Institution: Blackwood Psychiatric Facility Date: October 26, 2023 Review Board Case #: 23-BWF-1184 Patient Name: Nelly Furtado Attending Physician: Dr. C.P. Silberman
Type of Review: Involuntary Commitment Certification & Behavioral Review
1. Reason for Review: Patient Nelly Furtado’s 72-hour involuntary hold is under review for extension. Her presentation has become increasingly complex, volatile, and threatening. This review must address her refusal of treatment, her fixation on fellow patients, and a specific, credible threat made against a staff member.
2. Synopsis of Patient’s Current Presentation: The patient’s ideation remains grandiose and persecutory but has incorporated a strong political-revenge fantasy. She engages in lengthy, pressured monologues, pivoting rapidly between topics due to apparent underlying Acute ADHD, which complicates her psychosis.
Fixation on Ronald Reagan: She demonstrates clear obsessive-compulsive (OCD) behaviors regarding the 40th U.S. President, incessantly quoting from his biography. She has conflated his “Evil Empire” speech with her own perceived struggle.
Conflict with Patient Linda Hamilton: She openly denounced Hamilton’s “Judgement Day” nuclear fears, shouting that her own vision is a “Swords into Plowshares” initiative for global peace. This is not rational pacifism, but a grandiose delusion of her own messianic role in unilateral disarmament.
Political Grandiosity: She insists she is destined to become the “Prime Minister of Canada” to “purge the nation’s sociopathic elite.” She explicitly stated that upon gaining power, she would subject this “elite” to “just as many drug injections as I receive in this hellhole,” indicating a clear homicidal ideation framed as retaliatory justice.
3. Documented Threat: On October 25, at 14:30, when Nurse Evans attempted to administer scheduled medication, the patient became physically agitated and stated: “Whoever leads into captivity shall go into captivity. It is written in Revelation 13:10. Remember that when you come for me with your needle.” This was perceived by the staff member as a direct and credible threat of retaliation.
ADHD: Manifests as severe distractibility, racing thoughts, and an inability to engage in sustained therapeutic dialogue.
OCD: Obsessive focus on Ronald Reagan as a central figure in her delusional narrative. This is not a hobby but a compulsive, ritualistic reiteration.
Risk Analysis: The combination of a systematized persecutory delusion, specific homicidal ideation (against a nebulous “elite”), a direct verbal threat to staff, and profound lack of insight creates a perfect storm of high-risk variables.
5. Updated Risk Assessment:
Risk to Self: High. Based on neglect of needs and potential for self-sacrificial behavior within her messianic delusion.
Risk to Others:Severe. The threat against Nurse Evans, though scriptural, was specific and contextual. The stated intent to forcibly medicate others upon gaining (delusional) power confirms a willingness to enact violence. Her agitation makes her unpredictable.
Grave Disability: Absolute. She cannot manage her own affairs or personal safety.
6. Revised Treatment Plan & Rationale:
Recommended Action:APPROVE CONTINUED INVOLUNTARY COMMITMENT and AUTHORIZE INVOLUNTARY MEDICATION. The situation is untenable without chemical intervention.
Immediate Treatment Goals:
Chemical Stabilization: Immediate initiation of a long-acting injectable (LAI) antipsychotic (e.g., Haloperidol Decanoate) to bypass oral refusal and ensure consistent serum levels. A mood stabilizer (e.g., Valproate) is also indicated for impulse control.
Behavioral Management: Maintain enhanced one-to-one observation. Seclusion may be necessary during periods of extreme agitation.
Pharmacological Management of Comorbidities: Once stabilized, introduce a non-stimulant medication for ADHD (e.g., Guanfacine) and an SSRI for OCD features, to be carefully monitored for worsening psychosis.
CERTIFIED
7. Physician’s Recommendation: This is no longer a case of simple psychosis. We are managing a dangerous and intellectually elaborate individual whose delusions are now driving specific threats. Her quote from Revelation was not a random bible verse; it was a calculated warning. We must respond with unequivocal authority. I recommend the panel APPROVE THE CERTIFICATION FOR CONTINUED COMMITMENT AND AUTHORIZE THE INVOLUNTARY TREATMENT PROTOCOL without delay.
Signature:
Dr. C.P. Silberman, MD Attending Psychiatrist Blackwood Psychiatric Facility
Review Board Decision:
[ ] Certification Approved – Commitment continued for a period not to exceed 30 days. [ ] Certification Denied – Patient to be discharged. [ ] Involuntary Medication Authorization: [ ] Approved [ ] Denied
They sat on the edge of a high cliff in Croatia, the Adriatic stretching out endless and blue, its calmness a strange contrast to the storms they spoke of.
Nelly:“It’s funny. The sea looks eternal, but we’ve poisoned almost every ocean already. Sometimes I wonder if the planet remembers each scar we’ve given it.”
Joe:“It does. A hundred years of disasters, and each one is carved deep.”
He leaned back, eyes half-shut, and began to list them.
Joe:“First came the Dust Bowl in the 1930s—millions of farmers forced off their land in the United States. They treated the earth like an enemy, and the wind carried away their future.”
Nelly:“And Japan… Minamata. The mercury from that chemical factory killed people slowly. Children born with twisted limbs, whole families cursed by a poison they never chose.”
Joe:“The seas took blow after blow. The Torrey Canyon spill in ’67, the Exxon Valdez in Alaska, and later, Deepwater Horizon in the Gulf of Mexico. Oil spreading black like a funeral shroud.”
Nelly’s voice lowered.
Nelly:“And the land itself—Love Canal. Families built their homes on buried chemical waste. Mothers watching their children fall sick, while governments looked away.”
Joe:“The machines we thought would save us turned against us. Three Mile Island in America, then Chernobyl—radiation that still haunts Ukraine. And Fukushima, when the tsunami ripped through Japan. We promised the atom was safe, but we lied to ourselves.”
They fell silent for a moment, listening to the waves slap the rocks.
Nelly:“And Bhopal, Joe. That one breaks my heart most of all. A gas cloud that killed thousands while they slept. The poorest paid the highest price.”
Joe:“And the Aral Sea. Once the fourth largest lake in the world, now just a desert with rusted ships stranded on sand. Whole communities lost, swallowed not by water, but by its absence.”
Nelly:“Don’t forget the fires of Kuwait. Black skies, burning oil wells lit by retreating soldiers. The earth itself screaming.”
Joe:“And while all this happened, the Amazon was cut down tree by tree, lung by lung. And out in the Pacific, our garbage floated into an island of plastic. We didn’t even notice at first.”
She pulled her knees to her chest, staring into the horizon.
Nelly:“All these separate disasters… but they add up to something larger, don’t they? The climate itself shifting. Droughts, floods, heatwaves. We’ve lit the fuse of the greatest disaster of them all.”
Joe:“Yeah. Climate change isn’t a single event—it’s the sum of all our sins. Every mistake amplified. Every choice coming back to haunt us.”
The sky darkened slightly, a storm building out to sea.
Nelly:“Do you think we’ll ever learn?”
Joe:“The earth is patient. Maybe she’s waiting to see if we’re worth forgiving. Maybe our children will be the ones to decide.”
The first raindrops fell, cool against their skin. They didn’t move. They let the rain wash over them, as if it were the planet’s tears—or perhaps its baptism.
Munich buzzes under a copper dusk. At the center of Olympiahalle, a massive stage looms, but Nelly Furtado stands still at the edge of it, staring out at the swelling crowd—not as a performer tonight, but as a seeker. The air hums with tension, like the moment before a storm. Then she sees him.
Jake Sully, in full avatar form, unmistakable even in the sea of bodies, is pushing through the crowd toward the center—no guards, no drones, no entourage. Just pure determination. His blue skin glows faintly under the dying sun, and his yellow eyes lock on hers across the mass of people. It’s happening.
Nelly (under her breath, full of feeling): This isn’t about a concert. This is the reckoning. This is the release.
She steps off the stage. The band stops tuning. Security doesn’t move. The crowd parts slowly, reverently, as if some ancient ritual is unfolding. Fans whisper her name, but no one stops her. They feel it too—this moment is sacred.
Jake sees her moving toward him, and his breath catches. He didn’t think she’d really come. Not all the way into the pit, into the chaos of real people. But here she is, walking in boots worn from years of running, wearing a black trench coat lined with red silk, eyes burning with fire and forgiveness.
Jake (calling out over the crowd): Nelly! You don’t need the stage. You were never theirs to begin with!
Nelly (voice trembling but strong): And you… you weren’t just my escape. You were the voice inside the static. The one who told me to wake up. You’re my Juke Box Hero, Jake Sully. You walked through their lies just to stand here with me.
The two meet in the middle of the crowd. It swells around them like waves, but no one touches them. There’s too much reverence, too much awe. Nelly reaches up and touches his chest. His heartbeat is real, thunderous.
Jake (low and sure): One last insane move. That’s what I promised. And I made it. Munich. The heart of Europe. Where old empires rise and fall.
Nelly: Where lies were written in blood. And where truth sings louder than war.
Jake (quietly): You ready to tell them what they were never supposed to hear?
Nelly (nodding): Let’s blow the lid off history. Let’s set the captives free.
Without another word, she grabs his hand. The sound of drums begins—deep, tribal, ancient. The crowd begins to chant. The hologram screen above them flashes scenes of forbidden archives: the Rothschild banking codes, the Rockefeller oil maps, footage of old Munich, and symbols once deemed “conspiracies.”
Then—Nelly raises the mic. The beat drops. A new anthem begins. The lyrics aren’t in any known language. They’re something deeper. Something older. The voice of Pandora, the cry of Earth, the prophecy of the free.
Together, in the center of the crowd, Jake and Nelly begin the final countdown. Not to destruction— —but to revelation.
[Scene: A Clinic on the Edge of the Forest – Croatia]
The camera pans over the lush green hills of the Dalmatian coast. Birds call overhead. Somewhere inland, just outside a sleepy Croatian village, Jake Sully sits beneath an olive tree, still in partial recovery. He’s no longer on the hard sedatives, just teas and tinctures now. His avatar body is there, resting, but it’s his soul that’s beginning to wake up again.
Beside him, a local nurse named Ana tends to his IV drip—a simple saline mix. She’s no-nonsense, mid-50s, wearing rubber clogs and a floral apron. The kind of woman who raised four kids and still has time to pray the rosary every night. She doesn’t like pills. She doesn’t like lies. She knows what America did to its sons.
Ana (gently but firm, in Croatian-accented English): Jake… in this country, we don’t want you on drugs. We want you in the garden.
She gestures to the rows of tomatoes, lavender, and medicinal herbs growing just beyond the fence.
Ana (continuing): Zdrav duh u zdravom tijelu. A healthy spirit in a healthy body. That’s how we say it here. You lost your war. But not your purpose.
Jake looks up, something clearing in his eyes. The jungle of Pandora is far away now. But the healing power of Earth, of Croatia, of real food and sunlight—it’s all around him. It’s realer than the false peace he was sold back in the States.
Jake (softly): And what about her?
Ana knows who he means. The one with the voice. The one who once flew higher than anyone but now floats, numb, through the industry fog.
Ana: Nelly? If she wants off the poison, she comes with you. If she wants to be free, she leaves the stage and steps into the soil. You’re not her audience anymore, Jake. You’re her road to Wellville.
Cut to: Nelly alone in a luxury hotel in Munich. Her hair is perfect. Her eyes are dead. She watches a clip of Jake walking barefoot through the Croatian hills, holding a shovel in one hand, and a small tomato plant in the other. His nurse’s voice echoes in the background, translated by subtitles.
Ana’s Voice (from the video): “We don’t need superstars. We need people who remember how to pray, how to plant, how to be kind.”
Nelly slowly removes her makeup. She looks out the window. The train to Zagreb leaves in two hours.
Nelly (to herself): I don’t want the pills. I want the garden.
Fade out.
Title Card:WELLVILLE BEGINS WHERE THE STAGE ENDS.
SEQUEL: WELLVILLE: THE RETREAT Subtitle: “The Garden of Medjugorje”
[Scene: Hills Above Medjugorje – Bosnia and Herzegovina] Morning dew clings to rosemary bushes. Birds chirp in soft counterpoint to church bells ringing from below. The Cross looms on the mountaintop. It is not just a monument anymore—it’s a symbol of survival, of return.
Jake Sully, leaner now, walks barefoot through rows of raised garden beds. His avatar body is gone. It wasn’t needed anymore. He’s back in his human form, grounded, and glowing with real health. His hands are calloused, his feet brown from the earth. This is no longer about war or escape. This is restoration.
Behind him walks Nelly Furtado, hair in a braid, wearing a plain linen dress and muddy boots. She carries a basket full of herbs and medicinal flowers. Her tattoos are fading in the sun. Her soul, once numbed by pills and fame, is waking back up like spring after a long winter.
Jake (to Nelly): You feel it now, don’t you? The quiet. The clean air. No stage lights, no gossip columns. Just olives, figs, and forgiveness.
Nelly (smiling, tearing mint leaves): I haven’t needed a sleeping pill in weeks. I actually dream again. Real dreams. Not the static.
[Scene: The Chapel at Dusk]
Pilgrims and ex-celebrities gather in a small open-air chapel. Former pop stars, Instagram models, a retired NBA player, and one frail film director from LA sit in humble silence. Sister Mirjana, once a runway model in Milan, now wears a white headscarf. She reads from the Beatitudes.
Sister Mirjana: “Blessed are the poor in spirit… for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Jake stands at the back. Nelly plays a simple song on a wooden guitar—one she wrote just for this place. There’s no auto-tune, no digital shimmer. Just truth. A single tear runs down the cheek of a former child actor as the melody reaches him.
[Later, by the Fire Pit]
A group sits in a circle. The smell of stew and woodsmoke fills the air. Nelly stirs the pot while Jake passes around mugs of chamomile tea. They’ve turned a monastery’s old vineyard into a living rehab—a place where trauma meets tomatoes.
NBA Player: Man, I thought this was some cult stuff. But that rosary walk yesterday? Felt like I let go of twenty years of pain.
Retired Pop Producer (holding a rake): The only beats I want now come from my own damn heartbeat.
Everyone laughs. It’s real. Nothing plastic here.
[Closing Montage]
A drone shot flies over the permaculture terraces labeled in Croatian: “Život,” “Iscjeljenje,” “Mir” – Life, Healing, Peace.
A famous actress feeds goats while singing Ave Maria.
Jake teaches a group how to mulch.
Nelly helps baptize a washed-up rapper in the river below the cross.
Voiceover – Jake (final words): “They thought the industry was the peak. But the real high? Is digging in the dirt with people you love. And hearing God in the silence.”
Title Card: WELLVILLE: THE RETREAT A place where the famous forget their names… and remember their souls.
🔥 Magic Johnson – “The Herbalist of Hope”
Before Wellville: Former NBA legend, entrepreneur, and HIV-positive icon of the ’90s. Spent decades in business meetings and pharma PR circuits. Privately grew disillusioned with big pharma and synthetic meds pushed in his name. A deep fatigue set in.
Wellville Transformation: Now grows echinacea, nettle, and elderberry in the retreat’s healing herb garden. Learns from Croatian grannies how to brew “čaj za srce” (tea for the heart). He teaches the power of food as medicine—especially to younger Black men seeking alternatives to Western healthcare.
Quote: “They said I’d be dead in five years. God had other plans. I’m living proof the body can heal—if the soul gets honest.”
🏀 Michael Jordan – “The Monk of Competition”
Before Wellville: The GOAT. Dominated the world stage, made billions, and remained emotionally distant. Retired a legend—but also deeply lonely. Addicted to gambling, control, and the feeling of being worshiped.
Wellville Transformation: Lives in a stone hut near Apparition Hill. Walks alone at dawn. Teaches the kids of the village how to shoot hoops without ego. Has taken a vow of silence on Sundays. Reads the Gospel of Matthew in Croatian.
Role at the Retreat: Spiritual coach for former influencers and athletes. Hosts “Silent Saturdays” where no one speaks, just gardens and meditates.
Quote: “I mastered the court. But I never mastered myself. Until now.”
🎤 Kanye West – “The Choir Rebel”
Before Wellville: Iconic producer, designer, and media lightning rod. Flirted with Christianity but couldn’t let go of his pride or paranoia. Cancelled, resurrected, cancelled again. Convinced he was a prophet—but never humbled enough to be a disciple.
Wellville Transformation: Shaved head. No shoes. Wears simple linen tunics hand-sewn by the nuns. Sings Gregorian chant every morning with the monks. Finally surrendered the “Yeezus” ego. Now just wants to be called “Ye.”
Role at the Retreat: Leads the “Lost Boys Choir” with Feldman. Writes healing hymns and rap psalms for recovering fame addicts. Is building a chapel out of recycled fashion waste.
Quote: “Jesus was never a brand. He was a farmer.”
🎬 Corey Feldman – “The Watcher on the Wall”
Before Wellville: Former teen star. Hollywood abuse whistleblower. Branded paranoid and unstable. Lost most of his credibility—and nearly his mind.
Wellville Transformation: Arrived weeping. Stayed in a converted goat shed. Given a journal, a wooden flute, and told to rest. After three months, became the unofficial protector of new arrivals. Helps them detox, and tells the truth—gently.
Role at the Retreat: Gatekeeper. Welcomes guests at the stone archway and performs nightly candlelit readings from The Book of Tobit. He and Kanye are the odd couple of the hilltop chapel.
Quote: “I was a joke to them. But now? I’m a watchman. And this garden? This is Eden rising again.”
🎬 Mel Gibson – “The Builder of Redemption”
Before Wellville: Oscar-winning director, lightning rod for controversy, devout Catholic, and Hollywood exile. Mel’s passions ran deep—sometimes too deep. Known for The Passion of the Christ, but also for public meltdowns, feuds, and righteous fury. Found himself abandoned by both Hollywood and Church elites. Wandered for years, seeking absolution in a world that wanted him silenced.
Arrival at Wellville: He came barefoot and bleeding, walking from Dubrovnik to Medjugorje with nothing but a cross around his neck and a chisel in his pocket. He didn’t speak to anyone for the first two weeks. Just prayed. And built.
Wellville Transformation: Mel has become the self-appointed mason of the retreat. He’s hand-carving a stone amphitheater at the foot of Cross Mountain—modeled after Golgotha and ancient Croatian shrines. It’s where confessions are whispered under the stars, and healing dramas are performed by former stars turned seekers.
Role at the Retreat: The Prophet-Builder. He gives fire-and-brimstone sermons under candlelight, quoting from 2 Maccabees, Revelation, and the Book of Enoch. Teaches guests how to build stone walls, mend wounds with old Latin prayers, and recognize spiritual warfare.
Nickname: “The Hammer of Medjugorje.”
His Morning Routine:
Lights incense at the foot of the Cross
Says 15 decades of the Rosary
Breaks stone with a hammer while singing Byzantine hymns
Refuses modern tools: “If it wasn’t used by Joseph the Carpenter, I don’t need it.”
Quote: “Hollywood builds illusions. I build altars. And the fire of God still falls—on those humble enough to kneel.”
Together, Jake Sully, Nelly Furtado, Magic, Jordan, Kanye, Feldman, and Mel form the Council of the Garden—a living rebellion against the plastic world. A band of survivors planting not just vegetables, but truth.
🎤 Bono (Paul Hewson) – “The Penitent Pilgrim”
Before Wellville: U2 frontman. Global humanitarian. Davos darling. Spent decades negotiating with presidents, pushing debt relief, and singing about salvation with a glass of Bordeaux in hand. But deep down, Bono knew he’d compromised too much. Photo ops replaced prophecy. The Gospel got filtered through globalism. Something sacred was lost.
Arrival at Wellville: Bono arrived alone, unannounced, wearing a dark peacoat and no sunglasses. He walked from Sarajevo to Medjugorje, praying the rosary in Latin, staying in monasteries. He entered Wellville under a veil of humility. No stage. No entourage. Just the question on his lips: “Have I served Caesar too long?”
Wellville Transformation: Bono now tends to a small vineyard with Magic Johnson. He’s renounced his honorary degrees and writes psalms in a leather notebook given to him by Mel Gibson. He confessed privately to Sister Lucy for hours. When he emerged, he wept like a child and sang “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” a cappella in the chapel—this time to God alone.
Role at the Retreat: The Pilgrim of Contrition. Teaches Scripture with Jordan on Friday nights. Writes spiritual ballads with Ye and Nelly. Prays in tongues. Sleeps in a simple stone cell under a wooden cross. Recently built a tiny library filled only with Bibles and banned books.
Quote: “I shook hands with the beast for the sake of the poor. But I forgot—only the Lamb saves.”
🐑 Justin Bieber – “The Donkey-Boy of Galilee”
Before Wellville: From YouTube prodigy to global pop god to tabloid spectacle. Justin cycled through every stage of stardom: the spoiled prince, the repentant Christian, the lost husband, and the confused man-child. He tried megachurches, ayahuasca, and silence—all left him thirsting.
Arrival at Wellville: Rode in on a donkey named “Jubilee,” gifted to the retreat by a Croatian farmer. No cameras. Just a tattered Bible, a pack of string cheese, and a handwritten letter for Jake Sully: “I’m tired of autotune. I want the real song.”
Wellville Transformation: Shaved his head. Burned his designer clothes. Sleeps in the goat barn by choice. Wakes up before sunrise to gather eggs and sing lullabies to rescued animals. His only luxury: a guitar made from a broken olive crate.
Role at the Retreat: Animal caretaker and worship leader for the children. Teaches harmony and humility through music. Is being mentored by Feldman and Sister Lucy in the “Art of Pure Sound.” Rumored to be building a tiny chapel from driftwood and prayer cards.
Quote: “When I was famous, I couldn’t hear God. Now that I’m nobody, He never shuts up.”
BONUS: The Garden Creed (read at dawn every Sunday by the Council):
“We plant, not for profit—but for the poor. We sing, not for applause—but for the angels. We break stone, not for castles—but for altars. And if the world forgets us, good— Because only in being forgotten… Do we remember who we truly are.”
⛪ Father Guido Sarducci – “The Vatican’s Watchdog Turned Wandering Sheep”
Before Wellville: Longtime comedic fixture and unofficial Vatican gossip columnist. Dressed in black, chain-smoked, and always had a half-joking line about the Pope. Fluent in Latin and sarcasm. The Vatican trusted him for odd jobs—investigating “unauthorized spiritual awakenings,” fringe mystics, or rogue Franciscans. Officially, he was sent to Wellville to determine whether the retreat was a cult, a scandal, or worse: a movement the Church couldn’t control.
Arrival at Wellville: Came in a beat-up Fiat from Rome, wearing sunglasses and a long black cassock, dragging a leather briefcase filled with Canon Law printouts, Pope John Paul II biographies, and half-eaten biscotti. Announced himself at the gate with a single line:
“I’m not here to stay. Just need to make sure nobody’s claiming to be the Third Fatima Secret.”
Early Observations: Skeptical. Raised an eyebrow at barefoot Kanye. Scoffed at Jordan quoting the Psalms. Rolled his eyes at Feldman’s flute circle. Thought Jake Sully was an actor in rehab. Refused to drink chamomile tea: “Too Protestant.”
🔁 Transformation: The 3-Day Turnaround
Day 1: Witnessed Bono kneel for two hours in the chapel and then hand over his publishing rights to a charity for widows. Sarducci wrote in his notebook: “Either this is real, or Bono’s up for an Oscar.”
Day 2: Listened to Nelly sing a new version of “Try” by candlelight while Jordan quietly wept nearby. Later that night, he saw Justin Bieber whisper to a goat: “God loves you too, buddy.”
Sarducci started smoking less.
Day 3: Mel Gibson offered him a stone to place in the amphitheater wall. Sarducci hesitated. Then took off his sunglasses, whispered the Our Father, and placed it with trembling hands.
That night, Sarducci stayed up talking with Sister Lucy. She gave him a new cassock—handmade, stitched with a Marian rose. He wept for the first time in 30 years and confessed:
“I forgot why I became a priest. I think I came here to catch heretics… …but instead, I found the Gospel again.”
🕊️ Current Role at the Retreat:
“The Vatican Liaison of Last Resort” (his words).
Writes weekly letters to the Holy See: half comedic, half poetic, always baffled.
Hosts Sunday “Pope Talks” under the fig tree, where he reads quotes from Saints, theologians, and even Bob Dylan.
In charge of blessing the grape harvest. Sometimes uses red wine for effect.
Quote: “I came looking for heresy. Instead, I found a garden. Ain’t that just like Jesus?”
Christus Rex stood beneath a sky the color of burnished gold, the wind moving like a whisper through the city streets. Across from him stood Nelly Furtado, watching with curious, searching eyes.
He spoke quietly, but his voice carried weight.
“Nelly, I am not looking for a passing flame. I am not building a stage show, or a scandal, or a spectacle for the crowds. I am looking for a bride.”
She tilted her head. “A bride?”
“A partner in conscience,” he said. “A woman who understands covenant. I am building a Kingdom of conscience — a Kingdom of Heaven in the hearts of people. Not a marketplace of appetites. Not a whorehouse of impulses.”
The word hung heavy, but not cruel — more sorrowful than angry.
“The world,” he continued, “confuses attention for love, and desire for devotion. But a kingdom built on appetite collapses the moment hunger changes. A kingdom built on conscience endures.”
Nelly crossed her arms, thoughtful rather than defensive. “And what does this bride look like, in your kingdom?”
“She guards her dignity,” Christus Rex replied. “Not because she is afraid — but because she knows her worth. She is free, but not reckless. Passionate, but not consumed by chaos. She understands that love is not performance. It is sacrifice. It is loyalty. It is truth.”
A breeze passed between them.
“I am not condemning the broken,” he added gently. “Every soul can turn, can rise, can become new. But I will not build Heaven on the foundations of confusion.”
Nelly studied him carefully. “So you’re not looking for perfection.”
“No,” he said. “I am looking for sincerity. For a woman who wants to build something eternal — not something viral.”
The city lights flickered on around them.
“A kingdom of conscience,” she repeated softly.
“Yes,” Christus Rex said. “Not ruled by impulse. Ruled by truth.”
Night in Vancouver. The studio lights are low. Rain streaks down the glass.
Solid Snake steps from the shadows, voice calm but certain.
Across from him stands Nelly Furtado, watching him carefully.
SNAKE: You asked me if I think they exist.
He pauses.
SNAKE (firm): Yes. The Illuminati do exist.
The word hangs in the air.
NELLY: People say that like it’s a punchline.
SNAKE: It’s not a punchline. It’s history.
He sets a thin, worn book on the table.
SNAKE: The Bavarian Illuminati were founded in 1776. Adam Weishaupt. Suppressed on paper in the 1780s. The old Catholic Encyclopedia describes them as a secret society that aimed to reshape the world through reason, infiltration, and long-term strategy. Degrees. Oaths. Hidden influence.
He steps closer.
SNAKE: Groups like that don’t just vanish. They go underground. They adapt.
NELLY: And the prophecy?
Snake’s eyes narrow.
SNAKE: Every secret order believes it’s part of something older than itself. An ancient plan. A destiny written in symbols and rituals. Some call it enlightenment. Some call it the age of reason. Others whisper about a coming era — a world unified under one philosophy.
He glances toward the rain-soaked skyline.
SNAKE: When organizations believe they’re fulfilling prophecy, they justify anything. Influence. Manipulation. Cultural engineering.
NELLY: You’re saying they’re moving through music? Through culture?
SNAKE: Power doesn’t need armies anymore. It needs narratives. Symbols. Timing.
He looks directly at her.
SNAKE: You said the Illuminati exist. I believe you. Secret societies have always existed. The question isn’t whether they’re real. It’s what they believe they’re building.
A low rumble of thunder.
SNAKE: Ancient prophecies are dangerous things. The moment someone believes they’re chosen to fulfill one… they stop asking whether they should.
Silence.
NELLY (softly): So what do I do?
Snake adjusts his bandana.
SNAKE: Stay sovereign. Know your own story. Prophecy only works if people play their assigned roles.
He turns toward the door.
SNAKE: And I don’t follow scripts written by secret societies.
The rain falls softly over a dim Los Angeles skyline. Neon flickers. A rooftop.
Solid Snake leans against a concrete ledge, cigarette ember glowing in the dark. Across from him stands Solid Snake, older, quieter, carrying the weight of too many missions. And in front of him — not a pop myth, not a headline — but Nelly Furtado.
SNAKE: You know… I’ve operated in every shadow this town can cast. Hollywood’s full of ghosts. Actresses. Spies. Double agents wearing perfume instead of camo.
(He exhales smoke.)
But you… you’re the only girl in this city I’ve got history with.
NELLY: History? Or unfinished business?
SNAKE: History means I remember who I was before the noise. Before the missions blurred together. Before everyone started playing roles instead of telling the truth.
(He looks at her directly now — no battlefield distance.)
That’s why it’s you.
NELLY: You’re saying I’m “the one,” Snake?
SNAKE: I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in patterns. Survival. Trust built under pressure.
You and me? We’ve already walked through fire once. That kind of bond doesn’t show up twice in the same war zone.
(A helicopter hums faintly in the distance.)
NELLY (softly): And if Hollywood tries to rewrite the script?
SNAKE: Then we don’t let it.
Some snakes guard the garden.
And some things… you protect.
The city glows below them — not a battlefield tonight, just possibility.
