Chapter Seven: The Propaganda Machine
Chorus:
In Thebes, truth is a shape-shifter, and the loudest voice often wins. Tonight, the city's airwaves buzz with rumors, half-truths, and outright lies—all carefully crafted by the king's propaganda machine. But every lie has its crack, and every crack lets in the light.
The morning breaks gray and heavy, the sky mirroring the mood of the city. A chill wind rattles loose shutters and sends scraps of paper swirling through the streets. Thebes wakes to a new day, but the city feels unsettled—like a beast pacing its cage.
Posters flutter on walls, each bearing the king's seal alongside slogans designed to rally loyalty and crush dissent.
Poster 1 (bold letters):
"Laius: Protector of Thebes, Guardian of Order."
Poster 2 (smaller print):
"Beware the whispers. Trust the crown."
At the marketplace, vendors call out their wares, but the usual hum of commerce is tinged with tension. Citizens glance nervously at the posters, whispering in hushed tones.
The F*** It All and Echo move through the crowd, their eyes sharp, noting every reaction.
Echo:
They're pushing hard today.
Trying to drown out the noise.
The F*** It All:
The louder they shout, the weaker they sound.
A group of children chase each other near a fountain, their laughter a fragile bubble in the heavy air. One child stops, pointing at a poster.
Child:
Who's that?
Mother (pulling him close):
That's the king.
He wants us to remember who's in charge.
Child (frowning):
But what about the lady?
The one who says "F*** it all"?
The mother says nothing, but her eyes flicker with worry.
Chorus:
The city listens, caught between fear and curiosity,
Between loyalty and the lure of rebellion.
Inside the palace, the war room is thick with smoke and tension. Advisors cluster around a large table littered with maps, scrolls, and hastily scrawled notes. The air smells of burnt herbs and stale wine.
Advisor One:
The people are restless.
The daughter's ghost haunts every corner.
Advisor Two:
We need a new narrative.
Something strong. Something… believable.
Laius stands at the head of the table, face stern but eyes flickering with doubt. His fingers drum a restless rhythm on the wood.
Laius:
Then give me a story they want to hear.
One that makes me the hero.
Advisor Three:
What about the "traitor daughter" angle?
Paint her as a threat to Thebes.
Laius:
No. Too predictable.
They're already tired of fear.
Advisor One:
What if we twist it?
Make her a victim of madness.
A danger to herself and the city.
Laius nods slowly, considering.
Laius:
Madness… yes.
That will turn the tide.
Advisor Two:
We can spread rumors—
Whispers of her strange behavior,
Of spells gone wrong,
Of threats to the throne.
Advisor Three:
And frame her as unstable,
Unfit to lead or even live freely.
Laius:
Good.
Let the city fear her, not admire her.
Chorus:
And so the machine churns, spinning tales like a spider spins webs—sticky, intricate, and deadly.
Scene shift: The city square. Town criers shout proclamations, their voices booming over the crowd. The square is packed with citizens—some curious, some fearful, some skeptical.
Town Crier (booming):
Hear ye! Hear ye!
The king declares The F*** It All a danger to public safety!
A madwoman who threatens the peace of Thebes!
The crowd murmurs, some fearful, some skeptical.
Merchant (to a friend):
Is it true?
Has she lost her mind?
Old Woman (shaking her head):
Or is this just another lie?
Young Man (clenching fists):
If she's mad, then so is the king.
Chorus:
The people are caught in the web,
Some trapped, some fighting to break free.
Nearby, a group of scribes hurriedly copies the proclamations, sending runners to every corner of the city.
Scribe One:
The king's words must reach every ear.
No one can be left in doubt.
Scribe Two:
But the people are whispering back.
The story isn't sticking.
Scribe One (scowling):
Then we make it louder.
Back in the palace, Jocasta watches the propaganda unfold with growing unease. She stands by a window, staring out at the city below.
Jocasta (softly):
This will only make things worse.
Laius approaches, his voice low but firm.
Laius:
It's necessary.
Control the story, control the city.
Jocasta:
But at what cost?
Laius:
At the cost of order.
Jocasta looks away, pain flickering in her eyes.
Jocasta:
And what of justice?
What of truth?
Laius:
Those are luxuries for the weak.
Chorus:
Meanwhile, The F*** It All and Echo plot their next move.
The F*** It All:
Let them spin their tales.
We'll give them a story they can't ignore.
Echo:
A story of truth.
The F*** It All:
A story of rebellion.
They slip into a narrow alley, away from prying eyes. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone and smoke.
The F*** It All pulls a bundle of stolen documents from her satchel—letters, decrees, secret orders written in the king's own hand.
The F*** It All:
This is the real story.
Not the one they want you to hear.
Echo leans in, eyes wide.
Echo:
If we can get this to the people,
We can turn the tide.
The F*** It All:
Then let's make some noise.
Chorus:
The propaganda machine spins faster,
But the wrecking ball is already in motion.
Scene shift: A crowded tavern. The fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on faces eager for news.
The F*** It All and Echo move among the patrons, slipping the documents into hands and pockets.
Merchant:
What's this?
A letter from the king himself?
The F*** It All (whispering):
Read it.
Share it.
Let the truth spread like wildfire.
Chorus:
The city stirs, whispers growing louder,
Rumors turning to outrage,
Doubt turning to defiance.
Night falls over Thebes. Lanterns glow softly as whispers turn into shouts, and the city braces for the storm to come.
Chorus (closing):
In the battle for Thebes's soul,
The truth is the sharpest weapon.
And The F*** It All is ready to wield it.