Solid Snake leans against a rain-slicked wall in the shadows of a half-demolished XCOM outpost, a cigar smoldering in his hand. Plasma scorch marks still sizzle on the concrete. His voice is gravel, but his mind’s razor-sharp.
“I didn’t sign up for XCOM. Not officially. They just… called me in when things got ugly. Sectoids were crawling through human minds like parasites. Elders hijacking thought, bending will. It wasn’t war—it was psychological invasion.”
He takes a drag and exhales slowly.
“But after a while, I started noticing something strange. The aliens didn’t just want territory. They didn’t want resources—not in the traditional sense. What they wanted… was worship.”
He turns to the camera now, voice darker.
“See, the aliens didn’t just feed on biomass. They fed on belief. Obedience. Identity. They needed humans to supply them with validation. They needed to be needed. Sound familiar?”
Snake drops the cigar into a puddle.
“That’s when it hit me. XCOM wasn’t just a war against invaders—it was a war against narcissists on a cosmic scale.”
“In psych terms, narcissistic supply is the fuel a narcissist needs to keep their false self alive—attention, admiration, obedience, fear. Now replace ‘narcissist’ with ‘Ethereal.’ Replace ‘supply’ with psychic energy, worship, compliance… You start to see the same damn pattern.”
He paces now, eyes sharp under the bandana.
“These aliens… they don’t conquer planets. They colonize minds. They make you feel special just long enough to own you. Then they feed off the hollow version of you they created.”
He looks up at the dark sky.
“Same thing narcissists do. One’s biological. The other’s psychological. But it’s the same addiction. They’re both terrified of emptiness. And they’ll destroy whole civilizations— or entire relationships— just to keep that void full.”
He stops. Looks dead into the lens.
“You don’t win this kind of war with bigger guns. You win it by cutting the supply. You starve the narcissist. You starve the invader. Then you take your mind back.”
He turns and walks into the mist, muttering one last thing:
“I didn’t just fight aliens. I fought the disease that makes us invite them in.”
Dear Tiffany, let’s stop jogging and walk with super shoes. Let’s go barefoot as much as possible. I think jogging is a scam by NIKE to boost sports medicine sales. If we get injured jogging they make a lot of money from our broken feet.
The room is dim and humming with quiet music. Outside, the streetlight flickers. Joe sits across from Nelly, elbows on the table, the weight of unsaid things pressing down between them. Nelly stares into her espresso like it holds a mirror.
JOE: You know, I’ve been thinking. About your lyrics. There’s a thread running through them — a kind of ache. Not heartbreak. Narcissistic injury. All those early years, singing into the void. All that rejection. It scars a soul.
(Nelly doesn’t look up. Her lip twitches like she might cry, or laugh.)
JOE (cont’d): You were just a girl from Victoria with a dream. A working-class daughter of immigrants, trying to make it in a business that feeds on innocence and spits out cynicism. And they didn’t want your sound. Not back then. Too different. Too raw. Too you.
NELLY (softly): They said I was “hard to market.” That no one wanted a Portuguese girl singing like a bird and rapping like Lauryn.
JOE: Exactly. You got wounded before you even had a chance to speak. So when that contract finally came… it wasn’t just a deal. It was redemption. A spotlight. And a muzzle.
(Joe leans in now, voice sharpening.)
JOE (cont’d): And now I hear it. The comeback single. The champagne confidence. But underneath it? That little girl still wants to be loved. By the same people who told her no. You got the Grammy, the stage, the applause… but the silence you keep now? That’s the real cost.
(Nelly finally meets his eyes — glossy, defensive.)
NELLY: What do you want me to do, Joe? Tear up the contract? Give back the award?
JOE: No. Just wake up. Because I can’t be bought. Not with a VIP table. Not with a fake Hollywood smile. Not with a Nickelback feature. Not even with fifteen cars or a mansion in the hills. I don’t want any of it.
(He taps the table slowly.)
JOE (cont’d): I want truth. I want justice. And I’ll keep talking about 9/11 — and how the laws of friction didn’t magically vanish that day. I’ll keep asking why three towers fell like sandcastles, why molten steel flowed like lava.
(Nelly listens, breathing shallowly.)
JOE (cont’d): They told you to shut up and sing. And you did. They told me to shut up — and I didn’t. That’s the difference.
(A beat.)
NELLY: I wanted to be heard so badly… I signed away my voice.
JOE: Then take it back. You don’t owe them silence. You owe that little girl a reckoning.
(Outside, the streetlight flickers again. A siren wails far away.)
NELLY (quiet): Then maybe we say it together.
JOE (nods): Only if we mean it.
JOE: You know what 9/11 really was?
(He doesn’t wait for her answer.)
JOE (cont’d): It was the sins of the world… being deleted. An American Psycho paper shredder on a grand scale. You think it was just terror? Nah. That was an audit. A data wipe. A controlled demolition not just of steel and concrete — but of evidence. Financial records. SEC investigations. Trillions in economic crimes going up in smoke and free-fall dust.
(He makes a slicing motion with his hand — swift, surgical.)
JOE (cont’d): They hit the “delete” key in broad daylight. Erased the fingerprints, the frauds, the insider trades. And most of the sheep-people? They bought it. Wrapped themselves in flags, lit candles, sang anthems. But not all of us.
(He points to his own head.)
JOE (cont’d): Some of us watched. Some of us saw the laws of friction get suspended. Saw Newton’s apple fall upward. We saw the holes in the narrative — and we didn’t look away.
NELLY: You’re saying it was staged?
JOE: I’m saying the buildings fell like they were ashamed of what was inside them. And the people who made it happen? They got their payday.
(He looks hard at her now.)
JOE (cont’d): Just like you. The label bought your silence. Dressed your pain in glitter. The contract didn’t just ask for your voice — it asked for your memory. And you signed. Because rejection hurts more than lies.
(Nelly flinches. She’s not ready to agree — but not ready to deny it either.)
JOE (cont’d): You wanted to be heard so badly, you didn’t notice they were handing you a script. But I notice. I remember.
NELLY (barely above a whisper): So what do we do?
JOE: You start talking. About what they buried. About what you felt. About what they told you to hide. And I’ll keep talking about the towers, and the physics, and the files that burned.
(He stands now, voice firm but not angry.)
JOE (final): They fooled most of the sheep — but not all of us. And as long as one of us is still remembering, they haven’t won.
He turns to leave. Nelly looks down at her cold cup, then out the window — where somewhere in the city, sirens echo like unanswered questions.
