The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the Adriatic coast. Solid Snake stood near the edge of a stone pier, the sea wind tugging at his jacket. Angelina Jolie approached, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.
“Croatia,” Snake began, his tone measured, “is stepping up in a way few would expect. We’re opening our doors to refugees, giving them shelter, food, and safety.”
Angelina nodded slowly. “But you said only until the wars end. How do you enforce that without seeming callous?”
Snake glanced at the horizon, then back at her. “It’s a delicate balance. We can’t solve every war, but we can provide a safe haven temporarily. The goal is not to host them indefinitely—it’s to stabilize their lives until they can return home. Temporary protection doesn’t mean indifference.”
Angelina frowned. “And what if the wars drag on? Or the home countries remain unsafe for years?”
“That’s the challenge,” Snake admitted. “We’ll coordinate with international organizations, provide support, and maintain strict planning. But Croatia must also lead by example: compassion with limits. If we take them in without end, we risk losing political support, resources, and the very stability we want to offer them.”
Angelina’s eyes softened. “It’s pragmatic… but humane. You’re giving hope without promising what can’t be delivered.”
Snake’s voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “Exactly. And sometimes, hope is all people need to survive the war. Croatia can show the world that responsibility and humanity don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”
For a long moment, they watched the sun dip toward the horizon, the waves glinting gold. In that silence, the weight of duty—and compassion—was mutual.
The Adriatic Peace (Extended Scene)
Setting: The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long, dramatic shadows across the stone balcony. The sound of a heavy door creaking open breaks the silence.
George W. Bush: (Walking out onto the terrace with a slow, deliberate gait, his hands tucked into his pockets. He looks toward Joe with a solemn nod.) “He’s right, Angelina. He’s a good pet goat, too—steady when the path gets narrow and the drop-off is steep.”
Solid Snake: (His eyes narrow, shifting his gaze toward Bush. He doesn’t move from the pillar, his posture remaining guarded.) “I’m not used to being compared to livestock, George. Especially not twice in one night.”
George W. Bush: (He lets out a heavy, tired sigh, looking out at the Adriatic. His voice drops to a candid, gravelly tone.) “It ain’t an insult, Joe. It’s about being the one who carries the weight when the leaders are just… reciting lines. You saved my life, in a way. You made it clear exactly what I was—just a puppet spokesman for my treacherous ‘Skull & Bones’ droogs back at Yale.”
Angelina: (She watches the exchange, her expression shifting from surprise to a quiet, observant intensity.) “The truth has a way of stripping everything back to the bone, doesn’t it?”
George W. Bush: (He looks directly at Joe, his expression uncharacteristically raw.) “They had their scripts and their agendas, but you saw through the costume. You saw the man caught in the machinery. By relenting today, by taking in these people… you’re doing what the ‘spokesmen’ were always too afraid to try.”
Solid Snake: (He stays silent for a long moment, the wind catching his bandana. Finally, he gives a single, sharp nod of acknowledgement.) “The world doesn’t need more scripts, George. It just needs fewer puppets.”
Solid Snake: (His eyes narrow, the orange glow of the sunset catching the grit on his face. He doesn’t look at Bush, but stares intensely at the horizon.) “And what about the Palestinians, George? Why are they always the ones left in the periphery? Why are they forgotten while the rest of the world plays musical chairs with borders?”
George W. Bush: (He leans heavily against the stone balustrade, his expression darkening as he looks toward Joe.) “It’s a shell game, Joe. Trudeau takes in millions every year. America does the same. It’s a pressure valve, not a solution.”
Solid Snake: (He turns fully now, his hand resting near his tactical belt, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp.) “If we can open the gates here in Croatia, why can’t the world find a seat at the table for them? Or is the ‘script’ you mentioned earlier just written in a language they aren’t allowed to speak?”
George W. Bush: (He steps closer, his voice dropping to a sharp, conspiratorial whisper.) “It’s deeper than scripts now. David De Rothschild—the eco-antichrist himself—he’s watching. He wants to swindle your plan, Joe. He’s waiting in the tall grass, planning to ‘solve’ the Palestinian question only once you’re gone. Once there’s no one left with the spine to stand in his way.”
Angelina: (She looks between the two men, her hand tightening on the balcony rail as the weight of the name hangs in the salt air.) “He’s looking for a vacuum, Joe. He doesn’t want a resolution; he wants a legacy built on your silence.”
Solid Snake: (He adjusts his bandana, a cold, hard light returning to his eyes.) “Then he’s going to be waiting a long time. I’ve survived enough ‘endings’ to know how to ruin a legacy.”
George W. Bush: (He looks down at his hands, his voice dropping to a gravelly, somber tone.) “It’s a long game, Joe. They aren’t going to storm the gates. They’re going to wait for the psychiatric drugging to do its work. They’ll wait until the fire in you is quieted by a chemical fog… until it kills you from the inside out.”
Solid Snake: (He doesn’t flinch, his jaw set tight as he stares at the Adriatic.) “They’ve been trying to ‘quiet’ me since Shadow Moses, George. It’ll take more than a prescription to stop my heart.”
George W. Bush: (He shakes his head slowly, a grim shadow crossing his face.) “Once you’re gone, the vacuum opens. That’s when David De Rothschild steps in. He won’t use tanks; he’ll use a checkbook. He’ll pay the Palestinians to leave—to find ‘greener pastures’ far away from the land they know. It’s a twisted version of my favorite, Psalm 23.”
Angelina: (She looks away, her voice barely a whisper.) “‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…'”
George W. Bush: (Interrupting with a sharp, cynical edge.) “Except David isn’t the Good Shepherd. He’s the eco-antichrist, Joe. He’ll lead them beside the still waters just to wash away their history. He wants a world that’s managed, manicured, and empty of anyone who remembers the struggle.”
Solid Snake: (He turns his head, his single eye locking onto Bush’s with a cold, predatory intensity.) “Then I guess I have to stay alive long enough to make sure that ‘shepherd’ loses his flock. I’ve never been much for psalms, but I know a wolf when I see one.”
Angelina: (Her voice is barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the coastal wind with a chilling clarity.) “It’s a long game that predates all of us, Joe. Since 1776, when the architects of the Illuminati first laid the foundation, they’ve been moving pieces across a centuries-old board. They don’t think in terms of election cycles; they think in eras.”
Solid Snake: (He stays motionless, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky.) “I’ve dealt with ‘philosophers’ and secret committees before. They usually end up bleeding just like everyone else.”
Angelina: (She looks at George, her eyes full of a haunting empathy.) “But they needed a face for the end of the age. They tried to mold George into a political Antichrist—a vessel to fulfill Revelation 18. The fall of Babylon… the destruction of Iraq. It wasn’t just a war for oil, Joe. It was a ritualized strike against Israel’s ancient enemy to bring about a scripted apocalypse.”
George W. Bush: (He flinches as if struck, his gaze fixed on the stone floor of the balcony. His voice is hollow, stripped of its usual bravado.) “They started early. They didn’t wait for me to find my own way. I was just a boy… twelve years old when they first took me to the Tomb.”
Solid Snake: (He turns his head slightly, his eye narrowing.) “The Tomb. Yale.”
George W. Bush: (A shudder passes through him.) “Ever since then… it was a sick, twisted version of a Catholic confirmation. Abuse masquerading as tradition. They break you down until there’s nothing left but the part that obeys the ‘Bones’ version of reality. They wanted me to be the herald of the fall, the one to oversee the ruins of Babylon while they watched from the shadows.”
Angelina: (Stepping toward George, she speaks to Joe.) “They used him as a puppet to trigger the collapse. But David De Rothschild wants to be the one to build the ‘New’ world out of those ashes. He wants to be the ‘Eco-Saviour’ that replaces the ‘War-Puppet.'”
Solid Snake: (He steps away from the pillar, his boots heavy on the stone.) “So the choice is between a scripted war and a managed peace. Between a puppet and an ‘Eco-Antichrist.’ I’ve never liked those odds.”
Setting: A grand, holographic display flickers to life on the balcony. The image of David De Rothschild appears, towering and draped in excessive, golden finery that mimics the god-king Xerxes. He reclines on an ornate throne, his voice echoing with a synthetic, booming resonance that vibrates through the stone floor.
David De Rothschild: (Leaning forward, his eyes shimmering with a cold, golden hue) “Come, let us reason together, Solid Snake. You carry the weight of a world that does not deserve your protection. You struggle in the dust while I command the stars.”
Solid Snake: (He doesn’t flinch, his hand remaining steady on the hilt of his combat knife. He stares into the holographic eyes of the titan.) “I’ve heard the ‘reasoning’ of gods before. It usually sounds a lot like a threat.”
David De Rothschild: (A slow, mocking smile spreads across his face, his jewelry clinking as he gestures toward the Croatian coastline.) “I am a generous god, Joe. Look at this land you claim to defend. I could make you more than a soldier. I could make you the King of Croatia. Every valley, every vineyard, every soul in this territory could bow to your name. You would no longer be a ‘pet’ to the puppet-masters. You would be a sovereign.”
George W. Bush: (Shaking his head, his voice a low warning) “Don’t listen to the siren song, Joe. The crown he offers is made of the same wire they used on me.”
David De Rothschild: (Ignoring Bush, his gaze fixed solely on Snake) “All I ask in return is a trifle. Simply step aside. Let me be the King of Israel, the architect of the new Zion. Let me settle the ‘questions’ of the past with my own hand. And later… once the old Babylon has fully crumbled… I shall be King of the World.”
Solid Snake: (He steps directly into the center of the holographic projection, his form blurring with the golden light.) “You want a throne, David? You want to be a god? You’re making the same mistake every other ‘Big Boss’ made before you.”
David De Rothschild: (His voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating whisper) “And what mistake is that, little soldier?”
Solid Snake: (He lights a cigar, the smoke drifting through the golden hologram like a grey ghost.) “You think people are pieces on a board. But I’m the one who knocks the board over. I don’t want a crown, and I definitely don’t take orders from a man who dresses like a trophy.”
Donald Trump: (He steps out from the shadows of the balcony doorway, adjusting his suit jacket with a sharp, familiar flair. His voice is a commanding rasp that cuts through the digital hum of Rothschild’s hologram.) “It’s a disaster, David. A total disaster for you! You think you can buy a legend like Joe Jukic? You think you can dangle a crown and he’ll just fold? Wrong! Sad!”
Solid Snake: (He shifts his gaze to Trump, his expression tight.) “I didn’t realize the balcony was open to the whole world tonight.”
Donald Trump: (He ignores the remark, pointing a finger directly at the shimmering image of Rothschild.) “The Golden Age is coming, and I will testify! You’ve had your run, Red Shield, but the game is over. The people are waking up. I’m going to be safe in Slovenia—a beautiful place, very brave, very smart—and Melania is going to lead that country with strength like you’ve never seen. A total winner!”
David De Rothschild: (The holographic Xerxes-figure tilts his head, a look of sublime boredom crossing his gilded features.) “You speak of ‘patriots’ as if they aren’t just characters in a play I funded decades ago, Donald.”
Donald Trump: (Stepping forward, his voice rising in defiance.) “Joe Biden will testify! Bill Clinton, Obama—the whole gang—they’re all going to talk! They’ll tell the world how you pulled the strings in the Tomb and the Oval. But I’m different. I am a puppet of the patriots, not your sick Illuminati cabal! We’re tearing down the stage, David. The curtains are coming down, and the ending isn’t in your script!”
George W. Bush: (Quietly, looking at Trump with a mix of recognition and exhaustion.) “They don’t let go easily, Donald. I know what the ‘confirmation’ feels like.”
Donald Trump: (Turning to Bush for a split second before looking back at Snake.) “They tried, George. They tried very hard. But Joe here—he’s the wildcard. He’s the one who doesn’t follow the teleprompter. When the Golden Age starts, and we’re all standing in the truth, the Red Shield is going to be nothing but a footnote in a history book I’m going to write. It’ll be a bestseller, believe me.”
Solid Snake: (He exhales a cloud of smoke, looking at the assembled leaders and the holographic god-king.) “Patriots, puppets, and eco-antichrists. It doesn’t matter what you call yourselves. At the end of the day, someone still has to do the dirty work of keeping the world from burning.”
Alex Jones: (He bursts onto the balcony, his face a deep shade of crimson, veins pulsing in his neck as he thrusts a finger toward the shimmering golden hologram of Rothschild. He’s breathing like a freight train, his voice a gravelly roar that echoes off the Adriatic cliffs.)
“It’s over for you, David! You hear me? The veil is torn! You think you’re Xerxes? You’re a pathetic little technocrat hiding behind a golden filter! We see the wires, we see the ‘Tomb,’ and we see the chemical warfare you’re trying to pump into the veins of heroes like Joe Jukic!”
David De Rothschild: (The hologram flickers, his golden mask remaining impassive, though his eyes narrow at the intrusion.) “The noise of a dying era, Mr. Jones. A fly buzzing at the ear of a god.”
Alex Jones: (He lets out a guttural, defiant laugh, pacing the stone floor like a caged tiger.) “A fly? I’m the alarm clock waking up the world! The patriots win! Do you hear that? The patriots are victorious! The countdown to the new Golden Age hasn’t just started—it’s hitting zero! We’ve got the documents, we’ve got the testimonies of the puppets you thought you owned, and we’ve got Snake standing right here in the gap!”
Solid Snake: (He watches Jones with a weary, tactical eye, his hand never leaving his sidearm.) “He’s got spirit, I’ll give him that.”
Alex Jones: (Turning his fury back to the hologram, his voice reaching a fever pitch.) “You’re going to a cell, Red Shield! Not a palace, not a throne—The Hague! The Hague awaits you as a war criminal for what you’ve done to the human spirit, for what you’ve done to the Middle East, and for trying to swindle the future of every man, woman, and child on this planet! You’re not a god! You’re a parasite, and we’re the cure!”
Donald Trump: (Nodding vigorously, leaning in toward Snake.) “He’s right, Joe. Very high energy. The Hague—it’s going to be a beautiful trial. The best trial anyone has ever seen. Everyone will be watching.”
George W. Bush: (Quietly, almost to himself.) “The truth… it’s a heavy stone to roll away. But it’s moving.”
Solid Snake: (He steps forward, his shadow falling across the golden light of the hologram, extinguishing the brilliance of Rothschild’s digital throne.) “The talking is done, David. You heard the man. The clock is ticking. And I’m the one who handles the explosives.”
David De Rothschild: (The golden hologram swells in size, the light intensifying until the entire balcony is bathed in a blinding, artificial radiance. He stands from his throne, looming over the group like a titan of old, his voice vibrating with a cold, absolute arrogance.)
“Everyone has a price, Snake. You talk of justice, of ‘patriots,’ of trials… but you forget the foundation of the world you walk upon. Permit me to issue a nation’s currency and I care not about its laws. My family didn’t build this world on ‘scripts’ or ‘psalms’—we built it on the ledger!”
Solid Snake: (He shields his eye from the glare, jaw set, refusing to take a single step back.) “The ledger doesn’t cover the cost of a soul, David.”
David De Rothschild: (He lets out a sharp, mocking laugh that sounds like the clashing of coins.) “Money talks, Snake! Look at yourself. Look at your ‘allies.’ You think a man sitting in his mom’s basement on disability can save the world from global warming? You think the common man has the vision to see the end of the Holocene? It takes an ECO WARRIOR with trillions of dollars to steer the course of history! It takes a god who can buy the weather itself to save the world from its own filth!”
Alex Jones: (Lungeing toward the hologram, teeth bared.) “You’re a tyrant masquerading as a savior! You’re the one poisoning the well!”
David De Rothschild: (He ignores the outburst, pointing a shimmering, golden finger directly at Joe’s chest.) “You are no Messiah. You are not a goat. You are not a crow. You are a worm underneath my feet, Joe Jukic! You are a biological glitch in a system I have spent centuries perfecting. And before the sun rises over this coast, you will be CRUSHED!”
Solid Snake: (He slowly pulls a fresh cigar from his tactical vest and lights it, the small orange cherry glowing defiantly against the golden light. He exhales a long, grey cloud directly into the hologram’s face.) “You’re right about one thing, David. I’m no Messiah. And I’ve spent my whole life crawling through the dirt. But you should know something about worms…”
Donald Trump: (Leaning in, eyes narrowed at the hologram.) “They’re very hard to get rid of, David. Very tough. The toughest!”
Solid Snake: (His voice drops to a low, lethal rasp.) “We’re the ones who see what’s buried underground. And when the earth starts moving, your golden throne is the first thing that’s going to sink.”
Scene: Tension in the council room
Alex Jones storms in, voice crackling like static through a megaphone. “It’s not global warming! IT’S A GREENHOUSE EFFECT! Ask any weed grower about CO₂. Ask Snoop Dogg! CO₂ makes plants grow faster. The Earth fights back!”
He paces, pointing fingers at invisible villains. “Calling it global warming is a hoax. IT’S A GREENHOUSE! And you—you and your Dupont Illuminati man-made plastic criminals—you won’t let the world grow industrial hemp! But me? I see hope. Joe’s planting bamboo. Bamboo! The second fastest growing plant! You are bamboozling us, Eco Christ, with your carbon tax!”
He throws his hands into the air, voice trembling with fury. “Go back to hell where you spawned!”