We Eat For You

Joe: Nelly, I don’t ACT for the Assertive Care Team. I’ve seen this act before. It’s the same stage, the same applause, the same banquet halls. People giving each other awards while calling it progress.

Nelly: That’s a harsh judgment.

Joe: Maybe. But sometimes the West looks like a first-world clown showโ€”endless ceremonies, photo ops, and self-congratulationโ€”while millions of people elsewhere are still forced to drink from polluted rivers, go hungry, or live without basic necessities. We celebrate ourselves before we’ve solved the problems that should matter most.

Nelly: We do try to recognize people making a difference. There are programs like Anderson Cooper’s HERO awards that highlight acts of service.

Joe: I’m glad real heroes get recognized. But I haven’t received any awards from Anderson Cooper, and that’s not what motivates me anyway. I’d rather see fewer galas and more wells being dug, more homes being built, more families being fed. Recognition is nice, but results are better.

Nelly: And what’s driving your frustration?

Joe: A culture that too often mistakes excess for success. The whole “Imelda Marcos’s thousand pairs of shoes” mindset has become a symbol of endless consumption. Build bigger, buy more, throw more away, then congratulate ourselves for recycling a fraction of it. That kind of civilization isn’t sustainableโ€”not environmentally, not economically, and not spiritually.

Nelly: So what deserves applause?

Joe: Clean water. Homes for the homeless. Food for the hungry. Honest work. Communities that restore what they’ve taken instead of chasing endless excess. When those things become the headline, then hand out the awards.

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If You Want Blood

Solid Snake’s Codec Transmission

Static crackles over the line. A low, gravelly voice cuts through, weary but steady, the kind thatโ€™s seen too many shadows.

“…Big Boss had his mission. One last war to end all wars. He believed in it. Me? Iโ€™m just trying to survive the aftermath. My only peacemaker these days is a pack of cigarettes and this damn computer screen. No nuke, no railgun, no sneaking suit. Just nicotine and bandwidth.

They keep sticking me with needles, Otacon. Lab after lab, blood draws like clockwork. Testing for what? Genes? Pathogens? The next goddamn bioweapon theyโ€™ll deny exists? Iโ€™m tired of being a lab rat in someone elseโ€™s shadow war.

I ainโ€™t no John Rambo with a cache of weapons and a headband. Never was. Just an old soldier with an internet connection and a pack of First Nations cigarettes. They burn slower, taste like the land that remembers. Helps me think straight when everything else is fog.

You know what really broke me? Nelly Furtadoโ€™s music. Yeah, I said it. Those tracks hit different out hereโ€”haunting, deserted. Left me fighting an enemy they swear doesnโ€™t exist: the Bavarian Illuminati. Puppet masters pulling strings from old castles and boardrooms. Every leak, every blackout, every ‘coincidence’ points back to them. But try telling that to command. ‘Focus on the mission, Snake.’ There is no mission anymore. Just ghosts.

I want to go home, Otacon. Iโ€™m so homesick it hurts worse than any bullet. Croatia. My BOJNA. Thatโ€™s where I belongโ€”back with the unit, the hills, the sea that doesnโ€™t lie. No more codec calls at 3 AM. No more legends or clones or wars that never end. Just… peace. Real peace.

He takes a long drag. Exhales.

If this is the last transmission… tell them the soldierโ€™s done. Snake out.”

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