The rollcall had finished, and the sharp sound of Elder Lyons' gavel echoed across the historic, dilapidated senate hall. The former Capitol building had weathered a century of decay, war, and abandonment, but today it hosted a sight unlike any since before the war—a gathering of representatives, fifty-five in total, elected by the scattered, struggling settlements of the Capital Wasteland. This was a fledgling republic's first session. The atmosphere was tense, but hopeful, a fragile harmony in the ruins of a broken world.
Lyons looked out at the assembly, his gaze steady but weighed by the gravity of the occasion. This wasn't merely a meeting. This was history. "The session is now in order," he announced, his voice carrying authority honed over years of leadership within the Brotherhood of Steel.
Sitting on the far end, Thomas Logan Wolff, known simply as TLW, surveyed the room. He was the only one there by acclamation, rather than popular vote, appointed as an honorary assemblyman—a symbolic nod to his role in the Brotherhood's recent victories and the establishment of the new republic. As he scanned the half-circle of representatives seated before him, familiar faces mingled with unknown ones, each representing a different corner of the Wasteland. Lucas Simms of Megaton, Moira Brown, and Colin Moriarty were seated together, forming a diverse and unlikely coalition. Alistair Tenpenny, the powerful figure from the Warrington Station metro settlement, sat further down, his eyes cold and calculating.
Bringing this group together, convincing them to adopt a representative assembly model had been no small task. The notion of democracy was still alien here, save for the tiny Republic of Dave, where "democracy" extended only to a family of five. Yet TLW had persisted, spent sleepless nights working with Lyons, shaping the assembly's structure, fighting for a handful of reserved seats for sentient ghouls to give a voice to the outcast community of Underworld. Greta and Carol, proprietors of the Underworld's sole hotel, were seated as representatives—faces hardened by hardship yet softened with a glimmer of cautious hope.
It was a hard-fought victory for something that resembled fairness, and it was only the beginning. As TLW took it all in, he felt a sense of unease. What they were building was an experiment—a frail vision attempting to impose order on a world where order had ceased to exist.
Lyons began the proceedings, "First point of order: the name of this republic." He cleared his throat, reading from a notepad scratched with his own handwritten notes. "There has been a proposal to name this nation the 'Republic of Capital Washington,' abbreviated as RCW." The logic was clear: no growing nation could afford to label itself a "Wasteland," not if it aspired to growth, stability, and legitimacy on a global scale.
After a brief introduction and a quick raise of hands, the first decision of the assembly was reached: 55–0 in favour. A ripple of scattered applause echoed across the hall, but most delegates seemed unaware of the weight of the moment. They had just established a new nation, the Republic of Capital Washington. Many of them had never known anything but chaos. Could they even imagine what it meant?
As hours ticked by, more decisions followed in rapid succession. They voted to create a flag—blue with five white stripes cascading vertically along the right side, a bold Brotherhood of Steel emblem emblazoned in the top left corner, symbolizing their foundational role. Soon, flags would be unfurled across the settlements, stitched together hastily by tailors who, up until now, had only ever sewn patches on scavenged jackets and repaired makeshift armour.
They agreed to authorize a workgroup of scribes to draft a constitution, outlining the legal framework that would soon form the backbone of this republic. Currency came next, the assembly resolving that within a year, they would mint their own currency—one that would gradually replace the bottle caps that served as the Wasteland's current form of barter.
Then came a more contentious matter: the location of the capital. Despite the intimidating, broken remains of the Capitol Hill area, the majority deemed it the best choice, its symbolism as the heart of old America undeniable. Megaton's delegation abstained, and Rivet City and Greyditch representatives opposed, uneasy at the thought of power consolidating in a place already wielding so much influence. Yet the motion passed, and Capitol was named the capital of RCW, with a vote of 32-18.
Finally, the assembly reached its ultimate decision: electing the first President of the Republic. By acclamation, they turned to Elder Lyons, whose leadership in times of great strife had earned him a stature none could question. "The honourable Elder Lyons, henceforth known as President Owyn Lyons," the scribe announced formally.
A wave of applause swept the room. Yet even as the delegates celebrated, Lyons held up a hand for silence, his expression solemn. "Fellow delegates," he began, "the honour of being chosen as your first President is one I accept with deep humility. Today marks the birth of a nation—a republic reborn from the ashes of an old empire." His words, steeped in gravitas, resonated through the hushed assembly. But then, he shifted, a note of caution in his voice.
"Yet this responsibility is a heavy one," Lyons continued, "and I have no intention of carrying it alone. A nation in its infancy, so fragile and full of promise, must have safeguards, continuity, and stability beyond a single man's lifetime. Therefore, I propose two immediate amendments: first, that the presidency be limited to a single term of six years, with no re-election, ensuring each president governs without the influence of campaign pressures. And second, the establishment of a Vice President, who will succeed the President in times of need and ensure uninterrupted governance."
He paused, his gaze settling on TLW. The assembly voted, and both proposals passed almost unanimously—only TLW himself abstained from the second. Lyons turned toward him, and TLW felt a strange mix of foreboding and resignation wash over him.
"As Vice President, I nominate Thomas Logan Wolff."
The room turned as one, all eyes on TLW. The idea gnawed at him, his instincts screamed to refuse, to step away from the responsibility, to flee from the burden Lyons was trying to place upon him. But when he opened his mouth, only four simple words emerged: "I accept the nomination."
The rest was almost ceremonial. With no other candidates nominated, the scribe formally pronounced TLW Vice President. A strange weight settled over him, the title more a chain than an honour. He was a survivor, a fighter—but now they wanted him to be a leader.
An hour later, TLW stood beside Lyons at the top of the Capitol's crumbling steps. Down below, the parade had assembled, an unlikely combination of Brotherhood soldiers, Reapers—now formally designated the Special Operations Brigade, or SOB for short—and local militias. They were lined up in neat ranks, flags raised high. Beyond them, an audience of thousands had gathered, citizens of the Wasteland come to witness the beginning of something new. The sight was overwhelming, and TLW felt a wave of unfamiliar vulnerability wash over him as he looked out over the people.
Lyons stepped forward and delivered his inaugural speech, his voice a steady beacon against the backdrop of a Wasteland still scarred by decades of brutality and anarchy. "Today marks a new beginning," he declared, "the dawn of a civilization reborn from the ashes. We are building on the ideals of the old world—democracy, freedom, brotherhood—and make no mistake, this will not be easy. But if we work together, I promise that each day will bring us closer to a better world. No more scavenging for food in a wasteland ruled by chaos. Today, we choose the path of order."
As his speech ended, a squadron of Vertibirds flew in a coordinated formation overhead, trailing streamers of yellow, blue, and white. The crowd erupted into applause, voices rising in cheers and shouts. Lyons raised his hand in a final salute before turning to TLW, giving him a firm nod.
The procession to the Lincoln Memorial was more chaotic than planned; people surged forward, desperate to shake Lyons' hand, to touch the man who symbolized the fragile hope of their new republic. It took nearly an hour to reach the memorial, where a battered armoured personnel carrier awaited to take them back to Capitol Hill.
Once inside the APC, TLW found himself alone with Lyons, who studied him quietly. "I know what you're thinking, Wolff," Lyons said, his voice weary but unyielding. "You didn't ask for this, and you wanted to stay out of the spotlight. But that's exactly why you're the right man for the job."
"People need to see a leader who's more than just words, who's real," Lyons continued. "And we need symbols. This isn't just about titles. It's about giving people a reason to believe that we can be better than what we've become." The APC went down the garage to the Capitol Hill where they gently walked out into an elevator.
The atmosphere inside the Capitol Hill building was thick with history, and Thomas Logan Wolff felt its weight pressing down on him as the elevator ascended. Beside him, President Owyn Lyons stood in silence, his weathered face betraying the toll that the presidency had already taken. The elevator hummed softly as it climbed, the sound a stark contrast to the thunderous noise of the celebrations below. The weight of the moment, of the nation they were building, was not lost on either of them. Yet, as much as Wolff had come to understand the necessity of the choices they had made, he couldn't shake the unease settling in his gut.
Lyons glanced sideways at Wolff, breaking the silence. "You wonder why I did what I did?" he asked, his voice carrying a note of weariness.
Wolff didn't reply immediately. His thoughts were still tumbling over the events of the day—the elections, the vote that had brought the Republic into existence, and now this. His appointment as Vice President was the final piece in a puzzle he never intended to complete. He had never sought the spotlight, nor the power that came with it. He had only wanted to help, to guide the Wasteland toward some semblance of order, but now, standing at the precipice of this new nation, he couldn't ignore the sense that this burden would soon be his to bear alone.
"I do," Wolff said finally, his voice quiet but resolute. "I've told you before. I never wanted this. I wanted to stay in the shadows, away from the politics, away from the spectacle. I didn't come here to be the face of anything."
Lyons smiled, a wry, knowing smile that spoke of years spent navigating the treacherous waters of leadership. "Too bad, Wolff," he said. "You're destined for this. All that we've built today, all of it is because of you. You can't walk away from it."
Wolff felt a heavy sigh escape his lips, but he kept his gaze forward. "I never asked for any of this," he muttered under his breath.
"No, but you are the only one who can hold it all together now," Lyons continued. "I'm an old man, Wolff. My time is running out. I've served longer than I ever thought I would, but the days of my presidency are numbered. The progress we've made, the hope we've instilled, it's bought me some extra time—but not enough to serve a full six-year term."
For the first time, Wolff had nothing to say. The reality of Lyons' admission struck him like a blow to the chest. He had known it, in the back of his mind, but hearing it from Lyons made it real. The President was not invincible, not eternal. He was a man, just like the rest of them. And that meant Wolff would have to take his place sooner than he had ever anticipated.
Lyons seemed to sense Wolff's inner turmoil. "Don't give me that look," he said, his tone softening. "I can help for a time, but once I'm gone, who will keep this nation together? Who can hold the people together like you can? This country—this Republic—is fragile, Wolff. Without someone strong enough to lead it, to rally the people, it will crumble before it even has a chance to rise."
Wolff opened his mouth to protest, but Lyons interrupted before he could speak. "You are destined to lead this nation, Wolff. You are the one who can build it into something greater than it has ever been. But don't worry—don't feel like you have to start today. You still have time."
The elevator chimed, signaling that they had reached the office floor. The doors slid open, and two SOB guards stepped forward, standing at attention. They looked as though they had been waiting for the elevator to arrive, but Wolff could tell from their posture that they had probably been sprinting to catch it.
Lyons gave them a curt nod. "Come on, Wolff. We have much to do."
Wolff followed him out of the elevator, the weight of the coming days pressing heavier with each step. The corridors of Capitol Hill were busy now, filled with scribes, officials, and staff. The Capitol had been transformed into something of a beehive, with people moving in all directions, working to ensure that the new Republic would run smoothly. It was a far cry from the desolate ruins of the Wasteland that had once surrounded it. And yet, as Wolff looked around, he couldn't help but feel that it was all still held together by the thinnest of threads.
The following days were a blur of paperwork, meetings, and constant deliberations. Wolff had always been a man of action, but now he found himself buried in bureaucracy. There were laws to pass, frameworks to create, and countless decisions to make. Every choice he and Lyons made would shape the future of the Republic. There were days when Wolff felt as though he was drowning in the weight of it all, but he knew he couldn't let up—not now, not when everything was on the line.
In the midst of the chaos, Wolff arranged for Dogmeat and some of his personal effects to be sent to Capitol Hill from Megaton. Simms had offered him a house, a safe haven within the city, but Wolff had refused. He didn't want to take someone else's home, especially when it could be better used by a family who had once been slaves. Dogmeat, on the other hand, had become a fixture at Capitol Hill, and the loyal dog was now the unofficial mascot of the building. The staff loved him, and he had quickly become a favorite among the guards and workers. Wolff often found himself sneaking away for a moment of peace, taking the dog for a walk through the Capitol grounds. In those moments, the world seemed a little more manageable, a little less overwhelming.
The routines of the new administration also began to take shape. Wolff and Lyons started to wear more formal clothing, abandoning the tattered Scribe robes and leather armor they had worn in the past. Brahim, the Brahmin trader who had become a key ally in the rebuilding process, had arranged for tailors to create suits inspired by the fashion of the prewar world. Lyons, ever the pragmatist, had his desk crafted from the wood of the Oasis trees, a symbol of the new world they were trying to build. When Wolff looked at it, he couldn't help but think of Harold.
Harold had been one of the first to offer Wolff a sense of hope, back when the world seemed to be nothing but desolation. Wolff had visited Harold after the sap had been spread, watching as the man fought to keep his tree alive in the face of overwhelming odds. Harold had been a man of faith, a man who believed in the possibility of a better world—even when it seemed impossible. But when the Oasis fell, and the Treeminders scattered, Harold's spirit had faltered. He had become depressed, disillusioned by the loss of everything he had worked for.
But there was still hope. Yew, the young girl who had grown up in the Oasis, had returned after the fall. She and her family had built a new farm around the area, trying to make a life in the shadow of the ruined city. Wolff had given her a radio, a small gesture that he hoped would provide some connection to the outside world. Yew had often taken the radio to Howard, Harold's old friend, who had found new purpose in the broadcasts. Slowly, Howard had begun to regain his youthful optimism. It wasn't easy, not after everything he had been through, but it was a start. And when a family of squirrels had moved into the area, Howard had found something even greater—joy. The sight of the little creatures scurrying around his tree had brought a smile back to his face, though Wolff suspected it had more to do with the squirrels' relentless antics than anything else.
Wolff thought of Harold often, and as he sat behind his new desk in the office that was now his, he couldn't help but wonder if this was all a part of some larger plan. Had Harold's hope been the spark that had started it all? Had the world always been heading toward this moment? Or had it been a matter of chance, of people stepping forward when they were needed most?
The days blurred together, filled with the demands of nation-building. But Wolff knew that every moment, every decision, was part of something larger. The Republic was fragile, yes—but it was also full of promise. It was a new beginning, a chance to rebuild not just the Wasteland, but the ideals of the world that had come before. It would take time, effort, and countless sacrifices. But for the first time in years, Wolff felt a flicker of hope deep within him. And he knew that, whether he wanted to or not, he was destined to lead them forward.