Went to the Dixie Stampede once as part of a family reunion.  Can't say I say your horse.  But it was enjoyable

"They serve food here?  And the health department allows it?"

Ye Olden Times Family Fun looks like an amusement park attraction that got abandonded in the 70s.  There is a full crowd tonight.  Familys and couples are parking their cars and strolling in, laughing and taking selfies with the suits of armor that are arranged around the outside of the building.

Dad sighs at Mother and then motions for you to lead the way.

"Let's get this knight goin'!" he Dad-jokes.  "It's gonna be one helluva a knight after all."

An attendant wearing period costume shows you to your bench.  Dad orders a beer.  Mom orders wine and just tells them to bring her the bottle.  The menu is roast chicken feast.  The rolls with honey butter are pretty good.

As you help yourself to a second roll, Mother says, "So have you thought about what studio you want to go with?  Rigney would love to have you, I'm sure."

"You're really spurring us on."

"Careful, or those dad jokes will make you hoarse."

The place doesn't look like much, but as long as the food is good and not full of disease, it'll be fine with me.

"It's in a better state than my dorm at St. George's was when I moved in," I offer Mother.

I resist the urge to justify my choice. Mother never approved of that kind of behavior. No excuses, no apologies, just act and don't screw it up.

"At first I didn't want to go with a studio at all, actually. I was going to aim for government. But a studio might be the best choice, now that I know there's whole new horizons of power to explore. Kayfabe demands a lot less time than politics. Rigney is very slimy. I think I might find more satisfaction lending my fame, looks, and powers to a smaller studio to build them up. It's not like we need Rigney money."

Mmmm honey butter.

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 927):

Mother frowns.  She starts to say something, but Dad leans forward, waving to your server to bring him another beer.

"You do what you think is right Princess.  Show life isn't bad.  But it's not good either.  Anything, really, is what you make of it."

He glances at you.  "You said government.  You mean joining the FBI or something?"

Their relationship is functional, at least.

"I mean politics. An office with real power. First state senate, since I can run for that at 18, then governor at 24, then president at 35."

The absolutely youngest age for any of those offices. I have absolute confidence. I'm rich, connected, gorgeous, famous, and extremely powerful, all big factors in my favor.

"St. George's makes me think that I'm not cut out for it. The scheming and plotting are annoying. It's almost as if the system, just in the academy, is some kind of living thing, actively resisting changes for the better."

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 929):

Mother laughs and even Dad seems a little amused.

"Princess...the politicians don't run things."

Mother shakes her head, sipping her wine.  "Oh dear.  I thought we taught you better.

"You want power?  You need to get in with the right studio.  Everything is staged Seraphina.  Better than this show is."

The announcer has come out and begun an introduction.  It sounds like they're going to start with a horse show.

Out of the corner of your eye, you think you catch a familiar face.

Paula and Bill Casters from the Dragons are at the other end of the section you're seated at.  They are sitting with a man almost Dad's size.  They seem to be having a serious conversation.

"What about the military, police, and special operations divisions? Control of currency, management and licensing of every EM band, hospitals, roads, taxes, all of those things? I understand that the studios control the politicians, but politicians do not do their bidding, how then do the studios control the rest of the system?"

I spare a glance for Paula and Bill.

"I got a taste of the answer, I suppose, when I was tricked into attacking a vigilante protecting his community from loan sharks."

I let out a big sigh. It's disheartening. The social and mind games are bothersome and droll. I much prefer the direct approach. But of course I do; I can throw a 3-ton object into orbit and..."stop time."

"What about them?" Mother shrugs.  "Control isn't about knowing what each little ant is up to.  Control is programming the ant to keep to the routine it's been assigned to."

She points at the performers.  Riders are moving their horses through a sort of choregraphed routine as they thunder around the arena below.

"Use the performance as an analogy.  All those riders are moving in a set pattern that someone else designed and practiced into them.  But none of those riders or their horses need to worry about the servers that are bringing us our food.  And my refill," she mumbles, looking around for your "serving wench".

Dad sighs and polishes off his beer.

"She's right.  In a way.  Think of it like a pyramid.  The head only has to control the ones directly under them.  The ones under them control the ones below them and so on and so forth.  The studios don't need to control traffic.  They just need to condition the drivers to make sure they're home in time for the start of their favorite program.  That's why television is so stupid.  And manipulative."

Mother shoots him a look, but goes back to waving at the waitress.  Growling, she suddenly stops time and goes gets her own refill, coming back and sipping her drink.

"You don't need to worry about the little people," Mother says.  "As long as you control the ones at the top...the choreographer.  The director.  The one who writes the screenplay...then everything else falls in line."

I watch and listen as they demonstrate and make analogies, then think quietly for about 15 seconds before I answer.

"I know that. You taught me, after all. So, you're saying it's the studios that do the programming, rather than the executives and elected officials of government? What about the top bureaucrats and judges and those sorts of people? Are they controlled by the studios too? How direct is that control?"

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 933):

Dad scowls at the question.  Mother laughs.

"Well.  There is free will.  Just ask anyone on Tik Tok who's saying the exact same thing as everyone else on Tik Tok.

"How many people are there on the planet now?  Seven? Eight billion?  Imagine how difficult it would be to control every. Single. One of them.  You'd be so busy, you'd never have time for yourself.

"So you manage it at the demographic level.  This group needs to think this way.  That group needs to think the other way, so they never agree with the last group, and hence never ally with them.

"No one has to control the executives or judges or ambulance drivers or incompetent servers at cheap tourist attractions who can't even chill a bottle of bad wine correctly.

"All you need to do is give them enough programing so they control themselves as per your instructions.  And the easiest pill there is to swallow is entertainment.  Everyone loves to be entertained."

Mother actually sounds passionate about this topic.

Dad lifts a hand.  "Enough.  How 'bout we just watch the show, huh?"  He glares at Mother.  "Can we just have one evening like a normal family?"

Mother laughs but doesn't say anything back to him.

I appreciate Father's convivial attitude. Sometimes I don't want to worry too much, either, and just "go with the flow." But I'm half Mother, too, and with that came a bottomless well of ambition and drive for excellence.

"I understand what you're saying. Thank you for teaching me again. We can talk more about it later, though" I say, trying to mediate.

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 935):

Mother goes back to sipping her wine.  Dad gives you a lopsided grin, tossles your hair (he hasn't done that in ages), and the three of you watch the show.

Your food comes.  The chicken is greasy and over salted.  There are some really nice potato wedges though.  Did they have potato wedges in medieval times?

Dad burps loudly and Mother laughs...it's her fifth glass of wine...and the mood seems to have thawed a bit.

"Excuse me."

The voice is somehow both reedy and heavy.  Like a bassoon.  An older man is standing just beside your bench/table.  He nods at you, then looks at Mother and Dad.  "I didn't expect to see you two here."

Mother laughs.  "Ah!  Edwin.  What a surprise.  Do you have a child at Saint George's too?  This is our daughter."

The man nods at you again.  His eyes are different shades.  One is silver and the other is yellow.  There's a scar across his lower lip.  He gives you a smile that would be friendly if that scar didn't make it look like his lip was about to split open.

"You may not remember me.  We met once when you were much, much younger.  I'm Edwin Kampf.  Nice to meet you again."

"We're kind of having family time-"  Dad has a blank expression.

Mother slaps him lightly on the shoulder and gets up.  "Now stop.  Edwin.  I was going to look you up when we got back to New York.  You have a moment?"

She climbs over the two of you and leads "Edwin" down the stairs a bit.  So they are out of earshot.

Dad signals for another beer. "Are you gonna join the Dragons?"

Potatoes! These would go really well with that spicy queso fountain in the school cafe...

Other, less amazingly perfectly powerful and beautiful girls may worry about what they eat, but I have a basal metabolic requirement of 8,000 calories, thank you. I've never gone above 130 pounds, and I am extremely fit and toned. So there!

I don't recall seeing Mother drink this much...ever. Or be this disinhibited. It is a bit worrisome when she literally crawls over me to get to this Edwin guy I don't remember. "It is nice to meet you again, as well, Mr. Kampf," I reply, a little awkwardly with Mother halfway across my lap.

"I think I will," I answer Dad. "I've learned some uncomfortable things about the way the world works, and if I want to make it better, I need to get to the top. Like I always have. Like you and Mother taught me to do."

Beat.

"Speaking of Mother, who's that Edwin guy and why does his last name sound like a supervillain title?"

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 937):

Dad glances in Mother's direction and sighs.  "That's because he is a supervillain.  Retired.  At least on paper.  Herr Beil.  He used to go by the handle Herr Beil."

Except for the scar, the guy looks like he might be a retired middle school principal.  Not the same man who almost succeeded in vaporizing the United Nations building.

Herr Beil is one of the heavy names in supervillainy.  Not quite up there with the worst of the worst, he's still bad enough to have warranted super teams like The Grinders or Alpha Squad to mobilize against him.

Of course, this was all like ten or fifteen years ago.

Dad chews his lip and says, "You do know what the Dragons are right?  I mean...if you wanna join them, do it.  Just make sure you know what you're gettin' into is all I'm askin'."

I almost had Sera be shocked by the casual walking around of a terrorist, but she wouldn't be. That's how this setting is. Supervillains just retire. It's all a show, right? >=3

Huh. Well that makes sense. Germans make great supervillains.

"I don't know what they are, really. I know that some of them tricked me. They seem to be into the 'enlightenment through shocks to the system' thing. I know they have a lot of power and connections. What do you know about them, Dad?"
This message was last edited by the player at 02:40, Thu 24 Aug 2023.

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 939):

Dad shrugs.  "They basically train supervillains.  Not everyone turns out to be one.  But there are a lot of the big names who are Dragon alum.  Kampf is one, if that's any indication.  Sera.  I want you to do what you wanna do.  Whatever it is.  I'll support you one hundred percent.  And I love you.  You know that, right?"

I lean over to hug him.

"I know you will."

Short pause.

"I want to make the world better for everyone, not just myself." I smile at Dad.

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 941):

Dad smiles.  "That's noble an' all.  But...

"There's one thing true I've found.  No matter what happens, someone is always going to be unhappy about it.  Just don't get so lost in trying to do the good thing that you're not doing the good thing.  And be happy. 'kay?"

Mother comes back, laughing.  "Oh my.  He's still the same after all these years."

She looks out at the show, which is starting to wrap up.

"Should we beat the crowds to the car?"

I nod. "Right. I know I can't make everyone happy, but it helps to be reminded."

"Yes, let's do that. What did you two talk about?"

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 943):

Mother gives you a smile.  "Oh.  I'm working with him on an upcoming special for the networks."

You notice Dad clench his jaw at that.  Mother doesn't see it.

You get to the parking lot.  Dad grins at you.  "Anywhere else you wanna go tonight?  How 'bout some ice cream?"

Mother groans, patting her stomach.  "No thank you.  I'm stuffed.  Greasy chicken doesn't sit well with me.  Let's just drop Seraphina off and go back to the hotel."</red.

She turns to look at you.  <red>"We have that ceremony or whatever the school is doing tomorrow, right? And I want to meet your teachers.  I think the school said it's doing an open house.  What time should we pick you up?  9 AM?"

There is an open house tomorrow.  The school is doing a presentation for parents starting at 1.  And then there's a soccer game at 3.  Parent's weekend ends that evening with a party held in the gym starting at 7.

Thanks for reminding me about the timing!

"I do like ice cream," I reply, noncommittally. Dad and I have a much higher tolerance for peasant food than Mom does.

"Yeah, parents' weekend open house and stuff is tomorrow, starting at nine. The last even of the day is a party at seven."

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 945):

Mother groans.  "I hope the food's good.  I need to purge my system after that grease scoop we just had."

Dad stops for milkshakes.  Mother doesn't have one, but she joins you both at the table and the three of you banter amicably enough.  They drop you off at the dorm and wait until you're inside before pulling away from the curb...

Anything else you wanted to do this evening?  Or ready to move into parent's day?

Also, pick one of your classes.  Doesn't matter which one.  Just name one.

Thanks.

Mmm strawberry.

I practice trying to move along the flow of time forwards and backwards for a couple of subjective hours, then I shower and go to bed.

I pick the extra class for monitors!

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 947):

The morning arrives like a sumo's wet thong slapping into place.  The greasy chicken might have tasted good going down.  But ugh.  Has it come back to bite you.  Only the memories of strawberry milkshake make it bearable.

Dad texts you they are downstairs and you find them on the sidewalk, looking at a Parent's Day brochure.

You head to your classes.  The math teacher is weird.  Neither Dad or Mother seem to like him.

Your fourth stop is the monitor class.  The shrew-er...Mrs. Oltham gives them a wide, practiced smile.  She and Mother seem to hit if off right away.

Mrs. Oltham motions to you.  "Your daughter has had quite a run already as a monitor! It's a demanding duty.  I'm sure she's told you about all the issues-"

"Issues?  What do you mean?"  She looks at you.  "Seraphina?  What issues have you had as a monitor?"

That's a very.....vivid.....image. =p

I've only had heartburn a few times, but I know what to do. Tums, wait a little bit, Alka-Seltzer. I content myself with a breakfast of mild cereal, kept around for these occasions.

Some day, when I am empress, it will be a crime to mandate that I wake up before 10:30. Other people might like mornings, but I don't. I engage in my usual practice of exiting linear time to sleep another four hours.

It's only slightly creepy now that I know it's really some kind of border of the afterlife. Or an afterlife. Or something before reincarnation. That's a lot of big questions. I turn on the lights just in case.

Anyway, having had my daily requisite 14 hours of sleep, I kip up, nice and chipper, and head down to the sidewalk to meet my parents.

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'issues,' exactly, Mrs. Oltham. There were the various problems I've had to deal with, of course, like the twins or the life-force-draining plants. There have also been things I don't understand or have complaints about."

In reply to Seraphina Martel (msg # 949):

Mrs. Oltham's smile doesn't change.

"Ah.  I think we have a difference in terminology.  I said "issues" referring to those very same situations.  As I was saying, your daughter has had quite the trial by fire.  But she and her associate have done reasonably well-"

"What?  What "associate"?"

"I think she means that guy we met.  What was his name?  Saul Zachius?  He's the other monitor for their class."

"Oh.  Him."

Mrs. Oltham nods.  "So.  As I was saying, Seraphina has had more...duties...to contend with the usual starting monitor.  But she's handled them reasonably well."

All three of them look at you.

Did you fill your parents in on the various misadventures you've had like Ahina's life draining plants or the twins?