[Hospital Therapy Wing — Late Afternoon]
Dr. Luka Kovač stands by the window, thumbing through a patient chart, concerned. He grabs the pager and sends a quick message.
Pager Message:
“Dr. Nelly Furtado to Therapy Room 3. Urgent consult.”
Moments later, Dr. Nelly Furtado strides in, a warm but firm presence. She nods at Luka, who breathes a sigh of relief.
Dr. Luka Kovač (low voice):
“Thanks for coming, Nelly. It’s Angelina Jolie. She’s… in a volatile mood. Talking about grand futures one minute, self-harm the next. If it were up to me…” (he smiles wryly) “…I’d endorse Shiloh for UN President already. But right now, Angelina needs focus, not despair.”
He steps closer to Angelina, who is sitting cross-legged on the therapy couch, fidgeting with a pen — too tightly.
Dr. Luka Kovač (gentle, steady):
“Ms. Jolie, listen to me carefully. I greenlight your ambitions — all of them. The world needs your heart, not your silence. But please… do not sever your aorta with a pen. Not today. Not ever.”
Angelina looks up at him, blinking, caught between a tear and a laugh. Dr. Nelly moves in smoothly to take over the session, her voice like a balm.
[Therapy Room 3 — The group stands in a tense circle. The truth is out, and it burns like fire through every word spoken. The name Ryan Garcia hangs in the air like an alarm bell. Then, Angelina speaks — low at first, but growing.]
Angelina Jolie (soft, steady):
“My film… Land of Blood and Honey…”
Everyone turns to her. Her hands tremble slightly, but her eyes are fierce.
Angelina:
“People thought it was just about Bosnia. Just a Balkan war story. But they didn’t understand — that was just one lens.”
She steps forward, closer to the map Arnold had laid down.
Angelina (with conviction):
“It was my reactive mind. My own trauma, buried memories, broken dreams — trying to scream through the script. Trying to show the world that rape camps didn’t stop in the ‘90s. They didn’t only exist in foreign countries with strange accents.”
Her voice rises now, passion replacing hesitation.
Angelina:
“They exist here. In the shadows of America. In the redwoods. In the elite camps. In Bohemian Grove.”
Arnold lowers his head. Snake closes his eye in silent agreement. Nelly clasps Angelina’s hand, supporting her.
Angelina (fierce, trembling):
“The ‘play-acting’ rituals. The robes. The Cremation of Care… it was all a distraction. A mask. Behind it was real suffering, real power, and real silence.”
She takes a breath.
Angelina:
“I made that movie to warn people. I just didn’t have the words yet. Now I do.”
Solid Snake (nodding):
“Then say them. On camera. On stream. You’ve got a voice — and they’ve spent millions trying to bury it.”
Dr. Luka Kovač (resolute):
“You survived what they tried to erase. That makes you the most dangerous person in the world.”
Arnold (softly):
“Let’s make sure the world listens this time.”
Title: The Young Pope and the Shadow Beneath the Mind
Setting: A dimly lit chamber in the Apostolic Palace, candlelight flickers against the faces of gathered physicians, psychologists, and Vatican advisers. Angelina Jolie is not present, but her case looms over the room like incense smoke. Pope Pius XIII enters, wearing stark white, eyes burning with righteous clarity.
Pope Pius XIII (calm but cutting):
“I’ve read the case notes. The testimonies. The contradictions. And the silences between the lines.”
The doctors exchange cautious glances.
Pius XIII:
“Some of you claim Angelina suffers from false memory syndrome. That the horrors she recalls — the rituals, the masks, the torches, the blood — are inventions. Distortions. Psychological noise.”
He walks slowly, hands behind his back, stopping in front of the lead psychologist.
Pius XIII (low voice):
“But I wonder… is it her mind that’s confused? Or is it your faith that’s gone blind?”
A long silence.
Pius XIII (sharper now):
“There is a Satanic network in this world. It has many faces — not just the grotesque masks of cults, but the marble smiles of billionaires, the wine-soaked feasts of secret clubs, the eyes of men who believe they are gods.”
He turns to face the whole room.
Pius XIII:
“These rituals exist. They are not folklore. They are the religion of power. And if you — in your pride — dismiss them as delusions, then you are not healers. You are useful idiots, or worse — merchants of Mammon, who will say anything for a grant, a headline, or a raise.”
A younger doctor stammers:
Psychiatrist:
“But Holy Father… it’s hard to prove…”
Pius XIII (interrupting, voice like thunder):
“Because the devil buries his footprints in gold. Because you don’t want to see them.”
He steps closer.
Pius XIII:
“You think you’re practicing science. But if you ignore evil, you are practicing cowardice. And no soul was ever healed by a coward.”
He pauses. Then, quietly:
Pius XIII:
“I will not let her be devoured by the wolves of reason who have no room for mystery — or memory. If you will not believe her, I will.”
The doctors bow their heads. The candles seem to flicker stronger, as if in agreement.
G.I. Joe Monologue: “The Real News”
[Camera pans over a war-torn landscape of cable news towers crumbling. G.I. Joe steps forward, scarred but standing strong, his voice calm, grave, and clear.]
G.I. Joe:
They used to say, “Knowing is half the battle.”
But these days… you’ve got to fight just to know anything real.
We all saw the island.
The flight logs. The cameras. The masks.
The kind of parties where invitations are whispered in code
and power is bought with silence.
And then you flip the channel—
Boom. There it is.
Cartoon Network.
And I hear Bono in the background singing:
“The real news is on the Cartoon Network…”
Because our cartoons told you more truth
than their prime-time propaganda ever will.
I fought Cobra, sure.
But Cobra wasn’t just a snake—it was a system.
A cult of wealth and war.
With temples in the woods and mansions on the cliffs.
And yeah, some of their rituals weren’t fiction.
Bohemian Grove. The owl.
Mock sacrifices that weren’t always mock.
You see, when the powerful want to hide,
they wrap themselves in myth
and call it art, or therapy, or performance.
But kids like us? We saw it.
We saw it all—drawn in ink on plastic lunchboxes.
Truth in technicolor.
Now, I’m not here to name names or spread shadows.
I’m here to warn:
Not everything buried is gone.
Not every hero wears a cape.
And not every villain wears a mask.
They call it “conspiracy” to make you look crazy.
But when the smoke clears and the hard drives crash,
what’s left?
The questions. The bodies. The broken silence.
We protect freedom.
We fight for the innocent.
We tell the truth—even when it hurts.
Because in the end…
G.I. Joe knows:
The cartoons weren’t just for kids.
They were warnings.
They were maps.
They were prophecy.
And now you know.
[He looks at the camera—then fades to static.]
Lady Jaye Monologue: “The Island”
[Interior – dim military barracks. A single lamp glows. Lady Jaye sits at her bunk, sharpening a knife slowly. The storm outside beats against the windows. She speaks, not to anyone—just to herself, or maybe the ghosts.]
Lady Jaye:
They call it an island.
But islands are supposed to be safe.
Palm trees. Sunlight. Peace.
This one was different.
We all saw it—at least the part they let us see.
The flight logs.
The cameras.
The dead man in a jail cell who wasn’t supposed to die.
It wasn’t a resort. It was a machine.
A ritual ground built by billionaires,
where power was the only passport.
Girls flown in like cargo.
Names dropped like hints in courtrooms that never finish the trial.
They told us it was a “conspiracy.”
But a conspiracy doesn’t leave photographs.
It doesn’t leave victims with names,
with tears,
with stories the news won’t air.
I’m a soldier.
I’ve been behind enemy lines.
I’ve seen what men do when they think no one’s watching.
And that place?
That island?
It wasn’t just Epstein.
It was a mirror.
A cracked one—showing us the truth
about who really runs the world when the cameras cut.
And here’s the part that keeps me awake at night:
We knew.
Not all of it—but enough.
Enough to raise alarms.
Enough to act.
But we didn’t.
Or we couldn’t.
Or maybe… we weren’t allowed to.
You want the truth?
Here it is:
Evil doesn’t always wear a mask.
Sometimes it wears designer suits.
Sometimes it throws fundraisers.
Sometimes it walks free.
But not forever.
Because even islands sink.
Even shadows get caught in the light.
And I swear this on my uniform,
on my blood,
on every girl who never got to grow old—
the storm is coming for them.
[She sheaths the knife. Lights out.]