Act III – The Forever President
Chapter 23: Battle for the Streets
Karen Li's world tilted sideways as chaos detonated around her. One moment she had been on the flatbed of a truck, rallying a sea of protesters with a fierce, hopeful speech; the next, a crack of gunfire sent the crowd into a frenzy. Pain seared along Karen's upper arm. She gasped and clutched the spot, fingers coming away wet with blood. A rifle shot? Or perhaps a rubber bullet? She couldn't tell – the burn was hot and numbing at once. Around her, tear gas plumes blossomed in the late afternoon light and people scattered down Capitol Avenue. Stay upright. Don't black out. Karen's vision swam as a crush of bodies pressed in, fleeing batons and bullets. Someone – a young man in a bandana – caught her before she fell.
"Congresswoman, this way!" he shouted, half-supporting her weight. Karen staggered off the truck bed, her ears ringing with the panicked screams of thousands. She tasted chemicals from the tear gas, acrid on her tongue. The protest had been meant to remain peaceful – she had implored the crowd to stand firm without violence. But now the regime's troops were storming in with full force. They're going to slaughter us. The thought flashed through her mind as she allowed the protester to guide her through the melee. A line of black-clad riot police advanced in phalanx formation from the east, shields up and batons striking out at anyone too slow to retreat. Behind them, armored vehicles growled, headlights cutting white beams through smoke. Karen's heart clenched in outrage and terror. This was Columbia's capital, not a warzone – and yet here were tanks rolling against citizens.
She ducked as a piece of concrete whizzed overhead – a tear gas canister hurled back by some desperate soul. The young man leading her nearly lost his grip when a surge of people shoved past, but another pair of hands steadied Karen from her other side. "We've got you," a woman coughed, eyes red from gas. Together, the protesters half-carried Karen toward a side street away from the heaviest gunfire. Karen's injured arm throbbed, and her coat sleeve was slick and warm. Only grazed, I think… I can move it. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to run, feet pounding broken glass. Around them was bedlam: store windows smashed, plumes of smoke where tear gas canisters burned, the thunder of boots and panicked screams echoing off buildings. Somewhere a voice boomed over a loudspeaker: "Disperse immediately. This assembly is unlawful." It hardly mattered now. The crowd was dispersing, but only in the sense that a wave disperses when it crashes onto rocks.
Karen risked a glance over her shoulder as they ducked into an alley. A knot tightened in her stomach. Back at the avenue, a knot of protesters had linked arms around an old memorial statue, refusing to move. She saw riot troops encircle them. Then came the pop-pop-pop of automatic gunfire. People crumpled. A strangled cry escaped Karen's throat. They're shooting live rounds... She tried to turn back, instinct screaming to help, but the young man held her firmly. "No, we have to go!" he urged, voice breaking. The woman with him wiped tears and soot from her face and nodded. "You'll be more useful alive. Come on."
They led Karen down narrow side streets. Sirens wailed closer now; blue lights ricocheted off brick walls. A helicopter thumped overhead, sweeping searchlights over dispersing protesters. At one corner, the trio nearly collided with a line of National Party militia – armed paramilitary in civilian pickup trucks waving the regime's flag. "There! Stop them!" someone yelled. The woman swore under her breath and tugged Karen behind a burnt-out sedan. A burst of gunfire stitched across the street, pocking brick and sending splinters flying. Karen's rescuers pulled her low, and all three crawled beneath the wreck's frame. Her heart hammered so loudly she feared it would give them away. Heavy boots stomped past just feet away. Karen pressed a hand against her mouth, suppressing a cough from the tear gas still acrid in her lungs.
When the footsteps moved on, they seized the moment. Karen and the others dashed through a back courtyard strewn with shattered protest signs. The imagery of one discarded poster seared into Karen's mind as she limped by: a painting of Columbia's constitution, blood dripping from its edges. Her vision blurred with sudden tears – of pain, of fury. This is what it's come to. She had known the risks in calling people out today, but the reality of the regime's response was even worse than imagined.
At last they reached a quiet side lane where an idling van awaited. Friendly hands pulled Karen inside. "Go, go!" someone hissed to the driver. As the van sped off, Karen collapsed against the metal wall and finally let out a sob. Through the back window she caught a final glimpse of Capitol Avenue receding in the distance. Flames licked from overturned vehicles; dark-uniformed figures swarmed amid the chaos. My God… how many are still out there? She thought of Sofia, of Marcia, of all the brave souls who had dared to rise up today. Were they alive? Captured? She clenched her jaw. We tried. We actually tried. The crackle of a shortwave radio up front hissed ugly reports: "...multiple casualties… martial law declared in District 6...shoot-on-sight orders..." Karen closed her eyes, the van's interior spinning. Her arm throbbed where blood continued to soak her sleeve, but she barely felt it now. All she felt was grief – and a hardening resolve like steel forming in her spine. The fight was far from over, if she could help it.
Across town, at Fort Banner on the city's outskirts, General William Sturgis peered through binoculars at the approaching convoy of military trucks. Dusk had fallen, and their headlights bounced along the perimeter fence road. Sturgis's throat was dry as dust. Only an hour ago, he had dared defy a direct order: President Trumbull's command to deploy his troops against unarmed civilians downtown. He had stalled, pleaded confusion, and simply not moved – the most he could bring himself to do in the face of an unlawful, unconscionable directive. Now the reckoning was coming.
"Sir, they're almost here," whispered Captain Lee at his elbow. The young officer's face was taut with anxiety, jaw clenched as he took in the convoy. In the yard behind them, dozens of Sturgis's soldiers stood in uneasy clusters. They had armed themselves when word came of an incoming "relief" unit sent by Marcus Hall. But Sturgis had ordered his men to keep their weapons slung for now. He refused to pit them in a firefight against fellow soldiers – that path led to civil war within the army itself.
The trucks screeched to a halt at the main gate. Immediately, helmeted figures poured out – a special detachment from the 3rd Brigade, if Sturgis recalled correctly. Fiercely loyal to the regime, handpicked by Hall. They fanned out with alarming precision, rifles raised. Under the harsh floodlights of the gate, Sturgis stepped forward alone, hands visible and empty by his sides. His heart hammered painfully but he kept his voice steady.
"This is General Sturgis," he called out. "I am unarmed. I will comply with your orders. There's no need for violence here."
For a moment, only the distant thump of helicopters in the city answered. Then a tall officer with hard features stepped through the gate, flanked by armed troops. Colonel Rivera, one of Hall's attack dogs. Rivera's pistol was drawn, though pointed down for now. "General William Sturgis," he barked formally, "by direct order of President Trumbull, you are relieved of your command and placed under arrest for insubordination and treason."
A few muffled curses rose from Sturgis's men behind him. The tension at the fence line prickled like electricity. Sturgis drew a breath. "Understood, Colonel," he replied, calm as he could. "My people won't resist." He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder, meeting Captain Lee's eyes – a silent plea. Lee grimaced but nodded and lifted his hand, signalling the others to stand down. Shoulders slumped, some of the younger soldiers looked ready to cry or scream in frustration, but they obeyed their general's final order.
Rivera strode up, two soldiers seizing Sturgis by each arm. Sturgis did not struggle as they roughly patted him down and pulled his service pistol from its holster. His mind was oddly clear, despite the adrenaline flooding him. He had avoided the nightmare of soldiers shedding each other's blood tonight. That was worth the sacrifice of his freedom, perhaps even his life. At least my men won't die killing their brothers.
As zip-tie cuffs bit into his wrists, Sturgis glimpsed Captain Lee one last time. Lee stood stiffly with the others, fury and sorrow etched in his young face. Sturgis tried to give him a reassuring nod though dread coiled in his gut. He knew what fate likely awaited him – a dark cell at best, a shallow grave at worst. But he refused to bow his head. "Take care of them, Captain," he said hoarsely as Rivera's men began marching him toward a waiting truck. Lee opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He simply raised his hand in a silent salute.
General Sturgis managed a faint, prideful smile as they shoved him into the truck's cage. The doors slammed on him with a clang of finality. Through the wire mesh, he watched his troops being disarmed one by one by the incoming unit. A tense standoff had been averted at the cost of his career and liberty. Better me than a massacre on base. As the truck lurched forward, carrying him away into the night, Sturgis closed his eyes. The distant glow of fires on the horizon told him the regime was free now to "unleash the army," as Marcus Hall had threatened on the last call. He sent up a silent prayer for the citizens out there facing those guns, and for the soul of the nation he loved – a nation he feared might be dying tonight.
In the capital's central plaza, the protest had become a slaughter. Marcia Davenport crouched behind the remnants of a concrete planter, her press badge utterly useless now. It dangled around her neck, a bitter reminder of how little protection the word PRESS carried in this new Columbia. She steadied her camera with trembling hands, peering through the lens at what had once been a peaceful rally. Bodies lay scattered across the broad steps of the Columbia Library and along Main Boulevard. Dozens of them – men, women, teenagers – some moving weakly, others frighteningly still. Each time Marcia's shutter clicked, she felt like she might vomit. But she forced herself to keep shooting photograph after photograph. The world has to see this.
A crack of live ammunition whizzed overhead and she ducked lower. The soldiers had advanced further down the boulevard, methodically pushing the survivors out or cutting them down. They moved in coordinated formation under the flicker of burning street barricades. It was like a scene from a war zone, except these combatants were shooting their own unarmed countrymen. Marcia's eyes burned with tears and smoke. She could barely breathe, scarf pressed over her mouth to filter the acrid air.
Somewhere to her left, a thin wail rose – a wounded girl calling for help. Marcia's every journalistic instinct screamed to go to her, but doing so meant exposing herself. She peered around the edge of the planter. The girl couldn't have been older than twenty; she was sprawled on the pavement, clutching her bloody leg and sobbing. No one else was near – the crowd had thinned to those trapped by injuries or dead ends. Marcia's chest constricted. She glanced toward the soldiers; they were momentarily focused on rounding up a group of protesters who had surrendered by a monument. If she was quick...
Marcia bolted from cover, sprinting low across the open ground. Her boots slipped on spilled blood and she nearly went down, but she reached the girl and skidded to her knees. "Shh, I'm here," Marcia whispered, adrenaline making her voice steadier than she felt. The girl's face was ashen, eyes wide with terror. A bullet had torn through her calf. Marcia tore a strip from her own jacket lining and cinched it around the wound as a makeshift tourniquet. The girl cried out in pain, and Marcia winced in sympathy. "I know, I'm sorry," she soothed. "We have to move you, okay? Can you lean on me?"
With great effort, she got the young protester upright and half-draped over her shoulder. They began to hobble away from the main street, each step agonizingly slow. Marcia's camera banged against her chest; she had to leave her bag of equipment behind to carry the girl, a decision that made her heart lurch. But the memory card with the photos – that was safely zipped in her coat pocket. Just get out. Survive. Get the evidence out.
They were halfway to the alley when shouts rang out. A soldier had spotted them. "Stop! Hands up!" he barked. Marcia froze, instincts warring. If she ran, they might shoot. If she surrendered, this girl might yet get medical help – but likely they'd both end up in handcuffs or worse. Her hesitation decided for her. The soldier advanced, rifle leveled. Marcia raised one hand shakily, supporting the whimpering girl with the other arm.
Suddenly, a figure in a soot-stained clerical collar stepped between them. "Please!" cried the priest, spreading his arms. He emerged seemingly out of nowhere from behind a smoking car, palms raised high in supplication. "She's hurt! Let us get her to a medic!"
Behind him, two volunteer medics in red cross armbands hurried up carrying a stretcher. The soldier faltered, clearly unsure how to handle this. Civilians helping the wounded weren't his orders; he was here to disperse "rioters." Marcia's heart pounded as more people appeared – a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform, an older man clutching a Bible, all gathering in a protective huddle around the injured protester. In that moment, the soldiers had to pause. Humanity intruded on brutality like a beam of light through storm clouds.
Marcia felt a strong hand grip her shoulder – one of the medics. "Go," the woman hissed, thrusting a bloodied surgical mask into Marcia's free hand. "If you're press, you've got evidence, right? Get it out. We'll handle this here."
Marcia's eyes blurred with sudden grateful tears. She slipped the mask on to cover the lower half of her face and nodded thanks. As the impromptu rescue group loaded the wounded girl onto the stretcher, Marcia backed away into the alley's shadows. She saw the soldier lower his rifle uncertainly while the priest and nurse carried the stretcher forward, pleading with him to have mercy. That was the last glimpse she caught before she turned and ran for her life.
Clutching her camera to her chest, Marcia wove through darkened side streets. A few other stragglers darted past, faces ghostly in the faint light of distant fires. Sirens converged a few blocks over – likely more security forces sealing off the area. They'll sweep these streets soon. She had to get off the roads. Spying a service ladder on the side of a hardware store, Marcia scrambled up to the roof, lungs burning. There she pressed herself flat and waited, heart thudding against tarpaper.
From this perch, she had a limited view of the boulevard she'd fled. What she saw made bile rise in her throat: the soldiers were kicking aside bodies to gather the wounded, prodding them at gunpoint into a single file. A cluster of detainees knelt with hands on their heads under the neon glow of a shattered billboard. The giant smiling face of President Trumbull on that billboard flickered in and out of focus through the smoke – a grotesque backdrop to the carnage on the ground. Marcia burned that image into her memory and took one last photo with a shaking hand.
A low moan of wind blew across the rooftop. For a moment, the only sound was Marcia's own ragged breathing. Then her ears picked up new noises: cheers, of all things, and clapping – forced and formal. Frowning, she turned and realized the sounds were coming from the giant outdoor television screen mounted atop the Capital Bank tower behind her. The state media was broadcasting something – perhaps President Trumbull's address, or propaganda footage. The screen showed a split view: on one side, a recorded loop of protesters throwing stones at a building; on the other, a stern-faced news anchor behind a glossy desk. Even from a distance Marcia recognized him – Felix Archer of NNN, the regime's top mouthpiece.
His voice blared from tinny loudspeakers on the street below the tower: "…violent radicals attacking our beloved capital. Tonight President Trumbull took decisive action to restore order." Marcia's hands curled into fists. Felix's tone was as confident as ever, but something in his eyes looked off, almost hollow. It might have been wishful thinking on her part. She watched as he continued reading from the teleprompter, condemning the "insurrectionists" and lauding security forces as heroes. Behind him, sanitized images played of calm being restored – not a single shot of the real horror Marcia had witnessed.
She forced herself to look away. There was no time to stew in anger at the propaganda – she had to move. Carefully, Marcia climbed down the fire escape on the building's far side and slipped into the alleys heading west, away from the crackdown zone. Her heart ached with every step. The faces of those she'd seen gunned down swam in her mind. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, channeling grief into determination. The truth will get out. The memory card in her pocket felt as heavy as a brick. She knew even just possessing it was a death sentence if she were caught tonight. But she also knew it was priceless evidence. If she could reach one of her safe contacts – maybe upload the photos to the Chronicle's foreign server or pass them to an international press outlet – then perhaps these deaths would not be covered up entirely.
By the time Marcia limped into a deserted parking garage where a friendly driver awaited, the first light of dawn was warming the eastern sky. She allowed herself a final look at the city skyline before climbing into the trunk of the car to hide. Pillars of smoke still smudged the pink horizon. Helicopters buzzed here and there, and distant sirens wailed in eerie chorus. The uprising – this bold, desperate uprising – had been drowned in blood. But as she pulled the lid closed over herself, Marcia swore under her breath: the world will know what happened here.
Not far away, Senator Lawrence Rhodes stared blankly at the secure phone he'd just slammed down. He was shaking. The sun had not yet risen, but his stately house arrest quarters were awash in the cold blue light of emergency vehicles outside. For hours, Rhodes had been calling every contact he still had – government aides, former Senate colleagues – trying to get information, trying to beg someone in the President's inner circle to stop the carnage. Most calls went unanswered. Those who did answer had only grim news: hundreds shot or trampled in cities across the country; mass arrests; curfews in effect everywhere. One frantic junior staffer in his party had hissed that "the President has declared it an attempted coup, sir – he's saying the protesters were armed rebels." Rhodes had nearly thrown the phone at the wall hearing that obscene lie.
He sank into an armchair, mind churning. House arrest. He still could barely believe that was his status now – a Senator, a leader of the National Party, confined under guard in his own home like a criminal. It had happened the night before, when he'd balked at signing the President's latest emergency decree. He'd mumbled something about constitutional limits and Trumbull's goons had shown up within the hour. Now Rhodes realized that had been nothing compared to tonight's nightmare. This was beyond the pale, beyond any moral event horizon. The old politician's eyes welled with tears he didn't bother hiding – there was no one to see him in this lonely room. "My God…what have we done?" he whispered to the empty air.
In his mind's eye he saw the Senate floor, only months earlier, when he'd helped ram through the "Security Restoration Act" that gave Trumbull nearly unlimited emergency powers. He had justified it at the time as a temporary measure, a necessary evil to stabilize unrest. Fool, he berated himself bitterly. You've given a madman the keys to the kingdom. All his carefully rationalized loyalty – staying on the inside to moderate Trumbull – it had failed. The Republic was dying, and he had helped kill it.
A heavy silence hung over Rhodes's mansion, broken only by the occasional muffled bark of orders from the guards stationed at his door. Rhodes covered his face with his hands. He thought of the protestors – ordinary citizens – being mowed down on Capitol Avenue. Hundreds dead or injured, they said. How would Columbia ever recover from this? And what could he possibly do about it now, a prisoner in his own home? For the first time in decades, Lawrence Rhodes felt utterly powerless. Shame and grief pressed on his chest like a weight. "Forgive me," he whispered, not even sure who he was pleading to – maybe to the nation itself, or to the ghosts of those slain tonight by the regime he'd enabled.
In the White House situation room, Elaine Buchanan's voice was ice cold despite the quaver in her hands. "We have to get in front of this now," she said into the speakerphone, addressing the dozen media executives and propagandists looped in on a secure conference line. "All channels need to push the line that these were coordinated riots, not peaceful protests. Emphasize agitators—say it was a planned coup by violent extremists exploiting the election delay. Use that phrase: planned coup. We have footage of protesters setting fires; get it on air in heavy rotation."
She paused to take a breath. Her temples were pounding. In the silence on the line, she could hear the faint tapping of keyboards and televisions blaring in the background as those on the call presumably scrambled to obey. "Felix," she continued sharply, addressing Felix Archer at NNN, "make sure your primetime segment leads with the angle of outside interference – hint that foreign agents or the opposition party orchestrated this. And highlight any injuries to security forces; we need to portray them as heroes restoring order."
Elaine gripped the edge of the polished table with one hand as she spoke, knuckles white. Before her, a wall of monitors displayed a dozen live feeds: major cities in lockdown, anchor desks pumping out carefully curated images, a scrolling ticker of arrests made. Another screen showed live drone footage of Columbia Square still smoldering. She forced herself not to stare at that one – the tiny figures of bodies being covered with tarps. Instead, she fixed her gaze on a bland chart of talking points pinned to the situation room board. Stick to the script. Control the narrative. That was her job.
A voice crackled through the speakerphone – one of the network heads. "Roger that, Ms. Buchanan. We're already running the 'Restoring Peace' chyron. This… this is terrible, just terrible…" The man's tone was a blend of shock and sycophancy. Elaine closed her eyes briefly. Terrible doesn't begin to cover it.
Another voice chimed in – Felix's, unmistakable even over static. "We'll do it," he said. To Elaine's ear he sounded subdued, but resolute enough. "We have a montage ready of the worst rioting images and a panel lined up to condemn the violence. I'll drive home the message that President Trumbull stopped an insurrection."
"Good," Elaine replied. "We can't let sympathies shift to the rioters. This was their own doing." She nearly choked on the words, but made herself say them. "And absolutely no discussion of the casualty numbers yet. We'll release figures in a day or two, once things are verified." Verified, or sanitized, she thought grimly. Officially, the death toll would be kept as low as possible. Unofficially, early reports crossing her desk hinted at an appalling number. She had seen the raw memo before coming here: over 300 presumed dead nationwide and climbing. Her stomach lurched but she tamped it down; she would process it later, if ever.
The call continued for a few more minutes, a flurry of logistical instructions. Elaine distributed lies with cool efficiency: the President would address the nation by morning; all channels must carry it live. They would spin this as a decisive victory against sedition. As she spoke, she jotted notes with a pen – noticing only when she finished that her handwriting was almost illegible, the pen having jabbed ragged holes in the paper from how hard she'd pressed. She blew out a breath. Keep it together.
"Thank you, everyone," she finally said, wrapping up. "Stay coordinated out there." One by one the call participants signed off, Felix's voice the last to disappear. Elaine placed the phone back in its cradle with a trembling hand.
Silence settled in the situation room, broken only by the droning news channels on the monitors. Elaine realized she was alone now; Marcus Hall and Caleb Tyler had both left moments earlier to oversee field operations. For a second, she was glad – she didn't want Marcus seeing her like this, pale and shaken. Alone, she could let the facade slip slightly. She lowered herself into a chair, elbows on the table, and allowed a quiver to pass through her body. Her hands were ice cold. She clasped them tightly in her lap to stop their shaking.
Hundreds dead. The number flashed in her mind again, and this time a tear escaped down her cheek before she could stop it. Elaine wiped it briskly away. This was a national tragedy – and she was right at the center of turning that tragedy into triumphant propaganda. She had just ordered up a chorus of lies to drown out the screams of the dying.
The weight of it threatened to crush her. But what choice did she have now? She had sworn loyalty to Victor Trumbull, hitched her star to his wagon long ago. If she faltered, if she expressed a hint of remorse, she'd be finished – and someone even worse would replace her. At least, she told herself, with me here, I can maybe prevent even greater horrors. It was the same justification she'd given at each escalating step. It rang hollower each time.
Elaine looked up at the largest screen, which now showed a split image: on one side, stock footage of President Trumbull in front of flags, on the other, live shots of troops enforcing curfew on empty streets. A caption at the bottom read: Peace Restored as Attempted Uprising Fails. She felt a surge of nausea at the triumphal tone. Peace. If this was peace, it was the peace of a graveyard.
Her gaze drifted to a corner monitor showing international news – one of the few feeds still accessible from Europe. Even they had mostly speculative information at this point, but the banner at the bottom caught her eye: Mass Casualties in Columbia Crackdown; World Leaders Express Outrage. Elaine swallowed hard. Outrage. Yes, the world would be horrified, at least for a news cycle or two. Not that it would stop Trumbull's plans. If anything, he'd dig in more deeply.
Taking a shuddering breath, Elaine stood and adjusted her suit jacket, smoothing back a stray lock of hair. The room still spun slightly, but she forced herself to steady. The President would be expecting an update soon. She had to tell him their narrative machine was in motion, that all was under control. That he was in control.
She practiced a reassuring smile in the reflection of the dark plasma screen, but it came out more like a grimace. Turning on her heel, Elaine Buchanan left the situation room, each step measured and composed. Inside, though, her heart was cracking. She prayed no one in the corridors would look too closely at the chief architect of this night's deceit and see the blood on her hands.
In the brightly lit studio of National News Network, Felix Archer stared at the camera with a practiced expression of grave concern. A graphic behind him showed flickering images of flames and broken windows under the bold title: "Night of Anarchy." Felix's rich baritone scarcely wavered as he intoned, "It is a dark and difficult night, but order is being restored. Security forces are on the streets to protect innocent citizens after this shocking attempt to destabilize our country."
In his ear, the producer's voice counted down: "Thirty seconds to package, Felix." He nodded almost imperceptibly and continued, "Up next: we have former National Security Advisor Stephen Holt joining us to discuss how a peaceful protest was infiltrated by radical elements bent on chaos. Stay with us." As soon as the red camera light blinked off for the segment break, Felix exhaled shakily and his shoulders drooped.
He ripped out the IFB earpiece. The studio's polished set suddenly felt claustrophobic under the hot lights. Around him, the control room's chatter was a distant buzz he tuned out. "Cover me," he muttered to his co-anchor, who looked at him in confusion. Felix didn't wait for a response. He rose and walked briskly off set, nearly tripping over a cable. A stagehand started to approach but Felix waved him off, jaw clenched.
In the corridor just outside the studio doors, Felix found a dark corner behind a stack of equipment crates. His chest was heaving. He tugged loose his tie with shaking fingers and leaned against the wall. Keep it together… But the composure he'd barely maintained on air was crumbling fast.
He had seen a lot over the years in media – footage of wars, terrorist attacks, natural disasters – but tonight's raw feeds were on another level entirely. Felix squeezed his eyes shut and immediately regretted it: the images from earlier flooded back, crystal clear. One of his colleagues in the editing room, pale as a sheet, had shown him a clip smuggled out from a freelance cameraman at Columbia Square. Felix had watched in horror as the video panned across a line of bodies slumped against the library steps, the marble slick with blood. In the background, the crowd screamed as gunfire crackled. And then – Felix gagged at the memory – the camera zoomed unsteadily on one figure, a woman draped over a young man as if shielding him. The next second her body jolted as a shot ripped through her back. She dropped, lifeless. The clip had cut out as the cameraman ran for cover, curses audible.
Felix pressed a fist to his mouth. He had managed to keep from retching when he'd seen it, but just barely. The editor, eyes shining with tears, had asked in a broken whisper, "Felix, what do we do with this?" Felix had taken a long moment to master himself, then answered quietly, "We do nothing with it. We can't… we can't use any of that." The young man had looked stricken but nodded, understanding. Of course they couldn't show the truth – not if they wanted to live to see tomorrow.
Now, in the cool shadow of the hallway, Felix's stomach rebelled. He doubled over and retched, bringing up bitter bile. For a moment he simply stayed like that, hands on his knees, body trembling with shock. He told himself he was just sick from stress or the long hours, but deep down he knew the truth: he was sick from guilt. Guilt that he was helping cover up mass murder with pretty words and patriotic spins. Guilt that he had helped egg this moment into being with months and years of demonizing rhetoric on his show.
When he finally straightened, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Felix felt hollowed out. He caught sight of himself in a small mirror on the wall: a middle-aged man in an impeccable suit, hair still crisply in place, makeup hiding how ashen he truly was. But his eyes… there was fear in them, and shame. He hadn't seen that in himself for a long time.
With a shuddering breath, he adjusted his tie and squared his shoulders. The red standby light above the studio door was flashing – they'd be back on air in a minute. Felix forced his face into its usual confident mask and walked back under the lights. His co-anchor gave him a concerned glance, but he ignored it and took his seat again. The floor manager counted down, "Going live in 5…4…3…"
Felix clasped his hands to stop them shaking and fixed the camera with a steady gaze as the red light glowed once more. "Welcome back," he said smoothly. "As President Trumbull prepares to address the nation at dawn, we reflect on how such unrest could have been incited in the first place." The lies poured from him like poison honey. He hated every word, but he spoke them with conviction – he'd earned his fame on being convincing. Yet even as he delivered propaganda on autopilot, a new determination crept into Felix Archer's heart. This has to be the last time. He didn't know how or when, but one way or another, he had to find a line he would not cross. Perhaps he had finally reached it tonight.
Under the desk, Felix's fist curled so tightly his nails bit into his palm. He finished the segment without faltering, then cut to the guest analyst. As the camera pulled back and others took over, Felix sat in silence, ears ringing. He gazed at the teleprompter, which now displayed the upcoming script praising the "swift victory over the insurrection." A phrase from his youth echoed in his mind unbidden: "What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?"
In that moment, Felix felt he had indeed lost his soul – or at least sold it cheaply. The applause sign blinked as the segment concluded. In the sudden quiet, he let out a long, tremulous breath. On the screens around him, the carefully edited images of "order" returning in the streets couldn't fully hide the truth: the pavement was littered with shattered glass, spent shells, and charred debris from the makeshift barricades. The uprising had been crushed beneath boots and treads. Martial law was imposed in every major city, curfews enforced at gunpoint. The regime's victory was absolute for now.
Yet Felix could sense something else in the air beyond the fear: a lingering, smoldering outrage that all the state media's patter couldn't extinguish. He could see it in the eyes of the few bystanders on the street shots – people stepping over broken glass with expressions not just of fear but of seething anger and grief. That anger was out there, buried under shock. And Felix realized with a faint spark of hope that as long as people could still feel the wrongness of this night, all was not yet lost.
He swallowed hard and returned his attention to the final tasks of the broadcast. Dawn was breaking over a battered Columbia, and nothing would ever be the same. President Trumbull had put the nation under military occupation by its own army. Fear reigned supreme in this new morning. But Felix Archer dared to think, for the first time in a long time, that he might yet find a way to make amends – to help expose the truth, even if it destroyed him.
For now, he continued speaking into the camera, voice steady, playing the part history had written for him. Outside the studio, the sun's early light fell on bloodstained streets and grieving faces. Columbia had entered its darkest hour. And deep in that darkness, tiny embers of defiance still glowed, waiting for the moment to ignite once more.
Chapter 24: Ashes and Aftermath
Sofía Perez awoke to darkness and the stench of fear. For a confused moment, she thought she was still caught in last night's nightmare on the streets – the screaming, the gunshots. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized the screams had stopped. In their place was a heavy, dread silence punctured only by muffled sobs and an occasional barked order. Sofía's cheek was pressed against a cold concrete floor slick with something – she prayed it was just spilled water.
Her head throbbed. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, wincing as pain flared along her ribs. With a jolt, memory flooded back: the protest at Central Plaza, the lines of soldiers advancing, a blow to her side as she tried to shield a younger boy from a baton strike. The boy – where was he? Where was anyone?
As the gloom sharpened, Sofía saw she was in what looked like a vast indoor space, dimly lit by a few generator-powered floodlights. Rows of huddled figures surrounded her. A repurposed sports arena, perhaps; she vaguely recalled being dragged, half-conscious, with a group of detainees through large doors and past concession stands. It was hard to tell now – the place felt cavernous, echoing with despair. Hundreds of people, maybe more, were corralled here behind heavy iron mesh fences that partitioned the arena floor. They've turned a stadium into a prison, she realized with a chill.
Not far from her, a young man in a dirtied jacket sat hugging his knees, rocking slightly. His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut. Beyond him, an older woman with silver hair held a cloth to a gash on another prisoner's arm. Everywhere Sofía looked, she saw injuries and exhaustion. Many were lying down on the bare floor, too weak or numb to move. Some had tear tracks through the grime on their faces.
She took a slow, shuddering breath. Keep it together, she told herself, though terror pressed at her from all sides. They needed hope right now, even a glimmer, or this place would crush them. Sofía struggled to her feet, biting back a groan as her bruised body protested. She checked herself quickly: ribs tender but not broken, a split lip, one ankle badly swollen – likely from being knocked down in the chaos. She could stand; that was enough.
A metallic clank rang out from somewhere above – a catwalk? Then the screech of a loudspeaker. "Attention detainees," a hard voice boomed, echoing through the arena. "You are in temporary custody for attempted insurrection against the Columbian government. Remain calm and seated. You will be processed in due course." A pause, then a final, almost mocking line: "Cooperate and you will not be harmed."
Angry murmurs rippled around Sofía at that. Not harmed? Several detainees bore clear signs of having been beaten already. Her own ribs attested to that lie. She closed her eyes briefly, centering herself. They want to break us with fear. We can't let them.
Nearby, a teenage girl started sobbing uncontrollably, her cries high and keening. Sofía limped toward her, gently pushing through a cluster of detainees. The girl was maybe 16, with a badly bruised arm and terror in her eyes. She reminded Sofía of the students she used to organize on campus – kids with fierce hearts now in over their heads. Without hesitating, Sofía knelt and gathered the trembling girl into a hug. "Shh, it's okay," she whispered soothingly, stroking her tangled hair. "We're alive. We'll get through this."
The girl clung to her as if drowning. Over the girl's shoulder, Sofía saw others watching – drawn by the comforting gesture like parched souls to water. Some young, some older. A few she recognized from activist circles. One man mouthed in surprise, "Perez?" catching her eye. Sofía offered a faint smile of acknowledgement. Yes, she was that Sofía Perez – one of the organizers of last night's protest. In another life, she had been a community organizer and folk singer who led rallies with hopeful songs. More recently, a name on the regime's wanted list, she supposed. Now just one prisoner among many.
And yet, as murmurs spread ("That's her… Sofía led the chants last night..."), she could sense a shift. People who had been slumped in despair were sitting up a little straighter, gazing at her with something like expectation. It made Sofía's stomach flutter – she felt unworthy of their hopes. But she knew what they needed from her in this moment: strength. If she could project even a little, maybe it would keep the spark alive in them.
She gently released the girl from the hug, brushing tears off the teenager's cheeks. "We're together," Sofía said, raising her voice just enough to carry to those nearest. "That means we're not defeated. They want us silent and scared. We can't give them that satisfaction, okay?" She helped the girl sit up against a concrete pillar and squeezed her hand.
A grizzled man with a makeshift bandage around his head spoke up bitterly, "They're going to kill us, aren't they? Or lock us away forever." A few around him murmured in fearful agreement.
Sofía straightened despite the pain in her side. "Listen to me," she said, voice low but clear. "I don't know what they plan to do. But I do know why we all were out there. We wanted our country back. That idea doesn't die just because they've corralled us here." Her eyes swept the ring of faces. Some still looked terrified, but many were hanging on her words. "They can call us traitors. They can beat us. But they can't change the truth – we stood up. And we'll stand up again, if not today, then one day. Columbia's seen dark times before, and we overcame."
She wasn't sure where the conviction in her voice came from; inside, she felt as fragile as anyone. But she thought of Karen Li's speech that had stirred the crowd before all hell broke loose, the passion and bravery in the former congresswoman's voice. Karen's words had lit a fire in Sofía's heart last night. Now, Sofía tried to kindle the same in others. She recalled an old resistance song – one she'd led in quiet gatherings as the regime tightened its grip. Without overthinking it, Sofía began to hum its melody softly. It was a tune almost every dissident knew, drawn from a historic movement long ago.
A young man with a bloodied face recognized it; he picked up the next line, singing under his breath: "...we will rise up from shadows, hand in hand..." Sofía added the next phrase, and another detainee joined. The song spread in a whisper through the caged crowd. It was barely more than a humming chorus, too low for the distant guards to easily detect as rebellion. But it steadied trembling shoulders and brought faint nods of courage.
The teenage girl managed a tiny smile through her tears, mouthing the last verse with Sofía: "our dreams will light the darkness, our hope will shield this land." When it ended, a resolute quiet fell. Sofía squeezed the girl's hand again. "We'll be okay," she whispered. She had no idea if that was true. But a few of the younger protesters were looking at her now like she was a lifeline, and she intended to be one for as long as possible.
Moments later, heavy boots approached as a pair of guards made their rounds inside the pen. The detainees tensed, conversation dying. Sofía quickly settled back against the pillar, pulling the teenage girl close as if comforting her still. The guards eyed the huddle of prisoners suspiciously. One jangled his baton on the fence to startle them. "No talking," he growled. "Sit down and shut up."
Sofía lowered her gaze, heart pounding, and kept silent. But inside, the lines of the song hummed strongly. Our hope will shield this land. They echoed in her mind like a promise.
Meanwhile, in a remote farmhouse miles outside the city, Karen Li winced as Justice Margaret Greene tightened the last bandage around her arm. The two women sat at a wooden kitchen table under the glow of an oil lamp. Outside, dawn had broken, revealing rolling fields touched with frost. It looked peaceful out here, as if the world hadn't ended overnight.
Karen offered Greene a tired smile. "Thank you. You didn't have to do all this yourself, you know." The Chief Justice had arrived only hours ago, but she had immediately taken charge of tending Karen's wounds with surprisingly deft hands.
Greene harrumphed softly. "Nonsense. I'm hardly going to sit idle while you bleed on the table." Despite her brusque tone, the older woman's touch was gentle as she finished wrapping the bandage. "There," she said, patting it. "That should hold. Lucky it was just a graze. Another inch and we'd be digging out a bullet."
Karen flexed her arm a little and nodded. "Lucky indeed." She glanced around at the modest farmhouse kitchen – the worn checkered curtains, the faint smell of herbs hanging to dry. This safehouse belonged to a local family sympathetic to the resistance, now safely evacuated. It was the kind of place Karen had grown used to these past months: borrowed corners where fugitives could rest briefly. But she had not expected to find Justice Margaret Greene – one of the highest judges in the land – waiting here when she arrived in the dead of night.
The 70-year-old Chief Justice had shed her usual robes and immaculate bun. In a simple cardigan and with her gray hair loose to her shoulders, she looked more like someone's kindly grandmother than the last guardian of Columbia's judiciary. But the lines of strain on her face were unmistakable. They'd both been up since Greene arrived, listening to a crackling shortwave radio for news and exchanging only the most necessary words. Now, as Karen carefully rolled down her sleeve over the fresh bandage, Greene finally took a seat across from her with a weary sigh.
"I failed, my dear," Greene said quietly, breaking the silence. Her hands folded atop the table, fingers twisting at her wedding band – a habit Karen had noticed whenever the Justice was deeply troubled. "All of us on the Court – we failed to stop this slide. And last night…" Her voice hitched. "Last night was unthinkable."
Karen reached out and touched Greene's hand lightly. "Margaret, you did everything you could. More than most of your colleagues." It felt odd to address the Chief Justice by her first name, but Greene had insisted: out here they were simply two women sharing the same grim fate.
Greene shook her head. "It wasn't enough. Perhaps if we had been more decisive earlier, issued injunctions, publicly denounced the power grabs… Instead we tried to play it cautious, to preserve the institution." She practically spat the word. "And now the institution is being used as a fig leaf for tyranny. I stayed quiet too long." Her eyes, usually sharp and authoritative from the bench, were clouded with unshed tears.
Karen felt a pang of sympathy. She herself had been ousted from Congress for speaking against Trumbull's abuses during his first term. Greene, by contrast, had walked a tightrope to keep the judiciary intact as long as possible. They had different philosophies, but both had ultimately been swept aside by the autocratic tide.
"What matters," Karen said softly, "is that you're here now. You stood up with your dissenting opinions. People noticed – I promise you. Every time you opposed one of their sham decisions, it reminded us the law still had a voice." She managed a small smile. "It gave me hope, at least."
Greene's lips trembled in a faint smile of her own. "You flatter me. But hope... yes, we mustn't lose that." She drew a slow breath and sat up a little straighter. "Actually, I have something for you."
Karen watched in curiosity as Justice Greene reached down beside her chair and lifted a weathered leather briefcase onto the table. It looked antique – the kind of case a lawyer might have carried in the last century. With care, Greene flipped the brass latches and opened it. Inside, nestled in protective cloth, were several old documents and books. Karen's breath caught as Greene lifted one out. It was a large, framed parchment, edges gilded and ink faded with age, but still unmistakable: the original copy of Columbia's Constitution, the founding document of the republic, usually displayed in the High Court building.
"How—?" Karen stammered, eyes wide. She had seen it before in its glass case on a school trip as a girl, guarded and revered. It was the soul of their democracy rendered in ink.
Greene's lined face lit with a sly, proud look. "I took it. Or rather, I arranged to have it spirited out of the capital yesterday afternoon, before the protest. I suspected things might go… badly. Officially it's 'out for restoration'." She gave a mirthless chuckle. "Better that than let Trumbull get his hands on it. There were rumors he wanted to literally rewrite parts of it himself. Over my dead body, I thought."
Karen felt moisture in her eyes as she gently ran a finger along the frame's edge. Here lay the words so many had died for last night – liberty, rights, the promise of government by the people. "Justice Greene, Margaret, I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"Say you'll keep it safe," Greene replied, covering Karen's hand with her own. "Until it can hang in public again over a free court or legislature. I have also included in here some other documents – original court rulings defending civil rights, personal letters from our Founders that I had in the Court archives. They're just symbolic, perhaps. But symbols matter." She paused, her gaze intense. "If Columbia is ever to find its way back, it will need its foundational ideals intact. I couldn't protect the nation from falling into darkness, but maybe I can protect the flame of its idea, however faintly."
Karen felt a lump in her throat. Carefully, she closed the case and wrapped her arms around it, drawing it close like a sacred trust. "I will keep it safe. I swear." Emotion made her voice thick. "And when the time comes, I'll make sure these see the light again."
Greene nodded, her shoulders easing slightly as if a great weight had transferred. "I know you will. That's why I chose to meet you. The networks of resistance speak very highly of you, Karen." She offered a sad smile. "The once-congresswoman who refused to bow. You've become quite the symbol yourself, you know."
Karen flushed, shaking her head. "If by symbol you mean my face is on wanted posters, sure."
"No, dear. I mean to the people. Footage of you standing up to the security forces—somebody got it out, it's circulating quietly on the internet and beyond. They're calling you a hero." Greene's eyes warmed with something like hope. "Don't dismiss that. Right now, symbols, as I said, might be all we have."
Karen didn't know how to respond. She recalled fragments of the previous night – addressing the crowd atop that truck, shouting until her voice cracked; later, defiantly facing a line of armored police moments before chaos erupted. She hadn't felt brave, only desperate. Yet if those images were giving others courage… She inhaled slowly. "Then I'll do my best to live up to it. I promise."
The two women shared a moment of quiet understanding. Outside, a faint rumble of distant helicopters reminded them both that safety was tenuous and time precious. Karen straightened. "What will you do now, Margaret? Staying here is too risky. If the regime discovers you're gone—"
Greene lifted a hand. "Don't worry about me. I've already officially cited health reasons to take a leave from the Court. A supposed heart ailment." She tapped her chest with an ironic arch of an eyebrow. "They'll spin it that I'm frail and on my way out, which frankly may not be far from truth, but it buys me time. I'll lie low at a safe location. Perhaps quietly coordinate with some international legal contacts. There is talk that certain countries may not recognize the legality of Trumbull's moves. We'll see."
Karen reached across and squeezed her hand. "Be careful. We need you alive when this is all over."
Greene squeezed back, her grip surprisingly firm for her age. "And I need you to keep the flame, Karen. We all do. Promise me you won't lose heart."
"I won't," Karen said softly. Though inside, she felt a swirl of grief and uncertainty, she steeled herself. She had to remain strong. For all those lost, and all those left.
A sudden knock at the back door made them both jump. Karen's hand flew to the small handgun tucked at her waist. But a familiar voice whispered urgently, "Karen? It's David." One of the local resistance couriers.
Karen unlatched the door and let him in. David's face was ashen, eyes red-rimmed. "We just got word from one of our moles," he said quietly. "Rhodes tried to make a move. He… he recorded some kind of resignation and denunciation of Trumbull and got it online for a few minutes this morning. The government scrubbed it fast, but people saw it. And now—"
"Rhodes?" Karen repeated, astonished. Senator Rhodes was the ultimate loyalist insider. She exchanged a shocked look with Greene, who frowned in concern. "What happened?"
David swallowed. "DSB came and took him. He's in custody now, off to who-knows-where. They also arrested General Sturgis – he's alive, being labeled a traitor. They're talking about tribunals." He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "We fear they might execute them, Karen. Rhodes, Sturgis… all of them." His voice cracked. "It's starting, the purge."
Karen felt the room tilt. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. Rhodes had finally broken ranks? It seemed unreal, but also strangely validating – proof that even those in Trumbull's inner circle were appalled by last night. But that only made the backlash fiercer. If even Rhodes is gone, she realized, Trumbull will tolerate no dissent whatsoever now.
Justice Greene stood as well, eyes troubled. "A show trial maybe," she murmured. "But more likely a drumhead tribunal. They'll want to make examples while also silencing these men swiftly."
David nodded. "Elaine Buchanan – we hear she argued for a formal trial, but Marcus Hall overruled, or rather the President did. Military tribunals for 'coup plotters', they're calling it. That presumably includes Rhodes, Sturgis… and who knows who else they'll drag in."
Karen's heart sank further. Allies, or potential allies, inside the system were vanishing like stars snuffed at dawn. Rhodes's late attempt at redemption would be buried. She thought of the old senator, imagining him languishing in some cell, and felt both sorrow and a spark of admiration for his courage – however late it came.
Greene's expression was stony. "They mean to consolidate absolute power. This is the moment many of us feared." She looked to Karen, voice firm. "We must be even more cautious now. All high-profile dissenters are targets. That includes you, my dear."
Karen squared her shoulders. "Let them target me. It won't stop what needs to be done." But even as she said it, she knew the danger had escalated. If Trumbull's regime was willing to throw even loyal Rhodes to the wolves, no one was safe.
David reached into his coat and pulled out a small folded newspaper clipping. "Before I go, one more thing. This was smuggled from abroad. It's… it's about last night." He handed it to Karen. It was an international paper's early edition, showing a blurred photo of soldiers in a street and a bold headline: "Massacre in Columbia: Hundreds Feared Dead as President Crushes Uprising."
Karen's throat tightened as she scanned it. Hundreds feared dead. They knew, out there. The regime had censored numbers domestically, but the truth was leaking internationally. She passed the clipping to Greene, who adjusted her glasses and read quickly, lips thinning.
"European Union leaders are convening an emergency session about the Columbia situation," Greene read aloud. "Some calling for sanctions… UN to discuss a resolution condemning the violence…" She raised an eyebrow. "Well. That is more than mere words, potentially."
"Do you think they'd intervene?" Karen asked, hardly daring to hope. Peacekeepers, perhaps? Outside pressure?
Greene sighed and set the paper down. "International censure can isolate Trumbull, but direct intervention is unlikely unless things escalate to genocide or civil war. Still, the fact the world isn't buying his narrative matters. It gives weight to our cause, morally speaking."
Karen nodded slowly. She felt a conflicted twinge of relief that the outside world was aware, coupled with bitterness that domestic media had so fully muzzled it. But David's information and the clipping gave her something crucial: the knowledge that despite the crackdown, cracks were forming. Even Rhodes… Her mind raced.
"Rhodes's message," she said suddenly. "Some people saw it before it was scrubbed. That means there are probably recordings saved." She looked to David. "If we could get a copy of his denouncement out widely—"
"We're trying," David assured. "Our tech guys are looking. If we find one, we'll distribute it through underground channels." He managed a tight smile. "It would be a hell of a statement – Trumbull's own ally condemning him. Might wake some folks up."
Greene touched Karen's shoulder. "But be careful. The regime will double down on controlling information now, especially after that leak."
Karen understood. The coming days would bring a storm of repression. She inhaled, steeling herself against the wave of grief threatening to engulf her. So many lost, captured, or turned. Sofia was gone – captured alive, they'd heard. Rhodes captured. Sturgis, captured. Others killed. Their fledgling resistance network was decimated.
Yet here she stood, alive and free for now, with Justice Greene by her side and a sacred cargo in her arms. Karen knew what she had to do: carry forward what remained. The Constitution in her case, the truth of what happened in her heart, the hope in their battered movement. They were embers scattered, but embers could ignite a blaze if tended.
She set her jaw. "We'll mourn later," she said, voice firming with resolve. "Right now, we survive and adapt. They hit us hard, but we're not done."
David gave a quick nod, some color returning to his face at her tone. "We've got a small safe convoy heading toward the border tonight. We can get you out, Karen, if you think you'd be more effective from abroad. Possibly link up with others to form a government-in-exile, or rally international support."
Karen considered it. Running abroad went against her gut – she wanted to fight here on home soil. But Greene's presence and the precious documents changed the equation. These needed to be safeguarded somewhere secure, perhaps outside Trumbull's reach, until they could be used. And if Karen stayed, the regime would hunt her relentlessly; dead or disappeared, she'd help no one.
Justice Greene must have sensed her turmoil. "There's no shame in regrouping from afar," the older woman said gently. "The fight will continue inside Columbia too, but we need voices free to speak outside as well, without being immediately silenced."
Karen nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll go, at least for now. We can coordinate across borders." It broke her heart to imagine leaving her homeland even temporarily in the grip of tyranny, but she also felt a glimmer of purpose. Perhaps she could do more abroad – lobby foreign governments, amplify the truth, work to sanction Trumbull's regime.
A sudden ping from a phone interrupted them. David checked his encrypted device and his face lit up. "Felix Archer…" he murmured, astonished. "He just reached out to one of our secure channels."
"Felix? The TV host?" Karen asked, frowning. That was unexpected. Felix Archer was the slick face of Trumbull's propaganda machine.
David nodded, reading the message with a mix of suspicion and hope. "It says he wants to help expose what really happened. He's offering internal footage, documents… My God." He looked up. "This could be a trap, or it could be real. He included a snippet of a video as proof. It's—" David broke off, eyes widening at whatever he saw on the screen.
He turned it around to show Karen and Greene. A shaky video clip played: a timestamp from last night, location tag "Columbia Library Plaza." The camera panned across bodies and then focused on something – a flag, bloodstained, lying on the ground. Karen's stomach clenched; it was incontrovertible evidence of the massacre. The kind of footage Felix's network would never air.
"He had this," Karen whispered. "He really might be turning."
Greene pressed her lips together. "That man's conscience might have finally awakened. But if he's trying to contact the resistance, he's taking a grave risk."
Karen straightened. "We must accept his help. Carefully, but yes. Any evidence we can get out is vital." She gave David a determined look. "Tell him we welcome anything, and we'll protect his identity as a source. And if possible, ask why the change of heart – to gauge his sincerity."
David nodded. "I'll reply securely. This channel's solid; he must have remembered it from old journalism contacts." He tapped out a message quickly.
As he worked, Karen allowed herself a moment to absorb the whirlwind of news. In the past twelve hours, everything had changed. The uprising failed, yes – drowned in blood. But in its wake, surprising realignments were happening. Rhodes defecting, Felix reaching out, the world watching. It was as if the brutality had shocked even some loyalists to the breaking point.
Still, the reality was grim: hundreds dead, countless in detention, the nation under lockdown. Trumbull's government was already declaring victory over what it called an "insurrection." On the radio earlier they'd heard a statement from the Press Secretary congratulating "patriots" for stopping a coup. Lies upon lies, building a narrative fortress around the tyrant.
Karen's jaw tightened. This is the low point, she told herself. The darkest hour. She thought of Sofía, praying the young woman was still alive in custody. Of Marcia, hopefully in hiding, preparing to release the evidence Felix was now providing. Of all the nameless ones lost or suffering. It had to mean something. Their courage would not be in vain if she had any say.
David finished typing. "Message sent. We'll await his data drop." He glanced to Karen. "I'll also coordinate to get you and Justice Greene moving this evening. We've got a route that should bypass most checkpoints."
Greene patted his arm. "I'm not leaving with Karen. I have another path and tasks here for now. But ensure she gets through safely."
David nodded respectfully. "Understood, ma'am."
Karen rose from the table, gingerly testing her bandaged arm. It ached, but she could manage. She tucked the leather briefcase securely into a canvas bag, which she slung over her shoulder. "I need some fresh air," she murmured. "Just a minute."
She stepped outside onto the farmhouse's back porch. The crisp morning air filled her lungs, carrying the scent of dew and woodsmoke. It was almost painfully serene – a jarring contrast to the city's nightmare. Karen leaned on the porch railing and let out a long breath, watching it mist. In the distance, a lone hawk circled above the fields, free and unhindered.
A promise formed in her heart as solid as stone: We will rise again. Columbia was scarred and battered, but not defeated. Not so long as even a handful of them kept the idea alive. She closed her eyes and silently dedicated that moment to all the fallen friends and allies – to Miguel who had stood beside her at rallies and was gunned down last night; to Councilwoman Rivera, whose fate after arrest was unknown; to brave General Sturgis and Senator Rhodes who risked everything to do the right thing at the end. I carry this fight for you now. I won't stop.
Karen opened her eyes, tears finally slipping down her cheeks. She allowed herself that grief, that catharsis, for a few heartbeats. Then she wiped her face, straightened her back, and went inside to continue the struggle.
By the end of that day, Columbia was firmly under the regime's thumb once more. The official death toll from the crackdown was withheld, replaced by the euphemism "many casualties." Rumors whispered of well over five hundred killed. Countless more filled secret prisons like the one Sofía endured. Government forces prowled the streets, enforcing round-the-clock curfews. Travel was curtailed, neighborhoods locked down. The resistance's uprising had been extinguished with ruthless efficiency.
And yet, embers remained. Karen Li, bruised but unbowed, prepared to slip into exile with the nation's founding documents hidden in her bag – a seed for rebirth. Marcia Davenport, in a safehouse basement, sorted through Felix Archer's leaked videos and dossiers, eyes burning with purpose as she prepared to reveal the truth to the world. Chief Justice Greene quietly spread word among trusted jurists overseas, laying groundwork for international condemnation. Even Felix himself, still publicly the regime's voice, had covertly flipped – a dangerous game he could not turn back from now.
President Trumbull's government declared total victory over the "traitors" that evening. On state TV, Felix dutifully read the statement celebrating the preservation of order and vowing zero tolerance for sedition. Behind his measured tone, though, his heart was elsewhere – with the images he had sent Marcia, with the faint hope that perhaps he could atone.
It was a bleak twilight for Columbian democracy. Ashes and grief were everywhere. But in those ashes, fragile sparks glimmered. The battle had been lost, and a long night lay ahead under tyranny's shadow. Yet the idea of freedom was not dead; it smoldered in hidden places, passed on in whispers and secret messages. As Karen's safe convoy crept through the dark towards the border, she turned her eyes back one last time toward the homeland she loved. "I'll come back," she whispered into the night. It wasn't just a hope. It was a vow.