I still remember those high walls with their wooden battlements that glazed out before us through the thick windowpanes of the motorcade limousine, even more than the mushroom-shaped hedge gardens that lined the ground, and the footmen with their long spears and unchanging expressions that seemed to peer out into the unknown like stone fixtures. Some of these Toads I'd known for years, hanging by the gateway to the Golden Throne, their faces unmoved even by the attacks and invasions that had beleaguered my Castle so many times before. Others, I'd only seen for months, the old guard wilting away as time went on, with new recruits destined to protect the Sporian crown and Sporian people; there were even a few humans and robots dotting the ranks, representing the slow (but accelerating) penetration of Starcross eclecticism into all facets of the government.
"At arms, Your Majesty!"
They saluted back, all of different heights, weight classes, ages and nationalities, even species, hailing from all corners of the multiverse, and each bearing undoubtedly their own political foibles and dramatizations. Yet they were somehow united by a common interest: to serve the dual mandate of executive authority that manned the Sporian nation; whether by opportunism or national devotion, I could see beneath their stoic facades that there was something indeed humbling about being in our presence, the personification of a state's will.
"At arms, Mr. Prime Minister!"
On the other side of the limousine, though his features were limned by the purple darkness, I could still see his stark eyes below the blonde frocks of hair that made away with his forehead.
"...It feels good to be doted on. Even if it might rather get old after a while," he smirked back to me, that British-inflected baritone becoming something of a rhythm to my ears after hearing it so many times in hushed meetings and liaisons.
"Believe me, it can grain. But there's something quaint about upholding tradition."
He looked back at me, and chuckled lightly, seeming to share in my sentiment some. His blue fatigues were as seamless as ever, the deep, thick fabric encasing his muscles underneath, as a beige overcoat softened his militaristic outfit, complete with a black belt bearing a silver tip at the middle, and tall onyx boots firming against the ground; instead of a crown a close-fitted cap did he wear, with the seal of Sporia–a golden Mushroom–emblazoned on its surface. It was the perfect mix of intimidation and grace, both a fashionable ensemble and the encapsulation of his pragmatic mind: fewer men could distill their character better in sartorial form.
"So, this is Toadsworth Tower, is it?"
"The Prime Minister's Mansion, yes. It's only been opened for some few years, since Starcross's early beginnings, but it holds generations of Sporian history and architecture."
It was the political answer–a tour guide's, even, one could say–but it was true. There was something special about the way the top tips of the woodgrains slanted outward, forming an inverted triangle structure at the roof, like the whole building was reaching out into the air and space itself. Wide windowpanes adjoined the spaces in between the walls, showing glimpses of the white paint and chic interior design, with plenty of aides, housekeepers, chefs, and other footmen fastidiously going this way and that to prepare the innards for official inspection. It held an allure that few other political spaces could match, both entrenched in Sporian values yet somehow representing the newness that Starcross offered its denizens; the novelty of an interdimensional world, and the hopeful opportunity that fresh beginnings sow.
The end of my white heels touched upon the marble pathway, with two guards at attention, while the Prime Minister's boots clunked on soon after, and he gestured a hand out to his new home.
"After you, Princess. It may be my office, but none of this would've happened without you."
I looked back at him, contemplation strewn over my eyes. The election cycle had taken a toll on both of us, adding several new ripples of strain along the folds of our faces. From Diego's constant appearances on the campaign trail and televised speeches to my own never-ending itinerary of state meetings and strategy sessions with the man–all to prevent the great tyrant Robotnik from sweeping into the executive's office–we had lived an age in less than a year, and now were expected to lead the Kingdom through the next two. (Sprites above, they expected me to keep on for decades, at least…)
"I wasn't the one elected by my people. You have that edge, Mr. Prime Minister," I said softly, before striding through the opened mahogany doors and entering this new world of democratic power.
"Even as this post will never have the same admiration from the people as you…"
Diego closed his eyes, sensing the layout of the place through the atmosphere. The height of the building itself was tall and wide, with a single chandelier of immaculate glass alighting the central walkway, all the servants and liveried staff standing in line formation at the sides. The walling itself was painted a silver hue, polished and maintained to a perfect luster, as if to offset the golden colors of the monarchy; portraits too did adorn the walls, just like they did at the Castle, but instead of nobles and royals, past prime ministers, secretaries, and statespeople of all types made their mark on the scene, watchful eyes peering down to the Mansion's new inhabitants.
The Prime Minister's Mansion: the epicenter of elected executive politics in the Mushroom Kingdom. There was no question why it was dubbed Toadsworth Tower from first glance at the portraiture: one towering figure stood above the rest, with that trademark walking stick and pair of spectacles, and the grey-brown ensemble that marked his hat. The snowy fibers of his mustache emphatically trumpeted his status as the Kingdom's ultimate elder statesman–Toadsworth was the first Prime Minister from our last years in our homeworld to the transition into Starcross, all the way up until the fateful 2020 election that saw Mario barely edge out the now-disgraced populist Shido. Even as the old man had been on vacation in Isle Delfino ever since that momentous election, his presence remained throughout the open halls of the Tower, like a political phantom, his influence all-encompassing.
"For such a short man, they name a tower after him," Diego pondered, a hand to his chin, the blue of his fatigues glowing in the lamplight like sapphire.
He then chuckled. "Well, they better name a space elevator or something after me, then. I outclass him by four feet!"
I laughed softly back, but I noticed his eyes didn't quite agree with the jubilant candor. I could see Toadsworth's cane metaphorically striking down at his back, causing him to be hunched a bit, suppressed by the weight of rulership.
I knew Diego came from humble stock in his homeland in America. The fruit of a classic self-made success story, he trammeled his meteoric virtues on every campaign stump, promising to support the common man in his post. But beyond the rhetorical splendor, I didn't quite understand how he felt about his new, heightened status; how could I, as someone born into my power? To have a taste of approval by merit, and not birth, was always something I craved, even if I could never partake in the cornucopia of such hard-fought success.
Did he feel far removed from his home, in an unknown world, with no one to trust, no friends to call upon, no allies to support him in his time of need? He'd confided in me on the seedy nature of Parliament and the Fungal Government as a whole, urging me to pursue a line of caution with my countrypeople as rumors of corruption and backroom deals thronged through the Kingdom's news outlets. He'd always leaned on me for backing, as we developed a secret alliance to prevent dangerous forces from overtaking the electoral process, and dooming the nation into an authoritarian spiral of despair.
Or was he empowered? Knowing now that he was the most powerful man in the world, leading the global superpower that was the Mushroom Kingdom, did he think all would fear him, all would love him, and he could have anything he wanted now, compared to his prior stock? Even now my early concerns about his militaristic, self-asserting principles of strength and determination floated into mind's view, as a part of me questioned why I supported him so wholeheartedly.
There were more men colored into immortality than just Toadsworth for him to deal with, after all. In order to win the 2022 election to begin with, he had to capitalize on the political play of outgoing Prime Minister James Fungsworthy, another elder statesman of the Toadsworth stock (though with far more humble origins, as a former member of the Royal Guard) who had taken the reins of the country in the absence of his predecessor. James, knowing Diego was our only hope of truly protecting democratic traditions, endorsed his candidacy and threw in the lot of the Spores Liberals along with him, buoying support for the final push come the opening of the ballot boxes in August. While a divided Parliament prevented James from acting on his policy agenda, he had kept the country together during a turbulent five months, and as a result earned himself a positive image in the public, if not a glowing one. He was the last remnant of the political Old Guard in Toad Town, and was determined to make the transition into the new blood of the state a productive one; the consummate politician that Diego tried to mold himself into by practicing rhetoric and easing his stances, even as he could never quite feel at least a little out of place in the arena.
"...There he is," Diego muttered, looking up at the portrait hanging on the other side of the grand hall, his boots causing a deafening echo through the hall's expanse.
It was an oxymoron of an image:
Drenched in a suit with a black tie and traditional monochrome design, his hair combed back and his cap fitted more tightly on his head, the picture of erstwhile Prime Minister Mario appeared to look off rather than stare his new visitors in the eye. His hands were awkwardly rung around his back, and there were evident lines of stress along his cheeks as he tried to stay still for the portrait. Perennially out of place in a politician's garb, he nonetheless took up the call to lead his country through a turbulent era.
Even if he couldn't hold the torch for long.
"He's still with us," Diego chimed in, "even if he'd rather not be. I respect him, even as I seek to succeed where he failed."
"It isn't too high of a bar."
I closed my eyes. Still recalling the day when I had to inform the nation of his sudden disappearance, and cries at the dishonesty of the monarchy and the fallibility of the government amplified before the election truly began. He had abandoned me, I felt then, and a part of me still wanted to so dearly clutch onto that idea, to scapegoat him into the nothingness of my memory. But Diego's words made me restrained, acknowledging his legacy–even as I sought to surpass it.
"Come, Princess. We haven't even reached the office yet."
I nodded, following his strut, appreciating the look of a Prime Minister with an assertiveness in his step, despite the outlandishness of his wear. Diego had neither the timidity of Mario, nor the political entrenchment of James; he was his own man, unfettered by landed political interests, offering a blank canvas on which to draw his vision for the nation.
The suite of the Executive Chamber open up to us through a pair of hardwood doors, with the sights of Starcross City skyscrapers seeping in through the windowsills. A large unfolded map of Starcross lay in parchment on the wall, opposite landscape paintings of the Kingdom countryside, and various potted plants, from the spikey hydrangeas to the benign chrysanthemums, and a small garden of mushrooms on the balcony. The grandfather clock chimed to signal the start of the evening, the sky fading into a periwinkle texture. We strolled in, admiring the art and aura of the room, which emanated outward from the birch fixture of the desk.
A rotary telephone and black-rimmed laptop sat on its surface, next to a pile of neatly arranged manila folders, with tomes of information on the state of the Sporian economy, society, environment, military, and foreign policy, among all the other foibles of national concern, collated by the Fungal Government's leading policy experts and published officials.
"Well, would you look at what we have here…"
Diego laid against the plush cushioning of his chair behind the desk, sifting through the file on the Kingdom's military, the Royal Armed Forces.
"We've got much work to do, Princess."
The Mushroom Kingdom had expanded significantly throughout its history in the amalgam world that was Starcross, from humble beginnings out in the urban center of Toad Town and the agricultural heartland of Sunbeam Plains to extending its reach into the cities of the Metro Zone, and further out into the seas, skies, and even space of this realm. While most of this expansion was diplomatic, as cities and towns clamored for more united government to safeguard themselves against the chaos and disruption of Starcross' early days–nearly anarchistic in nature, with heroes given carte blanche to do what they willed against a never-ending army of world threats–the enlarged border and scope of the Kingdom necessitated the development of the Royal Army from a small fighting force into a full-fledged military powerhouse. Initially deployed primarily as a defensive force, the Armed Forces became increasingly entangled in international obligations as our presence on the world stage expanded to superpower status, first used against the army of the tyrant Yharim as an expeditionary force supporting a rebellion against his reign. Since then, however, aside from its use in suppressing an armed insurrection by the infamous Rebel Army, the Forces hadn't seen much combat duty, and there were growing calls from the populace to shift funds from defense to social sectors, with many affirming that smaller groups of heroes would be superior at dealing with national security threats at half the cost.
I could see in Diego's eyes that, like my own, there were always plans brewing in the psyche, like a manufactory of stratagems, an assembly line of tactics. He believed in the power of the Sporian military, of course, as both a deterrent and a projection of the Kingdom's might across the globe; however, he also thought that the best way to assuage concerns about a bloated military budget would be to design innovative solutions to troop deployment to reduce costs while maintaining (or even increasing) effectiveness. His force of dinosaurs, for example, could batter enemy supply lines while requiring no expenditure of energy or equipment resources, being durable and nimble themselves.
At the same time, I couldn't help but feel that there was a deeper motivation for his focus on the military that ran closer to his heart than he'd like to admit. In his eyes, I saw someone looking for the prestige and the sense of authoritative will that the control of the military provided, as Commander-in-Chief, and while such a persona would inevitably be limited by a subservience to the people, there was still the underlying thought in my mind that he viewed the state's might as the manifestation of his will.
Where every cannon, tank, and ship, where every strike and bullet and shrapnel piece, were all orchestrated by his immaculate design. I didn't want to believe he'd be so crass. But ever still did I conjure up the image of a man who was the state, the living embodiment of the people's wishes, like a democratic god.
"I don't mean to disrupt international rules of conduct," he offered at a campaign stump one July evening, "but I do believe restoring a sense of strength to Sporian foreign policy would be the best way to secure our interests."
On the surface, a conventionally placid answer to a question of the same caliber; but in his gait, always strung back like he was looking off into the stars, or strung forward and looming over his opponents; in the tenor of his voice, elegant but also deep and heart-wrenching in its tone at its most emotional intervals, able to rock a politician to their core; and in his gaze, all-consuming, fiery, as if his eyes could burn a hole in your soul with their sweeping effect–in all these things he projected a hunger for authority that only the highest post in the Kingdom could sate. At least, that's the haunting picture my fears painted for me, the masterful strokes of authoritarian might…
"...Princess? What's on your mind?"
Diego looked back to me, his initial smile fading, blonde furls of hair opening up at his crown after he had put his cap down on the desk. He wondered why I hadn't spoken much for so long. Well, it was time to rectify things–for him, and my people.
"Prime Minister Brando."
My voice shook off its initial hesitation, and became a force itself, embodying the history and zeal of the Crown. He faced me with heightened interest, and full attention, laying down the case file and putting his hands on the desk, rapt.
"We stand as the inheritors of a young but great democratic tradition. You as the elected sovereign, I, as the symbolic. It is by our hands that the future of this Kingdom will be molded, matured, and manicured into the vision we share.
The Kingdom's safety must be ensured. Our small businesses, our schools, our welfare, and our livelihoods must not only be protected, but reinvigorated along the tides of reform and progress. Cognizant of the landed forces within the nobility and the industrial magnates that wish to sink our plans for rejuvenation, we shall play their chess game and draw the picture of obedience to their wishes, while championing the cause of the common citizen at every juncture we can.
I have faith that we can make the greatest executive partnership this nation has ever known. We may not agree on every subject, but our wills shall be aligned, and our collective intellect marshaled for our goals.
Diego. Will you join me on this journey?"
He clasped his hands together, taking a breath, relishing in this moment. How hard he'd fought to get to this place; to rise the ranks, get himself out of poverty, attract a national audience to his side, construct a public persona, master the arts of politics and rhetoric, and finally get to the day where he'd be named the most powerful man in the world. Of course, he knew that his success was not simply his own, but the product of all those who'd brought him to this point–his supporters, his confidants, his friends and allies both within and without the Toad Town political scene, myself included, and most of all, the dying wishes of his mother to see him break from the bonds of fate.
Diego Brando stood at the apotheosis of a life's worth of struggles. He wasn't about to forfeit his work and reduce himself to the ilk of just another scheming politician, fit to bask in the successes and prestige of a high office, an ambition quenched only by a people's acclaim alone. No: the state was his life.
Whether for good or ill, his character was to be the candor and content of the nation's direction, the articulation of his spirit, its policies. His challenges were now the nation's; the nation's, his.
It was time for him to instrumentalize himself for the good of those he served.
"Princess.
I'd be delighted to join you.
For greatness then will need greatness now."