Chapter 16: The Supreme Test
Chief Justice Andrea Greene sat in her chambers, cloaked in the early morning quiet, and wondered if this day would be the judiciary's last stand. It was late 2027, and the High Court of Columbia was set to hear the most consequential case of her career — perhaps of the Republic's very fate. Outside her office window, the first rays of dawn glinted off the dome of the Capitol across the city. Andrea allowed herself one calming breath, smoothing a hand over the stack of legal briefs before her.
A soft knock at the door broke her reverie. It was her senior law clerk, Michael, his face tense. "Ma'am, the Solicitor General and counsel have arrived. The courtroom is being prepared."
"Thank you," Justice Greene said, standing. She caught Michael's uneasy expression. "We'll handle this," she assured him gently. Michael attempted a smile. Last week, he had found a tracking device stuck to the underside of Justice Greene's own car — a brazen intimidation attempt likely by the DSB. He had been on edge since, as had all of Greene's small staff.
As Michael left, Andrea opened her top drawer and took out a folded piece of paper that rarely left her side. It was the anonymous note handed to her at the courthouse months ago after the Ellsworth trial: "Don't let them rewrite the law. Columbia needs you still." By now she had nearly memorized the words. Some days, she suspected Karen Li or another dissident had arranged for it to reach her. On other days, she fancied it was from an ordinary citizen, a lone voice of hope. Either way, the message steadied her resolve. She slipped the note into her robe's inner pocket, close to her heart.
Minutes later, robed and composed, Chief Justice Greene took her seat at the center of the High Court bench. The courtroom was packed despite intense security. Armed guards stood at every entrance. This was no ordinary hearing; everyone knew it. The case on the docket was Monroe v. Columbia Federal Election Commission, but the press had dubbed it the "third term case." At stake: whether President Trumbull could run for office again or otherwise extend his rule beyond the two-term constitutional limit.
Andrea's eyes swept over the counsel tables below. The Solicitor General, a stern woman named Patricia Webb, stood ready to argue for the government. On the other side, representing former President Adam Monroe and allied opposition figures, stood Daniel Wu. Andrea's heart lifted slightly at seeing him—Daniel's presence signaled that some still dared to fight in the legal arena. He caught her gaze and gave a respectful nod.
Justice Greene glanced left and right at her eight colleagues. The composition of the High Court had shifted under Trumbull. He'd managed to install two new Justices since returning to power, tilting the balance conservative-nationalist. Several of these Justices now wore expressions ranging from concerned to outright hawkish. She knew each of them well enough to guess their leanings here.
Justice Clarence Woodbridge, one of Trumbull's new appointees, sat with arms crossed tightly, jaw set—a reliable vote for the regime. Next to him Justice Sofia Ortega, a moderate swing vote, was thumbing nervously through a notebook. And to Greene's immediate right, Justice Martin Liu, ordinarily a liberal voice, gave her a subtle encouraging nod. The internal deliberations had been intense already; Andrea had a clear sense that the initial split among the nine was razor thin.
She rapped her gavel lightly. "We are here to hear oral arguments in Monroe versus FEC et al. Counsel for the petitioners, you may begin."
Daniel Wu adjusted his tie and approached the lectern, alone—standing not just before nine black-robed justices, but effectively before an entire nation holding its breath. "Madam Chief Justice, and may it please the Court," he began, voice echoing in the hushed chamber. "The question before us strikes at the heart of our constitutional order. Columbia's Constitution is explicit: 'No person shall be elected President more than twice.' Victor Trumbull has been elected twice already, in 2016 and 2024. The term-limit amendment was designed precisely to prevent long-term entrenchment of power. We ask this Court to affirm that fundamental safeguard and bar President Trumbull from a third candidacy in 2028."
His words were clear, strong. Andrea watched him over steepled fingers, impressed by his composure. She also noted how Justice Woodbridge rolled his eyes at the reference to 2016 as an "election" counting towards the limit — likely a point of contention.
Daniel continued, "Alternatively, if the reports that the administration may postpone or cancel the 2028 election are true, we ask the Court to declare such action unconstitutional. The people's right to choose their leaders at regular intervals must not be suspended by manufactured 'emergency' or executive fiat."
At that, Solicitor General Webb interjected, her voice sharp. "Objection, Chief Justice—counsel is referencing alleged facts not in evidence. The administration has made no official statement about cancelling the election."
Justice Greene spoke calmly. "Sustained. Mr. Wu, please confine to the petition's scope."
Daniel nodded. "Certainly. Our core argument, Your Honors, is that allowing President Trumbull to hold office beyond the constitutional limit—whether by a third election or by delaying an election—would violate the clear text and intent of the 22nd Amendment of our Columbian Constitution. No legal alchemy can change the plain meaning of 'elected… more than twice.' The framers of that amendment lived through eras of leaders clinging to power. They intended to prevent exactly this scenario."
He looked up and down the bench, meeting each Justice's eyes briefly. "This Court is the last safeguard of our democracy's founding charter. We urge you to uphold it."
Justice Greene felt a swell of pride at Daniel's earnest plea. He stepped back from the podium. Now it was the Solicitor General's turn.
Patricia Webb strode forward confidently. "Madam Chief Justice, and Honorable Justices," she began, "the petitioners ask this Court to take an unprecedented step into a question that is, frankly, beyond the judiciary's purview. The Constitution's 22nd Amendment indeed limits a person to two consecutive terms—"
Justice Rafael Moreno, one of Greene's liberal colleagues, interjected, "It does not say 'consecutive,' Ms. Webb."
Webb smiled thinly. "The text says elected twice. President Trumbull was elected once in 2016. His second election was in 2024. The amendment does not explicitly forbid a non-consecutive third campaign. In fact, historically, term-limit provisions were understood to prevent more than two consecutive terms. Non-consecutive terms, as in President Monroe's case earlier—"
Justice Ortega frowned. "The difference is Monroe lost re-election then came back later. President Trumbull lost and then returned. That's still two victories. Are you suggesting he hasn't already hit the limit?"
Webb raised her hands in a disarming gesture. "We suggest the text is ambiguous. But more crucially, Your Honors, consider the context. Columbia has faced extraordinary unrest and crisis. The nation needs continuity." She drew out that word like a lifeline. "Continuity of leadership to ensure stability. The National Congress recently passed a resolution interpreting the term-limit amendment to allow non-consecutive terms beyond two in times of national emergency."
At this, Justice Greene saw Justice Liu's eyebrows shoot up. It was the first she'd heard of such a resolution—no doubt a hastily crafted fig leaf passed with only the regime loyalists present.
Webb pressed on, voice firming with righteous rhythm. "The Constitution also vests in Congress and the President the powers to ensure the republic's survival. If that means the people, exercising their will in an election, choose to continue President Trumbull's leadership, who are we to deny them? Alternatively, if a temporary deferment of the election is needed to secure peace and order, that too falls under the emergency powers that our laws provide in times of rebellion or danger."
Andrea exchanged glances with Justice Ortega and Justice Moreno. The Solicitor General was weaving quite the tapestry of legal fiction: effectively arguing that national "continuity" and emergency could override explicit constitutional limits.
Justice Greene leaned forward. "Ms. Webb, let me clarify: Is the administration's position that the 2028 election can be postponed at the President's discretion?"
Webb clasped her hands. "Only if absolutely necessary for public safety, Chief Justice. The President would invoke lawful emergency authority—"
"Authority," Justice Greene cut in, "to override an explicit constitutional mandate for an election?"
Webb held her ground. "The Constitution is not a suicide pact, Your Honor. It provides for ensuring the government's continuity. The Twelfth Amendment gave Congress some leeway in election administration in extraordinary circumstances. We argue that in a true emergency, preserving the state warrants flexibility. And as for term limits, the framers did not foresee a scenario like ours—a non-consecutive return in a time of upheaval. The spirit of the law is to prevent dynasty or indefinite rule. President Trumbull is merely seeking to serve a second consecutive term—"
Justice Liu finally spoke, his tone incredulous. "This would actually be a third term, Ms. Webb, separated by four years. How does one square that with 'more than twice'?"
Webb pivoted smoothly. "We interpret 'twice' as consecutive. But even if you find that unpersuasive, consider the amendment's own text: it prevents election beyond twice, but President Trumbull's 2024 victory could be seen as a first in a new sequence, since his terms weren't back-to-back." It was a contortion that made Andrea's head spin.
Before Justice Liu could counter, Justice Woodbridge spoke up in a booming voice. "The people deserve continuity in crisis," he pronounced. "Our Constitution wasn't made to hamstring us in an emergency. Didn't President Franklin Delano Roosevelt serve four terms through the greatest emergencies of the last century?"
A murmur rippled in the gallery at that bold statement. Justice Greene noticed Daniel Wu clenching his jaw—FDR's era was precisely why the term-limit amendment existed, to prevent any repeat of extended tenure.
Daniel requested to rebut briefly, and Justice Greene allowed it. He stepped forward. "To answer Justice Woodbridge's point: yes, FDR's multi-terms in crisis prompted our nation to pass the very amendment at issue. We collectively decided never again, no matter the emergency, would one person hold power so long. The Solicitor General's argument would nullify that decision. If anything, in a crisis the constraints on power must matter more, not less, to avoid permanent authoritarianism."
Justice Greene felt a surge of admiration and concern. Daniel's rebuttal was entirely correct—but to speak of "permanent authoritarianism" in this courtroom took courage. She flicked her eyes to the public seating; a few reporters were scribbling furiously. Two rows back, she saw Attorney General Holt's sharp gaze fixed on Daniel like a dagger.
The questioning continued for another hour. The justices grilled both sides. Greene stayed mostly quiet now, letting her colleagues air their thoughts. She already knew where she stood—firmly with the Constitution's plain meaning. But she needed to gauge how the others might align. Some, like Woodbridge and another Trumbull ally, Justice Patrick O'Neill, lobbed softball questions at Webb, seemingly inviting her to expound on executive powers. Others, like Justice Moreno and Justice Zhang, dismantled her points about ambiguity and emergency with historical citations. Justice Ortega was harder to read—she questioned both sides, perhaps genuinely torn or just playing devil's advocate.
Finally, arguments ended. The attorneys sat down. Justice Greene cleared her throat, heart pounding. "Thank you, counsel. The Court will confer and issue its decision in due course."
She struck the gavel lightly, and the formal session concluded. As tradition dictated, the justices stood and filed out to their private conference room to deliberate immediately.
Inside the High Court's ornate conference chamber, Andrea took her seat at the head of the long mahogany table. A portrait of Columbia's first Chief Justice hung on the wall, seeming to gaze down sternly at them. For a moment, no one spoke. This was one of the most politically charged cases any of them had ever faced; the weight was palpable.
Justice Greene began, voice measured. "We all understand the gravity here. Let's do our duty, as always, and discuss candidly." She looked to the most senior Associate Justice, Moreno, to speak first per custom.
Moreno, a silver-haired man with decades on the bench, cleared his throat. "The petitioners have it right," he said. "The Constitution is unambiguous. Trumbull has had two elections. He's done. And the idea of canceling an election—completely antithetical to our system. I will be voting to grant the relief and bar any third term or election delay. To do otherwise is to rip the heart out of the Constitution." He spoke with a passion that surprised some; Moreno was usually soft-spoken.
Next was Justice Woodbridge. Unsurprisingly, he disagreed vehemently. "The Constitution says what we interpret it to say in context. I for one will not handcuff our nation based on a technicality. The people can decide if they want President Trumbull again; it's not our place to preempt that. And if Congress and the President judge an emergency requires flexibility, we aren't first-responders or generals to second-guess that."
Justice Ortega went next. She was thoughtful, voice trembling slightly. "I see merits on both sides," she admitted. "But… the text is the text. 'More than twice' reads as total two elections. Still, is a non-consecutive scenario truly what they aimed to stop? Or a ruler serving indefinitely…Trumbull did leave office once, which is a break in power." She bit her lip. "I'm leaning toward enforcing the term limit strictly. The framers of that amendment did not include an emergency exception, and if we open that door…" She trailed off. "I have concerns about enabling something irreversible."
Justice O'Neill disagreed, aligning with Woodbridge: "Trumbull's case is special. If the nation wants him, disqualifying him over a pedantic reading could cause greater upheaval." Greene listened as one by one, each Justice gave an initial stance.
Justice Liu firmly sided with term limits, as did Justice Zhang and Moreno. That was four in favor of the petition (including potentially Ortega, though she wavered). Woodbridge and O'Neill were against, as was Justice Patel, a Trumbull appointee who spoke of deference to the political branches. That made three opposed.
All eyes turned to the last person who hadn't spoken: Chief Justice Greene herself. It was unusual for her to be effectively the swing vote, but that's how it had turned out. Ortega seemed almost relieved to cede the decisive role to Andrea.
Andrea folded her hands. She felt the slight dampness of the note in her pocket, a comforting presence. "Colleagues," she began, "the question before us may be politically charged, but our duty is to the Constitution alone. In my view, the Constitution's two-term limit is a red line drawn for the preservation of democracy. President Trumbull's situation is exactly why it exists: to prevent a charismatic or powerful figure from dominating the government beyond an appropriate time."
She continued, voice gaining firmness. "The amendment doesn't say 'twice consecutively.' It says twice. Period. If the framers intended an emergency exception, they would have written one. They did not. Because even crises end—and our democracy was meant to endure beyond any single leader. To allow a third term by clever interpretation or a delayed election by citing emergencies would set a precedent that nullifies the very protections our founders and later generations put in place after hard lessons of history."
The room was silent. Justice Greene looked around at her colleagues. "I intend to vote in favor of the petitioners. We must uphold the two-term limit and the requirement for the scheduled election. To do otherwise is to rewrite the law under pressure, and I for one will not do that."
There was a collective release of breath. Greene realized she had been clutching the edge of the table. Slowly, Justice Ortega nodded. "I… I concur, Chief Justice. You've articulated exactly what I struggled to." That made five votes to grant the petition.
Justice Woodbridge shook his head in dismay. "So be it," he muttered. "Five to four, then."
Yes, five to four. By casting her lot with the Constitution, Andrea Greene had formed a narrow majority to block Trumbull's designs—at least on paper. A thin sense of triumph warred with dread in her stomach. "I'll assign the opinion to myself," she said, wanting to ensure the ruling was as strong as possible. No compromises, no loopholes.
Her colleagues agreed. Some with relief, others with grim dissatisfaction. As the meeting broke up, Justice Liu clapped her gently on the shoulder. "Historic decision, Andrea," he said under his breath. "I hope our institution holds."
Andrea mustered a smile. "It will, if we do our part."
But inside, she was less certain. As the justices drifted out, Greene lingered to gather her papers. Michael the clerk stepped in. "Ma'am, I have some notes ready for the draft opinion whenever you want them," he said, trying to sound upbeat.
"Thank you, Michael. Let's get to work right away," she replied. They had to expedite this; no telling what could happen if they delayed. She also intended to circulate the draft to the others as soon as possible to lock in the majority before someone's resolve wavered.
A knock came at the door—Justice Ortega poked her head in. "Andrea, could we talk for a sec?"
Greene nodded and Michael excused himself. Ortega entered, closing the door behind her. The younger justice wrung her hands. "I wanted to say, I admire your courage. This… this won't be easy. You know they will come after us, after you especially."
Justice Greene straightened her shoulders. "Let them. We have life tenure for a reason, Sofia. If we don't use our independence now, we never will."
Ortega managed a smile. "I suppose you're right." She hesitated. "Just… be careful. I've had some strange... contacts lately. A fellow from the Attorney General's office asked me casually about my family the other day, almost like a warning. It might get rough."
Greene's mouth tightened. Threats and pressure were already swirling. "We'll all need to watch out. But we stand together. If they target one of us, the others must speak loudly. They can't remove a Chief Justice for doing her job, not without shredding the last veneer of legality they cling to."
Ortega exhaled and nodded, reassured for now. "Alright. I'll let you write. Good luck." She left.
Greene locked the door after her. She went to her desk and pulled out a pad. As she uncapped her pen to begin outlining the majority opinion, she heard a faint buzzing from her coat pocket. It was her phone, on silent mode. She glanced at the screen. A text from an unknown number, all digits: WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING. STOP.
Her blood ran cold. Was this some prank? Or a warning that the regime already had eyes in the Court? She deleted the text. Then she retrieved the folded note — the good one — and set it beside her. Don't let them rewrite the law. Columbia needs you still.
Andrea Greene inhaled slowly. She put pen to paper and began to write, the words flowing with conviction:
"In our Republic of Columbia, the rule of law remains the guiding star that no emergency, however dire, can extinguish..."
She would give this opinion every ounce of strength and clarity she possessed. Whatever came next—retaliation, slander, even violence—she would face it. This was the judiciary's line in the sand.
That evening, as Chief Justice Greene's clerks quietly celebrated the tentative 5-4 vote in whispers, a very different conversation took place across town. In the White House residence, President Trumbull received a late call on a secure line. A contact—perhaps a clerk sympathetic to the regime, or a tapped line—had leaked news of the Court's likely decision. Trumbull's face contorted with rage as he slammed the phone down.
Through the walls, Elaine Buchanan heard the muffled fury of the President's shouting and the crash of something hurled against a wall. She closed her eyes, heart sinking. The collision course was set: the judiciary versus the executive. And Elaine had the awful sense that Trumbull would not lose gracefully.
In the High Court, Andrea Greene worked past midnight under the glow of a green desk lamp, finalizing her draft. Each keystroke felt momentous. She ended the opinion with a flourish about the unbroken chain of free elections as Columbia's lifeblood. When she finally leaned back, rubbing her tired eyes, she allowed herself a small glimmer of hope that the worst might be averted by the Court's stand.
Outside, a winter wind howled around the Supreme Court building. In the shadows across the street, a dark SUV sat quietly, engine running. Inside it, a pair of eyes watched the light in the Chief Justice's office burning late into the night, and a hand composed a coded message to a secure recipient. Plans were quietly being set in motion.
Unaware of the watcher in the dark, Justice Greene gathered her papers with resolve. Tomorrow, the draft opinion would circulate, and if all went according to law and honor, Columbia would have a chance to hold onto its democracy a little longer. But deep down, Andrea felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air—a sense that the regime would not go down without pulling every lever, ethical or not. She said a silent prayer as she turned out the light.
It was the judiciary's finest hour. It might also be the prelude to its greatest test.
Chapter 17: The Reichstag Moment
A frigid wind swept through Capitol City on a late January night in 2028, cutting through the near-empty streets. Marcia Davenport hunched into her coat as she walked briskly, her boots crunching old snow on the sidewalk. The city's usual nighttime buzz was muted; ever since the regime's crackdowns, people seldom ventured out late without need. But Marcia had every need to be out this night. An anonymous source—just a slip of paper left at her safehouse door—had warned her: "Something big at the High Court. Midnight. Come ready."
Now, as the clock neared midnight, Marcia's heart pounded with adrenaline and dread. She had her small camera tucked in one pocket, a notebook in the other. She was currently a fugitive journalist, wanted by the state for "seditious reporting," but she was careful: a knit cap tucked up her usually recognizable auburn hair, and she wore thick-rimmed glasses with non-prescription lenses as a light disguise. Still, if she ran into DSB agents, no costume would save her. But this tip was too important to pass up.
The High Court's white-columned building stood a block ahead, illuminated by spotlights. At this hour it looked silent and still. Marcia's breath clouded in front of her as she approached, seeking cover in the shadow of a row of leafless elm trees. Her eyes scanned for anything unusual. Then she saw it: on the north side of the Court building, a window was slightly ajar, light spilling out. Strange—security in this area was usually tight after hours, especially given the recent term-limit case.
She fished out her camera, pulse racing. Was someone breaking in? Or had her tipster meant a meeting or document drop? The note's ominous phrasing unsettled her.
Suddenly, a flash of movement caught her eye near the building's side entrance. A figure in dark clothing swiftly darted away from a basement window, then another. Marcia pressed back against a tree trunk, raising her camera instinctively. Through the lens she caught a fleeting image of two silhouettes, then—BOOM.
A blinding explosion tore through the night. Marcia was thrown off her feet as a fireball erupted from the side of the High Court building. The shockwave sent a blast of hot air and debris across the street. She hit the ground, ears ringing, vision swimming with spots of light.
For a moment, she couldn't comprehend what had happened. Then she saw flames licking at the corner of the building, broken masonry and glass everywhere. The High Court was under attack.
Marcia's mind raced even as her body trembled. Was this… real? An actual attempt to destroy the Court? Instinct kicked in—she raised her camera with shaking hands and started snapping photos of the billowing orange fire and smoke against the night sky. The stench of burning wood and something acrid filled the air. Sirens began to wail in the distance.
As she pushed herself up to her knees, Marcia's investigative instincts roared: this timing was too convenient. The Court was about to rule against Trumbull; she had contacts hinting of that. And now a mysterious "attack" on the judiciary building? It felt like a script from the dictators' playbook. This is a setup, she thought. A Reichstag fire of our own.
She saw a figure stumbling out of a side door of the Court—an older man in a security uniform, covered in dust, coughing violently. He had a bleeding cut on his forehead. Marcia scrambled over to him, keeping low. "What happened?" she shouted over the roar in her ears, unsure of her own volume.
"Explosion… basement," the guard wheezed. "Don't know—gas leak? Or—" He couldn't finish. Marcia helped him lean against a lamp post. People were emerging onto the street now—residents from nearby buildings awakened by the blast, a few off-duty cops from a precinct down the block rushing over.
Marcia knew she had scant minutes before the area swarmed with security forces, and likely, she suspected, Trumbull's forces who would spin this their way. She had to gather what she could. She left the guard in care of some bystanders and crept closer to the Court building's perimeter. Flames glowed through a large gash in the wall. She raised her camera again. Through the shattered window she could see the charred remnants of an office—shelves of legal books on fire, papers swirling in the updraft. A twisted piece of metal—perhaps a filing cabinet—jutted out.
Where was Justice Greene? A bolt of fear shot through Marcia. If this attack was aimed at the Court, she hoped Greene and others weren't inside. Many justices worked late; Greene especially had been preparing her ruling. Please, let her be safe… Marcia thought.
As if in answer, she saw movement beyond the flames. Two figures emerged from a doorway inside—one was clearly Justice Andrea Greene, recognizable by her height and the way she cradled a thick folder in her arm. She was being practically dragged by a security officer who was trying to hurry her out. Greene looked shaken but alive. Marcia's chest flooded with relief. She snapped a photo of Greene being escorted from the wreckage, though she doubted state media would ever allow such images out. That's why she had to.
By now, police cars and fire engines converged, red and blue lights painting the scene. Marcia melted back into the throng of gawkers on the sidewalk, blending in. She lowered her camera; it would draw attention now. Instead, she pulled out her phone and, under the guise of texting, shot off a quick coded message to Karen Li's secure number: "Court attacked. Likely false flag. Greene alive. Going dark."
Across the city and across borders, others were learning of the event in real time.
At approximately 12:45 AM, an emergency line rang in the White House residence. Elaine Buchanan was jolted awake by the shrill tone. Secret Service agents were already in the hall urging her to get up. She threw on a robe and rushed downstairs to the private crisis bunker. President Trumbull was already there, pacing in a hastily donned suit, face flushed with a mix of anger and something like… excitement? Elaine saw Marcus Hall at the room's conference table, spreading out reports, and Caleb Tyler hovering by a bank of monitors with live feeds. The situation room crackled with energy.
"What happened?" Elaine asked, slightly breathless.
Trumbull whirled to face her, eyes wild. "Terror attack!" he growled. "They bombed something—High Court offices, or maybe an arm of Congress. Not sure yet." He slammed a fist onto the table, but Elaine noted a strange gleam in his eye. "I've been warning about this. I've been saying they'd try to overthrow me, and here it is!"
Elaine's heart dropped. High Court offices…her mind flashed to Justice Greene. She swallowed hard. "Do we know who 'they' are, sir?"
Marcus Hall interjected smoothly, "Preliminary intel suggests a coordinated strike by left-wing extremist cells. Possibly connected to some of those underground student groups, with foreign backing."
Elaine stared at him. "Already? How could we possibly know that immediately?" The blast couldn't have happened more than half an hour ago.
Marcus met her eyes with a steady, chilling confidence. "We have our ways. Signals intelligence, for one—chatter lit up in some known networks right after the explosion. It's them."
Elaine felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold bunker air. Marcus had contingency plans ready—of course he did. And he had this narrative ready to go in an instant. It was too pat. She suspected foul play but dared not voice it. Instead, she said, "What's the damage? Casualties?"
Caleb Tyler answered, eyes on the monitors as images of flames and smoke streamed in. "Fire brigade says part of the High Court building collapsed. A few injuries reported, maybe a fatality or two—they're still searching. Could've been worse if it was daytime."
Elaine's stomach tightened. So it was the Court targeted. She had no doubt now: this was Trumbull's retaliation for the term-limit defiance. Whether Marcus directly orchestrated the bombing or simply seized on an opportunity, it was being used exactly as she feared.
Trumbull snapped into action. "Time for a statement. Where's my speechwriter?"
Elaine moved to his side. "Sir, it's the middle of the night—perhaps wait for more facts, or address in the morning when people—"
He rounded on her, livid. "No! We address this now, before the spin doctors muddy it. Columbia needs to hear from me tonight." Then his voice dropped to a near whisper, teeth baring in something like a grin. "This is it, Elaine. The proof of the conspiracy. They tried to bring down the whole government in one blow. We'll show no mercy now."
Elaine's mouth went dry. "Yes, Mr. President," she managed. She stepped back as Trumbull barked orders for a camera crew and podium. Staffers scrambled.
Marcus sidled up to Elaine while Trumbull was distracted. Under his breath, he said, "We've prepared for this. Project Full Circle is a go." Project Full Circle? Elaine wasn't even looped in on that codename, but she could guess: mass arrests, martial law, all of it.
"Marcus… was it us?" Elaine whispered, unable to stop herself. "Did we… stage this?"
Hall's icy blue eyes flickered with something between amusement and annoyance. "Does it matter? We'll control the narrative. Unless you have a problem with that, Chief?"
Elaine looked away. "No problems," she lied. Inside, she felt ill. But her survival instincts told her now was not the time for a crisis of conscience. She needed to keep her position to mitigate what she could. At least, that's what she told herself as she nodded at Marcus and moved off to coordinate the TV broadcast.
While Elaine grappled with the unfolding emergency from inside the regime, Karen Li was watching the drama from afar with a sinking heart. In Toronto, Karen's phone buzzed on her nightstand at around 1:00 AM. She was already awake, insomnia fueled by worry for her homeland. Seeing Marcia's coded message, she bolted upright. "No, no, no," she murmured, immediately switching on a tablet to see news feeds.
There it was: Breaking News banners on every network, including international ones, about an explosion in Capitol City. The details were scant, but state-run NNN was already calling it an "apparent terrorist attack on the High Court." Karen's blood ran cold as an anchor suggested that "radical leftist insurgents" were suspected and that President Trumbull would address the nation shortly.
Karen threw on a sweater and rushed down the hall of her apartment to pound on Sofia Perez's door. Sofia was staying with her under asylum protection. Sofia answered groggily, but Karen's expression woke her up quick. In minutes, they had Peter Vaughn looped in via phone from across town, and Elena Alvarez on video call from Europe despite the hour.
Karen's heart throbbed with fear—for Marcia's safety, for Justice Greene, for everyone back home. But more, she understood exactly what this incident would herald. "This is their Reichstag Fire," Karen said, voice trembling with anger. "They'll use it to justify absolute clampdown. We need to counter their narrative fast. We need statements denying any involvement, condemning violence, everything."
Sofia already had her laptop open. "I'll draft a statement from the opposition-in-exile, make it clear we suspect a false flag. Though Trumbull will brand that as treason, too."
Elena, in her London office, was already contacting journalists she knew. "I'll push the idea that the timing is suspicious. At least get some foreign media to question the official story. Not that it'll save people on the ground tonight…"
Karen felt tears prick her eyes imagining friends in Columbia now at even greater risk. She clenched her fists. "This will crush what little freedom remained," she said softly. Then her resolve hardened. "Unless we turn it against him in the long run. We need evidence—any evidence—if this was orchestrated by the regime." She thought of Marcia's message. Thank God Marcia was on the scene.
She dialed a secure number for Marcia, hoping she was safe enough to answer even briefly. To Karen's relief, Marcia picked up after a few rings, breathless. "Karen, I'm here. It's horrible. But I got pictures, I saw things… I swear it felt staged. I saw two figures running right before the blast, likely agents planting charges. I can't prove it yet, but—"
"You survived, thank god," Karen breathed. "Get those pictures out, but carefully. Maybe via our channels. And lie low, Marcia. They'll hunt any witnesses."
"I will," Marcia replied. "Justice Greene is safe, I saw her out alive. But they'll use this to—"
"I know. Stay safe," Karen urged, and they ended the call.
Back in Capitol City, the military had rolled out by dawn. After the fires were doused and a cursory "investigation" launched (under the watchful eye of AG Holt, ensuring the desired narrative), President Trumbull took to the airwaves in an emergency pre-dawn address.
Elaine stood just off-camera in the broadcast room of the White House bunker. She had helped Felix Archer compile the key points in record time: "Columbia's Darkest Night." "Left-wing terrorists backed by foreign enemies." "State of Emergency." Each phrase made her soul ache, but she watched as Trumbull delivered them with genuine, quivering outrage:
"My fellow Columbians, tonight our nation has endured a cowardly attack—our Darkest Night in living memory. A violent attempt to cripple your government. But rest assured: we will hunt down the radical left terrorists responsible, whether they hide inside our country or are backed by foreign enemies who want to see Columbia weak. I have directed all security forces to restore order. Effective immediately, I am declaring a State of Emergency…"
Elaine's ears buzzed as he spoke those words. They had war-gamed this scenario. State of Emergency, likely martial law pending. Suspension of civil liberties. Curfews, media blackout on dissent, mass arrests of any known opposition figures. It was all coming. And the public, in shock and fear, would likely acquiesce.
Trumbull continued, voice rising passionately, almost spitting with fury: "There are those—like former President Monroe and the fugitive Karen Li—who have shamelessly fomented hatred against the will of the people. Let me be clear: though they hide abroad, their words have fueled this treason. They may not have lit the fuse, but they lit the flame of sedition in Columbia. We will hold all who aided and abetted these terrorists to account."
Elaine closed her eyes. He was scapegoating Monroe, Karen—likely preparing charges in absentia, justifying going after anyone remotely connected to them domestically. She glanced at Felix Archer, who was live on another camera ready to provide analysis after the President's address. Felix looked pale, almost ill. But he caught Elaine's gaze and offered the slightest shake of his head, as if to say, what else can we do? She had no answer.
As predicted, Trumbull invoked emergency powers not used in generations. He cited something akin to the Insurrection Act. By daybreak, Columbia was effectively under martial law. Armored vehicles patrolled the streets of Capitol City and other major cities. News channels across the country were compelled to run looped footage of the High Court ruins and ominous captions like "Coup Plot Foiled" and "Democracy Under Attack."
And as the outline of dawn touched the Washington Monument's tip in the distance, the first waves of arrests began. But that would be the next chapter of this nightmare.
For now, Chapter 17 ended with Columbia reeling and the regime seizing its moment. As President Trumbull signed the emergency decree with a flourish on live TV, any lingering hope that the 2028 election or the courts might stop him seemed to go up in smoke alongside the charred wing of the High Court.
Justice Andrea Greene, watching the broadcast from a secure hospital room where she was treated for minor injuries, felt tears roll silently down her cheeks. Her draft opinion, scorched but intact in her rescued folder, lay on the bedside table—now likely a footnote in history that would never be allowed to see the light of day.
In that gray dawn, Columbia's last illusions of normalcy were shattered. Only those willing to resist in extraordinary ways could carry on the fight now. The noose had tightened fully, and every character we have followed—insiders, dissidents, and bystanders alike—felt its chokehold.
Chapter 18: Night of a Thousand Arrests
Caleb Tyler strode through the underground command center with a singular focus, combat boots echoing off concrete floors. Banks of monitors lined the walls, each displaying live feeds from body cams and street CCTV across the nation. Red dots blinked on a digital map of Columbia, marking targets being neutralized in real time. This was the culmination of weeks of preparation: Operation Roundup was in full swing.
"Team Alpha, report," Caleb barked into his headset as he reached the central console. He was clad in black tactical gear, the emblem of the Domestic Security Bureau on his shoulder. His normally boyish face was hardened tonight—eyes cold, jaw set. This was the night he had been waiting for, the night all the "traitors" would feel the boot of the state at their necks.
A crackle, then a voice: "Alpha here. Target Rhodes secured, no resistance." A flicker on one of the screens showed a grainy night-vision view of a stately suburban home. Senator Larry Rhodes stood in a bathrobe on his porch, hands raised as DSB agents in full combat gear surrounded him. Caleb zoomed that feed, watching intently. Rhodes's wife was sobbing somewhere off-camera. Caleb allowed himself a thin smile. Senator Rhodes had been on the list for dissenting privately one too many times. The fool had even met with Elaine Buchanan recently—Caleb's surveillance van had caught that. Now Rhodes was being led gently—but firmly—back into his house under effective house arrest. They'd call it "protective custody" publicly to avoid too much outcry. But Rhodes's voice would be neutralized henceforth.
"Good," Caleb responded. "Keep Senator Rhodes under guard. No communication out." He didn't want Rhodes calling any Senate allies tonight.
He turned to another operator. "What about Sofia Perez?"
The operator switched the feed on a monitor: a live local news shot (courtesy of a cooperating network) showed Sofia Perez, former senator and prominent Trumbull critic, being shoved into a black van outside a hotel. Apparently Sofia had been in hiding domestically, moving safehouse to safehouse, but one of Caleb's informants flushed her out tonight with a false promise of asylum. Now uniformed police "perp walked" her right in front of cameras. Sofia tried to keep her head high despite the rough handling, shouting, "This is illegal! I am a patriot, not a traitor!" But her words were drowned by sirens. The reporter narrating the scene gravely intoned that Sofia Perez was suspected of leading an "insurrectionist network."
Caleb smirked. Another one off the board. "Make sure she's charged under the Anti-Terror Act by morning," he instructed a subordinate. "Treason, sedition, whatever sticks."
He pivoted to the next matter. His eyes flicked to a checklist on a tablet in his hand: dozens of names, each with a status indicator. Many already marked DETained in green. A few still yellow—pending.
"Unit Six, status on the academic list?" Caleb inquired, referring to professors and intellectuals who had signed a prominent anti-regime letter months back.
A voice came through: "Unit Six. We have Dr. Ellen Park and two others in custody. One target not home—likely fled, we're in pursuit."
"Understood. Don't let Professor Anwar slip the net," Caleb snapped. "Use the roadblocks if needed; he's on the highway list now." He had highway checkpoints activated around major cities, to catch anyone trying to drive out to the countryside or to an airport.
Every angle was covered. DSB teams and loyal military police swarmed across Columbia's cities this night, armed with pre-prepared lists that had been refined for months. They hit residences simultaneously at pre-dawn hours, a synchronized strike to decapitate any potential resistance leadership or sympathizers.
One monitor played scenes from Capitol City: armored personnel carriers rumbling down quiet residential streets, curfew announcements blaring from loudspeakers: "By order of the State of Emergency, all civilians must remain indoors. Unauthorized assemblies will be dispersed." Occasionally, distant pops of gunfire could be heard—likely someone foolishly resisting arrest. But organized opposition? None. The crackdown was catching them utterly off guard.
In the command center, Caleb felt a grim satisfaction. This was the shock-and-awe that would cement the new order.
At one console, an intelligence officer spoke up. "Sir, we have a ping on Marcia Davenport's alias—someone used her known burner phone number briefly about an hour ago near the High Court site, then it went dark."
Caleb's lips curled. Marcia Davenport—the regime's most wanted journalist—had so far evaded him. But if she was at the scene of the explosion, she might still be in Capitol City. "Put all local units on alert. Check her known associates, track any facial recog hits near transit stations. I want her, tonight if possible."
"Roger," the intel officer said, relaying orders.
Another radio call came: "Team Bravo reporting: We have two staff from The Tribune and one from Free Radio in custody." These were the remnants of independent media. Some had gone underground, broadcasting or publishing online from secret locations. Caleb had been delighted to raid one such cellar tonight, smashing their laptops under his boot as agents hauled the dissident reporters away.
Caleb scanned for one more high-priority name on his list and keyed his mic. "Team Delta, report on Sturgis." Jack Sturgis, former Deputy Attorney General, had been suspected of leaking to the resistance.
"Delta here. Target Sturgis… resisted. We had to use force. He's down. EMS en route." The voice was tight.
Caleb cursed under his breath. "Alive or not?"
A pause. "Unclear, sir. He was armed—fired on us. We returned fire."
Caleb slammed a fist on the table, startling a tech next to him. "If he's alive, secure him at hospital under guard. If not…" he shrugged to himself. Dead men caused less paperwork. "Copy, sir," Delta responded.
Stepping back, Caleb surveyed the wider situation. By 4 AM, most targets were in hand or neutralized. A thousand arrests was not an exaggeration—between opposition politicians, activists, academics, journalists, and even a few critical voices within the ruling party, the dragnet had swept them all. The regime's enemies list was being executed to perfection. And the beauty was that public justification was ready-made: they were all conspirators in the "attempted coup/terror plot."
He allowed a moment to relish the scene: this command center humming with efficiency, screens showing Columbia under martial law, and he, Caleb Tyler, orchestrating it at the heart. A fanatic's glint came to his eye. This was the purifying fire Columbia needed, he believed. After tonight, no one would dare whisper dissent.
Felix Archer, meanwhile, was experiencing this event from a very different vantage. He had been summoned live on air continuously since Trumbull's speech, a fixture on NNN providing "analysis" and updates. They had moved him into a secure government media studio—ostensibly for his safety during the unrest, but Felix knew it was to ensure he stayed on script under watchful eyes.
Now, past midnight, he sat under harsh studio lights, makeup probably melting off his pale face, as he narrated the footage being fed to him.
"We're seeing dramatic images from across Columbia," Felix said into the camera, voice steady but laced with feigned gravitas. On the screen beside him, looped videos of flames at the High Court and handcuffed figures being led by soldiers created a dizzying collage. "Law enforcement is acting swiftly to apprehend those allegedly involved in tonight's attempted coup. So far dozens of arrests have been made of known agitators. The President has assured us this roundup is to keep us all safe, quoting Benjamin Franklin earlier—'whoever would overthrow the liberty of a nation must begin by subduing the freeness of speech,' a reminder that free speech abused for treason is not protected."
Those words had come from a teleprompter that Elaine's office prepared. Felix felt bile in his throat as he read them. Subduing the freeness of speech indeed—he recognized the twisted irony. But he delivered it flawlessly.
After hours without break, Felix was exhausted, morally and physically. A producer signaled he had 30 seconds before next segment. Felix took a sip of water and, under his breath, quoted to himself the real Franklin line that haunted him: "Those who would give up essential liberty, to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety." He wished he could say that on air, but that would be noticed instantly by censors now.
Then a thought struck him—perhaps he could slip it in subtly, as a kind of code, a small act of defiance only the sharp-eared might catch. It was dangerously stupid… but Felix's conscience was screaming at him. He had to do something, anything, to not feel completely complicit.
When they went live again, Felix segued from the security update by noting, "The nation now faces the perennial balance between security and freedom. As one founder cautioned, 'those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety deserve neither.' It's a time for unity and trust in our protectors as they guide us through this crisis." He said it evenly, continuing without pause into the next item. On the surface, it sounded like just another historical flourish supporting his commentary.
He doubted most viewers would even register it. But in a small apartment across town, Marcia Davenport, watching the state broadcast on a smuggled tablet, did register it. She had evaded capture so far by moving to a safehouse—a sympathetic acquaintance's attic. Curled up in darkness, Marcia listened intently. When Felix uttered that quote, her eyes widened. She knew Felix's style inside out; he'd never dare insert that unless intentionally. It was a lifeline of sorts—proof that Felix Archer's soul wasn't entirely lost, and perhaps a signal to those listening that at least one voice in the regime understood the price being paid.
Marcia cracked a sad smile. "Nice one, Felix," she whispered. It gave her a shred of hope in this terrifying night. She jotted the quote down. Maybe she could use it in a piece for Radio Free Columbia—if she survived the next day.
Back at the White House, Elaine Buchanan was neck-deep in the regime's administrative frenzy. While Caleb's forces swept up enemies outside, Elaine coordinated with the remaining Cabinet and a rump Congress to legalize the coup that was unfolding.
In a tense pre-dawn meeting by teleconference, Elaine and Acting Speaker of the House (a Trumbull loyalist) hashed out an Emergency Transition Act. Its provisions: formally postpone the 2028 election indefinitely "until the security crisis is resolved," grant the President authority to rule by executive decree (bypassing normal legislative checks), and suspend judicial review on matters pertaining to the emergency. It was breathtaking in scope—a legislative rubber stamp on dictatorship.
By 3 AM, they had enough National Party senators and representatives rounded up under guard in the Capitol to hold an emergency session. The chamber was mostly empty—only a skeleton quorum present, as opposition members were either in jail or in hiding, and some moderate Nationals conveniently didn't receive notice until it was too late. Elaine personally rode with a convoy to the Capitol, the city eerily quiet under curfew and tank patrol. She stepped into the grand but dimly lit House chamber, standing next to the Speaker as he called the session to order.
It was surreal. Half the lights were off due to security protocol, and soldiers stood at the exits. Perhaps two dozen legislators sat scattered in the hall built for 435. They debated nothing—there was nothing to debate when guns and fear controlled the room. The Act passed by voice vote at 3:32 AM with only a few timid "nays." Elaine watched it all, her face an emotionless mask. Inside, she felt like she was floating outside her body, watching someone else orchestrate the death of the republic.
She thought of Senator Rhodes, under house arrest now, and wished he were here to at least voice one forceful objection. But even he might have been silenced by fear of what he'd seen this night.
After the vote, Elaine took the parchment copy of the Emergency Transition Act and stepped into the President's office (Trumbull had set up temporary command in a fortified space under the Capitol). She handed him the document. He signed it with a flourish, then clapped Elaine on the shoulder. "Well done," he said simply.
Elaine forced a tight smile. "All for stability, sir."
Trumbull's eyes gleamed with triumph. "Stability at last." He then moved on, barking new orders to aides about dawn press releases and ceremonies for the fallen (one junior judge had died in the blast, a convenient martyr).
Elaine withdrew, feeling sick to her stomach. But she knew there was no going back. She was the author of this "legality" now; her rationalizations that she was preventing worse didn't numb the guilt any more.
Elsewhere in the city, Chief Justice Andrea Greene emerged gingerly from a secure SUV at the High Court building. It was morning now, sky tinted gray and orange. She had insisted on going to her office—what remained of it—despite colleagues urging her to rest. She needed to see with her own eyes.
The building was cordoned off, soldiers everywhere. But with her status, she was allowed through. Two Justices joined her. What they found devastated Greene: the blast had destroyed an entire wing where some justices' chambers were. Her own office in the adjacent wing was intact but sealed for safety. Court was adjourned indefinitely "for security reasons." A Trumbull-appointed Justice —the most junior one—met Greene at the site and delivered an astonishing message: "Andrea, we've been advised by security not to proceed with any rulings right now. It's just too dangerous."
Greene stared at him. "Advised by who? The President? The Constitution doesn't cease at gunpoint."
The junior justice looked down. "The majority…some of us…we think to attempt that term-limit decision now could provoke more unrest. Perhaps even a civil conflict. Maybe it's best if—" he swallowed, not finishing.
Greene understood. He and at least one other had flipped under fear. If she tried to push out the ruling now, they could rescind their concurrence, leaving her without a majority or allowing a new majority to prevail. It was over. The Court had been neutralized without a single formal demand—just raw intimidation and now a likely pliant majority.
She felt something break inside her. "This is cowardice," she said hoarsely. "History will damn us for this."
Her colleague had tears in his eyes. "I'm sorry," was all he managed.
Justice Greene turned away. She walked to the plaza in front of the Court, where the statue of Justice stood. A soldier stood guard nearby, rifle in hand. Greene, a dignified figure in her black coat, looked up at the blindfolded woman with scales. Then she did something she never imagined: she reached up and removed her judicial collar, a delicate white lace she'd worn for every session, and tucked it into her pocket. For a fleeting moment she considered resignation—a grand public exit. But no, she realized: they'd just replace her with a stooge and any hope of an independent voice would vanish.
Better to remain, even silently, to witness and perhaps someday record these travesties. So instead of quitting, Justice Andrea Greene stood there in silent protest, tearful but unbowed, vowing that if an opening ever came to right these wrongs, she would take it.
By the day's end, Columbia had changed utterly in the span of 24 hours. Trumbull openly held dictatorial powers. The noose tightened around all remaining characters:
Marcia remained in hiding, knowing her name was likely high on the wanted list. She clutched her camera's memory card containing last night's photos, determined to get them out to Karen somehow as proof of the regime's lies.
Sofia Perez sat in a military prison cell, already labeled an "insurrectionist leader" on state TV, awaiting a show trial or worse.
Senator Rhodes stared out the window of his study, guards posted at his door, effectively a prisoner in his own home—punished for the mild protest he had made earlier that day about martial law.
Felix Archer, finally off the air after nearly two straight days, slumped in a break room chair at the studio. He had seen Marcia's face flash on an internal memo of wanted fugitives; he closed his eyes and silently wished her strength. He also replayed that Franklin quote in his head, wondering if she heard it.
Elaine Buchanan returned to her office at the White House, which was now under heavy protection and where loyalty tests would soon begin for staff. She removed her heels, rubbing sore feet, and allowed herself a single shuddering sob in the privacy of dusk. Then she steeled herself once more. She had cast her die with the dictator; her atonement, if any, would have to wait for another lifetime.
And far away, Karen Li watched with grim, burning resolve. That evening, she and her exile team compiled a list of all those arrested, broadcasting their names on Radio Free Columbia as a roll call of the regime's brutality. Hearing how many friends and allies were now in chains, Karen felt anger overcome sorrow. They would fight on. The more Trumbull tightened his grip, the more determination it gave her to loosen it, eventually break it.
Thus Act II ended not with a whimper but with a bang—a literal one. The dictatorship had bared its teeth completely, leaving no doubt of its total hold on Columbia. For those still free and resisting, the stakes could not be higher: it was liberty or death now, with nothing in between.
But as Karen Li whispered into the microphone that night, quoting a banned writer to countless secret listeners across the country: "The night is always darkest before the dawn." She only hoped that was true, and that Act III would bring that dawn.
Chapter 19: Total Control
Marcia Davenport wakes before dawn to the familiar glow of her laptop screen, in a cramped London flat that serves as her exile headquarters. Rain patters softly against the window as she scrolls through encrypted messages from contacts inside Columbia. Each report paints a chilling picture of a homeland now under total martial law. She reads with a knot in her stomach about curfews enforced at gunpoint, newspapers reduced to a single state-controlled gazette, and neighbors compelled to spy on neighbors. In the half-light of the early morning, Marcia's face is drawn and determined as she compiles these accounts. This is her routine now: gathering every shred of evidence of the regime's abuses, determined to make the world understand what Victor Trumbull's "New Era of Security" truly means.
In one message, a mother in Capitol City pleads for help finding her son. He was taken last month in the midnight sweeps, the woman wrote. They accused him of spreading protest leaflets. I don't know where he is. I'm so scared. Marcia's hands tremble as she types a careful reply, promising to get the boy's name on an international missing persons list. She knows how slim the chances are—stories of disappearances have become dreadfully common. Under the emergency decree, habeas corpus is effectively suspended; people vanish into detention centers and secret prisons, leaving families in silent agony. Marcia pauses and closes her eyes, absorbing the weight of that mother's despair. In her mind flashes the image of her own younger brother back in Columbia; she prays he stays safe, keeps his head down.
The apartment is silent except for the hum of Marcia's laptop. Stacks of documents and flash drives clutter the small desk—evidence of human rights abuses, lists of political prisoners, photographs smuggled out by brave souls. Marcia runs a hand through her hair, exhaustion tugging at her, but she cannot rest. Each day under Trumbull's regime means more suffering, and she has become the unofficial archivist of the people's pain.
By seven o'clock, a weak gray light filters through the curtains. Marcia switches on a shortwave radio receiver, one of her few lifelines to home. A cheery voice crackles through—the state radio's morning bulletin from Columbia. "Victory over Chaos Day is coming," proclaims the announcer with forced enthusiasm. Marcia's jaw tightens. The propaganda machine is in full swing. The radio voice extols President Trumbull's leadership, crediting his firm hand for ending unrest and restoring "law and order." They mention record employment and patriotic fervor, inviting citizens to a celebratory rally next week. Marcia knows these claims are hollow. Perhaps some people still believe this, she thinks with a pang, but how many are simply too afraid to say otherwise?
She turns the dial, catching snippets of Felix Archer's morning TV show, rebroadcast over the airwaves. Felix's tone is triumphant as he interviews a National Party governor who gushes about "unprecedented unity" under Trumbull. The media is 100% synchronized now—every channel, every headline, every broadcast carries the regime's message. Dissenting voices have been muzzled or driven underground. Marcia listens with disgust as Felix praises new security measures: citizens are required to carry special travel permits and pass through military checkpoints between cities "for their own safety." He lauds the creation of neighborhood watch committees that "encourage patriots to report suspicious activity." Marcia knows this for what it is: a nationwide informant network, turning citizens against each other. She recalls one contact's warning: a man was jailed because a neighbor overheard him mutter criticism while fixing his car. No act is too small to escape suspicion now.
Marcia clicks off the radio, unable to bear more. She inhales deeply, centering herself. This is why I'm here, she reminds herself. If truth inside Columbia is smothered, she must broadcast it from outside. She has spent the past weeks writing a comprehensive report on the regime's crimes—a dossier meant for the United Nations and international media. It details everything: the show trials convicting innocent opposition figures of treason, the gag orders on judges, the Parliament reduced to a rubber-stamp assembly. On her screen, she scrolls past photos of armed soldiers patrolling quiet city streets, of a crumbling courthouse building where justice no longer lives. The title of her report stands out in bold type: "Total Control: The Collapse of Democracy in Columbia."
A gentle knock on the bedroom door pulls Marcia from her thoughts. Karen Li steps in, carrying two steaming cups of tea. "You've been up all night again, haven't you?" Karen asks softly, her voice equal parts concern and admiration. Marcia gives a weary smile and accepts a cup, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers.
"I had to finish verifying these accounts," Marcia says, gesturing at her laptop. "There's a new memo from someone in the Justice Ministry—detailing the expanded list of banned organizations. They've outlawed basically every opposition party and civil society group. Even the Civil Liberties Forum and the Veterans for Democracy—gone." She shakes her head. "They've arrested professors, pastors, union leaders... anyone remotely critical."
Karen's jaw clenches. Though she has heard it before, each new injustice lands with fresh pain. "It's worse than I imagined. They aren't even pretending anymore." She sits on the edge of the bed, momentarily gazing out the rain-streaked window. Even here in London, thousands of miles away, the weight of her country's turmoil rests heavy on her shoulders.
Marcia takes a sip of tea. "How did the conference call go last night?" she asks. Karen had spent the previous evening briefing representatives from several human rights organizations via secure video chat.
A faint spark lights in Karen's eyes. "It went well. Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch—they're all on it. They promised to amplify the report when we release it. And they're urging the UN Human Rights Council to open a formal inquiry." She allows herself a tight smile. "It's something. The regime craves legitimacy; an international inquiry will put more pressure on them."
Marcia nods, encouraged. "At least internationally, the truth is getting out." She sets down her tea and flips open a leather notebook. "Speaking of which, today's the meeting with the Foreign Office, isn't it? The one you've been arranging all week."
Karen exhales and stands. "Yes. 10 AM. We should get ready." She glances at Marcia's drawn face. "I'd like you to come, if you're up for it. They might want details only you can provide. You've become our chief expert on Trumbull's abuses."
Marcia straightens her back, resolve pushing aside fatigue. "Of course. I'll bring copies of the dossier and any evidence they need." She closes the laptop and moves to gather a stack of documents into her satchel. Among them is a memory card loaded with video testimonies smuggled out of Columbia—harrowing witness accounts from ordinary people who suffered under the crackdown. She handles it carefully, as if it were explosive. In a sense, it is.
An hour later, Marcia finds herself in a sleek conference room at Whitehall. The British Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs greets Karen with a cordial handshake, then nods politely at Marcia. Through Marcia's perspective, the meeting unfolds in a blur of diplomatic formalities and earnest pleas. Karen, ever poised despite the stakes, lays out the situation in measured but passionate terms.
"President Trumbull has imposed what is effectively a dictatorship in Columbia," Karen says, her voice echoing slightly in the wood-paneled room. "We have evidence of gross human rights violations: unlawful detentions, torture, suppression of free speech, possibly even extrajudicial killings masked as anti-terror operations."
The Foreign Secretary's brows knit together in concern. "We've been following the reports. It's deeply troubling. Columbia was one of our close allies... It's hard to believe how quickly things have changed," he remarks. He flips through the printed dossier Marcia provided, pausing at photographs of protesters being beaten by soldiers. Marcia watches his face for a reaction and catches a flicker of shock as he reaches a section describing the "Night of a Thousand Arrests."
Karen presses on, her tone firm. "We're asking for your government's support. Sanctions targeted at Trumbull's inner circle, perhaps. Freezing of overseas assets. Even public condemnation would bolster the morale of those still resisting inside Columbia. They need to know they haven't been forgotten."
The official nods gravely. "Columbia's situation is on the agenda at the next UN Security Council meeting. As you know, direct intervention is complicated..." He hesitates, choosing words carefully. "We will absolutely consider stronger measures—sanctions, travel bans on key officials. And we can increase funding for independent broadcasters trying to reach Columbia's people." He offers a sympathetic half-smile. "Understand, Miss Li, outright intervention is unlikely. There's little appetite among the major powers for anything that could spark a larger conflict. But we will support you in every way short of that. Your fight is noted, and it is inspiring."
Marcia senses Karen's frustration at the cautious phrasing. Karen's chin lifts. "I appreciate that, truly. But please know—time is running out. If President Trumbull isn't challenged, even diplomatically, he will only grow bolder. We've seen this pattern before in history." Her voice takes on a fiercer edge. "Columbia's democracy is gasping for air. If the world waits until it's dead, it will be too late."
An uncomfortable silence follows. The Foreign Secretary folds his hands. "We won't wait, Ms. Li. Expect a strong statement from our Prime Minister within the week. And covertly, we are prepared to assist the resistance in ways we cannot publicize." He glances at Marcia and adds, "We've heard your radio broadcasts—Radio Free Columbia, is it? Remarkable work. We can provide resources to help keep those signals coming."
Marcia's heart skips; it's the first concrete offer of help they've received from a government. "Thank you," she says softly. She envisions new radio equipment, maybe stronger transmitters to reach deeper into Columbia's countryside. That could save lives, or at least souls.
After further discussion, the meeting ends with polite farewells. As they walk out into a drizzly late-morning, Karen releases a breath she'd been holding. "They're hesitant, but it's progress," she murmurs to Marcia. "We got more out of that than I expected—some funding, and likely sanctions to come."
Marcia pulls her coat tighter against the chill. "It's better than nothing. If enough countries follow suit, Trumbull's cronies will feel the squeeze. They love traveling and shopping abroad; block their bank accounts and visas, and they'll squeal."
Karen gives a grim chuckle. "One can only hope." She checks her phone, which she'd silenced during the meeting, and her face darkens. "Marcia, look at this." She hands over the phone.
On the screen is a news alert from a wire service: "Columbian Ambassador Walks Out of UN Session." Marcia reads on as they stand under a shared umbrella on the busy London sidewalk. The article describes how, just hours ago in Geneva, the UN Human Rights Council held an emergency debate on Columbia's crackdown. Several ambassadors condemned the regime's actions strongly. In response, Columbia's own ambassador stood up and angrily denounced the proceedings as "foreign meddling in sovereign affairs," then stormed out of the chamber, vowing that Columbia "will not be lectured by hypocrites."
Marcia's stomach churns with equal parts anger and vindication. "They're so isolated now," she says quietly. "The whole world can see what's happening, and their only response is to deny and deflect."
Karen touches Marcia's arm. "And that's thanks in no small part to your work. To our work. Without the evidence you've gathered, those diplomats might still be debating whether things were really that bad."
A city bus rumbles past, spraying mist. Marcia allows herself a small smile of pride, though it's tempered by the knowledge of what it all represents. "Let's hope it makes a difference on the ground," she replies. "People back home need to feel this support. They need hope."
They retreat from the rain into a café to debrief, and as the waitress brings them coffee, Marcia's mind drifts back to some of the personal stories she read this morning. A retired judge's letter lies folded in her notebook. The judge, a colleague of Chief Justice Margaret Greene, had resigned abruptly after the emergency decree, citing "health reasons." In truth, as he had confided to Marcia in a coded email, he left in protest but was too fearful to say so publicly. "I can no longer serve under the pretense of justice when the constitution is in ashes," he wrote. "But neither can I speak out—my grandchildren's lives are at stake." His quiet act of resistance will go unacknowledged by the regime, but Marcia has included his testimony in her report, anonymized for his safety.
She shares this anecdote with Karen, voice low across the small table. Karen closes her eyes briefly, as if in pain. "So many good people are being crushed or silenced," she says. "It's an oppressive calm right now—Trumbull thinks he's snuffed out the opposition. But I refuse to believe everyone's given up."
Marcia nods. "They haven't. People are scared, yes. But I've been hearing hints… small things." She flips open her notebook to a page of scribbled notes. "There was a student walkout at a high school last week—only a dozen kids, but they held up signs in the cafeteria until police hauled them away. And an anonymous group has been spray-painting graffiti at night in Capitol City. Just simple words like 'Freedom' or 'No Tyrant.' They get painted over by morning, but still… it means someone's out there risking themselves."
Karen's eyes shine at these glimmers of dissent. "Courage is contagious. Even a few acts like that might inspire others." She takes a deep sip of her coffee. "We need to be ready to support them when the time comes. The pressure is building quietly—shortages, corruption, injustice. One spark and people will pour into the streets, if they believe it can matter."
Marcia knows Karen speaks as much to convince herself as to inform. Outside, the rain intensifies, but inside the café the two women share a moment of warmth and resolve. Marcia looks at her friend—once a Congresswoman standing nearly alone against her party's leader, now an exile leading a fragile resistance network. Karen's face is drawn but resolute. The burdens she carries would break many, yet here she is, fighting on.
"We'll be ready," Marcia agrees softly. She reaches across and squeezes Karen's hand. "When that moment comes, we'll make sure the truth is broadcast to every corner of Columbia. The world will be watching."
Karen squeezes back, gratitude in her tired eyes. For a moment, Marcia allows herself to imagine it: the streets of Columbia filled not with troops and terrified citizens, but with brave people raising their voices. A million small acts of defiance coalescing into an unstoppable force. It's a distant vision, but one that keeps her going.
For now, though, total control is the reality. The regime's grip is absolute and suffocating; fear hangs over Columbia like a fog. Marcia and Karen finish their coffees and step back into the cold drizzle, two determined figures walking against a tide of tyranny. The fight is far from over—indeed, it's barely begun—but as they head back to their flat to continue the day's work, there is a spark of hope between them. Beneath the enforced silence of Trumbull's rule, dissent is quietly breathing, waiting for its moment to roar.