Act IV – Power Vacuum
Chapter 31 – The Tyrant Falls
A low tremor of voices filled the underground conference room as General Alan Mercer pushed open the heavy door. It was just past midnight in Washington D.C., and the air was stifling despite the hum of the ventilation. Mercer's uniform was hastily thrown on, his gray hair still disheveled from being roused out of bed. Around the long table sat the dictator's inner circle—ministers and security chiefs with ashen faces. In the harsh fluorescent light, no one dared to sit in the chair at the head of the table that had always been reserved for President Victor Trumbull.
Mercer took a seat near the middle, gravitating toward the seat of authority by instinct. The silence was thick. At last he cleared his throat. "Is it confirmed?" he asked quietly, though every person in the room already knew the answer.
Across the table, Director Calvin Briggs of the Internal Security Bureau (the secret police) gave a single grim nod. "The President is dead," Briggs said, his voice flat. He set down a bloodstained medical report on the table. "Cardiac arrest around 11:17 P.M. Doctors attempted resuscitation for forty minutes. They failed."
A collective flinch passed through the group. Even though Mercer was expecting it, hearing the finality in Briggs's tone sent a chill through him. Victor Trumbull—the Leader, as state media had anointed him—was gone, just like that. After ten years of iron-fisted rule, the man who had bent an entire nation to his will was now a cooling body in the executive suite upstairs.
"Where is…?" began Harold Fischer, the Justice Minister, his voice cracking. He did not finish the question, but his eyes flicked toward the ceiling.
"Still in his private office," Briggs answered curtly. "Guarded and under wraps for now. Only his physicians and two guards have seen the body. We've locked down that wing of the Residence."
Mercer exhaled slowly and looked around at the others: Fischer, pale and sweating; Lydia Hwang, the Information Minister, biting her lip; General McCall, the Army Chief of Staff, rigid and staring straight ahead; a handful of senior advisors shifting uneasily. Each wore the same expression of shock and creeping panic. They had all assumed Trumbull's reign would continue indefinitely—or that if it ended, it would be because someone pried power from his hands. But a quirk of fate, a clot or burst vessel in the heart, had accomplished what none of them dared attempt.
"We need to move quickly," Mercer said at last, placing both palms on the table. He felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders even as his heart drummed with anxiety. "Before this leaks out and before anyone out there does something stupid."
Briggs's eyes flashed. "We lock the city down. Tonight. Martial law effective immediately," he snapped. "I have counter-insurgency teams on standby. We can have troops in the streets within the hour, establish full control while we decide on the succession."
General McCall frowned. "The Army can mobilize, yes, but against whom, Director? There's no visible threat—"
Briggs cut him off. "There will be. The vultures have been circling for years. Dissidents, exiles, traitors in hiding… you think they won't seize this chance? The moment word gets out that the Leader is gone, you'll have riots. Anarchy." He slapped the table with a gloved hand. "We must prevent any unrest. No matter what."
A muscle in Mercer's jaw tightened. Briggs was always like this—coiled aggression, the answer to every problem to crush it underfoot. Mercer shared his concern about chaos, but indiscriminate force could ignite the very explosion they hoped to avoid. "We will maintain order," Mercer said evenly. "But let's consider our steps carefully. First, information control. Lydia—" he turned to Information Minister Hwang, "—what's the status of communications? Does anyone outside this room know?"
Hwang blinked rapidly and adjusted her glasses. "The state media broadcast ended at 11. All channels are on overnight programming. We haven't released anything. But… I've received multiple alerts of unusual online activity. It seems some rumors are already circulating on encrypted social networks." She swallowed. "And one overseas news outlet posted an unconfirmed report minutes ago citing anonymous sources that Trumbull might have died."
A curse went up from one of the advisors. Mercer's chest tightened. So it was already slipping out. "How could they know so fast?" he demanded.
Hwang shook her head. "We suspect a leak from the medical team or a security aide. Possibly someone texted family… news travels, even at this hour."
Briggs stood abruptly, hand on his sidearm. "Shut it down. Shut everything down. Internet, phones—blackout the lot. If we move quickly, we can stomp out these rumors before they spread."
For a moment, Mercer considered it. A total communications blackout would indeed slow the dissemination. But it might also confirm people's worst suspicions. "We'll restrict communications," he said, choosing his words. "Issue temporary outages on social platforms, slow the internet to a crawl. But we'll need an official statement before dawn, or we risk losing credibility."
"Credibility?" Briggs sneered. "We lose the country if we show weakness. Panic is a bigger threat than a few fibs. Perhaps we say he's… incapacitated, not dead. At least until we assert full control."
Harold Fischer, the Justice Minister, wiped his brow with a shaking hand. "But if—when—the truth comes out that we lied about his death, the backlash—"
Briggs turned a cold glare on Fischer. "Backlash? The only ones left to complain would be in prison or graves."
Mercer raised a hand, silencing them. They were spiraling. His mind raced. The dictatorship had never planned for this scenario—Trumbull had concentrated power so tightly that no clear successor stood in line. No Vice President (the position eliminated during constitutional "reforms"), no Prime Minister, nothing. Only the so-called National Stability Council—this uneasy gathering of power brokers—stood between order and chaos.
"We have to fill the vacuum now," Mercer said firmly. His voice was louder this time, carrying a general's authority. "No falsehoods about his condition. The truth is out, or will be shortly, and we can't stuff that genie back in the bottle." He looked around, meeting each person's gaze. "At daybreak we announce President Trumbull's death."
Briggs opened his mouth to protest, but Mercer held up a finger to preempt him. "We do so on our terms, and we declare a state of emergency for security. Which, frankly, is already in effect." Mercer's eyes fell on General McCall. "I want First Armored Division units deployed around the Capitol and the White House before sunrise. Show of force, non-lethal posture unless absolutely necessary. And National Guard on standby in every major city."
McCall gave a brisk nod, relief visible on his face at having clear orders.
Mercer continued. "Lydia, draft a public statement. Keep it somber. Emphasize continuity and stability. Say the cabinet will handle affairs temporarily." He paused, considering. Technically, by line of succession, the Speaker of the House would be next—but Congress had been reduced to a rubber-stamp body that hasn't convened in months, and its Speaker is a terrified nonentity. Mercer knew the real power lay with the guns. "In the announcement, I will assume responsibilities as acting Head of State until further notice."
Several pairs of eyes widened around the table. It was the logical move—Mercer, as senior military officer and Defense Minister, had the means to enforce control. But speaking it aloud made it real: a new leader was about to step into the vacuum.
Fischer was blinking rapidly. "General Mercer… Alan… are you sure we shouldn't consult what remains of Congress or—or the High Court? I mean, legally—"
"We are the law now," Mercer said, more harshly than intended. He softened his tone by a fraction. "It's temporary, Harold. Until stability is assured, as I'll state. After that… we can reconvene whatever civilian authority remains."
He did not say "if any." A heavy silence reigned. For a moment, Mercer considered adding something reassuring—telling them he had no desire to become a dictator himself, that he was a patriot who would guide the nation gently. But he wasn't entirely sure they would believe him, nor was he sure it was true. He did intend to keep power, at least until the worst was over. They would simply have to trust him or fall in line.
Briggs's stare bore into Mercer. "And what about the… dissidents we haven't rounded up? Once this hits, we'll have protests like wildfire."
Mercer glanced at Briggs coolly. "We'll handle them. Curfew in effect as soon as the announcement goes out. Anyone defying it will be arrested."
Briggs gave a curt nod, acquiescing for now. But Mercer saw the calculation in the secret police chief's eyes. Briggs was likely already considering side plans—quiet arrests or worse—to neutralize opposition figures before they could rally. Mercer would have to watch him.
A knock came at the door. An Army signals officer poked his head in, tablet in hand. "Sir, apologies, but you need to see this."
Mercer beckoned him in. The officer placed the tablet on the table. On the screen was a social media feed—an anonymous account with a short post: Hearing unconfirmed reports that President Trumbull has died. Source inside White House. It had been posted twenty minutes ago and was already spreading. Underneath were dozens of comments—some in disbelief, some exultant, some panicked—plus a few reposts by known exiled dissidents adding their own hints.
Mercer's chest clenched. So soon. It was exactly what they feared—news leaking before they could prepare the narrative. He felt the eyes of the others on him, awaiting his reaction.
Briggs stepped forward and snatched the tablet, scowling. "We need to isolate the capital. No one in or out until we regain control of the narrative." He thrust the tablet back at the officer. "Shut down the cell towers and jam external broadcasts."
The officer glanced to Mercer for confirmation. Mercer hesitated only a second. "Do it. And monitor foreign press—if any major networks pick this up, I want to know immediately."
"Yes, sir." The signals officer saluted and hurried out.
Mercer rubbed his forehead. The headache that had been building since he got the midnight call was now throbbing. "We stick to the plan. Control information, deploy security, announce at dawn."
He looked around once more, meeting each person's gaze in turn. "I know this is… beyond anything we've dealt with. The next twenty-four hours will decide the fate of this nation. Stay focused. We'll reconvene here at 05:00 to finalize the announcement and go live at 06:00."
Chairs scraped as people stood, ready to carry out their orders. Mercer noticed Harold Fischer lingering, looking as if he wanted to speak, but instead the Justice Minister simply gave a wan, uncertain nod. Mercer couldn't quite read the man's intent—fear? guilt? Perhaps both. Fischer then shuffled out with the others.
Briggs was last, stepping close to Mercer. The secret police chief lowered his voice. "General, make no mistake: if we falter now, everything we built these past years could fall apart. I trust you'll do what's necessary."
The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, but Mercer refused to be baited. "I'll do what's necessary for Columbia," he replied quietly.
Briggs's lips pressed thin. Without another word, he turned on his heel and exited, the door thudding shut behind him.
Alone in the conference room, Mercer allowed himself a slow, long breath. His hands trembled slightly with adrenaline. Victor Trumbull was dead. He had served the man faithfully, enforcing his orders and believing it was for the good of the country—or telling himself so. Now Mercer was about to seize the reins. He felt equal parts resolve and dread.
From somewhere above, there was a distant clatter—perhaps staff in the halls, or a guard dropping a weapon. The mansion was coming alive with whispers of what had happened. By dawn, the entire capital would know.
Mercer straightened his jacket and headed for the exit. No matter what, by sunrise this city will be under control, he vowed silently. But as he stepped into the corridor, he noticed a junior aide furtively wiping her eyes and tapping on a phone. The young woman looked up, startled, and quickly hid the device. Mercer's gut tightened. Too late. The truth was already seeping through the cracks of the regime.
Even now, he imagined a few restless citizens awake in the pre-dawn darkness were seeing those first hints on their screens—whispers that the dictator's reign might truly be over. Shock would be coming, and likely fear of what would follow. But perhaps, for those long cowed by tyranny, a glimmer of hope was flickering to life against the night.
Chapter 32 – Lockdown at Dawn
A coppery dawn light was just beginning to filter through the high windows of Elaine Stanton's prison cell when the world shifted. Elaine awoke to the sound of hurried footsteps and raised voices echoing down the concrete corridor. Instinctively, she swung her feet to the floor, heart thudding. In the two years since her arrest, such noises before dawn usually meant one thing: a security drill, or worse, an unscheduled transfer of inmates. Her breath caught. Please, not another round of crackdowns… she thought, bracing herself.
Across the corridor, an older inmate, Marjorie, pressed her face to the bars of her door. "What's happening?" Marjorie whispered hoarsely. Elaine could only shake her head, listening intently. Guards were gathered at the far end by the main gate, talking over each other. She heard the rattle of a radio being tuned past static.
Suddenly, the tinny voice of a state radio broadcaster flooded the hall: "…with sorrow that we announce President Victor Trumbull passed away last night due to a sudden heart failure. In the interest of national security, General Alan Mercer has assumed duties as acting guardian of the state until stability is assured. Effective immediately, a dawn-to-dusk curfew is in place and all citizens are instructed to remain indoors for their safety…"
Elaine's mind went blank, as if the words refused to parse. Trumbull… dead? She gripped the edge of her cot with white knuckles. Did she hear that right? Her pulse pounded in her ears, nearly drowning out the broadcast.
"…security forces have been deployed in key locations to prevent any unrest. We urge the public to remain calm and await further information…" The announcement reverberated off the concrete, followed by a burst of static.
One of the guards cursed aloud. Elaine stood on tiptoe to peer through the narrow slit of a window at the top of her cell wall. In the dim morning haze, she couldn't see much—just the gray prison yard and, beyond the razor wire fence, a guard tower. But something was different: a siren began wailing distantly, an alarm that usually signified a facility-wide lockdown. Red lights spun on the tower.
Down the hall, keys jangled and cell doors clanged as the wardens rushed to secure every prisoner. Elaine heard the heavy thunk of the automatic gate sealing the cellblock. They were locking themselves in as much as locking the inmates down.
Marjorie's eyes were wide, fingers trembling around the bars. "Did they say he's dead?" she whispered.
Elaine forced herself to breathe. "Yes," she murmured, barely trusting her voice. "The dictator's dead." Saying it aloud felt surreal.
Marjorie let out a gasp that was half laugh, half sob. Other prisoners down the corridor began murmuring or shouting questions. Elaine's thoughts churned. Victor Trumbull's death had been the fervent, secret wish of many in these cells, herself included, for so long. Yet now that it was real, it felt like the ground beneath her had given way. What would it mean? Was this the end of their nightmare or the beginning of something worse?
A sudden bang on Elaine's cell door made her jump. A young guard—Dylan, one of the more polite ones who sometimes smuggled extra bread to political prisoners—stood there, fumbling with his key ring. His face was flushed. "Stanton," he barked, trying to sound official and failing to hide the tremor in his voice, "step back from the door."
She complied, heart fluttering. The door swung open and Dylan stepped in with handcuffs. "Turn around."
"What's happening?" Elaine managed to ask as she put her hands behind her back. Her mind raced: Why her, specifically? Was this finally her execution? Or—
Dylan hesitated, glancing at her gaunt face. "Transfer to holding," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "Orders from above. We have to keep all high-profile inmates under tighter watch during the emergency."
He guided her out into the corridor. Down the line, other political prisoners were also being pulled from their cells, escorted in cuffs. Elaine caught sight of Marjorie clutching her arm as a guard led her away. The hall was chaos: half-dressed prisoners, barking guards, the radio announcement replaying on loop.
As Dylan marched Elaine toward the central block, she passed two guards she recognized from the night shift. They stood huddled by a bulletin board, whispering fervently.
"They're saying it's true. The bastard's really dead," one guard said under his breath, his tone incredulous.
"Keep your voice down!" the other hissed. "If it's true, God help us. This place will go up in flames if they all find out." He gestured subtly at the prisoners. "I heard Mercer's in charge and calling for a lockdown. I just hope to hell we don't get any bright ideas from the inmates."
Elaine lowered her eyes and pretended not to hear, but inside, hope swirled with apprehension. The regime was scrambling. The unthinkable had happened, and they were scared. She could feel it in the jittery urgency of every guard around her. For so long in this prison she'd been powerless, reduced to a number in a cell. Now, perhaps, there was a chance—slim and fraught, but a chance—that things might change.
Dylan guided her into a holding chamber with a few benches and other cuffed prisoners – familiar faces from the dissident movement. Senator Morgan, a former colleague of Elaine's in the legislature, gave her a wan nod across the room. Before Dylan locked the door, he paused and spoke in a low voice. "Ma'am… I just want to say, whatever happens, I never wanted it to be like this." There was fear in his young eyes. "I don't know what comes next."
Elaine managed a tight, encouraging smile despite the adrenaline coursing through her. "None of us do, son. Just… do the right thing when the time comes."
Dylan swallowed hard and nodded. The door closed, the key turning. Elaine sank onto a bench beside Senator Morgan. They exchanged glances that held the same mixture of astonishment and cautious anticipation.
Through the small reinforced window, Elaine could see the corridor as guards jogged back and forth. The state radio continued droning the official line: the Leader's death, the state of emergency, warnings to citizens to stay in their homes. Yet she also caught fragments of something else—one guard had tuned a portable radio to a different frequency, lower on the dial, where a new voice was speaking with rapid, urgent cadence. It wasn't the flat propagandistic tone of state media; it was animated, alive.
Elaine leaned subtly toward the door, straining to listen. In that moment, muffled but clear enough, she recognized the voice crackling through the static. It was Mark Alvarez, broadcasting in defiance of the regime's wall of silence. Her heart leapt. The resistance was finding its voice already.
Chapter 33 – Streets of Unrest
In a cramped back-room studio hundreds of miles from Washington, Mark Alvarez leaned toward a microphone, headphones pressed against his ears. The faint smell of hot circuitry hung in the air. He had been live on air for ten minutes already, and his throat was dry, but adrenaline kept his voice steady as he spoke into the flickering console.
"…repeat, this is Mark Alvarez speaking. To all our listeners out there: the news is true. Victor Trumbull is dead." Mark took a breath, steadying himself. He imagined tens of thousands of ears pressed to crackling radios in secret, hungry for real information. "The regime has announced that the President died of natural causes last night, and they've declared a state of emergency. General Alan Mercer—yes, that General Mercer, the Defense Minister—has appointed himself acting head of state 'until stability is assured.'"
He heard his own voice echo slightly in his headphones. Even saying the words felt momentous. He continued, enunciating clearly, knowing that some listeners might only catch every other word through the static of jammed signals. "A curfew is now in effect. They want everyone off the streets. We're hearing reports of armored vehicles rolling through Washington D.C. Tanks have taken up positions near the Capitol and the White House. The regime is trying to project strength, trying to tell us they're still in full control."
Mark paused, glancing at his laptop where messages from a secure chat scrolled in from a network of fellow dissidents and citizen reporters. One confirmed a convoy in Chicago, another spoke of soldiers guarding government buildings in Dallas. The regime was reacting exactly as expected—by flexing its muscles.
He flipped a switch to play a short recorded clip of the official announcement that he had captured off the air. Mercer's baritone came through, filtered by radio: "…ensure the safety of our great nation, I pledge to uphold order during this difficult time. I ask all citizens to remain calm and trust in your armed forces to maintain peace…" Mark clicked it off. Enough of that.
"You've just heard General Mercer's message," Mark said, his tone level but brimming with subtext. "He wants calm. We all do. But let's be clear: this is a power vacuum unlike anything our country has seen in decades. The regime is, for the moment, headless. And in the coming days, the actions of those in power—and those who've opposed them—will determine our future."
He knew he had to be extremely careful. Even from exile, even broadcasting via a web of proxy transmitters, there was risk. The secret police's counter-intelligence units had hunted his signal before. But Mark also understood that his voice was one of the few uncensored sources people had right now. If ever there was a time to speak directly to the citizens of Columbia, it was now.
"I urge everyone listening: stay calm," he said, slowing his cadence for emphasis. "Do not give the hardliners any excuse to unleash violence. Stay home if you can for now. Look out your windows, observe, record what you see quietly. Communicate what's happening in your neighborhoods through trusted channels when it's safe to do so. We, the independent press in exile, will do our best to keep you informed."
Mark's mind raced as he spoke. He pictured his home city—the broad avenues of Washington, the monuments that had been turned into props for Trumbull's cult of personality. Were people already daring to gather in those streets now that the tyrant was gone? The official line warned of curfew, but whispers in his earpiece told him small groups of citizens were peeking out their doors, some even venturing onto stoops in predawn light, trading rumors with neighbors. The fear that had gripped them for so long was beginning, just barely, to thaw.
Mark adjusted a dial to boost the signal; the transmitter whined softly as it fought against government jamming. "To the caretakers of the old regime who might be listening in," he added, unable to resist a pointed remark, "know this: the world is watching. Any who think of seizing this moment to crack down even harder will only fan the flames of the public's desire for freedom." He kept his tone measured—advisory, not openly threatening. It was a delicate line to walk.
He decided to wrap up this broadcast before the triangulation trucks got too close. "Friends, these next hours are critical. Verify the information you hear. Rumors will fly—don't believe everything, but don't discount possibilities either. The truth has a way of emerging. Keep each other safe. I'll be back on air as events unfold. For now, this is Mark Alvarez signing off and reminding you: you are not alone, and dawn is coming."
He released the transmit button and sat back, his heart hammering. The small studio fell silent except for the soft drone of equipment. Mark scrubbed a hand over his face. In the quiet, the magnitude of what he'd just confirmed aloud began sinking in. Victor Trumbull—his nemesis, the man whose regime had forced Mark into exile and shuttered every free media outlet—was dead. A shaky laugh escaped him, equal parts joy and disbelief.
He swiveled in his chair and peered through the narrow basement window that peeked out at street level. The sky was growing brighter. Dawn in exile looked like dawn anywhere, but today it felt different. There was a volatile mix of elation and dread stirring in his chest. Elation that the nightmare might truly be ending; dread of what the regime would do to keep its hold on power.
Behind him, one of his tech assistants emerged from an adjacent room, giving a thumbs-up—no sign the broadcast was cut off prematurely. They'd succeeded in getting the message through, at least for now. Mark nodded, managing a thin smile in return.
He quickly began scanning incoming messages again. Reports and hints of what was happening on the ground flickered in: confusion among local police in some cities, barricades going up in others, and an intriguing note that in some neighborhoods people were quietly gathering in front of their apartment buildings despite the curfew, lighting candles or simply standing together in silence. Small acts of collective hope.
Mark felt a swell of pride and concern. If those peaceful gatherings grew, the regime's hardliners might panic and lash out. The day could turn bloody, or it could mark the first step toward freedom. He pushed away the thought of worst-case scenarios and focused on composing his next update. There would be much more to broadcast soon, he was sure of it.
For now, the die was cast. The dictator was gone, a power vacuum yawning in his absence. Mark took a sip of water and began drafting a bulletin, mind racing ahead. The battle for Columbia's future had entered a new phase, and he intended to chronicle every twist and turn, one broadcast at a time.
Chapter 34 – Fractures in the Regime
Sofia Ortega pressed her back against the cold marble base of a statue in Freedom Square, trying to steady her breathing. Night had fallen fully over Washington by now, but the plaza was aglow with hundreds of candles in plastic cups, their flames flickering in the breeze. What had begun as a tentative gathering of a few dozen brave souls at dusk had now swelled to a crowd of several hundred. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the square, faces lit by candlelight and rare, cautious smiles. Some carried handmade signs—scrawled with slogans like "Freedom Now" or simply "Hope"—others clutched small flags that hadn't been seen in public in years.
Sofia herself held no sign. Instead, she carried a backpack filled with first-aid supplies—the instinct of a community organizer who'd prepared for the worst. At 26, she was too young to have led the big protests of the past, but old enough to remember the crackdowns. As she looked around at the gathering, she felt a surge of pride at the people's courage. Yet under it lurked fear, as persistent as her thudding heartbeat.
It had taken every ounce of nerve for Sofia to come out past curfew. All day, the government had blared warnings on TV and radio to stay indoors, but by afternoon, whispers had spread through neighborhoods: They can't arrest all of us. One neighbor told another, who told another, that there would be a vigil in Freedom Square at sundown to mark the moment—quietly, peacefully. Sofia hadn't hesitated. She spent the afternoon collecting bandages and bottled water, just in case, and then slipped out as twilight fell, joining trickles of others converging on the square.
Now, as she witnessed the crowd growing, she felt something she hadn't in a long time: a cautious lifting of the spirit, a sense of unity. People sang "My Country 'Tis of Thee" softly, the old patriotic tune sounding almost subversive after years of banned gatherings. Some simply stood in silence, tears in their eyes. Strangers were hugging, shaking hands, murmuring words like "It's finally over" and "Can you believe it?"
Sofia wasn't sure it was over—but seeing so many unafraid to be here gave her hope. She moved through the crowd, offering a bottle of water to an elderly man leaning on a cane and helping a young woman steady her trembling hands enough to light a candle. "Thank you," the woman whispered. "I'm so scared, but I had to be here."
"I know," Sofia replied gently. "Me too."
The square lay only a few blocks from the Capitol building, which loomed in the darkness beyond—a silhouette of domes and columns, its windows dark. Since the dictator had disbanded Congress, the Capitol had been shuttered, ringed by fences and armed guards. Tonight was no different. Sofia could make out the dull gleam of military trucks blocking the distant street leading to it, and the intermittent flash of headlights. The regime's forces were nearby, watching.
On the periphery of the plaza, a line of riot police and soldiers stood at a wary distance. They had set up a loose cordon, more symbolic than airtight; clearly the crowd in Freedom Square had exceeded their expectations. Sofia saw the security forces shifting nervously under their helmets. Most looked young—maybe as young as her, drafted into enforcing the curfew. She wondered if their hands were sweating inside those gloves, if they too felt the historic weight of this night.
A sudden commotion at the north end of the square made her turn. A group of protestors, perhaps emboldened by their growing numbers, had begun to move as a unit, striding toward the Capitol down Constitution Avenue. "To the Capitol!" a few voices shouted. "Let's reclaim it!"
Sofia's stomach tightened. "Oh no," she breathed. This wasn't part of the plan—there really was no "plan," only a hope to stand together. Marching on a heavily guarded symbol of the regime might provoke exactly the response they feared.
She pushed through the crowd to follow, slipping between people. "Stay together! Peacefully!" she called to those surging forward, but her voice was lost in the noise. The songs had stopped; adrenaline surged through the crowd like an electric current. Some protesters hesitated, hanging back with uncertain looks, while others—mostly younger men—moved to the front, their emotions running hot. Sofia heard snippets as she jogged to keep up: "They can't stop all of us!" shouted one. Another yelled, "This is our city!"
By the time she caught up, a standoff had already formed at an intersection just two blocks from the Capitol's steps. There, under the harsh white glow of street lamps, a wall of soldiers stood behind metal barricades. They gripped their rifles, blocking the road. Perhaps a thousand protesters had gathered facing them now, fanning out across the broad avenue. Sofia found herself toward the front of the crowd, just a few rows back from a knot of angry young men at the very line. Tension hung in the air, thicker than the humidity.
Sofia's mouth was dry. She edged forward and placed a hand on the shoulder of one of the men in front, a tall guy in a faded college sweatshirt who was screaming epithets at the soldiers. "Hey," she said, trying to keep her voice calm but audible, "take it easy. We're here to show we're not afraid, but not to start a fight."
He glanced at her, breath heaving. In his eyes she saw the same cocktail of fear and exhilaration she felt. "They killed my brother last year," he shouted hoarsely, voice cracking. "These bastards killed him! I won't be quiet!" He turned back and raised his fist, yelling with renewed fury at the impassive troops.
Sofia swallowed hard. The soldiers—about twenty of them—held formation. Most kept their eyes forward, but she noticed a few with darting, anxious gazes. None of them looked eager to be here either. The officer in charge, a stocky older sergeant, barked an order for the protesters to disperse, his voice amplified by a handheld bullhorn: "By order of the National Security Council, this gathering is illegal. Disperse immediately or you will be arrested."
A ripple of defiant shouts answered him. No one budged. If anything, more people were pressing in from behind, swelling the crowd at this flashpoint. Sofia felt bodies packed against her back. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. This could go very wrong, very fast. She glanced around, searching for any sign of someone who could help mediate—maybe an older community leader or a clergy member—but it was just ordinary citizens and jittery soldiers, with no one to intervene. It had been so long since protests like this happened that there were no formal marshals or negotiators, just raw emotion on both sides.
Suddenly, a glass bottle sailed out from somewhere in the throng behind Sofia. It arced over her head and smashed on the pavement in front of the police line, skittering shards at the boots of a young private. The soldier flinched backward, raising his rifle half an inch.
"Who threw that? No throwing anything!" Sofia shouted, spinning around, but it was impossible to tell who had done it. The perpetrator was swallowed in the mass of people. A few protesters near her muttered angrily, some at the thrower for risking a confrontation, others egging it on: "Show them we won't take it anymore!"
The sergeant with the bullhorn stiffened, eyes narrowing. Sofia could see his jaw clench. He barked another command, likely to his troops this time, though his words were lost in the cacophony of the crowd. The line of soldiers adjusted formation, bracing shields in front of them. Several raised their rifles from low-ready to a more threatening half-ready position.
Sofia's blood went cold. They wouldn't… would they? Her mind flashed back to the videos she'd seen of the early days of the dictatorship—a protest on these same streets a decade ago, when soldiers had opened fire on unarmed students. She had been a teenager then, watching in horror as the news showed blood on the Lincoln Memorial's steps before the broadcasts were censored. The terror of that memory fueled her now.
She raised her hands high, trying to show she held nothing, and stepped into a small gap between the frontmost protesters and the barricade. "Peaceful! We are peaceful!" she cried out repeatedly. Her voice, bright and clear, cut through some of the shouting. A few people around her echoed the refrain: "Peaceful! No violence!"
For a brief moment, it seemed the situation might hold. Protesters stopped advancing, and the soldiers did not immediately push forward. The sergeant's eyes flicked over the crowd and landed on Sofia. She met his gaze, hands still raised. He looked uncertain, perhaps even reluctant.
Then an earsplitting bang cracked through the night air. Then another. Gunshots. For an instant Sofia thought the soldiers were firing on them, and her heart seized. But then she realized the shots were into the air. Warning shots. The sergeant had his sidearm raised skyward. The sharp reports echoed down the avenues.
Several protesters shrieked. The crowd recoiled like a single organism, people stumbling back into one another. Sofia felt someone slam into her side in panic, knocking her off balance. She caught herself and turned to yell, "Stay calm! Don't run!" But fear had taken hold; the once-solid crowd began to fray as people at the edges bolted into side streets.
Before Sofia could react further, a harsher eruption of gunfire rattled from the line of soldiers — tat tat tat! — three shots in rapid succession. This time, the muzzle flashes came from one of the jittery young troops at the barricade. He had fired not into the air, but at ground level. Whether it was meant to be a warning or out of panic, Sofia didn't know, but the effect was instantaneous and devastating.
A scream rose from the front of the protest. One of the men near the barricade crumpled to the pavement, clutching his leg. Blood darkened his jeans. Another person, a woman who had been standing on a planter, toppled off it with a cry, her arm grazed by a bullet. Chaos erupted. Some people dropped to the ground; others turned to flee outright, crashing into those behind who were still pushing forward. For a few heart-stopping seconds, it was mayhem — the crowd a tangle of bodies caught between flight and fight.
Sofia's nerves screamed at her to run, to duck, to hide. But then her eyes fell on the young man on the ground, writhing and holding his bleeding leg, and something snapped into focus. This was exactly the kind of tragedy she had feared, and if someone didn't act, more people could get hurt in the panic.
She dropped to her knees beside the wounded man. Another protester, an older woman, was already trying to stanch the bleeding with her bare hands. Sofia tore open her backpack, yanking out a roll of gauze. Her hands trembled but she forced herself to remember her first-aid training.
"It's okay, you're going to be okay," she told the man, her voice somehow coming out steady even as her heart thundered. She pressed the gauze firmly onto the gunshot wound in his calf. He groaned in pain. "I need someone to hold this here!" she shouted. The older woman took over the pressure for a moment while Sofia dug further into her bag for a bandage.
All around, people were yelling and scattering. But a handful saw what she was doing and formed a small protective ring, shielding the wounded from getting trampled. Sofia wrapped the man's leg tightly. Blood seeped through the first layer, warm and slick on her fingers. She swallowed her panic and wrapped another layer.
The gunfire had stopped, at least for now. Over the cacophony, she heard the sergeant bellowing orders—perhaps ordering the soldier who fired to hold fire. The soldiers hadn't advanced beyond their barricade; they seemed as startled as anyone by the sudden violence.
"Medic! We need a medic here!" someone shouted. But there were none — no ambulances could possibly get through this chaos yet.
Sofia finished tying off the bandage above the man's knee as a crude tourniquet. His breathing was fast and shallow, but the bleeding appeared to slow. She gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You'll be alright. We've got you." Her voice was gentle but firm, as if speaking it might make it true.
She got to her feet, blood on her hands, and turned to face the crowd and the troops. Between the two stood a few yards of asphalt now littered with a fallen protest sign and broken glass. Those protesters who hadn't fled outright were regrouping, anger swiftly replacing fear. A chant started from the back: "No more fear! No more fear!" It grew louder, a primal rhythm of defiance and solidarity.
Sofia felt tears burn at the corners of her eyes as she raised her hands again, this time in fists. She was terrified — every muscle in her body quivered with the urge to collapse — but she also felt a welling pride at the sound of the chant. No more fear. The people weren't running home; more were actually coming back, standing their ground around the injured. This was a line being drawn: they would not be cowed again.
She stepped forward to the front once more, glancing to her left where the woman who'd been grazed was now being helped by a couple of bystanders, her arm crudely bandaged with someone's scarf. Others were helping the man with the leg wound onto a piece of plywood to carry him away from the line; he was pale but alive. Good.
Sofia saw the sergeant watching this all with a conflicted expression. He hadn't ordered another shot. The soldiers stood tense, but they looked less like conquerors now and more like people bracing for an onslaught of guilt and consequence. One of them, a boyish-faced private who couldn't have been older than twenty, had his eyes locked on the makeshift stretcher carrying the wounded protester. He looked horrified, perhaps realizing he or his comrades had shot a fellow citizen who held no weapon.
Summoning her courage, Sofia picked up a discarded bullhorn—dropped by some organizer who'd fled—and climbed onto the planter the injured woman had fallen from. The chant quieted as people noticed her. Hands bloody, face flushed, she raised the bullhorn and spoke, voice echoing down the avenue: "We are unarmed! We are Americans, not enemies. Don't shoot! Please, hold your fire!"
The young private's eyes met hers for a brief second. She could swear she saw him give the slightest nod, his rifle lowering a couple of inches. The sergeant grimaced but made no move to order an advance. For the moment, neither side moved to escalate. It was a fragile pause.
Sofia turned the bullhorn toward the crowd behind her. "Stay calm!" she urged her fellow protesters, amplifying her voice to reach as far back as possible. "No more throwing things! We don't respond to violence with violence. If we stay peaceful, we win. That's what they fear most!"
A few scattered cheers answered, and remarkably, the front line of protesters seemed to ease back from the barricades by a foot or two, creating a thin buffer of space. The tension, while still palpable, plateaued rather than spiking further. The chant shifted from "No more fear" to another cry: "Peace-ful pro-test! Peace-ful pro-test!" Over and over. Sofia joined in, the words tearing from her throat with conviction.
She spotted others taking initiative too: a middle-aged man in a veterans' jacket gently pulling one furious young protester back from the front; two women with linked arms positioning themselves as a calm barrier between the remaining hotheads and the troops. The crowd was self-regulating, finding its own leadership in ordinary people like her. It was an awe-inspiring thing to witness from within.
Under the dim city lights, with gunpowder still hanging in the air, Sofia felt her fear slowly transform into resolve. Yes, a few people were hurt, and things could still go terribly wrong at any second. But the crowd had not dispersed in terror as the regime might have expected. They were holding. We were holding, she corrected in her mind.
Somewhere behind the soldiers, sirens wailed—perhaps ambulances or reinforcements, she couldn't tell. And somewhere behind the protesters, Sofia heard the distant strains of another group singing "We Shall Overcome." More people were arriving to support them, defying the curfew despite the risk. The night was far from over, but something had irrevocably changed.
Sofia climbed down from the planter, legs shaking from the adrenaline dump. A few protesters clapped her on the shoulder or whispered thanks as they passed water and makeshift bandages around. She nodded, giving a tight smile, and knelt to wash the blood from her hands with a bottle of water. Her fingers wouldn't stop trembling.
Old fears still lurked in her heart—she knew the regime might come back with greater force, or arrest them all by dawn. But as she looked again at the silent Capitol building and the uneasy soldiers, she also knew the spell of fear had been broken tonight, at least for a while. Citizens had found their courage and their voice. She had found her voice.
Wiping her damp hands on her jeans, Sofia stood back up and joined arms with the people next to her, resuming the vigil. Whatever came next, they would face it together, without fear. The taste of freedom was on the night wind, and neither bullets nor batons would easily put it back in a cage.
Chapter 35 – The Capitol Standoff
General Mercer's temples throbbed with fatigue as he convened the National Stability Council the next morning in an emergency session. They gathered in a high-security conference room at the Pentagon this time—deemed safer than the White House, given the unrest overnight. Sunlight stabbed through narrow windows behind drawn blinds, casting slats of light across the polished mahogany table. Around it sat the pillars of the regime: the ministers, top generals, and advisers who had survived the night.
Mercer, at the head of the table, surveyed the faces. Calvin Briggs sat stiffly to his right, eyes cold and arms folded. Information Minister Lydia Hwang nervously shuffled briefing papers. Justice Minister Fischer dabbed sweat from his bald head. A few regional governors had dialed in via secure video feed, their tiny monitor images flickering. Everyone looked drawn and on edge. The events of the past twelve hours had left none of them unscathed.
Clearing his throat, Mercer began. "Let's review the situation. Last night there were… incidents." He kept his tone measured, though inside he felt a gnawing unease. "Despite the curfew, public gatherings occurred in several cities. Our forces responded, mostly by containing crowds. In some places things got out of hand."
"Out of hand?" Director Briggs echoed sharply. "I'd call it outright mutiny." He tossed a folder onto the table. Photographs spilled out—grainy stills of crowds in Freedom Square, a snapshot of the confrontation near the Capitol, blurry images of protesters. One photo showed a young man with a bandaged leg being carried by others. Briggs's lips curled. "This is what happens when we show weakness, General."
Mercer's jaw tightened. "Let's get through the facts first, shall we?" He turned to General McCall, who oversaw domestic deployments. "Alan, give us the overnight security update."
McCall coughed and adjusted his glasses. "Yes, sir. As you said, multiple cities saw spontaneous gatherings. Mostly vigils and celebratory crowds—unarmed civilians. Washington had the largest. We had units in place around federal buildings. Around 10 P.M., a group of protesters attempted to breach the Capitol perimeter." He glanced at Mercer, then Briggs. "One of our patrols discharged warning shots."
"Warning shots," Briggs snorted. "They should have been aiming at the rioters—"
"They were Americans, not foreign invaders," McCall snapped, uncharacteristically heated. "The troops were jittery. Some live rounds hit protesters. Two confirmed injured in D.C. No fatalities reported, thank God."
Mercer closed his eyes briefly. He had seen the preliminary incident report: a confused private firing without clear orders. Thank God indeed no one was killed—yet. "What about other cities, General?" he prompted.
McCall shuffled his notes. "New York: a crowd of a few hundred in Times Square, dispersed by local police without major violence. Chicago: similar size gathering downtown, dispersed peacefully after a few hours. Los Angeles: some celebratory fireworks and honking, nothing severe reported." He hesitated. "In Dallas, a couple hundred people gathered in a park on the north side. They… actually held a sort of impromptu rally celebrating the President's death. Local authorities stood down, fearing a backlash if they intervened. It broke up after midnight."
Mercer's brows knit. Dallas was supposed to be loyalist territory—Trumbull's heartland support. Hearing that people there cheered his demise was deeply unsettling. Around the table, a few others shifted or murmured in surprise at the Dallas report. Briggs' scowl only darkened.
"Nationwide, there's a pattern," McCall went on. "People are testing the waters. The fear that kept them indoors is—"
"—evaporating," Briggs finished acidly. "Because we've failed to re-instill it." He fixed Mercer with a hard stare. "We needed to come down hard last night, and we didn't. This Council wavered."
Fischer cleared his throat. "Calvin, innocent people were shot. If we had 'come down hard' as you say, we'd be dealing with a massacre and an all-out revolt today."
Briggs jabbed a finger on the table. "Better a short, sharp lesson than a drawn-out collapse. We lost the initiative." He looked around, finding some nods from a couple of hardline governors on the video feed. "We have to rectify that immediately. Today."
Mercer interlaced his fingers, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. "And what do you propose, Director? More gunfire? You saw what happened. Even our own soldiers hesitated to go that far." He regretted the words as soon as they were out.
Briggs seized on them. "Yes. I did notice hesitation. Perhaps our chain of command isn't as reliable as we assumed." He glanced pointedly at McCall, who bristled. "If some troops can't be counted on to follow orders, we have other units who can. I can deploy Internal Security tactical teams—"
"Absolutely not," Mercer cut him off. The Internal Security Bureau's paramilitary squads were feared for a reason; unleashing them on crowds would guarantee a bloodbath. "We're not deploying secret police death squads in the capital."
"Then the Army needs to do its job," Briggs retorted. "Or do you want to hand the city over to the mob? Maybe invite Ms. Stanton and her cronies to take seats at this table?"
Elaine Stanton's name hung in the air. Mercer's gaze flickered to Justice Minister Fischer. They both knew Elaine—a former senator, imprisoned for her outspoken resistance. Fischer looked down, fiddling with his pen. He had been the one to sign her arrest warrant last year. Now, seeing his demeanor, Mercer had a sudden intuition: Fischer had been on a call earlier, perhaps with some opposition contact or an intermediary. Something was weighing on him.
Mercer tapped the table to regain focus. "No one is handing over anything. The situation is fluid, but still under control." Even as he said it, he wasn't entirely sure whom he was trying to convince. "We have to be smart. The objective is to restore stability, not incite a civil war."
Information Minister Hwang spoke up softly, "Public sentiment is shifting faster than our messaging can keep up. Our usual news outlets are losing credibility by the hour—they're parroting that the people mourn the Leader, but video from last night clearly contradicts that." She swallowed. "It's not just the protesters. Ordinary citizens are sensing the weakness. We should consider some outreach… maybe an address promising reforms to calm things?"
Briggs made a disgusted sound. "Reforms? Spare me. They smell blood and you want to dangle carrots?"
Fischer cleared his throat, voice wavering but resolute. "Calvin, Lydia has a point. Perhaps a gesture of goodwill could buy us breathing room. For instance… releasing a handful of political prisoners, the non-violent ones, as a sign that we intend no further harm."
Mercer raised an eyebrow. Fischer's suggestion wasn't surprising given his known moderate streak, but hearing it openly in this council was. It signaled just how much confidence in the old hardline was eroding. A week ago no one would have dared suggest concessions.
Briggs looked ready to explode. "You want to free the vipers so they can bite us? Brilliant. Maybe hand them guns too?"
"Enough," Mercer said firmly. The table fell quiet. "We'll take all perspectives under advisement." He shot Briggs a warning look and then turned to Fischer. "Harold, I understand your rationale, but any prisoner release will be seen as weakness right now. It could embolden protest leaders."
Fischer's jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. "Understood, General."
Before Briggs could resume the tirade, one of Mercer's aides hurried in from a side door and bent to whisper in Mercer's ear. "Sir, urgent from communications: we've got a situation with one of the Army units," the aide murmured.
Mercer's stomach sank. "Excuse me," he said gruffly to the room, and stepped aside with the aide for a moment. In hushed tones, the aide relayed the news: an Army colonel—Jim Matthews, commanding the 3rd Brigade stationed outside Philadelphia—had outright refused an order at dawn to mobilize his troops into the city. The brigade was supposed to assist local police in preemptively breaking up a rumored protest at Independence Square. But Colonel Matthews had apparently told his superiors that his men "would not be pointing guns at peaceful civilians today or any day." The aide's eyes were wide as he delivered the quote. "Sir, he said if higher command had a problem, they could relieve him, but he wouldn't budge."
Mercer felt a mix of shock and a strange, unwilling admiration. Matthews… he remembered the man, a decorated mid-career officer with a reputation for level-headedness. Apparently also a conscience. Mercer forced his expression to remain neutral and dismissed the aide. "Thank you. Tell General Folsom to contain that for now—I'll handle Colonel Matthews directly."
He returned to the table. Briggs was watching him intently. "News from the front, General?" Briggs asked with a thin smile. "Something the rest of us should know?"
Mercer took his seat. He realized his hand was clenched and forced it to relax. In a level voice, he addressed everyone. "One of our brigade commanders in Pennsylvania has… expressed reservations about carrying out a crowd control operation. It's being dealt with."
The room erupted in murmurs. McCall sat forward, alarm on his face. "Which commander?"
"Matthews, 3rd Brigade," Mercer answered tersely.
General McCall muttered an oath under his breath. Information Minister Hwang looked alarmed; Fischer looked downright scared. Briggs, by contrast, leaned back, a predatory gleam in his eye. "Reservations, Alan? That sounds like mutiny to me. Did you not say earlier that our soldiers hesitated to go that far? Well, here's proof. It starts with one… then two… then how many? How many officers are whispering among themselves right now, deciding which orders they'll ignore?"
Mercer felt a flash of anger. "I said it's being dealt with. Matthews will be relieved of command if need be." He hoped to avoid that, but he had to project control. "The Army is not in mutiny. Ninety-nine percent of our units followed orders to the letter."
"Ninety-nine percent won't cut it if the one percent disobey in critical moments," Briggs replied coolly. "Face it, General: fear of the Leader was the glue keeping everyone in line. With him gone, your ranks are wavering. We need to act decisively to remind both the public and our own people that the regime is still in charge."
"And what do you suggest, Calvin?" Fischer interjected, voice edged with sarcasm. "Public executions of heroes like Colonel Matthews? That would really win hearts and minds."
Briggs's face darkened. "I'm suggesting we purge weakness. If an officer won't do his duty, yes—make an example. Courts-martial on live TV, if necessary."
"Absolutely not," Mercer snapped, a bit louder than intended. An uneasy silence fell. "We will handle this internally, with discipline and order. No grandstanding."
Briggs opened his mouth to retort when Lydia Hwang suddenly reached for the remote control on the table. "Sir, if I may… I think everyone needs to see this," she said. Her voice was shaky. Without waiting for approval, she clicked it. The wall-mounted television screens, which had been muted on a news channel, sprang to life and sound.
On screen was video footage, apparently from a cell phone. The label at the bottom read "Dallas, TX – last night." The camera jostled as it showed a crowd of people gathered in a parking lot under floodlights, maybe a couple hundred. They were cheering and clapping. In the center, a young woman hoisted an American flag, and others around her were laughing, crying tears of joy. Someone had hung a large bedsheet from a light pole with spray-painted words: "Free at Last." The audio crackled with their chants: "U-S-A! U-S-A!" — reclaiming a patriotic cry that had been co-opted by Trumbull's regime for so long.
Mercer felt as if the air had been sucked from the room. He recognized the location—Dallas North Plaza, once the site of one of Trumbull's biggest pro-regime rallies years ago. And now, here were ordinary Texans, many likely National Party voters in the past, openly rejoicing that Trumbull was gone. The camera panned to capture a brief speech by a local man — a small business owner Mercer vaguely remembered from a propaganda profile — shouting to the crowd, "We can breathe again! That tyrant damned near destroyed our country. No more!" The crowd roared in agreement.
Someone muted the TV, but the damage was done. The silence in the conference room was thick. Governor Reed of Texas, on the video feed, was flushed and sputtering. "This… this was not widespread," he stammered defensively. "Most people in Dallas stayed home. This is a fringe—"
"No," Mercer said quietly, cutting through the denial. He stood, feeling unsteady for a moment. "No, let's call it what it is. It's the dam breaking." He looked around the table at his colleagues — some frightened, some furious, all shell-shocked. "The public's fear is falling away. Not just in the blue cities or among known dissidents. Everywhere." His eyes drifted back to the frozen image on the TV screen: jubilant faces in what should have been the heart of regime loyalty.
Briggs's face had gone ashen. For once, the secret police chief seemed at a loss for words. His entire mandate, his empire of surveillance and intimidation, was built on the populace's fear. If that was truly broken, his power was draining like blood from a wound.
Justice Minister Fischer broke the silence, his tone somber. "If fear won't keep them in line… maybe we have to try something else. Perhaps hope."
Briggs scoffed, but weakly. Mercer didn't respond immediately. His mind was racing ahead to the implications. Could they pivot to "hope," as Fischer put it? Offer some olive branch, form a coalition? It sounded like capitulation to him. And yet… what other choice was there, short of unleashing a massacre? And if his soldiers wouldn't massacre on command—Colonel Matthews had proven that a not insignificant number might refuse—then brute force was a failing option.
He drew a long breath. "We will reconvene this afternoon," he said at last, voice formal and quiet. "I need to confer with a few of you privately and evaluate our options in light of these developments."
One by one, the officials rose. There were no objections; none of them had better answers at the moment. They filed out, some stopping to whisper among themselves in tense pairs. Briggs stalked out without a glance at anyone, his phone already to his ear — likely marshaling his security forces in case things fell apart further. Fischer lingered, catching Mercer's eye with a questioning look, but Mercer gave a subtle shake of his head. Not now. Fischer left with a sigh.
Mercer remained in the empty conference room, gazing at the paused image on the television. The man with all the guns felt, for the first time in years, truly powerless. They had wanted the people's fear; instead they were confronting the people's courage. And that—Mercer realized—was something no bullet could entirely extinguish.