. They're here under orders, nothing more. It's troubling—Trumbull expects rapture. Will he notice the lack of genuine fervor? Probably, and he'll blame her and others for it later.
As the governor finishes and declares, "And now, it is my honor to introduce the man who saved Columbia, our President for as long as we need him—Victor Trumbull!" the crowd obediently erupts. Trumbull strides onto the stage, waving. He's flanked by Secret Service and gives the crowd a benevolent wave, then salutes. From a distance, it looks grand, but Elaine, close enough to see his expression, catches a flash of irritation in his eyes. He senses it too—the love in the air isn't as thick as he wants.
Trumbull begins his speech in a triumphant tone, thanking everyone for "choosing unity over division," and proclaiming that Columbia is "entering a golden age free of the corrupt, rigged system." He denounces the idea of elections as if it were an outdated, dangerous ritual, drawing cheers from the die-hard section up front.
Elaine scans the perimeter as he speaks. Earpiece reports from security flow in: all quiet, no issues. Good. But a minute later, a new voice crackles in her ear—one of her aides at Central Command. "Ma'am, we're picking up an unauthorized broadcast on radio frequencies… trying to jam but it's cutting through some channels."
Elaine's blood runs cold. "What kind of broadcast? Where?"
"Shortwave and local FM bands in multiple cities—pirate signals. Content… it's propaganda, ma'am. Anti-government stuff. They're… listing names of victims and calling the President a criminal. We're attempting to locate the source."
Elaine's eyes flick toward Marcus Hall, who is also receiving similar reports in his earpiece. She sees his face darken. The timeline Karen and her allies planned is unfolding: Radio Free Columbia has launched its special program.
Indeed, across the country, in homes and shops and even some in the rally crowd with hidden earpieces, people are listening to a surreptitious broadcast that interrupts regular programming or comes through static on secret channels. A calm voice—Marcia Davenport's voice—reads a roll call: the names of those killed or disappeared under the Trumbull regime, the truth behind the March bombing ("an inside job orchestrated to grab power," she says unequivocally), excerpts from Chief Justice Greene's blocked opinion defending the constitution. For many listeners, it's the first time they are hearing these things said aloud. Gasps and tears greet the list of names; anger blooms at the revelations of deceit.
Elaine doesn't hear the broadcast, only sees its effect indirectly. Marcus Hall steps away to bark orders into his phone—no doubt telling DSB to track and shut down those signals, now. Caleb Tyler mutters curses and dispatches agents. Trumbull continues speaking, oblivious for the moment, feeding off the direct feedback of his captive audience. But Elaine sees a few among the crowd pressing fingers to ears, sharing earbuds—some are listening. And she sees their faces transform: shock, grief, fury. Is she imagining it? No, a ripple goes through parts of the audience, a distraction from the leader's words.
Suddenly, another aide rushes up to whisper urgently to Marcus and Elaine: "We have a situation in Hampton City and Greenville—large unauthorized gatherings. They're… ma'am, they're chanting anti-Trumbull slogans. Also reports of leaflets dropping in several downtown areas."
Elaine's heart lurches. It's happening everywhere at once. The worst-case scenario she'd privately feared—a coordinated unrest on this symbolic day. She forces herself to stay calm. "How many in these gatherings?" she asks under her breath.
"Hundreds in some places, possibly more. Growing by the minute, they say. Sir," the aide adds to Marcus, "General Sturgis's base is one of those areas—his troops haven't deployed yet despite orders."
Marcus Hall's face is thunderous. He nods sharply and strides off, presumably to personally take charge of forcing Sturgis's hand.
On stage, Trumbull is reaching the crescendo of his speech: "…and we will never allow the traitors and losers to weaken our great nation again! No more elections stolen, no more—" He falters, noticing the crowd's attention drifting. Some distant commotion can be heard beyond the square—a rising swell of voices? Trumbull's eyes flash angrily. "—no more chaos!" he barks, louder, gripping the podium. The trained crowd responds with cheers, but the spell is breaking.
Elaine quickly signals the band to strike up a patriotic tune as Trumbull finishes. He's supposed to bask in applause and music now, but something is wrong. Trumbull steps back from the mic, scowling slightly. He exchanges a few terse words with an aide who hurriedly approaches—likely delivering the unwelcome news of unrest. Even from a distance, Elaine can read her boss's face: a storm is brewing there.
Trumbull abruptly leaves the stage, cutting the finale short. The crowd looks confused but keeps clapping as instructed. Elaine rushes to intercept him backstage. "Sir, is everything—"
He rounds on her, eyes blazing. "They dare! Protests—today of all days!" He spits the words. "I'm getting reports of thousands gathering out there, defying me. Who is behind this? Is it Li? Or those damn exiles?"
Elaine swallows hard. "We're still gathering information, Mr. President. It seems coordinated. We'll get it under control."
Trumbull's face is turning a shade of red; a vein bulges at his temple. "Under control? I want it smashed. Immediately. Marcus!" He looks around, but Marcus is already off dealing with Sturgis's insubordination.
Caleb Tyler steps up. "Sir, I've got DSB units mobilizing. We're deploying riot control in every major city as we speak. We'll disperse those crowds in no time."
Trumbull jabs a finger in Tyler's face. "No time, indeed. I want zero mercy. I see any big group chanting or waving signs, I want them beaten down, you hear me? Tear gas, batons, bullets if need be." He nearly snarls the next words: "I want my streets clear!"
Tyler nods fiercely and rushes off, phone already at his ear.
Elaine puts a hand on Trumbull's arm, trying to calm him. "Victor—sir—we should manage optics carefully. Media is watching. If we crack heads on live TV—"
He shakes her off. "To hell with optics! This is my day, Elaine. They're stealing it, stealing it like they stole 2020!" He's ranting now, spittle at the corners of his mouth. "I won't stand for it. Not again." He fixes her with a wild look. "Get me a camera feed. I'll go on NNN myself if I have to, denounce these traitors in real time."
Elaine's gut clenches. "We'll arrange a statement. But please, wait until we have more facts—"
A sudden burst of shouting draws their attention. Several rally attendees at the back of the square are yelling. Elaine catches snippets: "—they're shooting in Greenville!" "—killed my cousin!" One man in the crowd, emboldened by something on his phone, actually raises his voice in the square: "Trumbull lied to us!" he shouts. Gasps ripple around him. Security moves in immediately to grab the man, but his single shout hangs in the air like a spark.
Trumbull hears it. His eyes widen, fury and a touch of panic mingling. "Get me out of here," he growls to his Secret Service detail. They close in and begin hustling him toward the motorcade.
Elaine stays behind a moment, issuing rapid orders to rally marshals: "Disperse the crowd in an orderly fashion, now. Tell them the President had an urgent national matter." She's trying to keep control, but the facade is crumbling. Confusion spreads among the attendees as word trickles that protests have erupted elsewhere. People begin to trickle toward the exits, whispers on their lips.
By early afternoon, Columbia is in turmoil.
In multiple cities, tens of thousands of citizens have taken to the streets, emboldened by hearing their hidden grievances spoken aloud via Radio Free Columbia and seeing others stand up. In Greenville, a loyalist general obeyed orders and sent troops to quash a protest; things turned violent. Tear gas chokes downtown; a line of armed soldiers marches forward as crowds throw whatever they can grab—plastic bottles, stones. A gunshot cracks the air (who fired first is unclear) and a protester falls. Screams and chaos ensue.
In Hampton City, by contrast, General Sturgis's deliberate "delay" in deployment means protesters completely occupy the main square with minimal police presence. They hold signs with pictures of missing loved ones, chant "No more fear!" and sing the national anthem's verse about freedom pointedly. Local police have formed a line but are simply containing, not advancing—some look uneasy, unsure without military backup.
General Sturgis stands in his base's command center, radio in hand, heart pounding as he defies frantic calls from the capital to move out. He finally barks into the radio, "Communications down, say again?" feigning static. To his second-in-command, he orders, "Keep the men on base unless local officials absolutely beg for help. Understood?" The younger officer, having gotten wind of the broadcast and sensing history, simply salutes with a thin smile. Sturgis knows he's likely ending his career (or worse), but he feels at peace. His oath to defend the nation's people guides him now.
Back in Capitol City, Karen Li decides it's time to step fully into the light. She and Manuel slip into a throng of demonstrators gathering near the old Capitol building—perhaps the boldest location possible, right in the government's heart. These people, maybe two thousand strong and growing, carry makeshift banners: "Democracy Now" and "Trumbull Out" and "We Are Columbia." They have heard the broadcast, passed leaflets hand to hand. Their anger at being robbed of an election has finally overcome their fear.
Karen tugs off her wig and sunglasses, revealing her true face. A scarf still covers part of her features, but as she climbs up on the base of a bronze statue, someone in the crowd recognizes her. "Karen Li! It's Karen Li!"
A wave of realization sweeps outwards. The lone National Party voice who defied Trumbull years ago is here, with them. People cheer and surge closer. Sofia Perez, still in Arcadia leading marches, would be proud—her counterpart in opposition is rallying openly in the capital.
Karen raises a hand and the crowd quiets enough for her voice to carry. She speaks from her gut, no notes, no script: "My fellow Columbians," she calls out, "today was meant to be Election Day—the day we choose our fate. The regime thought they could silence our voice by canceling the vote. But look around you—we are the vote! This is the voice of the people, and they cannot silence it unless we let them!"
A roar of approval. Among the crowd are not just longtime dissenters but also ordinary folks—office workers, grandparents, even a few off-duty cops—who've had enough. Karen presses on, her voice amplifying with passion. "For three years, we've lived under lies and fear. We've seen friends jailed, families torn apart, truth twisted. No more! Today we stand and say to Mr. Trumbull: you do not own Columbia—we, the people, do!"
Cheers erupt. Karen spots a few uniformed police in the line ahead listening intently. Some shift their stance, their rigid formation softening.
She holds up a leaflet—one that details the regime's crimes. Her voice rings out, steady and clear: "They have called us traitors, terrorists, simply for wanting our votes counted and our rights respected. But the real traitors are those who betray the Constitution, who murder their own citizens, who sell our country's soul for their own power!" Her words are incendiary but truthful, and they ignite the pent-up pain in the audience.
A low chant begins: "Justice! Justice! Justice!" It grows louder, fists pumping in the air.
Karen turns toward the line of riot police who now stand a mere twenty yards away, shields and batons at the ready. Most have visors down, masks hiding expressions. But she steps off the statue base and moves toward them, an almost calm determination in her stride.
A few protestors try to hold her back—"Careful!" one pleads—but she gently pats their arms. "It's okay."
One officer barks, "Ma'am, step back!" but his voice quavers.
Karen stops just a short distance from them, hands held up to show she's unarmed. Over her shoulder, dozens of smartphones stream this moment live to whatever parts of the internet still carry uncensored feeds.
She addresses the police directly: "Brothers, sisters—yes, I say that because you are fellow Columbians—please listen. No one here wishes to harm you. We're exercising the rights given to us by our forefathers, rights you swore an oath to protect. I know you're just doing your jobs, and I respect you. But today, doing your job does not mean hurting innocent people. It does not mean upholding the orders of a man who has betrayed everything that uniform stands for."
Her voice carries such earnestness that a few officers exchange glances. She takes a tentative step closer; none stop her.
"I was in Congress," Karen continues, "I helped write laws. I can tell you firmly: the orders to shoot or assault unarmed citizens are illegal orders. Your oath does not bind you to those. In fact, your oath to the Constitution binds you to refuse them." She points gently to one young officer whose eyes are visible and wide behind his face shield. "Do you want to be remembered as the officer who gunned down his own neighbors for holding a flag and singing the anthem? Or as the officer who put down his weapon and stood with the people he was meant to protect?"
For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. The young officer lowers his gaze. His grip on his baton slackens. Next to him, an older cop—the unit leader—growls, "Steady!" but even he sounds uncertain.
Behind Karen, the crowd watches, tense but hopeful.
Then a sharp crack splits the air—gunfire from the far side of the square. In a split second, chaos. An agitator from a pro-Trumbull militia, perched atop a nearby building, has opened fire on the protest; later it will be found he acted on some misguided notion of quashing the "rebellion." For now, pandemonium erupts as one protester in the back falls, grazed by a bullet, and others scream and scatter.
The riot police, startled and thinking they're under attack, surge forward suddenly. Half the line moves, while the other half holds, confused. Karen spins toward the commotion just as the line in front of her breaks discipline: two officers lunge and tackle her to the ground, perhaps to protect, perhaps to arrest—no one's sure in that split second of adrenaline.
She hits the pavement hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. For Karen, the world becomes a tumble of sensory fragments: the gritty asphalt scraping her hands, the deafening roar of the crowd panicking, boots stomping around her, and above all an echoing gunshot that seems to replay in her ears.
She wonders fleetingly, Have I been shot? She feels no pain, just shock. Strong arms are pinning her down, a knee on her back. She struggles to speak, to say "I'm unarmed! Peaceful!" but her voice is lost in the cacophony.
All around, it's bedlam. Protesters run in every direction. Some of the riot police advance swinging batons at those too slow to flee; others actually drop their shields and back away, unsure what the hell just happened. One officer is shouting into his radio, "Shots fired, shots fired! Who's firing?!"
Karen manages to twist her head enough to see a slice of sky. Sirens wail in the distance. The weight on her back lifts slightly as one of the officers restraining her is pulled away—by another protester or by a fellow cop, she can't tell. Her vision swims.
Nearby, General Sturgis's troops, who had never left their barracks, stand at windows watching the madness unfold, orders in hand they never executed. Some clench their fists in frustration; others breathe sighs of relief that they didn't wade into what could be a massacre.
Back in Freedom Square, Elaine hears that distant gunshot echo over her radio network and feels her heart stop. "Report! Who fired? What's happening?" she demands, but garbled responses and shouts are all she gets. Felix Archer, still at the rally site, hears it too through a monitor feed. Against protocol, he cuts into the ongoing broadcast: "Ladies and gentlemen, we—uh—we are hearing something is happening near the Capitol… we'll try to get information." It's the first unscripted thing he's said all day, and panic creeps into his polished anchor voice.
Trumbull, already in his armored limo racing back to the White House, gets the news and nearly froths with rage. "Shoot them all if you have to!" he yells to Marcus Hall over the phone. "I want that witch Li's head! Do you hear me? I want her dead or in chains by tonight!" Marcus, trying to coordinate multiple city crackdowns at once, just grimaces and says, "Yes, Mr. President," while signaling his team to locate Karen Li among the chaos and apprehend her alive if possible.
But on the ground in Capitol City, it's pure confusion. Karen, dazed, finds herself being dragged to her feet by two people—one is Manuel (bless him, he didn't run), the other surprisingly is the young riot officer she spoke to, who now whispers urgently, "Go! Run!" He actually pushes Karen toward Manuel, then turns to hold back his own comrades, shouting "Don't shoot! She's not armed!" The brief solidarity in the enemy's rank astounds Karen even through her hazy state.
Manuel throws his arm around Karen, half-supporting, half-carrying her away from the churn of bodies. They slip down a side alley as more sirens converge on the square. Karen's knees are weak; she stumbles, but they keep moving. Around them, splintered groups of protesters scatter into side streets pursued by police. A tear gas canister flies and clatters behind them, spewing a white plume. Manuel presses a damp cloth to Karen's face and they manage to duck into a recessed doorway, coughing but safe for the moment.
At the main square, a line has been drawn in blood and fear. Some protesters remain kneeling with hands up, refusing to run, tears streaming from gas. Some police hold them at gunpoint, uncertain whether to arrest or retreat. One older woman among the protesters begins singing the national anthem through sobs; others join, voices quavering but defiant even as they are forced to the ground.
By evening, this day will be seared into Columbia's history as both tragedy and turning point. But for now, it ends on an unresolved note—a cliffhanger in reality:
Karen Li, bruised but alive, disappears into the warren of safehouses with Manuel's help, not knowing who lived or died in those frantic moments, not knowing if her message truly took root or will be drowned in state propaganda by nightfall.
Sofia Perez in Arcadia stands atop a courthouse steps addressing a candlelit vigil of thousands, while local police watch without interfering, a few even bowing their heads—her fate, too, uncertain as reports say DSB units are en route to arrest the "traitor senator."
Elaine Buchanan sits in her office as dusk falls, writing a crisis memo with shaking hands. She feels the ground shifting beneath her, the regime she helped build teetering as public fury and internal cracks widen. She's terrified—for the country, for herself—unclear what tomorrow holds.
Felix Archer goes live on air that night, forced by NNN higher-ups (on Trumbull's orders) to denounce the protests as "terrorist-coordinated riots." But his voice falters as he reads the teleprompter, the lies sticking in his throat after what he witnessed. Millions see the fear and doubt in his eyes before the feed abruptly cuts to another anchor.
And Victor Trumbull, cloistered in the White House bunker, watches in rage and disbelief as footage of the nationwide unrest streams in from the few media outlets his team hasn't yet blacked out. He slams his fist on the table, shouting, "I am the winner! I am still the damn President!" But outside his fortified walls, the chants of the people—"Democracy now!", "Trumbull must go!"—grow louder, echoing through the night from city plazas and distant neighborhoods that have awoken from fear.
Shots have been fired. The streets are alive with both hope and dread. Columbia stands on a knife's edge as Act II draws to a close, the final outcome unwritten, the fate of a nation hanging in the balance. The noose has tightened, but the people are pulling back. The next act will decide who prevails.