North Island, Presidential Palace.
The sky beyond the window had already taken on a faint yellow-gray hue.
Standing before his desk, Mongo was not looking at the map on the wall, but staring at the declaration lying atop the desk, barely a finger thick.
Or, more accurately, the code.
Four months ago, they had pledged allegiance to Vault 70. Now, they pledged allegiance only to this code, signed by everyone.
In truth, if not for this damned war, it would not have been a bad thing for the residents of Vault 70.
They had lost the boundless authority inherited from their forefathers, but they could also cast off the boundless responsibilities imposed upon them by ancient oaths.
From now on, there would be no distinction between Blue Coats and ordinary survivors. Whether former Vault 70 members or island residents, all would bear shared obligations and responsibilities as citizens of the Federation.
No one would blame the Blue Coats for building crooked roads just because they tripped on the way to work. The Blue Coats no longer existed. Everyone had to take responsibility for the road beneath their own feet, and everyone had to choose their future carefully.
They should have done this long ago. For a century, they had all received the same education. If the first generation of vault residents and the wastelanders who had languished in the wasteland for a century had differed in knowledge and experience, then by the fourth or even fifth generation, they had long since become the same kind of people.
However—
There was always a gap between ideals and reality.
He had expected this road to be fraught with hardships, but he had never imagined that one moment of carelessness would send them plunging into an abyss beyond redemption.
It had truly been